Dolan must’ve taken charge after he’d . . . disappeared; and Dolan looked like by now he enjoyed being the big bug. He was the one Jake would have to face down . . . or take down, if it came to that. He looked like a surly son of a bitch, but Jake figured that came with the territory.
The man standing beside Dolan had to be Bull McCade: He was big as a bull, and from the way he stood, probably Dolan’s muscle. McCade wore a top hat, with a vest made of miscellaneous animal pelts over his shirt, and leather pants. Jake was glad Bull was standing downwind.
So Pat Dolan needed an enforcer, to keep order. . . .
He dismounted, watching Dolan the whole time, as prepared for anything as he could be. “You don’t look happy to see me, Dolan,” he said, sticking with the obvious.
“You got some balls, ridin’ back here like nothin’ ever happened.” Dolan’s face turned from wary to ugly before he’d finished the sentence. “No, Lonergan—” Dolan said, his voice dripping venom, “I ain’t happy to see you.”
Jake stopped moving, holding Dolan’s stare as he tried to figure out how to get past bad blood he didn’t even remember. “You’ll get over it,” the Scourge of the Territories said.
Jake turned away as if Dolan had ceased to exist, and looked toward the rest of the men. If he was their leader, then he better start acting like it. “Boys,” he said, “grab your guns. We’re ridin’ out.”
The rest of his gang stood glancing at one another in confusion, the way the two named Bronc and Hunt had, back in the canyon—like they didn’t know what had just happened, or what was going on.
“But Jake . . .” Bronc said finally, speaking for all of them. “You . . . you said you didn’t wanna be in charge no more.”
Jake barely kept his own eyes from going wide in surprise. He glanced at Ella. Maybe Doc had been right. . . . He hated even thinking about it. He felt like he’d just put a noose around all their necks, and now his gang was trying to spring the trap door under them.
“—changed my mind.” He lifted his head, and raised his voice. “So saddle the hell up!”
“They’re not goin’ anywhere with you.” Dolan had blood in his eyes now. “We’re fixin’ to rob us a coach and that is exactly what we’re gonna do.”
Jake turned back, as something about the word “coach” set off alarms from his brain down to his boots. They’d robbed a coach just last month—the one with Dolarhyde’s gold on it. It was too soon to hit the stage line again, especially after waylaying the bullion coach: The gang was still hotter than a whorehouse on nickel night. Dolan was going to get them all killed, or taken. You never let your patterns become predictable, if you wanted to stay alive. . . .
He frowned. The boys ought to have plenty of gold left. He wondered why the hell they were all still here, and not in Mexico, spending it.
The tension in the air was so thick now that it would have been easier to chew than to breathe. The people Jake had brought with him had dismounted when he did, and now they were surrounded again. Their looks were as surprised, but a lot more uneasy, than the looks on the faces of his gang.
Dolan moved toward Ella, getting way too close before he stopped. He looked her over with a mix of curiosity and contempt. “Are you her?” he asked.
“Am I who?” Ella stood her ground; her face was preternaturally calm.
“The whore Jake quit this gang for.”
Jake’s fists tightened as another piece of the puzzle that had been his life snapped into place. His eyes met Ella’s as she glanced toward him—both of them realizing that Dolan thought she was the woman in his picture . . . Alice.
Dolan turned back to Jake, checking his reaction.
“Watch your mouth,” Jake said, his voice cold.
Dolan smirked. “Or what? I run this outfit now.” Intent on proving it, he called out, “Put your guns on the whore! He so much as twitches, blow her brains out her ear!”
At once, thirty guns were leveled at Ella’s head, leaving no question in anybody’s mind who the men of Jake’s gang were loyal to now. Hunt stepped up to Jake and took his pistol. “Sorry,” he said, smiling.
Jake glanced at the others he’d brought here along with Ella . . . outnumbered five-to-one, and completely outgunned. Damn it—
Jake looked back at Dolan as if he hadn’t just had his own gun pointed at him. “Call her a whore again,” he said, “it’ll be the last thing you ever say.”
