The Shotgun Arcana (43 page)

“Good,” Clay said.

A distant look crossed Gerta’s face and the joy in her eyes seemed to fade. Outside the kitchen window, a row of black crows sat on the fence, mocking with their shrill calls. “It’s just…,” Gerta said, her voice trailing off as she watched the black birds outside. “Ravenous,” Gerta said. “Do you know where the word comes from? Ravens feasting over the bodies of the slain on the battlefield. Ravens…”

“What, Gertie?” Clay asked.

“Clayton, is there any reason I’d be having strange dreams?” she said, looking away from the crows. “Last night, very vivid. As vivid as you and I sitting here. I don’t like them, Clay.”

“They wake you up?” Clay said. Gerta nodded, looking down into her coffee. “Well, it could be the nerves getting themselves adjusted. Part of the healing and the regeneration process, I reckon. Can you tell me about them, Gertie? The dreams?”

She picked up her mug and looked into the rippling black coffee. “Do I have to, Clay? They are … horrible.”

“Please,” Clay said.

Gerta sighed and looked out the window again. The crows were gone.

“I’m cold. It is very cold,” she said. “I can see my breath and I’m in a hall. Part of the roof has collapsed and is exposed to the sky. It’s a gray sky. Snow is drifting down into the wreckage.” She swallowed hard and went on. “They are perched in the ruins, among the dead.”

“The dead?” Clay said. “What dead, Gertie?”

“They look like warriors,” Gerta said. “Ancient warriors, in mail and with swords, axes. Dead, bloody, scattered among the debris, slowly being covered by the snow. They are devouring the dead.” She shuddered and wrapped her arms about herself.

“Who?” Clay said, leaning forward.

“They … I can’t see their faces,” Gerta says, the distant look returning to her eyes. “But they have beautiful long hair, braided, like silk or spun gold. They don’t have hands, they have talons, huge, razor-sharp and caked in blood and the flesh of the dead. They rip hunks of the bodies out and then duck down like they are pecking the meat, like great, terrible birds. I can hear the sounds of their efforts … even though I never see their mouths. They have wings, Clay, like angels, and they wear shimmering silver-scale armor, spattered with fresh blood. They make noises like women. They make noises like birds. I don’t know what they are, but they are calling to me. One instant they are these creatures, the next, ravens, then back again.”

Gerta leaned over and wrapped her arms about Clay’s frail form. He held her and felt her shudder, felt her new heart smashing into her ribs, like a deer, sick with terror.

“It’s just a dream, Gertie,” Clay said. “Your mind is adapting to your new situation is all.”

“The worst part,” Gerta said, looking up at him and pulling him even closer, “is the bodies they are feasting on, they change. They become … people … people I know from here in Golgotha. Others, I don’t even know but in my dream I knew they were from here. Our friends … our neighbors … They are going to die, Clayton, soon. There is going to be a massacre and those … things, they wanted me to join them in their feast.…”

Gerta buried her head in Clay’s chest, trying to block out the rest of the universe. Clay held her and patted her back gently.

“It’s okay, Gertie,” he whispered. “It’s okay. Come what may I’ll keep you safe. No bird-lady-things are going to hurt you.”

“No, Clayton.” Gerta looked up, her eyes wide with fear and something Clay couldn’t begin to define or even comprehend. Desire, perhaps? “You don’t understand. I wanted to join them, ached to. Whatever they are, they know me and part of me isn’t dreading a slaughter, it’s eager for it.”

Gerta sobbed against him. Clay held her, rubbed her back and stroked her hair.

“I love you, Clay,” Gerta said, looking up at him. The tears that ran down her face were black.

Clay pulled her back to him, held on like he would never let go.

“I love you, too, Gertie,” he said.

The Four of Wands (Reversed)

Jon Highfather and Mutt were loading every weapon in the jail’s locked cabinet and arranging them on Highfather’s desk.

“Silver loads?” Mutt asked. “So Malachi Bick got his ass kicked on Main Street and I missed it. I must not be living right,” the deputy added.

Highfather nodded. “One bullet in three,” he said, handing another box of precious silver bullets to the deputy. “Wasn’t there myself, so I don’t know all the details yet, but I aim to speak with Malachi today and find out. Better safe than sorry, though. If this Zeal fella is as bad news as I’ve been hearing all morning, we need to be ready. Damn!”

“What?” Mutt said.

Highfather held up an empty wooden box.

