How the West Was Weird, Vol. 2

by Barry Reese

  Brass dropped through the chute a moment later, pursued by his opponent’s agonized howls. The drop terminated abruptly and Brass landed on his feet in a back alley. James staggered to his feet nearby, still clutching his pistol. He instinctively took aim at Brass and the latter slapped the weapon aside.

  “Now, now, Mr. James. Can’t have that,” Brass said, grabbing the front of James’ coat and forcing him towards the street. “Miles to go before we sleep and all that.”

  “I ain’t going with you!” James said, eyes wide.

  “If you don’t, you’ll die,” Brass replied matter-of-factly, gesturing upwards. Two dark shapes leapt across the gap between the buildings and Brass clamped a hand around James’ mouth before he could cry out. Brass looked down at James and nodded towards the alley-mouth. “Go.”

  Frustrated howls chased them down the street, and Brass kept his pistol to hand, despite the looks it drew. He knew he would draw them regardless, and a pistol was as good a reason as any. However, no further attacks came. Galveston’s streets filled with laughter and light as electric streetlamps buzzed to life and Tesla engines coughed and grumbled, the noise of them competing with the roar of the night surf.

  Brass caught glimpses of men following behind, weaving through the crowd like sharks in shallow water, their eyes the color of molten gold and their faces pinched and hungry. There would be no more than thirteen of them, he knew, and likely fewer. It had been fourteen years and there had been at least four bodies in the ambush he had mentioned to James. God alone knew how many the Confederates had killed when they gave it a go.

  Brass bullied James through the crowds to the train station, where his superiors had already commandeered a private compartment on the first steam-leviathan bound for El Paso. James acquiesced to the treatment, more out of terror than agreeability Brass knew.

  That Anderson and the others had reached Texas so quickly was disconcerting. If, indeed, all of them were here. As they took their seats in the compartment, Brass said, “Why you?”

  “What?” James blinked and scraped a palm across the silver shadow that coated his jaw. “Why me what?”

  “Why were you the one to hide the bullets?” Brass leaned forward, his eyes clicking. “Why didn’t they take them South?”

  James sat back, his eyes hooded. “Why would they need to? They already had what they wanted, the bastards.”

  “Including your brother?” Brass said.

  James was silent for a moment. Then, “He made his choice.”

  “He gave you the bullets,” Brass said, realization setting in. “He wanted you to join him...”

  “He wanted me and twelve others to join them. Quantrill and Cogburn and Wales and a few others...” James trailed off and shook his head. “Then Quantrill got – you know – and the others, well, it was just me in the end. Me and those damn devil-cursed bullets.”

  “Immortality not to your liking?”

  “Nobody lives forever. And I never had the stomach for more than my share of blood.” James turned his face to the window as the train began to pull out of the station.

  Brass sat back and crossed his arms. ‘Nobody lives forever’. The phrase clattered in his head like a horse in a too-small stall. They had told him that he was the exception to that rule. Barring misadventure, Brass would ‘persist unto eternity’ as Alan Pinkerton had put it, his broad Scots features beaming. An eternal watchman, the epitome of the Pinkerton motto, ‘We Never Sleep’.

  It wasn’t a pleasant thought. Then, neither was it especially displeasing. Once he might have felt differently, but now... he only felt that he should feel something. He should feel anything other than the dull chill of metal that coated such thoughts and made them stiff and heavy.

  Brass watched James drift into an exhausted slumber, then let his eyes swivel to the passing scenery. His eyes did not close the entire trip to El Paso.

  It was early morning when they set out for the Rio Grande and the border in a buzzing Teslapede with steel-rimmed wheels that clawed the ground as its electrical engine thrust them across the vast emptiness. The car had been waiting at the station, battery cranked and spitting.

  “Couldn’t we have taken horses?” James said, holding his shapeless hat on his head as Brass took the Tesla over the pontoon bridge and into Confederate Corridor. The Corridor stretched from the point where the retreating Confederate forces had entered Mexico all the way to Brazil. The swathe was considered Confederado territory and was a sore point with the various governments whose territories it punctured. It was also the safest route for American citizens to travel once across the Rio Grande.

