The Weird Wild West (The Weird and Wild Series)

by Faith Hunter

Gurney and the woman Bill Hoxie had pulled out of the passenger car both looked like they couldn’t ride any further. Both were tied to their mounts, and only their bonds were keeping them on the horses. The Chaplain signaled to stop, and the crew did. They paused in the massive shadow of a hunk of red stone that looked like a giant anvil if you squinted at it the right way.

  “What’s this shit?” Hoxie asked, climbing off his horse. Bill Hoxie was a beast of a man, towering over everyone else. His massive bulk was all hard muscle and ugly scars. Hoxie had been a road agent since the end of the war, and the Captain had recruited him when the crew had been passing through Nacogdoches. No one liked Hoxie, but he was good at killing and almost as good at stealing, so the Captain took him on and kept him under control. Now the Captain was dead, and Hoxie was already making noise like he planned to step up and lead the crew. The Chaplain climbed off his horse and brought his canteen to the lady. “Josh, Isaiah, tend to Gurney.”

  Josh and Isaiah Doncaster were brothers. They had fought in the same unit as the Captain and the Chaplain during the war. Isaiah was the oldest of the two at nineteen. They had been farm boys in Virginia until the war, and they both still looked like children to the Chaplain—children with dead eyes. Josh carried his canteen to their wounded comrade. Gurney was a broad black man with graying hair. His eyes fluttered open as he drank, then closed again. His breathing was ragged.

  “Don’t give him but a little to swish in his mouth,” the Chaplain said as he held his canteen up to the dry swollen lips of the woman. “Can’t give him much until a sawbones opens him up and sees how bad that belly wound is.” The woman’s eyes fluttered open as she felt the cool, silver water wet her lips. She was pretty—even covered in trail dust—raven hair, blue eyes, and dressed in a simple skirt and buttoned jacket bodice, both of light gray.

  “Thank you,” she whispered through a throat of broken shale. She took the canteen with shaking hands and began to drink.

  “Not too fast,” The Chaplain said. “Too much, too quick will make you sick.”

  “Well ain’t that just as sweet as fucking molasses,” Hoxie said, as he walked up. He pushed his campaign hat back on his head and wiped the sweat from his brow with a filthy kerchief. “Don’t be giving the whore too much of our water, Chap. We’re going to need it.”

  The Chaplain turned to Hoxie. “Wouldn’t have to be giving her any if you hadn’t pulled her off that train and dragged her along with us,” he said.

  “Shit,” Hoxie said, spitting dirt out of his mouth at the Chaplain’s feet, “we’d all be as dead as the Captain and Gurney if’n I hadn’t.”

  “Gurney ain’t dead,” the Chaplain said.

  “Just a matter a time,” Hoxie said. “He’s slowing us down. We should leave him.”

  “Ain’t leaving no one,” the Chaplain said. “They’re gonna chase us further, longer ’cause of her,” he nodded in the direction of the woman. The Chaplain walked to his horse and unbuckled one of his saddlebags.

  “I can fix that,” Hoxie said, taking another gulp of water. “Y’all ride on a spell and leave her with me. I’ll have a little fun and then plant her. Problem solved.”

  The Doncasters muttered between themselves and shook their heads, but they knew better than to go against Hoxie.

  “Nobody touches that woman,” the Chaplain said. He pulled a Bible out of his saddlebag. The book was black leather, old and worn. It fit easily in his large hand. He flipped it open, found a section that seemed to meet with his approval and tore the onionskin page out of it, neatly. He dropped it back in his bag and fished a small pouch of tobacco out.

  “And who the fuck do you think you are to be giving orders?” Hoxie said. He snatched the canteen away from the woman and took a long draw off of it.

  “Give the water back to her.” The Chaplain said. He sprinkled a line of tobacco into the crease he folded in the Bible page, using his back and the flank of his horse to hold the hot dry wind at bay.

  “And what do you intend to do if I don’t?” Hoxie said, striding toward the Chaplain. The canteen was still in his hand, spilling water into the baked soil as he swaggered. The Chaplain still had his back to the red-faced outlaw. “You’ve thought you were some damn huckleberry above a persimmon ever since I joined up with this outfit,” Hoxie said. “The only reason I didn’t kill you cold as a wagon wheel a long time ago was I respected the Captain enough not to!”

