Hope's End

by Mark Lukens

  Moody nodded and easily pried the gun out of Karl’s hand. He held it out to Jed.

  Jed took Karl’s gun and slipped it down into his holster.

  Moody took the lantern from Karl’s other hand and handed it to Billy. Now Esmerelda and Billy each held a lantern, freeing up Moody’s hands to hold his shotgun.

  “What did you want us to see?” Moody asked Billy.

  Billy pointed at the dark town. “The lanterns in the saloon are out.”

  Moody exhaled a wheezy breath. “Good God.”

  No more words were exchanged. All of them hurried down the dirt street. Even Karl had snapped out of his mourning, his sense of preservation taking over now as he kept up with them, not wanting to be left behind.

  They hurried past the line of buildings on both sides of the street that were swallowed in shadows. Another coyote yipped in the night. Another answered. Jed swore again that the animals were talking to each other somehow in some secret language.

  They gathered in front of the saloon.

  “Wait over there,” Jed told Esmerelda and David, taking the lantern from her. He pointed at the corner of the saloon. “Get down low in case there’s any shooting.”

  Esmerelda took David with her to the corner of the building at the edge of the walkway and crouched down with him.

  Jed had the lantern in his left hand, his Colt in his right. He looked at Moody, then at Billy. “You open the doors,” he told Billy. “I’ll go in.” He looked at Moody. “You get ready with your shotgun, but don’t fire unless I tell you to. It’s dark in there and I don’t want to be hit with buckshot.”

  Moody nodded.

  A moment later they were standing on the saloon’s walkway. Moody waited at the side of the left door with his shotgun while Billy opened the door on the right, pushing it all the way open. He backed out of the way as Jed rushed inside, shining his lantern and aiming his pistol.

  There was no smell of blood or flesh—a good sign—but the saloon was quiet. And it was so dark, not a single lantern lit. He couldn’t even see the red glow of embers behind the slits in the metal door of the wood stove from where he stood.

  “Is someone in here?” Jed called out.

  No answer.

  “Barkeep! Sanchez!”

  As Jed ventured deeper into the darkness, moving towards the bar, a table and a set of chairs materialized from the blackness in the light of the lantern. His mind swam with nightmarish images of skinwalkers transforming themselves into animals, some kind of human/animal hybrid waiting in the dark, breathing silently through an opened, bloodstained mouth of sharp teeth. He imagined that they had eyes that could see in the dark, eyes that were watching him right now. He imagined the things were waiting in the dark until he was close enough for them to reach out with their claws. Jed wasn’t an imaginative man, and these horrors he pictured were just at the edge of his capabilities to conjure up in his mind, unnamable and indescribable beings that floated in the air, defying reality—sights that would drive him mad if he saw them.

  Jed’s breaths quickened as he took a few more steps towards the bar that he still couldn’t see. He waited for that first touch of cold flesh against his face. He kept his Colt aimed in front of him, his hand trembling. The weapon felt silly now, a weapon he had always trusted and relied upon, a weapon he had trained himself to be an expert with, and now that weapon felt like a mere toy against these creatures that Red Moon called skinwalkers.

  For the last twenty-four hours Jed had tried to convince himself that a lot of what he’d seen in the woods hadn’t been real—they’d been the result of a nervous breakdown, hallucinations brought on by extreme stress. But now, here in the darkness, he was a believer once again, even wondering if Red Moon had been right about the skinwalkers’ ability to cast spells.

  The memory of Dobbs and Roscoe waiting for him on the trail in the woods popped into his mind; Dobbs sitting patiently with Roscoe’s head in his lap. Were they waiting for him now by the bar? Would Jed’s lantern shine on Dobbs’ skinless body, the muscles glistening in the lantern light? Would Dobbs be holding Roscoe’s head by his gray hair like a suitcase, Roscoe’s eyes bulging, his mouth pulled up into that severe smile, the strings of gore and knuckles of vertebrae hanging down from the bottom of his raggedly severed neck?

  Jed tried to push that image out of his mind.