  “Speed is of the essence, Mr. James,” Brass said. “How close to the border was Santo Poco?”

  “About a day and a half, give or take,” James said tersely. “Less with this contraption.”

  “You said there was a church?”

  “Y-yeah,” James said, bracing himself on his seat.

  “Was there a priest there then?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “The bullets will need to be exorcised,” Brass said, twisting the wheel to avoid a darting coyote.

  “Exor-what?”

  “Made safe,” Brass said. “Rendered useless.”

  “You believe in that shit?”

  “You don’t?”

  “No,” James grunted.

  “Then why hide them in a church?”

  James fell silent, his fingers tapping on the butt of the pistol sitting in his lap. Brass had allowed him to keep the weapon, reasoning that an armed Frank James was a Frank James less likely to run.

  “I don’t know what I believe anymore,” James said, after a while. He looked straight ahead. “Why do they want the bullets?”

  “Why do you think?” Brass said.

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” James protested.

  “Neither does scalping. Or lycanthropy.” Brass looked at him, his inhuman features flexing as his mouth moved. He turned back to the desert. “How many men like Anderson, or even your brother, do you think live in the United States? Men with sympathies for the Inglorious Cause?”

  James spat out the window, and didn’t answer. Brass nodded as if he had. “I saw those pamphlets from the Golden Circle Society and the Confederistas in your room, Mr. James. You know as well as I that there are any number of societies in the United States that would welcome the sort of infernal bargain that a man like Anderson might offer them. Not to mention all of the innocents who would suffer by simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “It wasn't like that.” James shook his head. “Not in the beginning.”

  “But that's the way it is now,” Brass said.

  James opened his mouth to answer when suddenly the glass of the windshield cracked and the sound of a rifle followed. Four more shots sounded immediately and Brass’ face was peppered with glass. He didn’t flinch, but James yelped and ducked down.

  The horses seemed to bleed out of the haze of the desert, and their riders gave wild howls as they hunkered over their saddle horns and dug their spurs in. Great coats flapped like gray wings as the riders drew close. One straightened in his saddle and fired the Winchester Repeater he carried. The bullet spanged off of one of the Tesla’s wheel rims. Brass hauled his own weapon out and extended his arm out his window. The pistol shrieked and dirt exploded, scattering dust and cactus parts over several of the riders, causing their horses to rear in panic.

  He fired again, slapping a man out of his saddle. “That ain’t going to kill them!” James said, snatching up his own weapon. “Nothing can kill them!”

  Brass didn’t reply. Horses drew close enough that he could hear their snorts of effort. He jerked the wheel and the Tesla drifted, causing the horses to stumble and gallop out of the way. The canvas roof of the Tesla suddenly bulged and the vehicle swerved, unbalanced by the sudden shift in weight. The blade of a Bowie knife cut a jagged hole in the canvas and a pair of yellow eyes glared down. “I see you Franky!” t
he owner of the eyes yowled.

  “I see you too, you rotten sumbitch,” James hissed as he twisted in his seat rattlesnake quick and fired upwards. The stowaway rolled aside with a yelp and the Tesla swerved again. Brass fought the wheel, jerking the autopede back and forth. The knife zipped through James' window, slashing wildly. Brass reached out and grabbed its wielder's wrist and squeezed. Bone popped and splintered and the man howled as he fell from the roof, the Bowie knife dropping harmlessly into James' lap.

  “Christ!” James said, looking back as the Tesla rumbled on.

  “Not quite,” Brass said, flexing his hand. The horses fell back and behind, the riders cutting the chase short. Brass glanced back, watching. “They're herding us.”

  “Yeah,” James said, swallowing. He looked old and tired in the afternoon light. “Just like wolves.”

  The rest of the drive was undertaken in silence, with only the soft crackle-hum of the Tesla's engine to break the monotony. Brass knew well enough that they were still being followed, but then he'd known that at the outset. Anderson was cunning. They wanted the bullets and Brass was leading them in the right direction. And, frankly, that suited him fine. Because even with the bullets rendered impotent, that still left a pack of rebellious lycanthropic psychopaths to deal with.

