The Dandy tipped his hat to confirm he'd taken care of the girl's rooms. “Evil will not take our souls,” he said, holstering his gun. “Here is the patience of the saints: here they that keep the commandments of God, and the faith of Jesus.”
“What is out there?” Martha said, leaving the women by the fire.
“I don't know.” Tim looked to the others, hoping one of them had an idea, something he could understand and use. “Anyone seen the likes, or heard of anything like this before?”
The women whispered. Dina, who was probably the oldest at twenty four, was shaking her head, trying to get away from the others. She knew something; Tim could see it in her face. He climbed down from the chair and made his way through the men, their stink more prominent now fear had been injected into them. The women parted, leaving Dina standing, staring at the floor. Her maroon dress trimmed with lace looked exotic in the fire light. Tim took her hands, they were cold and she was trembling. She refused to look up at him and tried to pull her hands free. Martha came up and put her arm around Dina's shoulders.
“Tell him what you told us.” Martha was younger than Dina, but did seem to be more mature in some ways. Maybe marriage aged you that way.
“It could be important, Dina. You saw what happened out there; old man Johnson and that thing the Dandy shot...”
“Stuart,” Dina said. “He's not a Dandy, his name’s Stuart.”
Tim wondered why she defended the man so abruptly. Maybe he made her some promises; it was none of his business. “Stuart, I'm sorry,” he said softening his voice. The woman was petrified and with good reason, he wasn't feeling all that secure himself.
“I lived in Boston as a kid,” she said, finally making eye contact. “There were stories from Europe, I didn't hear them myself but they were spread around school as coming from other girl's parents.” Her eyes were wide, blue and afraid.
“What kind of stories?” Martha said, offering strength.
“That thing... it could be a vampire.” The men stopped their chatter, all attention turned to the discussion by the fire. Dina looked to them then stared at the floor again. “It's what I heard. They drink blood and can't walk in the daylight.”
The men laughed, all but Stuart, Faber and Tim. Dina pulled away and buried her face in Martha's shoulder, she started to cry. Martha's look said enough, he had to listen to what Dina had to say, as strange as it was. There was no denying the thing Stuart had shot several times wasn't a man, and what killed Singh definitely wasn't a bear.
“Diana’s on the Hoyle,” Stuart said joining them by the fire. “But only part right. I've been to London, England, and heard these stories first hand, and the Lord only knows what kind of evil stalks in the dark.” Stuart spoke with a very slight accent. Tim had first thought it was because he was from back East. “Vampires suck blood from their victims and sleep in coffins at night and they will die if they are in the sun.”
Tim thought of Johnson. “That thing was seen during the day.”
“That's why I don't think it's a vampire. There are other things out there we don't know about; demons and Satan himself.”
Something battered the door. A mad collection of colts were drawn and aimed. The women gasped, the fire in the hearth spluttered as a cold blast of wind rushed down the chimney. The sheriff, like the others just stared. Again a solid thump rattled the wooden doors in their frame. The fire went out, dropping the room into the glow of the few lanterns.
“Will it hold?” Tim holstered his gun and grabbed a lantern from the mantle.
“Held against two Indian attacks in 48, but I don't know about what’s out there now.” Faber walked back behind the bar, the painting of the ship on the wall was out of place. He put some extra lanterns on the bar and a drum of oil. “It’s going to be a long night.”
The window shutters began to rattle. Men ran to them and pressed against the wood, the small stocks holding the shutters secure but they didn't look strong enough to hold too much of an assault. The sheriff asked Faber about boards and nails, he had some in the cellar. They'd need them to strengthen the windows.
“Bill, Davey,” Faber called. “Go down the cellar, you’ll find some boards and tools in the back corner and a tub of nails on the shelf above the whiskey crates.” The two men, one old the other about twenty rushed to the cellar door with a lantern and were gone in a thud of boots down wooden stairs.
