by catt dahman
Cullen was suspected of the murders, but the sheriff came into a lot of money suddenly and was reluctant to pursue an investigation. Cullen quickly bought the Fallon land from Nathan's spinster aunt although not for a cheap price as he wanted. Paris was found several days later, wandering aimlessly, dehydrated, and scratched. The spinster aunt took him in, and people, especially Cullen, waited to see if the boy had witnessed the killings and would tell who had done it, but Paris did not speak of it.
He did not speak for eight years.
During that silent time, he read a lot, escaping his torment with memories within the stories; in this way he educated himself. He carved so much that the knife was a part of him, no different or less sensitive than his own fingertips. His aunt allowed him a little of his inheritance to buy an old Colt Navy .36 with which to practice his draw; later he bought a Classic Peacemaker which was all the rage. With that, he improved, and the seven and a half-inch barrel gave him a perfect aim.
The strange child, who never spoke, practiced every day, as many hours as he could, after his chores were finished.
He read a lot and researched to learn more about demons, and in this way, he discovered that they were a special sort, called vampyres: lived alone or in clans, drank the blood of their victims, ate the flesh of innocents, and caused fear and pain wherever they went.
Paris' drive was single-minded; he only wanted to be what his father was not. He believed in God, but the Deity was not his focus, nor would he sacrifice for Him. Paris cataloged his father's weak points, those less masculine, and decided to be different.
He had such a quick draw and excellent aim that target practice became a bore for him, and he added a second pistol. It was a long time before he could draw both guns lightning fast, but in time, he was able to, a feat that most men never accomplished.
Paris spoke some when necessary and found that it gave him a bit of power, this dark silence. With a quiet voice at sixteen, he entered his first poker game, and by seventeen was an accomplished player, unreadable and instinctive.
His first whore, when he was seventeen, and had winnings from a game, thought herself lucky to have the handsome young man with his long, hard body, dark hair, and blue-ice eyes. He was proficient in bed, not tender or gentle, not clumsy or hesitant, but demanding. She preferred their times together in a pitch-black room since she could pretend; as it was, in the light, his expressionless eyes unnerved her. And he refused to speak more than a few syllables.
By the time he was twenty-five, he had been all over the West and the Midwest and had gone into Mexico. He had used his inheritance and card-winnings to buy the best gear he could find: a custom-made saddle trimmed in silver with intricate tool work in the rich leather and supple, and rugged boots that fit like a glove. He bought a paint horse named Bic that was so in tune with his body movements that he scarcely needed reins. And he paid over a hundred dollars for a matched pair of .45 Peacemakers with his initials carved into the ivory handles.
He killed his first man in Arkansas: an outlaw who tried to rob him; he felt nothing at all as he looked down at the dead man.
Paris found a lot of injustice in the world, more than he could make right. Vengeance drove him to kill over and over again. And still he felt nothing. More than anything else, he just wanted to feel--anything.
Eventually, Paris had a reputation as one of the most bloodthirsty men alive, and by a hair, he always stayed this side of the law. He stayed in Mexico for a while, chasing some bandits and spending time with a pretty young whore. When he left Mexico, she cried softly, but the sound was no different in his ears than the wind blowing through the old dried grasses.
She was just a crying whore.
Without really considering it, he rode back in an easterly direction, back towards Jefferson. A deep burning rage had come from inside him where he had buried it years before. It led Paris back as a dark avenger with an unquenchable thirst for revenge that burned in his soul.
When Paris got into town, he went to the Rosebud Saloon for a drink. The owner, Rock Williams, took a deep breath as the tall man entered. It had been bad enough when Doc Holliday had come in earlier that day, and now here was Paris Fallon who was well known by now.
Paris bought himself a bottle, and without a word, he went to sit by Holliday.
Doc nodded and said, "Please join me."
Paris had already sat down. "I'm surprised to see you here," Paris said.
Paris knew Doc's reputation even as Doc knew Paris'.
