Cowboys and Aliens

by Joan D. Vinge

  A good man. He looked up at the sky again, wondering if that could possibly be true.

  20

  Word spread faster than locusts could strip a wheat field: Gold had come back to Absolution. It’d come raining down from the desert sky, miraculously, in the middle of a cloudless day, according to some accounts.

  The last half of that news had given everybody who heard it a good laugh; the first half had started them packing their bags, or their mules.

  The streets of the town were already beginning to come alive with wagons and horses and people—not just Dolarhyde’s cowhands anymore, but faces both old and new: prospectors who’d pitched their tents at the edge of town, coming in to buy supplies for their personal plans to strike it rich, and people who were there to open or reopen stores and other establishments prepared to sell them anything they could afford.

  The Gold Leaf Saloon was alive and kicking—kicking up heels, anyway, in the middle of the afternoon. The new piano player deftly played “Lorena”—Doc and Maria’s personal favorite—one more time, as they danced together, rejoicing in life. The tables were already mostly filled with hungry customers who’d come for Maria’s home cooking, but later the bar would be crowded with drinkers.

  Bronc and Hunt, newly arrived, stood at the bar with a bag of gold nuggets sitting on the counter in front of them, ready to start the evening early.

  It was Hunt’s turn to buy the drinks, but he didn’t mind—he couldn’t help feeling good-natured as he looked at the reminder of his personal fortune, one of the many bags of gold each gang member had managed to collect and stash away before anyone from outside even arrived.

  He grinned as he watched Doc dancing with his wife. She was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen; wearing a new deep-red silk dress; she looked like a rose in bloom. But after so long in the desert, Hunt was a thirsty man. “How many more songs we gotta sit through before we can get a drink?” he called out, as “Lorena” came to an end again.

  Doc grinned back at him. “Simmer down, Hot Sauce,” he said. “Just happy to see my wife—I’m coming.” Before he broke away, Maria gave him a kiss that made Hunt’s eyebrows rise; he heard Bronc laugh appreciatively beside him.

  Still smiling, Doc moved behind the bar and got out a bottle of his best whiskey to pour the two men a round. “Muy amable,” Bronc said, and Doc nodded. It occurred to Hunt that Bronc had the best manners he’d ever seen, for somebody whose name meant “rowdy.”

  Hunt raised his glass to Doc, and took a gulp. Nectar of the gods . . . he thought, and sighed. Maybe he’d die in bed yet.

  DOC NOTICED THAT a couple of other familiar faces had arrived at the bar. He left Bronc and Hunt to their bottle and moved on down the bar to find out what the unlikely duo of Emmett, the sheriff’s grandson, and Percy Dolarhyde wanted. Doc realized he hadn’t seen Percy acting drunk, loud, or obnoxious once since they’d all returned to Absolution—in fact, he’d hardly seen him at all. Percy wasn’t even wearing a gun anymore.

  “A drink for me and my friend?” Percy said, in a perfectly sociable voice, as he nodded at Emmett.

  Doc looked at them, dubious. “Isn’t your friend a little young to be standing at the bar?”

  “Not after what he’s been through.” Percy said, with a small grin, and added, “Two sarsaparillas.”

  As Doc reached for the bottle of non-alcoholic root beer, Percy reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wad of money. He laid it on the bar, pushing it toward Doc, meeting his stare as he said, “And this should take care of any outstanding debts.” He glanced down. “And I thank you for your patience.”

  As he raised his head again, Doc gave him back a smile of appreciation, keeping his amazement to himself. Will wonders never cease, he thought. Percy Dolarhyde really was a new man, a different man, since his encounter with the aliens.

  Well, he wasn’t the only one. . . . Doc poured their drinks with a flourish, while Emmett beamed at being treated like an adult.

  Just then, Woodrow Dolarhyde pushed open the bat-wing doors, carrying ledgers under one arm, and called out, “Percy.”

  Everything stopped: the music, the talking, the laughter. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on Dolarhyde, out of either habit or curiosity.

