The truth was, Montclair had the story from one of the expedition’s members, who had kept a journal of the trip so detailed that it was confiscated by a priest and hidden away in the Vatican for centuries.
After the event known as the Reckoning—to those who knew it at all—about which Montclair believed himself as well informed as any living man, a possessed priest stole the journal and sold it at a most exclusive auction. Montclair had been spending a considerable portion of his father’s wealth studying matters of the arcane, so he was invited to that auction, and there he purchased it.
After studying the volume, he had come to the Arizona territory. He’d started acquiring land so that he could own everything between the mountains and Thunder Moon’s resting place. To make that spot reveal itself, he’d had to alter the landscape itself, using fear to terrorform it so it would, in time, shed its disguise. Once he was certain it was on J Cross T land, driving Tibbetts off had become an urgent necessity. Fortunately, to help spread the fear that would power the terrorforming, and to encourage Tibbetts to sell, he had the help of the abominations who had guarded Thunder Moon’s skull until the coming of the right man.
That man was Jasper Montclair, and the power Thunder Moon would grant him, under the rising of the full moon that bore his name, would be spectacular.
* * *
Fat drops of rain splashing against his face brought Harrell around. He stirred, blinked, opened his eyes. Time had elapsed, but he couldn’t tell how much. For an instant he hoped that he had been dreaming, but that hope vanished when he smelled the fire and heard Montclair’s voice, softly intoning some sort of spell or prayer. Harrell groaned and sat up, though his head swam with the effort. Montclair raised the skull in his left hand and the charred heart in his right, holding both over his head. His quiet incantation became words shouted toward the clouds, from which rain spat with increasing fury. Lightning flared yet again, its white heat burning into Harrell’s eyes. Still, before he was blinded, he thought for sure he saw the lightning strike the skull, then the heart, then the still form of Sadie Cuttrell.
Harrell pawed at his eyes with his fists, shook his head. When his vision cleared, he wished it hadn’t. Sadie was crouched, with the fingers of her left hand touching the ground. Her right went to the open wreckage of her chest, feeling the edges of the wound and venturing into the gulf there. The light had gone from her eyes, but otherwise she was alive, or ambulatory, at any rate. She rose to a standing position and held out a hand to Montclair, who gave her back her heart.
Of all he had seen that afternoon, that was the worst. Still sitting on the ground, he wet himself. He bit his lip to keep from crying out, because he was terrified of calling attention to himself. He had seen—was seeing—things that no human, he was sure, had ever witnessed. Should ever witness.
Then, it got worse.
Sadie looked at her blackened heart, held it close to her nose as if inhaling its aroma, then lowered it an inch and took a bite, as she might from an apple. She chewed, swallowed, and smiled at Montclair. Those dark, dead eyes exhibited no mirth.
As the rain fell harder, a downpour in the making, she carried the grisly prize to those shadowy onlookers. She held it just beneath their yellow eyes, and each one, in its turn, bit into the heart. Finally, she carried the last morsel to Montclair, who swallowed it whole.
Harrell cried out in mortal terror.
“I see you’ve joined us again, Wilson,” Montclair said, his neck craning in the banker’s direction. “I wasn’t at all certain.”
“I’ve l-l-lost my mind,” Harrell sputtered. “Th-that’s the only possibility! You … she, she fed those … those…”
“I call them my abominations,” Montclair said, as calmly as if they were discussing the weather on a sunny spring morning. “For lack of a better word.”
“They’re not human!”
“Of course not. They’re getting closer, though, or some are. When I first arrived they were far from it. They lurked around Thunder Moon’s skull, or hid deep in the mountains when no one threatened the relic’s hiding place. Had you seen them, you’d never have thought they were remotely human. As I began to transform the land—to terrorform it, in the vernacular—they were also transformed. They took on more human characteristics, and perhaps more significantly, the ability to mimic humanity, at least for a few hours at a time. A few days, for some.”
