by J. P. Sloan
I shake my head. “The longer he goes without eating, the stronger he’ll get.”
Scarlow steps in front of me and guides me away from the others huddled out front, ears bent in our direction. “What else do you know about these things?”
“You about heard the length of it,” I whisper. “I dropped a few with silver-tipped slugs. Got Holcomb to press more of them, but I have to be judicious. These bullets belong to Gil. They don’t belong to me.”
“Whatever. We’ll knock over a train or somethin’, pay the fucker back. The meantime, you feel like spreadin’ those around?”
“Not particularly.”
“Fine. Just something else I gotta deal with.”
I nod to the north. “They’re clustered up in the mine hills.”
“That much I figured out.”
“What were you thinking, anyhow? Riding up in there like that?”
“Well, I was without the benefit of your fuckin’ knowledge, for one. And, well… Uriah’d killed Cooter. I owed him one.”
“Uriah was dead. You were gunning for Magner.”
Scarlow squints. “Things would get a whole lot simpler in this town if we weren’t up against two kinds of goddamn monster.”
I shrug. “Richterman would have a much easier time, I’ll give you that.”
Scarlow gives me a long, deliberate look.
I add, “You’re aware of his peculiar condition, I take it?”
He sucks in a breath. “I… am.”
“And this ain’t a problem for you?”
“I’m just surprised you have it figured.”
“Why is that?” I prod.
“I don’t know. Thought you would have said somethin’. Done somethin’ by now. I’m not real sure about you.”
I holster the gun. “Then we both know you’re playing a dangerous game in this town. Keeping Richterman satisfied without getting your own blood spilled.”
He lays a heavy hand on my shoulder and wilts a hair. He chuckles, breathy and hoarse. “God, it feels good to hear you actually say it out loud. God help me.”
I pull away from Scarlow’s grip. “You know why I’m here, don’t you?”
“I figure you’re Folger’s last chance to get rid of Richterman.”
I shrug. “I’d like to help him. Honest to God, I would. But I am here on a Holy mandate, Scarlow. At first it was just an errand, but now I’m feeling the Good Lord’s hand in this, bringing me to this blasted valley.”
Scarlow wrinkles his nose. “I don’t know about any Good Lord’s hand, but you gotta know something about Richterman. He’s not the one who’s gonna lose this fight. Folger’s already lost. I tried to make you see that, already.”
“I know. The papers.”
“It’s not just the papers, Odell. He’s watchin’. Listenin’. He’s always listenin’. Do you understand what I’m sayin’ to you?”
I draw in a breath and give him a steady look. Truth is, I’m not sure at all what he’s trying to tell me.
“Scarlow, you’re a sumbitch. I know that. You know that.”
He shrugs and nods.
“You’re a thief and a murderer. I’m right, aren’t I? You don’t lose sleep at nights after gunning down innocent landowners. As long as you get paid and your life is as comfortable as you can make it. Or, I should say, as comfortable as Richterman can make it.”
He gives me a toothy grin.
“But I don’t see infernal darkness in you. I see nothing but man’s own hollow sin playing out inside your head. And when it comes time to choose between gutting your fellow man and scraping to an undead piece of dogshit like Richterman, I think you’re going to make the right decision.”
Scarlow takes two long steps away from me. His eyes wrinkle as his smirk melts. “What did you say?” he grumbles.
“You heard me. I’m saying you’re not going to let a creature like Richterman jerk your cock around for much longer. Especially with your men”—I point to Ramon—“paying for it with their lives and their souls.”
Scarlow squints. “I need you to tell me what you’re goin’ on about.” He clears his throat and straightens his spine. “Say it out loud. What do you think Richterman is?”
I straighten my posture in turn, running my hand down my side, hovering close to my gun.
“Strigoi.”
Scarlow blinks. “The what, now?”
“Blood-drinkers? You know. Cursed husks of men. They drink the blood of the living to keep from drying up. Sunlight kills them. Renders them unto dust.”
