by J. P. Sloan
I clear my nose and climb down the ladder. The smithy is empty, dark shadows filling every inch of the space. My eyes are accustomed to the darkness, and the tiny thimbleful of moonlight slipping in from his wide side windows gives me enough station to wonder where the hell the sumbitch is lurking.
“You can slither out of your shadows, Richterman,” I announce to nothing in particular.
A figure steps directly out of a deep shadow, flipping a length of wood in his hand.
“Seems you’ve taken my admonitions to heart,” Richterman purrs as he approaches.
“What don’t you know, at this point?” I ask, keeping a good distance.
He lifts the wood in his hand to his face and sneers. “Sharpened sticks. This is your plan? A bit prehistoric, isn’t it?”
Richterman tosses the stake to me. I catch it against my chest and examine it. It’s the same stake that killed Ramon, still stained with his blood.
“You said there weren’t enough silver in the valley to take them all out. And we have to take them all out, don’t we?”
Richterman nods. “Indeed. These beasts are annoyingly prolific.”
“I saw the papers you got prepared for Folger. You have things nice and figured out, don’t you?”
He smiles and shrugs, pacing a circle around me. “I play to my strengths.”
“That’s good to hear, because I have a plan for you.”
“Is that so?”
“We get enough aspen to ram through the rib cages of every Wendigo in those hills, but it won’t matter a lick if we let one of them survive.”
He nods. “That appears to be the situation.”
“So I’ve been putting thought into this, Richterman. For us to draw out each and every one of those monsters from the hills, I figure we need to draw out Magner, hisself. And I only know one person who gets that man’s blood boiling quite so completely.”
Richterman pauses by Holcomb’s old bench and snickers. “That’d be yours truly?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to get your hands dirty, for a change.”
“Do my hands look particularly clean to you?”
So many words I do not let slip proceed through my mind. Instead, I answer, “The bone-chewers are huddled in their hills. We have to leave them no place to hide. I intend on doing just that.”
His lips pull back into a vicious smile. “You see flames.”
“That’s about the length of it. I say we smoke them out of the hills.”
“Burn the entire forest?”
“To the ground.”
“Then they have no choice but to come to us.”
I find myself pacing a circle opposite Richterman. “And when they do, we throw more aspen into them than they can fathom.”
“And Magner?”
I lift a finger. “That’s where you get your hands dirty.”
“I’m listening.”
“Magner hisself has to step down into the valley. You’ll have to ride up into the foothills. Draw his ass out. Make sure he comes into town where we’ll be ready.”
He rubs his chin with slow deliberation. “Ready to be consumed?”
“Could play out that way.”
“You’re losing me, Odell. Why am I riding out to expose myself for a plan that in all likelihood will not work?”
“Because you play your strengths, Lars. You get under people’s skin. We need that skin out of the hills. Now, I’m not saying we have enough people to kill all the cannibals just yet. By my figure, if we employ every able-bodied soul in this town, we still got them outnumbered two to one. That’s good enough by my reckoning to get them pinned under.”
Richterman holds his position and gives me a deadly sneer. “Throw away useless lives. I’m fine with that. But don’t you for one second think I’m leveraging my assets in your reckless abandon.”
“It’s in my reckless abandon, already. You started this whole blood sport with your cockeyed Master of the Realm shit. You provoked the man, and now he’s responded in kind. Time you put an end to this. And, yes, you will be riding out to call them out forthwith, because I’ve had just about enough of your knuckle-deep bile, Richterman!”
His sneer rises into a sharp grin. “I admire your pith, son. But setting fire to the hills and using me as a lightning rod for Magner’s wrath is anything but foolproof. What are your fallbacks?”
“Fallbacks? Hell, I’m lucky I got this much put together.”
“Then we do this at night, when the Strigoi can find and eliminate any remainders. The air will be fouled with smoke, which will help. What I’m curious about is how you plan to drop each and every last mongrel without losing manpower? A man down becomes an enemy. Don’t forget that.”
“We’ll keep our distance, is how.”
Richterman leans against the far wall. “How?”
“Scarlow has a plan for making some contraption to throw an aspen trunk through one, maybe four of those things. It means dismantling the press. I don’t suppose Denton will take kindly to us cannibalizing his property, but I figure if you have any sway in that matter…”
“He sees what I intend for him to see. If you put a month-dead cow carcass in the room, he’ll see a printing press. But what in the name of all that is holy does Scarlow know about machinery?”
I shrug. “Negro ingenuity, it seems.”
Richterman snickers and nods. “I forget he had a functioning mind. When this is done, I suspect you’ll test your mind against my own? Perhaps you are, already?”
I grit my teeth hard.
His face falls into something fatigued and pitiful. I see some of Denton in it.
“You’re following your call, Odell. As misguided as it may be, I can’t help but feel humbled by it.”
“You don’t strike me as the humble type, God’s truth.”
“A calling is a rare gift, Odell. Not one to be pissed away on doubt and fore grievance.”
I ball a fist, and none too discreetly as Richterman lifts a brow.
“Do you now intend violence, my little protégé?”
“I don’t speak French, you fuck.”