Dolan laughed once. “You ain’t in no position to make threats, boy. You’re unarmed.” He glanced up, nodding to the man who was standing beside Jake now. “Put him down, Bull.”
Jake followed his glance, with barely time to react as a fist the size of a ham came at his face. It hit him, hard.
He staggered and fell flat on his back. The ground was as hard as Bull’s fist. He struggled to raise his head, his eyes barely focusing. But still, he managed to push himself up onto his elbows, and then get to a sitting position. Dolarhyde and Nat Colorado were both wincing—probably the only two people who really knew how he felt, at the moment.
But Dolarhyde showed a faint smile as he saw Jake glance his way. “Got his hands full, here,” he said to the others.
Doc quit attempting to stare down the six-footer beside him, and gave Dolarhyde the most fed-up look Jake had ever seen. “Wanna step in?”
Dolarhyde shook his head, his smile widening with spiteful amusement. “He’s doing okay by himself.”
Dolan strode up to Jake like the cock of the walk. “Where the hell’s our gold?”
Gold. . . . That gold? Jake recalled the look on Alice’s face as gold coins spilled out of his saddlebags onto the table, in his memory from the cabin . . . but not before he saw Dolarhyde’s start at the mention of gold.
Jake managed to get his feet under him, and stood up. He spat blood as he looked back at Dolan, and grinned. “Don’t remember.”
Dolan nodded to Bull. Even ready for it, Jake couldn’t move fast enough to dodge a fraction of the second blow. Bull hit him in the gut, and knocked him sprawling.
Jake retched and spat this time, a lot, before he could even lift his head.
His entire existence was turning into a blur of pain. He dragged the top half of his body up to a sitting position again, not even sure why he bothered. But this time, he glanced toward the others he’d put in this fix; ignoring Dolarhyde, looking for what showed in the eyes of Ella and Doc, Charlie and Emmett.
He saw fear, and helplessness, and anger—but not anger directed at him. No hatred for what he was, no disgust at what he’d done to them . . . only an empathy that was hard for him even to look at, let alone comprehend.
They would have helped him, if they had any choice; fought for him if there was any way they could . . . not because he had a gun for demons, but because they were good people, and he was . . . he. . . . He got up on his own, stood on his own two feet again, the pain fading into background noise as Dolan came toward him . . . because this wasn’t finished yet.
Dolan looked at him in a way that suggested he was looking at raw meat. “Well,” Dolan said, “I do remember you tellin’ us you was leavin’ us high and dry because of some woman—”
And Bull hit him in the chest, so hard that he flew off his feet.
He hit the ground, sliding, with the wind knocked out of him. He struggled to inhale, couldn’t; his chest felt like he’d been nailed to the ground with a railroad spike. His lungs wouldn’t even work. . . .
He felt his consciousness slipping, his mind falling through reality . . . into his place of refuge. . . .
. . . the rain ran like tears down the windowpane . . . Alice’s arms closed around him, her voice murmuring in his ear. . . .
“It’d be a better life . . . clear your conscience. You don’t even sleep a full night anymore—”
. . . feeling her warmth against his skin, her longing for him . . . for them to start fresh . . . like the spring-green world where sweet rain fell, softening the pitiless land. . . .
; . . . sweet rain . . . he closed his eyes . . .
You’re dreaming. Wake up—
. . . he opened his eyes to a sunbaked plain, where life lay dying of thirst abandoned, like hope. . . . Soulless predator, hopeless prey: adapt or die. . . . The way it had always been; would always be. . . .
“It ain’t that simple.”
“It is.” Alice’s body twined with his, until they formed a lover’s knot against the rain-streaked windowpane. “We can leave all this behind, make peace with our bad deeds—”
. . . And holding her, he could almost believe—
No, it’s all a dream. Wake up—!
It had always been too late, for him. . . .
“Bad’s all I was ever good at.” He shook his head.
“You’re wrong,” she whispered. “I know you’re a good man.”
. . . and as she kissed him . . .
. . . Jake woke up, lying on his back in the dirt. He opened his eyes, blinking at the empty, sunburned sky. Lost. . . .
