In the lamplight Emmett now saw that the vagrant's body was indeed gone, presumably fallen into the gate that had been opened, or perhaps burned away into nothingness after he served as the key. Whatever the case, Emmett was glad to see the body gone. One less thing he would have to clean up or explain away. One less terrible image to haunt his dreams.
The magic circle was outlined with black, green, and umber shavings of steel and copper that had burned and oxidized during the ceremony. In the center of the circle was a pile of gold—coins the size of Spanish doubloons. The coins were mixed among gold and silver rings with mysterious characters inscribed upon them. Emmett tried to estimate the worth of what he was seeing, finally settling upon the simple answer. He had just become very, very wealthy.
He wasted no time getting to work cleaning up the metal shavings, effectively dismantling his summoning circle, and weighing his newfound riches on the scale that his father used for rationing out black powder. He worked in dim light, hoping not to draw any undue attention. The gunshot that had ended a life and opened the gate to Hell had not been quiet though. It had awoken several neighbors. The one who had thought enough of it and cared enough to check up on it was, as luck would have it, the man whom Emmett wanted to see the least under current circumstances.
A knock came from the front door, causing Emmett to jump and spill a gold coin to the floor. To his relief the soft metal produced only a dull thud upon impact with the wooden floor. He had been expecting some loud clang, as if the gold were cursed and bent on securing him into hands of the law.
"We're closed," Emmett shouted as he shuffled the dwarven riches underneath the counter.
"Emmett, it's Sheriff Silver. Can I come in?"
"Oh. Uhmm, yeah, of course." Emmett tried to keep a calmness to his voice. He was sure he was failing in that regard.
"Just gimme a second to unlock the door."
A quick glance around revealed nothing that might implicate him in the crimes that he had just committed. No body on the floor, nor pools of blood. No arcane symbols to make anyone think of witchcraft. No stray gold to raise suspicions.
Emmett unlocked and opened the front door to the shop. He met Sheriff Silver, who was perhaps a full foot shorter than Emmett, with a curious glance.
"Evening, Sheriff," Emmett said, more as a question than a statement.
"Everything all right, Emmett?"
Emmett swallowed hard before replying. "Yeah. Absolutely, sir."
Silver eyed the young man suspiciously and spoke "Heard the crack of gunfire. Woke my ass outta dead sleep. Sounded like it came from here."
Fear overcame Emmett, deeper than the terror evoked by Nibelung's ghastly visage. It was that childish fear of getting in trouble. Somehow this mortal man, whom Emmett outweighed and outmuscled, was putting a mighty fear into him more intense than a literal monster had done moments before. In many ways Emmett was immature for his age which served to his advantage when mentally processing the inhuman powers that he now courted. This immaturity lent a stronger belief in the perceived authority of adults though, particularly adults with badges. A man like Silver could still hold a strong sway over him.
"I'm mighty sorry about the noise. Was making some cartridge rounds and must have put too much powder in one."
Emmett watched Silver's face, trying to read whether he was buying it. If the man knew the first thing about making ammunition then his story was blown. Silver seemed blank and expressionless. Emmett couldn't read him worth a damn.
"Lucky I didn't lose a hand," Emmett followed up after an uncomfortable moment of silence.
"Strange hours to be making ammo."
"Yeah," Emmett replied. "Couldn't sleep though, and figured it'd be smart to build some surplus. Been selling more bullets since they found Mackum's body."
Emmett immediately cursed himself for bringing up the dead farmer. Silver was going to figure it all out, just like some hotshot penny dreadful detective.
"Folks are nervous. Guns and ammo are a good medicine for nervousness," Emmett said, following up his last thought.
"Hmmm," Silver replied as he slipped into the shop, right past Emmett's massive form. The lawman was scanning the area, his eyes running across the counter, the display cases, the walls, and floors. Emmett hoped that if he'd missed some tiny bit of evidence that it would stay hidden by the shifting shadows produced by the oil lamp's unsteady flame.
