Hector returned a small grunting sound.
Duck bent to inspect Doyle’s wound. “Ranger, this wound looks bad.”
Doyle’s face was turning pale from blood loss. Still, he smiled. “Big Ben pulled a conjure pouch and threw a cutting spell I’d never seen. He would’ve finished me off had you not interfered.”
Nat came limping down the middle of the street. Duck’s amulet shard was still tied to his other hand, and it no longer gleamed its golden light. Duck dashed to her brother and embraced him.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Nat said.
“I’m sorry we left you,” Duck said. “We figured Doyle might need more help.”
“You did the right thing.” Nat untied the shard and handed it back to her. “Let’s just get out of this rotten town. We got a bending tree to find.”
Doyle staggered closer. “You’ve learned the next step to Bonfire?”
“We ain’t saying a word till you’ve answered some questions,” Nat said. “Once you’ve explained a few more things, then we’ll talk about what we know.”
“Fair enough. You’ve earned the right to be suspicious.” Doyle shifted his gaze to the front porch of the Big Snake Saloon, where his old trailmate’s body lay sprawled in the mud. He hobbled over to Horner and bent down, a pained groan escaping him. Keech felt a tug and realized Hector was trying to follow the man. He released the stallion’s harness, and Hector joined Doyle beside the fallen Enforcer.
Doyle’s quivering hand moved to the dead man’s face and smoothed back a strand of dark hair. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, Milos. Amicus fidelis protectio fortis.”
Keech recognized the strange words as Latin. He turned to Duck, thinking she might know the meaning from her studies, but Doyle beat her to the translation. “It means, ‘A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter.’ The Enforcers used to speak this phrase to one another, before the dark days of Rose arrived and blackened our hearts.” Doyle paused on the bleak words.
There was movement down the street. Cutter and Quinn were shuffling toward them, weaving around fallen thralls and rubble. The boys were filthy, their faces and clothes covered in soot and mud, but they appeared unharmed. When they saw Horner on the ground and Doyle stooped next to the body, they stopped and stared in silence for a second.
“Who was he?” asked Cutter.
“He was Doyle’s partner, Lynch,” Keech said. “But his real name was Milos Horner. He was an Enforcer and a good man.”
Cutter and Quinn pulled off their hats.
After a silent moment, Keech said, “Much obliged for the help back there.”
“De nada,” Cutter said, his eyes still on Horner.
Quinn held out Keech’s bowler hat. “We found this back yonder on the street.”
“Thanks.” Keech wiped dirt off the hat’s brim and slipped it back on.
“Where’d you get the caballo?” Cutter asked, stepping over to Hector and putting a hand on the animal’s mane. “He’s a beast.”
“Long story,” Keech said. He took Hector’s harness and led the horse away from Horner. The stallion tugged back for a second, as though not wanting to leave his old master’s side, but eventually he submitted and strolled slowly away.
Doyle staggered a bit on the street, looking mere seconds away from falling over. Quinn moved quickly to steady the man. “Ranger, you look awful! What happened?”
“He didn’t mind Big Ben’s warning,” a terrible voice said. “That’s what happened.”
Everyone spun around.
The amber lamplight inside the Big Snake Saloon cast shadows over the small figure at the batwing entry. It was Coward. He was too short to be seen over the top of the doors, so he held one side of the portal open with one hand.
At the sight of the fellow, Cutter wheeled backward. Tripping over a chunk of wood in the street, he fell onto his rump.
Coward looked delighted at the sight of battle-torn Main Street, as if the destruction of the Reverend’s thrall army and the violent dispatch of Big Ben were all part of a grand performance. He pointed to Horner’s corpse. “He made a fine piece of bait.”
Doyle’s blanched face took on new colors of fury. “You mangy cur.” Slipping Quinn’s grip, he limped toward the saloon, but Coward held up a chiding hand.
“We both know I’m no match for you, so why would I come out of hiding and stand here like I ain’t got a worry in the world?”
Keech immediately knew the answer. They had walked into a trap. He looked around for some sign of the danger—a sniper in the shadows, a clutch of thralls lurking in ambush—but the town was stagnant.
“Leverage.” Doyle sneered.
