Doc Holliday_The Sky Fire Chronicles

by Paul Summerhayes

  The door opened and Doc Holliday walked in, surveying the room. He moved straight to the two lawmen.

  “Miss Garrett, Roberts,” said Holliday, greeting them. His pale face showed concern. “I’m in need of your services.” Holliday pulled up a chair and sat at their table. “Kate is gone.”

  A look passed between Pat and Roberts.

  “What?” voiced Roberts.

  “Last night, two people in the boarding house were murdered. Butchered would be a better description. Now, Kate is missing.”

  “Is she at the saloon?” asked Pat.

  “No, Miss Garrett,” replied Holliday. “She cannot be found.”

  He looks really concerned for her.

  “And what passes for the sheriff here is investigating the murders and says he has no time to investigate a missing person. I need your help, Marshal.”

  “We’re leaving for Tombstone,” said Roberts coolly, sipping his coffee. “What can we do?”

  “I need your help to investigate. I do not have the right skills and Kate is…important to me.”

  “Our mission in Tombstone is important,” said Roberts, putting his coffee cup on the table. “I’m not sure the government would sanction a side investigation.”

  Holliday leaned forward and Pat imagined him glaring at Roberts from behind his dark glasses. “Maybe, Marshal, we could help each other?”

  Pat found herself holding her breath as the two men faced off across the table.

  “Let me get this right, Holliday. You’re willing to help us, the law? That just doesn’t sound right.”

  “It pains me to say it, but if you help me find Kate, I will assist you in Tombstone.”

  “Tombstone is dangerous.”

  “You underestimate Kate’s value to me, Marshal. I would rather not help the law, but you know how to find things where I am only…a simple gambler.”

  Roberts considered Holliday’s words, stood and extended his hand. “The government is happy to assist in finding Kate. And then we’ll expect your help in Tombstone.”

  Holliday stood and grasped Roberts’ hand firmly.

  “Maybe I should deputize you,” said Roberts. “Just in case you need to shoot someone. It will keep things legal.”

  “Marshal, you go too far.”

  Roberts knelt in a scorched corridor beside the burnt body of a headless woman. He examined the ruined stump of her neck, gently pulling back the edge of her charred nightdress and prodding the gruesome wound with his fingers. There was no sign of the woman’s head.

  “Like I said, Marshal, some sort of animal attack,” said the town sheriff, looking over Roberts’ shoulder. The man shot a nervous glance at the marshal’s cat-like eyes and then stepped back to give Roberts more room to work. The old sheriff’s face was tanned and weathered, making him appear older than his actual years. He wore a faded red hat on the back of his head and he tucked a thumb in his belt, resting his hand near his revolver. Sheriff Colby was his name.

  An animal? thought Pat. Is he joking?

  “And how do you figure a bear got up here, to the second floor, and killed this poor woman?” asked Holliday, leaning against the wall. The thin gambler was watching Roberts work with no more than a passing interest.

  “I never said a bear,” Sheriff Colby said, his gaze returning to the old marshal and his work. “It could have been…any manner of beast. A wolf, or bobcat, or…”

  “Or a blood thirsty demon, hungry for the souls of the living,” retorted Roberts.

  Holliday smiled.

  “Are you mocking me, sir?” The old sheriff stood a little straighter and stuck out his chest. “We’re not all hicks here, I’ll have you know.”

  “That’s just my professional opinion.” Roberts stood, towering over the shorter sheriff. “I meant no offense.”

  “Well, that’s all right then,” said the sheriff. “The landlord heard someone holla and came up stairs to find the place on fire. After he put out the fire he discovered these poor dead folks.”

  “There are more?”

  “Yeah, there’s another body is in there.” The sheriff indicated a room.

  “Another animal attack?”

  “I suspect so,” said the sheriff, rubbing his chin. “It might’ve even been the same critter.”

  “Your investigation skills are unmatched,” said Roberts. “I take my hat off to you.”

  The sheriff looked suspiciously at Roberts. “I’m just trying to help…”

  Roberts entered the room without replying. Pat and Holliday followed, leaving the old sheriff standing in the corridor with the headless body.