Doc was in a rare good humor. "Boy lost to me in a game of cards that was too rich for him to begin with. The boy didn't like losing and took some pot-shots at me, but killed a man who was riding with me at the time." Doc didn't add that the Colorado cold air had made his cough worse and that his nerves had been sandpapered raw, leaving him in a foul mood at the time. "I rode after the boy."
"All this way?" It didn't fit the image of Doc that Paris held.
"I probably would have turned around and given up the chase, it wasn't that important, but the boy started killing people along the way. I figured that I had better finish up the job. No, it isn't my usual," Doc admitted.
Paris nodded and said, "Sometimes you have to do things just because it seems right."
Sharing a bottle, he and Doc drank in silence. They had no problems with one another, and the respect was mutual.
Rock Williams, the saloon owner, still eyed them uncomfortably.
That evening, Paris burst into Bill Cullen's home as the man and his family sat down to dinner. The control he had developed disappeared as he looked upon the man who had slaughtered his family and changed his life in so many ways. Cullen had made Paris a killer. All pity and humanity vanished as a kind of pale, foggy insanity crept in.
Cullen leaped to his feet and asked, "What is this about?"
Paris had both guns out. With one, he motioned to Bill's brother, Bobby and said, "Tie him up,"
As Bobby hesitated, Paris calmly shot him in the left kneecap. Bobby went down screaming; he had been the first to rape one of Paris' sisters. As the metal burned and sizzled his flesh around the ruined knee, he wailed with fury and fear of the man who knew to use silver.
Another man at the table, the one who had also helped murder Paris' family, jumped up as bidden to tie Bill Cullen, smelled the flesh of his friend burning and turning infected as their kind did when attacked with silver.
Paris promised to shoot whoever moved.
"What do you want?" asked Bill Cullen as he ignored his moaning younger brother who writhed on the floor.
"My soul back."
"Huh?"
"It's been a long time. I was eight when I saw you last."
"Who are you?"
"I watched from the lumber pile," Paris spoke calmly, "you thought I was off picking berries, but I saw it all: how all of you with your perversions drank the blood and ate the flesh of humans. I never believed in monsters before I saw it for myself. Since then, I’ve made it my business to learn about you and your kind and to destroy all I can."
"Who are you, you bastard?"
"Paris Fallon. My father was Nathan Fallon, the man whom you ordered to curse God for his life. Seventeen years ago, my family members were the ones you shot, raped, burned alive. I am what you left behind in the carnage."
"I've heard of you. I never realized that you were his kid."
"Maybe you were afraid to know it," Paris offered, “but I never forgot you. I took out a bunch like you down in Mexico, bunch of scraggly whores feeding on people. I crippled them and tied them out in the sunlight, let them burn slowly.” He holstered one pistol, and with the right one leveled, drew his knife, whipped it across Cullen's little girl's throat in a motion so fast that it was like a blur as the silver tip made her skin sizzle. She hissed like a snake.
Paris could smell the scent of the bloodsuckers on her; she was a feeder, too.
The child slipped to the ground amid a pool of scarlet, her last breath gurgling. Wh
en one of the hands responded by reflex, getting to his feet, Paris calmly shot him through the heart.
"They'll hang you for this."
Paris shrugged and asked, "Who? Your other work hands? They're all lying in their own blood right now. I don't take chances. I'm very quiet, and I am damned good with a knife, especially when killing blood-sucking monsters.”
Cullen was shaken at the sight of his daughter and weeping wife and begged, "Please, Mister, have a little mercy; we didn’t ask to be what we are; we didn’t know what it would be like."
"Mercy? You killed that in me seventeen years ago," Paris said as he whirled and drew his other gun at a sound at the door. To his surprise, Doc Holliday stood there.
Doc laughed. "You took care of the hands? I'm greatly impressed at your efficiency."
"I needed time," Paris replied in a chilling, low voice, "and what are you doing here, Holliday?" Paris was considering killing Holliday.
"The boy I told you about? It was Bobby Cullen."
"I was about to kill him."