He sniffles. “I’ve done my own planning, Odell. And in my eyes, you’ve been ready to put me into the ground the moment you set foot into Gold Vein. Largely, I do believe, because you are suffering from a crisis of morality.”
“What crisis?”
“You possess morality. Therefore, you are in crisis.”
I cross my arms, half to take a stronger posture, half to keep my hands off my gun. “I ain’t an evil stump like you, if that’s what you mean.”
Richterman’s snicker returns, broadening into a laugh as he begins to circle me.
“I’m left wondering what will keep you from drawing on me the second these mongrels are dealt with?”
I don’t have an answer for that.
He steps behind me in his panther-lope. “You’re as likely to ride out of this valley, which is a preferable happenstance to being gunned down by a madman, but it still lacks a kind of closure I’m accustomed to.”
“Your point, if you have one?”
“What will you do, Odell?” He finally steps around where I can see him again. “When it’s over?”
“You want to settle accounts now, is what you’re saying?”
“Oh no. No, indeed. I need you, Odell. And not just for this current unpleasantness. For the future of this valley. You are, by your nature, a Second.”
“You already got one of them.”
Richterman waves off my words like horseflies. “We’re both aware of Scarlow’s quality. He’s a mercenary and a coward. When his filthy hide finds lucre elsewhere, he will abandon me.”
“Wouldn’t that be a pity?”
“But,” Richterman adds with a lift of his finger, “you possess a dogged tenacity that I find admirable. Your purity of focus coupled with my vision could mean so much more than what I have now. We could build not just a city, but an empire!”
“You can s
tuff it, Richterman. I’m riding to Cheyenne when this is over.”
“And for what?” he snaps. “Your Godpistol brethren?” He chuckles. “Brothers. As if they see you as an equal. No, Odell. You are never their equal. You are the one they keep bent low and begging for scraps.” He disappears behind me again. “Despite all your promise, they keep you under their boot. Ever wonder why?”
“Because I’m not ready.”
“No. You are ready. Ready for so much more. You are their Joseph, the favored son whom they resent. And one day they will sell you unto servitude.”
My arms unfold, and my hand drops toward my belt. “Best season what you say about Gil McQuarrie.”
“Do you really know the man, Odell?” He circles back into view. “Or do you know the myth? Have you so thoroughly soaked yourself in your own guilt that you have not actually met the man behind the name? Have you not seen the people he’s killed?”
My hand slaps to my holster, and I have the Remington up and angled into Richterman’s chin quicker than he can flash away with his preternatural ease.
His eyes harden as I thumb the hammer.
I whisper, “You’re done with this garbage.”
“Oh, you think I would allow you to hurt me?”
“Your kind is fast. So’s a bullet.”
“I’m faster.”
“Care to try it?”
Richterman smirks. “Don’t you see? This. This is what I crave. This blind faith. This utter abandon into the cult of the man. If only I could proselytize you so thoroughly as McQuarrie has.”
I lower the gun. This was a victory. No matter what the man says, no matter how much Strigoi power he musters, I had the drop on him.
“I don’t worship the man, Richterman. I believe in the mission.”
“As do I,” he announces with a broad stroke of his arms. “This is dear to me. The future of an entire race rests within my hands. It’s my calling, Odell. My raison d’être.”
“I will be a Godpistol one day, Richterman. No matter how you try and twist me against McQuarrie, I will carry on. I will put demons like you into the dirt. And I will ride into Cheyenne when this is settled.”
It feels good to say it. It’s final. The one last declaration. I’ve chosen.
And I’ll follow through.
Richterman’s face simmers for a second before he starts pacing again. “I know what you want, Odell.”
“This conversation is getting duller by the minute.”
“You want the woman.”
My fingers grow icy. “You shut your mouth.”
He circles behind me. “Everyone has the sin, that one weakness they can’t resist. She is yours.”
“Shut your damned mouth.”
“But there remains an obstacle. And Folger is someone you can’t bring yourself to bury.”
“Shut your God. Damned. Mouth.”
He steps into view. “We’ve returned to your crisis of morality. You need the woman. She has become your strength, but you can’t kill her man. What ever shall you do?”
“I told you―”
“Ride to Cheyenne. Yes, you’ve convinced yourself that this will bring you happiness. Do this, however, and you’ll never see her again. Or worse, yet… you will. You will see her again. These murderous Godpistols will hear all about your misadventures here in this valley and demand to come and clean up your mess. And they will find Katherina. And they will snuff her out as they have done so many of us in the past.”
I ball my fingers in and out to regain feeling. Nothing is quite working. My lip trembles. My knees feel weak.
Richterman brings hisself to bear direct in front of me. “If I could rid us both of the specter of Denton Folger, what do you think that would be worth to you?”
I try to say something. Words don’t come.
He continues, “It would require an enormous effort on my part, but if I thought it would bring me so valuable an asset as yourself, I would consider it well worth the effort.”
“Is… is that something you can do?”
I couldn’t have said that. It wasn’t me. Couldn’t have been me.
