Blood Trail

by J. R. Roberts

  “Thanks,” Clint said as Talbot mounted his horse. “I think I’m going to need it.”

  Talbot and Clint turned their horses and rode back to Effingham.

  TWELVE

  When they got back to town, Clint got Talbot his own room at the hotel. He assured the dubious desk clerk that the town would be paying for it.

  They went up to his room so he could leave his gear. He put the canvas bag on the bed and looked around.

  “I have never been in such a room,” Talbot said.

  To Clint the room was much like any other hotel he’d ever been in. Nothing special.

  To Frederick Talbot, it was a palace.

  “I feel guilty being here while Sarah sleeps in the back of our wagon.”

  “We still have time to go and get her,” Clint said. “They don’t leave ’til morning.”

  “No, no,” Talbot said, “she is safer there with the Gerhardts.”

  “All right, then,” Clint said. “Let’s go and find the sheriff.”

  “Yes, all right.”

  Talbot picked up his bag and slipped it over his head.

  “No gun?” Clint asked.

  “I have a gun,” Talbot assured him, “but I will also need a rifle.”

  “We’ll get you one,” Clint said.

  He looked at the bag as they left the hotel. Whatever was in it bulged, but he still didn’t ask.

  * * *

  “What’s in the bag?” Sheriff Bullet asked.

  As Clint and Talbot entered the office, that was the first thing Bullet said.

  “Just some items I will be needing,” Talbot said.

  “He’ll need a rifle, Ray,” Clint said.

  “Take one off the rack.”

  Talbot went to the rack and immediately took down a Winchester.

  “Never have I had such a rifle,” he said.

  “Well, you don’t have it now,” Bullet said. “But you can borrow it.”

  “Of course,” Talbot said. “I will give it back when we are finished.”

  “Good,” Bullet said.

  “If we are still alive.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?” Bullet asked.

  “We are obviously going after a killer who enjoys killing,” Talbot said. “In my experience they are the most difficult to catch.”

  “Just the same,” Bullet said, “I’d appreciate a little more confidence than that.”

  “I understand,” Talbot said, but he didn’t go on to offer any.

  Bullet looked at Clint.

  “Are things squared away at the wagon train camp?” he asked.

  “Pretty much,” Clint said. “They’re ready to pull out in the morning. We’ve tried to make arrangements to keep Talbot’s daughter safe. But I have a question.”

  “What is it?”

  “Are you ready to let them pull out?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Do you think that one of them could be the killer?”

  “No!” Talbot said.

  They both looked at the Romanian.

  “Why not?” Clint asked.

  “I would not have brought my daughter along with this group if there was a killer among them.”

  “You’d be able to tell?” Bullet asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “It is what I do.”

  Bullet looked at Clint for understanding, didn’t seem to get it.

  “Were you a lawman in your country?” the sheriff asked.

  “No.”

  “He was a hunter,” Clint offered.

  “And you feel that you know a killer by lookin’ at him?” Bullet asked.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “As a lawman I sure wish I had that ability,” Bullet said. He turned to Clint. “To answer your question, no, I don’t think any of those people are the killer. I don’t feel somebody could have gotten away from camp to commit this murder without being missed.”

  “I agree,” Clint said.

  “Did you get him a hotel room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I think we should be ready to leave in the mornin’,” Bullet said. “We’ll go out to the site and start from there.”

  “I would like to walk around town,” Talbot said.

  “Lookin’ for the killer?” Bullet asked.

  “Just . . . walking,” Talbot said.

  “Fine with me,” Bullet said. “We’ll meet in front of the hotel at seven a.m.”

  Talbot nodded and looked at Clint.

  “I’ll see you at the hotel later,” Clint said. “We’ll get something to eat together.”

  “As you wish.”

  Talbot nodded, and left, taking the Winchester with him.

  “So what’s in the bag?” Bullet asked.

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “He hasn’t shown me.”

  “Aren’t you curious?”

  “I am, but I’m waiting for him to tell me on his own,” Clint said. “What did you find out here in town while we were gone?”

  “Nothin’,” Bullet said. “Nobody knows the dead man. He’s a complete stranger.”

  “That’s odd,” Clint said. “Not a townie. And not with the train.”

  “I know. You really want to eat with this guy? He’s . . . kind of weird.”

  “Yes, but there’s something about him . . . I’m hoping I can get him to trust me and open up.”

  “Well, good luck,” Bullet said. “I’ll be eating on my own.”

  “So then I’ll see you in the morning,” Clint said.

  “Here,” Bullet said. He opened a desk drawer, came out with a box of Winchester shells, and tossed it to Clint, who caught it one-handed. “Give that to your friend.”

  Clint waved with the box and left the office.

