Magnificent Guns of Seneca 6 (19 page)

Jem stuck a piece of sweetweed into his mouth and chewed up enough juice to fill his cheek. He spit it over the side and said, "You must be either courageous, insane, or stupid, old timer."

The preacher put his hat back on his head and stood up.
 
He headed down the steps and took up his destrier's ropes in his hands, then looked back up at Jem.
 
"I cut off my trigger fingers on the day my daughter was born, Mr. Clayton.
 
I did it to prove to God that I was a changed man and wasn't ever gonna take another human being's life.
 
I promised to spread his word far and wide and all I asked in return was that he forgive me enough to keep her in his good graces."
 
Father Charles looked down at the stumps on his hands and said, "I guess God still had a little anger left over at me for the things I did in the past.
 
You can't imagine what it's like to love something so much and have it taken away from you, Mr. Clayton.
 
If you could, you wouldn't call me anything but a father."
    

Jem leaned back in the rocking chair as far as he could before letting it rock forward, but did not speak.
 

***

Whiskey Pete and the bandit called Gentleman Jim took the road together, riding side by side.
 
"You said you had family in Seneca 6?" the bandit said.
 

"Yeah.
 
I reckon they won't recognize me though.
 
Been a long time, and I weren't much to them before I let out anyway.
 
Still, I figure I should look in on 'em."

"What are they?"

"What?"

"Are they your children, your cousins, what?"

"Oh, just my brother and his wife.
 
He's a respectable sort.
 
Had the same job for half his life.
 
Never got fired or arrested or nothing." Whiskey Pete turned toward the bandit and winked, "We never could get along."

The bandit nodded.
 
He'd pulled his mask down an hour ago, but kept his chin low to his chest as he rode, using the brim of his hat to block the sun and cover most of his face.
 
The road wound into the mountains and curved around tall piles of rocks stacked by ancient rivers.
 
Whiskey Pete looked back over his shoulder at the long fields of emptiness behind them and said, "We almost there, sonny?"

Gentleman Jim pointed up the hill and said, "It's just over yonder."

The older man pulled up on his destrier's reins and said, "Whoa."
 
The animal came to a stop and he sat there, looking up at the road ahead.
 
His voice was low and firm when he said, "I don't think I'm going any further with you, mister."

The bandit laughed gently and waved his hand, "Come on, old timer.
 
We made it this far.
 
Don't get spooked on me now."

"I never did like charades, boy."
 
Whiskey Pete bent low in his saddle and peeked up at the bandit's face.
 
"Yeah, I thought I recognized you.
 
You look just like him."

Gentleman Jim turned his destrier around so that they were sitting face to face, close enough to reach across and touch the other man's saddle.
 
He took his hat off and let the withered, weary looking man have a good look.
 
"You remember my name, Pete?"

"No," he said.
 
He ran a finger along the jagged scar on his face, "But you gave me this."

"My mother gave you that.
 
But it was my knife."

Whiskey Pete's eyebrows scrunched together until he finally nodded and said, "If you say so.
 
Been so long since I thought about it, I forgot.
 
How are your folks doing, anyway?"

"Dead."

"I'm sorry to hear that.
 
You might not believe it, but I am.
 
Those old days were bad, boy.
 
Too much drink.
 
Too much marauding.
 
When you're out here in the wild for too long it turns you into an animal.
 
Makes you not know the difference between right and wrong.
 
After I run off from Seneca 6, I stopped all that.
 
I changed."

Jem rolled his eyes and broke the snap on his holster.
 
He wrapped his fingers around the Colt Defeater's handle and set the gun across his lap.
 
"You wrote my family a check that day.
 
It took a little while, but I'm here to cash it.
 
Anything else you'd like to say?"

"I ain't got nothing to defend myself with."

"You noticed that all by yourself?" Jem said.
 
"Not that it would matter.
 
You could have a fleet of warships and I'm still killing you."

"Listen, I made amends for what I done.
 
I gave up my ways and changed, Jem.
 
I really and truly changed.
 
I ain't hurt nobody for so long it seems like somebody else done all those things.
 
I'm just a weak old man now."

Jem stared at the man for a moment, then looked up at the crest of the hill above them.
 
He waved his finger at it and said, "Tell you what, you ride on ahead while I think it over.
 
If you make it over the top and I'm still thinking, I just might let you go."

"Yeah, right," Whiskey Pete said.
 

Jem knocked his pistol against his knee and said, "You don't seem to have any other options, old boy."