  The Chaplain licked the paper and rolled up his quirley as he felt Hoxie’s ham-like hand grip his shoulder like a vice. The Doncasters were moving back, their hands on their pistols.

  “I’m talking to you, you greyback son of a bitch!” Hoxie said, his free hand reaching to his holster.

  “You remember to reload?” the Chaplain said softly as he slid the cigarette into the corner of his mouth. “All that shooting and fighting and running...you sure you remembered to reload, Bill?”

  Hoxie paused for a second. The Chaplain’s smile was a thin razor cut. He could almost smell the smoke coming out of Bill’s ears as he tried to recall. The Chaplain turned, breaking Hoxie’s grip on his shoulder firmly with one hand as he did. Smoothly, almost effortlessly, the Chaplain plucked the Colt out of Hoxie’s holster, only inches from Hoxie’s hovering hand, and chucked up on the barrel like it was a hammer. He drove the heavy butt of the revolver into Hoxie’s head, and the stunned outlaw staggered back. The Chaplain followed and struck him again and again in the face and the head. Hoxie moaned and fell. He looked up from the desert floor, blood streaming down his forehead, into the barrel of his own gun. The Chaplain’s face was hidden by sun and shadow, unknowable.

  Hoxie heard the hammer of the pistol click as it fell. He opened his eyes. He was alive. His empty pistol landed in the dust at his feet. He heard the Chaplain’s gun cocking and he looked up into another barrel.

  “I didn’t forget to reload,” the Chaplain said. “You ever touch me again, I’ll kill you. You ever point a gun at me, I’ll kill you. You touch that woman, and I’ll kill you. We square, Bill?” Hoxie nodded and rubbed his bleeding head. “Good,” the Chaplain said. “Now, let me tell you how this is going to be—I’m running this crew until we get Gurney patched up, we split this take even, and we go our separate ways. Get your ass up, give that woman some water from your canteen, and get ready to ride.”

  The Chaplain walked over to join the Doncasters, holstering his gun as he did.

  “You should o’ ought to killed him, Chap,” Josh said in a low voice. “First chance Hoxie gets, he’s gonna put a bullet in your back.”

  “He’s welcome to try,” The Chaplain said, lighting his quirley with a wooden match. “How’s Gurney?”

  “Dying,” Isaiah said, also talking low, “If he’s gonna have any chance at all, we need to get him to a doctor ’fore nightfall.”

  “Closest town?” Chaplain asked.

  Isaiah pulled a tattered map from a wooden tube and knelt in the red soil, brushing aside small rocks and pebbles to clear a surface. He laid the map down and weighted it against the wind with his pistol near its center.

  “We’re hereabouts,” Isaiah said, jabbing a finger down on the map. “There is a main road that takes you to Tucson. We can connect up to that...here,” he slid his finger a short distant as he spoke. “Be there by tonight.”

  “Along with every railroad dick and lawman in the territory,” Hoxie said, coming to join the conversation. “We can’t go anywhere near a major town. They’ll have us swinging before sun-up.”

  The Doncasters looked to the Chaplain, who was squatting now and scanning the map.

  “Bill’s right,” Chap said, puffing on his cigarette. “If I was hunting us, that’s the place I’d expect us to head to. So we can’t.”

  There was a grinding sound near the desert floor. The Chaplain looked to his left. About ten feet away, a Rock Rattlesnake was coiled, its tail shaking hypnotically.

  “Shit!” Isaiah said, about to jump to his feet. Chap steadied him with a palm on h
is chest.

  “Be still,” the Chaplain said, his cigarette balanced on the edge of his lips. The Chaplain picked up a rock slowly and eyed the rattler. “Go on,” he said, his voice oiled steel, “git.” The snake’s rattle stilled, and it glided away in the direction of a shady pile of rocks.

  “Jesus,” Josh said. “Where the fuck did that thing come from?”

  “It’s been sitting there since we got here,” the Chaplain said. “We just riled it a bit.” He looked back to the map. “What’s this place? Here.” He jabbed his finger down on a spot not very far from where they were. It was odd, but he could have sworn it wasn’t on the map a moment ago.

  “Black Fang?” Isaiah said. Chap could tell that the boy hadn’t noticed it until now either. “I’ll be damned. Sorry Chap, I didn’t see it.”

