by Keri Hudson
Well, Sasha had to remind herself, they are my family; the only family I’ll ever have.
Ginger’s voice came before him, distracting Sasha’s attention. “Frenchy, Frenchy!” Sasha turned as Ginger ran into the main floor. His naturally white skin seemed forever reddened by the sun, freckles barely visible, red hair bleached almost to a dark blond. Thin and gangly from too little nutrition, he ran in excited, feet clacking against the hardwood floor. “Frenchy, someone’s comin’!”
“How many, Ginger?”
“Just one rider, Sass,” Ginger said as the men and women of the Skull Crushers came in from the outside and from various rooms inside their headquarters.
“Just passin’ through,” Rim-Job said, picking his teeth with a thin blade from a red Swiss Army knife. “Gotta be.”
“That don’t mean he won’t stop here,” Ginger said. And Sasha knew he was right. What was more, Sasha had a strange feeling about what was about to happen, a cold paralysis in her gut that told her the man would most certainly stop, and likely a good deal more than that.
Sasha and the others turned to look up as Frenchy, born Jonathan Frye almost forty years before, and his woman, Joanna Nichols, known to everyone as Mamma, came out of his room in the corner of the upper floor and stalked around the open-air hallway, a balcony inside the building and overlooking the saloon below.
Sasha and her older sister locked eyes as Frenchy led her down the stairs. Frenchy was bare-chested as he pulled on his shirt, long, black beard leading up to his stubbled head, recently shaved. “What the hell’s all this about?”
“A lone rider,” Ginger said. “Looks like he’s comin’ in hot.”
Sasha’s gaze turned from Frenchy to Mamma behind him. She glared at Sasha, as if Sasha had some hand in the goings on, when of course she hadn’t.
Typical, Sasha thought, always the scapegoat, it’s always my fault. I’m always in the wrong… even here, even now. Just because I’m her kid sister, she thinks she really is my mother; always has, I guess she always will.
Frenchy asked Ginger, “How far off?”
“‘Bout five miles, by the look from the steeple.”
Mamma asked, “Just one?”
“One and only,” Gin said.
“He’ll pass us right by,” Rim-Job said, spitting into a nearby spittoon, another ancient relic of the forgotten town of Hangman’s Gulch, Nevada.
Mamma said to Frenchy, “I don’t think we should take that chance.”
“Hell no, we won’t,” Frenchy said to her, redirecting his attention to Ginger. “Back to the steeple, and give us the birdcall if he pulls up.”
Ginger nodded. “Right. Sure thing, Frenchy.”
Mamma clung to Frenchy’s arm. “What if he does pull off, snoop around? We can’t just kill every passerby comes along.”
But Frenchy’s only reply was, “We don’t know who this fella is, or who he knows or don’t. He keeps ridin’, that’s fine. But he comes around lookin’ fer trouble, it won’t take long fer ‘im t’find it.” To the others, he said, “Spread the word and arm up; those of you got positions, take ‘em. The rest, just be easy and follow my lead.”
Frenchy turned to ascend the staircase, Mamma lingering by Sasha’s side. Mamma was the picture of Sasha’s future and of her past. Always a bit thinner and more pleasing to the male taste, she was also plainer of face, with thin lips and mottled brown eyes instead of Sasha’s fading blue, hair similar in youth but turned brown with puberty and then graying and frizzy with her life as Frenchy’s prized bitch.
Mamma asked Sasha, “You seen this rider, Sash?” Sasha shook her head. “Well, don’t get any ideas.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” But Mamma just stared her kid sister down, as if there was no reason to explain, as if Sasha knew the truth as well as her sister did. And Mamma was right, as much as Sasha hated to admit it. While Mamma was the most powerful woman in Hangman’s Gulch by virtue of her place beside their leader, Frenchy, Sasha had found no real place there, other than as Mamma’s younger sister. She’d been riding and living with them for most of her life, but those twenty-five years had brought Sasha to a dead end. And she knew then that her sister recognized the fact too, but didn’t care enough about Sasha to do anything about it. Even though Sasha was Mamma’s only sister, and each was the only living blood kin to the other, Sasha knew she was not what really mattered to her sister. A plain and often overbearing woman, Mamma Nichols had been lucky to find the life she had. And she was going to hold onto it for dear life, no matter how lonely or miserable her sister was.
