Contents
Doc Holliday
Author Notes
Books
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Thank You
Doc Holliday
The Sky Fire Chronicles
Book 2
By
Paul Summerhayes
Copyright © 2018 Paul Summerhayes
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Books by Paul Summerhayes:
Books in The Sky Fire Chronicles:
0.5. The Texan and the Egyptian (short story)
1. Billie the Kid
2. Doc Holliday
3. Coming Soon in 2018
Books in the Dragon Stone Chronicles
1. The Dragon Stone
Books in the Warden Saga:
1. The King’s Warden
2. The Warden’s Sword
3. The Warden and the Shadow Queen
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Chapter 1
Death is patient. He waits for the living.
Southern Arizona Territory, 1876
A bent man, his spine twisted cruelly by nature, made his way across the dusty street toward the small town’s only saloon—a deteriorating clapboard building with faded paint and an equally washed-out and unreadable sign which moved slightly in the afternoon breeze.
Not wanting to draw too much attention, the cripple wore the brim of his hat low in an attempt to hide his features. It was a waste of time. The large lump clearly visible on his back proclaimed him a hunchback, making him stand out wherever he went.
From under his dusty hat, two dark, intelligent eyes viewed the world from his deformed, lopsided face—a face that shocked all who looked upon it. His features appeared partially melted and his thick lips drooped low on one side, giving him a permanent sneer. Nature was cruel to this poor soul at his birth and even the kindest church goer would describe him as hideous.
Not that he cared about his appearance or what people thought, especially the pathetic individuals he met living along the borderlands. Soon, all of these mortal fools would be food for his dark masters and the world would be bathed in their blood. He would have the last laugh then.
Unseen beneath his dirt-covered clothes, taut muscles rippled across his twisted frame. His malformed body was strong, in fact, stronger than most men. Strength was one of the gifts he had received for his years of devoted service, a boon from the dark gods he worshipped. His masters rewarded all of their zealous followers well and this twisted man was one of their most devoted. He had given them all he could and then some. And he had been rewarded accordingly.
Passing a stout desert horse tied to a hitching rail, the hunchback stepped onto the timber boardwalk in front of the saloon’s batwing doors. These desert horses were bred for the wasteland’s harsh condition, but they weren’t warhorses. The creature whinnied, flicking its head as he passed by. The humble beast sensed something that most humans couldn’t—it sensed death was near and it wanted to flee.
Steady footsteps echoed along the boardwalk toward the hunchback as a tall, black-clad man moved toward the saloon. The man noticed the hunchback and paused, leaning a shoulder against a post. He observed the crooked man from beneath the brim of his black hat with cold, grey eyes for a moment before he spoke. His voice sounded deep and gravelly. “Now, where’s an ugly bastard like you heading this fine day?”
The voice stopped the hunchback cold and he turned to face the newcomer. Slyly, the cripple’s hand slid onto a revolver hanging at his hip.
The tall man grinned and threw back his long duster, exposing the smooth, worn grip of his own six-gun. “I wouldn’t do that if I was you.”
Surprised by the man’s speed, the hunchback jerked his hand back from his weapon and in a nonthreatening gesture, held both hands away from his body. “You got no beef with me, horseman.”
“It’s not wise to tell me my business, cripple.”
“I meant no offense,” replied the hunchback, licking his thick lips. “Which, which one are you?”
“Guess.” The tall man straightened, placing his thumbs into his gun belt and rocking back on his heels. His revolver was still exposed and ready if required. “I’m told I’m the nice one.”
The hunchback swore to his dark gods. I’m dead!
The tall stranger stepped forward and the crippled man flinched inwardly, although he tried not to show any external reaction.
“Relax, Hunchback. Today is not your day.” With all the time in the world, the tall man strolled past the hunchback and out into the dusty street. He paused in the open, with his back to the saloon and the street’s only other occupant.
This is my chance, thought the Hunchback, his hand hovering over his revolver. If I shoot him…I will become a god!
A light breeze tugged at the tall man’s duster.
He waited.
Then he smiled.
No. It’s a trap. The hunchback moved his hand from his gun, holding it away from his body.
“A quiet day after all,” muttered the tall man disappointedly.
The man continued across the street to a magnificent ash-colored horse standing in front of the general store. The beast was a northern breed, taller than the local desert horses and was heavily-muscled. It stood motionless, untethered as it waited for its master’s return. The hunchback watched on in silence as the tall man swung onto the horse with the ease of one who had spent a lifetime in the saddle. Suddenly, the horse came to life, reacting to its master’s presence by tossing its head and neighing. It clawed at the ground, impatient to go.
