by David Boop
* * *
A month later Seneca stopped his wagon loaded with bricks in front of a ramshackle shed in the middle of a goodly piece of land within sight of the rail line in Pendleton. Isolde with the loom and spinners wrapped in blankets and Katie with the boiler, stopped their own wagons behind him.
“Looks good,” Katie called.
“And it’s civilized!” Isolde smiled hugely as she eyed the wooden sidewalks above the packed earth of the street.
Katie wasn’t so sure about the civilization part. But this land wouldn’t support another Sasquatch clan.
“Three saloons,” Seneca added. “I’m more than ready for a long pull of beer to wash trail dust from my mouth.”
A train whistle screamed in the distance, at the same time a steam barge blasted the dock with three short, sharp wails. People on the pier shouted with enthusiasm.
“Ah, civilization,” Isolde sighed. “At least we know the dangers here.”
Gun shots shattered the window of the first saloon, from the inside. Two wrestling men tumbled out through the jagged glass remnants, trying to pummel each other to death. A gaudily dressed madame stayed behind, taking bets. A horse reared, nearly overturning another cargo wagon. Dogs barked. Women screamed. Dynamite exploded at the back of the bank, nearly deafening them. More shots were fired.
“Chaos,” Seneca shook his head.
Home, Kormos whispered. For me and my family. Home.
The Murder of the Rag Doll Kid
DAVID BOOP
Arizona Territory
1890
The Rag Doll Kid stared at the rapidly cooling body on the floor. Pacing, he circled it; his curiosity piqued. He took in the face from different angles. No matter which way he cocked his head, he couldn’t deny the fact the dead man looked exactly like him.
He bumped the toe of his boot against the man’s blooded scalp. It was spongy under the dirt-water-color hair. He walked around to the front again, crouched and examined a hole just about an inch above the left eye. It still leaked a bit, looking no less like a scarlet worm crawling down a flesh-colored apple. The worm extended its reach across the dead man’s nose and over his moss-like mustache to pool on the floorboards. It slunk through the gap between the planks and dripped the twelve or so inches to the Arizona dust.
“Yep. No doubt about it. That’s me.”
The Kid’s voice sounded funny to his own ears, like he was talking in a cave. He guessed that’s how ghosts were supposed to sound, anyway. Least, that’s the way his pappy had made them sound, when he was young, as they sat around the fire and told stories about wolf spirits and ghost wagons. He shook his head, trying to accept the notion of being known as the Ghost of the Rag Doll Kid from now on.
Would he haunt this cabin forever? He shuddered at the thought. Once the town folk found his rotting corpse, they’d most likely burn the place down. Then where would he be? Out near the trail into Drowned Horse, haunting that cactus people always peed on when the wagon train stopped? Wouldn’t that be worse than being stuck here?
He took one more look at the body.
“God, hope I don’t stink too bad when I’m found.”
The image of his once friends and neighbors gathered outside the cabin, each battling to be the one to put the torch to the walls, leapt to mind. Maybe the preacher man would say a few words, using his Christian name.
“Lord, commit the body of our fallen brother, William Matthew Ragsdale, to your eternal embrace, or at least have pity on his wretched soul before Satan’s foul minions drag it to the fiery pits of hell. Amen.”
Children would dance around, singing that dang-blasted rhyme he tried not to hear in his sleep.
Women folk, say goodbye to yer men.
The Rag Doll Kid has come agin’
Oh, mama, keep your boy in tow.
The Rag Doll kid will kill him so.
The men would all head for the saloon to toast their good fortune. Few people liked to have their mistakes shoved in their face, yet those mistakes were painfully clear when they’d seen the rag doll hanging on Will’s belt.
Will tried to leave “the Kid” stuff behind him. Heck, it’d been nearly twenty years. He didn’t bother nobody. He stayed at home as much as possible, stepping outside occasionally to see what a red-dust-filled sky would do to the sunset. He was rarely disappointed in the view.
