The pair left the church to find the ghostly form of Nancy Hawkins waiting for them. She looked as though she had been crying.
"You are always welcome in the house of God, my child," Prescott said. Her form flickered like a candle in a breeze and an expression of anguish washed over her. Before either of them could react, she drifted away, once more making her way toward the cemetery.
"I warn you, Jericho, the cemetery is a large one. Depending on how much time they have spent engaged in the infernal pursuits, our enemy may have a small army at their disposal."
"This pigsticker saw me through more than a few times. I reckon it'll get me through tonight as well," Jericho said, patting the hilt of the knife. "Besides, padre, this ain't the first time I've been on the opposite side from an army that wanted me dead."
"Your confidence is admirable."
"Ain't never been up against an army that was already dead, though. Then again, I reckon most folks don't have to worry about that sort of thing."
"It does make victory a difficult concept, does it not? Yet with the Lord's help, we shall prevail."
"Met a man once what told me that if you went into a fight believing you were already dead, that there wasn't a man alive what could stop you from getting done what you needed to get done."
"That is an interesting outlook," Prescott said. "It seems to make no sense. How do you go about believing yourself dead when all around you, you see the glory of His works? How does one go about not fighting to stay alive?"
The pair turned at an intersection and passed a saloon from which light still poured. Raucous music could be heard and for just a second, Jericho wondered at the contrast of what he was doing and what was going on inside the tavern. Those inside had no clue that the ghosts he had already seen even existed, and here he was walking into their midst armed with a knife. Even yesterday he would have been hard-pressed to believe in them, and now he planned to fight them.
"Tell ya the truth, I don't know. All I can say is that I died nigh on to twenty years back when they took my Magdalene away. After that, it's been one battle after another, and ain't nobody stopped me yet from getting it done."
Prescott raised an eyebrow. "So you do not fear death, even knowing you have turned your back on your salvation?"
"Naw. Everybody's gonna die, even me. Might be tonight, might be twenty more years down the road. Death ain't scary. Not getting my hands on the bastard that killed my men is."
Ahead of them, Nancy Hawkins glowed in a brief flare before fading to almost nothing. Her expression turned to raw terror. She continued her journey.
"What do you suppose is happening to her?" Jericho asked as the pair picked up their pace.
"I do not know. Perhaps she weakens as she nears her grave."
"We getting close, then?"
"Within a five-minute walk we shall see it."
"One last drink?" Jericho offered, uncorking his flask. Prescott turned up his nose.
"Thank you, but no. I'll not let a thief in my mouth to steal the truth from my thoughts."
"You had one at the Crow's Nest," Jericho reminded him.
"You saw one before me, but I did not drink from the glass. You are not the only one who commemorates loss, Jericho. My brother was a sailor, and the Crow's Nest is the closest I can get to the environment he knew so well. I buy a drink there once a week in his memory. When no one looks, Mister Burke drinks it in his honor."
"Well, here's to your brother, then," Jericho said, tipping up the flask and taking a long pull of the amber liquid inside.
"Thank you," Prescott said. "You are a decent man."
"Naw. Not me."
Prescott laughed aloud. "Yes, Jericho. You. You have the potential to be a strong leader of men, you know."
"Done my share of that, too. Led a whole mess of them into the wrong camp once. Been looking for a butcher of men ever since."
"I should like to return to this tale when we have finished," Prescott said. He pointed ahead of them. A set of rust-flecked gates mounted on stone pillars rose above a wrought-iron fence topped with sharp points. Nancy Hawkins hovered at the gate, looking expectantly at the pair. Jericho nodded to her and flicked a match with a thumbnail, using the tiny flame to ignite both of the lanterns Prescott had brought. The light they shed was enough to illuminate a small circle around the two men. Around their feet, a thin fog had begun to form, mists that shifted with every step. Above them, moonlight filtered through the branches of trees, making a tangle of shadows around them that weaved and danced in the gentle breeze.
"You ever notice how it seems like you ain't gotta do bad stuff when the sun's out?" Jericho asked, lifting the lantern to spread the fall of light. He moved to Prescott's right side, where he would be free to act as necessary without his own right hand being encumbered by proximity to his ally.