The door continued to take heavy blows, the thudding against the wood making everyone start with each blow. Stuart put his hat on the bar and slipped out of his long coat. He handed it to Dina who put it around her shoulders. Tim watched and wondered if the Dandy was better than the usual promises that came through town. Martha caught his eye, arms wrapped about herself holding the shawl given to her on their wedding day. She had that look of determination he saw when things looked difficult, at least he wouldn't have to worry about her for a time. Martha nodded, turned and attended the now sobbing women; some men had joined them as a show of protection.
The first scream from the cellar shocked them, the second had Clarry slamming the door and turning the key in the lock. Such a small lock.
“Faber,” Stuart shouted. He was already dragging a table over to put in front of the door. The front door rattled on and the banging was unnerving. One of the miners, well liquored up fired a couple of rounds into the thick wood. The snap of the gun bringing louder cries from the women. Faber ran round the bar and helped upend another table and press its face against the door, they angled a couple of chairs into the base for support.
Tim helped Gustav and two others push the very old Hawkins piano across the room and against the front door. The back of the instrument would be pressed up against the door and its faded red velvet front would offer nothing in protect should bullets be fired through the door. At least it was heavy. Gustav looked concerned when the piano was slid into place. They braced the piano with a couple of tables. Without the boards the windows were still the weakest points in the saloon.
Glass shattered out the back. The door began to shake, the shutters rattled. Faber checked the load of his sawn off and gave it to Clarry, who somehow looked the calmest of everyone. Faber pulled two ex- military six shooters from beneath the bar and led the boy out the back. “Anything come through, boy, just shoot and run.” Tim heard him telling his son.
All through the night the doors and windows rattled. Tim sat with his back against the bar with. Martha's head and shoulders against his chest, she slept fitfully; he only dozed for short moments. The sobbing of the other women died down as some slept and others watched, too afraid to close their eyes. The Dandy sat at a table with some of the other men and played cards, not for money, just for something to do; they were quiet in their playing and sipped whiskey. Despite the banging against the shutters they were relatively safe. Tim didn't know what time it was, all he did know was that come sun up the danger would pass. He thought of the day he rode into town, the ladies on the walks in their bonnets, the few men about sittin' and spittin', the saloon with a dozen horses out front and a buckboard, which he came to know as being old man Johnson's, in the street. He'd left the farm and his distraught parents and brothers. He didn't want to be a farmer; he wanted a town job where he could meet people, maybe even a wife. His father was a hero in the town, and was well respected. Tim wanted to be respected by his father and being his own man would do that. He looked to Martha, quietly asleep, he looked to the women and wondered; could he be a hero and save the day? Every time the shutters and doors rattled he doubted such thoughts. His job was to keep these people safe. Some of the men went upstairs to either sleep or wait-out the noise.
“And through the night they absquatulate.” Stuart said softly. “And into God’s hand they go.”
Tim ignored the man’s low mumblings as he held his wife. He could smell the soap in Martha's hair, the same smell he encountered when they first met in the feed store; a pretty woman struggling to drag a sack of oats out to her cart. Tim hel
ped her get it home, a small cottage at one end of the dusty main street, and from there romance bloomed. Martha was a teacher and one who was open to his affections and courting. He still felt disappointment that his family didn't come to the wedding and with Martha having no kin of her own, it made for a small and very quiet celebration. Becoming sheriff wasn't really his immediate idea when he came to town, he just happened to be at the saloon when Carter, the sheriff at the time, was gunned down. Tim drew and fired at the cowboy who'd shot him before he could high tail it out of town. He went from teacher’s husband and farmer’s son to sheriff in minutes, such was the nature of politics in town. He looked to the Dandy, Stuart, in his smart clothes and plated guns. A man who made a living from cards, no doubt, but he also had an air of authority about him, a quiet strength. Maybe he was ex-cavalry, an officer; Tim could see him in blues, sword on hip and moustache waxed. Given the situation a few soldiers would come in handy about now. Martha moved. He put down his gun and hugged her, the embrace seeming to settle her again. Tim tipped his head back against the bar, the smell of beer and sweat somehow calming with its familiar stink.