  THIRTEEN

  Clint went back to the hotel, left the box of shells in his room. He’d give them to Talbot later.

  He went back outside and stopped just in front of the hotel. He imagined Talbot walking around town, looking into people’s faces to see if they were killers or not. Could he really tell? Was he that good?

  He started to walk, found himself in front of Rita’s dress shop. He hadn’t seen Talbot at all up to here, but then he wasn’t really looking for him. He decided to go inside.

  A bell tinkled as he entered. There were two women at the counter—an older woman and a girl who was undoubtedly her daughter. Rita St. John looked over their shoulders at Clint, and smiled.

  “Thank you so much, Rita,” the older woman said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “It was my pleasure, Mrs. Rhodes. Good-bye, Amanda. Enjoy the dress.”

  “I will, ma’am,” the girl said. When they turned around, Clint could see the daughter was about sixteen, and very pretty. The mother was about forty, and had been pretty at one time.

  “Good day, ladies,” he said, opening the door for them. Then he turned to Rita, still standing by the door.

  “How’s business?” he asked.

  “Better than yesterday,” she said. He could see that her breathing had already increased.

  “Really? Then I guess you don’t want me to do this.” He turned the sign in the door window from OPEN to CLOSED, then looked at her again.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I thought maybe you’d show me your storeroom.”

  “You want to see my storeroom?”

  “Not really,” he said, “but we could go back there anyway.”

  “Well,” she said, “then follow me this way . . .”

  He crossed the floor and followed her through a doorway into a back room filled with bolts of cloth of every color. As soon as they crossed the threshold, he gr
abbed her by the shoulders, turned her around, and gave her a kiss. Her mouth opened beneath his and they kissed avidly.

  Clint didn’t want to waste any time. He suddenly wanted her very badly. He lifted her, sat her on top of a crate, reached beneath her dress, and removed her underwear. Then he removed his gun belt and set it within reach, followed by his pants, which hit the floor. And then he was inside her, and she was gasping and clutching at him. This time, he had no concern for her pleasure, only for his own. He was going after a killer, and when you did that, the outcome was always uncertain. You never knew what lay ahead of you, or what you had to do to bring the killer to justice.

  So he slammed in and out of her, over and over again, until finally she screamed and he exploded into her . . .

  * * *

  She straightened her clothing while he pulled his pants back on and strapped on his gun.

  “My God!” she said. “What got into you?”

  “I have to leave.”

  “Today?”

  “In the morning,” he said. “I have to leave to hunt for a killer.”

  “The murderer Sheriff Bullet mentioned this morning?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s all over town today that the murder was very . . . gruesome,” she said, cringing.

  “It was.”

  “So it will be dangerous,” she said. “Why do you have to go?”

  “The sheriff’s a friend of mine,” he explained, “and he has no deputies.”

  “But you’ll come back.”

  “Of course.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I always come back.”

  “But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “One day you might not.”

  “Not today, though,” he assured her. “Come on, walk me out.”

  They left the storeroom and went back to the shop. She walked him to the front door, where he turned the sign from CLOSED to OPEN.

  He opened the door.

  “Can I come to your hotel tonight?”

  “No, not tonight,” he said. “We have to get ready. I have a feeling I have a lot to learn.”

  “Will you come to me when you return?” she asked.

  “I will,” he said, “but even when I come back, I won’t stay. It will be time for me to move on.”

  “I understand,” she said. “I just need . . . one more time.”

  He smiled, said, “We can do that,” and left.

  FOURTEEN

  He returned to the hotel, found Frederick Talbot in his room.

  “Find anything?” he asked when the man opened his door.

  “No,” Talbot said, “the killer is not in town.”

  “The killer,” Clint said. “You don’t say he or she, just the killer.”

  “Can we eat?” Talbot asked. “I am very hungry.”

  “Sure, we can eat,” Clint said. “Come on.”

  He took Talbot to a nearby café. Again, to him it was a small place to eat, but to Talbot it was a place for a feast.

  There were others dining who gave them odd looks as they entered. Two strangers and a murder in town. Maybe they were involved.

  People didn’t know how right they were.

  As they sat, Talbot put his bag down on the floor between himself and the wall. The waiter came over and they both ordered steak dinners.

  While they were eating, Clint asked, “Okay, what’s in the bag?”

  “Just some items I will need.”

  “You said you had a gun, but needed a rifle. What kind of gun?”

  Talbot hesitated, then said, “After we finish eating, I will show you.”

  “Why all the secrecy, Talbot?” Clint asked. “Why can’t you talk about what kind of hunter you were in your country?”

  “It is difficult . . . it would not be understood in your country.”

  “So it’s some kind of animal that exists only in your country?”

  “Would that that were the case,” Talbot said.