  In the end, that was why Brass had been sent. Normal men would have only died. But Brass, invulnerable cannon-fodder that he was, could perhaps survive long enough to do what Pinkerton's experts had said must be done.

  It wasn’t silver that did for them, no matter the stories. It was the blessings. Blessed bullets to put down damned dogs. Brass’ fingers tightened on the wheel.

  Santo Poco sat sheltered in a dip in the landscape. It had been a riverbed once, or even perhaps a lake, but now it was full of buildings rather than water. Not many, true, but enough. A sleepy farming community, no different from a hundred others in the corridor. There was only one street, and it was silver in the moonlight as Brass brought the Tesla to a stop. He looked at James. “Where is the church?”

  “At the end of the street.” James' face twisted into a half-hearted smile. “All roads lead to Jesus, right?”

  “Only some,” Brass said, climbing out of the autopede, pistol in hand. James followed suit, his eyes darting nervously. Bells were ringing, signaling the start of evening Mass. And past the bells, past the limits of the town, demons gave voice to wild cries. Cries of agony, fury, and eagerness. James spun, eyes wide, teeth bared in fear, pistol aimed.

  “They're here,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Of course.” Brass started towards the church. “Nowhere else they could be, Mr. James.” James hurried to catch up. Horses squealed in fear and Rebel yells mingled with more bestial shrieks. Brass reached the door to the church and kicked it open. The door slammed back against the stone wall with a thunderous boom and at the altar, the priest broke off his liturgy in shock.

  “I apologize for the intrusion, ladies and gentlemen,” Brass said, walking down the aisle, his pistol held up, the barrel dripping sparks. “The United States of America thanks you for your cooperation and your patience. Mr. James?” Brass stopped at the altar and turned.

  James had slammed the door and was backing away, pistol extended. “They're right out there! I saw 'em!”

  “As expected. Now Mr. James, where did you hide the bullets?”

  James turned and hurried forward. “The altar stone.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” The priest had finally broken the paralysis that had afflicted him and spoke rapidly in accented English. “Who are you?” He looked more closely at Brass and blanched. “What are you?”

  “In a hurry,” Brass said, head cocked. “Mr. James?”

  “I'm working as fast as I can!” James snapped, dropping to his hands and knees behind the altar. He used the Bowie knife that had been dropped into his lap earlier to dig at the mortar of the floor.

  “What are you doing?” the priest said, horrified. He started forward and Brass grabbed him.

  “I apologize, Father...?”

  “A-Amaro.” The priest flinched from Brass' artificial gaze. Brass released him.

  “I apologize, Father Amaro, but if you could calm your flock, I would be grateful,” Brass said, gesturing to the parishioners, many of whom were clutching rosaries and mumbling prayers.

  “But what is going on? Who are you?”

  “Agents of a higher power,” Brass said.

  “Ha! Found the bastards!” James said, heaving aside the stone and extracting a burlap bag from the small hole. Stripping the sack aside, he deposited a battered cigar box onto the altar. Inside, something rattled.

  Brass blinked, then looked at James. “Open it.”

  James hesitated. “But—”

  “Open it,” Brass said again. James did. Inside the box, thirteen ivory-tipped bullets rolled, looking for all the world like squirming white maggots. James looked away, his throat bobbing. Brass eyed the bullets for a moment, noting the white tips and the strange curve to the heads before he motioned for Amaro to step forward. “Can you perform an exorcism, Father?”

  “I-I know the ritual, yes, but—”

  “Do it. Now.” Brass turned and looked at the door. “Mr. James, help him.”

  “What? But—”

  “Now please. Time is wasting,” Brass said, starting back down the aisle even as something struck the church door and caused it to rattle in its hinges. Brass fired, his gun spitting a crackling stream. The door blew outwards, torn off of its hinges and carrying whatever had struck it away.

  A flurry of bullets plucked at the old adobe walls of the chapel and a woman screamed. Brass felt little sympathy for her, though once upon a time he would've. He swung around the splintered door frame, his pistol sizzling as it fired a second semi-solid electrical burst. Somewhere out in the darkness a man howled in pain.

