Convicted murderer, Jonathan Blair, conditionally trades his death sentence for a job as a court-appointed bounty hunter to bring in the members of his former gang—dead or alive. Now, only two weeks remain to find the last man—the man who killed his family. If he fails, the gallows await instead of a pardon.
Blair locates the gang member in the Rocky Mountain coal mining town of Gothic, along with a growing number of dead miners with bloodless neck wounds. The fearful townspeople turn to folklore to explain the gruesome slayings. Blair uncovers the truth behind the mysterious deaths. Demons.
An angel, seemingly more foe than friend, pushes him toward a never ending clash between good and evil. The town’s survival depends on Blair abandoning his chance of a pardon, and putting his trust in his pistols. But the thing that scares Blair the most, he and the demons have clashed before. And they’re eager for his tainted soul.
THE COLOR OF GOTHIC
Joel Q. Aaron
Tirgearr Publishing
Author Copyright: 2016 Joel Q. Aaron
Cover Art: Cora Graphics (coragrpahics.it)
Editor: Sharon Pickrel
Proofreader: Barbara Whary
A Smashwords Edition
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This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
DEDICATION
To Staci: Who knew before I did.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you…
To my wife who said I didn’t have to do chores if I was writing, and for all the amazing support she gave me on this journey.
To my critique partner and fellow author, Natalia Brothers, because you can’t do this writing adventure solo.
To authors W.C. Jameson and Laurie Wagner Buyer who sparked my muse and set me on a course to write a novel.
To Pikes Peak Writers for providing a place to grow and learn on the path to becoming an author.
THE COLOR OF GOTHIC
Joel Q. Aaron
Evil inhabits the darkness, but desires a place in the hearts of men.
Chapter One
The Bounty Hunter
Jonathan Blair lifted his head to the bright stars above, maybe for the last time. If he didn’t come out of the saloon, he was sure hell wouldn’t have such a clear view of the twinkling heavens.
Like many of the saloons Blair had experienced, the clapboard-sided building stood at the edge of town. Close enough to Delta’s main street that the working man felt comfortable within the walls and without the demeaning looks from those with money and status. Far enough away the less desirables of town would enter. Both were thirsty and had money to spend.
Blair unsnapped the safety straps on his holsters. The false fronts of the few stores and shops were dark. No one lingered in the streets of the small town on Colorado’s dry western slope. With palms on the worn handles of his revolvers, he walked through the open doorway and immediately stepped to the left removing his silhouette from the doorframe.
He quickly scanned the room to see who had moved since he left the window through which he’d studied the saloon for the past hour. Four ranchers leaned against the bar, which no carpenter had built. What began as rough lumber now showed the smooth signs of thousands of elbows and the bottoms of glasses. The poker players tossed cards and coins into the center of the table. The other patrons talked and drank, still in the same chairs.
There was nothing fancy or frivolous about the interior of the saloon. The wood walls held no paintings or mirrors. Oil lamps were the only decoration if you could call something so useful an embellishment. The numerous flames didn’t have the intensity to brighten the room and reveal all the faces. Black smoke stains covered the surfaces above the glass lanterns, but the cigar smoke hid the lantern’s odor. The ten tables and accompanying chairs were sturdy wood pieces without engravings or inlays.
Of all the people in the salon, the drunk man sitting at the back table held Blair’s attention. William Johnson threw back the fifth shot of whiskey that Blair counted. A half-empty bottle waited in his right hand for his sixth.
A mentor to him in a Dutch uncle kind of way, Willy Johnson had helped Blair bury the despair over his lost family deep in his soul. This taught him to focus his inner anger on others—a life lesson in pure selfishness Blair had learned well.
Despite the mixture of revenge and betrayal gurgling in Blair’s gut like whiskey and cream, he’d have to draw the Remington. No hesitation. But not before Willy went for his gun. He had to make this legal.
* * *
Even the seasoned miners feared the black tunnels of Gothic’s Jollytime Mine. Dell Collins pitied them as they whispered and cowered as if darkness crept from the coal through their bones and into their souls. Death and mining were no strangers. But the corpse found yesterday had no blood. Not a single drop splattered the rocks, tainted the body, or even lingered on the wound. That’s what Doc Parker called it, a wound.
In the bowels of Colorado’s Elk Mountains, Dell toiled for coal with sixty-four miners—most of them as jumpy as jack rabbits, especially those deep within the earth. Their anxiety over the death bit at his nerves. He wasn’t taking any chances in the narrow tunnels, either, keeping his sloppy cousin, Quinn, close. Two men in a fight were better than one. He also had the added burden of focusing Quinn’s mind on the coal. Scared miners make mistakes, deadly mistakes.
“Rabid cougars have been known to act in strange ways.” Dell slammed his pickax into the rock. “We need to concentrate on today’s work instead of the rumors.”
“But no one saw a cougar or bear or even a mangy raccoon yesterday.” Quinn’s shaky tone exposed his fear, which worried Dell. “Those Hungarians are talking all kinds of crazy things.”
