by Chris Barili
But Pinkerton’s coach had too much of a head start, and a few moments later, it pulled up the hill in front of the college. Stan reined in just short of the gate, a good hundred yards away, at the bottom of the hill.
Curtis had been right about the people milling around outside the school, despite the late hour. All were dressed like women—dark, ankle-length skirts, white blouses—but many carried themselves more like men. And held rifles. All stared blankly ahead.
Spike leaned out a window, and the four of them watched Pinkerton disembark and stride up the steps to the front door, disappearing inside.
“What do we do now?” Spike asked.
Frank studied the long hill up to the brick building that made up the college, taking in the large number of women—or people dressed like women, anyway—standing guard, despite the now-pouring rain. Frank directed Stan to take cover in a small stand of trees, where they got out and peered at the front of the ladies college.
A group of armed men hurried the Pinkerton carriage around behind the college, knocking the guards unconscious and dragging them into the building.
Frank put his hand on Mills’ arm. The man was wound tight as a bear trap, ready to spring, but Frank held him back.
“Not yet,” he whispered.
Mills frowned, but nodded. Frank’s trust in him grew as he felt the man’s anger boiling under the surface.
A light came on in the south end of the building, and Mills handed Frank a telescope. Through it, Frank watched Crittenden and Pinkerton take their seats at a table before a woman with blond hair closed the drapes. She paused for a moment, staring out into the night rain with dazzling blue eyes.
Frank tensed. “Camille.”
Then she disappeared, leaving only a sliver of light visible.
Several of the women—including one who Frank swore had a full beard and moustache—moved to that corner of the building and crouched, working on something Frank couldn’t make out.
“What’re they doing?” he muttered.
Mills tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to a low shed on the north side of the building. Frank used the telescope again. There, huddled against the rain, sat the now-empty wagon the James gang had used to haul their dynamite.
Motion at the opposite corner of the building caught Frank’s eye as three more women knelt there, working feverishly on the base of the wall. Even with the looking scope, Frank couldn’t see what they were doing. He didn’t need to.
“They’re blowing the whole thing,” he said. “They’re gonna kill the governor, Pinkerton, and a bunch of women. If that don’t start the war, nothing will.”
Mills straightened, reached into the coach and produced Camille’s Winchester. He chambered a round and nodded. Spike held his shotgun against his hip, expression grim as he faced the college. Stan hefted the Sharps, his eyes blazing blue.
Only Curtis looked unsure, his gaze jumping from the school to Frank and back again.
“Stay here.” Frank handed the boy the telescope. “Keep an eye on things, and if you see anyone—especially your friend Jeb—escaping, follow them. Stay safe, and don’t let them see you, but find out where they go and report back to me at the hotel.
“Stan, you’re with Curtis here, but use that rifle and those eyes of yours to give us cover fire. Curtis here can tell you if someone’s…not normal. If anyone gets close to your position, skedaddle. Save yourselves. And if something happens to me…”
“I’ll take care of Curtis.”
Frank gave him a curt nod, then Stan and Curtis climbed atop the stage, the boy looking through the telescope. A moment later, he turned to Frank.
“Save her, okay?” he said. “She really needs to stay here.”
“I’ll try.” Frank turned to Mills and Spike. “Let’s go.”
He stepped out into the full force of the pouring rain. Dim oil lamps around the yard and porches lit the area enough to make out shapes of the guards walking about.
They marched up the hill, unabashed and unhidden, daring someone to open up on them. A quick count told Frank at least forty remained outside, drenched in the pouring rain.
“There are too many of them to be just the gang,” Mills said. “Something doesn’t add up.”
Frank grunted. “Spread out. I’ll get James, you two stop the dynamite.”
As they split, the front door burst open, spilling golden light out across the hillside, turning the women into silhouettes. Then James stepped out onto the front porch, his eyes blacker than death. At his side stood Camille, her hands limp at her sides, blank eyes staring straight ahead as James held her under his control.