Scarlow bows his head. “You stupid sumbitch. Did I not just tell you?” He looks back up to me with a cold, tight face. “He’s always listenin’. No. Whatever it is you think I’m about to do to Lars Richterman, you can put that thought out of your head. You understand me?”
Shit. I thought I was getting somewhere.
“I thought I did.”
Scarlow waves at me. “Get. I’m responsible for Ramon. You’re responsible for Folger. Let’s just see to our charges and try not to get killed doin’ it.”
He turns his back to me, as much a sign that he’s done with me as that he doesn’t consider me a threat. But I leave him with one more word.
“You believe in the Strigoi. I know you do. You said as much last night.”
Scarlow looks over his shoulder. “Y’all got bigger problems than Strigoi, Odell.”
Fair enough.
I can’t get anything more done here. Ramon has some life left in him, and maybe the curse won’t take him until at least nightfall. In the meantime, Cheevey will wield that hammer of his and get something constructed to hold Ramon’s ass when the Hunger gives him unholy strength. I’m less worried about the man breaking out than I am the other ghouls breaking in.
But per my arrangement with Katherina, that’s not my problem.
Richterman? He’s my problem.
I return to the pressroom to find Folger bustling around with considerable vigor. I linger in the doorway a spell before he takes notice of me.
“Ah, Lin! Welcome back. How are things with Scarlow’s henchman?”
I close the door behind me and settle at his workbench. “Not well. He’ll probably die tonight.”
Folger holds, and for a moment a genuine shadow of grief passes his eyes. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Well, he brought it on hisself, so there’s not much point in spraying piss about it.”
He nods and holds up a finger. “I have something to show you.”
“So you said.”
He rushes behind the press and reaches inside, gently tugging on a square of iron. He trods over to me and angles it against the sunlight pouring through the windows. I see a frame filled with tiny chits of metal.
“What is it?” I ask.
“A press plate. The Hitchens story. I had a moment yesterday and finished my copy. I couldn’t show you after the unfortunate events of the previous evening, but I am ready to start printing pages.”
I sit and ruminate for a moment. That story is a considerable lie. Hardly anything about it is worth the ten cents of leather I had sitting on my head. But Folger, as well-meaning as he is, and as dedicated to a noble goal, is not in fact a good journalist. He’s not any kind of journalist. I see that now. He’s a man with a pen and a vendetta. This press plate is his Remington, and his horseshit story about Scarlow gunning down the Hitchens boy is his silver bullet.
I was so sure Folger’s way couldn’t work. Maybe I was wrong.
He’s got a chance. Outside interest, by the numbers, could turn this fight around. And at this moment, Magner is the one with the numbers.
“Don’t embarrass yourself with your enthusiasm,” Folger grumbles.
“Press those pages,” I mutter. “Print the story. And we’ll get those pages in front of people’s eyes.”
A glorious flicker of holy flame ignites in Folger’s eyes. His smile rises slow, steady, and earnest.
“Yes,” he whispers. “We will.”<
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I stand up and announce, “You work as long as you can. I’ll watch the shop. Keep running until your fingers bleed, Denton. Don’t stop until we have something to spread. And when we do, we’ll ride out together, you and I. To Broad Creek, or wherever. We’ll make sure they land in people’s hands.”
Folger steps toward me and slaps my shoulder. “God bless you, Linthicum Odell!”
I’ve always assumed God has seen fit to damn me for what I’ve done. I have a limited time to earn back his blessings. Maybe this goddamn piece of propaganda will settle accounts?
olger sets to work pretty much immediate-like, and I pull up a stool near the front of the shop. He busies hisself with the machine that consumes most of the room, a contraption which until this day had convinced me of its useful silence. Silent no more, alas. The racket from the crunches and clangs of the damn machine drive me to wince more than once. The smell of the ink is powerful. I wonder if a good part of Folger’s crack-brained idealism doesn’t proceed from his sniffing that Christ-damned ink.