  “Is your room next door?” Roberts asked Holliday, bending over the bloody body lying in the bed. It was an old man, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling as a few black flies played in a gaping hole in his chest. A few small chunks of internal organs were scattered over the top of the blanket and the floor boards under the bed were stained dark with blood. The old man’s face was frozen, showing his terror at the moment of his death.

  “Yes, next door,” replied Holliday, looking out the room’s only window.

  Pat moved to Holliday’s side and followed his gaze down into the dusty street and then across to the saloon. Suddenly, Holliday started coughing and he covered his mouth with a white handkerchief.

  “Are you all right?” asked Pat.

  “Yes, my dear. Just a little dust.” He cough some more and eventually brought it under control. “I have faced many hardened gunfighters, but this tuberculosis will be my killer.”

  “Is there anything you can do?”

  “Only to try to die with dignity.”

  “Look at this,” said Roberts, interrupting. He was kneeling by the bed, inspecting the floor boards. “Claw marks. Big claw marks.”

  “Wolf?” asked the sheriff from the doorway.

  “Yeah. The type that comes from the fiery pits of hell.”

  “Is that near Mexico?”

  Pat knelt beside Roberts and traced three deep scratches with her fingertips. There was almost a hand’s width between each mark.

  This beast must have been huge.

  Roberts moved past Holliday to the window and stuck his head outside. “As I thought. It came through this window. Killed the old man where he slept and then the woman in the corridor.”

  “Kate would have heard the noise,” said Pat. “Maybe she made a run for it.”

  “Kate run?” said Holliday. “No, she’s a fighter. Something happened to her.”

  “If we track this wolf,” said the sheriff. “Maybe we’ll find her.”

  Roberts stared at the sheriff. “Have the undertaker bury these bodies. We’re finished here.”

  “All right, Marshal,” said the old sheriff. “Are you also investigating the other disappearances?”

  “What disappearances?”

  “I thought that’s why you were here, Marshal.” The sheriff seemed a little surprised. “Over the last few days, several people have vanished without a trace.”

  “It might be related. We’ll look into it.”

  “The town would appreciate it.”

  “Who’s gone missing?” asked Pat.

  “The stable owner, Morrison, and a housekeeper, a few others…and the mayor also hasn’t been seen for the last three days.” The sheriff scratched his balding head. “And my deputy. I don’t think his disappearance is related, but he went for a ride yesterday and I haven’t seen him since. I’m guessing the dumbass fell off his horse and is walking back to town. It’s happened before.”

  “Have you looked for him?”

  “What for?” said the sheriff. “The idiot was useless anyway.” He said his farewells and then the sheriff left, his footsteps sounding loud as he retreated down the corridor.

  “This is too much of a coincidence,” said Roberts. “These two killed by a demon, townsfolk and Kate disappearing. And that hunchbacked devil is also here.”

  “You think this hunchback took Kate and these oth
er people?” asked Holliday. “Why would he do that?”

  “Who knows what’s in the hunchback’s mind. Maybe he is trying to stop us from getting to Tombstone.”

  “I’m not sure why Tombstone is important, but if this ‘hunchback’ has harmed a hair on Kate’s pretty head, I’ll send him and all his friends back to the hell that spawned them.”

  “To save Kate,” Roberts said. “We’ll need to find the hunchback’s lair.”

  It may already be too late.

  Chapter 7

  The day’s heat and the wagon’s constant rocking motion made Billie drowsy. She lay listlessly, unmoving in the wagon’s bed, staring up at the white canvas roof. Her mind drifted in and out of consciousness, barely aware of the world around her. She had even become numb to the endless clatter of the wheels, only rousing from this half-awake state when they hit a rut.

  The day was coming to an end and hours of travel had taken them many miles from Deepwell and the only home she could remember. The recent events pressed heavily on Billie’s mind, so much that parts of her past life felt like faded memories.