But Sasha was that sister, and living the way she was struck her as no life at all, but a living death. The freedom the others reveled in, freedom from laws and from authority, from jobs and taxes and other social constraints, it all came to nothing more than a prison for Sasha. Mamma had found freedom, Sasha only lifelong bondage which threatened to choke her off and strangle her to death, slow and certain. And those coils had been tightening around her neck for years, far too many than she cared to recollect. It wouldn’t take much more to finish the job, and in her way, Sasha was relieved.
Death would be a relief, a deliverance, but one too merciful and miraculous for her to have the right to expect or even imagine.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sasha and Mamma stood in the saloon while the men around them prepared for the loner’s visit to Hangman’s Gulch. Other women in the gang, including Ruthie Dead Eyes and Pubes Johnson, gathered in the saloon or in other spots where they’d be protected but still would have a good view of the thoroughfare. Nobody seemed to think the rider would simply pass Hangman’s Gulch, and whatever was going to happen simply had to be seen to be believed. It was an unwelcome bit of drama, but Sasha knew that the other women felt as she did. Anything at all that suggested life, even death, had to be welcomed. Death was the closest thing to life in Hangman’s Gulch as it was.
Sasha tried to ignore her sister’s intensity, but it was impossible. Finally, Sasha had to burst that bubble before it grew too big and strong and forced them all out of the saloon and into the open.
“I’m with you,” Sasha said to her sister. “You should know that by now.”
Mamma sighed. “You mean, you’re with us… for now.” Her brown eyes met Sasha’s blues, and the chasm between them had never felt so great. “But the Skull Crushers don’t abide traitors, Sasha. Not even being my kid sister will get you out of that.”
Sasha knew that what Mamma was saying was right. And before she could offer some pitiful excuse for a reply, Mamma asked, “What about Ginger? He’s a good guy. You could be his.”
“No, I can’t be! Ginger? He’s no more than a boy, and the way he’s developing, I doubt he’ll ever be much more than that.” Before Mamma could respond, Sasha went on, “I like Ginger, don’t get me wrong, but… be his?”
Mamma sighed. “A girl’s gotta be somebody’s, or else she’d just better content herself with what she has and who she is. For you, that’s always been hard, I know that. Despite that pretty face, those blue eyes, and all that smooth, blonde hair, life still done you dirt. And I’m sorry about that, sis, I really am; always have been, always will be. But that’s the way it is, and that’s the way it’s gonna be.”
After a long, tense moment, Sasha felt that she had to answer, “Because Frenchy says so?”
Mamma shook her head. “No, honey, no… because life said so.”
But the ugliness of the moment could not hold either sibling’s attention for long. A familiar growl rose in the distance, Ginger’s warning whistle telling the rest of Hangman’s Gulch what Sasha and her sister already knew.
He was coming.
Sasha and Mamma took a place near one of the front-facing windows, grimy and dirty but still giving them a good vantage of the thoroughfare. The engine got louder, but it was not from revving, rather from proximity. Dust collected in the air beyond the windows just as Frenchy stepped out onto the th
oroughfare, Rim-Job and a few others behind him.
Sasha’s blood rushed in her veins as the two parties met, the lone stranger letting his bike idle in the center of the street as they faced each other down. Excitement prickled Sasha’s skin, tongue twitching in her mouth as the dust cleared to give her a clearer view of her life’s penultimate conflict.
The man stayed on his bike as Frenchy and the loner faced each other, and something in Sasha told her she had to get closer, to hear clearly what they were saying. So Sasha pulled away from the window, Mamma glaring at her as she crept closer to the saloon doorway, open and unsafe.