"You let me go and you're a saint, Jem Clayton."
 
Tears started to form in the old man's eyes, choking up his words in his throat like a stone, "I'm sick.
 
That's the real reason I come back to Seneca 6.
 
I was hoping my brother and his wife would look after me.
 
I got visions of being too sick to get out of bed to call for help and I just lay there withering away for days on end."

"Look on the bright side.
 
That's probably not going to happen now.
 
Start riding."

"I ain't a bad person!" Pete shouted.
 
"I did good things too.
 
There's all sorts of people I did good by and if they were here right now they'd tell you."

Jem cocked the Defeater's hammer back and said, "I don't see no one but us, Pete."
 

"Sam Clayton wasn't perfect neither.
 
He hounded me and wouldn't let me catch my breath.
 
That was why I went after him.
 
Always claiming I was a drunk, or beating me when some old broad accused me of stealing her purse, even when I only needed enough money to eat!
 
Always putting me in that damn jail cell until I finally snapped.
 
You can only kick a sleeping dog so long, god damn it!
 
I bit back!
 
I defended myself!"

Jem Clayton smiled thinly at Pete and said, "If you think I don't have it in me to shoot you while I'm looking at you, you're wrong."

"You know what Sam Clayton was?" Pete said.
 
He leaned forward in his saddle, so close that Jem could see the thick beads of sweat dripping from the tip of his pockmarked nose.
 
"You really want to know what your father was, to his core?"
 

"Tell me, what was he?"

"He was fair.
 
If he was here right now, he'd listen to my words and look into my soul and see that I ain't no more of a threat to anybody.
 
I been trying to do right to make up for what I was, but I can still do more.
 
He'd have given me that chance.
 
I believe that.
 
He was fair, and Sam would have done that."

Jem did not move for a long time.
 
He looked Whiskey Pete directly in the eye, studying the man's face like he was searching an ancient map full of symbols and secret codes.
 
Finally, he shrugged and nodded, as if he had finished weighing something in his own mind and said, "Yeah, I reckon you're right.
 
Sam was fair."
 
He raised his Defeater and fired a bullet straight into Whiskey Pete's chest.
 

The gunshot knocked the man out of his saddle so that was left hanging upside down with his boots upturned toward the sky.
 
Whiskey Pete moaned and squealed about being shot, squirming upside down like a worm on a hook, all of his limbs stretching out and retracting involuntarily.
 
Jem rode around the side of Whiskey Pete's destrier to watch and said, "But one thing's for certain, partner.
 
I ain't him."

Chapter 13:
 
Orayvi

"Enough of your blubbering," Haienwa'tha said sharply.
 
He looked into the distant mesa and searched for signs of movement.
 
"If our enemies were looking for us, your mewling would give us away."

Thathanka-Ska lowered his face into his destrier's mane to hide it while he wiped his face on his sleeve.
 
Lakhpia-sha put his hand on the boy's shoulder and said, "Are you all right?"

"He's fine," Haienwa'tha said.
 
"Don't baby him."

Lakhpia-sha sighed and took his hand away, but stayed close to his young friend.
 
"Would you like me to find some calming herbs?" he said.

Haienwa'tha stopped his mount and said, "What an excellent idea.
 
In fact, let's all go gather ingredients so the apprentice can whip up a potion that makes my little sister stop her crying."

The boy kicked his destrier in the sides and took off, riding fast for the flatland that lay ahead.
 
It was dusk and both of Seneca's moons were already peeking through the lowering sun's red haze.
 
Lakhpia-sha called out for him, but Haienwa'tha said, "Let him go.
 
He must clear his mind if he wants to continue on with us."

Lakhpia-sha turned his destrier around to face the older boy and said, "It is not by his choice that he came.
 
It is by Thasuka-Witko's will."

"He did us no favors by saddling us with a child."

"That child was part of your father's vision."

Haienwa'tha shook his head, "Thasuka-Witko was wrong.
 
I would have left him at home to bury the body and grieve in peace if I were Chief."

"Perhaps that is why we now have to ride a hundred miles to go find someone else to do the job," Lakhpia-sha said.
 
He turned his destrier around just as Haienwa'tha shot forward and swung a fist at him that knocked him sideways off his seat.
 
The larger boy lunged at him again, until both of them were hanging off the edge of Lakhpia-sha's destrier, suspended above the hard red clay.
 
They fell together in a fit of cursing, pulling at each other's hair and clothing all the way down until they landed in something wet and slippery.