The drifter-demon turned to face Holliday, who was now armed with his walking stick sword. Without hesitation, Holliday attacked the demon, slashing at its hideous face with the blade and spraying black blood into the air.
An improvement!
The demon bellowed and charged, but Holliday was not to be caught flat-footed this time. He sidestepped the enraged demon and narrowly missed being plowed into the ground by a hair’s thickness. The drifter-demon spun, faster than any living creature had the right to, and sped toward the gambler. Holliday dodged the demon again—slashing his sword at its exposed back as it thundered past. It howled in pain and frustration.
“That’s good ol’ southern steel, demon,” Holliday taunted. “How do you like its bite?”
“I’ll let you know after I pick your flesh from my teeth with it!” replied the demon, baring its fangs in a savage sneer.
“Bring it!” challenged Holliday, raising his blade.
The demon weighed up the puny man wielding the blade. How could this little mortal wound it twice?
Holliday couldn’t resist and winked at the infuriated demon.
Come on!
The demon roared and charged Holliday. At the last moment Holliday leapt into the air, clearing the demon’s head as the creature’s momentum drove it forward. As the gambler landed behind his foe, his blade lashed out and again drew blood. This time the sword opened a jagged rent in the back of the monster’s thigh.
The drifter-demon came to stop several yards away and placed a clawed hand over his leg wound. It glared in disbelief at Holliday, who stood several yards away with its black blood dripping from his blade.
The demon howled in frustration and sprinted into the darkness beyond the burning buildings, vanishing from sight.
The hell hound stood up from its hapless victim and locked eyes with Pat. Blood-colored saliva dripped from its powerful jaw as it snarled, bearing long wolf-like teeth. Orange flames danced across its dark-furred back and rippling shoulder muscles as the massive hound stepped over its victim toward its new prey. A deep, guttural growl issued from its long throat, it sounded like it bubbled up from hell itself, causing the hairs on Pat’s neck to stand up.
Suddenly, the massive creature sprung into the air like a hungry cat onto an ill-fated mouse. Pat felt the heat from its fiery body as she managed rolled out of its path. As quick as she could, Pat sprang to her feet and staggered away from the beast, but a bestial roar froze her to the spot.
Move! she ordered, but her feet refused to obey.
A woman screamed nearby—a mournful sound of pure terror that penetrated Pat’s brain, shattering her paralysis. The young marshal spun around just as the hell hound charged her. The beast covered the distance between them in less than a heartbeat—far too quick for her to draw her Peacemaker.
The hound’s broad head barreled into her chest and lifted her off her feet, sending her sailing through the air to land near the burning store. Beneath her shirt, it felt like her flesh was scorched, but the pain reminded her that at least she was still alive. For now.
Unchallenged, the hell hound strutted forward and stood over Pat, its next meal. She was in no position to fight off her attacker so she raised a hand in a feeble last defense, feeling the heat radiating off the beast’s body.
Please, no…
Splash!
Water hit the hound, instantly steaming off. The water doused some of the fire flickering along its back, but a moment later the flames returned. The hell hound snarled, but not in pain, in annoyance. Turning its massive head, it glared at the people who dared to attack it with mere water.
The bucket brigade froze in fear.
The hell hound roared and the townsfolk’s resolution dissolved even further. Buckets hit the ground as people scrambled to flee from the fiery monster that stood defiantly before them. Many cried out in anguish, and some, not able to cope with what they were witnessing, cowered in the dust like beaten dogs.
This was all the distraction Pat needed. She pulled her revolver and whistled.
The hell hound halted its advance on the townsfolk and looked back at her with its head angled to one side. It had forgotten her.
“Hey, Fido!” said Pat, squeezing here trigger.
The gun bucked in her hand. She never needed to aim her shots, they always hit where she wanted them to go. The bullet smashed into the hell hound’s eye, splashing blood and flaming liquor onto the ground. She palm-slapped the gun’s hammer and sent another slug screaming after the first one. This second iron bullet penetrated deep into the beast’s other eye, blowing out the back of its skull.
The hell hound went rigid as a board and rocked unsteadily on its oversized paws.
Die already.
Gradually, the flames over the hell hound’s body started to extinguish and then suddenly, blinked out. Seconds later, the beast collapsed into a heap of smoldering flesh and fur—filling the air with an unpleasant scent of burnt hair, all this mingled with the smoke and flying ash from the surrounding buildings.
Aiming her Peacemaker at the hell hound’s remains, Pat was convinced it would spring back to its feet at any moment. After several long seconds, it hadn’t moved and she slowly lowered her firearm, relieved it was dead.
The townsfolk were motionless, too numb with fear to move. The fires had taken much from them tonight and no doubt they had seen things they weren’t likely to forget any time soon. The burning buildings crackled and popped, but no one spoke. They just stared at the demon hound’s body.
Pat looked around and made eye contact with a young soot-covered girl, no more than eight years old. The girl’s expression was vacant, she was in shock and stared unblinking at Pat. She reminded Pat of young Eddie Stein, the boy who had been kidnapped and taken down a demons’ warren and somehow, had survived the ordeal. He had the same haunted eyes.