"Satan's minions fear the truthful light of day," Prescott answered in a confident tone.
"I was gonna go with folks don't like to be seen and the dark makes that more likely, but I guess that kinda fits your outlook, too."
The pair maneuvered through the outer fringe of the cemetery, weaving around headstones both legible and faded. Rounded, simple monuments made up the majority of what they could see, but here and there were large stone crosses or angelic figures. Jericho studied the area with a practiced eye.
"This ain't a good environment to have a gunfight in, anyway," he said. "Too much stone around us. Lots of hidey holes."
Prescott was softly speaking prayers as they walked, but he heard the comments and nodded, gesturing toward a massive mausoleum-style vault. Jericho looked at it and sucked at a tooth, imagining how much incoming fire it could block. Added to the ricochet risk from headstones, the entire place was a deathtrap. The irony of that thought brought a quiet chuckle to his lips.
"This is no place for levity," Prescott warned.
"I don't know," Jericho countered. "Seems to me with everything being so serious, it might well be the best place possible for it."
He stumbled over a root sticking from the ground as the last word left his mouth, sending him plunging forward. He recovered his balance with a flail of arms that sent lantern light splashing from every surface around them in dizzying patterns. Clouds of fog scattered before his dancing feet.
"See?" he said with a wide grin once he had his feet securely beneath him once more. "Tell me you ain't dying to bust a gut after watching that."
Prescott shook his head. "I worry for your life and your soul," he said. "I would never laugh at you falling on your face atop the grave of a man I know for a fact died after his cow sat on him."
He pointed at the headstone Jericho was standing beside. As Jericho glanced at the inscription, he heard a snickering behind him. He spun to look for the source, his sleep-deprived mind imagining terrible things in the foggy graveyard. The only thing he saw was Zachariah Prescott. The preacher had a hand up to his mouth. Beyond the edges of the hand, a wide grin was stretched. His gaze met the reverend’s, and the black-clad man snickered once more before erupting into a full guffaw of laughter, his body rocking back and forth as he laughed. Jericho glanced back at the headstone, replaying the words of the preacher in his mind, and then threw back his head and laughed as well.
The two men stood and laughed together for a minute, letting the tension of the moment leave them. When they had finished, they looked around for the glowing form of Nancy Hawkins and continued on the path to where she was. While they had paused, she had grown brighter, and the earlier theories about her weakening as she neared her grave seemed to be challenged by this.
Suddenly she was in front of them, her eyes wide saucers of darkness in her pale face. Her hand was in front of her mouth and she shook her head in short, rapid arcs. Both men stopped moving. Jericho pointed past the series of stones that stood before them.
"Back there?" he asked, using the long blade as a pointer. Nancy lowered her head in almost a bowing motion.
"Thank you, lit
tle lady," he said to the spirit. "You stay back and stay safe now, okay? Let us do what has to be done so the padre here can get you back in your grave."
Nancy's face split into a smile and she drifted forward. A sense of calm enveloped Jericho and he felt as cool as if he had stepped into a mountain stream. He realized his eyes were closed as he heard the sudden intake of breath from Prescott. As he opened his eyes the cool feeling passed through him, but the calm stayed behind. He turned to see Prescott standing with his jaw hanging open.
"What?" Jericho asked.
"She kissed you."
"What? Naw. She just come up and pushed through me!"
He turned to look again, but Nancy had flitted past them and was heading toward their destination.
"Huh," Jericho mused, rubbing at his lips with the back of his hand. "It's been a while, but you'd think I'd remember what it was like."
"Let's get this over with," Prescott said, not meeting the gunfighter's gaze. He moved forward and broke slightly to the left, edging around a poorly maintained grave. As he did, he came face to face with Nancy Hawkins and Jericho saw things from the other side of the fence. The spirit molded herself to Prescott like a long-lost lover, her arms wrapping around his neck as her lips sought his own. An expression of harmony crossed the reverend's face for the briefest moment, his arms lifted to hold her, and then she was through him and passing beyond his embrace.
