“Evnin' Sheriff,” Singh said, walking his horse past the house. Singh was an Indian, an Asian Indian, not one of the local kind. “I have something for you.”
“Singh,” he answered, tipping his hat.
“I be givin’ it to you in the light. It would be a good idea to be stayin' in tonight, I feel.” Singh said as he looked to the lights of the saloon. “The Gods be unhappy.”
Singh believed in hundreds of Gods so knowing which ones he meant was impossible.
“Just do'n my rounds.” Tim walked beside his friend. He seemed to welcome the company. The man’s small house was at the other end of the street, well away from the noise and lights of the saloon. Singh’s children attended the school where Martha taught.
“Things not being right tonight, Sheriff. The air is prickly, I feel power in the stillness.”
“Rain's commin', that's all.”
“No. Not rain, not weather but a storm of another kind. Maybe the Gods are unhappy with Stone Cutting, maybe the Indians were right about Héshokta; maybe the stories of the cliff dwellers are true.” Singh kept checking over his shoulder as they walked; the strong smell of curry spice heavy on his clothes and skin. He seemed to quicken his pace as they grew closer to the saloon and with its lighting. The Broken Garter had imported two, large oil lamps from Paris, France, though about the only real good they did was allow drunken gun players to shoot each other better at night.
“The dark, it has been talking to me,” Singh said, stopping in the brightest patch of light. His breathing slowed as if relieved. He pulled something out of his saddle bag. “They said for me to give you this.” He handed Tim an amulet made in rough silver and studded with turquoise and red stones. “They said you are to give it back. It must be you.”
“Give this to whom?”
“They didn’t say.”
“Who didn’t say?”
“The squaw I saw on the way into town just a few moments ago. She said she was a Sinagua mystic sent to ease the bad blood. She said this is Átahsaia’s.” The little man with his balding head stood in his dirty, white shirt sleeves and dun trousers looking as if someone had placed a curse on him. “She said she could not come into town because of this blood, she was saying only you can… can…” he stopped talking and stared down the street lost in thought. “It’s out there. You have to give it back she said and then she gave me the amulet to give to you.”
“This is one of your ghost stories.” Tim clapped the man on the shoulder. With a well filled grave yard there was also an increase in ghost stories and sightings. He took the bracelet and put it in his trouser pocket, Martha might like it he thought; it could soften her disposition when he returned home. He left Singh standing in the light while he headed up the steps and in through the opened swing doors and into the din of the saloon.
Doc sat at his usual table, bag in the centre and a half bottle of whisky in his hand. Tim wasn't sure what would be worse, getting shot or letting him dig out the bullet. Either way life expectancy wasn’t great. Doc wore fresh clothes, a neat, grey suit and black bow tie, his hair combed back into a pony tail; he usually looked like he'd just fallen out of bed. Must have had house call today, Tim thought, the man even looked sober.
A haze and the smell of cheap beer and even cheaper whisky saturated the air. The grey, blue fog of tobacco smoke clung to the ceiling like a mist. The place felt hot. A fire raged in the hearth and the five girls who worked the barroom had their shoulders bare and sat in the laps of the few men who could afford their services. Tim thought of stamping out prostitution when he was first elected, well, volunteered for the job, but in a town where the women were out-numbered ten to one by the men the service seemed beneficial. The preacher disagreed, but the sheriff was sure he'd seen the man visiting the place on Sundays after the service.
Faber, the big and grizzled ex-miner polished the bar, as all barmen did, must be relaxing, Tim thought as he sauntered up.
“Bit cold out,” Faber said, pouring a shot.
“Didn't notice.” Tim never really noticed the cold until the end of October. Standing at six four and weighing two hundred and fifty pounds made him a little impervious to the early chills, it wasn't until the first snow came that he had to put on a coat.
“See Singh out there in the light, never done that before.” Faber pointed his polishing rag toward the window.
Tim downed the shot, the fire of the spirit biting the back of his throat. “Says the gods are angry.” Faber poured another. “He saw some Indian on his way back through town; spooked him with mystic tales and crazy talk.”
“Indians.”
“They aren’t a threat, they’ve moved on, besides, Singh insists the gods are angry with us for something.”
“But today…”
“Just a brave passing through, he wasn’t even armed with anything more than a knife.” The tribe had its own supply of guns, thanks to unscrupulous traders. “Either way, I think it is angry gods and it might be best if you consider closing up early tonight until they stop being angry.” Tim smiled but Faber didn’t buy into the lightness he made of the tension they all felt.
“Singh might have something there.” Faber leaned over the bar face stern and his voice barely carrying over the clink of the piano. “Old man Johnson came in about four complaining his herd’s gone mad, had to let them loose to stop em' smashing down the fences. He’s been over there nursing some hop juice all evening.”
Tim scanned the saloon. The old man sat by one of the front windows, sipping beer and gazing out into the night.
