Jackson smiled. “That’s right,” he said. “I’m Hell.”
But he was talking to a dead man, a man who had died with confusion etched on his pain-wracked face.
Chapter 2
Jackson rode into the town of Death Head Crossing a little before dusk, a burlap bag slung over the saddle in front of him.
The day hadn’t gone anything like what he would have expected when he broke camp that morning. He was a little tired. It had taken him an hour to find the old man’s cabin, then another hour to rip up the floorboards and dig down into the ground underneath the building.
He had found the treasure, though.
Jackson looked down at the bag hanging on his saddle. Now all he had to do was find the old man’s granddaughter and pass on the legacy.
His horse moved at a slow walk, which gave Jackson a chance to study the town. Its wide main street was well-packed dirt, lined on both sides with false-fronted frame structures. Some of the houses on the outskirts were adobe, but the business buildings were constructed of wide planks milled from lumber brought in from the hills. A narrow creek drifted along just to the west of town. Oaks and cottonwoods had sprung up along it, adding a touch of green to an otherwise flat and fairly colorless landscape around Death Head Crossing. Jackson seemed to remember hearing a story about how the community got its name. An early pioneer, passing through the area on his way to another dream somewhere else, had seen a grisly reminder of the nearness of death on the banks of the creek. A longhorn, wild most likely, had died there for some unknown reason, and scavengers had left nothing but a scattering of bones. The bleached skull, with its long sweep of horns, was prominent among them. The pioneer had told of seeing the longhorn’s skull, and the place had gradually been dubbed Death Head Crossing. The name had stuck, and Jackson wondered what the citizens thought of living in a town with such a name.
Evidently, the name hadn’t scared off too many people. Main Street was busy. Several men who looked like cowhands rode here and there, and carriages carrying townspeople rolled along, iron wheels cutting tracks in the dust. There was plenty of foot traffic too. Business was booming. The mercantile stores clustered at the near end of town were full of customers coming and going. Parked next to the sidewalks were farmers’ wagons being loaded with supplies.
Jackson saw a bank, telegraph office, newspaper office, and sheriff’s office and jail clustered near the center of town. At the far end of the street were the saloons and bawdy houses. Some of the citizens probably didn’t like them being there, but Jackson had never run across a town without them. In this case, though, they were carefully separated from the part of town most frequently visited by the upright, God-fearing inhabitants.
He passed a whitewashed church surrounded by scrubby trees. Jackson pulled back on the reins and brought the horse to a stop. He swung down out of the saddle, looped the reins loosely over a bush, and walked to the doorway of the church.
The double doors were partially open, and Jackson pushed through them into the shaded interior. Inside, the church was cool compared to the late afternoon outside. Jackson’s footsteps echoed hollowly as he walked down the aisle toward the raised pulpit at the front.
It had been a long time since he had been in a church, a long time since he had wanted to be in a church. He called, “Anybody home?”
“Up here,” a voice said, floating down from above.
A smile played around the corners of Jackson’s mouth. With an answer like that, the logical assumption was—
He heard someone clambering down a ladder, and a moment later, a tall man in a broadcloth suit emerged from a small room at the rear of the church. “Excuse me, I was up in the steeple repairing the bell ropes,” he said with a smile. “Can I help—” His eyes fell on Jackson then, and he broke off before finishing his sentence. The smile stayed on his face, but his eyes became hard and suspicious.
“What’s the matter, preacher?” Jackson asked.
The minister’s gaze moved over Jackson, took in the easy, alert stance, the way his right hand stayed within a few inches of his gun butt, the low, tied-down holster. “Everyone is welcome in the Lord’s house,” he said after a moment. The rest of his thoughts went unspoken.
“That’s good. But I didn’t come for praying or preaching. I want some information.”
“I’ll be glad to help you if I can, my friend.”
“Do you know an old Indio, lives about five or six miles north of here in a run-down shack? Lived there, I should say.”