The sheriff stopped, right in the middle of where the circle had been, and reached a hand into his shirt pocket. Emmett's heart raced a thousand beats per minute. He knew Silver was a Jew, and according to some folks, the sons of Israel had magic of their own, just as dark as Emmett's. What if Silver could sense the residual energy of Nibelung's summoning? What if God, being an admittedly envious lord, had keyed Silver in about Emmett's dealings with the gods of the pit?
All that Silver produced from his pocket was a cigarette case. He pulled out a smoke and placed the tin case back into his shirt pocket.
Emmett's fear eased a bit.
"Well you be careful, and let's save any potentially explosive work for the morning. You hear?"
Emmett nodded, dry-mouthed.
The lawman pointed his unlit cigarette in the massive teenager's direction and smiled.
"I don't want you waking me up again," Silver's tone was friendly enough, but Emmett felt that the friendliness was insincere.
The sheriff pulled his hand back toward his mouth and fumbled his cigarette. The paper-wrapped tobacco tumbled end over end, landing on the wood floor that had been displaced by the cold winds of Hell not long ago.
"See that, boy? You got me so tired I can't even keep a grip on my tobacco." Silver's tone was friendly once again abut insincerity still crept out from beneath that gregarious tone.
Bending at the knees, his eyes staying on Emmett the whole time, Silver reached down and grabbed his cigarette, this time holding it between his thumb and forefinger, so that it faced into his palm.
"You get some sleep, kid," Silver said, extending his hand out in Emmett's direction.
Emmett took the lawman's delicate hand, a shootist's hand, in his own massive bear paw. They shook and Emmett let the sheriff out through the front door. Once Silver was gone Emmett threw the lock and fell on his ass against the door.
His heartbeat slowed and he took in deep breaths. Silver was gone and he was none the wiser. Emmett had gotten away with murder for the second time and now he had everything he needed. His mother was healthy and he was wealthy. A wide smile crossed Emmett's face and he began to laugh in relief.
There were things of course that Emmett didn't know—things that would have crushed that sense of relief. He didn't realize that Silver, being a perceptive bastard, had spied the dark red gunk between the shop's floorboards, something Emmett himself had missed in the dim light of the oil lamp. Nor was the young man aware that the Sheriff had dropped his cigarette on purpose, in order to soak a sample of that same red gunk into the paper. He certainly had no idea that Silver already suspected him in Mackum’s death and had a gut suspicion that the crimson between the boards was gore.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Many a story and poem evoke the beauty of the western sky at night. The old man had grown to distrust the stars though. Where others saw beacons in a sea of darkness, he gleaned the fires of an advancing army. What men of faith called the heavens, the old man called Utgard—that which lies outside.
The earthly place in that he and Hank now walked through mirrored the sky in some ways. Like the malevolent stars above, it was a living and wicked thing, defying the wasteland that surrounded it. Tanner's grove, so named for the single tree jutting forth out of the cracked clay, was an "end-of-track town." Dozens like it had popped up and vanished just as fast, following the procession of Union Rail workers. Each in its turn sat at the edge of the world, until the world grew a bit larger.
Today, the edge of the world was three hundred miles west of Omaha.
Three hours ha
d passed since the day had started anew, but Tanner's Grove was wide awake. Tents and shanties of every conceivable purpose littered the wasteland around the rails. An all-in-one house of vice—booze, opium, gambling, whores—occupied a massive and elaborate tent next to a doctor who specialized in venereal diseases. Another large tent lay farther from the tracks with a massive cross posted outside of it as a beacon to repentant sinners. Men of more mundane occupations—blacksmiths, carpenters, bakers—had set up shop as well. All were eager to cash in on the railroad.
The old man wondered how the workers managed to burn the candle at both ends the way that they did. Rail work was hard and dangerous, not the kind of thing to undertake with last night's whiskey still on your breath.
The old man's eyes darted between the house of sin and the house of God. Both were places of passion and power. Both could sway the hearts of men. If the thing called Thurs had set up shop in Tanner's Grove, it would be as a master of either spirit or flesh.
