Title Page
VULTURES’ MOON
A Sci-Fi Western
by
William Stafford
Publisher Information
Published in 2013 by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
The right of William Stafford to be identified as the Authors of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998
Copyright © 2013 William Stafford
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Tarnation!
Jed patted his Horse’s neck. They hovered over a canyon at the bottom of which a battle was raging. Closer inspection revealed it was more of an ambush than a fair fight. Jed clicked his tongue. Horse brought him down to land, crooking its legs so Jed could dismount. In a fluid movement, Jed dropped to the dirt, rolled over and rose up onto one knee, firing off rounds in steady blasts as he did. The bad guys fell, great holes yawning in their heads and chests and bellies. The stench of sizzling flesh filled the air. At the centre of the carnage, the victims cowered in shock. Jed stood up and walked towards them with his hands spread wide. The spurs on his boot heels whirred and clinked with every step - they were decorative only; Jed had other methods of directing his Horse.
The victims were two females and an elderly gent, who was bent double with age. The ladies, the geezer’s granddaughters maybe, moved in front of the old man protectively.
“Is anyone hurt, ladies?” Jed glanced at the wreckage of their cart. The wheels were smashed and their horse - one of the original kind - was dead. Clearly, these folks were in need of an alternative mode of transport.
“We’re fine,” said one of them - the blonde one. She looked Jed up and down, her expression unreadable.
“But thanks,” added the other one, shorter and redheaded. She too gave Jed the once-over and apparently was pleased with what she saw.
“You folks took a risk being out here,” Jed kicked at a dead man’s boot. Yup; definitely dead.
“We - we had no choice!” the redhead blurted.
“Quiet, Lilimae!” the blonde jumped in. She turned to Jed. “Like my sister says, thanks, Mister, for your timely assistance. These, ah, gentlemen, looked likely to be the ruination of us.”
“Where you folks headed?” Jed rubbed his chin. Need a shave, he reckoned. Perhaps a trip into town was warranted.
“Oh, we -” Lilimae was silenced by a swipe from her sister’s hand.
“That’s none of your concern,” the blonde said coldly. “And I’ll thank you to leave us to fadge for ourselves.”
Fadge? Jed’s eyebrows flew up. He tried to place the word. Which sector were these folks from?
“Here.” The old coot was shuffling forwards. He held out a bar of platinum. It flashed as it caught the sun.
“That’s not necessary, sir.” Jed tipped his hat. “If you folks are sure?”
The three exchanged glances.
“We are,” said the blonde girl. The others nodded.
Jed went back to his Horse.
“Something not right...” he muttered as he got back in the saddle.
“My thoughts exactly,” said his Horse.
***
“You can put your shirt back on.” Doc Brandy rasped through his whiskers. He packed away his stethoscope and then arched his back. Jed could almost hear the vertebrae popping back into place. “And put your money away. This one’s on me.”
Jed smiled. The old man had the keen eye of a gunslinger - Jed had barely reached for his wallet. If only the doc’s hands weren’t so shaky, the old man could make a good account of himself in any high noon standoff.
“How’s the hands working out?” The doc made it sound like a casual question but both he and Jed knew this was the crux of the consultation. Jed paused in the buttoning of his blue shirt and extended his arms ahead. With the cuffs down, you couldn’t see the joins - not that you could see them anyway unless you knew what to look for; the doc had done some of his best work.
“Gee, Doc; I don’t know. Gotten used to them, I guess. Gotten used to the feeling of doing everything like I’ve got gloves on.”
The old man seemed satisfied with this answer.
“That’s about the best you can hope for. We were lucky to find a matching pair.”
“I know, Doc. I ain’t ungrateful.”
Doc Brandy looked up into that square-jawed, handsome face and his old eyes twinkled.
“But you’d prefer your own hands back.”
Jed was taken aback. The old man always knew what he was thinking. It was both comforting and alarming. Jed allowed himself a moment of openness.
“Some days, Doc, I think there’s so many pieces of other men in my body, I don’t know who I am anymore.”
Doc Brandy patted Jed’s arm.
“Admire your candour, kid. And I told you to put your money away. The least I can do.”
Jed ran a hand through his coal black hair and put his hat on.
“Buy you a drink, then. Later in the Last Gasp?”
“Maybe, maybe. Now go on, see to that Horse. If I know him, he’ll be fretting.”
“Bye, Doc. And thanks.” Jed touched the brim of his hat in a quick salute. Doc Brandy watched him go, his face clouded with concern.
***
Jed rejoined his Horse in the stabling facility. Horse’s eyes glowed when they saw him although the critter was not given to open displays of affection. Jed patted its neck.
“You done being pampered?” he asked wryly. “Ate your fill?”
The Horse didn’t dignify this with a response. Jed would have to do a good deal more patting and stroking before he would be forgiven for leaving the Horse alone.
“Hey, I had to get checked out too, you know,” Jed scratched behind Horse’s ear. “Doc gave me a clean bill of health, in case you’re wondering.”