"Maybe you'd allow me the honor since I have ridden this far?" Doc asked as he smiled in a friendly manner.
"You murderers," Cullen yelled at them, “not a one of us knew what we would become when we chose it.”
"It was you who taught me, sir," Paris replied. In a few sentences that were simply stated, but pathetic as epitaphs for the dead, he told Doc why he was there. "I've waited seventeen years for this."
"Then I won't be in your way. I just ask to put Bobby Cullen away."
Paris nodded at Doc.
Doc saw the girl with her throat cut. He didn't remark but felt a rare pity for the tall man with empty eyes.
Paris flashed his knife and added, "I'd like to get back to my business."
"If you're sure it's what you want." It wasn't his concern, but Doc hated to see the other man destroy himself this way.
"You weren't there," Paris said pointedly.
"True. I won't mind your affairs, but the wife and kids weren't either. I can tell they are vampyres though, so it’s better we do put them down."
Fury was boiling. Without thought and with a blank mind, Paris quickly dispatched everyone at the dinner table: the wife and the children before Bill Cullen's eyes. "Your kids don't deserve to become like us," Paris remarked bitterly. Paris suddenly yelled and leapt for Bill Cullen, ripping and slicing with his knife.
Cullen allowed his fangs to show.
Doc came over and fired a shot into Cullen's temple as he had the brother. "I had to end the torture; you can't do that, or you'll hate yourself later. Let it go."
Paris wanted to be angry with Doc, but the emotion wasn't there. He stared as he had as a child and seemed to be shutting down inside his mind. Doc took over. "We need to ride. I don't want to be caught here."
They splashed kerosene all around, leaving a roaring blaze.
They rode away, went over a hill, and found a man standing next to the remains of a picnic. Beside him was a still woman, lying on her back with her eyes closed. Paris pulled both six-shooters, but Doc halted him.
The woman's black velvet hat had fallen from her auburn curls, her grey skirt was disarrayed, and a single bullet wound was on her temple.
"You killed her?" Doc asked.
"Yes," said Abe Rothchild. He was Jewish, and the woman he killed had been his companion, of sorts, a whore who was faithless and pregnant. "This was the only answer for Bessie."
"You would do well to get a good lawyer," Doc told him.
"I will at that."
"You never saw us, and we never saw you. The Cypress River will be the only witness as to what has transpired today." Doc decided, and he and Paris rode.
They might have parted company, having no reason to ride together anyway, but it somehow happened that they stayed together and were bonded in a hellish manner that defied explanation or appraisal. The men traded painful histories and sealed a friendship that should never have occurred.
They gambled together in Fort Smith, Arkansas where three men drew on them over a lost game. Over the next years, they would sometimes ride in different directions, but they always came back together as a tour de force, especially when one picked up the scent of a lone vampyre or a clan of them.
Paris fell into another odd friendship with Tell Starr that made them a threesome, and then later with Kit Darling. It was understood near and far that the foursome could not be taken or stopped by any group that ever rode together. They clung to their friendships because life itself was not sure enough to trust.
Paris did not mellow over the years but instead often flew into unstoppable rages of bloodthirsty fury. He drank like Doc to forget and to try to stave off bouts of self-destructive pity that might preempt something very terrible. Paris thought that it was easier to drink and pass out than to stay conscious with his own thoughts.
It was Paris' opinion that when Nathan had refused to curse God, his son, Paris had been cursed.
He was damned.
Chapter 14
Nerves on Edge
Doc, Kit, Tell, and Paris sat together in the bar. All day they searched for signs of the creatures, and although the men felt the creatures were still close and would continue feeding and attacking in order to wipe out the town, the four Hunters could find no more than a few traces of the creatures: empty rooms and bodies hidden away to rot. They might think it possible that the clan had left, but the creatures were too new and too cocky to give up a town over a few Hunters.
At cards, Doc made mistakes. He drank more whiskey than was usual. Doc lost another hand, cleared his throat, and pulled at his collar.
"You're fidgety,” Tell told him.
"It's too damn hot in here.”