James stopped, his possessed body a stick figure in the blade of light, and looked right at Frank. Tucked in his belt, Camille’s Bowie knife glinted in the light. The thin, dark line of a gash ran down his right cheek, dried blood staining his collar.
“Ah, Mr. Butcher!” Frank halted, Spike and Mills spreading out from his sides, weapons ready. “Good to see you, but you’re too late. In just a few seconds, my slaves here will light their fuses, and this building will come down on your important gentlemen, and a large number of innocent women.
“I’ve arranged a special greeting for you, Frank. All the people you see in this yard are under my control, each of them ready to kill you on my command. And since I know how much you like killing women, I made them a mix of my men and students from this college. To get to me, you’ll have to kill every one of them, women included. Even your girlfriend, here.”
Frank cursed. He could end this with one shot, sending Jesse James back to Hell if he was closer and had the right bullet loaded.
“You think starting the civil war all over again will bring your family’s honor back?” Frank shot, hoping to buy time. Spike and Mills continued moving north and south, trying to get in position to stop the dynamite. “It won’t bring back your half-brother, won’t give Zee back her arm.”
James laughed, and lightning struck the dome over his head, thunder shattering the night air.
“You think this is about my family’s honor, Butcher? You believe I broke out of Hell for something so petty? You’re smarter than that, Frank. This is much bigger, and you know it.
“This is your last chance, Butcher,” he bellowed, raising his arms. With a single snap of motion, every person in the yard raised their weapon and took aim at Frank and his friends. “Join me. I could use someone like you. It’s that, or die.”
Frank’s gun-hand twitched, his fingers brushing the ivory handle as he squinted up at the body Jesse James possessed. The boy’s body had shrunk in on itself, his arms little more than sticks, his black eyes sunken. His joints had turned knobby and bulbous, while the sinew of his limbs held taught with tension, ready to snap any instant.
Frank studied the distance—still too far.
“I died once,” Frank spat at the killer’s feet, “and I ain’t scared of doing it again.”
He drew.
Gunfire erupted like a thousand cracks of thunder as the women opened fire. Frank dove for the ground, gunning down the two nearest enemies with deadly precision. To his right and left, Mills and Spike opened fire too, and more dress-clad figures went down in heaps of cloth and hair, rain and blood. The deep boom of the Sharps even split the night air, as Stan added to the volley of lead.
Bullets tore into Frank, rocking him with their impacts, but he no longer cared. His body was a mere tool, a vessel through which he’d been sent to do a job, to retrieve a prisoner. Once that job was done, his use for the body would end and his own soul would follow his prey back to Hell.
Frank moved forward at a deliberate pace, losing sight of Spike and Mills, edging up the hill toward James on the porch. Shooting and reloading, killing and killing some more. Around him, men and women alike screamed, differentiated only by the pitch of their terrorized cries. Each agonizing wail stabbed at Frank’s heart like a knife, piercing his confidence and impaling his very being with cold, dull steel. By the time he
reached the foot of the steps, he’d lost count of how many he’d killed, but he knew the rain washed away a good amount of his blood. He ignored the holes in his chest, arms and legs. They hurt, but they would heal, and he wouldn’t need his body after this anyway.
He stood at the base of the marble steps, slick with blood and rain, littered with bodies, and glared up at Jesse James.
“Now, you’re coming with me.”
But James stared off into the darkness to Frank’s right, like the gunfighter didn’t exist, eyes wide.
That’s when Frank heard the growl.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A mass of fur and teeth careened into him before Frank could react, knocking him off his feet and sending his pistol sliding away. He landed with a crunch on the wet, hard ground, his left shoulder separating, firing a burst of pain down his arm and into the fingers.
Yellow eyes glared down at him as the Hellhound landed on top of him, its jaws clamping down with brutal force on his left forearm. The beast shook its head, and Frank cried out as old, long-dead bones snapped, tendons tore, and flesh shredded. The beast picked him up by the arm, shaking him like a piece of meat ripped from a carcass.