  Even though panic was threatening to take over, Jed moved deeper into the saloon. The others outside the saloon doors were counting on him. Besides, if he ran right now, where would he go? Outside? Into the desert? Into those endless, brush-covered hills? There was nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. Nowhere was safe. Not even this saloon was truly safe.

  A few steps farther . . . and then Jed stopped. He looked down at the floor, seeing what he’d been afraid of—blood. Only this wasn’t the splash or smears of blood he’d been expecting; this was just a few dark spots of blood, like someone had cut themselves or had a nosebleed.

  But even though there wasn’t much blood, Jed knew the men were gone. The barkeep, whatever his name had been, he was gone. And Sanchez, he was—

  Movement from Jed’s left, a rustle of clothing, a grunt.

  Jed turned to his left, aiming both his Colt and the lantern in that direction. He was a second away from pulling the trigger and firing blindly into the darkness.

  “It’s me,” a voice called from the dark. “It’s Sanchez.”

  Jed moved towards the voice, moving past the table he stood near. The next table and chairs materialized out of the dark in the lantern light. Sanchez was at the other end of the table, tied to the chair just where Jed had left him. He was sitting as far up in the chair as his bonds would allow, his arms straining behind him, his eyes wide, his hat on the floor like he had knocked it off while thrashing.

  “Where’s the barkeep?” Jed asked.

  “Untie me.”

  “Where is he? Is he dead?”

  “You have to untie me. You can’t leave me in this chair.”

  Jed’s heartbeat and breathing were beginning to slow down a little. He could hear the others at the saloon’s doors. A lantern was there now, lighting up the doorway. Moody and Billy were entering the saloon.

  “Is there anyone else in here?” Jed asked as he turned back to Sanchez.

  Sanchez swallowed hard and shook his head. “I don’t know.” His words came out in a rush of breath.

  “How did all the lanterns go out?”

  Sanchez shook his head again, more vigorously this time, his face scrunched up in frustration. “I don’t know.”

  Moody and Billy were at Jed’s side now.

  “Where’s Lawrence?” Moody asked.

  “Is that the barkeep’s name?” Jed asked.

  Moody nodded. “Yes.”

  “I don’t know,” Jed answered. “Sanchez here hasn’t been much help with information so far.” He glanced up at the chandelier of lanterns hanging above them from the ceiling. “We need to get these lanterns lit again. Get everyone inside.”

  Moody went to work on that, hurrying to the bar with his lantern. He went around to the other side and looked through some wooden boxes until he found a few long kitchen matches. He lit a lantern on the wall sconce to the left of the mirrors behind the bar, and then he lit the other lantern on the other side of the mirrors.

  The saloon was brightening up now with four lanterns lit. Jed could see most of the saloon now—only the back room, the stairs, and part of the balcony above were still hidden in shadows.

  “Is your barkeep back there behind the bar?” Jed called out to Moody.

  “No.”

  “Any blood?”

  Moody looked around at the floor behind the bar, studying it for a moment. “I think there might be a few spots. Can’t tell if it’s blood or dirt.”

  Jed looked at Billy while Moody grabbed a long wooden pole with a wick on the end to light the lanterns in the chandeliers. “Take my lantern and get the others in here. Then close the doors. Lock th
em if you can.”

  Billy nodded and took the lantern. He hurried across the saloon to the open door.

  Jed watched as Billy ushered Esmerelda, Karl, and David into the saloon. Billy closed the doors once everyone was inside, and then he locked the doors and pulled down the shades over the windows. He hurried to both windows and drew the curtains shut.

  Esmerelda led David to the same table he’d sat at before, whispering at him to sit down. Karl followed like a zombie and sat down at another table by himself, laying his head down on his arms, emitting a low moan.

  Moody had the chandelier lit, all of the lanterns brightening the whole saloon up now. He took the pole back to the bar and extinguished the flame on the wick. He set the pole against the wall near the stove, and then he added a few pieces of wood to the stove, lighting a piece of paper to get them started. The flames flared up inside the stove, and Moody closed the little metal door on the front, the hinges squeaking slightly.