“Sheriff, sheriff.” A firm shake woke him, he'd dozed. “Sheriff, sun's up.” It was Gustav.
Tim moved, Martha wasn't nestled into him, she was standing over by the window with the other women. Sunlight peaked through the shutter boards, light spilled through the gaps in the old building’s walls. He climbed to his feet, feeling numbness in his legs from sitting on the floor all night.
“Been no bangin' for about two hours.” Gustav helped Tim up.
The sheriff looked to Stuart, who was helping move the piano away from the door.
“You sure that's wise?” He walked towards the door, Martha was quick to his side.
“It’s too quiet, Tim,” she said.
“We can't stay in here for much longer.” Stuart left the two men to wrestle the piano, Gustav just watched, obvious horror at seeing his pride and joy treated so badly. “We’ve been using buckets in the back room for our necessaries and it ain’t pretty.”
Now he mentioned it Tim could smell the strong odour of excrement, and Stuart had a point. A day in that and they'd be ready to bust out of the place no matter what waited outside. The door was clear and Faber and Clarry lifted the lock bar.
“I'm going out,” Tim said. “Give me your sawn-off.” Faber grabbed it from a nearby table and handed it over. “Close the door after me.:
“Tim, no!” Martha cried.
The street was deserted and blood stained where the men had been killed. Dark brown patches showed where bodies had lain and bled out, but there were no bodies, nothing remained of the horse or the men. He looked up the street to the mining end of town, ten miles from the last building would be the copper mine. Did they also get attacked? Were there miners still in the camps out there? A dog barked, a lonely sound, a frightened sound and Tim thought it sounded like the Franklin’s dog. With the sawn-off settled in his hands he walked down the centre of the street, looking at every building and seeing the smashed windows and broken doors. His boots crunched on the light brown street, he was careful not to step in wagon tracks, less he twist his ankle. The air smelled dusty and empty.
“It’s sheriff Galagher,” he yelled. “Can anyone hear me?” He passed the general store and could see the stock normally stacked neatly by the big windows was strew about inside. Cranky Jack would be extra cranky once he saw the mess. He hesitated outside the store and wondered if he should go in and check the house out back where Jack lived with his son; his wife died of small pox several years ago. The dog peered around the corner of a building, tail between its legs. It was Ranger and she was afraid. Where was everyone? Tim yelled a few more times but was only met with the creaking of doors partly broken off hinges and the flutter of curtains poking through smashed windows as the stiff morning breeze gusted. Tim looked back to the saloon, broken glass was strewn out onto the street as if something had been clawing at it and throwing the glass out behind. Maybe coming outside wasn’t such a grand idea after all.
“Hello,” he called, disliking the dull sound his voice made. The town sounded empty, even the dog skulked away at his call. The door of the saloon opened and the fancy dressed man stepped out onto the porch, the door slammed quickly behind him. The dark suit and hatless head looked weary in the brightness of daylight. The man held a gun in his left hand.
“They’re getting a might ornery,” he said as he stepped into the street. “I can’t rightly say that I blame them.”
Tim walked back to the saloon and toward the man. “You got a last name Stuart,” he said looking towards the other end of town and to where his house was.”
“McAlister, Stuart McAlister.”
As he grew closer to Stuart he saw he wasn’t as young as he’d thought in the saloon, it always amazed him how much lamp light hid with its yellowish glow; he wondered what he looked like with his shiny badge and thick beard.
“Well, Mr McAlister, it looks like the town is empty.” He pointed towards his house, even from this distance he could see part of the roof was missing. “Now we are away from the women you can tell me more about these demons and vampires.”
McAlister sat on the steps of the saloon resting his gun in his lap; he squinted up into the morning sun, dark eyes narrow and cautious. With his right hand he pulled at his lined face as if trying to draw away the weariness. Tim saw in his demeanor the look of a well-worn man. The night had been long, maybe longer for him and he wondered if Stuart had even slept. His neck tie was loose and the top button of his collared shirt undone.