  The two heavily-armed Agents who acted as their escorts looked more like criminals than government employees. Both sat up front and showed little interest in Billie and her mother, leaving them alone. No doubt, escorting a half-grown woman and her comatose mother must have been a boring assignment for these hardened men, but they followed their orders without complaint. They had told Billie their names, but she couldn’t remember now. It surprised her a little when she realized, she didn’t care who they were.

  The countless hours rolled past and Billie continued drifting in and out of restless sleep until a wagon wheel dropped into a rut, jarring her awake. She looked across at her mother—Catherine remained the same, unaffected by the jostling wagon.

  Rest, Mom. We’ll be there soon.

  Billie leaned across and swooshed a fly away from Catherine’s face.

  She looks paler.

  Billie panicked and went to feel her mother’s cheek, then stopped.

  Is she…dead?

  Hesitantly, Billie placed the back of her hand on Catherine’s cheek. It was cool.

  Is that good?

  Billie didn’t know any more. She sighed and slumped lethargically onto her bedroll, her eyes fixed on her mother.

  Hopefully, no change means she’s not getting any worse.

  Tired of the inactivity, Billie lifted the wagon’s canvas flap to see where they were. The sun was low and through the dust-filled air Billie noted a few yuccas and cacti dotting the otherwise barren landscape. There was little plant life here, still, it was more than she had seen in the countryside surrounding Deepwell. Nothing grew in that harsh borderland region as it was too close to the wasteland for life.

  Unimpressed by the desolate landscape, Billie lay back down beside her mother, placing her hat over her face. She wanted to sleep, no, she wanted this journey to end—suddenly, the wagon shuddered as it moved off the track and came to a halt.

  Did I make us stop?

  Lifting the canvas flap again, Billie stared out and was disappointed with what she saw. They weren’t at Tombstone, or anywhere else—they were still in the middle of nowhere. As far as she could see in all directions was endless desert.

  The wagon rocked as the men dismounted. One man went to work, roaming the area and gathering wood. Wood here? This must have been an area that had been treed prior to the Sky Fires. When his arms were full, the Agent set the kindling amongst some rocks and started a small fire. He produced a blackened pot and started preparing a meal of beans.

  The other man, the bigger of the two, saw to the horse. He spoke softly as he clipped a grain sack over its muzzle. While it was eating, the big Agent ran his hand over the animal’s barrel chest before lifting each of its hooves, checking for any sign of injuries. If the horse went lame out here it would mean certain death.

  Billie watched the men work. When they were finished, she climbed down from the wagon, joining them around the fire. The three ate in silence, barely looking at each other. Billie spooned the tasteless beans into her mouth and before she realized, her bowl was empty. The meal was filling, but it wasn’t even close to being as good as her mother’s.

  Without a word to the men, Billie stood and climbed into the back of the wagon. Kneeling, Billie cradled her mother’s head, pouring several drops of foul smelling medicine into her mouth as instructed by the old doctor. She dabbed a few drops of liquid from her mother’s mouth with her shirt sleeve and laid Catherine’s head back onto the thin mattress.

  Billie dropped listlessly onto her bedroll, listening to the crackling fire for a few moments before fumbling for her mother in the dark. Finding Catherine’s cool skin, Billie gripped her hand tightly.

  “Goodnight, Mom,” she whispered and a moment later, Billie was asleep.

  The next day the wagon had traveled for a few hours when suddenly, it stopped sharply, sending Billie sprawling across the back of the wagon.

  Hey!

  Billie heard a distant shout, which was quickly drowned out by a single gunshot. One of the Agents up front swore and then the air was filled with the roar of gunfire. Bullets whistled overhead and several punched through the canvas cover above Billie. She threw herself onto her stomach, trying to rationalize what was happening around her. When she came to her senses, Billie crawled to her mother, climbing protectively over Catherine’s chest. After several frantic seconds of intense gunfire, everything suddenly fell silent.

  Who’s attacking us?

  A moment later, a mournful cry started and then, it too trailed off and stopped. Someone had been shot.