Why had someone chosen now to kill him? And who? He’d sent all the ones that’d have a grudge against him to their final judgment, or so he thought.
He checked the window. Had he heard the sound of shattered glass just before the flash of light that put him in this state? Will found a bullet hole there, as he expected. The mystery gunman had to have been waiting for him a long time out in that desert, hoping he’d get just the right angle; one without any chance of missing. The sharpshooter had to know that, if he missed, the Rag Doll Kid would see him dead.
The shooter was good. Will peered through the bullet hole, trying for a guess where he’d been shot from. There were a few spots a man could lay without chance of the sun gleaming off gunmetal. A gulley about three hundred yards out seemed about right. Had the killer set himself up at night and waited through the morning for Will to give him the perfect shot?
Weren’t many men could do that. Will actually knew of only one still alive and, if it was him, why’d he chosen now when there’d been so many chances to kill “the Kid” in the past?
’Bout then, Will felt the beginnings of a draw against the back of his shirt. Instinctually, he knew this pull would rip his soul off the mortal Earth. He wanted answers and figured he didn’t have all that much time to get them.
Despite his ghostlike state, Will was able to move things around with some effort. The door latch felt slippery as he grasped it and slid it clear. When he walked out into the midday sun, he could still hear his boots against the porch.
He cursed when he couldn’t get close to his mare. He’d hoped to untie her and let the old girl carry him into town, but she spooked as he approached. Instead, Will walked out by the yellowed cactus and waited. It only took an hour before the daily stagecoach to town stirred up a dust cloud on the horizon. Like clockwork, it slowed as it approached. Will slid away from the spot that would soon be wet, not just for that reason, but to also be far enough away from the spookable horse team.
No one seemed to see him as he slid around to the back of the carriage. Will even waved in at the passengers, stuck his tongue out, and got no reaction. He climbing up onto the luggage rack and looked at his cabin one last time, knowing that eternity had someplace else waitin’ for him.
The town of Drowned Horse was true to its name. A town that nobody ever planned a move to, but they ended up stuck there like a horse carcass in the Cottonwood wash after a big rain in Flagstaff. A passerby would think the whole town was just wood waiting to be burned.
For Will, it was both eerie and refreshing to walk through town and not have people look away from him.
Damn! Never realized that Martha Fenski had such pretty green eyes.
Will considered exploring Drowned Horse in a way he couldn’t while alive, check in on the few people he still knew were around. He had no real friends left, his actions had seen to that, but it would be nice to look in on a few acquaintances.
Hell, maybe there are other ghosts like me down by the graveyard?
The pull on his shoulders, though, reminded him he had only so much time. Will headed for Nathaniel Chalker’s smithy, where resided the only person with the skill and reasons to kill him.
The serrano-thin young man was in the back. Chalker had just put something under a tarp. Slick black hair leaked sweat down the back of his sunburnt red neck, like he’d been out in the morning sun awhile. The smith turned around abruptly, like he’d heard—or felt—someone in the shop.
Will stood still, waiting.
Nate surveyed the place with nervous eyes that took in every corner. He moved to the center of the room. Will took that oppor
tunity to slowly walk to the tarp. He picked up the edge. Nate’s special rifle lay beneath it. Once, the twentyish man had drunkenly bragged on killing a coyote with it from nigh on four hundred yards.
It had been just good fortune that had placed Will within earshot of that conversation. The Sagebrush’s owner still slipped Will supplies out the back door at night when no one would notice him. He was the only man that never judged Will for his actions that day.
The day that earned him that damn nickname.
“Nate?” Will said, as he tested the sound of his voice, “What’d you do, Nate?”
The smith turned around wild-eyed, looking for the voice’s owner.
“What? Who’s there?”
“Why’d you kill the Rag Doll Kid, Nate?”
Nate dropped to the floor and crossed himself. He rattled off prayers in succession.
“Why’d you kill the Kid?!”
Nate wept now. He said between sobs, “What—what he’d done to all them folk. He—he deserved—to die.”
