Skin Medicine

by Curran, Tim

Cabe went right past him, left him coughing and gasping, blood bubbling from his dislocated nose. He had almost made the front door when the dandy screamed out obscenities and pulled a little five-shot Remington Elliot .32.

  Cabe just stood there, knowing he couldn’t move quick enough.

  The gun was on him.

  The tall man was filled with rage and hate.

  Just then two men carrying shotguns burst through the door. They were dressed in dusty trail clothes and plainsman-style hats.

  “You there,” the first said. “Drop that pistol or I’ll cut you in half.”

  The dandy lowered it, let it slide from his fingers.

  The second one turned to Cabe, looked him up and down. “You Cabe? Tyler Cabe? The Arkansas bounty hunter?”

  “I would be.”

  The shotguns came around in his direction now. “Then you better come with us.”

  9

  For some time after Tyler Cabe left, Janice Dirker found herself thinking about him. About how he carried himself, the way he spoke, that unflappable honesty that was the earmark, it seemed, of who and what he was. She found herself thinking about these things and knowing that he excited her. Excited some part of her that had lain long dormant like a volcano just biding its time until it would erupt.

  Tyler Cabe was a free-spirit.

  He seemed to be entirely unconventional. Had no true respect for money or position, for authority or cultural values. He lived as he chose, said what he pleased to whom he pleased. He was a rogue element. Seemed to have more in common with the red man than the white. Maybe this is what excited her. He was so different than the other men she’d known. Now, her husband Jackson, was completely the opposite. He had bearing, had station, had unshakable confidence. But he was stiff and unyielding and emotions seemed to be a foreign thing to him. Mere malfunctions of character, rather than compliments to it. For though Jackson was a good man who invariably did the right thing at the right time, he was cold. Terribly cold and methodical.

  And Tyler Cabe?

  Anything but. He was tough and trail-weary, had ridden the backside of society for far too long. He was surely lacking in refinement or social graces, but what he lacked there he surely made up in warmth and humanity. He was warm and friendly and wore his emotions proudly. He had depth and sincerity and compassion. He was everything Jackson wasn’t and was not afraid to be so. Her father would have despised him. And although Jackson was a Yankee, he was exactly the sort of man her father would have paired her with—a man of dignity, resolve, and bearing. His idea of what a man should be. And Cabe? Her father would have instantly dismissed him as “hill-trash”.

  Cabe, however, was not the most outwardly handsome of men.

  He was tall and lanky, powerful without being manifestly muscular. His face was weathered from hard-living and hard riding, set with draws and hollows, lined by experience. Then there were those scars across his face. He would have been a menacing character had it not been for those beautifully sad green eyes that offset the rest and gave him a pained, melancholy look.

  There was no doubt in Janice’s mind that she was attracted to him.

  Maybe it was the hotel and the staff and daily drudgery of keeping things running. Jackson was part of that, she supposed. Just another reminder of toil and unhappiness…and perhaps all these things combined is what made Tyler Cabe seem so fresh, so exciting. For he was, if anything, the image of a pirate from her teenage fantasies—a scoundrel, a libertine, a wolf in a world of sheep and dogs.

  These were the things Janice mulled over that windy evening when the giant came through the door.

  Maybe giant wasn’t entirely applicable, but there was no getting around the fact that her visitor was closer to seven-feet than six. He was dressed in a shaggy buffalo coat that was just as ragged and worn as the hide of a mangy grizzly. Crossed bandoleers of brass cartridges were belted over his chest. A big Colt Dragoon pistol hung at the crotch of his fringed deerskin pants. His face was hard, his eyes like unblinking iron, a steel gray beard hung down to his chest.

  Janice felt her insides go to jelly. She begin to quiver at the sight of him. “May…may I help you?” she managed.

  He stepped forward, casting a shadow over her. His belts were set with knives and pistols. He took off his hat and his head was just as bald as wind-polished stone. He tapped the ledger with the barrel of a shotgun.

  “Surely,” he said. “And evenin’ to ye, ma’am. Name’s Clay, Elijah Clay. I’m a lookin’ fer the squeeze of shit what killed m’ boy.”