The old man decided to try the makeshift church, only because he'd rather face the beast there. It was clear that less folks were interested in praying than boozing. The old man was holding out hope that if iron had to be drawn, then collateral damage could be limited.
The drunks and whores in the street paid little attention to him, despite his unusual size. One particularly observant rail worker repeatedly shifted his eyes between the old man's Confederate jacket and the dark-skinned boy who travelled with him.
"Stay close," he muttered to Hank, not expecting the Negro orphan to fare well on his own around this rough element. The two had traveled together for months after the incident in the mountains. They'd made it through the Sierra Nevada, crossed the Utah desert, and skirted the Rockies up into Wyoming before meeting up with the railroad in Nebraska. The old man, despite having made a few half-hearted attempts to leave Hank with more respectable folk, had grown quite fond of the boy.
Across the tracks from where they stood the church's giant wooden cross loomed like a symbol of Roman terror, rather than an icon of human hope. Even in the dark, the instrument of Christ's end cast a shadow. The old man had no fear of stepping through the shadow of death, nor of god. Gods were titanic things after all, and one could only slay them from within their eclipse.
Hank, on the other hand, shivered at the image of the cross, recalling the writhing wooden effigy that had served as council to his father's killer. Walking in its shadow, the boy's blood chilled within his veins.
The old man ducked down a bit as he entered the canvas church, then held the flap open for Hank. Inside, it was completely black. No moon, nor hateful stars, nor burning lantern dared penetrate this nomadic holy of holies.
The old man struck a match. Sulfur and fire erupted with a puff of white smoke, forcing back just enough darkness to see a few inches ahead. An educated guess and some feeling around brought the old man to an oil lantern that sat near the entrance of the tent. The flame had nearly consumed his match and was threatening his flesh as he ignited the wick on the lantern.
Now a larger globe of light surrounded the old man and his companion. He picked up the lantern and turned, hearing a rustle of cloth behind them.
"Hello?" The voice sounded hoarse and there was a tiredness to it. Not the kind of tired that comes from an honest day's work, but an exhaustion of the mind. The old man understood this kind of tired. He'd felt that way since the final days of the war, and it had only gotten worse upon returning home.
A middle-aged priest shifted to a sitting position in his cot, which was propped up in front of the altar. He cast a nervous look toward the stranger in his tent.
"Sorry, my son," the priest said with an inkling of fear in his voice. "While sin never sleeps in Tanner's Grove, the servants of the Lord still must."
"I'm looking for something," the old man said in a dry and quiet drawl as he turned to face the priest. "Reckoned it might be in here."
The priest had misunderstood his meaning. He now mistook the old man for a lost lamb, and his initial fear vanished. A practiced expression of welcoming and pity emerged on the priest's face. It was amazing to the old man how quickly and seamlessly this steward of the cross could shift from nervous rabbit to snake oil salesman.
"I reckon you're right. Sit, my son," the priest motioned toward a row of nearby chairs.
Lantern in hand, the old man walked toward the priest. The shifting lantern light caused shadows to dance across his form and left the old man with a wraithlike countenance. Hank followed like the shadow of a ghost.
The old man stayed quiet for a moment. He eyed the priest, spiritually sizing him up. After an awkwardly long silence, the priest cleared his throat and spoke.
"Hope you don't mind me saying, but my, you are a big one. Gotta be tall as Lincoln and twice as wide."
"Suppose that's accurate," the old man said as he sat down.
"I see you fought for Davis," The priest said, gesturing to the old man's jacket. "I can see the hardness of war ingrained in your face. The horror of battle and the sorrow of defeat weigh heavy on your soul. They've aged you beyond your years"
The old man said nothing. He simply watched the holy man's eyes for the flicker of madness that marked union with those beyond.
"That anger and pain, it can come to feel like home. When you think you have nothing left, it's there for you. But that black comfort is the devil's hand, and it will kill you, my son."