  “Coming, Pa,” Percy said. He left the bar, leaving the drinks to Emmett, and walked toward the entrance where his father was waiting. Everyone else was waiting too; a few of them were even holding their breath.

  DOLARHYDE GLANCED AROUND the room, taking in the anxious expressions, the silence. . . . Until finally he just laughed and said, “Next round’s on the Dolarhydes.”

  The held silence broke into good-natured shouting as customers raised their glasses to him. Dolarhyde went back outside, relieved and satisfied, with Percy following willingly.

  Dolarhyde walked with his son along the newly rebuilt boardwalk, passing a handful of locals who nodded and tipped their hats in gratitude. Because he’d paid for repairs and willingly loaned out money, the destruction the aliens’ attack had done to the town was beginning to heal, and the spirits of its people were healing, too.

  Dolarhyde smiled in acknowledgment, secretly amazed at how good it made a man feel to use his money for the greater good—to begin repaying some of the debt his soul owed for wreaking so much havoc in so many lives. He couldn’t even recall why the hell he’d begun hoarding all that money in the first place. It was cold and hard and dead; and he had as much of it as he’d ever need, easily five times over.

  He looked back at Percy, remembering what Preacher Meacham had dared, once, to preach at him about: that people . . . people like his own son, or Nat . . . were what he should’ve been paying heed to, because they were irreplaceable, unlike his gold.

  He considered for a fleeting moment how it had been before . . . what he would have done to anyone who’d touched so much as one double-eagle of it . . . what he’d planned to do to Jake Lonergan, who’d ended up saving his son. Did the hunger for gold turn someone into a monster . . . or was the monster always there, waiting like a scavenger to gnaw at a man’s soul, when something better had died . . . ?

  Dolarhyde refocused his thoughts as Percy noticed his long silence and gave him a concerned look. He put on a smile again, and picked up the thread of what he’d meant to talk about—the kinds of things a rancher’s son, and heir to his business, needed to know; things that he’d never thought about before, when he’d thought he’d never need anyone but himself.

  “Real soon, a lot more people’re gonna be hearing about the gold.” He gestured at the activity in the street. “Won’t be long before there’s a railroad spur in here—gonna change the entire nature of the business. People who make money’ll be feeding cattle, not running ‘em.”

  Percy nodded, alert and intent, taking it all in with an eagerness Dolarhyde knew came as much from the fact that he’d finally included his son in his life, as from the boy’s real, and surprising, intelligence. But then, he really shouldn’t have been surprised about that.

  Dolarhyde handed the armload of ledgers to Percy. “Get these ledgers to the bank, tell ‘em I need some new checks printed up.”

  Percy stopped in mid-motion, about to step into the street. He looked down, his smile and alertness abruptly falling away into resignation.

  Dolarhyde was taken aback, seeing his son’s face fall. “Tell the banker I want them to read, ‘Dolarhyde and Son’,” he added. He paused, as his son’s face brightened again, like the sun coming out from behind clouds. Dolarhyde was suddenly reminded of his wife—Percy’s mother. “That okay with you?” he asked, with a smile that invited his son to speak his own mind; feeling, for the first time, that he’d finally begun learning to be a father.

  “Yes.” Percy’s smile widened. “Yes, sir.” He moved off, carrying the ledgers as proudly as he should, when someday the Dolarhyde land, and everything on it, would be his heritage. He’d turned into a better son and heir than Dolarhyde had ever imagined . . . than he had ever deserv
ed, until he’d become a better father.

  Dolarhyde walked on, approaching the sheriff’s office. Taggart was sitting in a chair with his legs stretched out, relaxing, but keeping an eye on the street. He and Charlie Lyle were back to the men they’d been before the aliens had taken them . . . except that now Taggart actually seemed to be enjoying life. The black dog that had followed Jake Lonergan to town, and trailed them throughout their long journey into the wilderness, was lying at his side.

  “John.” Dolarhyde greeted him with a nod.

  “Woodrow.” Taggart looked up at him, looked out at the street again. “Our town’s about to get a whole lot bigger.”