“You know that’s not right, Nate. If he was that bad, he would have killed you, like those he hunted down, just to cover his tracks, but he wouldn’t harm a child, would he?”
“He killed—he killed—”
“He killed your pa. Yes, he did. But is that any worse than what your daddy done did to him? He and those friends of his let an outlaw kidnap two people, and they did nuthin’. Nothing!”
Nate slipped into a silent torment, guilt unmistakably furrowing his brow. But something didn’t set right with the man Will used to be. Call it lawman instincts, but he thought there might’ve been more to Nate’s actions. Someone had convinced the lad to settle accounts last night. The smithy was hotheaded, but not prone to making decisions on his own. Whatever the crowd wanted, Nate followed.
“Nate? Why now? You could have killed him a dozen times since then.”
Nothing.
“Nate? Were you drinking last night?”
Nothing.
The former sheriff-cum-outlaw reached down and grabbed the scruff of Nate’s shirt. It was filthy and sweat stained from the hours he’d spent in the desert lying in wait to kill the Kid. With extreme effort, Will pulled the smith to his feet. Terror rippled young Nate’s face.
Nate hollered as invisible hands shook him. “WHAT ARE YOU?”
Nate’s shop was far enough on the edge of town, no one could hear him though, and Will considered that another clue that destiny had plans for him.
“Tell me, Nate! Why now?!”
“Th-th-there was th-th-this man. C-c-came in last n-n-night.”
“Who?!”
“Idon’tknow!Idon’tknow!Idon’tknow!”
“What did he say?”
“He k-kept buying me whiskey and t-talking about how much he h-hated the Kid and how c-cowardly it was th-that he’d k-killed my pa.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s st-still at the Sagebrush. He wanted me to c-come over once I’d done the job.”
Will tossed his murderer down hard to the wood floor. The Rag Doll Kid spat invisible spit at the cowardly young man’s feet. He purposely walked over to the tarp and uncovered the smithy’s rifle, took it up, and turned to see the fear in the lad’s eyes. To him, it’d appear as his rifle floating in midair aimed at his heart.
“I am a vengeful spirit, Nathaniel Chalker. The same one that claimed your daddy and his friends. Now, I claim you.”
When Nate didn’t move, the Kid spoke with the voice of the grave.
“Run.”
Nate leapt from the ground and fled, but the Kid knew he wasn’t too bright and would run straight down the center of Main Street.
Will placed the gun to his ghost shoulder, and let loose a breath that didn’t have any air in it. He let Nate Chalker get into the center of town before he fired.
The rifle’s trigger was hard to pull and the recoil launched the gun from his nonexistent hands, however, the bullet was true. The gun’s echo rang through town.
Carried by the force of the impact, Nate propelled forward and slid across hard-packed earth to lie still.
The citizens of Drowned Horse ran to the fallen smith, splayed out there in the center of Main Street. At one woman’s scream, more gawkers poured out from behind the Sagebrush’s doors.
By the time Will got there, someone had rolled Nate over and held up his head as he tried to speak. Blood leaked from his mouth. The smithy coughed, spewing forth life juices. Will leaned over the shoulder of a lady in the crowd and locked eyes with Nate as he lay dying.
“Who done this to ya, Nate?” Clint Butcher asked.
“R-rag…” Another cough. “D-doll K-kiii…”
The last words were but a whisper, however, no one there seemed to doubt their sincerity. Angered, men shouted orders to search the town. Others jumped on horses and rode off toward William’s cabin.
“Well, looks like they will find me before I stink too bad,” the Kid’s ghost said in a whisper.
One more stop, Will knew, and then his time’d be up.
The Sagebrush was the blackened heart of town. Will knew every face in Drowned Horse, truthfully these days more from profile, but enough to spot a stranger sitting at the bar. As more people funneled out onto the street, lowering the number of patrons inside, Will searched for the most out-of-place person there. He’d narrowed the list down to three when barkers outside announced to the whole town what Will knew already.