I try to blend into the wall, staying out of his way. I want this press done quick, so that we can make the road for Broad Creek or Fort Junction. The notion of escaping this valley, even for a few days, intoxicates me. The low ridges surrounding this town close in, pinching off my air. I feel like I’ve been trapped in this valley and its drama for a lifetime. I need to see new faces. Convince myself I’ve been a participant in God’s plan somewhere beyond the town of Gold Vein.
At length I step out of the pressroom to escape the fumes and the noise. A lone figure stumbles along the side of the general store, pausing to give me a bleary, tooth-filled grin.
Cheevey lifts a hand. “Yessirs?”
I give him a nod of acknowledgment.
He holds at Toomey’s door before sidestepping on over to Folger’s stoop. “Anything I can do for ya, sirs?”
“What? No.”
He nods, still grinning.
“How’s the jailhouse looking?” I offer, realizing he wasn’t going to step on about his business without some conversation.
“Oh, mighty fine, sirs. Strong. I’ll get them bars anchored come nightfall, don’t you worry.”
“I ain’t worried.”
“Yessirs.”
I give a glance across the street. Folger’d led me to believe Cheevey answered as directly to Richterman, as did Scarlow. If Scarlow was too clever to provide me with useful information, perhaps Cheevey wouldn’t be quite as circumspect.
“Cheevey?”
He nods with enthusiasm.
“Were you here when the mine went?”
“Yessirs.”
“And you remember when Richterman showed up in Gold Vein?”
Cheevey releases a deep-throated chuckle and actually claps his hands a couple times.
“Cheevey, what does Richterman want with all this land?”
He chuckles some more before his grin wilts a hair. “Uh, how now?”
“It’s no secret Richterman’s been running people off their property. You knew the Hitchenses?”
He nods.
“Sayles?”
Another nod.
“And there’s more, ain’t there? Townsfolk who used to live here but don’t no more?”
Cheevey backs away a step. “Yessirs. I knew Mister Sayles.” A wave of sorrow flashes across Cheevey’s face.
“Has Richterman ever talked to you about all this land? What he wants with it all?” I wave my hand backward behind the shop. “All these houses he’s got you hammering away on. You had to have heard something.”
Cheevey nods slowly.
“Well?”
“Don’t know if he’d want me talking about that, sirs.”
“I don’t want to get you into any trouble. You seem to do all right by Richterman.”
“Yessirs. Done right by me. Pays me real good. Keeps the other folk from holding out over me. None of them used to talk to me, ‘cepting for Mister Sayles. But no one used to would talk to him, neither.”
That makes sense. Two outcasts who had to find some damn person to talk with.
“I understand you feel some degree of loyalty to Richterman. And I’m not asking you to betray his trust or anything.” Now, that’s a lie. “I just wonder why’s there a need for so many new buildings in a town that’s holding together with a lick and a promise, is all.”
Cheevey cocks his head in a doglike fit of confusion. “You and Mister Folger’s in cahoots, I thought?”
“We are, I suppose. I’m helping him out with his press. And maybe he’s got me curious about all this nonsense.”
“Well, all the houses is for the newcomers.”
“Newcomers?”
Cheevey nods with mirth. “Yessirs. When they come. They’ll be here any day now. But don’t you worry. We’ll have this town put together ‘fore they arrive.” He claps a couple times.
I draw in a breath to push the question, when I notice the press isn’t running. In the space it takes me to turn to the window, Cheevey skitters on back toward the General.
“Thank you, Cheevey.”
“Yessirs.”
I step inside the shop to find Folger staring at me with crossed arms.
“Taking a breather?” I venture.
“What were you discussing with Cheevey?”
“You know. The present situation. Land and Richterman and a whole mess of nothing in particular.”
Folger shakes his head. “You realize he’s touched in the head.”
“We covered that.”
“And as such, working so closely with Richterman, he’s as likely to outline your entire conversation with him as he is to spill whatever he’s spilt to you?”
“Relax, Denton. He wasn’t exactly a font of useful information.”