“Here’s the problem with Edward Scarlow. He fills his pockets with gold while he clings to the shelter of whatever strength keeps his neck out of a noose, but only as long as it remains convenient for him to do so. I’ve frankly lost my patience with the man, as complete a failure as he is. But a man who seeks something more permanent than riches or comfort or even safety? A man who seeks the love of an immortal beauty? That is a man who would stay with me and fight for me. That is a man who could build a new world with his own bare hands. That is not a whipping boy to be pissed upon by his brothers. That man? That man is a pharaoh. All he needs is the blessing of whichever god chooses to grace him with such a magnificent gift.”
My head is spinning. My stomach turns. Cold sweat.
I’m going to vomit.
I can’t let him do this to me. My arm raises the gun to Richterman’s face.
And I fire.
The shot slams out in the darkness of the smithy. It deafens me for a second. I squint through the cloud of smoke puffing in the air between the two of us.
I find Richterman, now with a steel-black face of a Strigoi, glaring back at me. His eyes are pitch. His face no longer a smile, but now a grimace of needles.
A deep grumble rolls from his chest, and with a high swing of his hand, he slaps the gun from my hand. I hear something crack inside my wrist and pain lances through my arm.
An enormous weight drops onto my shoulders, buckling my knees and hammering my torso into the dirt floor. I gasp for air, but the pressure is immense.
Richterman’s voice echoes through every corner of every shadow in the entire world. “Do not test the Lord your God.”
“You… ain’t… no God,” I wheeze.
“You have never been more mistaken.”
The air pinches in around me. My skin goes cold all over. I pull up a hand and blink through confused tears as I find a scaly black claw at the end of my sleeve.
Richterman kneels down over my head. “I am the only thing keeping you alive, you dolt. I am always here. Always listening. And I have to make my own plans, thanks to your frailty.”
“I…”
The darkness of night that had once surrounded me now erupts into a piercing light. A volley of artillery.
No… the sun.
The daylight slices through my skin, burning me to the bone. Flames erupt all across my arms, down my sides, into my feet. The air in my lungs sears my flesh as my face smolders beneath the rays of sunlight. I’m dying. I’m dying like a strigger.
“Please…”
The flames disappear.
My eyes are once again filled with darkness.
Richterman’s laughter slithers from the far corner of Holcomb’s shop. I push off the ground and check my arms and chest. Normal skin. No flame. No ash.
“Isn’t it remarkable how a mind can lead one astray?” Richterman snipes from the work bench near the corner.
“You bastard.”
He kicks at the ground with his heel and sniffles. “My offer stands, Odell. I am not a man to take a vow lightly. And if it salves your crisis of morality, then I will swear to you that if you rid me of Magner and remain as my Second, I will see to it that Folger kisses the cheek of oblivion and troubles our lives no more.”
I reach my feet and find my balance in time for Richterman to flutter into my face, his eyes shifting from black to blue. “I will ride with you, Odell. Out to the hills, where I will do my part to call Magner out of his cradle of exile. You must have everything ready by then. Everything. Or I will execute my own plan.”
Richterman disappears, dissolving into the shadows with unmentionable speed.
I stand stiff, aching, humiliated.
And I remain like that for a good spell, unable to move. Or to think.
My life has become Hell.
ease up the ladder to take another good long
look at Holcomb’s bed. I’m tired. No, weary’s more the word for it. Bone weary. Straight to the core. I’ll need more than a night’s rest to cure me of this feeling. Hell, maybe it’s here to stay. Maybe that’s what Gil feels every morning, or evening, as he drags hisself off the ground or out of bed.
Any way I look at it, I reckon I’ve slept enough. Instead, I just stand in that loft, wondering how in the Hell I’m going to get the people in this town to drop every last one of those Wendigo. I’m going to lose more than a few. And those I lose become more enemies I have to kill. That bag of silver slugs ain’t likely to see Cheyenne.
Nor, I’m figuring, am I.
The plan will work. The Wendigo will come out of the forest. Just got to burn them out.
I snatch the lantern and head downstairs. Richterman just ponied up for the cause. I don’t feel the same kind of down-nose airs from the man as I had before. Perhaps it’s unlike anything Scarlow got from the man.
I glance up the street and find a light still glowing in the windows of the pressroom. I hustle up the street and peek into the window. Half of Scarlow is sticking out from under what’s left of the press, the other half no doubt busying itself with the internal workings. I can’t interrupt him, especially since he seems to be in command of such industry.
Instead I muscle my way through the door of the general store. It sticks well enough, but it ain’t barred. Strange that Toomey won’t lock up his own shop. But then again, theft ain’t the kind of devilry these townsfolk are used to negotiating. I feel my way past his counter and to the door to his store room. This one, it seems, the old shit has the sense enough to lock up. I return to the barrel by the front door and snatch an ax handle. It suits well enough to leverage the door against its hinges, which give before the latch does.
I hold the lantern high over my head and step into the back of Toomey’s shop. The light casts multiple shadows as I step past shelves of bags and jars and hard blocks with printed wrappers. I find what I’m looking for lined up along the far wall. Tins of lamp oil. Rows of them. Enough to keep the valley in lamps for a good year.
It’ll be just enough, I figure.
“Are we thieves now?” a voice trickles over my shoulder.