  Jed pulled Karl’s gun from his holster and walked over to the table where Billy and David sat. He checked Karl’s gun for bullets, opening the cylinder. Each chamber was loaded with a bullet. He snapped it shut. It was an older gun, an 1870 Smith & Wesson .44 caliber, but it looked clean and well taken care of. He handed the pistol to Billy. “You know how to use this?”

  Billy nodded and accepted the pistol from Jed, laying it down on the table in front of him with a thunk.

  Jed walked back to Sanchez. “Tell us what happened in here. What happened to the barkeep?”

  “Untie me. You can’t keep me like this. Not with . . .”

  “Not with what?”

  Sanchez snapped his mouth closed. He swallowed hard.

  Esmerelda went behind the bar.

  Moody, still tending to the fire in the stove, watched her. “What are you doing?”

  She didn’t answer as she grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the shelf. She lined up some shot glasses on the bar near the pile of supplies the barkeep had put together for Jed earlier. She poured shots of whiskey into each glass.

  Jed walked away from Sanchez, giving himself a chance to think. He walked over to where he’d seen the spots of blood on the floor. Just a few spots. They seemed to lead over to the bar. These were spots of blood, not splashes or smears like they’d seen before in the general store and the dining hall . . . and in David’s house. He followed the spots of blood over to the bar. Two more spots of blood dotted the top of the bar. And Moody had already said there might be a few spots of blood behind the bar.

  Esmerelda watched Jed with a shot glass in her hand. She downed the drink and poured another. She picked up the jar of tea and the shot of whiskey. She brought the jar of tea to David and set it down in front of him. “Here, David. You must be thirsty.”

  He nodded and whispered a thank you.

  Esmerelda brought the shot glass of whiskey to Sanchez. “You want a drink?” she asked him.

  Sanchez nodded. “Could you get my hat from the floor?”

  Esmerelda picked up Sanchez’s hat and dusted it off. She placed his black cowboy hat on his head and then positioned the shot glass in front of his mouth, ready to pour. “Open up,” she told him.

  Sanchez opened his mouth and tilted his head back a little. She poured the whiskey into his mouth slowly. He swallowed the liquid down and then sighed, closing his eyes for a moment.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Moody asked, stomping over to Esmerelda and Sanchez.

  “He needs a drink,” Esmerelda said. “We all do.”

  “Well, the drinks aren’t free, just so you know.”

  “I’ve got money,” Sanchez said, addressing Esmerelda rather than Moody. “Inside my coat pocket.” He glanced at Jed who was still by the bar. “I won’t be needing the money much longer.”

  Esmerelda reached into Sanchez’s coat pocket and pulled out a long leather billfold. She opened it and pulled out a bill. She handed it to Moody.

  Moody’s eyes lit up—it seemed like the bill would be enough to cover the rounds of whiskeys. He shoved the bill down into his pants pocket.

  “You want another drink?” Esmerelda asked Sanchez.

  “Yes. Por favor.”

  Esmerelda grabbed another shot glass full of whiskey. She was about to bring it back to Sanchez when Jed put his hand out in front of her, stopping her.

  “Wait a minute, please,” Jed told her and took the glass of whiskey gently from her hand. He sat down at Sanchez’s table and set the glass of whiskey in the middle of it. “You can have this drink. But first you’re going to tell us what you saw.”

  Sanchez stared at Jed defiantly.

  “If you’ll be honest with us,” Jed said. “If you’ll help us, I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you with the judge. You’ve got my word on that.”

  Sanchez looked at Esmerelda who was still by the bar, then he looked over at David and Billy, then at Karl beyond them sitting at the next table with his head still down on his arms like he was sleeping. He looked back at Jed, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Please, Sanchez,” Esmerelda said. “We’re all in trouble here. We need to know what you saw.”

  Sanchez stared at Esmerelda for a moment, and then he looked at Jed.

  “Just tell us what you saw,” Jed said.

  “Give me that drink and I’ll tell you,” Sanchez said.

  CHAPTER 17

  Esmerelda helped Sanchez with his drink again, holding the shot glass for him while he drank the whiskey down in two swallows. He sighed softly and then closed his eyes, looking a little more relaxed now.

