Deadlands: For a Few Dead Guys More

by Shane Lacy Hensley

  Heck was already sick at his stomach, but it looked like the killing was over for a while. Then Little Archie exited the last passenger car. "Look what I found, Bill!" he said. Behind him came over 20 Union soldiers, unarmed and with their hands in the air. The guerillas gathered about them at once, their young faces twisted with hate at these veterans of the war Back East.

  Heck's stomach dropped through his bowels, then tried to claw its way out. Bill, Archie, Willy, Frank, Blake, and a number of others marched the soldiers to an open field on the other side of the train, away from the civilians. Heck followed, hoping there was something he could do, though in his heart he knew better.

  Some of the twenty-six soldiers fell to their knees, pleading for their lives. Heck watched Bill's eyes light up when this occurred. Others stood stoically, refusing to give the murderers the pleasure. Bill was drugged with bloodlust. He rode up and down the line like a general, letting everyone see the knives, hatchets, and pistols wedged into his belt.

  "Boys! Do you have a sergeant among you?" Bill asked.

  None of the soldiers stepped forward, though Heck noticed one very large man cast a glance to a shorter, stouter man.

  "If there be a sergeant, let him step aside."

  The stout man took a deep breath, then stepped forward. Heck winced, waiting for the shot that would end this brave man's life.

  Bill smiled and touched the saber at his side. "You Federals have just killed six of my soldiers, scalped them, and left them on the prairie to be trampled by horse hooves. I am too honorable a man to permit any man to be scalped, but I will show you that I can kill men with as much skill and rapidity as anybody. From this time forward I ask no quarter and give none. Every Federal soldier on whom I put my finger shall die like a dog. If I get into your clutches, I expect death. You all are to be killed and sent to Hell. That is the way every damned soldier shall be served who falls into my hands."

  More soldiers fell to their knees. One cried that he had just been married. Another said that he was a Mason. Heck felt himself reeling. How could he stop this slaughter?

  "We did not kill your men!" said the big man.

  "It won't do any good, Val," said the sergeant, a man named Goodman.

  "I treat you all as one!" Bill shouted. "You are Federals, and Federals scalped my men and carry their scalps at their saddle bows!"

  Bill cocked his revolvers and began firing. Willy, Frank, Blake, and several others followed suit. Heck felt worms crawl through his guts as he watched Blake shoot one man, then instantly look to the uncaring Anderson for approval.

  Not all of the soldiers died peacefully. The big man, Val Peters, rushed forward, catching several bullets in the chest before smashing into the raiders. He broke one's nose with his bare fist before crashing through the line and ducking beneath the train and under the platform. The bushwhackers followed, enjoying the sport, and waited for the burning depot to force the escaped man out.

  "It's a Yankee barbecue!" cried Frank James.

  Long moments passed. Heck's nerves felt like snakes trying to wiggle their way out from under his skin. Reality was far worse than any ghost story he'd ever heard. There were monsters in the world-they just walked about on two legs and called themselves Rebels.

  The man under the depot could take the heat no more. His smoking form burst from the smoke and smashed into another pack of raiders.

  "Val!" Goodman cried out, but it was no use. The bushwhackers pumped bullet after bullet into the titan's smoldering body until it finally crashed to earth. He never stopped fighting, but he never had a chance either.

  "My Lord. .." Heck heard him say.

  Heck was in Hell. He saw one of the other soldiers lying in the dirt, his feet kicking spasmodically. Little Archie stood over him with a bloody knife and looked to Bill. "He's marking time," he laughed. The other raiders finally joined in, finishing the wounded by crushing their skulls or stabbing them in the throat.

  Heck stared at the demons, the blood, and the lone, shocked sergeant standing horrified amidst the gruesome remains of his friends.

  ***

  The raiders returned to Young's Creek by late afternoon. Heck was still in shock. The naked prisoner, Sergeant Tom Goodman, sat under a tree, stunned and silent. The raiders had threatened to kill him several times, but Bill was determined to exchange him for his friend, Cave Wyatt, who had been captured several weeks prior.

  Heck watched him through the afternoon and eventually took the job as one of his guards. Several times a drunken bushwhacker approached and attempted to "accidentally" kill Goodman, but each time, Heck managed to prevent it, saying that Bill would skin them all if something happened to his prisoner.

