Gunslinger's Moon (6 page)

“Oy, may I help you,” the drunk slurred.

“You reported an accident to the sheriff involving an attack.”

Seamus frowned. “That was a month ago.” He took a long drink. “And I was mist…aken.”

Jed leaned forward. “What did you see?”

“Nothing.” Seamus gave a dumb smile. “Too much drink.” A loud belched emanated from him.

Jed shoved a finger in his chest. “I don’t care if you were mistaken or not. Tell me what you saw.”

“Just leave me be.” Seamus groaned, picking up a bottle. He started to rise, until Jed grabbed his arm and pulled him down.

“You ain’t going anywhere till you tell me what you saw.”

From the doorway someone yelled, “There’s a fight outside.”

Everyone’s attention swiveled to the door. “Who is the kid?” another person yelled.

This time Jed turned around. “Don’t move, Seamus.” The gunslinger pushed past the crowd gathering to watch the fight.

Obadiah was squaring off against two men. Both of whom Jed recognized. They were the other two men who picked a fight with him a couple days past. It appeared that everyone in the saloons were watching. Bets were also being collected.

Obadiah was having a hard time against his two opponents. They were circling him as he tried to keep both of them in his sights. One charged forward and Obadiah lashed out. It was a good hit on the chin. His friend though, grabbed Obadiah’s arms from behind and held them back. The man he had just hit threw a strong right in Obadiah’s gut.

“That’s enough,” Jed yelled, silencing everyone else. “Let him go.”

The burly miner, who threw the punches, said, “This boy insulted us. Insulted all of us hardworking miners. He needs to be taught a lesson.”

“That’s a lie,” Obadiah disputed. His protest earned him a cuff.

“Let him go.” Jed said, steel in his voice.

The other one spat venom. “Are we going to let this gunslinger bully us around? We work hard and this is no place for the likes of them.”

His words did not fall on deaf ears. Some of the miners were nodding, a few even yelled out their support. Jed’s mouth flattened. After today’s tragedy the miners’ tempers were high.

Calmly with a touch of iron to his words he said, “I’ll count from five. When I reach zero, I’m going to start shooting.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” the miner snarled.

“Five.”

“Come one boys, this is our town. Aren’t you sick of people like him doing what they please?”

“Four.”

“Are we just going to let them walk over us?”

“Three.”

“Throw them out of town!”

“Two.” Jed drew his Colt and cocked the hammer back.

A sudden hush descended on the crowd. Obadiah shook and his captor released him. The miners spat on the ground and went inside the saloon.

The crowd was just dispersing when someone shouted, “He’s dead!” It was not a prophetic threat about to Jed. The voice came from inside the saloon.

Once again, Jed pushed through a crowd to see what had happened. Seamus O’Malley was lying at the foot of the stairs dead. Pieces of a shattered bottle lay around. Jed wanted to shout in frustration. The man who had started the call was the bartender.

“What is upstairs?” Jed demanded.

“His room. He must have slipped and fell.”

Jed sprinted upstairs, leaping over the body of Seamus. Only a couple of rooms made the second floor. All were empty. Seamus hadn’t shouted in terror as he fell and that struck Jed as odd. He would have been heard if he did. Frustrated, he went back down. Obadiah was leaning on a chair. A couple of bruises were forming on his face.

“Come on,” Jed said softly.

Mounted on their horses, Jed asked what happened in the saloon.

“I was asking the barkeep if he knew where the man we were looking for was at.” Obadiah grimaced as the horse’s canter aggravated his bruises. “Suddenly someone grabbed my shoulder and punched me. Before I could fight I was being shoved out the saloon. I suppose I didn’t do so well in my mission.” The young man had a glum expression.

Just as he was speaking with O’Malley. Jed suspected it was not a coincidence.

“I will teach you how to box.” Jed said. “You might as well learn how. This won’t be your last fight.” Obadiah grunted noncommittally.

He woke in a cold sweat that night. Drenched in volumes of perspire he sat up. Out the window he could see the moon. The pale mirror was mostly full, its radiant light providing some illumination for the night. It painted a nice picture, the glow of the moon coating the town. Yet another fit of coughing struck him.