. . . a good man . . . Alice, his lover, the only one who’d ever believed in him. And he’d left her. . . . to them . . .
“Alice . . .” he whispered. He raised his head, and saw Ella. She was staring back at him with a look of grief on her face that made him hurt. The look said she knew exactly what part of him had been left aching and dizzy by a dream, a place physical pain couldn’t reach. As if somehow she even saw through into his dreams, as he’d relived every moment of—
Pat Dolan’s booted foot broke his contact with Ella’s eyes, as Dolan stood over him, looking down. “Guess you just left out the part about taking our goddamned gold from that coach.”
Oh, God— Jake let his head fall back. He caught a glimpse of the look on Dolarhyde’s face now, heard Dolarhyde mutter, “. . . my gold. . . .”
We’re all alike, Jake thought. Bastards . . . demons. . . .
“So I’m gonna ask you one last time—” Dolan said, making him look up, “where’s my gold?”
Bull caught Jake by the arm and pulled him up to his knees. Jake glared at Dolan, his hand tightened into a fist.
Dolan punched him in the face. Bull grabbed Jake’s hair as his head flew back, and yanked him upright again. Dolan hit him again. Face to face, Dolan repeated, “One last time . . . where’s my gold?”
Jake looked up at him with eyes that saw only blurs of motion; his mouth and throat were full of blood. He coughed rackingly and sucked in a breath that sounded like a death rattle. He remembered Meacham, dying. . . .
Everyone who’d made the mistake of getting close to him was going to die . . . or they already had. And it was always his fault. Like the desert, that was all he’d ever been good at: making things die. . . .
“. . . demons . . .” he mumbled.
“What’s that?” Dolan shook him, refusing to let him fade away now.
“Demons stole your gold . . .” Jake gasped, forcing his battered mouth to form the words clearly, “. . . when you get to Hell you can ask for it back. . . .”
Dolan tsked at him, like he was a stubborn child. Bull let go of him, and he collapsed in the dirt again.
“That’s the way you wanna do it—” Dolan looked back over his shoulder, and said, “Kill the whore.”
Jake heard the gang cock their rifles, taking aim at Ella as he fought his own body for control; tried to make himself get up, hit somebody, do something— But his body wasn’t listening anymore.
Instead, the demon-killer on his wrist suddenly came alive.
He blinked his eyes halfway clear, saw blue light on his arm—a lot of it—as the weapon opened up, wrapping itself around his wrist and hand like it was trying to drag him out of a pit.
An indescribable sensation spread up his arm, burning like invisible fire. The shockwave hit his brain, jolting him alert. It went on spreading through his whole body . . . almost as if he was a part of the weapon, and not just wearing it.
He sat up without realizing he had, and saw Dolan clearly—saw the disbelief on Dolan’s face, and his hand dropping toward his pistol. Jake raised his arm without thinking; as the target covered Dolan, the demon gun fired.
The beam of blue light hit Dolan before his hand reached his holster, and punched him backwards. Dolan’s body flew fifteen feet through the air before it hit the ground, stone dead.
Not for the first time, Jake found everyone in his vicinity staring at him. He staggered to his feet and stayed there, feeling stronger with every heartbeat. The bleeding had stopped; he knew he was in pain, but somehow he couldn’t feel it.
He looked toward Dolan’s body, what was left of it. “Told you not to call her that,” he said hoarsely.
And then he turned, looking from stunned face to stunned face in the circle of his former gang—the men who’d watched as Dolan and Bull nearly beat him to death, who in another second would’ve killed Ella, without a trace of regret. . . . He kept turning until he faced the speechless Bull McCade. He kicked Bull in the balls, doubling him over. “Everybody drop your guns—”
Hunt laid down his own gun and handed Jake’s back to him without hesitation. One by one, the others surrendered their weapons.
Jake grabbed his hat, all the while keeping his other arm high. With the demon gun still glowing on his wrist, he backed toward the handful of people he’d almost killed . . . and might yet, if his luck didn’t hold. “Mount up,” he said.