  Around 4 p.m., two raiders rode in frantically from opposite sides of the camp. Heck couldn't hear what was said, but Bill ordered the men to mount up. Frank James ran from Bill's side to Heck. "Have your prisoner saddle yon gray horse, and mount him quick—and mark me, if he attempts to escape in the battle, kill him instantly!"

  Heck nodded.

  Battle? Heck's hopes rose. Maybe this was his chance. He noticed Goodman's eyes light up as well. The Rebel-hater vowed to do everything he could to help this brave man escape. He needed one small victory or he was sure he'd go crazy and simply start shooting every damned Rebel in sight. Surely God would let him in Heaven for that...

  ***

  Bill Anderson sat his band in a low wood south of Centralia. "Quiet boys," he said. "We've got a good one this time."

  The raiders waited until they heard the rumbling of hooves. It was a small band of raiders led by Dave Poole, racing for the protection of their woodline. Panting, Poole himself rode up to Anderson and smiled. "They're hot on our heels," he smiled.

  Heck looked out up a broad plain to the top of a ridge bordered on either side by more woods. Suddenly, at the top of the ridge, a line of blue-uniformed mounted men appeared. Was it the 17th? Had they finally cornered Bill? That was fine with Heck, but he wanted to kill the bastard himself. Needed to kill Bill himself to wash some of the blood off him.

  But no, the men at the top of the ridge were no veteran cavalry unit. They were volunteers, mounted on donkeys and plow horses. They also carried long-barreled Enfields-nearly impossible to use from horseback. The rifles were deadly at long range, if the volunteers knew how to use them. Once fired, however, the soldiers would be helpless as the raiders got among them with their endless supply of six-shooters.

  Dave Poole's men moved back out of the woods, dismounted, and checked their weapons. The soldiers at the top of the hill—

  the Thirty Ninth Missouri, it turned out, also dismounted, and formed up in a line nearly 90 men wide.

  "My God, the Lord have mercy on them!" said Blake, standing to Heck's right. "They are dismounting to fight."

  Poole's men then remounted, and Anderson gave the order for his men to move out of the woodline. As they did so, Todd's raiders moved out of the woods from the south and Thrailkill's came from the north. The soldiers were surrounded.

  There were perhaps one-hundred Federals and nearly four hundred raiders.

  "Charge!" Bill screamed, launching the entire wave at the long line on the hill before the militia men could retreat.

  The 39th fired, but only a few bushwhackers fell from their saddles. At forty yards the first wave of raiders fired with their six-guns. Some of the 39th ran, others fixed bayonets and tried their best to stave off the tidal wave of death. The first wave, Poole's men, rode straight through the line to the horse holders beyond. They gunned these helpless men down while Anderson, Todd, and Thrailkill's raiders dealt with the main body. Heck watched the blood flow, watched as the butchers yelled "Surrender! Surrender!" only to gun down most who did. When only a handful of those who had surrendered were left, the raiders holstered their pistols and went to work with sabers and knives. Little Archie was particularly savage, tearing into the wounded like a cat into a mouse that has nicked its sensitive nose in its death throes.

 
Heck reeled, once again feeling helpless. He looked over at Sergeant Goodman, whose eyes were also frozen in horror at the scene playing out before him. He had to free this man. One small victory. One small stab at the monster. The nick on the cat's nose.

  Heck knew he was delirious. The heat, the blood, the constant screaming, the helplessness of it all was taking its toll. He fumbled for his six-gun, felt the unfamiliar weight in his hand. Anderson sat coolly on his horse, watching Archie carve while Pale Willy shot his way up another wounded man's body.

  From out of nowhere came Larry Simms, the bushwhacker who had patched up Heck's nonexistent leg wound earlier.

  "These men are Missourians!" he said to Willy. "And they are wounded. Kill those who are fighting, you murdering bastard!"

  Willy looked incredulously at Simms. Bill did the same.

  "You go too far!" Simms' face flushed red. He knew the danger he was in, but his conscience could not allow Bill's band to work their deviltry any further.

