Crow Shine

by Alan Baxter

  “New in town, eh?” he says, voice like gravel. He seems nervous.

  I nod, choosing not to answer such a dumb question with words.

  Masters beside me says, “Fuck him.”

  There’s an uncomfortable silence that I get the impression I ought to fill. “I ain’t planning on starting any trouble here, Sheriff.”

  He looks me up and down, tips his hat back a little. “You after something specific?”

  “Just passin’ through.”

  “That right?”

  I smile at him, try to ease his tension some. “I’m on the trail of a man, as it happens, so maybe you could help me out.”

  “Is that so? Who you looking for?”

  “The man uses different names. Danny Calhoun, sometimes. Or Seth Cooper. Maybe Frank Gates?”

  The Sheriff’s chewing stops dead. He sniffs and spits. “Pretty damn bold, I gotta say. Pretty goddamn bold.” He slips his gun from his hip and gestures with it. “This way, kid.”

  “What the hell? I ain’t done nothing.”

  The Sheriff barks a laugh. “That right?”

  “There’s some kinda mistake here. I ain’t done nothing wrong.”

  “Why don’t you come along quietly and we’ll sort all this out.”

  I cast a desperate glance at Masters, and his face is pure fury. “Do as he says,” he hisses. “He’ll shoot you down in an instant out here. Go with him and we’ll find a way free.”

  I follow the Sheriff towards the jailhouse, my gut churning as I wonder just what the hell Masters can do to get me out.

  *

  The tiny cell smells of mildew and something less pleasant. It’s dim inside, with sacking over the one small barred window high in the wall, blocking out the fresh air and sunlight. The shackles hang heavy against my wrists, a length of chain swinging between them. I keep hearing talk of a gallows and how they finally got someone they’d been after, and I can’t believe they think that’s me.

  Masters keeps assuring me he’ll sort it out, and I have to trust him. I never had anyone to trust before, and I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. But I’m doubting him more by the second. The cell door is heavy and new-looking.

  A priest comes walking along beside the Sheriff, grinning like a fox. His hair is lank and streaked grey, hanging in rat tails over his ears and brow.

  “I suggest you have a chat with this man,” the Sheriff says to me. He pulls out a bunch of keys and opens my cell door. The priest steps in, still grinning, his cheeks sallow flaps over a sagging mouth of broken yellow teeth. What the hell is he so damn happy about?

  “I don’t need no priest!” I say.

  The Sheriff ignores me. “You gonna be okay with him, Father?”

  “Oh, yes, don’t worry about me.”

  “I’d much rather keep the cell locked and you outside it.”

  The preacher shakes his head, still smiling. “We’ll be fine.”

  The Sheriff nods. “I won’t lock you in with him, but that door there will stay bolted.” He points down the hall to the heavy wooden door between the cells and the front office. The only way out. “You knock on that door when you need to come out.” He hands the holy man a six-shooter. “If he tries to follow you, even puts one toe outta that cell, don’t say anything. Just shoot him dead.”

  The priest looks like he’s going to protest, but the expression on the Sheriff’s face brooks no argument. “He’s vicious, Father, left two innocent corpses in his wake. And he ain’t as clever as he thinks he is, leaving a trail of questions and murder. It was always going to catch up with him eventually.”

  Two corpses in my wake? I look across at Graham Masters, but he won’t meet my eye. His face is a mix of embarrassment and rage. There’s more than two corpses in my past, but I think I know the ones this Sheriff is talking about. Masters knows ’em too.

  With a shrug, the priest takes the gun and tucks it into the belt holding his black robes closed. “He’s just a boy,” the holy man says. “But I’m sure this gun will keep him calm while we talk.”

  “This is your last chance for any kind of redemption,” the Sheriff says to me. “Don’t fuck it up now.”

  He walks away before I can protest, and I’m left in an unlocked cell with an armed preacher. The wooden door to the office closes with a heavy thunk and I hear the bolt turn.

  Masters moves close to me, whispers, “This is your chance. I’ll make a distraction, you get past this maggot.”