The old man kept silent and stared into the priest's eyes for another moment. The man may have prayed to them through the proxy of the cross, but the Devourers had not touched his mind. At least not directly. The old man was satisfied that the priest was no witch.
"The war was…unkind to me. No doubt about that. I watched a lot of good men die. I’m sure I killed quite a few good men myself."
The old man cracked his neck and resumed speaking. "That's all blood under the bridge though. Nowadays I'm just trying to get home. Figuratively, that is."
Thoughts of another time, a better time, left a faraway look in the old man's eyes.
"And your companion?" The priest gestured toward Hank, who was clinging nervously to the old man's coat.
"Boy's an orphan. Just getting him to a safe place."
"The Lord can ease that pain and guide you home, if you let him. That goes for both of you."
"More like if I make him," the old man thought aloud, still daydreaming of days before presidents, armies, witches, and gods had torn his life to shreds.
"Excuse me?" the priest replied, doing little to hide his outrage. "One does not force the Lord to do anything, my son."
The old man snapped out of his reverie, but refused to acknowledge the priest's indignation.
"Don't wanna waste no more of your time, Padre. Looks like you ain't selling what I'm looking for.”
The priest frowned.
"Trust me, that ain't a bad thing," the old man replied to the priest's unspoken disappointment.
The old man tipped his hat, turned, and walked toward the tent's egress with Hank in tow. As his hand pulled back the flap that led to the outside world, the old man stopped for a minute. He turned his head and spoke a question to his host.
"Guessing you been following the hell on wheels for a stretch. Ain't never heard of a thing what calls itself Thurs, have you, Padre? A nightmare parading itself as a man? Big as a mustang with skin like cracked Nevada clay?"
The priest stared at the old man with an expression that merged fear, pity, and surprise. Either the priest thought the old man mad, or he had crossed paths with the creature at one time. The old man took the priest's silent expression as a yes.
"That thing here now?"
The priest opened his mouth to form an answer. Before any sound could escape, the deafening thunder of rifle fire erupted outside. The gun shots were followed by the distinctive war cries of Cheyenne raiders.
The old man closed the distance between himself and the priest. He pulled his host low to the ground to avoid gun fi
re.
"Father, is Thurs in Tanner's grove?"
The priest made the sign of the cross and closed his eyes in fear.
"This is because you mentioned him! Speak of the devil and he shall appear!"
"Those ain't devils, Padre. Just a bunch of pissed off, scared kids. One ain't got nothing to do with the other."
The old man's terse impatience did nothing to calm the quaking priest. "Now tell me, where the hell is Thurs?"
Tears began to stream down the priest's face and a look of madness encroached in his eyes. The old man doubted that speaking the name of his enemy had summoned the Indian raiders. The mention of the dark titan set against the disquieting Cheyenne howls had certainly invoked a fearful lunacy in the priest, however.
With strong arms and short patience, he tried to shake the priest free of terror. The grip of fear held strong against the old man's prodding. It was clear that the priest would be of no further use, at least not until things had calmed down outside.
He could have waited out the raid inside the tent and simply protected the priest. He could have escaped, dragging the man of god with him to safety. Those options would have taken more time though, and the old man had something of a temporal deficit. Though it had been nearly half a year since Thurs had taken his boy, he still saw each second as precious. Every tick of the clock lessened the chances of him saving his son.
Leaving the priest to shake and piss, the old man drew iron and exited the tent. The primitive song of war cries and gunfire had increased in tempo. Screams of fear and howls of pain joined the cacophonous symphony. The old man readied his instrument, the revolver he had smithed himself, and joined the chorus.
The old man was at home amongst the sounds of war. Chaos could instill a shakiness in some men, but the old man’s nerves were steady. He rested his sights on the charging horse beneath the closest brave. The first of six rounds exploded from his gun's muzzle, finding its mark in equine flesh. The native's steed tumbled to the ground, crushing his rider's leg beneath it.
The Devoured Page 9