As Prescott's countenance fell, Jericho turned away, letting the pastor compose himself. When he heard Prescott clear his throat, he turned back, saying nothing but joining in the heavy tread of the black-suited man.
"Gonna enjoy putting this dog down," Jericho breathed. The only answer was a nod from the man who carried the Bible.
They stepped around a mausoleum and stopped in their tracks. Ahead of them, near the top of a rise in the ground swell, a man stood atop a waist-high vault. He wore no clothing, and his body was painted with exotic symbols. Looking at them too long made Jericho's eyes hurt, and his teeth ground together as he remembered seeing similar signs years ago, painted along the edges of a medical tent in a camp he and his band of guerrillas had entered for aid.
There was a stand holding two lanterns driven into the ground beside the vault, illuminating the capering man well enough that both men recognized his identity.
"Benjamin Danner!" Prescott roared, rising to his full height. He brandished the Bible overhead. "Foul beast! What deviltry do you work?"
The stable hand snapped his head around to stare at the intruding men, and Jericho could see there was no hint of humanity remaining in those eyes. He sheathed the Bowie and his Colt slid from its holster. He stood with his lantern raised, shedding light to show him the sights of his revolver as he pointed it at the naked man. His thumb caressed the hammer, bringing it back slowly with a series of clicking sounds.
"Why are you here, reverend?" Danner asked. His voice was still the sad thing it had been when Jericho first met him, setting up a contrast with the monstrosity his appearance indicated.
"You stand naked, dancing upon the tomb of the hallowed dead, and you ask me why I am here?"
Prescott still seemed stunned by what he was seeing. Jericho called out with a question of his own.
"Hey, boy! You the one what brought Nancy Hawkins back from her sleep?"
Danner turned an angry gaze on him, and Jericho felt those eyes pierce him even at the distance they stood apart.
"You were supposed to die," Danner said. "She should have seen to it."
"Why me?"
"Why any of this?" the reverend demanded, sweeping his arm out in an expansive gesture. Danner left Jericho’s question behind as he responded to Prescott.
"Why? The people of this town spit on me. They beat me. You've seen it, reverend. Did you ever do anything about it? Not a damn thing! You sat in your church and you whined about how your God had abandoned you.”
“Abandoned?” Jericho asked in a low voice.
“I have questioned my role before. In my work, it is a hazard.”
“And now?”
“Now I believe that this is why I am here,” Prescott declared. He returned his attention to Danner, who was glaring at the pair of intruders. Jericho noted that the stable hand’s eye was nowhere near as swollen as it had been when first he met him. Whatever power he worked with was lending him some regenerative force.
“So what do you intend to do?” Prescott shouted. Danner’s smile was terrifying.
You wouldn’t help me, preacher. You wouldn’t step in. So now, I've figured out how to stop it. Forever."
He pointed to his feet. There, its pages weighted by pieces of rock, rested an open book. The pages were yellowed and their edges torn.
"Never again will I be the target for their hate! I'm going to send the spirits of this graveyard into Phoenix, and when I am finished, it truly will be a ghost town! I have slaves now to my will, and I can bind them to be a weapon against you," he yelled, lifting and brandishing a thin-bladed knife. He spoke a word and a nearby spirit folded on itself like crumpled paper, its aura flashing silver for a second before wrapping around the knife and seemingly dissolving into it.
Jericho took up slack on the trigger, his sights locked on Danner's chest. He knew he should squeeze, but his curiosity still would not let him. As if reading his thoughts, Reverend Prescott shook his head.
"We must know how to stop him and return any spirits he has stolen. Shooting him will not help," he whispered.
"You never answered my question, boy," Jericho shouted. "Why me?"
"You don't remember?" Danner called back. "In the stable. You said it. You know. You'll tell them."
Jericho fought to recall their conversation. Suddenly it came to him. The casual joke and the vehement denial and threats that followed it. His eyes widened.
"Because of that? Kid, do you think I care about -" he began. The words were cut off as spectral arms wrapped around him from behind, choking him and pulling him off balance. The primed shot went skyward, no threat to Danner.