The loner’s bike growled until he finally cut the engine, a thick silence wrapping around the men in the thoroughfare, one against several.
“No reason to shut that hog down,” Frenchy said. “Ain’t nothin’ here fer you, stranger.”
The man glanced around, his eyes finding Sasha’s as she peeked around to get a good view of the action. He said to Frenchy, “I’d say that remains to be seen.”
“And I’d kindly disagree,” Frenchy said, Rim-Job and the others stepping forward to prove his point. “Now kickstart that hog and turn ‘er around, while you still have the chance.”
The loner sat on his bike, unmoving and seemingly unintimidated. Finally, he said, “Guess I accidentally came upon somebody else’s land.”
“Guess y’did.”
“So you're the owner?”
Frenchy spat into the dirt. “Far as yer concerned, I am.”
The loner chuckled. “Far as I’m concerned, yer the sweat on a rattlesnake’s taint.”
A little gasp rose up in Sasha’s throat, one she tried to withhold.
Frenchy chuckled, and the others around him followed his lead, as they always did and always would. “Rattlesnake’s taint, that’s… that’s real funny.”
The loner replied with a question of his own. “Was it a joke?”
“All right, pal,” Frenchy said, “you’ve had yer little fun, now crank that hog and git!”
The loner sighed and looked around. “I don’t take orders from anybody—not at any time, or for any reason. But if you wanna ask for a favor, like a gentleman, I might consider it.” Frenchy just shook his head. “Well, then, looks like we’re at a stand-off.”
“No,” Frenchy said. “We’re at a wake, it just ain’t started yet. Soon enough, we’ll be at a funeral.”
“I hope your friends won’t miss you too terribly,” the loner added with a knowing little smile.
Frenchy stepped again in the stranger’s direction, the other men close behind him. “You got one more chance to get on that bike and ride fer yer life, stranger.”
But the loner only looked at Frenchy with a slow shake of his head. No words were necessary.
Sasha watched by the doorway as Mamma sidled up behind her. “What balls this guy’s got,” Mamma said. “Big enough to feed the coyotes for days, I’d think.”
But Sasha could only shake her head. “I don’t think so.”
Mamma glared at her. “You wouldn’t.” They returned their shared attention to the men in the street and the life-changing contest taking place there.
CHAPTER FIVE
Devon sat on the bike, ready for this fellow and his backers, almost anxious for another contest. Devon’s sense of smell, and his judgment of character, had become expert and precise and they worked together to paint a perfect picture of these men and the lives they led, and the lives they ended. Devon could smell the fear on them, the hatred, the sense that any measure should be taken to protect their lives, their women, their feeble holdings on somebody else’s property. These were not rebels, no free-thinking and free-living band of rugged individuals, the likes of which had honored the skies over Germany, over France, the proud highways and byways crisscrossing the great United States of America. Rather, Devon’s senses were keen to the stink of murder, of lawlessness and terror, rape and horror beyond any need to describe. One whiff told Devon everything he needed to know about the men he was about to kill—that they deserved it, that the world would be a better place without them.
In the corner of his eye, a pretty, young woman peered out from the gloom of a dilapidated saloon’s opened doorway. But there was no time to think about her, to reflect on her almost otherworldly beauty. Devon’s attention was needed elsewhere, at least for that moment.
“Off the hog, then,” Frenchy said. “We’ll be strippin’ her fer parts.”
“Oh,” the loner said, “is that so?”
“What’s it to you? You got about thirty seconds left to think about it, son… it, or your mommy, or whatever else you wanna take to the grave.”
Devon looked around again, another mean chuckle rolling out of his mouth. “The grave, is it?” He climbed off the bike and stood, arms slack at his sides, legs astride. “The one thing we can all truly count on.”
Frenchy smiled too, but Devon could read the doubt, even the horror as he stepped forward. “That,” Frenchy said, “and pain.”