“—What—?” Dolarhyde said.
“On your horses—go! Those things are close!” Jake almost shouted, wondering what about the demon gun’s alarm they still didn’t understand.
This time they all moved, while he held the gang at bay.
He swung up onto his own horse. Pulling its head around, he led the others through the gap-toothed barrier of stone into the desert, leaving his old gang behind one more time.
12
Jake and the others rode like hell away from the outlaw camp, out across the plain, with no goal in mind except finding refuge from demons. His wrist weapon was still alive and targeting . . . something. What did it expect him to do now?
Jake heard Dolarhyde shout a warning behind him. He looked back, and saw his gang coming after them—not demons. It didn’t surprise him that the gang was on their tail: he might as well be made of gold . . . their gold. He’d crossed his own gang. He’d deserved that beating, and worse. But for the sake of the others, he still hoped the demons found his gang before the gang could reach him. He glanced down at his wrist; the weapon was still fully open, ready to fire. That wasn’t right. He looked ahead again, and suddenly realized why.
Jesus Christ, they were riding in the wrong direction.
He could see it coming now: A billowing sand cloud on the horizon, moving inhumanly fast, coming their way. In the harsh light of day he could actually make out the forms of the killing machines, gleaming in the sunlit sky.
It was his turn to shout a warning: He pointed ahead, then waved at the others to turn back, as he pulled his own horse up just short enough so he could heel it around without falling. The others did the same; he saw their stricken faces as they realized they had no real choice left, and picked the lesser of two evils.
As they spurred their horses back toward the gang, Jake wondered what the boys would make of this. His former friends raised their rifles and started shooting. That figured. He guessed they thought he’d gone crazy—he couldn’t blame them for that. Or maybe they just wanted him dead. Either way, he kept his head down and hoped to God nobody got hit before the gang figured out what was really happening.
He heard bullets whine past as the two groups of riders closed. They were well within rifle range now. He told himself it took more luck than skill for most men to hit any moving target smaller than a train from the back of a running horse; he hoped it was true . . . hoped it was his turn to get lucky. Look up, you stupid sons of bitches—!
The shooting stopped as the gang finally saw what was really coming after them. He was close enough by then to see the loo
ks on their faces when they pulled their own horses up short, trying to turn tail before it was too late.
But it was already too late. The bola ropes began to spiral down through the sandstorm, striking random targets and snatching them up into the sky. Before his gang knew what’d hit them, they were losing members fast, as men were jerked, screaming, from their horses’ backs. The few outlaws who still had working brains started shooting at the flyers. Jake already knew that was useless.
Charlie Lyle, riding close by Emmett’s side, suddenly disappeared as he was taken by a rope that would have caught the boy.
“They’re comin’ back!” Dolarhyde shouted, looking up at the sky as the flyers that had passed over their heads made impossible turns in the air. “They’re comin’ back!” He yelled at the rest to spread out; his group actually listened, scattering in all directions.
Jake rode away after Ella, not about to lose her now. If they were followed, maybe he could get a clear shot at the flyer. The demon gun was ready to kill demons, or it wouldn’t have changed . . . but he seemed to be the only human being it cared about. He didn’t know anymore who owned who, but it wouldn’t matter to him, if the goddamn thing would only do its dirty job.
One of the flyers swerved away from the main group, as if the demon in it was intentionally out to get Ella. Or him. The demons owned the gun . . . maybe they wanted it back. Maybe it didn’t want to go. . . . That was something he could relate to.
He looked back, raising the weapon to take aim as the flyer closed with them. Come on, he thought. Do it—!
The gun obeyed him for once, and he saw the streak of blue light hit something on the infernal machine, saw the explosion. But at the same time the flyer fired a bola rope. The bola streaked toward Ella; she cried out as it jerked her into the air. Jake froze in mid-aim as he tried to fire again, afraid the blue lightning would hit Ella.
He’d hit the flyer with his first shot—but this time, that hadn’t been enough to bring it down. He couldn’t risk another shot, but if the thing got away from him now, Ella was as good as dead anyway. . . .
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