Dust Devils

by Janz, Jonathan

  Cody shivered, pushed to his feet as if to outrun the thought. He shuffled over to the door in the corner, which he assumed led to the doctor’s office, or perhaps even to his residence. Without knocking, he opened the door, stepped through and nearly stumbled over the doctor, who sat reading in a red brocade armchair. Cody’s vision swam as a wave of lightheadedness rolled through him. He steadied himself by placing a hand on the back of the doctor’s chair.

  When the room clarified again, he saw the old man looking up at him, not unkindly. “I thought I might be sick,” Cody explained.

  “The boy still asleep?”

  Cody nodded. “I was wondering if there was food somewhere around here.”

  “I don’t typically take lunch until eleven,” the doctor said, “but Marguerite might be open by now. Usually is by this time of morning. I tethered your mare out front, by the way.”

  Cody nodded, tried to make out the title of the book the man was reading, but the words at the top of the page were too small, Cody’s eyes too bleary.

  “You need help?” the doctor asked.

  Cody shook his head. “I can make it.”

  But the doctor accompanied him anyway, one firm hand on the middle of Cody’s back. Together, they made their way back to the table on which Willet lay. The boy’s skin was still very pale, but somehow he looked cleaner, as if sleep or the fresh light of morning had washed the trail grime away. And though the frail little body was moveless under the heavy brown blanket, the forehead was unlined, the breathing deep and regular.

  “Is the sheriff in yet?” Cody asked.

  The doctor chuckled without mirth. “Bittner? Not likely.”

  “When can I talk to him?”

  “I’d be surprised if you see him before noon. He tends to linger at Marguerite’s most nights and makes up for it by sleeping in.”

  Cody nodded. Based on prior experience, he estimated that Price and his men wouldn’t arrive in Mesquite until after sundown. Either way, he would have plenty of time to grab a bite to eat, talk to the sheriff and get back to Willet by one. That was six or seven hours until sunset.

  Cody eyed Willet’s bandaged wound uneasily. Six or seven hours of cushion should have been enough to reassure him, but still he hesitated.

  What if they come while you’re across the street?

  Cody bit his lower lip. He had no answer to that.

  You really willing to risk it? For a sandwich and a beer?

  Then another voice sounded in his mind, one far less scathing, less remonstrating. You won’t do Willet a bit of good in your current state. Get some food and get back here. Then you’ll have all day to figure out just what the hell you’ll do when they arrive.

  That sounded better. More reasonable.

  He straightened, brushed a bit of hair off of Willet’s closed eyelids. An hour, he told himself. Two at most. I’ll be back well before noon. Then I’ll figure out what to do.

  And in answer the cynical voice whispered, You better figure it out. If you don’t, Adam Price is going to kill you both for what you did.

  But Cody didn’t want to think about that. Quickly, he went out.

  Chapter Ten

  Marguerite’s saloon was darker than he expected, but the place had class. To the left of where he stood in the foyer, there were several fancy-looking billiard tables tucked into a windowless side room. Straight ahead and to his right, there were multiple dining tables, which gleamed as though newly polished; the chairs were all pushed in neatly, and they too shone with a sleek burgundy glaze. Beyond the tables there was one of the nicest theater stages Cody had ever seen. It made the Crooked Tree look like the stage in some kid’s puppet show. This one was broad, tall, and had a vast red curtain that looked like it might be real velvet. Moving deeper into the foyer for a better look, Cody glanced up and spotted what appeared to be the bottom edge of a catwalk that hung suspended above the stage. He knew nothing about how proper stages worked, but he guessed it had something to do with the lights. In Albuquerque he and his dad once saw a person fly above a stage using some kind of wire and pulley system.

  On the left side of the large room, Cody spied a woman behind the bar. She had her back to him, her tanned shoulders half-exposed by the white ruffled blouse she wore. The bar hid most of her lower half, but above the burnished wood Cody could just make out a swath of light blue fabric. Moving closer, he saw it was a skirt, some Mexican-looking thing. It hugged her hips, showed off her shapely rear end to considerable effect.