Dell leaned his wiry body on his pick. “What are they saying?” The glass-covered flame of his headlamp gave off just enough light for him to see Quinn’s eyes peer through his chunky, coal-blackened face.
“I heard them telling the weighman about a bloodsucking dead guy. A monster,” Quinn said slowly, leaving the cloud of his breath hovering in the cold shaft.
“Monster, my ass. Don’t get all scared and quit because Jim died yesterday. We’re making good money here. By summer, we’ll have enough to buy three, maybe four, legit silver claims.”
That’s where the real money was to be made—silver. Dell brought his wife and son across the plains into the rugged wilderness for the chance to make money. The desire for a small farm led him to the mountains not greed. A year or two digging underground could provide the means to a prosperous life. Nothing elegant, but a house and land—something to leave to his son, Duane. Quinn came along. He worked hard, and having family close meant a lot in transient mining camps.
“I saw Jim’s body when they brought him out,” Quinn said. “What could do that? Something ripped his throat wide open.”
“Don’t let your eyes fool you.” Dell tapped his helmet lantern. “These lights don’t shine too well.” Dell’s cousin wasn’t the smartest man, but he usually didn’t fall easily to rumors and lies.
“You’d better—” Quinn stopped.
The sound of footsteps echoed toward them through the pitch black.
Quinn slid behind a support timber then blew out his light. “What is it?” he whispered.
“You’re acting like a little girl,” Dell said. “Duane’s braver than you.” He tossed a handful of gravel in his cousin’s direction. The pebbles and rocks bounced off Quinn’s worn wool coat and clattered to the unseen ground.
“Your son ain’t sitting in the mine where someone got killed. Now be quiet,” Quinn pleaded in a whisper as he leaned back to hide in the dark.
* * *
Dust and frayed threads were the dominant features of William Johnson’s clothes. Running for your life was a hard ride. Blair studied Johnson’s sunburned face. His eyes held the pain he inflicted on others. Willy wouldn’t want the life of a prisoner. This was going to end with bullets, but would not be a mercy killing.
“Jonathan Blair,” Willy said as he looked at him from across the room. His quiet voice didn’t attract much attention. Blair heard him only because he was watching him. He took several steps toward Johnson. Neither man moved their hands. Two gripping pistols. Two holding glass.
“The lawman,” Willy said with a dry laugh.
Blair scoffed at the sarcastic remark. But the words caught the attention of the people nearby.
Eyes tired, Blair shot quick glances at the men in the saloon who watched him and Willy. They didn’t recognize Blair from the old wanted posters or the stories in the Denver paper. He was far from a lawman. He was part of Willy’s gang.
Now he was trying to escape the hangman. Blair couldn’t turn down the deal—trade his death sentence for a stay of execution. If he brought in his former gang members, the state and the railroad company would let him go free. It was the railroad company’s idea—let him risk his life to arrest the rest of the gang. The company set the rules and time limit. How they got the judge to agree, Blair didn’t know and didn’t ask. He took the chance of freedom.
The men at the nearby tables got up and moved, which brought everyone’s attention to the pair of old friends.
“Trying to save your hide or your soul?” Willy asked.
“My soul’s not worth saving,” Blair said. “But I ain’t ready to die.”
“So, you’re here to kill me instead,” Willy said. “You think I need killing?”
Blair took a step within reach of the chair on his side of the table. “No one needs killing. Death just has a way of finding those who taunt it.”
Willy grinned big. “We’ve done more than taunt death.” He slowly lifted the bottle of whiskey and poured two shots. He cautiously slid one shot glass toward Blair, then raised his own, leaving a third empty glass on the table.
Blair picked up the shot glass with his coarse fingers.
“To old friends,” Willy said.
Blair nodded and lifted the glass to his nose. He inhaled—vanilla, oak and grain filled his senses with pleasure. The aroma tempted him, but he set the full shot glass back on the sweat and whiskey stained table.
Willy frowned. “Too good to drink with me now?”
“It’s not like that.” Blair said. “Haven’t had any since I left… left the gang.”
“You mean since you ran out on us in Mexico.” Willy emptied his glass. “What scared you so bad you took off like a little girl?”
The question struck Blair like a bullet. Willy’s hateful words didn’t burn, but the memory those words evoked—a scar from a forgotten wound.
As kind as Willy had been at times, he was a mean son of a bitch. All of them were. Willy’s brothers were worse. He’d already dealt with Bart. And he wouldn’t have to worry about Cliff until he got out of prison. If he got out, which was unlikely to happen.
But I’m out, aren’t I?
* * *
A yellow flame bobbed up and down as if it floated in a sea of black water. A young man wore the head lamp as he worked his way through the coal mine tunnel.
“Cover that flame, you idiot,” Dell Collins said. “You’re going blow us all up.”
“It’s all right,” the miner said. “They checked the tunnel last night for gas. The boss wanted to see if Jim went crazy and killed himself. He thought some gas might have gotten to him.”