Lying down he groaned in self-pity. Most times he couldn’t stand people wallowing in self-pity. However, Jed figured he could afford one groan. It was hardly an over indulgence. Then his mind turned back to the death of Seamus O’Malley. His gut told him it had been murder. He was beginning to think the pack he was chasing was more capable than he thought.

Chapter 6

At breakfast, Obadiah was hardly the epitome of health. He had one large black eye, in stark contrast with his fiery hair, and a bruise on the opposite cheek. He also chewed gingerly on that side. Besides that he walked stiff careful not to twist around because of the gut shot he received. They were serious shiners for a couple of blows.

That morning the funeral for Ed Miller was held. For such a prominent member of the town it was a sad affair. Only a handful of people attended. There was Grigor, there to bury the body, Beth Cooper, the witch doctor, and Sheriff Carter. Douglas and Jonathon, both associates of Miller, were not present. The town did not have a preacher of any faith, so a small moment of silence passed in lieu of a service. Heinrich signaled to his assistant and Grigor began filling in the grave. Not a single tear was shed.

As the dismal burial ended, Jed approached Nadi, the witch doctor. “What do you want,” She said fiercely.

“I was wondering if you made potions.”

She glared at him. “What do you want?”

Jed sighed inside. “Have you made something for a man called Jonathon Reed?”

“What business is that of yours?” She demanded.

“Just curious.”

“I have not. I only work for Ms. Cooper.”

The lady herself drew near. She held an umbrella against the sun. “Good morning, Jed.” The gunslinger tipped his hat. “I appreciate you coming to the funeral.” She said.

“I must ask where Mr. Douglas is.”

She sighed. “He is at the mine, dealing with that disaster. Not that Ed would have cared about the absence. He never believed death was the final destination.”

“He was religious?”

“In his own way. Good day, Jed.”

The gunslinger tipped his hat, “Ma’am.”

Nadi scowled, following Beth.

As Jed was leaving he passed by Grigor. The man was hitching two horses to a wagon. In the back were three fresh, empty coffins. Undoubtedly, they would be for the miners lost in the tunnel collapse. Grigor flicked the reins and the wagon started rolling.

The gunslinger collected his apprentice out back behind the boarding house for some more training. Today beginning with boxing lessons. Jed hearkened back to the days when his father had trained him. ‘Keep your arms up,’ was the oft repeated mantra.

So Jed said, “Keep your arms up,” as they practiced.

Obadiah would throw light punches while Jed sent light counterattacks. Occasionally, he would get a light slap past Obadiah’s arms. It would touch one of his bruises and the young apprentice would flash with anger, his face red to match his hair, and threw hard punches. The gunslinger would always be one step ahead.

Then, Jed would remind, “Keep your arms up,” before he inevitably slapped Obadiah again.

For the young apprentice it was a vicious cycle that lasted a long hour. Afterwards, Jed had him wearily pull out the six guns. Compared to his wrists, Obadiah’s guns appeared unreasonably bulky. Like the day before, Obadiah’s shooting left much to be desired. He taught him the basics, how to hold the gun and line the barrel to where the target lay. Only task left was practice. Lots of practice.

Obadiah fired both barrels simultaneously to be accustomed to the feel of the kickback. Needless to say, Jed was glad a local general store sold the correct ammunition.

“I’m better with a rifle,” Obadiah reminded as he reloaded. The spent casings jingled on the ground on at a time.

Jed replied. “A rifle won’t do you much good with a werewolf close enough to touch you. God help you if it is a vampire. A revolver is instinct. The gun an extension of your hand.” A blur of movement and the Kruger flared to life. The target can received three more holes. Its first of the day. The gunslinger holstered the smoking gun.

“So why don’t we use knives, if they are going to get that close?”

Jed retorted, “If you need a knife in a fight, you might as well cut your throat with it. What comes next will hurt a hell of a lot more.”

Thoughtfully, Obadiah asked, “Is a vampire worse than a werewolf?”