  Cody caught himself staring, but it was too late. The woman had been watching him in the bar mirror all the time. He felt like turning and leaving, but he’d seen no other establishment that looked remotely like it served food. He just hoped she wouldn’t spit in his drink for being so disrespectful.

  She turned and smiled at him as he took a seat at the bar. If she was mad at being ogled, she didn’t let on. Her dimpled cheeks were really quite lovely, her dark eyes large and long-lashed. A beautiful face, a warm, inviting body.

  Somehow, the sight of her made Cody miserable.

  She seemed to pick up on this. “Rough night?” she asked. Her voice was low, mellifluous.

  He grunted, tried to muster a grin, but it hurt too much. He reached into his pants pocket to see what money he had left. As he did, she wetted a small towel, placed it on the bar before him.

  He stared at it stupidly a moment before surmising its purpose. Then, giving her a grateful smile—this time it didn’t hurt so badly—he used it to swab his face, the back of his neck. Christ, it felt good.

  “How far did you ride?” she asked.

  He realized with some alarm that she was as tall as he was. It made him glad he was sitting down.

  “Yesterday evening I was in Las Cruces.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “That far?”

  “We rode all night,” he said.

  He exhumed three coins from his hip pocket. It was enough for food and a drink, but then what? It all comes back to money, he reflected. Had he been able to support Angela the way she’d wanted, she maybe wouldn’t have strayed. If he used up what little he had now, he’d never be able to pay the doctor, or for that matter buy food for Willet.

  He stared sourly at the coins in his palm, as if the act of looking at them would make them multiply. “You know of a place where I can trade some things?”

  “Connors a couple doors down does that, but he doesn’t give fair value.”

  “You do any trading?”

  Something guarded came into her face, and Cody knew she’d mistaken his meaning. He considered explaining himself but found he was simply too exhausted. By way of apology, he asked, “How much for some bacon?”

  “What to drink?”

  “I don’t have enough—”

  “You need whiskey?” she asked, and though it reminded him of the night Angela had betrayed him, he found he’d never wanted a whiskey more in his life.

  He scratched the stubble on his cheek. “Can I wash dishes or something? I really need to save—”

  “The dishes are clean,” she said, drawing herself higher.

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “Bacon, cornbread and a whiskey,” she said. “You want water too?”

  “Yeah, I want it, but—”

  She took the white towel, dipped the clean end in the water basin and returned it to him.

  He accepted the towel, said, “Look, it’s nice of you—”

  “Wash your ears,” she said, moving toward a door. “There’s dirt in them.”

  Cody watched after her, then did as he was bidden.

  The sandwiches were juicy and delicious. Cody devoured the first one with ravenous greed, then took his time with the second, savoring the good meat, the salt in the bread, even the metallic kiss of Marguerite’s grill. She stood a fair distance off as he ate, glancing over at him from time to time, perhaps to see if he was enjoying her cooking. He complimented her once but was too deep in rapture to bother to do so again. If
she was offended by this, she didn’t show it. Her full, unpainted lips never smiled while he ate, but her eyes did, a wry humor that communicated itself to him in an arched eyebrow or the occasional shake of the head. Alone with Marguerite in the bar, he experienced a weird sensation. It wasn’t sexual desire precisely, though he found the dark-skinned girl extremely attractive. She didn’t seem much older than he was, yet something about her comforted him, made it unnecessary to throw glances into the mirror to make certain the devils weren’t coming through the door.

  What if they don’t cast reflections?

  Cody paused in midbite. Now where the hell had that notion come from? In a moment, he had it: the play. Of course it was the play. He’d only heard the word vampire in books up until a few nights ago, but after watching the play he knew several more facts about vampires than he had previously. They didn’t cast an image, and they didn’t like crosses. They could only be killed by a stake through the heart. That’s how Horton’s character triumphed over Price and the Seneslav twins in the final scene. Perhaps Cody could get ahold of a similar spear and treat them the way Horton had treated them in The Return of the Maiden Carmilla.