Pat looked away from the girl and reloaded her revolver as was her habit, before returning it to its holster. She knew she couldn’t help the girl or the others scarred by this event.
The town continued burning around Pat, casting flickering light along the street. Through the smoke she noticed Doc Holliday not far away. He knelt beside a person lying prone in the shadows.
It’s Roberts!
Leaving the townsfolk to fight the fires, Pat ran down the street and knelt beside Holliday as he tended to the old marshal.
“How is he?” she blurted.
Roberts was propped up on one elbow and looked like he had been dragged behind a horse for several few miles. He had abrasions on one cheek and his lips were split and bleeding.
“Don’t stress, Garrett, it’s just a scratch,” Roberts muttered. “I’m not dead yet.”
“It’s true, Miss Garrett. Against the odds, the old buzzard still lives.”
What’s happened to Doc?
Holliday’s face looked…different. He notice Pat’s attention and turned away. Rising, he walked across the street and retrieved his belongings. When he returned, he was wearing his glasses and revolvers and he looked like his old self again. Whatever she saw a moment before was now gone.
A trick of the light?
“We must follow that damn demon,” said Holliday, looking off into the darkness. “He might lead us to Kate.”
“Yeah, he might,” grunted Roberts. “Stop your fussing, Garrett, and help me up.”
Pat and Holliday assisted the old marshal to his feet. He was unsteady for a moment, but he stood unaided. Roberts was dusty and disheveled and by some miracle, no bones appeared to be broken.
“Now,” said Roberts. “Let’s get some horses and follow that demon’s blood trail.”
Chapter 14
Doc Holliday and Pat Garrett sat astride their horses, waiting for Roberts to determine which way the drifter-demon was heading. He searched the dry earth and sparse vegetation for signs of the demon’s hurried passage.
It was a dark moonless night out in this open country, the stars adding little assistance t
o Pat’s constant surveillance of the dark, unfriendly landscape. She couldn’t shake the feeling they were being watched and resting her hand near her Colt Peacemaker gave her some comfort.
Holliday, on the other hand, didn’t appear too concerned and sat on his horse humming quietly to himself. He was unreadable behind his ever-present dark glasses. How he could see in the dark wearing them was a mystery to her.
They had now followed the demon’s blood trail for several miles from town. It was heading in an easterly direction. The demon was moving swiftly across the land, despite his injuries. He traveled with purpose and was possibly unaware of their pursuit.
Roberts led his horse a few more yards and stopped again to examine the broken ground for blood. The old marshal hadn’t said anything for a while, but Pat could tell he was getting annoyed. There hadn’t been any sign of the demon for some time.
“He moves faster than the wind,” said Roberts.
“Fear is a great motivator,” replied Holliday, twirling his cane. “Especially the fear of good steel getting shoved up one’s arse.”
Roberts ignored the gambler. He placed a boot into a stirrup and mounted his horse. “The demon’s wound has stopped bleeding. It’s getting harder to follow his trail across this rocky terrain. I say we ride due east, unless anyone has another suggestion.”
“You’re the one with the cat eyes, Marshal,” replied Holliday. “We’ll follow your lead.”
They rode on in silence for several hundred yards, gradually climbing a gentle rise to the top of a flat-topped hill. At its peak, they gazed down on a dark, featureless land stretching away into the distant gloom.
“There.” Roberts pointed to their right.
There was a small, distant light, no more than a dot amongst a sea of blackness.
Demons? was what Pat wanted to ask, but instead asked if it was a campfire.
“Nope. It ain’t a campfire, there’s no smoke. More than likely it’s an oil lamp.”
Smoke? Pat thought. How can he tell? That has to be more than a mile away.
“Is it worth investigating?” asked Holliday. “I’m running out of night.”
Roberts kept his focus on the distant light. “It’s not far off our path. And maybe the demon was drawn to it.”
“Let’s do it then. I’m starting to fear we won’t catch that damn demon before sun up anyway. I can already feel a familiar stiffness returning to my limbs.”
I fear we’ll need this Doc Holliday, more than the one he will be after sunrise.
Without further discussion, they followed Roberts as he picked out a winding trail down a steep embankment and on to the flatter land below. The countryside was rough and covered in loose shale and occasionally dotted with thorny shrubs which Roberts called Greythorn. It must have been a hardy plant as the ground was dry and baked rock hard.
A short time later, they reined in, stopping a hundred yards out from the light source. The light shone out of a window in a square, squat building with a low, sloped roof. The front door was closed and nothing about the structure looked out of place.
“A farm?” said Pat. “Out here?”
“Looks that way,” Roberts replied. “There’s a barn or another shack behind this house.” The second building was visible to Roberts, but not so for Pat and Holliday. They saw nothing beyond this small dwelling.
They encouraged their horses forward, cautiously moving toward the farmhouse, spreading out as they rode. Roberts traveled in the center, flanked by the other two twenty yards apart.
I don’t like this, thought Pat and she drew her revolver.
