Dead of Winter

by Lee Collins

  "Jack Evans's girl?"

  "Jack's girl?" The marshal looked surprised. "Evans is sweet on a whore?"

  "So I figure," Cora said. "He was out in front the other night when I whipped the wendigo. Said he was watching out for the whores here."

  "Well, ain't that something," Duggan said, holstering his pistol. "I reckon I'll have words with him about that."

  "Don't waste your breath," Cora said. "Poor bastard is so sick with love he was freezing his pecker off for that girl. Ain't no words have been said that could break him of that."

  The man at Duggan's feet groaned and rolled onto his back. The marshal rewarded him with a kick to the ribs. "I reckon not. I got better things to do, anyhow, like locking this lump away."

  "I got something for you after that," Cora said.

  "How's that?"

  "You got a citizen in your own town that ain't human no more."

  Duggan looked at her, silent for a moment. "What's that mean?" he finally asked.

  "You remember Boots, the barkeep from the Pioneer?" she asked. The marshal nodded. "Well, I just shot him up in the Harcourt mine."

  Duggan cracked a smile. "You been at your bottle, ain't you?" he asked. "I seen Boots just this morning when me and Sanchez settled some rowdies."

  "That ain't Boots," Cora said. "Can't tell you who or what it is now, but it ain't him."

  The marshal gave the man at his feet another kick before stepping over him. He drew Cora aside and spoke in a low voice. "I ain't looking to play games, Mrs Oglesby. Now, I paid you your due for licking that monster the other night, but don't think I won't put you away for a spell if you start causing trouble for me."

  "I ain't causing no trouble, marshal," Cora said. "I'm just doing my duty and warning you of it. You know Lord Harcourt, right?"

  "Ain't a man in Leadville who don't," Duggan said.

  "Right. Well, turns out him and his man Townsend got themselves a problem with vampires up in that mine of theirs. Me and Townsend was up there this morning poking around when we got jumped by one of them. We settled it up proper, but when I got a good look at his face, I realized I'd just put my sword through that bartender's heart."

  "You killed Boots?" Duggan asked. His blue eyes blazed as he reached for his gun.

  Cora raised her hands. "Calm yourself down," she said. "Ain't like that."

  "You better tell me what it's like, then."

  "I will if you give me half a space," she said, stepping backward. The marshal let her move, but his hand never left the butt of his gun. "Now, what do you know about vampires?"

  "Not a damn thing," Duggan said. "Ain't my specialty."

  "I'll make it quick, then," Cora said. "A vampire is a blood-sucking demon that's made when a man has his blood drained by another vampire. They keep the form of the dead man, but there ain't nobody inside no more, just a monster hell-bent on killing."

  She paused, taking a look at the marshal. He didn't seem put off so far, so she went on. "When somebody gets made into a vampire, ain't no saving them. Best you can do for them is kill them quick."

  "And you're saying Boots got himself turned into one of these things?"

  Cora nodded. "Yessir, and that's what I killed this morning. Not Boots, but the thing that took over his body."

  "You're sure it was him?"

  "Sure as shit, marshal. Got a good look at his face when I cut his head off. He had himself a fine new set of meanlooking teeth, but it was Boots."

  Duggan looked down, dropping his hand from the revolver. He took a deep breath. "So what's that make the feller who's running the Pioneer?"

  "Wish I could say," Cora said, "but it ain't human. Don't you worry, though; me and Ben will get to the bottom of it."

  "So you're looking for more work, I take it?" Duggan asked.

  "Well, as your luck would have it, Lord Harcourt's the one picking up my tab this time," Cora said. "All you need do is cooperate with me and Townsend, and you get these vampires smoked out of your town free of charge."

  The marshal nodded, a small smile on his face. "So what can I do?"

  "Not much just yet," Cora said. "Just keep an eye on the Pioneer and let us know right quick if anything funny happens."

  "That's all?" Duggan asked. "I ain't the type to just sit and watch, especially when something's fixing to kill folk."

  "Me neither," Cora said, "but somebody's got to, and me and Ben can't."

  "Why not?"

  "We're looking to root out the boss," Cora said. She clapped Duggan on the shoulder. "With a spot of luck, we'll settle this before sundown, and you can sleep easy again."

  "Ain't having no trouble with that," Duggan muttered, but Cora had already turned toward the door. As he watched her go, he found himself hoping that she was right and they could settle everything before dark. Having that wendigo creature in his town, a threat he couldn't fight, jail, or string up, had made him uneasy. Being uneasy made him jumpy, which was no way for a lawman to be. If there was some other unnatural monster around, he might get uneasy again.

  He heard a groaning behind him and turned. The young buck was on his hands and knees, trying to stand. Mart Duggan walked over and swept the man's arms out from beneath him with his boot. The man fell on his face with another groan. Shaking his head, the marshal grabbed the miner's wrists and hauled him to his feet.

  Cora walked into their hotel room, pulled the trunk out from beneath the bed, and started digging through it. Slipping a few vials of holy water into her belt pouch, she looked up at Ben, who was seated by the window, book in hand.