  The hell are you talking about? a truculent voice demanded. You really wanna get that close to those bastards? Have you forgotten how strong they are, how easily they can kill a man? Almost like…almost like…

  Strike that out of your head, another voice snapped, and Cody was dismayed and gladdened to hear his father’s sandpapery growl, the voice itself gruff and dry but the emotion it conveyed nearly always girded by real regard.

  I’m sorry, Dad, Cody thought. I was just thinking—

  Enough of that, the gravelly voice cut in. You need to think about the here and now, not the spooky stories your imagination conjures. Price and his men are tough, vicious and amoral, but they aren’t characters in a penny dreadful. Now quit cowering and think, boy.

  His dad was right, of course. There were no vampires, were no bloodthirsty creatures who—

  Who said that? his dad’s voice interrupted. Listen, dammit, I’m not saying anything about what they are or what they aren’t. I just want you to think rationally.

  Cody glanced over at Marguerite, who was pretending to polish the gleaming bar top, but was likely waiting for him to speak.

  Like a rancher listening for thunder in the distance, Cody stared down at his plate and strained to hear his father’s voice.

  What do we know about them? Jack Wilson asked.

  In his youth a question such as this would have annoyed the hell out of Cody, who always felt like his dad was wasting their time by turning everything into a riddle that needed to be solved. But since moving away from his father’s house, Cody had come to realize that what his dad had really been doing was teaching him how to think, how to solve problems on his own. If his father’s way of preparing him had been tedious and a mite condescending, it was a hell of a lot better than no preparation at all.

  Think, Cody!

  All right, all right, he told the voice. I’ll think.

  Cody sipped at his water, laid out what he knew.

  There were two, maybe three of them still alive. He hadn’t seen Penders die, but no one, not even a man as brawny as Penders, could have survived such a fall.

  Always plan for the worst, boy. The best will always be a pleasant surprise when it comes, but planning for it is a fool’s move.

  Three then. Three men against one of him. The odds would’ve been bad enough had Price and the others been normal men. He couldn’t believe they were vampires, but they sure as hell weren’t normal either. Cody’s gaze drifted along the shelves below the bar-length mirror, taking in the many dark bottles, a few painted figurines, a brightly colored vase stuffed with miniature blue flowers—the same kind, he now realized, he’d tumbled into during his fight with the Seneslav twin. He recalled the guy’s wiry strength, the chest that reminded him of a diagram of the muscle system stripped of skin. He thought of the way Seneslav had recoiled at the sight of Cody’s drawn fist, as if for one fleeting moment the man had forgotten who was physically superior. Seneslav’s eyes, glassy and black in the gloom, fixing on Cody’s fist…something just beyond it…

  Stay sharp, boy.

  I’m staying sharp, dammit, Cody thought. At any rate, they’re strong as hell, and they’ll kill without batting an eyelash. They eat people. They drink their blood first and then they cook them over a campfire until the sweet, bitter smoke settles into your nostrils and makes you wish you were dead already too, because what kind of a world is it that lets a kid like Willet Black witness the killing and roasting of his entire family?

  You’ve got a gun, Cody.

  He exhaled shuddering breath. Yeah, he thought. I’ve got Willet’s gun.

  You need more ammunition. See if this woman will help you with that.

  Cody’s mouth spread in a rueful grin. She’ll probably castrate me when she finds out I don’t have enough money to pay for all this food.

  She’s not that kind and you know it.

  He closed his eyes. He supposed he did know it.

  Ammunition, food for Willet. What else do you need?

  How about a miracle? Cody thought.

  Make your own luck, kid. God gave you a brain, didn’t he? Use it and stop making excuses for yourself.