  Before I can answer or ask any questions, he’s gone.

  “What would you like to talk about?” the priest says.

  Unsure what else to do, I start by asking him the names.

  “No one I can remember,” he says, kinda high-pitched.

  “You sure?” I say, deliberately loud, like my voice can push away the creep this guy gives me.

  “Maybe I can check my donations book. I keep a note of all the generous souls who help the church. But really, you shouldn’t be worrying about any of that stuff now.” The preacher’s eyes linger on me, slide up and down, and he smiles kinda crooked. “Would you like to give something to the church, young man? Before you move on to the next life? It might go down well with . . . you know.” He nods upwards.

  “I ain’t got two pennies to rub together.”

  “Maybe you could give something else, fine-looking young boy like you?” He steps up, too close, his breath sweet-smelling, like rotten fruit. “A horse or a pig is all well and good, but it’s not the same. Oh no, not the same at all.” His eyes become suddenly hard, cold. “Besides, you’re already damned.”

  I hear a commotion out front and the Sheriff yelling. There’s a gunshot somewhere and the sound of pounding feet. My fists drive the preacher’s head back and he staggers away, scrabbling for the gun at his waist.

  I hit him again, two-handed, using the metal around my wrists instead of my knuckles.

  The preacher doesn’t make a sound as blood floods his mouth and chin, rushing from his crushed nostrils. Then he laughs, the unbelievable son of a bitch. “Is that what you like?” he says, high-pitched and breathless.

  He draws the gun from his belt, but I’m ready and slap it aside with the chain of the cuffs. The report is loud, and the bullet bites splinters from the side of the cot. Now he looks concerned.

  I hit him again and he goes down, tumbling over in a mess of blood and black robes. He comes up onto hands and knees; the gun wavers out in front of him. I grab it and twist it from his grip, hear his fingers snap.

  My ragged boot fetches him up under the chin, and his rotten teeth crack and spin across the floor. I drop down on him and keep punching until my knuckles bleed, and his twitching stops.

  Masters is right there. “Come on, boy!”

  The door at the end of the corridor is unlocked, and I don’t have time to ask how. People are screaming in the street and the Sheriff is firing shots into the air, yelling for calm. Whatever Masters did out here has the townsfolk well and truly spooked. Running outside I see Old Jack down the street, the only horse standing calm. I jump on, drag his reins off the rail, and pound out of town before the Sheriff can realise I’m gone.

  *

  There’s a whole lot of nothing except wide open space and tumbleweeds between that last town and the next. I figured I’d do well to move along quickly, but I meant to buy food and fill my water back there. Now I’m pretty much out of both.. The nights are getting colder and a low fire does little to keep me warm, hungry as I am. My shirt is thick but my denims are ragged. Masters has always worn his fancy suit and shiny shoes, but I guess a ghost has no concerns for weather and seasons. I’m going to need to find a coat and a lot more to eat.

  “Quit yer whinin’,” Masters says, even though I haven’t complained. “You can always eat your horse and walk.”

  “I ain’t eating Jack. He’s about the only friend I ever had.”

  Masters’ anger is instant. “That right? And what the fuck am I, boy?” His hand whips out in a
slap across my cheek. It’s icy cold and stings something fierce, even as it passes right through. Only when he’s really angry, he told me before, can he affect physical things. I guess he was mad as hell in that Sheriff’s office. “No wonder your daddy walked away from you,” he says. “He could see your weakness even before you were born.”

  “Fuck you, Graham Masters! I ain’t weak.”

  He sneers at me. “Didn’t I find you in the depths of your despair, boy? Cradling your crazy Momma while she gibbered in her madness, holding a gun and sobbing your heart up? About to end it all?”

  “Fuck you,” I say again. I can’t meet his eye, so I stare at the shackles hanging off my skinny wrists instead. “I was only sixteen. I was lost. My Momma was . . . ”

  “You’re eighteen now, boy,” Masters shouts. “And you got me to thank for that!”