The meaning of Jackson’s statement wasn’t lost on the minister. “That sounds like old Julio,” he replied. “Has something happened to him?”
Jackson ignored that question for the moment and went on. “He’s got a granddaughter. Do you know her, or know where I can find her?”
“Of course. Everyone around here knows Philomena. She works as a cook and a waitress over at the boardinghouse.”
“She’ll be there now?”
The preacher was obviously puzzled by the questions. “She should be,” he said. “I insist you tell me what’s happened to her grandfather.”
“His body’s in a wash up to the north,” Jackson said, not sugarcoating the news. “Three men were working him over. Their bodies are there too.”
The preacher had caught his breath at the news of old Julio’s death. Now he blanched at the implications of what Jackson had told him.
“Merciful God,” he breathed. “You killed them?”
“Seemed fitting, after what they’d done to the old man and all. But I figured somebody might want to bury ’em anyway.” Jackson gave a brusque nod and started toward the door. “Thanks for the information about the girl.”
The minister caught his arm as he passed. Jackson stopped and stood still, not looking at him, and after a long moment, the preacher dropped his hand from Jackson’s arm. “Just a minute,” he said. “Who are you? What business have you got with Philomena?”
“Name’s Hell Jackson. And my business with Philomena is between her and me.” The words came flat and cold from him.
He stalked out of the church without a backward look.
Reverend Martin Driscoll followed him to the door and watched him walk away, leading his horse. There was something about this man. . . . Driscoll had been in the West long enough to know a gunman when he saw one, but this Hell Jackson—what an unholy name!—this Jackson seemed even more dangerous than most.
Jackson had no trouble finding the boardinghouse. It was late enough in the day for the mouthwatering aromas of supper to be drifting out into the street from the open door of the two-story clapboard building. He tied his horse at the rail outside, held his hat in his left hand, and walked in.
To the right of the entrance foyer was a parlor, to the left the large dining room that all boardinghouses boasted. Several of the boarders were gathered around a long table, serving themselves from big plates of food in the center. As Jackson stood in the foyer and watched, two serving girls brought in more platters and deposited them on the table.
A heavy, middle-aged woman in a print dress appeared at his side. “Help you, sir?” she asked, but her tone was dubious. Jackson knew he didn’t look like the boardinghouse’s usual type of patron.
“I’m looking for a girl called Philomena,” he said.
“Why?” the woman snapped back at him. “My girls are good girls, young ladies every one.”
“I don’t doubt it, ma’am. I just want to talk to Philomena. I have a message for her from her grandfather.”
The woman snorted. “What sort of trouble is old Julio in now? Doesn’t he think that girl has anything better to do than take care of him?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.” Jackson kept his voice soft. “If you’ll just tell me which of the girls is Philomena . . . ?”
“Oh, all right.” The woman raised her voice. “Philomena! Come here, girl.”
One of the serving girls put a platter of potatoes on the table and then came toward
the foyer with a worried expression on her pretty face. She kept her dark eyes on the floor, afraid to look up at Jackson. She was young, no more than eighteen or nineteen, with the loveliness of youth.
“Philomena, this man wants to talk to you,” the woman told her. “Says he’s got some sort of message from your grandfather.” She folded her arms across her bountiful bosom and waited, evidently intending to hear whatever Jackson had to say.
He took Philomena’s arm and said, “Maybe we’d better go into the parlor, Philomena. My name’s Jackson.”
He led the girl into the parlor, paying no attention to the disapproval on the woman’s face. This was her place and she would be within her rights to order him out, but somehow he didn’t think she would.
Jackson sat the girl down in an armchair with a lace antimacassar. She nervously twisted her hands in the white apron she wore over her long red skirt and still wouldn’t look at him. He put his hat on a little table beside the chair and knelt in front of her, feeling more than a trifle foolish.
“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you, Philomena,” he said. “Your grandfather is dead.”