Horse emitted a brief snort.
“I’m going to check out the town,” Jed continued warily. “Been a while since we were here. Just want to make sure everything’s fine.”
Horse rolled its eyes.
“Here we go,” it muttered. “Before you know it, you’ll be caught up in some action and getting shot at - getting both of us shot at! - when we should be taking advantage of the lull in activity and heading off somewhere nice for a change.”
“Now, now,” Jed looked the Horse directly in its long face. “Don’t be like that. We’ll head off in the morning. I swear.”
Horse harrumphed, shaking its mane.
Jed checked the couplings and the readout on the fodder-meter.
“I’ll be back in an hour or so to unhook you.” He gave Horse one last pat. “Make you comfortable for the night.”
“Off to have a skinful, are you? While I’m stuck here, attached to this detestable machine.”
“You can quit feeling sorry for yourself,” Jed chuckled. “You know that won’t work with me. Remind me why I didn’t have you scrapped years ago.”
Horse flared its nostrils.
“You’d be lost without me,” it showed its huge square teeth. “And you know it.”
“Maybe,” Jed chuckled
. “See you later.”
Before Horse could utter another word, Jed turned and left. He paid the stable keeper at the door.
“Best not get too close to that one,” he smirked. “He’s a biter.”
The young lad blenched as he pocketed the coins. Jed left him quivering, safe in the knowledge that Horse wouldn’t be bothered by fussy attendants. Fussy critter! But it was probably right: Jed would be lost without it.
***
The Last Gasp was at the end of Tarnation’s only street, the last in a row of saloons of diminishing salubriousness. Jed favoured it for its position rather than the purity of the water that diluted the beer. The place was full of habitual revellers. With little else to do in a backwater town of an evening, the locals - well, the men - put as much effort into their merrymaking as they did toiling at their various jobs. They were mainly farmers, ranchers from the surrounding area but some were traders, and a few were skilled workers: blacksmiths, goldsmiths, an undertaker...
On a gas lit stage at the far end, half a dozen fading showgirls lifted skirts and kicked lacy pantalooned legs while a moustachioed man with oily hair pounded at a piano. The girls may or may not have been singing; Jed couldn’t hear above the catcalls and whooping of their enthusiastic audience. Keeping a casual watch on the show, Jed approached the bar and ordered a shot of Red Eye.
The barkeep, Lem, poured the drink but would accept no coin. The presence of someone like Jed put his mind a little more at ease. Sometimes the clientele could get a mite too rowdy, a mite too boisterous, and a man who can handle a gun faster than blinking could always come in handy for restoring the peace.
Jed tipped his hat and took his glass to a corner at the back of the crowd. He had a good view of the dancers but also could keep a weather eye on the drinkers. He leant against the wall, nursing his whisky.
On stage, the ladies flashed their backsides and trouped offstage. The men whistled and jeered, baying for more. Someone loaded another roll into the piano player’s back and he struck up another tune to herald the arrival of a buxom, older woman into the glimmer of the footlights.
She waved at her audience, blowing kisses in their general direction, and cracked a few off-colour jokes at the expense of a couple of men at the tables nearest the stage. She nodded to the piano player, who ignored her, but the music, as though cued, changed to a slower ballad. The woman sang about loneliness and a broken heart before reeling off a list of suitors and their deficiencies to the raucous appreciation of the crowd.
Jed failed to see the humour in it but he liked music in general and The Last Gasp was renowned for the quantity if not the quality of its entertainment.
He also kept an eye on the doors. Every time they swung inwards to admit a new arrival, he hoped it might be Doc Brandy joining him for that drink. It never was. Jed was disappointed; he had hoped to loosen the old man’s tongue with liquor and learn some more about -
The doors slapped back against the walls and a wild-eyed man stumbled, almost fell into the saloon. Jed saw, before it was planted firmly on the floorboards, that the man’s face was red from exertion. People cleared a space, gasping at the scorch mark along the back of the man’s dirty shirt. Eventually, the disruption fed through the crowd and made its way to the stage. The performer stopped singing, her mouth open mid-lyric. The piano plinked on for a few more bars until someone slapped the player’s head.
“What is it?” the singer called across the sea of heads that had now turned away from her. She might have added, it had better be good to distract my public from my song!
“T’ain’t nothing to worry your pretty head, Miss Kitty,” Lem called back as he made his way from the bar to the fallen man with a bottle of brandy.
Miss Kitty, seeing that there was no point resuming her recital until this interruption was sorted out, put her hands on her broad hips and sashayed down the stairs, elbowing her way through the men in whose attention she had been superseded by whomever it was that had burst in.
When she reached the source of the disruption, she found Lem tipping brandy between trembling lips. The man, on his back, was trying to sit up; clearly it was too painful for him to lie flat.
“Who is it? Do we know?”
The man looked up, brightening a little at the sight of Miss Kitty’s inverted painted face.