“Depends on the age. Abilities increase with age. Older vampires are faster, quicker, and smarter than a werewolf. Fortunately, you’re more likely to find a leprechaun. If you ever meet even one older than a century, then you were born unlucky.”

“Have you ever met one?”

Jed gave a dry chuckle. “More than I can count.” He tossed a fresh can in the air. Despite the valiant attempt by Obadiah it went safely to the ground. “Last one was in New Orleans. I reckon a year and a half ago.”

“What happened?”

“Met him alone at night. Placed a wooden stake through his heart and set the bastard on fire.”

“Just like that,” Obadiah said dubiously.

Jed shrugged, “It may have been a mite trickier than I implied.” Then he grew serious and warned. “Never go halfway with a vampire. That is the most important lesson with vampires. Shoot it, stake it, burn it, and let its ashes air out in the sun.”

Obadiah nodded firmly.

“Now hit that can.”

Leaving Obadiah to the drill, Jed went to find Carter. Ross was outside the sheriff office. Neither deputy nor gunslinger said a word. The hawk faced deputy spat at Jed’s feet. Ignoring the mucus he went inside. Carter was not there. Determined not to talk with Ross, he strode off directionless. The sheriff was patrolling the houses under construction. There was the constant sound hammers and saws. Quite a few were being worked on by the more successful miners. The ones who also kept their gold under lock and key at the local bank.

The sheriff was standing in one of the unfinished houses. Whomever had been working on it was absent at the moment. Jed joined him stepping on the wooden floor. The frame was also up, differentiating the rooms. It was a small house, easily half the size of Beth’s house.

“Have you heard anything?” Jed asked.

“Nope. And I don’t think anyone is lying if that was your next question.” Carter’s whiskers bristled. “What chance the werewolves left town?”

“Same chance as it raining. They’re to territorial to be scared off.”

Jed ran a hand over a beam. It was good wood. Every couple of days, supplies and folk came by train. The building supplies never lasted long. The town was growing and if one counted all the miners it was reaching about 450 people. Jed hardly called it a proper town. Too many men and not enough women. One could count the number of families with one hand. It hearkened more as a pair of mining camps than a town.

Time left to kill before he checked on his apprentice, Jed went to the gun store, the only one in town. The way Obadiah was shooting, he would need a lot of bullets to get good. The shop was a small one, nestled between a general store and a house. A middle aged man with an extended gut was behind the counter. He looked soft, a little chubby and a scholarly air about him. Judging by his stock, he did know about firearms. Winchesters, Remington, and Sharps were stacked in a couple rack. Revolvers from all the names: Smith and Wesson and Colt.

He had Obadiah provide a demonstration of his shooting. A slight improvement, nothing drastic, just as Jed expected. They went back to the boxing lessons afterward. Obadiah had quick feet, able to shuffle swiftly away. A simple sidestep could dodge a charging werewolf. When it came to his punches he was lacking. Sweaty, tired, and exhausted Jed called off the training. He had the hankering for a drink. Obadiah went to the stables and to take his horse out. Jed headed to the saloon as the wagons of gold miners entered town.

Jed opened the saloon doors. Immediately he saw a large man angrily striding his way. The man did not try and stop as he barreled to the doors. The gunslinger placed a hand on his chest. The man stopped and glared.

“I’d wait,” Jed warned.

It took a second for the man to look at the guns and the fury in eyes died a little. Murmuring an apology the man stepped to the side. Jed walked past him. He saw Hudson at the bar talking to Bjorn. They were odd friends, Hudson the wobbly station master and the Bjorn, the colossal saloon owner. Tapping the bar top, Jed ordered a bottle. It was strong and harsh, just what he was in the mood for.

“Who was that?” Jed was asking about the man who tried to push past him.

“An angry butcher,” Bjorn said.

Hudson clarified, “He was expecting two cows to arrive. I told him they did not arrive and he begins blaming me.” He spread his arms. “Like it’s my fault that a couple of heifers did not board the train several hundred miles away. Bastard,” Hudson whispered in his drink.