"You will not stop me!" the young man shouted. His hands came out in front of him, fingers twisting into patterns as he chanted something in a language that grated on the ears.
Prescott took a defensive stance, his Bible held above his head and the lantern dropped to the ground before him. "You have no hold here, Satan! This ground is consecrated in His holy name and your demons are thrown out. I rebuke you!"
Jericho's smoking Colt spun into the holster in a practiced move and his right hand swept across his belly to draw the knife. It rotated in his grip, the fact that he did not drop it a testament to his familiarity with the weapon and a routine that had been performed many times in the past. Blade extending from the bottom of his hand, he reached back and stabbed blindly at the form that held him. The pressure on his throat gave way and he felt the chilling sensation as the spirit energy passed through him. This one had none of the calm he had felt with Nancy Hawkins, instead filling him with a sense of fear and anger.
Wheeling on a boot heel, he spun the blade once more and drove it forward in a stab that went through his opponent. He could now see the form of an aged man, clad in a grey linen suit and top hat. It flickered as Nancy had, but the eyes held no warmth. The spirit raised another fist and Jericho ducked, stomping forward with his left foot for added force as he thrust the blade yet again. The consecrated steel seemed to cause some pain to the spirit but it did not stop it.
Will, he reminded himself. It wasn't all about the cutting and stabbing, as it had always been in the past.
His eyebrows arched and then drove together and down as his eyes flashed. "You shoulda had your last sunset back a few years, old timer," he said, reaching out a hand. The spirit recoiled as Jericho's fingers actually clenched around its neck. Reflexively it reached up to remove the choking grasp, but Jericho was there as well, the Bowie plunging in and twisting.
In his mind, the gunslinger saw himself ending the threat, taking the spirit off the f
ield of battle and he knew in his heart he would not fail at this. With a shriek of sound, the spirit drew in on itself and vanished with a puff of air that carried a hint of rosemary.
"Got him," he called to Prescott. He looked up and felt the blood drain from his features.
Row upon row of spirit figures stood between them and the naked stable hand. There were dozens if not a hundred or more, and more seemed to be drifting in to form a wall of spectres.
Prescott was standing his ground, chanting prayers in his strong voice. The spirits were slowly forming a ring around him, unable to get close enough to harm him. His faith shielded him. Jericho looked on with mute approval until it suddenly sunk in that he had no such shield against the forms that even now were sliding silently toward him, passing through the standing stones that offered no barricade against their form.
"See, now, that's some bullshit right there!" he shouted. He pointed at Ben Danner with the glittering blade in his hand. He knew that it was the same move he would have made on the battlefield, directing his force where the enemy was weakest, but at this point, he was the weak point.
"The Lord will rescue me from every evil deed and bring me safely into His Heavenly kingdom. To Him be the glory forever and ever!" Prescott thundered. At the last word, he stomped a foot onto the ground and a ripple of raw force spread from his boot, pushing the spirits back another few feet. The reverend's eyes blazed with energy and he now held his Bible in one hand and his cross in the other.
On the vault, Danner gibbered something that sounded like metal scraping stone. He pointed at Jericho and the legion of spirits turned their attention to him.
"I see why the folks 'round here whipped your ass on a daily basis!" Jericho taunted. He set his lantern on a headstone and drew his skinning knife with his left hand. It might not have seen the consecration that his Bowie did, but now he knew what the reverend meant about will.
"I'm coming for ya, stall mucker!" he yelled, lowering himself into a crouch and then springing to the attack. He focused his emotions into his strikes. All the hate he felt for the men who had killed his beloved Magdalene. The love he had held in his heart for a woman who had accepted the broken shell of a human being that he had been and loved him anyway. The fury at the situation he was in. The sense of helplessness and solitude he had known in so many battles, no matter how many stood with him. Every emotion that had ever coursed through him now came to bear, focused on the razor tips of his blades.
Phantoms of Phoenix: A Jericho Sims Tale (The Adventures of Jericho Sims Book 3) Page 4