  Billie raised her head, easing her Colt Peacemaker out of its holster. There was no sound now except for the horse nervously stomping its feet. She held her breath, straining to hear over the blood thumping loudly in her ears.

  Are they alive?

  After what seemed like a long time, hooves thundered toward the wagon and sounded like they were reined in hard as hooves slid on loose gravel.

  “We got them,” someone said. It wasn’t either of the Agents.

  “Hell yeah,” laughed another. “They’re as dead as dead.”

  Outside, several people dismounted, their boots crunching as they moved around the wagon.

  “Have a look in the back.”

  Billie gripped the revolver, pointing it at the rear flap. The gun shook in her hand, feeling heavy and awkward.

  Please, no. I don’t want to kill anyone.

  The canvas flap opened and even before Billie saw anyone, she pulled the trigger. The revolver bucked in her hands and a hole appeared in the canvas flap.

  Did I hit anyone?

  “Wooya! You almost took my head off!”

  “You in the wagon,” said another voice, a husky woman’s. “Come out with your hands up if you know what’s good for you.”

  No!

  “Drop the iron, kid.”

  Billie half turned. A large African-American man leaned through the front canvas flap, pointing a double barrel shotgun at Billie’s head. “Nice and easy. That’s it.”

  Billie did as she was told and dropped the revolver, raising her hands.

  “It’s just a kid and a dead woman,” the man yelled to the people outside.

  Mom’s not dead!

  The back wagon flap opened and a bald head appeared. “It ain’t nothin’ but a scrawny bug.” He waved an old style revolver at Billie, indicating she should exit. “Git out.”

  “But my mother...” Billie placed a hand on Catherine’s shoulder.

  The bald man cocked his revolver. “I ain’t askin’ agin.”

  Watching the bald man, Billie edged toward him, keeping her hands up. He grinned, exposing a mouth containing only a few brown stained teeth. She had little time to consider her captor before he grabbed her roughly by the shirt collar and hauled her out of the wagon. He released her and she dropped like a stone, throwing up a cloud of dust as she plowed face f
irst into the earth.

  Billie lay stunned for a few seconds before lifting herself onto all fours. Sputtering and spitting dirt she tried to stand, but a rifle barrel pressed into her forehead.

  “That’s far enough.” The rifle belonged to a solid middle-aged woman wearing men’s pants and shirt. “I’ve never killed a child before. But maybe this is the day I start.”

  The dirty-faced Billie slowly raised her hands, too scared to speak.

  The bald man chuckled and tucking his revolver into his faded blue dungarees’ pocket, climbed into the back of the wagon. Mom! Instinctively, Billie made a move to stand, but the woman pressed the rifle barrel harder into her forehead.

  “Stay down, boy.”

  “I’m not a boy,” snapped Billie.

  The woman’s eyes opened wider. “So I see. Keep that to yourself if you know what’s good for you.” The woman nodded toward her companions. “You know what I’m saying?”

  “This woman’s alive,” shouted the bald man from inside the wagon. “Can I have her, Susie?”

  “Leave her be, Cletus, you idiot,” replied Susie. “We gotta go.”

  “I ain’t a idjit. I was jist askin’.”

  “And I said hurry up!” The woman’s face reddened. “And I ain’t saying it again.”

  Cletus grumbled and a moment later, Billie’s carpet bag flew out of the back of the wagon, followed by a few blankets and a box of supplies. The African man appeared from the front of the wagon in the company of a long-mustached Mexican who led their horse. The pair were carrying the two Agents’ rifles, confirming Billie’s fears. The African held up his newly acquired rifle and Susie acknowledged him with a quick smile and a nod. She was their boss.

  There are at least four of them.

  Cletus jumped out of the wagon, landing beside Billie. “The boy’s momma is cold but she’s breathin’ and I ain’t fussy.” He seized Billie’s shirt collar and shook her, knocking her hat off in the process. After a few seconds of shaking her, he laughed and shoved her forward into the dirt.

  “Leave the boy be,” said Susie, grabbing Cletus’s arm and staring him down. “We’re going. Now.”