The Good, the Bad, and the Dead

by Bruce Campbell

  Potts looked at Luke. "Ready?" he asked.

  Luke's head bobbed unsteadily on his shoulders. "Ready enough," he answered, pulling his rifle out from under his coat.

  Potts drew his pistol and glanced nervously up and down the street. The few townsfolk up and about at this unGodly hour -ten o'clock in the morning - didn't seem to realize that anything was about to happen. They scurried up and down the storefront boardwalks like mice, oblivious of the cats that were about to pounce. Further down the street, Gentleman Stan sheltered under the porch of a brothel, leaning on his cane. He tipped his black hat to signal that it was time for the robbery to begin.

  "Let's go," Luke said.

  Together, they climbed the front steps of the church and pushed open its heavy wooden doors. The entryway was filled with coats on pegs - and pistol belts. A sign above the inner door read: NO GUNS ALLOWED.

  Potts snickered, and hefted his Colt. Then he strode into the main part of the church, Luke close on his heels, and fired a shot into the air. The bullet tore through a stained glass window, sending down a shower of broken red glass.

  "Hands up!" he yelled. "This here's a robbery!"

  "Be good Christians and reach for Heaven," Luke shouted beside him. "Otherwise we'll have to send you there!"

  Forty faces — the assembled congregation of men, women and children — turned to stare at them with open mouths. It was as if they were still singing hymns but no sound was coming out. At the front of the church, up near the gilded altar and the rough-hewn carving of Christ on the cross, the black-robed priest slammed his palms down on the Bible he'd been reading from.

  "How dare you!" he thundered. He pointed a finger accusingly at them. "This is a house of God. How dare you bring guns into it. How dare you commit robbery here! Get out, you sinners!"

  The priest was in his sixties and heavy jowled, his face purpled with righteous rage. Potts stared for a long moment into his piggish eyes, remembering the elderly priest who had condemned Potts' own mother for being a whore. The priest had called down God's vengeance upon her, and a few months later Potts' mother had died of a wasting disease. That priest was the first man Potts had killed. And Potts had only been thirteen then.

  Smiling, Potts drew a bead on the fat priest's forehead. "I think you're the one who's gonna be doing the gettin'," he said, and pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through the priest's eye and exploded out the back of his head, splattering the crucifix behind him with blood.

  "Nice shootin', Potts!" Luke chortled.

  For a frozen moment, the congregation just stood there. Then Captain Matthews and T. Mary burst through the rear doors at either side of the altar, collection plates in one hand and weapons in the other. T. Mary held a pistol; the captain a saber that dripped with blood. Like sheep scattering from a wolf, the congregation scrambled for the aisles.

  Luke fired his shotgun, filling the aisle with smoke and thunder. Two men and a woman went down, their bodies torn to pieces by the close-range blast. The rest of the congregation skidded to a stop behind them and stood, trembling.

  Captain Matthews banged his bloody saber against the silver collection plate he held. "Time to make your offerings!" he yelled. Then he and Mary began to move through the congregation, thrusting the collection plates at the chests of the worshippers. The plates quickly filled with silver dollars, gold nuggets, pocket watches, rings, and scrip. T. Mary coughed and spat bloody phlegm on the foot of anyone who didn't have much to contribute. The captain encouraged generous donations with a prick of his saber. Potts noticed that the ones T. Mary spat on started coughing themselves. He kept a good distance away from her; no sense catching whatever it was she had.

  A few of the braver townsfolk glared as they handed over their valuables, but none were stupid enough to make a move. Only one of them had any real gumption. A man with a mop of gray hair and the rough hands of a miner stared at Luke the whole time, then raised a callused finger to point at him.

  "I seen that big 'un before," the geezer whispered to the man who stood next to him. "He was one of them outlaws the vigilantes hung."

  Potts chuckled to himself. Let the superstitious old fool believe what he wanted. Maybe they'd be too afraid to send a posse after the gang, if rumor spread that it included fellows who just wouldn't stay hung.