  I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing, thinking about Momma wasting away like a dead horse by the side of the road, eaten from the inside out by maggots. Except Momma is being eaten up by memories. My good for nothing daddy left her pregnant, no money or family nearby. Dragged her out to the middle of nowhere to start a new life that fell apart before it began. When I swelled her belly, and my daddy’s dumbass dream had turned to shit, he just walked away, and she had to beg for everything. I was born in the dirt of the street, and my Momma was reviled by everyone around her. She was too fragile to exist like that, and it slowly drove her mad.

  By the time I was five, I’d already had to grow up enough to look after her instead of the other way around, and that was all my daddy’s fault. By the time I was sixteen my Momma had pretty much no mind left, and I was sick of it all. Masters is right that he found me in the depths of my despair. And he convinced me to put Momma with the nuns and help him track down my daddy, seeing as we both had a score to settle.

  My daddy had killed Graham Masters over a business deal gone bad, so Masters told me, whatever their business might have been. He’d as good as killed my Momma, and he’d ruined my life since before I even entered this unforgiving world. I took the chances Masters offered me, so I oughtta be grateful. It’s true he’s teaching me to be strong, and I wonder if this is maybe what it’s like to have a father.

  I’m trembling, but I tell myself it’s the cold and the hunger, not fear or hatred.

  “I was drawn to you, boy, because we share a common enemy. Your daddy ruined everything for me, fucking killed me, and I’m burning with a vengeance. And didn’t I light that fire in you?”

  I nod, not looking at him. I can feel that furnace churning in my belly every second of every day. It only gets hotter when I think of poor Momma. I look out across the low fire, towards the distant mesas standing like guardians of this desolate land. I’m one tiny person in a harsh and barren world. What chance do I really have of ever finding my hateful father?

  “Now shoot the chain between those cuffs, boy,” Masters says. “There’s room to angle your pistol in there, and I’m about mad enough that I can probably help. Just be careful you don’t blow your stupid hand off.”

  *

  I wake in the pitch dark, and something moves over me. A light of a sort; a glow. The fire has burned away to nothing but a gentle smear of orange in the night, and the cold is in my bones. As I blink awake, rubbing sleep from my eyes, the glow resolves into a face. Then two. They lean over me, eyes wide and terrifying, mouths stretched in silent screams.

  My heart races, my stomach turns to water. Fingers rake like icicles across my face and throat, clutching at me, grasping. They drag a tiny sliver of my soul away with each touch. I see it like silvery smoke stretching out of me in ribbons; feel myself lessen every time. A distant wheezing howl escapes their wide mouths, like cries of pain but somehow triumphant.

  With a screech, Masters swoops in. He grabs the things and hauls them off, and the fighting starts. Biting down on my fear I scramble away and load more wood to the fire, blowing through numb lips to bring the flames up again. I squint away as Masters brawls with the things that tried to take me while I slept.

  A distant howl drags my attention, and I look into the screaming face of one ghost, not distant at all. Masters is grappling with the other, throwing panicked looks at me over his shoulder.

  “Don’t you let it in, boy!” he screams. “Don’t you give it form!”

  The ghost reaches for me, its frosty hands dragging the very essence out of me. My mind slides, my vision blurs. I hear the far-off cries of Masters as he’s dragged away, fading as he goes.

  Swatting at the ghost, my hands slapping through frozen air, I get dizzy. “Graham Masters!” I cry, but there’s no answer.

  I turn and stagger away, running and stumbling, no idea where I’m heading, just away, away into the morning. Surely it’s only minutes now before they’ve finally got me. Masters is gone, I’m alone in the night.

  Don’t you let it in, boy!

  “You can’t have me!” I scream as I run. Icy claws rake my soul through my back; my spine arches like it’s going to pop in a dozen places. “You cannot have me!” I howl again and keep running and running until my vision blurs and I fall, blackness sweeping in before I hit the ground.

  *

  I wake shivering as the soft glow of dawn begins to brighten the horizon. Grey, lifeless scrub stretches away from me in every direction, as empty as my soul. As lifeless as my existence. I might be alive, but I ain’t living, not really.