  “Me either,” Chap said. “Anyone ever heard of Black Fang before?” Heads shook “no”. “Sounds perfect, then,” Chap said, standing. “Let’s ride.”

  As they approached the town, the bloated red sun was slowly being dragged down by the dark talons of the rocky horizon. The reason for Black Fang’s name became obvious—two massive, jagged spires of stone, wrapped in the lengthening shadows, jutted behind the tiny town, like two razor-sharp incisors.

  They passed a small graveyard on the horse trail they followed to the edge of town. Below, the town’s few lights were burning. They rode down the main street, past several shacks, a barbershop and dentist, and a saloon called the Snakebite. They passed a boarding house and a simple stone building that was the town jail. At the end of the street was a quaint little chapel with a whitewashed steeple. In front of the church was a large stone well.

  “Purty little town,” Hoxie said through a mouth full of trail grit. “These folks won’t give us a hooter of trouble.”

  “Just hope they have a doctor,” Josh said.

  The Chaplain brought his horse to a stop in front of the Snakebite and dismounted. The others followed. “Josh, arrange to get us some beds. Isaiah, see to the lady and to Gurney. Bill, you and me are going to find a sawbones.”

  Stepping into the Snakebite was like entering a parlor of ghosts. There was no music, no laughter, no conversation. Just thick, stifling silence. The barkeep was a fat, bald man with muttonchops and a green brocade waistcoat. He was leaning on his bar across from his only customer, a rail-thin man in a dark suit. The only other occupants of the Snakebite were an old man with a drooping handlebar mustache and a redheaded woman dressed scandalously in a chemise and thigh-high black stockings. The old man was nursing a mug of beer; the redhead’s rump was resting on the edge of his table as she engaged him in whispered conversation. Hoxie grinned when he saw the woman. The Chaplain, however, noticed the tin star on the old man’s coat. Both men at the bar regarded Chap and Hoxie as they entered through the swinging bat-wing doors.

  “Evening,” Chap said. The barkeep nodded

  “Evening,” he said. “What can I get you gentlemen?”

  “Two beers,” Chap said. The barkeep nodded and went about pouring the beers. They sat at the edge of the bar closest to the door. Chap took a long drag on his beer. He’d tasted better, but he couldn’t recall when. Hoxie drained his mug in a single long chug, then burped.

  “We just rode in,” Chap said. “Don’t suppose you folks have a doctor in these parts? One of our friends took ill on the ride.”

  “We got Earl Lynch,” The slender man in black said. “He’s not a paper-on-the-wall doc, but he does well by us. He has a place at the edge of the road. Want me to fetch him?”

  “I’d be much obliged,” the Chaplain said. “We’re rooming at the boarding house...”

  “Mr and Mrs.Whittcomb’s,” the bartender said, “They’ll treat you right.”

  The slender man got up. “I’ll make sure Earl comes a-calling on your friend over at the boarding house.” He departed quickly. Hoxie’s eyes were transfixed on the redhead, and she was now slipping coy glances to him whenever the old sheriff wasn’t looking.

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Bill,” the Chaplain said. “She’s with the law. Let her be.”

  Hoxie ignored him, motioned to the barkeep to give him another round, and kept flirting with the redhead. Chap finished his beer and left.

  Josh was waiting for the Chaplain by the parlor door in the boarding house. The Whittcombs—an old man and woman in their 60s, dressed farmer plain—greeted him at the door. Josh pulled him aside and they sat in the parlor, while Mrs. Whittcomb prepared them tea in the kitchen.

  “Where’s Hoxie?” Josh asked.

  “Off doing something stupid,” Chap said. “Where’s Gurney and the lady?”

  “Gurney’s in his room, resting,” Josh said. “The lady is resting. She gave me a little chin music when we were getting the rooms. I told her if she made a fuss, I’d kill her and the old folks too. She gentled down after that.”

  “Doc’s on the way to see Gurney,” the Chaplain said, heading up the stairs, his saddlebags over his shoulder. “Let me know when he’s here.”

  “You okay, Chap?” Josh asked.

  “No,” the Chaplain said. “I don’t like this place, don’t trust it. We’re riding out in the morning, if Gurney’s able.”