An instant later, he flew through the air and landed with a splash on the muddy hillside. Pain roared where his arm had been torn off, leaving a jagged stump of bone below the elbow, blood pulsing from the wound. He waited for his body to fix itself, but nothing happened. Perhaps he’d reached the limits of re-animation, but blood continued to flow, pain burning.
Frank forced himself to his knees. His six-shooter sat a few feet away, so he picked it up with his remaining hand. The Hellhound still shook the chunk of his arm in its jaws, oblivious in its bloodlust to his presence. Frank spun the cylinder open on his pistol and dumped six empty shells onto the ground. His ammo belt held only one more round: his last coated bullet.
He felt eyes on him, and looked up to find the Hellhound stalking closer. It tossed aside the severed stub of his arm, growling and showing bright, dripping, yellow fangs.
Frank held his pistol between his knees and fed the bullet into the cylinder, slapping the gun back into one piece. If he used the bullet on the Hellhound, he’d have nothing but the cuffs with which to handle James, but if he didn’t, he’d die before he could take the bandit back to Hell.
He brought the gun up in his right hand, aiming at the hellhound’s head. The beast stalked closer, jaws snapping, eyes glowing with yellow malice through the drenching rain. Frank pulled back the hammer, braced himself, and—
A dark shape streaked over Frank’s shoulder with a fierce snarl, barreling into the hound and driving it backward. The two tumbled across the ground, splashing through puddles, silhouettes against the flashes of lightning that lit up the night sky.
A second creature growled now, a fierce but earthy sound punctuated with the snapping of teeth. Then came a sickening crunch, a tearing sound, and a long, hissing gurgle. The Hellhound lay still on the grass, fur matted with mud and blood, as a smaller creature stalked toward Frank. Its eyes didn’t glow, and when it dropped the Hellhound’s ripped-out throat at Frank’s feet, he knew it meant him no harm.
Batcho nudged the destroyed chunk of flesh toward Frank, his tongue lolling out to one side as blood dripped from his lips. He yipped.
“I guess you’re useful, after all.”
Batcho growled again, but this time, his eyes focused up the steps.
“What a pleasant surprise that was,” James hissed. “Now, you die together.”
Frank turned, pain throbbing up the remains of his arm and into his shoulder, to find James staring down at him from behind Camille. The killer held his pistol to Camille’s head, and Frank knew he couldn’t shoot the bandit without hitting the hooker.
“See, gunfighter,” James mocked, “to kill me, you have to kill two kinds of people you can’t stand killing: a woman and a child.”
Frank studied the situation, taking in every angle. His consciousness was fading, his vision wavering. Spike lay in a crumpled heap to his right, the extinguished dynamite clutched to his chest. To the left, Mills was nowhere to be seen, and one dress-wearing gang member knelt and lit the dynamite fuse. It sparked and sputtered in the rain.
Camille’s eyes remained blank, but her jaw had clenched, as if she were straining against a great force. Yet, she still stood in front of Jesse James.
James was right—Frank would have to kill Camille and Jeb Fisher to do what he’d been sent to do. And even that might not be enough to send the robber back to Hell. He holstered his gun.
James laughed his serpentine, mocking laugh. “Ha! I knew you couldn’t kill a child! You’ve gone soft, Butcher. You’re as worthless a marshal as you were a father.”
The words hit like hammers, knocking Frank to his knees while Jesse James tossed his head back and laughed. In that instant, Camille’s blank stare changed, as if she’d broken James’ control. She blinked hard, looked Frank right in the eye, and nodded.
That gave him hope, and, with hope, came an idea.
A shot rang out to his left. It took him a moment to realize he’d been hit, but when he felt tightness in his chest, he looked down to see blood seeping through a hole in his duster. Pain hit him hard, making him gasp and causing bubbles to sputter in the blood. The shooter fell, a shot from the Sharps reaching Frank a split second later, but Stan was too late.
Frank fell on his face in the dirt. As darkness swirled around him, threatening to drag him into its depths forever, he heard a voice. It sounded distant, across a great sea maybe, but he knew it. It had haunted him for years.
