Hell Snake

by Bernard Schaffer

  The man was younger-looking than Ash Sinclair. He was dirtier- and nastier- and stupider-looking too. But, as Connor stared, he realized there was an unmistakable resemblance between them. “I’m empty, boy,” the man said.

  “And you’ll stay that way and wait your turn like everyone else.”

  “Give me that beer or I’ll whoop you so bad you piss your pants in front of all these folk.”

  “You couldn’t whoop me even when I was a boy, let alone now. I was glad when you died. So was Mother.” Sinclair pulled the beer away and turned to face Connor again. “Where were we?”

  “Is that—is that your—” Connor asked.

  “Yeah, that’s him, all right,” Sinclair said. “Mean bastard. Always was and always will be. I keep getting stuck sitting next to him, but we ain’t spoke much yet. I doubt we ever will.”

  “What the hell is happening to me?” Connor whispered. He ran his hands through his hair and then down the sides of his face. His skin was soaking wet. “A snake brought me here, Grandpa. An enormous goddamn snake from the pits of hell.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Why am I here?” Connor muttered. “Either I’m dead or I’m losing my mind.”

  Sinclair picked up his mug of beer and took a deep sip from it. “You know, not everyone finds their saloon,” he said. “That’s right. Plenty don’t make it. Poor bastards just stay out there in the desert, wandering. I suppose, if given enough time, a few of ’em might find it just by accident, but then again, they might find all sorts of other things too. Who knows?”

  “So what decides who gets to come here? The snake?”

  “Hell if I know.” Sinclair took another sip of his beer. “But that ain’t the only thing. Ones who do make it have to stand up in front of all these folk and give an account of themselves. After that, everyone decides if you get to stay or not.”

  Connor glanced at the people around him. He wasn’t sure how many of them he’d have let stay if given the choice. “Looks like they aren’t too particular about who they let in.”

  “You’d be surprised. We got some real nasty bastards in here, for certain. Turns out, they told stories so damn funny the others couldn’t help but let them stay. We got all kinds. Poets, priests, and grave robbers. Even old worn-out killers, like me.”

  “You’re not just a killer, Grandpa,” Connor said. “You saved me and Mirta.”

  “Yep, that story was the one I told last,” Sinclair said. “I’m pretty sure that’s what got me in. Otherwise they’d have turned me away and I’d be out there in the desert somewhere.”

  Sinclair tilted his head back to drink and Connor took in the faces of everyone around him. The rugged faces of hardened criminals. The soft faces of royalty. The kind faces of men who might have been scholars and the mean faces of men who were most assuredly dangerous. As he looked them over, he realized they’d stopped speaking and were now staring directly back at him.

  Sinclair jerked his thumb over his shoulder and said, “I think they want to hear your story now.”

  “What?” Connor said. “I—I don’t have a story to tell yet.”

  “Well, that’s too bad for you, then,” Sinclair said. “I was wrong about this one, fellas. Kid’s no snake, after all. Must have too much of that Odell in him. Get him out of here. Let him try his luck in the desert.”

  The men came forward to grab Connor and he cried out, “Wait! I didn’t have a chance yet! I’m not finished!”

  Sinclair held up his hand to stay the others. “Why not?”

  “I got sick! Some kind of fever overtook me.”

  “So? What about before that? You weren’t sick when you walked right into the trap of that Granger crook who killed your pa, was you? You weren’t sick when you hired all them guns to take out Granger and let them turn on you instead. And let’s be perfectly honest, boy. Even if you wasn’t sick now, would you really be out there in the woods risking it all searching for the men who want to hurt your mother? Naw. That’s not you, is it? You’re one of them let’s-go-tell-the-sheriff people. You’re one of them sit-back-and-let-someone-else-handle-it people. Know why?”

  When Connor didn’t answer, his grandfather leaned in close. Sinclair’s eyes were now reptilian slits that ran through their middle and they glowed red. “Because whatever you are, you ain’t no snake. Never was and you never will be.”