  “Hope that won’t be a problem for you, Sheriff.” Dolarhyde glanced out at the street, the number of people passing by. Change was never easy. . . . He looked back at Taggart. “This is your town—and if it wasn’t before, it sure is now.”

  Taggart reached down to scratch the dog’s ears. When he looked up, he was wearing the first genuine smile Dolarhyde had ever seen on his face.

  The two of them looked up together as one of the riders passing by on the street reined in his horse in front of the jail. Jake Lonergan sat looking down at them, as if he’d just happened past by chance, but studying their faces as though he wanted to be sure he remembered them, if they ever met again. His saddlebags were packed for a long journey; two canteens hung from his saddle horn.

  Other than that, he appeared to be leaving town the same way he’d arrived—on what had been a stranger’s horse, with only the clothes on his back. The dog wagged its tail at the sight of him, but made no move to get up.

  JAKE TOOK HIS hat from the saddle horn and put it on as Dolarhyde stepped forward and looked back at him.

  “You were gonna leave without saying goodbye?” he asked. His smile showed a mocking trace of the Dolarhyde Jake remembered, making the words a challenge. But there was something in his eyes that surprised Jake—as if his leaving without saying a word would have hurt the man a lot more than losing a small fortune in gold ever had.

  Jake shrugged. “Still a wanted man,” he pointed out. Dolarhyde and the sheriff might act like they’d forgotten that, but he could never afford to.

  He’d drunk too much whiskey, eaten plenty of good food, and had enough sleep to last him a couple of months . . . and he’d spent more time by himself, thinking, than he’d intended. He figured he’d had about as much of Absolution as he could survive.

  This town was filling up with too many strangers—and he’d met all the strangers who wanted to kill him on sight that he ever wanted to. Although with a thousand-dollar bounty on his head, that problem wasn’t likely to go away, even if he rode to the end of forever.

  Dolarhyde raised his eyebrows. “I swear I saw Jake Lonergan die in those caves,” he said, turning to Taggart. “Isn’t that right, Sheriff?”

  Taggart smiled and pulled his hat lower over his eyes, as if the sun was getting into them. “Damn shame we couldn’t hang him ourselves.”

  Dolarhyde looked back at Jake’s stunned face, and this time he smiled like he meant it. “Man has a right to start fresh.” His mouth twitched, and his smile widened. “And I got my gold back.”

  Jake glanced at Taggart, sitting with his chair propped against the wall. He looked back at Dolarhyde, who was standing there like he’d just come into town to take a stroll.

  “That what you’re doing?” Jake asked, his mouth turning up. “Get a rocking chair, sit out front while someone polishes your boots?”

  “You want the job?” Dolarhyde grinned.

  Still quick on the draw. Jake grinned back, settling his hat more firmly on his head in answer.

  “I could always use a gun like you around,” Dolarhyde said, and this time Jake saw that he was only half joking.

  Jake kept his grin. “Yeah, you could,” he said.

  Dolarhyde laughed as Jake began to turn his horse away into the street again, heading for the trail out of town.

  “Jake,” Dolarhyde said.

  Jake stopped, shifting in his saddle to look back.

  “She’s in a better place.”

  Jake stared at him for a long moment. Surprise, loss, and finally understanding filled his eyes, as he looked down at Dolarhyde’s expression.

  “Take care of yourself,” Dolarhyde said, and smiled at him.

  Jake nodded, his own smile genuine and complete at last. He lifted his hand to touch his hat . . . almost a salute. “Be seeing you around,” he said, “Colonel.”

  Dolarhyde took it without even flinching; one more demon that he’d laid to rest, on their journey to the end of the world and back. He tipped his hat in return. He stood beside the sheriff, both men watching Jake ride out of their lives, until he disappeared into the mirage of the day.

  JAKE APPROACHED THE ruined cabin that marked the end of his former life . . . and Alice’s. He entered through the splintered doorway and laid the small bouquet of fresh flowers he had picked down by the river on the table. He took off his hat.

  And then he bowed his head and closed his eyes. He wanted to pray, but he didn’t know how. . . . He wanted to ask her forgiveness . . . but she had forgiven him already. He would have told her, I love you; but all he could do now was hope he’d had the sense to tell her that before . . . before it was too late.