Pat knew she wasn’t fast on the draw, but she was confident she could hit a target at a hundred yards with her Peacemaker—although, shooting at night without sufficient lighting would add an extra layer of complexity to the shot. Luck, she called her skill with a gun. Roberts called it a gift. What he really meant to say was it was her mutation. Like her ability to open locks. To normals, the three of them were mutants and tainted by the devil. People always blamed whatever they feared or hated instead of looking at the facts. Better to blame the devil, monsters or their neighbors, than the real cause of their woes.
Twenty yards out, Roberts stopped as did his two companions. The term farmhouse was a grand name for the shack that stood in front of them. The building was constructed with mismatched wooden boards—where no two planks were cut or nailed straight. No doubt in daylight it would look even worse.
“If this is a farmhouse then a plank on the ground is a palace,” muttered Holliday.
The old marshal leaned forward in his saddle, resting a forearm on his saddle horn. His face was unreadable and his body rigid as he surveyed the surrounding land.
He’s suspicious of something.
“I don’t like it,” the old marshal finally said.
That makes two of us.
“I smell…trouble.”
Roberts threw his leg over the saddle and slid to the ground. Pat and Holliday followed his lead and dismounted. Roberts moved to the farmhouse door and drew his cavalry saber. Holliday unsheathed his sword and looked across at Pat and winked. Despite herself, she smiled. There was something likeable about this brash man, something she couldn’t put her finger on.
Without knocking, Roberts threw open the door and entered the house, sword first. Pat and Holliday followed him inside. The interior of the house was just as inspiring as the outside, and emphasized the fact it was constructed by someone with little or no building skills or knowledge.
The house looked smaller on the inside and was only a single room. A wood burning stove, a small table and four chairs stood on one side of the room and two beds were lined up along the opposite wall. There were three windows and only one door, the one they entered through. Above the table, a lamp hung on a nail driven into a roof beam. A gentle breeze blew through an open window and rocked the lamp.
There was no sign of any occupants.
Where is everyone at this time of night?
Pat moved further into the room, stooping so as not to hit her head on the low ceiling beams. Her two male companions didn’t have the same problem.
Roberts sheathed his saber. “They left in a hurry.” He indicated four unfinished meals on the table and then stuck his finger into one. “Cold.”
“Maybe the demon paid a visit,” Holliday said, sheathing his thin-bladed sword.
“They could be hiding outside somewhere,” said Pat.
Both men looked at her.
They’re right. These poor farmers are dead.
The items lying around the room indicated the farmers were poor. They didn’t have much and what they had looked worn or old. Pat wandered to a bed and picked up a dirty rag doll with two different color buttons for eyes.
Damn it! There was a child here.
She glanced across to the table and the four discarded meals.
Maybe two.
“Garrett, the farmers knew what they were getting in to when they came out here,” said Roberts.
Yeah, but their children didn’t have a choice.
“Let’s go. There’s only an hour or two of night left.”
Holliday extinguished the lamp and they left the shack in silence.
Holliday and Pat mounted their horses while Roberts checked the ground around the house for the demon’s trail.
“No demon track, but the farmers headed…out toward the barn.”
“Maybe they’re still alive,” blurted Pat.
She hopes for too much, thought Holliday and said as much.
“Well,” replied Pat. “They might be.”
The old marshal left his horse tethered and drawing his saber, snuck toward the dark barn. Holliday and Pat dismounted and followed several yards behind him.
Holliday was impressed by the barn’s construction. “I’m impressed it is still standing,” he said.
It had been nailed together by the same person who built the farmhouse. In places, the wall planks had gaps big enough t
o poke your head through and the whole structure leaned precariously to the left.
A modern masterpiece, Holliday thought. If a storm ever went through this land, this barn would be the first thing to blow away. Followed by the house.
Something moved inside the barn and in a flash, Holliday’s thin sword was in his hand. Roberts froze, waiting to see what happened next. Whatever was inside vanished deeper into the barn’s shadows.
“Did you see it?” Holliday whispered.
“Yeah, but not what it was.” After several tense seconds, the old marshal indicated for Pat to open the barn door.
A rusty chain was wrapped around the double doors and secured with an ancient-looking padlock. Pat grasped the old lock and concentrated, after only a few seconds it popped open with a faint click. The door squeaked on dry hinges as she pulled it open. She stepped back from the dark opening and drew her Peacemaker.
“Show yourself, demon!” Roberts hollered, breaking the silence.
He’s lost the plot, thought Holliday.
The barn remained quiet.
The old marshal got Holliday’s attention, then after a three count he ran into the barn, closely followed by the gambler. A moment later, a dark shape shot out a gap in the timber boards like a startled rabbit and sprinted out into the night.
“Garrett, around the back,” yelled Roberts from inside.
Pat rounded the barn’s corner to see a small figure running away from the barn. She raised her revolver and took aim. The target was small and was disappearing into the darkness—it was an easy shot for her, but she hesitated. Something felt wrong.
“Shoot, Garrett!” Roberts ordered.
But Pat lowered her gun and watched the shape disappear in the gloom. Roberts ran up to Pat and fired his revolver at the darkness. It sounded like a cannon in the still night air.
Doc Holliday_The Sky Fire Chronicles Page 10