  Janice just stared dumbly.

  He looked around, nodded. “Ye happen to know the whereabouts of some Arkansas trash name of Tyler Cabe? I’m gunnin’ fer this yellow-livered, dog-rapin’, greasy squirt of hogfuck and I don’t plan on leavin’ till I get him.”

  Janice wanted to lie, but deception was not among her natural rhythms. And this man…well, you didn’t dare lie to him. “He’s not in, I’m afraid. He…he just left about a half-hour ago. Didn’t say when he’d be back.”

  “Didn’t, eh?” Clay sighed and shook his head. “That’s probably fer the best, I reckon. Ye got yerself a fine place here, ma’am. Just fine. And with all due respects to ye and yer fine establishment, I wouldn’t want to a-dirty it up none with the likes of Tyler Cabe and spill that goatpiss he calls blood here, there, and everywheres. When I git him and I surely will git him, I’ll take that drip of shit outside and carve him like a rutting buck. Use his goddamn ball sack fer a tobaccy pouch. Yes, sir.”

  Janice was speechless.

  “Ye figure ye can tell him I stopped by, ma’am?” Clay said, oddly cordial for a monster. “Tell him I been here and I’ll be back and have no earthly intention of leaving until his scalp’s a-dangling from m’ belt.” Clay slapped the sodbuster hat back on his head, turned and made for the door. Hand on the brass knob, he paused and touched the brim of his hat. “Ma’am.”

  And then he was gone.

  10

  The finest hotel in Whisper Lake was undoubtedly the Stanley Arms which catered to mining officials, rich cattlemen, and wealthy investors from back east. It was owned by a two-fisted Scotch highlander by the name of McConahee who came to this country to fight for the North in the Civil War and later made millions as a cattle broker. The Stanley boasted furnishings from European castles, imported Italian tile, and not one, but three French chefs.

  And it was here that the two men with shotguns took Tyler Cabe.

  Once outside, the guns were lowered. The men made it clear that he was not their prisoner, but equally clear that he was going to go where they said. Cabe was ushered through the great carved oaken doors, up the marble steps to the third floor where he was deposited in a suite of rooms carpeted in oriental rugs and told to wait.

  And he did…drinking it all in.

  There was a rosewood étagère set against one wall with a crystal mirror and ornamented shelves. Turkish armchairs, rose-carved side chairs, and a medallion sofa all upholstered in plush red velvet. There was a swan coffee table, high mahogany bookcases, and a gleaming eight-arm brass chandelier above.

  A British manservant decked out in spats and tails told Cabe to make himself comfortable. Which wasn’t too difficult on a camel-backed loveseat that nearly swallowed him alive in plush comfort. So Cabe sat there, a snifter of Napoleon brandy in his hand, amongst the lush accoutrements, pretending he was some high-born lord.

  But all the while he was thinking: Okay, Cabe, you must’ve really pissed-off somebody important this time. So enjoy your brandy, because it might be your last.

  Cabe was smelling his buckskins and armpits when someone entered the room. It was a white-haired man with a hawkish nose, just as thin as a porcupine quill.

  “Mr. Cabe, I presume?” he said, sounding more than a little amused.

  “You…ah, presume correctly, sir,” Cabe said. “And don’t get the wrong idea, Mister, I don’t go around smelling myself like an ape in the zoo all the time. I was just concerned
about stinking up your nice couch.”

  “Sofa, Mr. Cabe,” the man said.

  “Sofa?”

  “Sofa.” The man was high and mighty and something about him seemed to demand that. He poured himself some brandy and turned to his visitor, his eyes simply cold as ice chips. He cleared his throat. “I apologize for the somewhat unconventional invitation, but it was important I speak to you immediately.”

  “And you are?” Cabe said, knowing that to this guy not introducing himself was a grave social error.

  “Yes, of course. Excuse me. Forbes, Conniver Forbes. I’m the chairman of the board and controlling stockholder of the Arcadian Mine, which is a merely a holding of the National Mining Cooperative. Perhaps, you’ve heard of us?”