Her breathing increased, the full young breasts rising and falling more quickly, but that was the only outward sign of her shock at the news.
“The men who were responsible for his death, they’re dead now too,” Jackson went on. “I got to your grandfather and talked to him before he died. He told me about you.”
Philomena muttered something under her breath, and it took Jackson a second to realize that she was saying a prayer.
“He was thinking of you at the last, Philomena,” he went on, trying to soften it as much as possible for her. “He told me about his treasure. He told me to get it and bring it to you.”
Finally, she looked up at him. “You have his treasure?” she asked in a whisper, her words softly accented.
“It’s outside, on my horse.”
She didn’t seem surprised that he would leave it unattended. That meant she probably knew what it was, Jackson thought. Still, she was touched by what he had done. “Gracias,” she said, looking away from him again. She got to her feet, went to the foyer, and spoke in rapid Spanish to the owner of the boardinghouse, who had stood there throughout the conversation, tapping her foot impatiently. Jackson stood up, plucked his hat from the table. He would give Philomena the burlap bag; then he could get on with his own life.
She came to him and stood before him. “Señor Jackson,” she said, “will you please come with me to my house?”
The request surprised him. “I can just give you the stuff,” he began.
“No. Please, come with me. I wish to thank you . . . for what you did for my grandfather.”
Well, if she was going to put it like that, Jackson didn’t see any way he could refuse.
“I will feed you,” Philomena went on. Her eyes glanced back at her employer for an instant. “Better than what you would get here,” she said, so low that the woman couldn’t hear her.
Jackson tried not to grin at the comment. Still wearing her apron, Philomena went to the door, and Jackson followed her.
Outside, Jackson fell into step beside the girl after untying his horse. The sun was gone now, though it still spread a fan of light in the sky, and the breeze that swept through the town carried a hint of coolness that was refreshing after the heat of the day. Philomena was silent as she walked, and Jackson didn’t intrude on that silence.
She led him to an adobe hut at the edge of town, beyond the saloons. It was dark inside, but within moments, she had a candle lit, its glow spreading softly.
There was a table in the center of the room with several chairs around it. “Please, sit,” Philomena said. “I will prepare your meal.”
Jackson did as she told him. As she moved around the hut, he watched her in the candlelight. There was an easy grace about her, her muscles working fluidly and smoothly. She kept the grief she must be feeling off her face, and Jackson had to remind himself of it as her nearness and her beauty began to affect him. It had been a while since he had talked to a woman for any length of time. Being constantly on the move meant that a man missed some of life’s pleasures.
She shared the meal with him, and he had to admit that it was probably better than what he would have gotten at the boardinghouse. He hadn’t eaten all day except for some jerky in the saddle, and the tortillas and beans and corn mush were very good, especially washed down with some wine she had in a jug. She offered him another jug, this one filled with mescal, but Jackson said no to that. This wasn’t the time for hard liquor.
When the meal was finished, Jackson decided he couldn’t put it off any longer. He went out to his horse and brought back the bag. When he put it down on the table next to the remains of their supper, a faint clinking and rattling came from it.
“I’m sure sorry about your grandfather, Philomena,” he said.
“He was a boastful old man,” she replied with a rueful smile. “And a terrible liar besides. More trouble than he was worth. Still, he was my grandfather, and I mourn his death.”
Jackson untied the knot he had put in the neck of the bag. “Wish I had more of an inheritance to pass on to you.” He reached inside and took out an object. It was a small statue made of clay, a study of Madonna and Child. Very crudely formed and painted, it was obviously worthless. Another small sculpture, this one of the Crucifixion, followed. There were rosary beads, pendants, miniatures in gilt frames that had turned green with age . . . all the paraphernalia of ritual that an old Indio who had gotten religion might have collected, plus other items that were equally worthless.
“My grandfather’s treasure,” Philomena whispered as she sat at the table and looked at the array spread before her.