“You’re in shirt sleeves; I’m sittin' here chilled in a jacket,” Tell argued.
Kit was frowning. “It is cool. You're coughing, Doc.”
The man’s head jerked up. “I am not, am I?”
“You have been,”Kit replied, frowning in concern.
Doc's eyes went dark. "Have I?” he asked Paris.
Paris' eyes were bleary from drinking; his jaw went tight as he looked at Doc.
“Paris?”
“Yeh, you have."
Doc shrugged. "It could be a cold.”
"Maybe," Paris admitted, unconvinced and worried.
Doc rose from the table with a bottle in hand. His voice was hard edged. "I'll be in my room." He felt feverish, felt many of the symptoms he knew so well.
When he was gone, Kit cursed.
"Deal,” Paris ordered.
Tell dealt.
Paris stared at the cards in his hand but could not concentrate. Men behind them, involved in their own game, laughed loudly. It distracted him.
"Shut up," Paris called over his shoulder.
One man laughed even louder.
In a smooth flash of movement, Paris was on his feet, his chair falling over. He took two long-legged steps, drew one six-shooter and deftly bashed it across the man's face. Bones broke as blood spurted. “I said to shut the hell up.”
Other men at the table stood, and Kit drew his Colt with a snap. Tell drew up his shotgun with a curse. Tell looked them over. “Let’s keep it easy, boys.”
"Look what the bastard did,” one man yelled.
Paris glared and said, “I told you sons of bitches to shut up, didn't I? You got a problem with me; then, come on; you're all heeled.”
“Ain’t none of us crazy enough to draw on you, Fallon.”
“Paris, go on now, you're drunk and too high-strung to play cards. I don't need this shit tonight,” Tell grumbled.
“He ain't supposed to get sick again.” Paris said simply.
“I know." Tell understood. This wasn’t about poker or loud people but was about Doc’s being sick and Paris’s being unable to fix him.
Chapter 15
Blood Brawl
Dawn loomed blood red in the sky. Quinn, watching the day arrive, was uneasy as the sun came up
. Familiarity could not soothe his nervousness. Lorrance's threats had become more pointed, and not for the first time, Quinn wished he had sent his daughter away.
Quinn had heard that Lorrance had gotten together a large group of cowboys, some with rough reputations, and it was rumored that the men intended on using strong-arm tactics, violence even, to settle their land disputes. For whatever reason, Quinn felt that when the cowboys came to fight, they would see the vampyres again since trash ran with trash.
Lately, the Lorrance bunch had been quiet; that worried Quinn a lot.
Perry Creek, Quinn’s top hand, burst into the room without knocking. “Mr. Masterson, it’s the Lorrance bunch.”
Obviously this time it was more than fence cutting. Quinn sighed, “What is it now, Perry?”
“Big group of them...maybe fifteen or so…maybe twenty. They're all well heeled.”
“They comin' this way?" asked Quinn since he couldn’t imagine a group that big coming to his ranch for a fight. He needed help, but by the time the group finished their violence and the marshal got up a posse and the Governor got involved, the ranch would be decimated, Quinn’s men would be dead, and the land would be up to be bought.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, we sure can't hold off that kind of force. Hell, round up the boys, and tell Reps Hampton to get in here."
The fifteen-year-old boy ran in, and Quinn barked orders, telling him to ride hard to town. "Tell Holliday what's happening; he'll know what to do. Tell him we need help. Fast.”
It was all he could think to do. Reps nodded.
“Ride hard,” Quinn told him, “because we can't hold them.”
Frannie and the housekeeper were ushered to safety with Frannie clutching at the little Remington Elliot .22 her father handed her.
Quinn looked at his pitiful band of gunmen: his two sons, Perry Creek, four cattle hands, and him. These were ranchers, not fighters.
Bad odds.
Quinn walked out onto the porch when the men rode in. The hands were behind him in the house, all armed and ready to cover him if needed. The men Quinn faced had the hard-edged look of men with experience, and they were better heeled than were his own hands.