The words Montclair spoke were in English, but they made no sense to Harrell. “But—they ate her heart. You ate it!”
“That is one area where they’re still not even close to human. Their appetites, in fact, grow ever less human, the more human they become in outward appearance. Less recognizably human, I should say, for no matter what can be eaten, somewhere on this world there is someone who will eat it. The same holds true for every other manner of human expression.”
Harrell found the strength, somewhere, to regain his feet. He backed away from Montclair and the dead yet upright Sadie Cuttrell and Montclair’s abominations, until he bumped up against one of his horses. Surprisingly, they had remained in place through all that had occurred. Harrell wasn’t sure how long it had taken; it felt like hours, but the pale, hidden disc of the sun didn’t seem to have moved much at all.
Shaking, Harrell started to climb into the wagon, then changed his mind. If the horses hadn’t budged, they probably wouldn’t respond to his commands now, and there was no room to turn the wagon around anyway. Instead, he went past the wagon, then broke into a run, back down the trail he had followed to get here.
He had barely taken a dozen steps when the path ended at a wall of agave plants, their sword-pointed, sharp-bladed leaves bunched close together, tall stalks jutting skyward. Looking back, he saw some of the abominations breaking from the pack and coming toward him. In desperation, he waded into the agave thicket, trying to ignore the pain and push through. The leaves sliced his legs, stabbed him. His clothing in ribbons, he kept going, but he was too slow. The plants slowed him down, and he saw that beyond these, a ring of mesquite waited. Escape, if possible, would be hard-fought and painful.
He didn’t have long to worry. The abominations shoved through the agave leaves as if they weren’t there. For one brief moment, Harrell saw a way out—he was almost through the agave, and there was a single gap in the mesquite, barely big enough, he thought, for him to squeeze through.
But as he finally broke free of the bladelike leaves, one of the abominations caught him by the shoulder and sliced into it. Then the others joined in, and Harrell had just an instant, before he lost consciousness for the last time, to realize that they were tearing him to shreds.
* * *
Montclair watched his abominations return. He caught the scent of Harrell’s sweat and flesh and blood on them, and he smiled. “Well done,” he said. “But our day is far from over, and I have another task for you.”
The abominations stood in a clump, awaiting instructions. “There is one in town, a Blessed one.” He jerked a thumb toward Sadie. “I can still smell her on my queen. Some of you, breathe in her stink, and find her. Every minute she lives, she is a threat to us.”
Sadie stood still, expressionless, as abominations encircled her, catching the scent of the one Montclair had described. When they had it, they dashed off, into the storm.
With a satisfied grin, Montclair watched them go.
Chapter Forty-three
Tuck stood in his office, looking out the window as rain drenched the street. The road had become a muddy bog, pocked by the barrage. Thunder boomed in the distance, and though he couldn’t see the lightning flashes from here, he could see when it illuminated the cloud-dark sky. It was the kind of storm that filled the washes and sent flash floods hurtling across the desert with enough force to sweep away people and livestock and even wagons. There had been folks outside earlier, but once the cloudburst hit, they had disappeared.
Even as he thought that, a door at the hotel opened. Through the screen of water, Tuck s
aw a man emerge. He’d seen the man around town a few times, but didn’t know his name. He had a weathered, craggy face under a hat that looked like it had survived dozens of cattle drives. He wore no coat, just a shirt that the rain quickly plastered to his lean frame, jeans, and boots. On his hip he wore a holstered six-shooter, and he was fingering the grip as if he meant to pull it.
Tuck eyed the street, up and down, as well as he could from behind the window. Seeing no one else about, he returned to his desk, put on the hat Missy had given him, snagged a duster that Hank Turville had probably left behind, and slipped into it. Then he hurried through the door, once again looking both ways at a town that might as well have been abandoned, except for that one lone figure walking across the soupy road. Tuck hurried up the boardwalk toward him. At first, he thought the man was only crossing the street, but then instead of stepping up under the covered walkway, he kept going, past the buildings.