  Billy had pulled his chair around so he faced Sanchez, watching him. Moody brought Karl a shot of whiskey, but he didn’t drink it. Moody left him alone and sat down at Billy and David’s table, facing Sanchez. Esmerelda sat down near Jed.

  They were all waiting for Sanchez to speak. The saloon was quiet—no wind from outside, no sounds except for their breathing and the occasional creak of a chair or the rustling of cloth from fidgeting.

  Jed was sure Sanchez was going to back out on his promise now that he’d gotten his whiskey, or maybe even hold out for another drink, or bargain for his legs to be untied so he could stretch them. But Sanchez stayed true to his word and began talking.

  “After you left the saloon, me and the barkeep were alone in here. He stayed behind the bar. He was nervous. He wasn’t talking. We didn’t hear anything outside. And then, about ten or fifteen minutes after you were gone, all of the lanterns blew out. All of them at the same time.”

  “How?” Jed asked.

  Sanchez shrugged. “I don’t know. There was this . . . this wind. Like a sudden wind was inside the saloon, and then all of the lanterns went out.”

  “Darkwind,” Billy whispered.

  Sanchez looked at Billy, but he didn’t say anything to him.

  Jed ignored Billy, focusing on Sanchez. “You say this wind blew all of the lanterns out. And you felt this wind?”

  Sanchez shook his head no. He looked a little frustrated again, like he was having difficulty putting his thoughts into words. “No. I don’t remember feeling it. I heard a rushing sound, like the wind. And then the lanterns were out, and it was dark.”

  “And what happened after the lanterns went out?” Jed asked.

  “Right away, the barkeep screamed. At first I thought he was screaming because it was dark, like a child scared at night. But then I knew that something was happening to him.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. His scream was cut short. And then it sounded like he was choking. Like someone was choking him.”

  “Did you see anyone?”

  “It was dark.”

  “Did you hear anyone besides the barkeep? Did anyone say anything? Did you hear other people walking around?”

  “No. Just the barkeep choking.”

  “That’s the only thing you heard?” Jed asked, leaning forward a little. “Think, Sanchez. Think back to that moment. Anything could help. You didn�
��t hear any other sounds?”

  Esmerelda got up and went to the bar. She grabbed the bottle of whiskey and a few more glasses.

  Moody grabbed the bottle when she set it down on the table, serving himself a shot first and downing it quickly. “For Lawrence,” he said, lifting his empty glass up in salute.

  Jed grabbed the bottle after Moody was finished with it and his toast. He poured another shot and slid it towards Sanchez, but he didn’t lift it up to him yet. “What else did you hear?”

  Sanchez shook his head slightly, his face still scrunched a little in concentration. “I think his feet were kicking at the floor. Like when a man gets hanged, his feet kick while he’s choking to death.” Sanchez stared right at Jed. “You’ve seen that before, am I correct?”

  Jed wondered if Sanchez was lying, concocting these details because he knew he would be hanging from the end of a rope soon. “Maybe the barkeep ran away,” Jed suggested to Sanchez.

  Moody looked suddenly hopeful. “You think there’s a chance he ran away?” He stared at Sanchez. “Maybe that’s what you heard, a man running, not thrashing.”

  “No. His feet were kicking at the floor.”

  “But things can sound tricky in the dark,” Moody said. “Your mind can play tricks on you.”

  “I know the difference between a man running and a man’s feet kicking at the floor,” Sanchez said, eyeing Moody for a moment. He looked back at Jed. “You wanted to know what I heard, that’s what I heard.”

  Moody turned his attention to Jed, not willing to give up the hope that had been kindled in him now. “You think it’s possible that Lawrence ran? Maybe he got away somehow.”

  Jed glanced at the bar, then down at the floor with the spots of blood on it. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s strange. Your barkeep is gone like the others were, maybe taken. But the saloon hasn’t been torn apart like the general store and the dining hall were.”

  Moody’s eyes lit up with surprise. “Yes, that’s true. There is a difference.”

  The church hadn’t been torn apart either, Jed thought. The church’s pews, podium, and piano hadn’t been destroyed, only the bodies that had been piled on them had been damaged. But he didn’t think he needed to mention that detail right now.