  One of the things with the twisted faces grabbed Connor by the arm to hustle him out. His hairy fingers were impossibly strong, but Connor fought to resist and cried out, “That’s not true!”

  Connor wrenched his arm hard enough to break free. He shoved the apelike man back and shouted, “I never asked anyone to come save me! I did what I thought was best for my family and not none of you were there to tell me how to do it different. I had to do it by myself and you know what? I’ll keep on doing it by myself because I’m the only one left!” He pointed at Sinclair and all the rest of the faces surrounding him and said, “That’s right! I’m the last of all you sons of bitches, so take a good look. You want to see a goddamn snake?”

  Connor snatched the mug from Ash Sinclair’s hands and chugged it down until the beer was all gone. He slammed the empty mug on the bar, panting to catch his breath, then wiped his chin and said, “I’ll show you a goddamn snake.”

  PART FOUR

  A GODDAMN SNAKE

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Mirta Escalante ran toward the nearest tree and pressed herself against it. Edwin Folsom stayed behind. The girl moved quickly and quietly. She had been trained well. He watched her tilt her head around the tree’s trunk, exposing as little of herself as possible, to check the path ahead. She waved her hand for Folsom to advance. He held his holster down against his thigh as he ran toward the tree beside Mirta, then stopped. He bent low and whispered, “I smell nothing.”

  Mirta looked disgusted. “Many men came through there who have not bathed recently. It is obvious as day.”

  “I think you are imagining things.”

  “I think you could not smell the difference between a male and a female horse!”

  Mirta shot from around the tree and Folsom was left behind. “No one could do that!” he cried.

  Mirta leapt behind another tree and paused, but this time she did not wave for Folsom to advance. Her head popped up and she came out from behind the tree completely, then bolted forward without waiting.

  “What are you doing?” Folsom called out, but it was too late. Mirta was gone. Folsom had no choice but to run after her.

  He found her huddled on the ground, cursing bitterly, and realized there was a woman’s body sprawled out beneath her. He could see her boots and bare legs and the blue nightdress she was wearing. As he moved closer, he saw the hole that had been blown in the woman’s back and the blackened blood that was still wet.

  Mirta’s eyes clenched shut and she pounded her fists against the ground in rage. She threw her head back and sank her teeth into her lower lip to mute her own scream.

  Folsom hurried forward to inspect the ground. Based on the position of the woman’s body and the size of her injury, he determined the shooter’s position and found footprints belonging to two men wearing boots and one wearing sandals. One had a long stride appropriate for a man as tall as Blackjack McGinty.

  He continued searching and found evidence of a struggle: a group of acolytes in sandals had scuffled with someone wearing a pair of small boots. After the struggle, the acolytes had dragged that person away. None had taken time to hide the direction they were going. Their path was etched in the ground as clearly as if they’d drawn him a map.

  Folsom went back to Mirta and knelt beside her. “Is this the Sinclair woman?”

  “No,” Mirta muttered. She wiped her eyes with her hands and said, “This was Rena. She was my friend.”

  “I am sorry she is dead,” Folsom said.

 
Mirta gritted her teeth. “The people who did this will pay.”

  “Yes they will,” Folsom said. “But things have changed now.”

  Mirta’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I can prove that two wanted prisoners have escaped and are now with the Red Priest. They have killed this woman and abducted Mrs. Sinclair. The trail to their camp is easy to follow.”

  Mirta shot to her feet. “Let’s go, then.”

  “Wait,” Folsom said. “Listen to me. If they wanted to kill Mrs. Sinclair, they would have. Here is what we must do. One of us must go and surveil their camp and see how many men they have and where exactly Mrs. Sinclair is being held. The other must go and tell your friend Mr. Odell that he has to send a telegram to the US Marshals. Tell them what has happened. They will come right away and they will bring an army with them.”

  “Fine,” Mirta said. “I will go to the camp. You send the telegram.”

  “I cannot let you do that,” Folsom said.