  "You are one of Todd's men?" Bill said over the constant din of pistol shots surrounding them.

  "I am my own man, though I ride with George Todd," the Missourian said.

  Bill nodded. "Then we shall honor your request. Willy aid that prisoner."

  Willy smiled, then shot the struggling man he'd been torturing in the face.

  Simms raised his pistol, but Willy's hand was lightning. He fanned the hogleg, spattering pieces of Lawrence Simms from Cape Girardeau all over Heck Ramsey.

  The Union spy sat shocked for a moment. Then he felt the old familiar rage well within him, boiling like water in a teapot with its lid stuck. He could control it no longer. -

  Heck raised the pistol, muttered "Ride!" to Sergeant Goodman, then fired at Bloody Bill.

  "Die you monster!" he tried to scream, but his throat was dry as Dixie cotton. Bill turned in his direction, his wide eyes alive with bloodlust. Pale Willy, Little Archie, and Blake also turned his way.

  "What's goin' on?" Blake said, a dripping scalp in his hand.

  Heck fired again but his hand convulsed violently. The shot went wild and struck Blake Mullins square in the eye. The back of his skull blew out and spattered Bill with brains and gore. Heck knew Blake's soul was headed south.

  "I'm a United States cavalryman," Heck stammered, a little more audibly this time. "And I'm from Lawrence!" Now it was a full-fledged yell. He fired once more, hitting Bill's horse in the flank near the raider's leg. Still, Anderson did not move, but looked at the body of Blake Mullins, still flailing wildly as it worked its way out of its saddle.

  "You killed my brother! And you're a Goddamn abomination on this earth!" Heck fired once more, creasing Bill's jacket.

  That was too close. Pale Willy drew another gun and fanned it like lightning, putting three neat holes in Heck's gut.

  The spy fell to the ground amid a pile of steaming gore. He looked up into the hot September sun, not caring that it was stabbing out his retinas. At least it kept him from seeing what Little Archie Clements was doing to the poor devil next to him, seemingly unphased by the all event. Then Bill stood over him and blocked the sun.

  "A Goddamn Federal spy."

  "I knew he was wrong," Pale Willy said, his sickening face now entering Heck's dying view.

  Bill stepped forward and put his blood-covered boot on Heck's throat. If he only hadn't dropped his gun, the dying youth thought, he could have punched daylight right up through Bill's evil loins.

  "See you in Hell, Kansas," Bill said as he crushed the life out of Heck Ramsey.

  "I'll be waiting," he managed.

  (Hate continues in The Anthology with No Name Volume 3: The Good, the Bad, and the Dead)

  HEAD GAMES

  by Matt Forbeck How do I get myself into these things? I asked myself as another bullet sang over my head. We galloped through the Dakota twilight, the marshal's posse close on our heels. Our horses were frothing, near exhaustion, and we had no replacements. Our pursuers had brought plenty of fresh steeds.

  Duke fired another shot back over his shoulder. He cursed as it flew wide. "I don't want to hurt none o' them men, but I'm nearly fresh outta bullets," he explained, shouting over the thundering of hooves.

  This was not how I was supposed to die. As a proper Englishman, I had always expected to expire on the Queen's soil, preferably between a clean set of sheets. Bleeding to death on the prairie was not my idea of a good death.

  It seemed to me that I'd less chosen my lot in life than been hurled into it. Forced to leave England under a cloud, I arrived in Boston with nary a penny in my pocket. As a man of letters and an aspiring writer, I determined to make my living by my pen.

  Unfortunately, there are bloody few customers for sonnets these days, especially in the culturally bereft colonies. Fortunately, the only editor clever enough to see promise in my verse offered me what work he could.

  "I publish dime novels," he explained. "Cheap stories on even cheaper paper. Tales of the heroes of the West are all the rage these days, but I need fresh stories. I need someone willing to head out West, hunt those stories down, and send them in.

  "Better yet," he continued, "I need someone willing to follow around a Western hero as he travels the prairie on his adventures. And I've got just the fellow in mind: Duke Solomon!"

  I looked over at Duke as he fired another wild shot at the pack of horses following hot in our wake. I'd taken that job. I'd found Duke in Deadwood, and he'd been nothing like I'd been led to expect.