Pa, get up, it pleaded. You can’t give up. They need you.
“Ron?” Frank whispered, forcing his eyes to remain open.
Kill him, Pa. It’s what he needs.
Then the voice was gone, echoing through him, urging him to do what needed done, offering something Frank had never expected: forgiveness.
Gathering the last scraps of his strength, Frank vaulted to his feet and sprinted up the hill, angling left, keeping James in sight. The robber turned, keeping Camille between them. Frank needed to be closer, but the fuse burned short. Time was running out.
Finally, when he couldn’t get any closer, Frank threw the cuffs. Camille snatched the steel bracelets out of the air and snapped one on Jeb Fisher’s wrist where he held her throat. The boy’s black eyes widened, but he didn’t loosen his grip, and a moment later, he laughed.
“You still can’t kill her.”
“She’s already dead,” Frank growled.
He drew and fired.
James’ head snapped back as Camille spun to the right. A trickle of blood rolled down his forehead, dripping from his right eyebrow onto his cheek, and smoke rose from a hole just above his right eye. But he didn’t fall.
He wiped the blood on the back of his hand and looked at it. For a heartbeat, Frank thought he’d failed, that the Holy-whiskey hadn’t been enough to kill a creature as strong as James and his rampage through the world of the living would continue.
Then Camille jumped forward, snatched the Bowie from James’ belt, and buried it to the hilt in his throat.
“Go to hell, you sonofabitch!”
James staggered backward, and for a moment, his black eyes turned blue in the light of the doorway. Frank expected Jeb Fisher to look scared, but instead, his features relaxed and he looked…relieved. Then the obsidian returned to his eyes, and the corners of his mouth angled down.
“This ain’t over, Butcher.”
With that, he toppled over, a swirling cloud of green light engulfing him, dragging James’ soul from Jeb Fisher’s body and back to the depths of Hell faster than Frank expected. The body that hit the ground was once again just a boy.
Camille faced Frank and smiled for an instant, but blood streamed down her neck where Frank’s bullet had passed through before hitting James. She gave Frank a helpless look, then collapsed on top of Jeb Fisher.
Frank forced his legs to mo
ve toward the dynamite at the north corner of the building, right under the window where Crittenden and Pinkerton met, but he knew he couldn’t do it. He wasn’t fast enough. He collapsed to his knees beside the crumpled form of a man in a dress, a shotgun by his side.
A figure rose from the hillside, and a flash of lightning showed a bowler on its head. Mills grabbed the dynamite, hugged it to his chest, and dove down the hill just as the explosion shook the earth.
Frank bowed his head. In the distance, Stan’s stagecoach barreled toward him, the driver’s blue eyes slicing through the night like beacons. Beside him rode Curtis, and for an instant, Ron’s voice whispered in his mind again.
He needs a father.
The voice reminded Frank why he’d been in Hell in the first place. Ron had died at his hands, a life cut short by one bent on violence.
Frank looked around at the bodies littering the hillside. How many innocent women had he killed? And he’d killed the boy Jeb Fisher, too. Once a killer, always a killer.
Curtis deserved better. If he grew up with Frank as a father figure, he’d end up just like him—a murderer. And now, more than ever, Frank deserved Hell.
Frank picked up the shotgun and put the barrel under his chin. From the speeding stage, Curtis screamed, and Stan reined in, hugging the boy close, shielding his eyes.
Knowing Curtis was in good hands, Frank pulled the trigger.
EPILOGUE
Frank stood before the judges’ long table in Hell again as the three shadowy figures in dusters marched into the dark room, and stood behind the table. Flames shot higher against the back wall as if angered by their presence.
As always, their eyes glowed: blue on the right, green on the left, and a spiteful red of hate in the middle, where Judge John Webber stood, arms crossed over his chest.
“You did what we asked.” Webber’s voice sounded less than pleased.
“Despite your lies and omissions, yes.”