“Says it ain't safe out, wants me to let him have one of the girl's rooms for the night.” Faber was a kind soul if you offered enough money. Giving away one of the girl's rooms would mean less takings for a Saturday night. There was no way the old man would be allowed to stay, unless he bought a girl for the whole evening. Twenty bucks was a lot of cash and he doubted Johnson would have half that. “I said he could sleep in the barn, but the old man shook his head at that. He’s off his chump I reckon.”
“Thanks,” Tim said, taking the second shot over to sit at the table with Johnson.
Johnson broke his gaze from the window, his face white with fear and eyes red rimmed and tired. He smelled of cow shit and hay. Tim put down his shot, took off his hat and dropped it on the table between them.
“Trouble?” he asked simply.
“Something’s wrong out there,” Johnson said, sounding all of his sixty years.
“Like what?”
“My herd, it's gone loco, never seen nuttin' like it in all my years; even when I was running buffalo with the Indians.”
A loud hoot rang out behind them; someone had won a hand of poker. Tim waited for the breaking of glass and the sound of a table being over turned; it didn't come. So far it was a good game, but he knew things could change with these men after a few more drinks and when their pay turned to dust. Tim listened to Johnson and the saloon crowd at the same time.
“Maybe something spooked them. Season's changing and cats and wolves are about.” It was a reasonable conclusion.
The old man looked to the bar. Faber was polishing again but staring at them. Johnson looked like a man with something to say, just too scared to let it out. Tim looked out the window, Singh still stood in the light looking down the street. He hadn't moved. He'd known Singh since he was a kid and the man never delayed in his passing the saloon.
“He knows,” Johnson said. “Ask him, he knows somethin's wrong.”
“Said the gods are angry.” Tim sipped a burn of whisky. “Just a storm coming, that's all.” Tim didn't believe it but he had to calm the old man down enough to get him talking.
“No storm I ever seen.”
“What have you seen?”
Johnson drank the rest of his beer and wiped his mouth on a dirty sleeve. “I seen a man, or it looked like a man.”
“And.”
“He didn't look right. I seen him near enough, he appeared just before
my herd went mad,” Johnson said, raising his voice. No one listened in, loud voices weren't uncommon. “He looked big and… and… he looked like he was kinda dead!”
The sheriff finished his drink and sat back in the chair, the old joints cracking under his weight. A ghost story, he should have expected it, did expect it but not from Johnson; he was an even tempered God fearing man who did odd jobs around the chapel when he wasn't with his herd. Johnson's face whitened even more, which Tim didn't think possible.
“I'm tellin' you, sheriff, this ain't no story.” His voice shook, so did his hands. “I seen him clear as I see you, only he didn't look so good. He might have been a native but he was strange, spotted like.”
“And he spooked your cattle?” Tim waved to Faber, which meant bring a bottle and another glass. Faber knew the signal.
“I don't know.” Johnson looked at his hands, clasped together on the table top. “I seen him near the house, then latter I heard the cattle bellowing. When I rode out to see they were buttin' each other and buttin' the fence. Sheriff they were all wide eyed and wild looking, I didn't know what to do but cut em’ loose.”
Faber put the bottle on the table and dropped a glass in front of Johnson.
“He makin' sense yet, sheriff?”
Tim sighed, Johnson was certainly afeared, and it was clear something had happened out on his property to make him so edgy.
“Give him a room for the night,” Tim said, pulling the cork from the bottle and pouring two glasses. “Put it on my tab.”
Faber grunted and went back to the bar. Tim thought about Martha, at home and waiting, he'd better get word to her he would be longer than an hour. He turned in his seat, it wasn't a big crowd for a Saturday night; not many farmers come into town until just before winter's freeze really starts to show. Standing beside Gustav, the wiry piano player was Faber's boy; big lad with a gut already hanging over his belt. His moon-like face looked pleased with the piano playing; to Tim it was just an annoying noise.
“Back in a bit,” Tim said to Johnson. The old man downed the whisky and poured himself another. Tim walked to the bar and convinced Faber to send his boy to tell Martha he'd be late.
“I don't like the lad out at night,” Faber said, his frown all bushy brows.
“Only take him a few minutes. You know how Martha frets?”
“Give him a dime and he'll even write a note, he's done schoolin'” Tim smiled and offered a slight nod. “On the tab?” Faber said, not so pleased.
Tim left Faber to send Clarry and returned to Johnson who seemed to have a little more colour back in his face. He sat, drank his shot and then gave the old man what he hoped was a reassuring gaze.
“What did this man look like?”
Johnson didn't answer he just stared out the window.
“You sure it wasn't an Indian just spookin’ you because of what the miners did? Singh said they weren’t happy and maybe you saw the brave who passed through town today.”
“He still hasn't moved.”
Tim followed his gaze. Singh still stood beside his horse in the light looking down the street into the darkness.
“He knows.” Johnson poured yet another drink. “He knows.”
Well if Singh knew then Tim thought he'd better head out and ask him, otherwise he could be sitting with Johnson all night and be none the wiser come morning.
He stood.
A scream broke outside.
Silence dropped on the saloon like a hammer.