  When the .collection plates were full, T. Mary and Captain Matthews tipped them into a gunny sack. The captain slung it over his shoulder. Potts' eyes lingered hungrily on the clinking sack. There was more money in it than he'd seen in a year. Could he really trust the others in the gang to divide it up fairly? Maybe they'd just shoot him in the back once the robbery was done.

  Captain Matthews met his eyes and grinned. He tossed the sack at Potts.

  "Here," he said. "Y'all can carry it."

  Together with the others, Potts began backing up the aisle. When he felt the doors at his back, he turned to push one open.

  That was when the shooting began. The shotgun in Luke's hands boomed, T. Mary's pistols spat flame, and the hissing of the captain's saber accompanied the bark of the military pistol he'd drawn with his other hand. Screaming filled the church as the congregation realized that they were to be slaughtered after all. Men, women and children fought each other as a knot of humanity surged its way up the aisle, toward the false sanctuary of the altar. Laughing, the outlaws followed the retreating tide, guns blazing.

  Potts didn't see anyone with a weapon other than the gang members. But someone must have started something. He watched, dumbfounded, as Luke, T. Mary and the captain filled the church with blood, thunder and gun smoke. Seconds after it had begun, the shooting stopped.

  "What happened?" Potts asked in a hushed whisper. "Did someone pull a pistol?"

  Captain Matthews and Luke ignored him. The captain wiped his saber on a corpse and sheathed it, and Luke was busy reloading his shotgun.

  T. Mary spun her pistols by their trigger guards then sheathed them in one smooth motion. "We don't never leave no one alive," she answered. "No witnesses."

  Potts swallowed and glanced down at the corpse of a fashionably dressed woman. No witnesses. That was what he'd said about the Chinamen. But there hadn't been women among them. Leastwise, no white women.

  A baby's cry split the silence. As quickly as she'd holstered it, a gun was back in T. Mary's hand. With her free hand, she scooped an infant up from a pew The child's crying hiccuped to a stop. Then it grabbed the barrel of the gun in a tiny pink fist.

  "No," Potts whispered as he realized what was coming next. "The child ain't gonna tell nobody noth-"

  The pistol roared in T. Mary's hand.

  "No witnesses," she chuckled. "Right, Potts?"

  Potts backed away from T. Mary "I don't hold with shootin' babies," he croaked. "I'm quittin' this gang."

  Luke stepped in front of the door. "No you ain't, Potts. No one ever quits Gentleman Stan's gang."

  ***

  Luke was right. Lured by the easy money, Potts stayed on. In the span of a few months, he was a rich man. The robberies went as smooth as the first; the churches were as easy to pluck as dead chickens. Sometimes the gang struck when a service was being held, forcing the congregation to make offerings before gunning them down, sometimes they broke in at night and stole the silver and strongbox contents before burning the church down.

  Truth be told, Potts liked the second kind of robbery better. After that first hold-up in Virginia City where the baby got shot, he'd gone a mite squeamish. At first, when it came to shooting, he just singled out the men and let most of the women and children be. The white ones, anyway. Then he began to find that even shooting a colored or Chinese woman or child was starting to get under his skin. Come a few more robberies, he just shot his pistol into the air, over everyone's heads. The others in the gang didn't seem to notice none-they were too busy with their own killing.

  The robberies continued. The money piled up. And so did the bodies.

  No witnesses.

  Even though
he wasn't doing any of the killing, something nibbled at Potts. It took him some time to put his finger on it. He wasn't responsible for the killings, but he wasn't exactly an innocent party. He profited from them.

  That one was easy to solve. He didn't need so much money anyway. He started giving the extra away, mostly to whores and poor folk. That settled the voice inside his head - for a time.

  One night, they were pulling one of the robberies Potts liked better: the break-in kind. They'd looted the silver collection plates, broken open the strong box that held the offerings, and gouged most of the gilt off the crucifix. Rain drummed on the roof of the church and slid down the outside of the stained-glass windows like tears.

  Luke soaked the altar cloth with kerosene, then struck a Lucifer match and tossed it onto the soaked cloth. As it filled the church with a rush of heat and flame, Potts noticed a movement behind one of the pews.