  And taking her in his arms, he would have asked her to marry him. . . .

  But all those moments had been torn away from him, as surely as she had . . . had been. . . .

  His memory refused to carry it any further. He had come to say goodbye. That was all.

  He turned away, not letting his gaze linger anywhere as he went back out through the doorway.

  He’d never even had this much of a chance to say goodbye to Ella. . . . He looked up at the sky.

  Ella. . . . Even if she had never really been his to love, to spend a lifetime with, or even one night, enough time so that he could have let her know how much—

  But then he remembered how she’d kissed him, there in the underworld. Maybe, in that one moment, they’d shared with each other everything they’d needed to know. . . .

  She’d always seemed to know his deepest thoughts, sense the feelings he’d never even recognized in himself, in a way that was . . . that wasn’t human, he realized at last. And in that moment outside any reality he’d known before, or would ever know again, she’d finally let him into her own mind, her own heart. One moment that had seemed to last a lifetime . . . that would have to last for a lifetime.

  It made him wish, just for a moment, that humans could see into each other’s minds and hearts, the way she’d done with him, with everyone around her. But what would that change about humans? They’d just use it all wrong, like they got everything else wrong.

  He thought about Dolarhyde and Taggart, back in Absolution; remembered how Ella had made him believe that there might be something better in everyone.

  But he didn’t envy those two, or the town . . . or the last of the free Apaches, once gold fever really took hold of this place.

  What the hell was wrong with human beings? Had they even deserved Ella’s sacrifice? In their hearts they wanted to be like angels . . . but one wrong move, and demon was too good a word for what a man could become.

  But Ella had believed in him. He thought about the last moment before she’d left him forever—how he’d held her in his arms and let himself kiss her with all his heart and soul and mind, feel the warmth of her human body, her human heart beating against his . . . just to get that damned shackle off his wrist for her.

  He remembered then that when she’d kissed him, he’d known she was giving him—of all people—all the love she’d been afraid to feel, maybe for more human lifetimes than he could imagine, after losing more than anyone he’d ever known. She’d given him her heart to hold, for as long as he lived, and with it the unforgettable memory of everything she was. . . .

  Morning Star: Sonseeahray . . . Ella, who’d lived like a selfless avenging angel, figh
ting a war against demons over the right to destroy worlds—never allowed to feel the warmth, the comfort, the passion of the love that had made her choose to be who she’d become. She’d denied even the need for love until she’d begun to doubt the very reason for her existence. . . .

  Until she’d found another Morning Star: Jake Lonergan . . . Lucifer, who’d been thrown out of Heaven, God only knew why . . . no longer loved, no longer wanted by anyone, dead or alive.

  And yet it had been something about him, when he kissed her, finally acknowledging possession of his own lost soul, that had given her the key to set herself free, even for one moment—enough time for one kiss to fill his body and soul until all his senses sang. The kind of love he’d felt for her then was enough to break any man’s heart. . . .

  He closed his eyes, holding on to the memory of that moment, the way he’d wanted to go on holding her in his arms. He knew he had to leave here, get going, out into the wide open spaces of the rest of his life. Ella would expect him to—not to waste the gift he’d been given, not to throw his life away again.

  But bad was all he’d ever been good at. . . .

  “. . . Jake. . . .” He thought he heard the barest whisper of his name, of Ella’s voice, carried on the wind. His eyes opened. He turned, looking behind him, all around—Nothing.

  Instead he heard a soft humming noise, above his head, shifting from ear to ear impossibly. His eyes finally found the source—a hummingbird, its colors shining like a rainbow in sunlight, dancing on the wind along trailing vines of wild honeysuckle . . . moving toward him.

  He stepped forward, but it still hovered in front of his eyes, unafraid, almost as if it was looking into them the way she had . . . reflecting the countless emotions that passed and collided in a moment: the pain, the anger, the stubborn defiance . . . the decency and honor that Meacham had somehow seen inside a man with the Devil in his eyes . . . the love that Alice, and then Ella, had proved even he was capable of feeling . . .