  Cabe had. They had more money than any three countries and more pull than a dozen state senators. “Sure. You people own lots of people. Folks just like me.”

  Forbes arched his left eyebrow. “I have some business I would like to discuss with you…perhaps over dinner?”

  But Cabe shook his head. “I just had me some pickled eggs. Besides, that French food gives me the gas something awful.”

  “Yes.” Forbes sat down. “I’ll make it simple then and lay my cards out for you. I’m here as not only a representative of National Mining and the Arcadian, but of the Southview and Horn Silver mines as well. You see, we have a problem. A problem you may be able to help us with.”

  “Such as?”

  “I understand you’re hunting this deviant known as the Sin City Strangler?”

  “That would be true, yes.”

  “And the compiled bounty on this individual is…?”

  Cabe rolled himself a cigarette, amused as always how rich folk could never say what was on their minds. “About five-thousand, I reckon. Seems to go up every month.”

  Forbes nodded, stroked his chin. “I would like to hire you, Mr. Cabe. Hire you to address a problem which is much more severe than this Strangler. You see, there has been some problems in this town of late…”

  He explained in some detail about the murders and disappearances up in the hills. Those which were originally thought to be the work of some large predators, but after the slaughter at Sunrise…well, other avenues of thought were being considered.

  “See, Mr. Cabe, this Strangler business is bad, yes, but our problem here is tad bit worse. The Strangler has killed…what? Seven, eight women? Horrible to be sure, but minor in comparison to dozens and dozens that have disappeared or been slaughtered outside this town. And when you levy on top of that the massacre at Sunrise, well, you can no doubt see the time has come for action.”

  Cabe lit his cigarette, told Forbes it was not his problem. That such things were being handled by the county sheriff. He had put bounties on the animals thought to be responsible. And if they weren’t animals, then just what in hell were they? He was not much of an investigator. Not given to wild leaps of speculation in general. He usually went after a man or an animal that had been identified in some way. But this, this was—

  “Out of your realm?” Forbes said. “Maybe, maybe not. The fact is you’re a bounty hunter, Mr. Cabe. You hunt for a living, men or beasts. As far as being an investigator goes, I think you’re being modest. Your record is impressive. I want you to turn your complete attention over to our problem here.”

  “Why should I?”

  Forbes, not a man used to having to beg, told him that there was a bigger issue at hand here than lives. There was money to be considered. If the killings and disappearances continued, the mines would be in trouble. People were already running scared. More than a few had already left and what they—the mining people—did not need was a mass exodus which would put a stranglehold on profits.

  “A mine does not exist without men to work it,” Forbes pointed out.

  “Well, shit, you’re right,” Cabe said. “Men dying is one thing, but when all them bodies piling up starts to cut into the profit…well, damn, something had better be done.”

  Forbes just stared. “Whether you agree with our motives or not, Mr. Cabe, is beside the point. We’ll pay you and pay you well to handle this matter.”

  “Why don’t you bring in hunters from outside?”

  “The time factor. This has to be moved on and contained immediately.”

  Cabe thought it over. Decided he did not like this manipulative sumbitch who stank and stank bad of boardrooms and privilege. “Sorry, but I got me other matters to attend to.” He butted his cigarette and stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  “We’ll pay you fifty-thousand dollars, Mr. Cabe.”

  Cabe felt light-headed. He sank back down on the loveseat. He cleared his throat. “Course, first thing you need in something like this is facts. So, tell me what you know…”

  11

  Like vultures gathered around a fresh, meaty kill, the vigilantes (sans hoods) gathered around the body of James Horner. He was laid out on a slab in the mortuary, just as dead as 150 pounds of trail-killed steer. His eyes were glazed over, but wide and staring.

  One of the vigilantes, a mine captain named McCrutchen kept pressing them closed, but the lids just popped back open. He crossed himself. “Don’t like that,” he said. “Don’t like that at all.”

  A few others laughed.

  “Nothing supernatural about it,” Caleb Callister explained. He took a brown glass bottle of liquid and brushed the inner eyelids, gumming them shut. He held them closed for a moment and when he released them, they didn’t open back up.