  I’m not—

  The hell you’re not! his dad thundered. Angela left you because she wasn’t made for marriage to begin with, and even if I was wrong to inform you of that the way I did, I told you the truth, didn’t I?

  Yes, Cody thought. You told me several times.

  What’s done is done. She chose to leave, and she got herself killed for it. It wasn’t your fault, so don’t give up now because you think you’re cursed.

  Cody clenched his fists. Who’s giving up?

  That’s more like it. You got a boy to protect and a whole lotta people to avenge. They’ve murdered seven in three days. How many others you think they’ve killed?

  Hundreds.

  But you killed Horton, didn’t you?

  Yes.

  And Seneslav.

  And Seneslav.

  Maybe even Penders, his dad said.

  God, I hope so.

  And that means you can get the others too if you play it right. Now finish your damned sandwich and ask this pretty Mexican girl for some help. You can pay her back when it’s all done.

  What about the doctor?

  What about him? You think he’s gonna throw the boy out in the street before he’s well? C’mon, Cody, think a little. Not everybody in the world’s bad. There are more good ones than Adam Prices.

  Then why do the Adam Prices win?

  They won’t if you get your head out of your ass.

  “You okay?”

  He glanced up sharply and saw Marguerite leaning across the bar. He could see a good deal of cleavage bunched within the frilly white dress, but rather than inciting lust, it made him feel tired and happy. He wanted to press his face into those breasts and inhale the scent of her dark skin. It wouldn’t be long before he could fall asleep that way, and Cody couldn’t imagine a nicer place to be.

  She said, “Are you going to tell me what happened to your leg?”

  Cody realized he’d been staring, but when he met Marguerite’s gaze he saw neither rage nor humor. If anything, the woman looked slightly bored. He was a man, her expression seemed to say, and men were entranced by breasts.

  “My leg’s fine,” Cody said.

  “You always limp that way, I suppose.”

  “I hurt it riding.”

  “You’ve been to Dr. Jackson.”

  He frowned, was about to ask her how she knew that, but decided it didn’t matter.

  She nodded toward the window. “I saw you and the boy come in.”

  “You were up early.”

  A small shrug. “I don’t sleep a lot. Since my father died I run this place alone. There isn’t time for sleeping.”

  “You aren’t mar
ried?”

  She stared appraisingly at him, her eyes perhaps searching his for signs of irony or salaciousness. Apparently finding neither, she said, “I was married once.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Were you ever married?”

  Cody’s stomach coiled, his innards suddenly aquiver with shame.

  “You were,” she said.

  Cody set the last of his bacon on the plate.

  “What happened to her?” she asked.

  He blew out a trembling breath, folded his hands on the bar. “She left me.”

  “Sad.”

  “I suppose so.”

  He was sure she’d ask for money then, but she surprised him by patting the back of his hand. He looked up at her, noticed one of the little blue flowers tucked above her ear. His glance shifted to her eyes, which remained fixed on his a long moment.

  “Let’s sit together,” she said. “I want to hear more about your wife.”

  They sat at a table not far from the bar, and though the light was dimmer here away from the bar mirror’s reflecting gleam, Cody found himself better able to relax sitting across a table from Marguerite. Here it didn’t feel so much like business owner and patron. More like a man passing the time with a nice woman.

  “What happened to your husband?” Cody asked.

  Marguerite didn’t answer for a goodly while, only gazed down at glass of water on the table before her. When she spoke, her voice was toneless, nothing like her ordinarily playful lilt. “Slim was a deceiver. He married me so he could steal my father’s business. When my father died, Slim ceased his gentlemanly treatment. He struck me and bedded other women.”

  Cody let that sink in a moment. He asked, “What did Bittner do about it?”

  “He deputized him.”

  “Come again?”

  “Slim Keeley is one of Bittner’s deputies. The other two, Boom Catterson and John Ebright, are no better than my ex-husband.”