What was he up to? Meeting someone for a gunfight? Laying for somebody he expected to pass by? Tuck was more than curious.
“Hey! Mister!” he called out.
The man stopped and eyeballed Tuck. “It’s not against the law for a man to walk in the rain, is it, Marshal?”
“Not a bit,” Tuck said. He was still closing the distance between them, walking fast while trying to make it look unhurried. “Why don’t you come up under some cover and let’s have us a chat?”
“I got other things to do,” the man said.
“Buy you some hot coffee.”
“No time.”
“I’m Tucker Bringloe. I’ve seen you around a time or three.”
“Jed Tibbetts,” the man said.
“You look like you have something on your mind, Mr. Tibbetts. Why not step out of that rain for a minute?”
“Just as soon not. Suits my spirits.”
“Somebody done you harm?”
“Might could say that.”
“Of what nature?”
Tibbetts stood there in the rain, more soaked by the instant. He sucked in his cheeks, chewed on one for a moment, thinking it over. “Wilson Harrell sold my loan to Jasper Montclair. Montclair foreclosed. This mornin’ I owned a ranch and livestock. Now I don’t.”
“I am sorry, sir,” Tuck said. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised that Montclair and Harrell were involved. Those two seemed to have their hands in everything that happened around Carmichael.
“Sometimes life’s like that, I reckon.”
“I have to ask, Mr. Tibbetts. I understand why you’d be upset. You planning to use that iron?”
Tibbetts forced a laugh. “What, on them?”
“I’d understand the urge.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, Marshal. I’m no killer.”
“A gun in the hands of a scared or angry man has turned plenty of folks into killers who didn’t start out that way.”
“I’m sorrowful,” Tibbetts said. “Was angry, but that’s passed. Now it’s just sorrow.”
“I believe you, Mr. Tibbetts.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I got things to do.”
“I’m sorry for what happened, sir. You take care, now. Drop by and chat if you’ve a mind to.”
“Might just,” Tibbetts said. He turned away and continued, down the block and behind the buildings.
Tuck was almost back to his office when the hotel door banged open again. A woman burst out. Like Tibbetts, she wasn’t dressed for the storm. She hitched up her skirts and ran into the street, ignoring the mud that splashed all over her. She was plain-faced, worn raw by the elements, and her mouth hung open in confusion or concern. There was as much silver as brown in her hair, if not a little more.
Tuck swore softly and hurried back to the edge of the boardwalk. “Ma’am? Anything I can do?”
“I’m looking for my husband,” she said.
“What’s his name?”
“Jed. Jed Tibbetts.”
“Why, he was right here, ma’am. Right about where you’re standing, not two minutes ago.”
She swiveled her head around. “Where did he go?”
Tuck nodded toward the alley that ran behind the street. “Back there. Said he had something to—”
“You’re a fool, Marshal,” she snapped. “Jed! Jed Tibbetts!”
She had only taken two steps in that direction, mud sucking at her feet, when they heard the gunshot.
Tuck came off the boardwalk, into the mud. “Ma’am, you stay here. I’ll check.”
She slapped him, a stinging blow that wounded him on more levels than he cared to examine. They both ran through the bog, Tuck outpacing her to the corner.
When he reached it, he tried to hold her back. “You should really let me do this,” he said, his face still burning from her palm. “You don’t want to see this.”
“I’ve been married to him for thirty-three years,” she said, writhing out of his grip. “I’ve seen him in every state there is. I can see this.”
“It’s bad.”
“Of course it is.”
She broke free and went around him. When she saw her husband, she gave a yip of sadness tinged with terror.
He lay on his side in the mud, partly up against the back of a building. His finger was still inside the trigger guard. On the wall above him was a bloody spray with chunks of bone and brain mixed in it.
She raced to his side and dropped to her knees in the mud. Tuck grabbed her again, trying to pull her away. “Mrs. Tibbetts, please, let me—”
A new voice rang out, one that he recognized. “Stand away from there, Bringloe!” Mo Kanouse called.