The gunslinger had another question so he probed, “Has anyone left recently?”

“No. Why?” Hudson looked to Bjorn as he spoke.

Bjorn leaned in his drooping mustache nearly spilled into Hudson’s glass. “Are you asking because of the-” He stopped short of saying werewolves. It was strange to see Bjorn unnerved. The German looked big enough to throttle one with his bare hands. A thought struck Jed. Maybe he was Scandinavian.

Casually, Jed said, “Bjorn. That’s a name I’ve never heard before. I reckon there is history behind it.”             

Bjorn smiled casually. “There is. My father told me when I was born I was a large baby. He said I was the size of a bear cub. That is what my name means, bear.”

Jed chuckled. “I believe it. You wouldn’t happen to know what Adolf or Hemming means?”

The giant twirled his mustache in thought. Hudson said, “Where did you hear those names?”

“Some old friends I had a while ago,” Jed lied.

“No,” Bjorn answered slowly as if waiting for the answer to come suddenly. It never came. “Adolf is more German.”

“Ah well, thanks anyway.” Jed took a long swallow. He finished most of the bottle in their company before slightly stumbling to bed. 

Yet another set of coughs plagued his bodies. Jed groaned and sat up, still trying to clear his lungs. Rubbing his chest he could feel something in there. Knowing sleep was far in coming he stood. Dizziness swamped him and he sat down until it passed. Then he tried again, successfully this time. Dressing, he left his room. Each step he took was silent, an art he had learned long ago. That was the difference between prosperous gunslingers and dead gunslingers. Skills one knew or spent time to learn. The little particulars.

Cool outside, a refreshing change from the blazing heat. He had little need to be cautious in the open at night. The werewolves had yet to attack and they would hardly know he was taking a late night stroll. However, Jed kept the guns loose at the hip. Light spilled out from the saloon. Jed avoided it, wanting silence for company instead. Above, the stars shone like glittering lamps. Few nights could compare to the ones in the desert. A mosaic of light.

Jed saw a solitary figure standing outside. A women, and he realized with a start it was Beth. Her hair was undone and freely flowed down her back. She turned and saw the gunslinger, giving a small wave.

“Hello, Jed.”

Jed greeted the same way. Then he said, “It is a little late for a walk.”

Beth looked up and drew a deep breath. “I find the night to be comforting,” she revealed.

Jed said, “The night isn’t the best time for women to be out alone.”

“I can defend myself.” Beth reached into her handbag and withdrew a Derringer. It was a small stub of a gun, using two barrels on top of each other to hold its only two bullets. The caliber it fired was almost nonexistent. “Any evil men will find an unpleasant surprise.”

“A muff pistol is hardly going to stop a werewolf.”

Beth frowned. “I had forgotten about them.”

“Let me walk you home.” Jed offered.

She acquiesced and they began strolling toward her house. “How long have you been a gunslinger, Jed?”

Jed shrugged. “Before it was even called that. I reckon my entire life. My father had a farm in Virginia and he would work the farm and occasionally we would hear about some monster. He would leave me and my mother and hunt it down. When I turned fourteen he took me with him once. Soon after that I was helping him hunt every time. Then the war happened.”

“What side did you fight for?” Beth probed.

“North. We mainly helped hunt down any monsters. During that time all hell broke loose.”

“I heard many reports in the papers. If it wasn’t talking about the war, then it reported an attack.”

Jed nodded. “The longer the war lasted, the worse it got. Folk could be far from the fighting and still be in grave danger. Once it ended, it was a while until things calmed down.”

“Why did you leave?”

More serious he said, “Partly because, jobs and contracts dried up. There was a plethora of gunslingers like myself and after a while we managed to kill most every monster. So the only ones hired were those who had the reputation. Youngsters would challenge the older more experienced man for a chance to risk their lives.” The words died away. His blabbering mouth surprised him. Talking to Beth was easy.

“For the cold weather mainly,” he joked.

She smiled as they stopped walking. The stood in front of her porch. “Thank you for seeing me safely home.”

“Next time you can tell me how you became the co-owner of a mine.”