  On the train trip out West, I'd read several of the dime novels that Duke had authored about himself. They spun glorious tales of the frontier and the men and women that struggled across it. But about a year before that, the stream of tales had suddenly grown darker. And then they'd stopped.

  ***

  "Duke Solomon, you yella-bellied snakel I told you what I'd do to you if you ever darkened my door again!"

  That might not seem like the best way for the bartender to greet you when you walk into the toughest saloon in the toughest town in the Weird West, but since I wasn't actually Duke, but just the faithful recorder of his legendary deeds for various publishers of dime novels Back East, I did what I always do when following Duke into a bar. I stepped back to watch.

  Duke, a tall, rangy man with a kind of rough-shaven handsomeness about the features that poked out from under his sandy hair, stepped bravely into the old No. 1 Saloon. His hand rested upon the butt of his pearl-handled Peacemaker as he looked the stout man behind the bar directly in the eye.

  The bartender's hands nervously darted under the bar's polished surface.

  Duke's face burst into a sneer that could have frightened off a grizzly. "You better think careful about what you're loading yer hands with there, pardner."

  The cowboy detective strode purposefully toward the bar, his hand still on his six-shooter. No one in the saloon whispered a word, and all eyes followed Duke as he stopped opposite the bartender.

  The bartender glared into Duke's eyes, looking for some sign of weakness, but all he got was stone-cold flint. The portly man nodded slowly, then brought his hands up over the counter sharply.

  Duke's gun was in his hand, cocked, and pointed at the barkeep's head just as the man's hands barely cleared the counter. In his right hand, he had a bottle of whiskey. A shotglass was clenched in his left.

  A smile broke slowly across his face, and the room let out its collective breath.

  Duke holstered his gun, then reached out for the glass with his left hand, giving the bartender a hearty handshake with the other. "Lewis, you son of a bitch!" he roared happily. "Yer a sight for sore eyes!"

  Duke downed the whiskey with a smooth, practiced motion, and Lewis was ready again with the bottle before the empty glass even hit the bar.

  By the time Duke had polished off his third shot, Lewis was staring in my direction. Coming up for air, Duke slammed down the glass on the bar as he noticed the bartender's curiosity.

  "Allow me to introduce the 'chronicler of my
adventures,' " Duke said as he swept his arm toward me, "Philip Westerly. Philip, this here's Bradford Lewis, the best whiskey slinger this side o' St. Louis."

  "What's your pleasure?" Lewis grunted happily at me. I quickly examined the offerings on the back bar and found nothing that was guaranteed not to make me violently ill.

  "Um, I'll have what my friend's having."

  Lewis shot me a look of disbelief. "Suit yourself," he said, as if he was talking to a man about to leap over a ledge. He poured me a quick shot of the murky fluid and handed it to me. "And here I thought Duke was the only cuss mean enough to stomach this rotgut."

  I sipped at the liquor and found it strong enough to strip the enamel from my teeth. I gently set the glass back down on the bar and whispered hoarsely, "You may not have been far wrong."

  "How's things?" Duke asked, grinning like a canary-gorged cat.

  Lewis grunted. "Weird as ever. Things have been even worse since Hickok got himself killed here last year."

  "Yeah, well, Wild Bill never was one to take something like getting killed lyin' down."

  Lewis laughed for a moment, but then his demeanor turned cold. He turned toward Duke and growled at him lowly.

  "Marshal Bullock will be looking for you, friend. After the last time you were here, he's got some crackpot theory about you."

  "Bullock's always been a bit off his rocker, Lewis," Duke laughed as he took the opportunity to pour himself another snort. "I don't really care what's on his mind. We're hear because... Well, you can probably guess why."

  Lewis nodded. "You're after that killer again."

  "The Headhunter," I supplied helpfully.

  Lewis scowled at me. "I know the fool's name, thank you very much. And that's exactly what I'm talking about. Bullock thinks he knows who the Headhunter is."

  That got Duke's interest. He raised his eyebrows and looked at the bartender, dead serious. "Really? I've been following this bastard all around the West for the past year, and I don't have a clue as to who he might be. All I know is he's a sadistic bastard who seems to like leading me around the frontier by the nose."