  "You seen that big old crucifix of ours?" she asked. Ben pulled it from his belt and held it up, his eyes never leaving the pages. Cora nodded and picked out a few silver bullets before closing the trunk. She set the rounds on the bed, pulled out her revolver, and opened the cylinder.

  Ben watched her empty the chambers of the spent rounds. "Any luck?"

  "More than I thought," Cora said, loading fresh bullets into the pistol. "Turns out Boots was a vampire."

  "What?" Ben asked, setting his book down.

  Cora nodded. She filled him in on the events of the morning and her conversation with Mart Duggan. When she finished, Ben sat silent for a few minutes, tugging on his mustache.

  "I just can't buy that Boots ain't Boots," he finally said. "Why, I had myself some of his whiskey just this morning while you was up in the mine."

  "How did he act?"

  "Well, he was quiet and liked to glare more than he used to, but I just figured he was working though a bad drunk himself. Never thought he wasn't human no more."

  Cora stood to her feet. "Enough jawing. I aim to get to the bottom of this and find out who he really is. Let's get moving."

  Ben rose and followed her down the hotel stairs. Stepping out into the cold air, they squinted against the glare of the snow. Cora untied Our Lady's reins from the hitching rail and led her around back to the hotel's small livery, where she gave the mare's reins to the stable hand and helped Ben saddle up Book.

  "You still got that knife?" she asked. Ben nodded, pointing to his boot. "Good. You keep that and the crucifix since you ain't got your guns working yet. I reckon George and I will be making enough of a racket that them suckers won't bother much with you."

  Ben looked at his boots, embarrassed. "You know I'm looking to get my irons cleaned up."

  "Right, but until you do, you got to be careful," Cora said. "I won't have you getting killed by no vampire."

  Ben kept his head down as he led his gelding out of the stable and mounted. Cora reclaimed Our Lady and followed him back to the main street. Together, they nudged their horses into a trot, pointing them north toward Harcourt's retreat and the infected mine that lay beyond.

  Across the street, cold blue eyes watched her go. Wash Jones kept his hat pulled low as she rode by. Once she vanished into the bustle of horses and carts, he flicked the reins over the team's back and started the wagon moving again. He'd been riding by when he saw her come
out of the hotel. His fingers had been reaching for his gun when he remembered that there were probably lawmen about. Forced to content himself with watching, he'd stopped the team and waited until she had ridden on.

  His fingers squeezed the reins as he drove the wagon over to the Pioneer. He ached to turn around and follow her, to draw his pistol and settle the matter where the law couldn't stop him. Mounted as she was, though, the wagon couldn't hope to catch up. He guided the team up behind the Pioneer and jerked the reins back. The horses snorted and stamped in protest. Ignoring them, he checked to make sure the coffin was still covered by the burlap sheets before barging through the rear door.

  He hadn't taken two steps before he stopped short as Boots came around a corner, wiping his hands on his apron. "Glad to see you, Mr Jones. Did you bring the item?"

  "Wouldn't be here if I didn't," Wash said. "It's in the wagon."

  "Good," Boots said, a grin twisting his pleasant face. "Bring it up to the storage room. You may use the back stairs."

  Wash was about to protest, but the bartender turned and vanished around the corner. Grumbling to himself, the gunman went back outside and tossed the burlap back, revealing the pine box. He grabbed the end of the coffin and pulled, lowering it into the snow. He stepped around the lower half, wrapped his arms around the wider part, and began dragging it toward the door.

  The coffin was too heavy to be empty, but Wash didn't want to know what was inside. There was no stench, so it couldn't be a dead man, but it still smelled a little off. Musty, perhaps, like it had been tucked away in some rich man's closet for a long time. Whatever it was, Wash made sure to keep his arms wrapped around the box as he dragged it along the ground. The lid wasn't nailed shut, and he didn't want it falling open.

  Grunting with effort, Wash maneuvered the coffin through the narrow doorway and began pulling it up the stairs. The bottom edge banged against each step as he went, making a racket, but he didn't care. If Boots wanted it to arrive in good shape, he could damn well give him a hand with it.

  Wash finally made it to the storage room, panting from the exertion. He looked at the skid mark behind him and grinned to himself. He threw open the door, dragged his burden through, and let it drop to the floor with a loud bang. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

  "A little more respect might be in order," said a voice behind him. He jumped and spun around, pulling his gun. When he saw the bartender's eyes looking back at him from the shadows, he relaxed a little but didn't lower the revolver.

  "Yeah, well, you want it treated nice, you can haul it yourself," Wash said. "Now where's my reward?"

  Boots smirked at him. "All in good time. Were I you, I would savor the veil of your innocence while you can. It will be torn from your eyes before you leave this room."

  Another twinge of fear twisted Wash's gut, but he stood his ground. "Tear whatever you want to as long as I get what I want from this deal."

  "As you wish," Boots said, the smile never leaving his face. "If you would kindly open the lid of the coffin, I will begin."