“Mo, this isn’t the time,” Tuck replied. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw Kanouse bearing down on him, holding a shotgun Tuck recognized as the double-barreled sawed-off from the rack by his desk. Behind him, drenched despite a derby hat and a heavy black coat, stood Mayor Chaffee. Alf Maier brought up the rear, rain dancing off his shiny scalp and spotting his glasses.
“That ain’t your call to make,” Kanouse said. “Seein’ as how you ain’t the marshal no more.”
Tuck released Mrs. Tibbetts, who was trying to scoop her husband out of the mud as if that was the only thing sapping the life from him. “What are you talking about?”
“He’s right,” Chaffee said. “Mr. Bringloe, the town council has discussed it, and our determination is that you’re not the right man for this job after all. You’ll be paid for two weeks’ work, which is more than you’ve done. I think that’s a generous offer. Please, hand your badge and gun to Marshal Kanouse.”
“You’re letting this blowhard be marshal?” Tuck asked. “You must hate this town more than I thought.”
“Hobble your lip, Bringloe,” Kanouse said. He kept the scattergun leveled at Tuck’s midriff with his right hand, and held out his left, palm up. “Let’s have that star. And the six-gun.”
Although he had only taken the job because Turville had insisted upon it, Tuck found that he hated to give it up. Especially to Kanouse. Didn’t the fact that Tuck had fired him tell the town council something about his character?
But that was a foolish question, since the mayor and another councilmember were backing his play. He wondered if he could draw down on Kanouse, clear leather before the man squeezed the trigger. That idea vanished as quickly as it had come—he was no fast-draw artist. He hated guns, and hadn’t worn one for years, until Turville had conscripted him onto that posse. He’d be as likely to shoot himself in the foot. And at this range, Kanouse would blow him all over the wall and both Tibbettses.
He yanked the badge from his vest, then gingerly drew the pistol using his thumb and one finger. Kanouse twitched his hand again, and Tuck gave him what he wanted. “Now beat it,” Kanouse said. “Before I run you in as a vagrant.”
Tuck walked slowly through the clinging muck to the corner. There he stopped for a moment and eyed Kanouse, talking to Mrs. Tibbetts’s back as she grasped the husband Tuck had failed to save.
He went on, th
en, around the corner and out of sight. Halting again before the boardwalk, he considered his situation. He had a few dollars in his pocket, and more on the way, though he didn’t know when. The new clothes he was wearing—sodden, now—were the only things he owned. He couldn’t go back into what had so briefly been his office, and he had no other home.
He was, all things considered, right back to where he had been before he had seen Daisie’s murderer on the stairs.
It was not, he thought, much of an accomplishment.
PART THREE
Thunder Moon
Chapter Forty-four
What does a drunkard do, Tuck asked himself, when he has a little money and no prospects?
Answer: he drinks.
At least Senora Soto’s was dry on the inside. And so was he.
He could practically feel that liquid fire splashing down his gullet. An hour before, he’d have kicked the mud off his boots before he went in. But an hour ago he’d had a job, a purpose, some degree of dignity. Like his rise to captain, though, that had been a mistake, a coincidence of timing combined with his capability to kill when necessary. His mother’s legacy had returned in full force. He didn’t amount to anything; never had and never would. If death was his only offering to the world, then maybe what Tibbetts had done was an example he should think about following.
First things first, though.
Senora Soto looked up from her card game when he walked in. Three men sat around her at the table. “What brings you here, Marshal?”
“I’m not marshal anymore,” Tuck said. “I’m just a man who needs a drink.”
“You’re not? Since when?”
He peeled off his hat, dumping rainwater on the floor. “About five minutes back.”
“I won’t ask what happened,” she said. “This town.”
“Quite a place,” he agreed. He went to the bar, where one of the upstairs girls, a slender blonde named Sally Jo, was filling in for Jack. “Whiskey,” he said. “Don’t be stingy.”
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