“Or you’ll stop where you stand,” Devon said, knowing his adversary would do as he said, even without knowing why. “You won’t kill me… not today, not ever.”
After a stilted pause, the crumbling town’s defender asked, “An’ why’s that?”
“Because you can’t,” Devon said. “And something inside you knows it. See, there's a little voice in every man's head, woman’s too; tells 'em when they’re stepping over the line, lets ‘em know when they're too close to the edge. And right now, Mr.… whatever-the-hell-they-call-ya, you're hearing that voice.”
“Am I?”
“You are, and I know because I can hear it too. It’s telling you you’re about to die, horribly, and there’s not a goddamned thing you can do about it.”
The man looked at his seconds, seeing in their wide eyes and small, pouting mouths what Devon saw: fear, certainty, doom.
The moment seemed to stretch on, and Devon knew there were only two paths they all could follow. By the town’s leader’s shifting eyes, Devon also knew that his adversary could see the same two paths, and where each would lead: the man's death at Devon's hand, though he could not possibly imagine how.
It was that moment, and moments like it, that brought Devon closer to his animal self. He couldn’t deny the sense of satisfaction he felt when tearing a bad man's head clear off his shoulders, the rush of his power as it coursed through his transformed body. Devon was no monster, no devil incarnate; he was an avenging angel, wiping out the devil's hordes in their own midst. There was a righteousness that he found not only irresistible, but redeeming.
And he was about to be redeemed again.
But the gang leader broke out in a laughter of his own, too loud and too long to fool Devon’s natural instincts. “You got guts, brother,” the man said as his laughter died away. “I’ll give you that.”
Devon said nothing, the crassness of his enemy’s declaration its own condemnation. After the chuckling died, the man looked Devon over. “Maybe you’d like to come work for me.”
“Work,” Devon repeated with deliberate contempt, adding, “for you?”
“Well, not work as they all think of it, of course. But you stopped here for a reason, friend. My guess is, the way you’re riding, alone as you are, you ain’t riding to anyone. Judging by what I see an’ hear, you ain’t runnin’ from nobody neither.”
Devon stood in what he knew was an intimidating silence. Devon didn’t have to say a damned thing, and he knew it.
“So why keep ridin’?” the gang leader suggested. “Why not live by the way of the road?” Without waiting for Devon to answer, the man went on, “The road led ‘ja here, an’ the road ain't never wrong.”
Devon looked around the crumbling ghost town, his eyes finding the pretty face fixed on him from behind the saloon doorway.
“Maybe the road ain’t,” Devon said, knowing he’d said all he needed to say.
“Yeah, yeah,�
� Devon’s adversary said with a smile and a nod, “I ain’t no angel, ain’t sayin’ that. But one look at you tells me you ain’t no angel either.”
Devon couldn’t contain his burst of laughter before saying in a low and cold voice, “You got that right.”
“Good then,” the man said, glancing at the pretty blonde’s face in the saloon doorway before looking back at Devon. “Can’t no man live alone in this world, pal. Y’need friends gotch’er back, y’need women… lovin’.”
Devon knew that, at least on that score, the little town’s defender was right. And while Devon knew he had little to fear from him or his fellows, there was much to be gleaned from time spent among them, in that crumbling ghost town called Hangman’s Gulch.
So Devon shrugged, knowing he was making a deal with the devil. But he knew even more that, of any person, the devil was most afraid of Devon Caine.
“I’ll stick around,” Devon said, “fer now.”
Frenchy nodded and tipped his hat. “John Frye, friends call me Frenchy.”
The loner nodded in response. “Devon Caine.” Nothing more needed to be said.
CHAPTER SIX
The man calling himself Devon Caine rode his bike to an abandoned building across the thoroughfare, once a jailhouse but now little more than an empty wooden box. She watched him go in as Frenchy re-entered the saloon, the other members of the Skull Crushers gathering around, some coming in from the thoroughfare and glancing behind them.