The sheriff drew his gun and ran for the door. Others did likewise. Tim's heart thrashed. His mind went basic. Shoot first. Out on the Broken Garter's porch he looked to where Singh had been standing. The horse was down, bleeding from its neck, Singh's body lay beside it in the light, a pool of blood in the dirt. His head was gone.
A woman screamed from behind him.
Men pushed passed and ran into the street, guns ready.
Tim turned to the saloon. Johnson stared out the window, face and hands pressed against the glass. The fear in his eyes was troubling. Who could have done this? And who could have done it so quickly and not be seen?
Someone fired a couple of shots up the street. Another joined.
“Put your guns away, boys,” Tim yelled. “Whatever did this is gone.” He struggled to control his own shaking as he walked down the steps and onto the street. Doc came running out with his bag, a pointless thing to do, but he had to write a death certificate.
“You think a cougar?” Faber said coming down the steps behind him.
“Maybe?” Tim holstered his weapon and waved the other men to do likewise. “I think whatever it was it was big.” He could find nothing in his thoughts that could explain what he was seeing.
Faber called a few of the men together to get rid of the horse while Doc ordered a couple of men to bring his stretcher. Tim forced himself to relax. An animal attack in town was rare, but he couldn’t deal with panic, especially when those who panicked were all armed, drunk and crazy enough to shoot at shadows. Out of the dark Martha came running, the overweight Clarry close behind puffing and panting like and old bull.
“Tim! Tim!” she cried. She ran past the gathering around the body and threw herself into his arms. “Oh, Tim. I heard the shooting... I thought... when Clarry came over... I thought...”
“I'm fine, Martha.” He held her tight, her slight form disappearing into his big arms. He picked her up and carried his wife into the saloon; she didn't need to see the mess. He sat at a table well away from the windows and doors and close to the fire. “I'll get you a sherry,” he said, kissing her on the forehead.
Johnson started yelling and waving his arms. “It's out there! It's out there!”
Tim side stepped some tables and headed for the door. Clarry ran in, Faber close behind, the others were shouting. Gun shots rang out. Tim drew his weapon again.
“No, Tim!” screamed Martha.
As the sheriff reached the door he saw something move through the light. It took one of the men with it. Screams could be heard down the street. Lying on the ground next to the body of Singh was one of the card players, his throat torn out. Blood was everywhere. Tim turned to the people in the saloon. The men had their guns drawn, Faber stood in front of his son, sawn-off shot gun at the ready.
“Everyone stay inside,” Tim said.
A dandy in a black suit and white shirt drew his gun and aimed at Tim. He froze. The man could fire before he even raised his own weapon. There was the flash and explosion as the gun fired. Tim grabbed at his chest but nothing had hit him. The dandy fired twice more before Tim realized he was shooting at something in the doorway. He turned. What looked like a man, but wasn't, took another step into the saloon. Three bleeding wounds in its huge, thick haired chest; another shot. This one hit the man in the head, or what could be a head so macabre was the black and white face paint. The man fell back and staggered outside.
“Indian attack!” A woman yelled. Panic erupted as tables were over turned; another women screamed out.
“The doors!” Faber yelled. He and Clarry rushed forward, slamming the large wooden door closed and dropping the lock bar in place.
“What was that thing?” someone yelled. Tim could hear the women sobbing and men yelling at each other.
Faber looked to Tim. “The windows!” The old hotel had internal shutters as well as external, it had been built in the days when the Indians and whites weren't so obliging. And while Tim didn’t believe the Indians were attacking he had no other explanation for what had just happened and what he’d just seen.
Glass smashed. Tim saw old man Johnson fighting with something, then in a instant it was gone, taking the old man with it back out the window. Gustav threw himself over the tables to get to the broken window. He slammed closed the shutters. Faber had already secured the other window.
“You, Dandy,” Faber called. “Take some men up stairs and secure the girl's rooms and I mean do it now.” The fancy dressed man headed up the stairs with two miners
close behind.
Tim headed for the back door; even half way there he could see it had already been secured for the night. He still had to drop the small shutters over the rear windows, and push a chock through their clasps. He turned and rested his back against the door. Everything had happened so fast. What had just happened? There was a commotion in the bar. Faber's voice boomed. Panic had to be headed off. The sheriff pushed himself forward, his gut was tight and jaw ached. He felt he wasn't too far from panic himself. Walking into the bar he saw the Dandy standing halfway down the stairs, gun at the ready, the two miners stood by the balustrade looking down and unsure of what to do. The high voices of the women came from near the hearth. Martha stood amongst the girls.
It was hard, but Tim dragged a chair across the floor and climbed to stand tall above the men. His raised both arms to quiet the voices, to try and restore some calm before the group turned on each other.
“What was that thing, sheriff?”
“Why didn't it die?”
“You have to protect us.”
The men shouted their concerns and he could see the women comforted each other. He knew which group he'd have preferred to be in right at that moment. He raised his hands higher, finally silencing the men. He counted eleven in front of him, plus the Dandy on the stairs, himself, Faber and Clarry, fifteen men in all and seven women.
“We'll be safe in here,” the sheriff said. “The doors are barred, as well as the windows.”
9 Tales Told in the Dark 12 Page 10