“There was a fellow I read of back East, a John Polidori, and he wrote a book called The Vampyre. It was all the rage and reports of such creatures were rampant, but I don’t… or should I say, I didn’t believe in such things.”
“What are they?” The sheriff watched the street and listened to the creaks and squeaks of the town. With the tip of the sawn-off he pushed back his hat, the brim getting tight about his aching head.
“They are not what is happening here, sir.” Stuart fixed him with a hard stare. “This is a demon of biblical creation, maybe even Satan himself come for our sinning souls, and trust me when I say I have sinned.”
Not being a religious man made it difficult for Tim to comprehend what Stuart meant, but the church goers in town were a righteous bunch and sang up a storm every Sunday morning. There was no singing today and not an Amen to be heard. Tim knew some biblical stories, every kid did when the local Baptists ran the school, but those stories were of floods and whales and great famines. What kind of biblical beast could this be?
“You know of such things?”
“Daniel spake and said, I saw in my vision by night, and, behold, the four winds of the heave strove upon the great sea. And four great beasts came up from the sea, diverse one from another.
The first was like a lion, and had eagle's wings: I beheld till the wings thereof were plucked, and it was lifted up from the earth, and made stand upon the feet as a man, and a man's heart was given to it. And behold another beast, a second, like to a bear, and it raised up itself on one side, and it had three ribs in the mouth of it between the teeth of it: and they said thus unto it, Arise, devour much flesh. After this I beheld, and lo another, like a leopard, which had upon the back of it four wings of a fowl; the beast had also four heads; and dominion was given to it..” Stuart said with a grave tone and a solid commanding voice. He stopped for a moment and shook his head as if trying to remember something. “This calls for wisdom. Let the person who has insight calculate the number of the beast, for it is the number of a man. That number is 666.”
“And what in all hay is that supposed to mean?” Tim felt the skin prickle on his neck and arms.
“Sheriff, I wasn’t always a man of cards and travel. I was once a preacher until the evils of man consumed me and I became all I despised.” Stuart eased himself to his feet. “I might disbelieve a lot of things today, but if what I have sai
d is true then we are all damned to hell.”
So much for missing out on the Sunday preaching, Tim thought, and talk of evil things didn’t sound like something he wanted to calm the women with, or the men for that matter. He didn’t bother asking the gambler/priest what they could do because in a way he knew what he would say, he had heard the church goers say it often when men staggered from the saloon on Sunday afternoons. “Repent and be saved, by the blood of Jesus, our lord, be saved.” He didn’t think that would work either.
He remembered what Singh had said about the Indians, the angry gods. He wanted to get back inside the saloon, everything was too strange and too quiet. “Do you know anything about Héshokta, the cliff dwellers?” He didn’t know what it meant, but Singh has through it important last night.
The man frowned, closed his eyes in concentration. “You speak of the natives beliefs.”
“I don’t know about belief, just what do you know of them?” He walked up the two steps to stand on the porch, it was time to get back into known safety.
“I…” something flashed by and Stuart fell forward minus his head, his gun dropped to the street.
Tim slammed his fists against the door of the saloon screaming to be let him in. His fists crashed against the scared wood. His heart thumped, and all he could hear was the banging; the endless banging of his blows. He heard the door unlatch. He stepped back. He was lifted into the air and dumped into the middle of the street, air knocked from his lungs. He gasped. The saw-off was thrown clear of him and his pistol lay a few feet away. He reached for the gun and a foot slammed down on his wrist. He cried out as bone broke. The foot lifted and Tim hugged his hand as tears came. Standing, facing into the sun was a beast the size of a bear, but it wasn’t a bear, couldn’t be a bear, this was desert land. Each hand wore talon like finger nails and the thing’s face looked like burnt leather. Tim tried to back away but his boots slipped on the street’s loose surface. The thing reached down and pulled him to his feet with one long, brawny arm. Black eyes examined him before its mouth opened to reveal sharp, yellow and rotted teeth. It breath was foul with the stink of rotted meat.
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