The horseman glanced at the hunchback, who still stood on the boardwalk, and tapped his hat brim. “Until we meet again.”
The ashen horse leapt forward, galloping past the hunchback at a rapid pace. A yellow dust cloud billowed in the great horse’s wake as it headed toward the outskirts of town. The dust hung in the air, distorting the hunchback’s vision and for a fleeting moment he could have sworn he saw sunlight gleam off a long-bladed weapon in the horseman’s hand. No doubt, he was mistaken and it was only a trick of the light.
That was close.
Sitting astride a stocky desert horse, Marshal Patricia Garrett took in a distant town from the vantage of a small rise in the otherwise flat landscape. Pat, as she liked to be called, was a striking-looking woman who was
taller than most and blessed with a natural vigor and a youthful build, which could not be hidden by her plain blouse and long pants—clothes deemed both unfeminine and unfashionable at that time. From under a wide-brimmed hat, a single braid of raven black hair hung down her back.
Although new to the lawman profession, Pat had already learned to mistrust everyone living along the borderlands as most were here only for the money they could earn by mining. At her slender hips, the lawman was packing a Colt Peacemaker revolver. A weapon she unfortunately had used many times in recent weeks.
The distant cluster of buildings looked like any other borderland outpost in southern Arizona. Like every settlement, it would contain the basics; a saloon, a general store and an assortment of simple dwellings—of course out here it would also be dusty, sparsely populated and Pat guessed, uninteresting in every possible way.
On the horse beside her sat her travelling companion and superior, Marshal Roberts. He was a retired cavalry officer with thinning grey hair and a thick, drooping moustache. Roberts too studied the small township suspiciously with yellow feline eyes. His eyes marked him as different—a mutant and someone to be feared. He was dressed appropriately for travel across this hostile environment and was armed for danger, carrying his trusty cavalry saber and a long-barreled Navy Colt revolver.
Today, they had ridden many miles from the east. The journey had been unbearable, a lot like travelling through an oven, Pat thought. She was hot, dirt clung to her sweaty skin and it felt like her mouth was full of grit. She longed for a cool bath and to sleep in a decent bed again, but by the look of the shabby buildings before them, that wasn’t going to happen here.
We’re going to waste our time here. Better to keep riding by.
There was no point voicing her opinion as Roberts wouldn’t be interested in her thoughts. She was still considered a junior agent, so on assignment only his opinion mattered.
“What’s that?” asked Pat, noticing a cloud of dust heading out of town.
The old marshal shielded his yellow eyes with a gloved hand and squinted. “It’s a single rider.” His eyesight was exceptional. It was one of his mutations. “And riding like the devil’s up his arse.”
Pat watched the lone rider as he travelled east. “Let’s ride past this town,” she said. The horseman didn’t slacken his pace and disappeared into the distant haze. “We might make Tombstone by nightfall.”
“We might.” Roberts produced a thin cigar and placed it between his lips beneath his greying moustache. He lit the cigar with a match struck against his saddle. “And we might not.” He blew out sweet smelling smoke which dispersed quickly on the gentle breeze. “Besides, it feels like it might rain.” Without waiting for her response, he prodded his desert horse and it trotted toward the distant town.
Pat glanced up. There were no clouds in the sky.
Rain? The old coot knows it hasn’t rained in years.
These southern lands hadn’t seen rain since the day fire blazed in the sky and flames poured down from the heavens—burning every town, plant and person living there. In a single day the land was transformed into a barren wasteland, The Endless Wasteland. Since that fateful event over ten years ago, no clouds had blessed the southern sky or a drop of precious rain touched its dry, cracked earth. The Sky Fires, as they were called, also brought an abrupt end to the war of the states which was ramping up and may have continued on for several more years. More died on that one fiery day than all the years of conflict preceding it.
Why the fires had only affected the southern states was a mystery to the general population, but not to the marshals. They knew the cause and what had to be done to stop the hordes of demons waiting to pour into our world through hell gates which linked their realm to our earth. These demon portals were scattered throughout the southern wasteland and were guarded by all types of denizens of hell.
Pat Garrett sighed, tapping her horse with booted heels. Obediently, the animal plodded forward with as much enthusiasm to see the town as she did.
Why this town? And why today?
All Roberts said was their current assignment for the Federal Agency for Justice, who they worked for, required them to go to Tombstone—which was northwest of their current location. Why the old marshal wanted to stop here in ‘shits-ville’ was anyone’s guess.
“The beds better have clean sheets,” she grumbled, knowing she was going to be disappointed. “And a deep hole under the outhouse.”