  I see movement in the velvet sky above me and squint on the circling black shape of a vulture, looping around like an angel of death. It spirals slowly downwards, joined by another. They land not twenty feet from me and hop from side to side, squawking at each other. I want to scare them away, but a part of me wonders why I should bother. What’s the point?

  There’s the sound of hooves on the stony ground, and the big ugly birds flap angrily up and away. It’s Old Jack, and Masters walks beside him.

  “They’re gone.” Masters sits beside me, his face unreadable even in the low light.

  “I thought they got you.”

  “I’m a ghost, you fucking idiot. I’m already dead.”

  “They nearly got me!”

  “But they didn’t. Fuck ’em. You’re haunted, boy, you know that. It’s how I found you, after all. You let me in and gave me strength. Don’t you let them in too, and they’ll stay weak.”

  “I guess.” I don’t believe a word of it. Next time, the time after. How much more is in me for them to take?

  “Finish this business,” Masters says. “Get some peace of mind for you and your momma. And for me. They’ll have less to hang onto.”

  “Really?”

  Masters stands over me, eyes dark and foreboding. “Get up, you weak prick.”

  “I don’t care any more.”

  “Yes you fucking do. Look.”

  I follow his pointing finger and see a jack-rabbit sitting on a mound of prairie not thirty yards away.

  “Slow and quiet,” Masters says.

  The boom of my pistol in the cold air is staggering, and the jack-rabbit’s head is gone.

  *

  It’s well past noon when the silhouettes of a small town appear on the horizon. It gives me renewed strength, and I’m smiling as I ride down the main street that’s lined with wooden buildings, brightly painted awnings, and fancy signwriting in the windows. I can see homesteads spreading out beyond the town, people working, wagons rolling. Hills swell up into mountains to the west.

  I tie Old Jack to a post outside a saloon, give him a pat on his hot neck. I pull the heavy sleeves of my baggy shirt down to hide my new iron bracelets and walk in through the double swing doors. It’s dim and cool inside, quiet and still. Dust motes dance in the early sunlight shafting in between the slats of the shutters. A bald guy with a belly like a full sail is polishing glasses behind the bar, and a pretty young thing is sweeping up. I nod to the barman and watch the girl awhile. She’s young and slim, with a cascade of blonde hair and a glint in her eye. She hold
s my gaze for a second or two before looking back to her broom.

  What I would give to find a town someplace, settle down and get some work, woo a pretty girl like that and maybe get married, have some kids of my own. Just normal stuff. But this fire burns in me, and I can’t do anything normal until it’s out, and that’s only going to happen when my daddy is brought to account for what he did to Momma and me. She’d have liked to live in a small town like this, I reckon. Far better than the nuns’ sanatorium where she’s lying now, mind broken and body withering away to sticks and dust.

  “Help you?” the barman calls out.

  I smile at him, friendly-like. “I could use a good meal. Or even a bad one,” I add with a laugh.

  He pushes his chin at the girl sweeping up, and she sets her broom aside and disappears out back. I pull up a stool, sit down and put my ragged black hat on the bar beside me. There’s a moment’s uncomfortable silence as the barkeep measures me up and down.

  The girl returns with a tin plate holding some kind of stew and a hunk of bread. She hands it to me with a soft smile, almost like a secret. The gravy is thick like mud and cold, from last night’s cooking, but it smells fantastic. The meat is mostly gristle and the bread’s stale, but I swallow it down like it’s the food of God, my belly aching at the sudden pressure it hasn’t felt for too long. That jack-rabbit kept me alive, but he was near as skinny as me. It feels like the first time I’ve eaten properly in weeks.

  “I’m looking for someone,” I tell the barkeep as I mop up with the last of the bread.

  He’s immediately suspicious. “That right?”

  “Give me a whisky. Just the cheap stuff.”

  He nods, puts a glass on the counter and fills it from a bottle without a label. I’m only drinking to be friendly, trade for the information he might have, but the sour burns nicely all the same. I put a couple of coins on the scratched bar.