“Must’ve meant a lot to him,” Jackson said. “Maybe that’ll mean something to you.” He settled his hat on his head. “My thanks for the meal.” He turned away.
Philomena caught him before he reached the door. She took hold of his forearm with both hands. Her fingers were warm and strong.
“Please . . . do not go.”
Jackson looked down at her and tried to read her face. There was grief in her eyes, but at the same time, the death of her grandfather hadn’t been unexpected to her. He saw gratitude as well. She was grateful, and probably surprised, that a stranger would go out of his way to bring her a bag of worthless trinkets just because a dying old man had asked him to. And there was something else, something besides grief and gratitude....
“That old hen at the boardinghouse knows I’m here,” he said. “And the preacher has probably figured out as much, since he’s the one who told me where to find you. Thanks again for supper, but we’d better leave it at that.”
She shook her head. “I do not care.”
“I do.”
Jackson settled his hat on his head and turned away from her. Leaving that hut wasn’t the easiest thing he had ever done, but after the things he had seen and done this day, it wasn’t the hardest either.
Full night had fallen now, the stars overhead standing out brightly against the dark backdrop. Lanterns were lit in all the saloons, and as Jackson walked back down the packed dirt of the street, he heard the tinkle of music floating out of the buildings. A faint smile touched his grim lips as boisterous laughter drowned out the music for a few seconds. Now those were inviting sounds, and he intended to answer that invitation.
As he stepped up onto the plank sidewalk that ran in front of the saloons, a shadowy figure moved out of an alley a few feet away. Instantly, Jackson was ready. There was no tension about him, only an alert patience. To anyone who lived by the gun, that stance would speak volumes.
Jackson kept his hand where it was, close to the butt of his pistol, as Reverend Driscoll said, “Good evening, Mr. Jackson. I trust you located Philomena without any trouble.”
“That’s right. My business with her is over.”
“Then you’ll be leaving our town soon.”
In the
gloom of the sidewalk, Driscoll couldn’t see the flicker of anger in Jackson’s eyes. Leaving Death Head Crossing was exactly what he had intended to do once he got a drink in his belly and a night’s sleep. But now, out of sheer cussedness maybe, he changed his mind.
“No,” he said. “I believe I’ll be around for a while.” He smiled at Driscoll. “I’m starting to like it here.”
Chapter 3
“Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for a gunslinger.”
The young man who tapped on Jackson’s arm and made that request looked out of place. He was dressed for a drawing room in some New York City mansion, not a dusty, smelly saloon in a town like Death Head Crossing. Jackson turned slightly, rested one arm on the scarred surface of the bar.
“Is that so?” he asked. “And who might you be?”
“My name is Everett Sidney Howard,” the young man replied. “I’m from the Universe.”
Jackson’s eyes took in the black derby hat, the gray suit, the silk shirt with frills at collar and cuffs, the ascot with the glittery stickpin, and the brightly polished, uncomfortable-looking shoes. “Not the same one I’m from,” he said.
“No, you don’t understand. I’m a reporter for the New York Universe. I’m looking for a man named Jackson. I was told that he’s a famous gunman.”
Jackson let his lips curve in a slight smile. “Don’t believe everything you’re told, boy. Haven’t you heard about Westerners and their tall tales?”
“But I had it on good authority—”
“I’m Jackson,” he cut in, lifting the shot glass of whiskey to his lips. “What do you want?”
The young man’s earnest face lit up. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-three, with honest, open features and carrot-colored hair under the hat. He smiled at Jackson and said, “I’d like to interview you, sir.”
Jackson drained the whiskey, placed the glass back on the bar, and sighed. “What the devil for?”
“I’m sure our readers would like to know all about the life of a famous gunslinger such as yourself—”
“All the famous gunslingers are dead,” Jackson said. “They didn’t get famous until somebody put a bullet in them. Not interested, son.”
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