  “See,” Clint said, “it’s that kind of vagueness that makes people curious. Makes me curious. If we’re going to ride together, trust each other with our lives—and let’s face it, that’s what we’re doing—we need to know something about each other.”

  Talbot thought that over for a moment, then said, “Very well. I will listen.”

  “You want me to talk first?”

  “I thought you suggested that.”

  “I didn’t,” Clint said, “but all right, I’ll go first. But when I’m done, it’s going to be your turn to talk.”

  “Yes.”

  “You agree?”

  Talbot hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

  “Okay, then . . .”

  * * *

  It didn’t take long to fill Talbot in on his background.

  “Then your reputation is as someone who kills,” Talbot summed it up.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Clint said.

  “A gunman.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you can walk your streets with impunity?” Talbot asked.

  “I don’t know about that,” Clint said. “I walk the streets at my own peril.”

  “And men try to kill you?”

  “All the time.”

  “And you survive?”

  “Yes . . . so far.”

  Their plates had been cleared away and they were currently both working on pie and coffee. Talbot apparently found the apple pie he’d ordered to be a very rare delicacy. He savored each bite.

  “All right,” Clint said, pushing his plate away, very little in the way of remnants left of his own peach pie. “It’s your turn. Talk.”

  Talbot hesitated, ate the last bite of his pie, and pushed his plate away. Slowly—with great reluctance—he leaned over, opened the flap of his bag, reached in, and brought out a small box containing a pistol, and six silver bullets, which he placed in the center of the table.

  Clint leaned forward to look without touching, for the moment.

  “Are those silver bullets?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what kind of gun is that?”

  “It is German.”

  “May I?”

  The man hesitated, then said, “Of course.”

  Clint picked the pistol up out of the box and examined it thoroughly.

  “And are those actually silver bullets?” he asked again. “Real silver?”

  “They are.”

  Clint picked one up, turned it over in his fingers, then replaced it, and the pistol.

  “Why silver bullets?” he asked.

  “Because,” Talbot said, slowly, “that is what it will take to kill this killer. Nothing else will work.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I have hunted this killer before,” Talbot said. “Many times.”

  “This same killer?”

  Talbot hesitated, then said, “Not exactly the same but the same type.”

  “And what type is that?” Clint asked. “Some kind of huge wolf?”

  “It could be.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “if it could be, then what else could it be?”

  Talbot hesitated again, took the time to close the box and replace it in the bag. It took him a while, as he seemed to be opening something else, careful not to let it slip from the bag.

  “Come on, Talbot,” Clint said, “what else is in the damn bag?”

  “Let us go back to the hotel,” Talbot said, “and I will show you.”

  FIFTEEN

  They went back to the hotel to Talbot’s room. Once inside, he put the bag on the bed, opened the flap, and brought out a larger box than he had in the café. He placed the box on the bed and stepped back.

  �
��Open it.”

  Clint opened the box, saw the other items in Frederick Talbot’s vampire kit. He picked up a vial of liquid and asked, “What’s this?”

  “Holy water.”

  He put it back, picked up one of the wooden stakes inside the box, tested the tip with his thumb, then picked up a hammer. He held the stake in his hand—the proper way, Talbot noticed—and tapped it on the end with the hammer. Then he placed them very carefully back in the box.

  “I think I know what this is,” Clint said, “but why don’t you tell me?”

  “It is my vampire kit.”

  “So in your country you hunt . . .”

  “Vampires.”

  “And you believe the murder to have been committed by a vampire?”

  “Possibly.”

  “What else could it be?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Come on, Talbot,” Clint said, “don’t stop now. What else did you hunt in your country?”

  Talbot hesitated, licked his lips, then said, “Werewolves.”

  “I’ve heard stories about vampires and werewolves,” Clint said. “According to the tracks you saw, which do you believe it to be?”

  “According to the tracks,” Talbot said, “a werewolf.”

  “The large animal tracks, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the bare footprint?” Clint asked. “The man’s before he turned into the wolf?”

  “Yes.”

  Talbot seemed stunned by Clint’s apparent understanding of these creatures.

  Clint nodded, looked down at the open vampire kit on the bed.

  “What are you thinking?” Talbot asked.

  “I’ll tell you what I should be thinking,” Clint said. “That you’re crazy.”

  “But you do not?”

  “I won’t say that,” Clint said. “But you’ve obviously hunted something in your country that had committed this same kind of atrocity. And I saw what was done to that body. I’m not sure we have anything in this country that would do that. Not any one creature anyway.”

  “What will you tell the sheriff about this?” Talbot asked.

  Clint closed the box and said, “Nothing. The sheriff would not have the same open mind that I do. He’d think you were crazy, and he would not let you come with us.”

  “But you will let me come.”