“Howdy, Miss Kitty!” he gasped. “You sure is mighty purty.”
“A fan!” Miss Kitty simpered. “How gratifyin’!”
“It’s me, Miss Kitty. Bobby Turpin from the North Quarter.”
“Well, I declare!” Miss Kitty batted her enhanced eyelashes. “Little Bobby Turpin. How have you been, darlin’?”
To the rest of the assembly these sounded like a dumb question but the fallen man seemed to take heart from it. He reached upwards, straining to touch his idol’s hand.
“Mister Turpin,” Jed interjected, “I don’t believe you came here for the show. Do you mind telling me what happened? Who done this to you?”
“Who done what to him?” Lem whispered.
“Plasma burn, right down to the spine,” Jed said gravely. “Unusual for this sector.”
Lem frowned. At his lap, Turpin began to writhe. His face contorted with agony. Jed dropped to one knee; he knew there wasn’t much time.
“Who was it, Bobby?” he urged the man to speak.
Turpin’s eyes fluttered upwards, rolling white. His lips parted and he struggled to form his final word. Jed turned his ear to the dying man’s mouth. Turpin uttered one last syllable, hissing it out along with his final breath.
“Plisp...”
He slumped and was still.
“Plisp?” Lem took a slug of brandy.
Jed stood up slowly. Concern was etched on every face. But he could give them no reassurance.
“That’s what the man said,” Jed said flatly. “Far be it from me to doubt the last words of a dying man. And if Plisp is here, you folks better head on home and think seriously about whether you want to stay here. Tarnation’s as good as lost.”
This stark pronouncement gave rise to gasps and mutterings but no one made a move to leave.
“Damn it, Jed,” Lem scowled. “Give us some hope!”
Jed looked around at the worried faces. All eyes were on him.
“You know me as a straight shooter,” he told them. “Some of you will want to stay and fight. That’s your right. But I say you’d be wrong to try. I’ve tangled with Plisp before and it wasn’t pretty. People will die, sure as night follows day.”
“And you?” Miss Kitty touched his sleeve but she quickly withdrew her hand when he met her gaze. “Are you just going to leave us, leave this town to its doom?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to take yon poor fellow’s body back to the North Quarter so his loved ones can give him a peaceful burial. While they can.”
“Ain’t you going to do nothing about Plisp?” Miss Kitty’s eyes were wet but still alight with hope.
“Ain’t nothing to be done,” Jed paused at the door. “Nothing I ain’t already tried.”
He left them in stunned consternation and went to uncouple Horse from the feeding tubes.
Damn it. Horse was right; they should never have come to town. They could be safely away from here and - and then what? Leave Tarnation to its destruction and its population to cruel and violent death?
Damn it.
Jed had a fight on his hands. A one-man war against an old foe.
He looked at the hands in question and hoped Doc Brandy was right and they’d be up for the job.
The Dark Dust!
Nathaniel Grady, the undertaker, agreed to the loan of a wagon to take Turpin’s body home but his generosity did not stretch as far as a Horse to pull it. Jed’s Horse didn’t need to say anything; Jed could tell by the stan
ce what the critter’s views on the subject were, but when Jed hitched it to the posts and fitted the harness, Horse accepted with good grace and nary a roll of its sapient eyes.
Grady insisted his apprentice, Billy, went along for the ride. Not only would the boy help with the grave-digging but he would also ensure the safe return of the wagon. Turner’s body, wrapped in a sheet, was loaded into the back. Billy rode up front but Jed held the reins.
They trundled out of town with Horse maintaining a reverently slow pace. People outside storefronts, doffed their hats and bowed their heads as a mark of respect.
It was a bright morning. The sky was clear, the colour of cream. The nature of the task aside, Jed found it was an enjoyable drive across the belt of scrubland that surrounded the town.
“Like your hoss, mister,” the boy essayed conversation.
Jed merely nodded, barely perceptibly, keeping his eyes on the dirt track ahead.
After a couple of minutes, Billy tried again.
“Mighty fine hoss... Strong.... Mister Grady could do with a fine hoss like that’n. Course, he’d be hankerin’ to paint it black. Course.”
Jed nodded again but this time awarded the boy a slight upwards twitch of his lips.
They settled into a companionable silence, with only the sound of Horse’s irons and the wagon wheels disturbing the small stones and stirring up the dust.
The sun was a pallid, milky eye but the day was warming up nicely. It was too early for the buzzards to float up on hot currents of air although Billy declared he heard their grating caws over to the east. He seemed enthusiastic about the carrion feeders; Jed supposed the trade the boy was learning was none too different from the lives of those grisly but necessary birds. Always on the lookout for death. Death means life to them.
After an hour or so of gently idling across the flat landscape, they approached the picket fences of Turpin’s holding. The bright white of the paint was in strong contrast to the verdant pastures beyond. But the pastures were empty - there was not one critter left.
Vultures' Moon Page 1