“Clever, as always.”
The Ranger snarled. “You think you’ve got something on me?”
Coward grinned. “I’ve got him, Red. We found your son.” Striped shadows from the batwing doors lined the small man’s face. “I can smell your uncertainty. No need to doubt. He’s in here with a gun to his back.” Coward stepped back into the saloon and disappeared from view.
Doyle turned back to the young riders, his face a mask of confusion and pain. “I don’t know what he’s playing at, but keep away. He only wants me. No one else needs to get hurt.”
The Ranger lumbered toward the entrance, favoring his wounded right leg. He stopped just before going in, then glanced back, his face crestfallen, and muttered, “Please. Take my partner off the street. He deserves better.” Then he pressed on. The lights inside the hotel darkened the moment he stepped over the threshold, as if the building itself had been waiting to swallow the man alive.
Quinn called after him. “Ranger Doyle, wait!” But the Enforcer ignored the words.
Nat turned to Cutter, who had stopped retreating only when Coward disappeared from the entrance. “Do you have any whistle bombs left?”
“N-no,” Cutter stammered.
“What about you, Revels?”
“I used my last one to clear the way when Keech and Duck rode in.”
“All right. Then listen up, everyone. Plans have changed. Doyle fought hard to save his partner, but now he’s wounded and can barely stand. We’re gonna back him up one last time. Cut, I need you to guard the front. You don’t have to get near Coward, but keep your knife ready. Revels, you head around the back. If you see anybody retreat, don’t engage without a weapon. Just mark the way they ran.”
“Got it.” Quinn made to hurry off, then paused. “If y’all see that no-good Friendly Williams, punch him in the gut for Quinn Revels.” Then he disappeared around the corner of the hotel.
Keech handed Hector’s reins over to Cutter. “Stand tall, Cut,” he said, then followed Nat and Duck to the entrance of the Big Snake Saloon.
They stopped shy of entering and hunkered against the outside wall. Keech wrinkled his nose at the heavy smells of liquor and old cigar smoke that piped out of the establishment. He dared a glance beneath the doors and saw Doyle standing in the center of the big room, surrounded by a disorder of chairs, dining tables, and brass spittoons.
“What’s he doing?” Nat whispered.
“Not sure.”
Nat motioned for them to slip over the threshold.
Inside, Doyle stood rigid, poised to attack, his left fist held high over his head. A strange, afflictive kind of pressure pushed against Keech’s skin, like the air just before a thunderstorm. Doyle didn’t turn his head or body, but upon the trio’s entrance, he said, “I told y’all to stay put.”
On the opposite side of the smoke-hazy room, Coward stood on top of the saloon’s long wooden bar, one hand resting on his hip. Pa Abner’s amulet shard still dangled over the knuckle guard of his sword. Upon seeing Keech and the siblings enter, the small man held up a warning hand. “Stand down, children! Don’t make things worse.” He pointed.
Keech followed the gesture.
Friendly Williams stood halfway down the hotel’s staircase, holding his pistol to the back of a disheveled, heavyset lad. Keech couldn’t belie
ve his eyes when the boy lifted his head, revealing the battered face of John Wesley.
“John!” Duck shouted.
“You’re alive,” Nat gasped.
John Wesley didn’t speak—it looked as if he couldn’t. A spattering of purple bruises covered his skin, and the wound inflicted on his right hip by the Chamelia had stained his trousers black. His breath wheezed out from split lips, and his swollen eyes were downcast, as if he were unaware that anyone else was in the room.
“John Wesley,” Doyle said.
John’s eyes struggled upward. “Papa?”
Dumbfounded, Keech couldn’t help wondering if all this was part of some strange dream. The idea that Edgar Doyle—once an Enforcer named Red Jeffreys—was the father of John Wesley seemed preposterous, yet there the boy stood, apparently a trap to snare the Ranger. Once again, fate was at play with the lives of the Lost Causes.
Doyle’s fist wavered in the air. “I’m here, my boy. Papa’s here.”
“Touching,” Coward said, strolling across the bar.
But Doyle simply stared at John Wesley. “What have they done to you?”