Sweat trickled down the hunchback’s deformed spine as he pushed open the saloon’s batwing doors and moved out of the scorching sun. He wasn’t surprised to find the inside of the saloon much like its outside—poorly constructed, run down and dirty. A fine layer of yellow dust covered the floor and the bar running along one wall. There were several round tables scattered throughout the room and a steep staircase leading to the second story and the guest rooms.
The saloon’s few occupants paid him no heed as he stood in the doorway. There were a few lone drinkers scattered about the room and in one corner, a poker game was in full swing. As with all games involving chance and alcohol, there was much swearing and cursing. The card players didn’t notice his arrival and he ignored them as they were not the men he was here to meet.
In the opposite corner to the poker game and near to the front door was a table of rough looking men—by their appearance they were either ex-Confederate Bushwhackers or desperados. Their dusty clothes advertised that they too were new in town. The three seated men ignored the hunchback as he walked over to their table.
“Gentlemen.”
“Keep walking, gimp,” said a broad, thick-necked man with a nose that looked like it had been broken many times.
The hunchback didn’t move or flinch. Instead, he smiled and raised an open hand. Before the men’s startled eyes, fine threads of red energy arced between the cripple’s open fingers, crackling softly in the dry air. After a few seconds, the hunchback closed his bony hand and the miniature threads of lightning vanished.
Broken Nose visibly paled, sitting up straighter and spilling some of his beer from his glass onto the dusty table. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t know it was you.”
“I gathered as much.” The hunchback dropped into an empty chair, measuring each of the three men across from him with a steely glance.
They don’t look like much, but they’ll do. Fear will keep them in check.
“Have you checked on the shipment?”
“No, sir,” grunted Broken Nose. “We just arrived ourselves.”
“But you had enough time to stop in this fine establishment.” The hunchback indicated their surroundings.
“W-we…”
“—You cheating piece of dung!” The card game in the corner just got a little rowdier. “Check his sleeves, Tommy. No one’s that lucky.”
The hunchback glanced over at the card game. It was obvious that someone had a winning streak the others didn’t appreciate.
“Well, well. What a pleasant surprise,” the hunchback muttered. He turned back to the thugs again and smiled, unnerving the three men. “Go check on my master’s goods and meet me back here before nightfall.”
“Yes, sir.” The three men rose, leaving their drinks unfinished on the table.
“Before nightfall,” the hunchback repeated as the men hurried to the front door.
I have a feeling this is going to get interesting.
Chapter 2
A man in a crumpled suit sat alone at a saloon table, skillfully manipulating a deck of cards in one hand while nursing a drink in his other. His clothes, while in fair condition, were one size too large and hung loosely on his thin frame. He was a sickly-looking man with a pale complexion and a long, dark moustache adorning his top lip and greasy hair plastered against his skull-like head. Dark-lensed glasses perched on his narrow nose, shielding his sensitive eyes from the harsh light streaming in through the saloon’s glass windows. His glasses, while for medical reasons, also benefited him when playing poker.
He made his profession by gambling and the glasses made him harder to read, which was important, especially if he intended to cheat in places where people shot first and asked questions second. Poker was his only vice now that his health had deteriorated as far as it had. Well, poker and drinking. He knew he was dying and drinking helped.
The gambler put the cards on the table and poured whisky into his empty glass. Come to papa, he thought as he up-ended his drink, swallowing its contents in one gulp. He enjoyed the burning sensation of the alcohol trickling down his throat before pouring another and returning to his one-handed card tricks.
Suddenly, a coughing fit racked his thin body. Pausing his one-handed card gymnastics, the gambler produced a white handkerchief and covered his mouth. Eventually, his coughing subsided and he wiped crimson specks off his lips and moustache. After returning the stained handkerchief to his vest pocket, he took a sip of whisky.
“That stuff is going to kill you one day,” said a woman with a thick accent. The woman wore a sleeveless floral dress and sat at the bar. Her glossy black hair was secured into a bun on top of her head with long pins. She was a working girl and her prominent features gave her the nickname, Big Nose Kate.
“Yeah, that’s right,” said the gambler, looking over at the woman. “Drinking this heavenly stuff is going to be my death.” To emphasize his point, he poured another drink, before saluting Kate with the glass and downing the amber liquid in one gulp. “Now that’s good medicine.”
Kate rolled her eyes and turned back to her conversation with the saloon owner, a stocky, hard-faced woman who was busy cleaning glasses that were stored under the bar.
The gambler ignored the women and went back to his card tricks.
A moment later, the saloon doors opened and three men entered and strolled up to the bar. They had been in the saloon earlier that day and their leader, a solid man with a crooked nose, glanced around the room before speaking to the saloon owner.
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