  “You cannot stop me.”

  “Perhaps not. But tell me, what happens if you go and you see the men who killed your friend?”

  “I will cut them to pieces,” Mirta said.

  “Exactly,” Folsom said. “And the moment you do, the others will kill Jesse Sinclair, and all of this will have been for nothing.”

  Mirta eyed him coldly.

  “Let me go to the camp,” Folsom said. “I will find your friend and make sure she is in no immediate danger. Once you have sent the telegram, come and join me. Then, I swear, together we will kill all of the ones responsible.”

  Mirta looked down at Rena’s body, then off in the direction of the tracks Folsom had indicated. “If you kill any of them before I get there, madre di dio, I will be very displeased,” she said.

  “I will do my best to wait,” Folsom said. He sprang up and ran into the woods.

  Mirta took a deep breath and tried to calm the rage boiling inside her. She knew that by the time she returned, Rena’s body would be ripped to pieces by animals. If wolves took it and dragged it back to their lair, it would never be found. Burying it or burning it would take too long. The only thing to do was move as fast as she could and hope that by the time she returned, there was enough of Rena left to bury properly.

  Still, Mirta refused to leave her friend lying exposed in such an undignified way. She found the pile of brush and kindling that Rena had left, and she scooped branches and leaves into her arms and carried them over to spread across the body. She spread some leaves over Rena’s face, but she needed more.

  She went to where the brush was thickest and reached down to grab as many leaves as she could hold, when her hand touched something warm and metallic.

  Mirta reached inward and grabbed the rest of the object and pulled it free, only to realize she was holding a worn leather gun belt with two pistols holstered in it. And not just any guns. The guns of Ash Sinclair. The snake guns he’d carried in his days as leader of her father’s gang. The snake guns that had killed two giants. The snake guns Jesse Sinclair had sworn to destroy.

  Mirta looped the gun belt over her shoulder and took off running for her horse.

  * * *

  * * *

  Back in Honey Hook, Mirta leapt from her horse at the Bailiwick’s entrance. She hoisted the gun belt and snake guns over her shoulder and ran inside, past all of the men gathered in the lobby, and up the steps toward Istaqa’s room. She did not bother to knock. Instead she grabbed the doorknob and burst through the door, unsure of what she would find. She half expected to find a white sheet covering Connor’s dead body, with Odell on his knees, weeping.

  Instead, she found both men sitting on chairs at opposite ends of the room. Odell had his legs crossed and was reading an old newspaper. Istaqa’s eyes flew open as she came in, and she could tell he had been sleeping.

  “Hey, look who’s back,” Odell said as he set the paper aside.

  Mirta went toward the bed and laid the gun belt down on the mattress. She touched Connor’s face and saw that he was only asleep. His hands were clenched at his sides but his color had returned to normal. “Why is he not awake yet? Is he still sick?”

  “We aren’t exactly sure,” Odell said, “but he looks to be out of the woods, thanks to this man.”

  “Gracias, viejo,” Mirta said over her shoulder.

  “De nada, mujer joven,” Istaqa said.

  He ignored her raised eyebrow. “What did you and young Edwin find?”

  She turned toward Odell. “It is bad. The Red Priest has taken your daughter prisoner. Officer Folsom is tracking them to their camp to make sure no harm comes to her.”

  “But she is alive?” Odell asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, thank God,” he said. “Did they take Rena too, or did she escape?”

  “She is dead,” Mirta said. She cleared her throat and kept strict control over her voice. “Shot by one of the Red Priest’s men.”

  “No,” Odell cried. “Not poor, sweet Rena. It can’t be.”

  “I saw it myself. She was left in the woods unburied, like an animal.”

  Odell smashed the stump of his right wrist into the palm of his left hand. “Those sons of bitches. I’ll kill them all one-handed if I have to. Where are they? I want to go to this camp and show them who they’re messing with.”