  So did Captain Matthews. Like a racehorse leaping a fence, the Captain hurdled the front pew. He reached down under the next pew and hauled a squirming figure up by the collar.

  It was a little greaser kid, maybe twelve years old. One hand held a church wafer he'd been munching on, the other a sorry-looking Bowie knife with the tip of the blade broke off. The kid slashed at Captain Matthews with the knife, but the Captain just held him out at arm's length. With a flick of his saber, the Captain knocked the knife out of the kid's hand.

  "Lemmie go!" the kid said, nearly squirming out of his tattered shirt. His English was pretty good for a greaser. "I won't tell nobody I saw you."

  Potts liked the kid's spirit. He wasn't showing fear, and he was a scrapper, right enough. The kid reminded Potts of himself at that age.

  "You don't look religious," Potts said to the kid. "What were you doin' in here?"

  The kid's eyes got a calculating look. "Same as you," he said. "Stealin'. Mi madre died and I been hungry since."

  "Hungry," Skinny echoed. He patted his own distended belly.

  T. Mary sidled up, looking interested. "What did she die of, boy?" She reached out with a boil-spotted hand to raise his chin, but the kid jerked his head aside.

  "A woman's disease," he muttered.

  Potts knew what that meant. The kid's mother had been a soiled dove, just like his own ma. And a woman's disease meant that she died hard, twisted up with gut pain.

  T. Mary gave a satisfied sigh.

  Behind them, the altar was a mass of flames. The fire had spread up the back wall and flames licked at the base of the knife-gouged crucifix. Potts could feel the heat on his back. He could have sworn he saw Jesus lift his feet a little, but it was probably just a trick of the light.

  The kid took in a lungful of smoke and began to cough. He looked up at Captain Matthews. "Lemmie join your gang," he said. "I'm small, but that means folks won't pay no notice of me. I could go on ahead into a bank and get the layout of it."

  "We don't rob banks," Luke said with a grin.

  "I could do chores!"

  "You're too young to enlist," Captain Matthews said.

  The kid looked straight at Potts, and coughed again. His eyes were tearing now, as the smoke stung them. "Then just lemmie go. I won't tell anyone I saw you. I swear. Porfavor-please}"

  A trace of fear was starting to show on the kid's face. And the nibbling voice was back in Pott's head.

  "Let him go," Potts said. "He's just a kid. He'll keep his mouth shut."

  T. Mary spat on the floor and shook her head. Luke laughed out loud and levelled his shotgun at the kid. He grinned like an executioner sizing up a condemned man. Skinny drew a knife and looked at the kid like he was vittles.

  Captain Matthews released his hold. The kid had enough sense not to run up the aisle and make himself an easy target. Instead he scuttled around behind Potts.

  Potts put an arm around the boy. Captain Matthews gave Potts a long, hard stare, then lowered the point of his saber and pricked Potts' chest with it. "Shoot him," he said. "That's an order."

  "I won't," Potts answered. And he meant it, too.

  For a second or two, the church was silent except for the crackle of flames. The other gang members had all gathered round him in a tight circle, and Potts could see the sullen look in their eyes. Luke had his shotgun pointed at Potts, and T. Mary had her gun drawn. Skinny's knife glittered red in the firelight.

  Potts realized it was him or the kid-probably both, given the odds. Slowly, his hand inched down toward the revolver at his hip.

  Potts couldn't believe he was doin' this. Was he really going to throw his life away for a greaser kid?

  "What's your name, boy?" he asked.

  He couldn't quite make out the boy's answer, but it sounded something like Hay-soos.

  The crucifix on the wall shifted and made a loud groaning noise as one of its supports burned through. Captain Matthews glanced at it, and the other gang members did the same. Potts knew it was now or never. His hand flashed down to his holster and he drew his pistol quicker than he'd ever done before. He whipped it up and pointed the barrel at the Captain's chest.

  The crucifix crashed to the ground in a swirl of flame.

  That was when the first of the blackouts hit. When Potts woke up from it, he had a pistol empty of bullets. And the kid named Hay-soos lay dead at his feet.