Folger hunkers down in his chair. “Well, what did you glean?”
“Cheevey’s about as happy with his arrangement with Richterman as a man can be. Arguably more than Scarlow, but that’s probably because Scarlow had a shred of dignity to begin with. He says you people took a rather long shit on him before Richterman slithered into town.”
Folger’s face flushes. “I’ve been nothing but decent to Cheevey from the day we met.”
“He says he and Sayles were tight.”
Folger nods. “I never said Sayles was a bad man. Aloof. Cranky, perhaps. I did my best for him. You have to believe that.”
I hold up my hands. “I believe… that Richterman knows exactly how to prey on the weak. Myself included.”
“How so?”
“I heard him last night, Denton. In the church.”
Folger rises slowly from his chair. “He was there?”
“Why is that so impossible for you and Katherina to believe?”
“I’m just surprised I didn’t see him.”
“There’s a lot you didn’t see, Denton.”
His eyes narrow. “What did he say to you?”
“He said I wasn’t ready.”
“Ready for what?”
I feel the weight of the hip flask in my pocket. “A face-to-face, I reckon. Doesn’t rightly matter. He knows what I am, or what I’m trying to become.”
“You mean one of these Godpistols?”
“I’ve been fighting for it a long time. Gil’s a might particular about who he trusts to carry his banner. I’ve seen men ride up and get sainted by Gil in the space of two weeks. Then there’s me.”
Folger’s face warms, and he reaches over to slide his chair to me. “You suspect he has reservations about you?”
I take the seat. “It’s his call. He only gives us his badge and his sanction when each man has earned it.”
“How long have you been running with this Gil of yours?”
“Better part of two years.”
He folds his arms and shakes his head. “I don’t know why you’re breaking your knuckles over this group. Sounds like they’ve given you more grief than good.”
“Nothing I don’t deserve.”
“How do you figure?”
I suck in a breath. “I’m a deserter, Denton.”
Folger blinks a few times, then nods. “From the War.”
“That’s right.”
“Which side?”
“Union.” I pull off my hat and rub my face. “I’d enlisted early on. Most of the first months were what I figured was the usual horseshit. Drills. Abuse. Nothing I didn’t get from my old man from when I was six on up. But then a year rolled on. I was there for Fort Henry and Donelson. I did my part, raising a gun and firing. And we hunkered down a stretch before the Rebs came up and started laying into us.
“Then came Shiloh. My good Christ, what a sea of blood that was. You’d think if a man could get rattled, he’d rattle at that particular conflict. I didn’t. I mean, the first thought of running came at Shiloh, but we were moving too fast. Then we were too tired. I suppose the thought took time to sprout and grow before it could bear fruit. So it came a couple years later. We marched in to lift the siege for the Cumberlands. It was when Sherman turned us toward Tunnel Hill that I lost my appetite for the War. They marched forward, and by the Devil’s providence, I found a horse and rode west without getting shot for it.”
Folger paces a slow circle between me and his machine.
“Say something,” I grumble.
“You’re looking for redemption, is that it? You found a man who claims to be God’s agent on Earth and gives you a second chance to do battle with evil?” He nods with an insufferable grin. “I think I’m starting to understand you better.”
“Do enlighten me.”
“Hear me out. I’ve endured a good share of your monster stories, so you owe me.”
I nod.
“Is it possible… If it’s not likely, is it possible… that this is all in your head? That this entire scheme of blood-drinkers and cannibals is simply a manifestation of your personal demons? You’ve lived through the worst kind of barbarity imaginable. You’ve seen the horrors of war, and perhaps you never escaped those horrors?”
“I don’t think―”
“Blood is a powerful image, and one that sears itself into the lower mind. You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve read a few current works on the subject from Europe. It’s believed that the two minds, both lower and higher, can be broken one from the other. And this mythology you’ve concocted, devouring of flesh and drinking of blood, is both visceral and pointed in its religious connotation. Tell me, were you a religious man before the War?”