  “You are not going to the camp,” Mirta said. “You are going to find the telegraph and tell the US Marshals that two escaped prisoners murdered Miss Rena and took Mrs. Sinclair prisoner. That is what Folsom said for me to tell you and it is the only reason I am not at the camp with him now. He said they will send an army.”

  “I know where there is a telegraph machine you can use,” Istaqa said.

  “All right, I can do that,” Odell said.

  Istaqa stood up from his chair and regarded Mirta more carefully. “You have done well, Daughter of the Seri.”

  “¿Qué es Seri?” she asked. “I am not this word. I am Mirta, daughter of Lorenzo Escalante.”

  “You are also of the Seri,” Istaqa said. “I can see it in your face. Your people come from Sonora.”

  “These words mean nothing to me.”

  “They should,” Istaqa said. “The Seri are the fiercest tribe in all of Mexico. When all the others were defeated, it was the Seri who killed so many Spaniards that Spain gave up wanting to fight. Even today, the Mexican armies do not violate Seri land.”

  Mirta could not help but be impressed by the sound of that. “Perhaps after I am finished killing this Red Priest and all of his men, I will return and you will tell me more about these Seri of Sonora.”

  “I’d like that,” Istaqa said.

  Odell stood. “Istaqa, just tell me where the telegraph office is. I’d rather you stay here to keep an eye on Connor.”

  “There is no need,” Istaqa said. “He is awake.”

  Odell and Mirta turned around and saw Connor Sinclair standing on his feet. Mirta’s eyes met his, and before she could speak, he picked the gun belt up from the bed and snapped the buckle around his waist. He pulled the pistols free, looked at the snakes engraved on the barrels, and holstered them once more. “Take me to the Red Priest,” he said.

  “Now hold on just a second, young man,” Odell said. “You just sit back down and let us do what we need to do here.”

  “The time for sitting is over,” Connor said. “It’s time to stand.” He extended his hand toward Istaqa. “Thank you.”

  Istaqa took the young man’s hand and felt his grip. It was strong. “When this is done, you must tell me what you saw in your vision.”

  Connor nodded, then gestured to Mirta and said, “Let’s go.”

  Odell grabbed for Connor’s arm as he walked past. “I’m begging you, son. Don’t go. Let me send for help first. I’ll get it here as fast as can be.”

&nb
sp; At the door, Connor patted the old man’s shoulder and said, “You’re a good man, Henry. I bet you’ll tell one hell of a story after you die.”

  “Did you just call me Henry?” Odell called after Connor and Mirta as they went down the hall. “What the hell?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Blackjack McGinty and Cody Canada dragged Jesse through the torchlit camp. They’d bound her wrists together with silk cords that only drew tighter the more she struggled against them. The acolytes were gathered in front of their tents, dressed in their robes. The sky above glowed like crackling embers in a fading fire.

  John Deacon emerged from the most elaborate of the tents, draped in his long red robe. He took his place in front of the giant wooden gibbet in the shape of an X, which had been formed from thick crossbeams blackened by fire and still reeking of smoke.

  “These beams once supported the roof of your home,” Deacon told Jesse. “I thought it fitting.”

  Set at the bottom of the gibbet was a human skull. Jesse’s eyes fixed on it in horror. “What the hell did you do?”

  Deacon swept forward to scoop the skull up in the palm of his right hand. He raised it aloft to show her and the entire crowd. “Behold! A cup forged from the remains of my greatest enemy. A chalice, fit for one who is in direct communication with the universe itself!” He spun and shoved the skull into Jesse’s face. “Dost thou not recognize this cruel visage? This is he who left his wretched symbol on my very flesh as a boy! This is he who destroyed everything I knew! This is he who sired your husband, and whose blood still courses through the veins of your only son.”

  Jesse reared back, trying to get away from the gleaming white skull.

  “Soon I will crucify your son above this altar and open up his veins. The blood of Ash Sinclair’s last living heir will fill this skull and all of us will drink from it. Even you.”

  “You’re insane!” Jesse shouted.