  The other gang members never spoke about what had happened that night in the burning church. And Potts was afraid to ask. Things went back pretty much the way they'd been before, and Potts tried to get the kid out of his mind. He was just a greaser, after all.

  As the robberies continued, Potts tried to work up the gumption to insist that the women and children be spared, but every time he thought about trying to end the killing, another blackout hit.

  The blackouts frightened Potts almost as much as the killing had—he thought he was going soft in the head. But over time, they came to be a relief. He couldn't quit the gang-he saw that now. He had to go on with the hold-ups. And if he couldn't remember the robberies, it didn't really seem like him that was doing the killing.

  The money began to pile up again. Trouble was, rich though he was, Potts wasn't enjoying it the way he thought he would. Sure he had a nice new suit and silver toe caps and spurs on his boots, plus a hat that cost ten dollars all by itself, but the most basic pleasures in a man's life had gone astray. Like the time he paid six dollars for the finest whore in Billings-a real fancy lady, all perfumed and pretty-only to find that his plumbing wouldn't work the way it should. No amount of encouragement from that lady or any of the others Potts tried would fix it.

  Then there was his appetite. He'd order an expensive hotel meal—one a man would have to work a full week to earn the wages for-and found he couldn't eat any of it. The only thing he could stomach these days was meat so undercooked it was near raw. And the strangest thing was the time Potts dropped a campfire-cooked leg of rabbit in the dirt and then absentmindedly ate it without washing it off, the meat tasted best of all.

  Potts pondered all this as he sat in the barbershop in Crooke City. As the barber lathered his face with soap from a personalized shaving mug, Potts studied his reflection in the mirror. Even though he didn't eat near as much as he had before, he seemed to have gotten a bit paunchier in the last few months. He took a bigger size of pants than he used to, and he wore his gun belt fastened on a different hole. Even his face looked a little puffy.

  He shrugged. Too much good living, was all.

  He watched in the mirror as Captain Matthews came in the door and stood behind the barber. Despite the fact that the captain was wearing heavy riding boots and spurs, he moved silent as a cougar. His boots didn't thump and his spurs didn't jingle. Potts figured it was the military training that done that.

  The barber was scraping the stubble from Potts' chin with a straight razor when he suddenly noticed the captain standing there. He started and nicked Potts' chin. Potts swore and drew his pistol without even meaning to. For a second there, he'd seen red and been ready to shoot. Good thing he'd wrestl
ed it under control; it was the same red haze that came just before his blackouts.

  "Sorry, sir," the barber hastily apologized. He reached for a towel to dab at the wound, but it came away with only soap foam.

  "You're lucky there ain't no blood," Potts told the man, eyeing the cut in his chin in the mirror. He eased his pistol back into its holster.

  Truth be told, the fact that he didn't bleed from cuts and scrapes any more was starting to make Potts wonder about himself.

  The barber stared for a moment at Captain Matthews, ranging his eyes up and down the man. Then he spoke in a respectful tone.

  "I see, sir, by your belt buckle you were a member of the 7th Cavalry Regiment. My condolences for the loss of your compatriots at Little Bighorn. I didn't realize that anyone other than Custer survived."

  He lifted a personalized mug with the name Custer on it from the rack on the wall. "Did you know that I was the man who cut his hair before the battle, as a precaution against being scalped?"

  Captain Matthews pulled his jacket shut over his belt buckle and shook his head no. In the four months that Potts had known him, the captain never once got his hair cut. It hadn't been until a windstorm blew the captain's hat off that Potts had seen why. Captain Matthews didn't have no hair-just a big ugly scar where his scalp used to be. Probably the same injury that took his eye. Those Indians at Little Bighorn had been real savages.

  "I just came in to talk to my friend," the captain said.

  He turned to Potts. "It's reveille, Potts. Time to saddle up and ride out."

  Potts stared at Matthews. Reveille was the captain's code word for time to skedaddle.

  "Trouble?" he asked.

  Matthews nodded. Then he turned and strode out of the shop as silently as he'd come in.