“We’re out of cold iron bullets. Wish we’d had time to stock back up on them, too; damn Unseelie fae.”

“Hate those haughty bastards,” Mutt said.

Highfather nodded.

“Yeah, I think Malachi will give it to me straight. At least as straight as he ever is. If something from Bick’s past is draggin’ trouble to our door again, he damn well better tell me how to help him send it on its way.”

“You know, we could just let Mr. ‘I Own the Town and Everybody in It’ handle his own mess,” Mutt said. “Take the day off.”

“Well, look who takes a little vacation and all of a sudden is looking to shirk,” Highfather said. “How’d it go, by the way?”

“Fine. Real fine,” Mutt said, “up till Max Macomber and the village idiots decided to string me up, and then I got dragged out in the middle of nowhere to have a little chat with a fella who might be a prophet about this skull thing.”

“This medicine man, Wodziwob,” Highfather said. “He told you about the skull? What it is?”

Mutt nodded and jacked another round into a Winchester.

“Yep,” he said. “It’s bad news is what it is—the original power to murder, to unmake something, anything, really. I hid it the last place anyone would ever expect me to, after I dropped off old Snake-Man here.”

“Well, I trust your judgment, least when you’re not on the tarantula juice,” Highfather said. “Don’t tell me or anyone else where it’s hid.”

Highfather passed Mutt more bullets. Mutt handed Highfather back another loaded rifle.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Mutt said, grinning. “Don’t trust any of you crazy white people. Y’all are all catawampously teched in the head.”

“You know, Mutt, I can usually gather up about two dozen good men for a tussle, if we need them,” Highfather said. “I had four men say they would stick their necks out to save Malachi Bick. Four.”

“Can you blame ’em?” Mutt handed Highfather a shotgun loaded with holy-water-soaked rock salt. The sheriff added it to the table of weapons. “Bick has put most of this town over a barrel. He’s about as popular as clap at a whorehouse. Not going to get too many people too eager to catch a hornet for him, Jonathan.”

“I know,” Highfather said. “Just thought better of people hereabouts.”

“One thing you can always count on people for,” Mutt said, “is to let you down. Wodziwob said Snake-Man’s boss was a servant of some higher power. He may look human, but he ain’t.”

“And you’re sure he said this being goes by Ray Zeal?” Highfather said, pausing in the reloading.

Mutt nodded.

“Hard to forget a moniker like that.”

“What do you think, Kate?”

Kate Warne rocked her chair back on two legs, partly leaning against the wall. She was overseeing the cells in the back of the jail. She fed Billy, the goat kid, a handful of grass as she watched the sheriff and his deputy work. She also kept an eye on the jail’s various prisoners—Francis Tumblety, the Dove killer; the Paiute Indian renegade Mutt called the Snake-Man; and the slumbering Max Macomber and his henchman. Sullen and still, Tumblety had patched up his injuries at the hand of the mysterious woman the night before as best he could and had dosed himself with pain medicine. He lay in a drugged stupor. Most of the wounds the Snake-Man suffered fighting Mutt were already healing quickly. Occasionally the Snake-Man would look at the Secret Service agent with dark eyes and smile. Kate would make a gesture with her fingers like she was shooting him with a gun.

“I hunted enough for Nikos Vellas over the years to know a little about him, as much as anyone did,” Kate said. “His father was supposedly a very dangerous and unpredictable outlaw that goes by the handle of Ray Zeal.”

Mutt slapped Highfather on the back. “Of course he is,” Mutt said. “You sure know how to pick ’em, Jonathan.”

“So I killed Zeal’s son, who sure as hell was not human,” Highfather said. “I’d imagine he’ll want to jaw with me a bit about that.”

“Zeal has been a terror in California and Mexico,” Kate said, “far back as anyone can recall. Before that, he was part of the reason Kansas was so bloody. He worked as a mercenary during the war for anyone that would pay him, or promise him and his cutthroats plenty of opportunities to rape and murder. He ended up wanted by both sides by the end of the war for atrocities. He’s been behind all kinds of coach robbery, bank robbery, mass slaughters—you name it. He’s bloodthirsty as they come and he’s not just going to ride in with his crew to Golgotha, kill Bick and ride off. He’ll eat your town alive, Jon.”

“Options?” Highfather asked, looking at Kate and Mutt.

“I’d get someone to ride for Camp Bidwell and get some help,” Kate said. “Could be back here in a day or two with the army. I can write a letter to send with Jim that should get you some riders here, quick.”