  ~*~

  Chap knocked once on the door to the bath room and swung it open. The woman from the train was standing in the large steel tub, nude, soap running down her sleek body. Her hair was wet and falling down her shoulders and back. She tried to cover herself as best she could. The Chaplain looked away. “Sorry,” he said, “I thought you were in your room.”

  “I couldn’t lie down until I cleaned myself up,” she said. Her voice held a remarkable amount of strength and confidence. She was startled and embarrassed by his entrance, but she had already recovered. “So much dirt from the ride. I expected you to be Mr. Hoxie, coming to make good on his threats.”

  “I won’t let him harm you…Miss?”

  “Anna,” she said as she stepped out of the tub and grabbed a large towel and wrapped herself in it. “Anna McCutcheon. You can come in and shut the door. You’re letting the heat out.”

  He did, leaning on a stool next to the door. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss McCutcheon,” he said.

  “Just ‘Anna’’s fine,” she said sitting at a vanity with a large oval mirror. “Last name’s supposed to be changing pretty soon—the Miss part too. You’ll forgive me if I don’t say it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. You’re the first one of your associates to even ask my name. I assumed I was just gonna be ‘her’ or ‘the whore’.”

  The Chaplain laughed and reached for his saddlebags, retrieving the battered Bible. “I apologize for my crew. They’re not very good at much besides soldiering.”

  “Killing,” Anna said. “Your men are killers, not soldiers. The war’s over.”

  The Chaplain rested the Bible on his lap, opening it. “Getting hitched soon?” he asked.

  “On my way to meet my fella in Contention City,” she said as she began to brush her hair. “We’re sweethearts since before the war. He came out here after, and he’s got some prospects, so he sent for me.”

  “Congratulations,” the Chaplain said, selecting a page and tearing it out of the battered book. He began to carefully measure out a line of tobacco in the strip of onionskin. “Well, Anna, you cooperate, don’t do nothing reckless, and you’ll make it to your beau.”

  She stopped brushing and turned to him. “May I ask you a question?”

  He struck a match to the wall and lit his quirley with it. “Yes,” he said.

  “Why do they call you Chaplain?” she said. “Were you one in the war?”

  “No,” he said, exhaling a long stream of smoke. “No, my pappy was a preacher, though, back in South Carolina. He introduced me to the power and glory of the Lord—with a leather shaving strop and a zealous heart, and I believed—I wasn’t given much of a choice in the matter.

  “When the war came I thought I was fighting God’s fight
against infernal northern aggression.” He took a long draw on the cigarette. “I was a fucking idiot. I thought God punished the wicked and spared the innocent. Then I saw ‘the power and glory’ of war. I saw it in places like Shiloh, Stones River, Antietam...saw men, hell, children, hacked and maimed, saw brother kill brother like Cain and Abel, saw creeks run red with blood, like the plagues of Egypt.” He was silent for a moment, the red tip of his quirley flared. He exhaled.

  “I know the war tested faiths,” Anna said. “It was a nightmare that wouldn’t end, that you couldn’t wake up from. But surely in the heat of battle, when you were so close to so much death, you must have cried out to our savior for comfort, for protection, Mister...What is your given name, sir?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” the Chaplain said. “Some days, even I don’t recall. I saw the elephant plenty and it scared the hell out of me every time. A man is in that and he’s not scared, he’s already dead, just don’t know it. I don’t believe in a God anymore, Anna, or the Devil. Man’s an animal, locked up in a dark, empty box. Alone, truly alone, in the darkness of that box...well, that would drive any poor creature mad, make them hallucinate gods and devils to keep them company. Me, I don’t cotton much to company. “

  “I’ve never heard such blasphemy,” Anna said softly. “That’s why you defame the good book so?”

  “It was my pappy’s,” the Chaplain said, patting the worn leather. “Only thing he left me.”

  “But, if you are such a man as you claim, of such low morals,” Anna said, “why did you stop Hoxie from...”

  “I’m a criminal,” the Chaplain said, sliding the battered Bible into the inside pocket of his coat. “I’m a professional criminal and I have a code I live by—that’s what keeps me from being Bill Hoxie. It’s a fine distinction, but it’s all I got in my dark empty box to keep me company.”

  Anna stood and removed the towel. The Chaplain looked away. She slid on a chemise, and gathered up her combs and towel.

  “I’ll pray for you,” she said, “If you don’t mind.”