Dell pointed to the man’s oil wick on his hat. “Put a glass over it anyway. Do you really trust the management to tell you whether there’s gas down here? Listen to the walls. They’re leaking.”
The miner shrugged. Dell didn’t know if the attitude was adolescent naïveté or immature arrogance.
“Killed himself,” Quinn said as he stepped from his hiding place. “How?”
“Maybe he scared himself to death.” The miner gave a half-hearted grin and kept moving toward the central tunnel where most of the men carved out coal.
Quinn’s worried eyes stared up and down the tunnel into the vast darkness.
“Checking for the bogeyman?” Dell chuckled. “Duane used to do that when he was five.”
“Shut up.”
The cousins loaded the cart with the coal they tore from the earthen walls. Quinn glanced over his shoulder with every shovelful of ore.
“If you’re so scared, why don’t you go outside and work the coal ovens?” Dell unbuttoned his coat to let the chilly mine cool his body.
The first shriek straightened Quinn’s spine. The second sent him running. Dell chased his cousin’s silhouette through the earthen tube. Dodging crossbeams and rocks they ran toward the screams—the only way out. They entered the main tunnel at its widest point. To their right, the exit shaft waited behind a group of men staring back at them and into the dark.
“Get over here!” someone shouted. Quinn didn’t hesitate.
To Dell’s left, his good friend lingered in the dark. “Mack, what are you doing?”
Hunched over, Mack cradled another miner in his arms.
“Let’s get out of here.” Dell took three steps toward the two men and froze.
Mack bared his bloody teeth and growled at Dell. The crazy man’s flame illuminated the face of the miner in his arms; the man Dell had just spoken with. The young man’s eyes were open but unfocused. Blood covered part of his face, and ran from his neck.
Dell checked the men huddled behind him. Panic covered Quinn’s face, but Dell couldn’t force the word run out of his mouth. Instinct more than courage drove Dell to grab a discarded pickaxe from the ground. He raised it over his shoulder. Mack, his friend of twelve years, had gone crazy. He had to die before he killed again.
Mack dropped the dead miner and darted into a freshly dug shaft. Dell followed fifty feet behind. Mack stepped quickly, effortlessly. Dell lagged behind. In a rush to keep up, he bumped his head, knocking off his hat and light. Dell fumbled with them, cutting his hand on the hot, broken glass of his lantern. He stopped and gaped at the gash. And open flame.
“Oh shit.”
The black voids under the crust of the earth were never meant to see the light of day. But on this morning, the gas fireball flooded the tunnel allowing the dark cavity to burn as bright as the sun.
* * *
“Mexico put the fear of God in you,” William Johnson said.
“It wasn’t God,” Blair said without any thought of where the words came from. He checked to his left and right for any possible friends Willy had in the saloon. He hadn’t seen Willy drink with anyone the entire time he watched from outside. But there were three shot glasses on the table.
“Now you’re looking for justice?” Willy asked. His clothes were as dirty as Blair’s. It had been a hard ride from Ouray. They both needed bathes and shaves.
Blair’s meaning of justice had been redefined so many times, he wasn’t sure what it meant. Justice, revenge, retribution; whatever you called it, death followed. Living now as a servant of someone’s twisted interpretation of justice kept Blair alive—at least for another two weeks.
“Where’s JP?”
Mockery, not humor, filled Willy’s laugh. “You can’t beat him. He’ll gun you down before you have time to even think about drawing.”
“Where is he?” JP was the one Blair wanted.
Willy settled down from his outburst. “Gothic. I have no feelings of being a traitor to tell you that. Because he’s going to kill you. If you make it out of here.”
The railroad company wanted Jeremiah Pruitt dead or alive, preferably dead. Which was perfectly fine with Blair. Reputation barely met the truth of Pruitt’s real personality. He was crazy. He killed for pleasure as well as pride. He would kill slowly when he had time to watch, proficient and swift when haste mattered. Pruitt preferred the former.
Before he went searching for JP, Blair had to make it out of this saloon alive. And do it legally. The official report was more important than Willy’s body. The railroad-company men weren’t going to come all the way out to Delta to see for themselves how it happened. He needed Willy in jail or a valid death certificate to prove he finished another job. That left Pruitt and only two weeks to find him.
Willy took his chance to live, to kill as Blair thought through his hate. Willy lunged to his feet and kicked over the table in one motion, sending a dirty plate, three shot glasses and the bottle of whiskey at Blair.
Willy’s gun barked.
Blair pulled one pistol, slapping the hammer with the flesh of his palm. He squeezed the trigger, shooting through the table to get Willy to stand up, then aimed higher with each round.
No one moved as Will Johnson dropped his pistol, then flopped on his face in the middle of the dark saloon. He died before the blood oozed from the bullet wound in his chest. Tentative eyes shifted from the dead outlaw back to him. Smoke slithered out of Blair’s Remington barrel, then drifted upward to the hidden rafters. He killed again. It’s what he was good at. Justice.
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