Highfather shook his head. “I appreciate it, Kate, but we can’t go running to the federals every time we have a murdering army of marauders led by some supernatural menace come riding into town.”

“You get this a lot?” she asked.

“More than you might expect,” Highfather said. “Remind me to tell you about Apis and his bull-god cult sometime.”

Mutt whistled and shook his head “Those damn horns…,” he said, loading a revolver. “And then there was that time with that four-hundred-year-old Renaissance alchemist and his army of clockwork people. That reminds me, I want a raise.”

“I think you are being stubborn for the sake of pride,” Kate said. “You are undermanned and outgunned. Ask for help, that’s why the government exists.”

“Exactly,” Mutt offered. “Just ask any Indian.”

“Besides,” Highfather said, ignoring Mutt, “when I talk to Bick we’ll cypher out a plan. We have before. I don’t trust Malachi—he’s lied to me since the day I met him. But he’s invested in Golgotha, probably for reasons I may never fully know, but he’ll fight to protect her, and his own skin. Plus, I can reach out to some community leaders. We’ll have backup if we need it, but I’m not sure how much or when it will be coming.”

“That doesn’t sound like backup, or much of a solid plan,” Kate said.

“Yeah, we do tend to improvise a bit,” Highfather said. “Keeps us spry. Why did you say you’d write a letter for Jim to carry? Why not ride out there yourself?”

“Because,” Kate said, “the kind of madness and carnage Zeal is going to bring with him is no place for that boy. He’s a sweet soul still and all of us know that you do this kind of work long enough and it … changes you.”

“Jim’s been through a lot,” Mutt said. “He can handle this. He’s one of the bravest and most honest people I ever met. He speaks from the heart.”

“I don’t question the boy’s ability or courage,” Kate said. “He has the makings of a great lawman, but he’s seen so much horror in the last few days.… I just want to spare him Ray Zeal.”

Mutt remembered Jim’s face as they entered the alleyway and saw Molly James or what Tumblety had left of her. He knew exactly what Kate of speaking of. Sheriff, deputy and agent were all silent, lost in memory, remembering all the things that had taken the light from their eyes a piece at a time. The iron door groaned open and Jim Negrey entered.

“Morning,” they young deputy said. “I hear tell you caught the Dove killer last night, Agent Warne—congratulations! Folks all over town can’t believe it was Doc Tumblety, but it kind of makes sense to me now. Apparently they don’t have much luck with doctors hereabouts. What are we doing about this Ray Zeal fella, Sheriff?”

Highfather looked at Kate and then Mutt, then he addressed Jim. “Jim, I need you to ride for the army command over at Camp Bidwell today. Agent Warne is going to give you a very important letter to deliver to the commander of the post. I want you to wait there for his reply and travel back with any soldiers he dispatches to us.”

Jim nodded. “Yessir. Promise and me will ride as fast as we can. I’ll try to be back with help ’fore Zeal gets here.”

“I know you will, Jim, “Highfather said, patting the boy’s shoulder. “I know.”

“Well, other than writing letters, what’s a girl to do in this watering hole of a town?” Kate asked. Highfather didn’t miss a beat. He opened the drawer of his desk, reached inside and tossed something to Kate. She caught it and opened her palm. It was a deputy’s star.

“A star?” Kate asked. “Jon, you know what you are doing? You want me to pretend to be a man while I’m wearing this?”

“Nope, you just be you,” Highfather said. “That’s good enough.”

“You brought Tumblety in,” Jim said. “It’s what you do that matters, not what you look like, ma’am.”

“Just Kate, Jim,” she said, “and thank you. I didn’t bring Tumblety in alone, I had help from this mystery lady, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Welcome to the club,” Mutt said with a grin. “The work’s dangerous as hell, but the pay’s shitty. Boss is a pain in the ass too.”

Kate smiled, and pinned the star on her vest. “Thank you, Mutt, and yes, he can be, can’t he? This feels like real silver,” she said. “Aren’t these usually just tin, Jon?”

“The silver comes in handy sometimes,” Highfather said. “And anyone willing to wear one of those in this town deserves a damn sight more than tin. I hereby duly deputize you as a peace officer of the town of Golgotha. Thanks again, Kate.”

“No,” Kate said. “Thank you.”

The heavy steel door to the jail creaked again to announce Maude Stapleton’s arrival.

“Mutt, Jon,” she said. “I think we have a problem.”

Kate stood. “Have we met?” she asked Maude. “Seems like I know you?”