The Good, the Bad, and the Dead
Page 22
"Can I help you?" a pretty young girl who worked the store said. She still wore modern clothes.
"No thanks. I'm good." Shane's voice seemed raspy now, like the imaginary gunslinger whose clothes he wore. He smiled at her as he strapped on a pair of children's six-guns that became Colt Dragoons as he slid them out of their holsters and twirled them expertly around in his hands.
As he border-rolled them back into the holsters, he winked at the girl then tipped his hat. She smiled, then scuttled away when the voice of his wife came from the other room, "Come back, Shane." He smiled. He had been named after the movie Shane, and had heard that famous line a thousand times before (though curiously, thousands of Deadlands fans, who wrote him constantly, had never made the joke).
***
Shane walked back into Cracker Barrel just as a man in a dark suit and a woman in a long, sleek, purple dress entered from the opposite side. The place grew deathly quiet. The man in the dark suit could have been Satan himself. He had pale skin, piercing black eyes, a black, perfectly-trimmed goatee, and two shiny, pearl-handled Peacemakers at his hips. The girl hung on his arm, staring mockingly over at Shane, the hero who was there to do battle with the man in black.
The devil-gambler rubbed his fingers together slowly and stared at his nemesis. Then he tapped the blackjack table nearby. Though Shane was thirty feet distant, he could see the man already had two face cards showing-twenty. The dealer had one face card showing. At the man-in-black's rap, the dealer "hit," turning over a Joker with the leering face of a demon. No blackjack table in the world allowed wild cards, but this one did. Twenty-one.
The dealer shoved a half-million dollars worth of poker chips toward the leering Devil without even looking at his own cards.
The devil-gambler smiled, then loosened the straps on his holsters and rubbed his practiced fingers together as his coal-black eyes glared cold Hellfire at Shane.
The dance-hall girl at his side leered with him, mockingly.
Shane flipped the serape off his the handles of his twin Dragoons.
The crowd between them cleared.
The Devil drew first. One bullet, two, then three slammed into his chest. Shane fell in a crumpled heap.
The smoke from the Devil's guns was thick and smelled of brimstone. It burned Shane's eyes as he laid there feeling the life drain out of him.
He tried to get up. Someone had to put the Devil down.
He raised up on one elbow and fumbled with his heavy gun. Shane squeezed off a round but the shot went wild, hitting Michelle. She suffered for it, but didn't die. She was too tough for that.
The Devil stood atop him. "That'll do," he said, and put one last round in Shane's heart.
***
The room spun. The bar's patrons went back to their business as if nothing had ever happened. Even Michelle seemed all right. Shane saw all this through dead eyes. But if I can see, he thought.
A thousand t-shirt slogans ran through his mind. Never say die. You never know how far you can 'til you go too far. A champion gets up even when he can't.
...even when he can't.
Shane propped himself up on one elbow. He was back. He was Harrowed now, he knew that, and he was ready for one more round with the Devil.
His friends were there, too, waiting to see how he fared in this Hellish rematch. Jason, John, Christy, Dave-the whole posse.
Shane stood and looked the Devil straight in the eye. Then he holstered his gun. He'd do this fair and square.
"Let's go," he said.
The Devil turned. He was as menacing as ever, but was that a hint of fear in his infernal eyes?
The Devil slapped leather, cleared first, and put three more rounds in Shane's heart.
But this time he didn't fall.
He slowly drew his own gun.
The Devil hadn't bothered to reload from the first fight—he was empty.
Shane took careful aim, watched as the Devil sank to his knees, pleading for his tainted soul.
***
The roar of the Colt Dragoon woke Shane hard. He was at his parent's home, sleeping off a summer fever. His mother was standing over him, holding his sleeping two-year old son Caden, who was suffering from the fever as well.
"He fell out of bed," his mother said. "He cried out 'Daddy!' then went right back to sleep."
"Huh?" Shane couldn't quite shake himself out of his delirium. He could still see the hazy saloon and the pleading Devil in his mind.
"Here," his mother laid Caden beside him. The boy's sweat-covered brow and congested breathing quickly woke his father up.
"Thanks, mom. I'll take care of him."
"Good night," she said as she returned to her own room.
Shane lifted Caden and propped him up on the pillows to help ease his breathing.
"I want Daddy," he whined in his sleep. Shane smiled and reached over to tuck the blankets in on the other side of the bed so the squirming child wouldn't fall out again.
Suddenly, Caden's eyes opened wide, though it was obvious he was still sound asleep. "Look Daddy! Cowboys!"
Shane froze, terror-stricken. His own cold sweat broke and poured down his forehead.
It was several minutes before he could bring himself to move.
These things have a way of taking over, he thought, and slowly reached for his laptop...