  Horner was covered in dried blood. It had soaked into his blue overcoat and spattered across his face. The side of his throat was a great blackened chasm.

  “Slug must’ve ripped out most of his neck,” Luke Windows said.

  “And his carotid artery with it,” Callister said.

  He pulled a sheet up over the body, the dead face making the others uneasy. They were down to six now without Horner—Callister, Windows, Caslow, McCrutchen, Cheevers, and Retting. They had been harassing the Mormons for better than three months now. Mostly they preyed on small groups caught away from the villages. The raid on Redemption tonight had been the first action of its kind. But now with Horner’s death, it would not be their last.

  Windows said, “I grew up with Horner, I grew up with him.”

  “He died bravely for the cause,” Callister said, although it had a decidedly hollow ring to it. But what else could he say?

  McCrutchen had been uneasy since they got Horner’s body back to town. “I wonder if this is some sort of omen,” he said.

  Caslow just shook his head. “Since when is a shot man an omen?”

  “I’m just wondering is all.”

  “Crazy,” Retting said. “Crazy talk.”

  But Cheevers wasn’t so sure. “Maybe we offended God with this business and we’re being punished.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Windows told him.

  Callister knew he had to get control of them or this in-fighting would be the end of their little society. “All right,” he said, stepping between Windows and Cheevers. “Enough of this horseshit. We’re all part of the same thing here, we’re brothers. We all took the oath, did we not? As far as Horner goes, his death had nothing to do with God or the saints or the Devil himself. It was an accident. We rode in there shooting and burning. With all that lead flying about, we can count ourselves lucky no one else took a round. Maybe the Mormons hit Horner or…maybe one of us did. Ricochet. It’s possible, very possible.”

  That shut them up, gave them something to chew on for a time.

  “So enough of this nonsense,” Callister said to them. “Those bastards’ll pay for this, just not tonight is all.”

  “And what about Horner?” Windows wanted to know.

  Callister sighed. “We have to get rid of the body.”

  “Now wait one goddamn minute,” Windows said angrily. “He was my friend. I grew up with him, I—”

  “We have to get rid of him,” Callister cut in. “You
mark my words, the Mormons are going to come screaming to Dirker first light. If they saw him get shot, they’ll tell Dirker as much. If Dirker gets a look at Horner’s wound, well, that wily sonofabitch’ll put two and two together. He knows who Horner’s friends are, he’ll know who to roust.”

  There was silence after that. A great deal of it. All you could hear was the wind outside and the ticking of a mantle clock inside. Callister told Windows and the others to take the body out into the hills, plant it in a shallow grave where it would never be found.

  “Horner will have his day of reckoning…through us,” Callister promised them. “Maybe tomorrow night, maybe the night after, but he will certainly have it. The next time we ride on Redemption, we’ll be carrying more than guns and kerosene.”

  “Like what?” Caslow asked.

  “I was thinking about all that dynamite up at the mines,” Callister said.

  The others began to grin.

  12

  The next morning dawned cool and overcast, a light rain drizzling over the San Francisco mountains and the towns and mining camps that had sprung up around them like weeds.

  In Redemption, a group of men dressed entirely in black stood in a large barn. They stood staring down at the bodies laid over an expanse of hay bales. They were the bodies of men, women, and children killed by the vigilantes. They numbered nearly two dozen.

  Though the men followed the teachings of Brigham Young and the path of righteousness set forth by the prophet Joseph Smith, they were not like other Mormons. These men carried Colt pistols and Greener shotguns, repeating rifles and army carbines. In a religion that espoused the gentle way of the lamb, these men were wolves, hunters and predators.

  They were called Danites, though gentiles knew them as the “Destroying Angels”.

  They were the ultra-secret, ultra-clannish enforcement wing of the Church of the Latter-Day Saints. Since before the days of the Mountain Meadows Massacre when as many as a 150 California-bound gentiles were slaughtered by Mormon militias and Indians under the direction of the Danites, they had been actively righting wrongs and settling scores for the Mormon populations of Utah Territory. And this under orders of Brigham Young, though he had denied the same again and again.