Friendly responded for John. “He’ll be fine so long as you do what you’re told. Same with your posse of young’ins. But stir up a ruckus, and I’ll plug this kid right in the heart.”
The Ranger ignored Friendly’s taunts, turning instead to Coward. “What have you done to him, you devil?” His fist stirred above his head, and that oppressive tension in the air nearly sucked the wind out of Keech’s lungs.
“I received the boy as Big Ben delivered him,” Coward said. “In fact, he looks better than he did this morning. You should thank us!”
Doyle’s frame shook. “I suppose your rotten nose sniffed him out?”
Coward’s eyes flickered with a kind of zeal, as if he’d been waiting all day to answer such a question. “Not my nose.” He tugged a piece of brown cloth from his pocket and wagged it at Doyle. “Recognize this?”
Suspicion shadowed Doyle’s face.
“You dropped this rag during the Blackwood shoot-out back in ’45. Remember? You shouldn’t abandon your personal belongings. You never know when someone might pick them up and use them for ill.”
The Ranger exhaled slowly—a forlorn sigh. “Big Ben gave the cloth to his Chamelia, didn’t he? It found John Wesley through my own scent.”
“You’re not as dull as you look,” Coward said.
Keech squirmed in place, wanting to launch an attack, but Nat rested a hand on his shoulder, a wise warning to be patient.
Doyle’s voice cracked. “Release my son. Please. He’s just an innocent boy.”
Coward snickered. “First, open that fist. I know you’ve got some spell ready to release at the twitch of your wrist. Relax your hex, or Friendly kills him.”
John Wesley’s shoulders slumped even lower than before. He looked as if he might collapse down the rest of the stairs. Friendly gripped one arm to steady him.
“Just don’t hurt him.” Doyle loosened his fist.
As the hand lowered, the heaviness in the air softened, and Keech drew in a breath.
“I have no desire to hurt your boy,” Coward said. “I only want the Char Stone and the where’bouts of the Crossing. Once I have those in hand, I’ll leave you to your lives.”
“I don’t know the Crossing’s location, and do you think me so daft as to bring the Stone here?”
Coward walked the length of the bar, sniffing. His boots knocked glasses and bottles to the floor, where they shattered. “I know it’s close, Enforcer. You stink of it. As a matter of fact—” An impish grin spread across his face as he inhaled deeply again. He hopped backward, landing behind the bar. Keech heard Pa’s amulet shard jangle against the man’s scabbard. Coward peeked over the counter’s edge. “I’ll be stepping out the back for a moment, Friendly. Keep vigilant till I return.”
“What?” Friendly said, his eyes widening.
The small man flung open the saloon’s back door and scuttled away into the night.
Friendly’s face screwed up with confusion. “But this wasn’t the plan!” he shouted to the open back door. Suddenly recognizing he was surrounded, fear washed across his face. “Don’t none of you move, or I’ll shoot the kid, I swear!”
“You’ll do no such thing.” Doyle flicked his index finger toward the stairs. An ominous wind kicked up and whistled over the stairwell, blowing Friendly’s white hair.
“Put that finger down! I mean it!”
Duck began to chuckle.
Friendly’s free hand scratched at the Devil’s mark on his neck. “What are you laughing at, brat?”
“I’m just remembering what Keech told you down in the dungeon.” She looked at Keech and grinned, though he could tell she was terrified. “How the Big Snake would dispose of you when you served their purpose. Sure enough, your boss just abandoned you.”
Friendly’s eyes twitched toward the back exit. “No, he’s comin’ back.”
A low moan emerged from John Wesley’s throat, a rumble like that of a mewling cougar. The sound took Friendly by surprise. He stepped up a stair away from the boy. “What’s wrong with you, kid?”
John Wesley lurched backward, knocking Friendly into the stairwell wall, and then spun to face him. A pistol shot crackled, and blue gun smoke rose up between Friendly and John. The boy stiffened and gave a small cry. The pair rolled down the final few stairs together, their arms and legs tangling, till they crashed against the tall piano sitting by the staircase.
“No!” Doyle rushed over and landed on his knees beside John Wesley.
“He just shot John,” Duck said, her words flat with shock.