  "What's that?" Washed asked, casting a worried look at the box. "You want me to open it?"

  "Yes."

  "Why can't you?"

  "Because you must master your fear of the unknown if you are to learn what I have to teach you," the bartender replied. "The choice is yours. However, I should warn you: if you turn back now, I will kill you before you reach the door."

  Wash swallowed. His instincts were screaming at him to run, to leave this unsettling man and his coffin in the dust and get out of Leadville as fast as he could. If he shot Boots quick enough, he could do just that. He could steal one of the horses still hitched to the wagon downstairs and light out before the law could catch up to him.

  His finger drifted toward the trigger as his thoughts raced. Boots watched him, still grinning. The bartender seemed to know his thoughts and was challenging him, waiting to see what he would do. Shooting him would be easy enough, but something told Wash that getting shot would only amuse the bartender. The muffled sound of the piano filtered up through the floorboards as the two men stared at each other.

  Finally, Wash slipped his revolver back into its holster. He gave Boots a long look before kneeling down next to the coffin, wondering for the second time that day what he'd gotten himself into.

  The coffin's hinges groaned as Wash opened it. He expected them to be stiff and hard to move, but the lid gave way easily, letting the dim light trickle into the coffin's interior.

  What he saw made him jump to his feet and take a few steps backward, his hand over his mouth. He bumped into a crate and almost fell, but he didn't take his eyes off the coffin. His stomach threatened to heave his breakfast onto the floor.

  Reclining in the coffin, eyes closed as if in sleep, was a man.

  As Wash regained control of himself, he approached the coffin for a better look. The man appeared young, no older than thirty years. A black, well-trimmed beard circled his red lips, perfectly matching the fine suit he wore and the raven locks that lay on his shoulders. Clean white gloves covered his hands as they rested at his side. The only bit of color about him aside from his lips came from a bloodred necktie at his throat.

  What struck Wash the most, however, was the man's face. Despite having been in that coffin for who knew how long, the man hadn't started rotting. Indeed, the face was rather handsome. It wasn't the face of a dead man, but Wash couldn't imagine anyone enduring the ride from the mines and the trip up the stairs trapped in a coffin. He looked up at Boots with questions in his eyes, but the bartender only stared back at him. Neither man spoke, and Wash suddenly realized that his breathing was the only sound in the room.

  "Rather dashing, wouldn't you say?" Boots said, stepping up to the coffin and looking down at the man. "I always think so, but it doesn't mean much coming from me."

  Wash's mouth worked in silence for a few moments. "What is this?" he managed.

  "This is your future," Boots said, eyes glinting in amusement. "This is what will empower you to kill Cora Oglesby."

  Wash shook his head, not understanding but frightened half out of his wits. Boots favored him with a look fitting for a lame dog. "How often I forget the fear mortality strikes into the heart. Very well, Washington Jones, I will explain. I do hope you won't mind if I do so in my own voice, though. After a good sleep, I enjoy nothing so much as a long talk."

  Before Wash could react, Boots faded into the shadows, leaving the gunman alone in the room. Startled, Wash turned in a slow circle, hoping to see the bartender hiding behind a crate or standing by the window, grinning his grin, but the room was empty.

  A moment later, he heard a soft rustling behind him. Turning his head, he saw white gloves gripping the edges of the coffin. The dead man pulled himself upright, his eyes sliding open. Wash Jones let out a yelp and scrambled backward, only to trip over a crate and fall on his back. The impact knocked the air from his lungs. He rolled over onto his belly, pulled his arms and legs under him, and tried to get to his feet.

  The man was standing in front of him.

  Before Wash could move, a hand gripped his shoulder like a bear trap, hauling him to his feet and holding him until he could stand on his own. Wash found himself looking into the man's eyes. They glowed a soft golden color in the dim light.

  "I had hoped you were made of sterner stuff," the man said, "but perhaps you will learn in time."

  Beneath his fear, Wash felt his pride stir. "I ain't so yellow as all of that. You just startled me is all. Never had no experience with spooks."

  "And I suppose you believe you would have acted differently if you had known what I am," the man said. His voice resonated from deep within his chest, making the air around them vibrate.

  "Well, sure," Wash said, his own voice small in his ears.

  "A show of bravery, perhaps?" The man's tone was mocking. "A valiant attempt to destroy me before I snapped your neck like a twig?"

  "Not exactly," Wash said, looking
down at his boots.

  "I thought not. Such displays of bravado and prowess are best saved for mortal enemies."

  "So what should I do to you, then?"

  "Kneel," the man said. "Kneel before me and acknowledge that I hold your very life in my hands. Kneel before me that I might show you mercy."

  Wash's legs stiffened. Never in his life had he knelt before another man, and he didn't want to start now. He looked into the man's eyes, trying to drum up his usual defiance, but the intelligence and raw power burning in those golden orbs melted his resolve. He felt his legs buckle beneath him. Looking up, he saw a grin spread across the man's handsome face.

  "You should consider yourself fortunate, Washington Jones," the resonant voice said. "Few mortals have ever survived so long in my presence."