“Nate Chalker names the Rag Doll Kid as the one who done him in!”
One of the three prospective strangers, a man who seemed hauntingly familiar, squirmed uncomfortably at this news. His scalp was visible through his tumbleweed hair, and a long scar ran from his ear to a cleft chin. He stared into the two fingers of gin on the counter before him like a Chinese fortuneteller did to a pot of tea.
Maybe he was seeing his future there, Will wondered.
The man slammed the shot and headed up to one of the rooms on the second floor.
The Kid followed, careful to dodge johns and whores as they came down the stairs. His feet felt lighter against the steps, as if that beckoning force was pulling him up by his suspenders. It had grown stronger in the minutes since he’d shot the smith, but, undaunted, the Kid pressed forward. Visions came unbidden now, and he had to grab the rail for support. Scenes from his life flashed in front of him:
William, the child coming across the prairie with his folks.
William, the naive deputy studying under a great teacher, Sheriff Levi Forrest.
William, a young man in love.
The ghost got himself back to his feet and continued pursuit. Each image became harder to take.
Will, the new husband.
Will, the father.
A noise came from the Kid, half-laugh, half-sob, as the next wave subsided.
I thought your life flashed before your eyes at the moment before your death, not a couple hours later.
Will grieving over Forrest’s grave.
And if that had not been nearly impossible to rewatch, the worst ones, the gut-wrenching, spasm-causing memories, nearly toppled William over the balcony.
Why? he called to God. Why make me see that again? If he could weep, he would have, witnessing his greatest failure. Seeing them die, over and over again.
When he’d reached the second-floor landing, what remained of William Matthew Ragsdale had been burned away, and only the Rag Doll Kid remained.
The Kid leaned warily against the open door to the room his prey had entered. The pudgy man had his back to him. He was gathering up articles of clothing, tossing them haphazardly into a bag. The man who’d instigated the Kid’s death turned slightly, and his face was reflected in a vanity mirror.
A final vision came, yet caused no pain, just bringing with it a sense of understanding. The Kid poised at the edge of a ravine. A murderer, a madman, with his hand on a holster. Words spoken that ultimately meant nothing now. A movement. A drawing of guns. Flashes of light and blo
od and a scream as the villain went over the side and down some three hundred feet into the raging waters of a spring-flooded Oak Creek.
No one could have survived that. No one sane. No one human.
“Hello, James.”
James Kettle caught an image of his stalker in the mirror, but couldn’t find him when he spun and drew. The motion impressed the Kid, that this jiggly man had drawn so quickly from his hip.
“Where are you, Kid? We got us some things to settle.”
The former sheriff stepped inside the room and quietly walked past Kettle. He spoke from the other side of the room.
“Oh, I agree. Just not in the way you’re thinking.”
Again, James spun with a speed that belied his age and shape.
“Not bad, James. Looks like you’ve managed to keep that arm in shape despite the rest of you going to seed.”
James guffawed. “Nineteen years, Kid! Had a lot of time for practice. Never could get the draw on you before, could I?”
The Kid moved to a new spot.
“Nope, just bank guards, drunken gamblers, mostly. Though, you used your gang to kill my friend, Sheriff Levi.” He kept stepping around Kettle. “But it was black magic from the depths of hell that took those I loved most, wasn’t it? I really shouldn’t be surprised you’re still alive, with your voodoo dealin’s.”
“Stop with the tricks, Kid,” James demanded, sweat leaking from his pate. He targeted the new place the Kid’s voice came from. “I’m guessing the smith gave me up. He was so sure he could kill you. Hard to believe he missed.”
“Oh, but James…”
The Kid stepped up to within an inch of James’s face. Despite his spirit state, he could smell the whiskey on the breath of his former archenemy.
“He didn’t.”
The Rag Doll Kid pushed Kettle hard, forcing the outlaw to fall backward onto the bed. Kettle rolled over it and landed on the opposite side, in front of the window. Fear and alarm stood arm and arm with Kettle as he tried to find something to shoot.