  A moment later however, the howl changed, becoming deeper and more menacing as the sun set behind the mountains. It was joined by a dozen others and the streets of the tiny town of Santo Poco rang with the sound of wolves.

  “Father?” Brass hummed, his wasp-voice eerie in the confines of the chapel as the echoes of the howls faded. “Have you completed the ritual yet?” He looked at the altar and the weeping parishioners huddled around it.

  “N-no,” the priest said shakily. He glanced at Brass and flinched inadvertently.

  “Can you hold them off?” James said, looking nervously around at the chapel windows.

  “Not for long,” Brass said. In the darkness outside something horrible howled again. Brass' mirror-lens eyes flickered, focusing. His pistol spat and the howler shrieked in agony.”Father Amaro, our time is limited,” Brass said, stepping back from the doorway. “I can only dissuade them for so long. Please make haste.”

  “I don't even know if this will work!” Amaro snapped, his voice an octave higher than it had been. “I've never performed an exorcism before!”

  “And I've never fought werewolves before,” Brass said, spinning and firing again. “Especially ones that ride horses.” Outside, a bevy of howls spiraled up towards the fat moon, followed by the scream of terrified horses.

  “This can't be happening,” Amaro said. With trembling fingers, he squeezed holy water out of a scrap of shroud wrapped around his fingers. As the droplets touched the bullets, steam rose into the air. Behind him, the trapped parishioners began to weep and pray. “I didn't even know these were here!” he continued.

  “Thank Mr. James for that,” Brass said, holstering his weapon. The charge had been drained. His hands clenched, the gears in his fingers squealing. It would be hand-to-hand now. Or, rather, hand-to-claw.

  “I was trying to do the right goddamn thing for once!” James snapped, wiping his palms on his trousers. “Just once...” He looked up as something thumped into the chapel roof. “Oh Jesus.” He raised his revolver and emptied it into the ceiling, eliciting screams from the congregation.

  Talons scrabb
led across the hard-packed earth outside and lupine shadows slid up the wall. The prayers behind him grew louder and Brass spread his arms in preparation. “Father Amaro,” he said without turning around. Amaro ignored him, instead swinging a vial of burning incense over the bullets as he intoned in Latin.

  They needed time. Brass looked at James. “Stay here. If they get past me, do what you can.”

  “What the hell are you going to do? Hey!” James said as Brass stepped out into the night. Above him, something hissed. Brass didn't look up.

  “Anderson,” he said, his voice echoing through the ruined mission. “Anderson. I wish to discuss terms.”

  Silence. For a moment, Brass wondered whether he had made a mistake. Then, spurs jangled. Brass focused on a patch of darkness that had come unstuck from the shadows. It resolved itself into a pair of burning eyes set into a hairy face. The man was big, bigger than Brass and broad. He wore a battered gray coat and stained butternut trousers. A wide-brimmed hat with a drooping feather sat on his head. Scarred fingers tapped on the butts of a pair of Navy Colt revolvers stuffed through a filthy sash. The yellow eyes blinked and the lips peeled back from over-sharp teeth. “First time I ever heard a ro-bot ask for parley,” Anderson grunted.

  “Bill, alias 'Bloody', Anderson, you are charged with—” Brass began.

  “Cut out that horseshit!” Anderson barked.”Where are they, metal man? Where are my bullets?”

  “I'm afraid that they are now the property of the Federal Government, Mr. Anderson,” Brass said. “Please allow me to complete the list of charges.”

  “Charges? What charges?” Anderson snarled, his big fingers curling like claws. Behind him, the growls of his followers split the night. “And where the hell is that yellow cur Frank?”

  “Busy. Sedition, murder and unlawful lycanthropy to start,” Brass said. “The war is over, Mr. Anderson. You lost. Therefore, you are now considered illegal combatants and in violation of the Steam-City Convention of 1871. After you are charged and processed, you will be duly extradited to Brazil—”

  “We don't recognize your authority!” Anderson howled, his eyes glowing with a frenzied light. “Now give us them damn bullets!” His teeth clicked. “And Frank.”