But then John Wesley sat upright. The boy glanced down at himself. There was a tiny black hole in the chest of his coat where Friendly’s bullet had struck, but when he pushed a finger into the space, the tip returned clean. He glanced over at the young riders.
“Hey, y’all,” he said. “What happened? This don’t look like Mercy Mission.”
“John!” Nat said.
Convulsions suddenly racked John Wesley’s body, accompanied by a petrifying scream. His fingers reached for his coat and ripped it up the middle. Buttons flew across the room. Tossing his head back, he opened his mouth—his jaw unhinging too wide for a regular person—and rows of nettle-thin fangs sprouted from his gums.
“Kid, what’re you playin’ at?” Friendly said, his face contorting with fear. He tried to back away but smacked against the piano.
John Wesley’s hands and neck and face rippled. Bumps appeared all over his features, singeing his flesh in places as though fire had charred him. Keech rubbed his eyes with a knuckle, hoping the pressure and smoke in the room were deceiving his sight, but this was no trick of the eye.
“What’s happening to him?” Duck shouted.
Disregarding his startled captor, John Wesley turned a pair of eyes as red as fiery coals on Doyle. “You,” the boy growled, his voice suddenly much deeper. “You murdered my ma!”
Doyle started to mumble something but was cut off when Friendly fired his pistol twice into John Wesley’s back. This time, the lead slugs bounced off John’s hide and landed on the floor beside the piano. He howled, but the sound was more fury than pain. He spun to face Friendly, and the man’s features turned whiter than his fluffy shirt.
John Wesley grabbed the fellow by the neck and tossed him across the saloon. Friendly crashed into a bar stool, groaned a little, then slumped unconscious on the floor.
John’s gleaming red eyes locked again on Doyle. “I’ll kill you.”
If they didn’t do something, John Wesley would tear Edgar Doyle apart. Nat and Duck must have understood this, too, for they all scrambled toward Doyle at the same time and grabbed him by the arms to drag him away.
“Ranger, you better go!” Nat said as the trio struggled to pull the man onto his feet.
“Turn me loose!” Doyle roared, his voice cracking with anguish.
Suddenly, o
ne of the saloon’s large front windows shattered, spraying glass into the chamber. Keech spun around to see Big Ben dive through the window, very much alive. The brute crossed the room in a flash and slammed into Keech, knocking him into Nat and Duck. Keech tumbled headlong into the stairwell, feeling elbows and knees knock the wind out of his gut.
Big Ben shoved the snarling John Wesley back into the piano, then drove a fist into Doyle’s chest. Doyle doubled over and collapsed. The outlaw stepped on the Ranger’s wounded thigh, pinning him to the floor. Doyle screamed.
Big Ben bellowed laughter. “You’ve lost your son, Red. Look at him. He’s tainted.”
Nat and Duck dog-piled the brute, driving their fists into his bearded face. “You killed our parents!” Duck cried. But their blows did nothing but aggravate the man.
“Help us!” Nat yelled to Keech.
But Keech was already diving from the stairwell. As he came down, his chest smacked against what felt like a tree trunk. He realized he’d landed on Big Ben’s arm in midswing. He tugged against the arm, but he might as well have been pulling at a house. “Enough!” the outlaw roared, and twisted his mountainous body. Keech and Nat and Duck went flying across the room. Keech tumbled into a table, and the side of his head smacked wood. Playing cards cascaded around him.
Dazed, Keech glanced up and saw a grotesque version of John Wesley bare his new fangs. The boy seized Big Ben by the shoulders and shoved his lower back into the newel post. Big Ben’s face wrenched in pain.
“He’s mine!” John screamed, then lunged at his father. Keech expected Doyle to be ripped apart, but instead John Wesley hoisted the wounded man over his shoulder. Releasing a loud roar, the boy wheeled in the direction of the broken front window and leaped across the room carrying Doyle. John Wesley’s boots landed squarely on the windowsill, crunching the shattered glass that remained in the wood. He glanced back at Keech and the siblings, who were trying to pick themselves up from the dingy floor, and scrunched a brow that had sprouted dozens of thorns. To Keech, the look was one of both rage and bewilderment.
The Fang of Bonfire Crossing Page 18
