Hell's Highwaymen

by Phillip Granath

  Then bartender set his pearl-handled Derringer on the table.

  “Would it really matter fat ass? I’ll tell you what, you do that, and if your eye is fast enough to follow my hand, well, I’ll blow my own god damn brains out. How does that sound?” Jamie said in a mocking tone.

  “Well, I’ll still be watching!” Big Al replied.

  Shinji set Cort’s big cap and ball revolver on the table as well, though he kept a tight grip on the gun. His eyes never stopped, they followed Jamie’s hands as they dealt out the cards; his face drawn and serious.

  “Does he really understand how this game is played?” Big Al asked hesitantly.

  “He’s played it longer than you have,” said Jamie.

  “He’s actually improved quite a bit since we made him start using a gun,” Oliver added.

  “What did you use before the gun?”

  “A big fucking knife,” replied Jamie as he and Oliver shared a laugh at the memory.

  “It was a bloody mess,” Oliver added.

  Jamie finished dealing; now each man had an equal pile of cards face down in front of them.

  “Alright gentlemen,” Jamie said taking a long drag on his cigarette, “you’re going to need it.”

  “On three,” said Oliver.

  Jerry watched the men intently, not exactly sure what was about to happen. Perhaps it was the taste of blood mixed booze still fresh in his mouth. But it seemed that violence was in the air, it was a palpable thing. He found himself holding his breath as the men around the table began to count out loud.

  “One, two....”

  On the word three, the men turned over the cards in front of them. For a moment they all tensed and then seemed to release a collective sigh. Jerry looked down at the cards; the high card face-up was a Queen turned over by the Brit. Oliver laughed and scooped up all of the face-up cards and placing them in a new pile in front of him.

  “One, two...,” the table chanted again.

  With a flurry of movement, the men again turned over their top cards, and again the table released a breath as one. This time Al the bartender had turned over an ace and with a sweep of his hand pulled the overturned cards towards him. Though from where Jerry stood the man didn’t seem to be very happy about his win.

  Jerry watched the game go on for another few hands and thought it seemed, well, a little too simple. Most of the times the boys entertained themselves with variations of poker. This seemed more like a kid’s game to Jerry. It hit him then, and he blurted out.

  “War? You’re playing fucking war?”

  “Shut up greenhorn. I know you’re just trying to distract me,” Jamie replied.

  “Keep it up Jerr, I need all the help I can get,” Oliver said with a laugh.

  “What happens when two of you pull the same card?” Jerry asked.

  “Give me a few more hands, and I’ll show you,” Jamie offered with a wicked grin.

  Jerry did get to see what happened, but it wasn’t from Jamie. Three hands later Shinji and the bartender each turned over fours. Big Al realized it before the Mongolian and grabbed for his pearl handled derringer, but in his haste, he bobbled it, knocking the gun into the center of the table. Shinji had stopped looking at the cards, most of them made little sense to him anyway, he watched the other player’s eyes. When Big Al reached for his small pistol, Shinji grabbed his borrowed revolver on reflex. The Mongolian raised the big gun and pointed it at the bartender, then awkwardly squeezed at the pistol’s grip several times with his whole hand, willing the borrowed gun to go off. Big Al laughed as he finally scooped up the derringer and pointed it at the struggling warrior.

  The big revolver finally went off in Shinji's hand with a roar and a cloud of smoke. But the shot was low, hitting the table a few inches in front of the bartender. Luckily for Shinji, the heavy lead bullet sailed through the table top and hit Big Al right in the stomach. The bartender was launched backward out of his chair and slammed up against the base of the bar just a few feet from where Jerry stood. Big Al was screaming and grabbing at a bloody hole in his midsection, as black blood spurted out of a matching hole in his back.

  Jamie was laughing hysterically and pounding with his fist at the table, across from him Oliver was grinning broadly and taking the opportunity to finish Big Al’s shot of whiskey. Shinji stood and awkwardly pawed at the revolver’s action trying to re-cock it as Big Al continued to scream on the floor.

  “Damn it, give it here!” Oliver offered.

  The Brit reached for the big gun, but Shinji pulled it back looking at him suspiciously.

  “Jamie, Jamie please,” Al whimpered from the floor, “please help me Jamie!”

  “Fine, fine Al, but you had better fetch me a fresh round of shots when you get back on your feet.”

  “Will do, thanks partner,” Al replied, as blood began to leak from the corner of his mouth.

  “I’m here for you good buddy,” Jamie replied.

  With that, the gunslinger picked up his revolver and casually shot Big Al through the head. As the bartender died, again, the blood-soaked shots of whiskey vanished as well.

  “Three seconds Shinji,” Jamie said, as he held up three fingers towards the Mongolian.

  The warrior nodded his understanding and stepped around to the table to stand over the dead bartender. Shinji knelt down and placed two fingers on the corpse’s neck. At his touch, the dead bartender’s skin began to grow even paler. Jerry watched with a sort of horrified fascination as the color began to drain from the corpse. In turn, Shinji’s skin tone began to darken as it regained just a shade of its natural hue. Jerry felt sick in the pit of his stomach; he must have looked the same, laying in the street as Al sucked the life from him. But how long ago had that been? An hour, a day, a week? As Cort had told him, time here did funny things.

  “That’s enough Shinji,” Jamie said.

  Shinju relented and stood, retaking his seat at the table. Jerry shook his head still feeling ill from what he had seen and staggered back towards his seat at Cort’s table.

  “How can they do that? I thought I thought they were friends?” Jerry asked numbly.

  “They are friends, kinda,” Cort replied. “But tell me, have you ever had a friend or a family member that you wish you could shoot sometimes? Well, here you can.”

  “One of the few perks of this place,” the Priest added.

  Jerry kept his eyes on Big Al’s corpse, even as Cort spoke, he watched as the bloody hole in the man’s stomach slowly closed, the blood flowing back up into the body. A moment later the bartender’s eyes fluttered at first and then opened. With a groan Al slowly pulled himself to his feet, leaning heavily against the bar.

  “Barkeep!” Oliver shouted.

  “Another round Al, come on now buddy!” Jamie added.

  “Walk it off Al!” Father Callahan added.

  Big AL nodded giving the room a weak smile and then staggered his way around behind the bar to retrieve the fresh tray of blood-soaked drinks, looking very pale as he did so.

  “What’s to keep them from just draining him completely? Like those souls on the road,” Jerry asked.

  “Honor among thieves, a sense of loyalty perhaps,” the Priest offered.

  “That and they know I’d kill them and suck them dry if they tried it,” Cort offered.

  At the next table Jamie, Oliver, and Shinji had restarted their game, now with just three players.

  Tall Tales

  The group’s time at The Rose seemed to pass quickly to Jerry, but he couldn’t say if they had been there for days or even weeks. What he did notice was an unease that seemed to grow within the group. A rough edge that even the bloody liquor, smoke and games couldn’t distract the men from entirely. It was Cort who determined when it was time for them to move on. The Cavalryman finished his drink, stood and simply announced.

  “It’s time boys.”

  None of them complained, not even Jamie. All of them seemed to sense that their leisure time had ended, a
feeling reinforced by that pull in the pit of their stomachs, beckoning them all to walk towards that point somewhere beyond the horizon. As the riders stood, gathering their things and draining their glasses, the only one that seemed to regret their departure was Al the Bartender. The big man stood on the front steps of the saloon and watched the riders mount their ghostly steads, his face a mix of sadness and fear.

  “You all won’t forget about me? Right Cort? Boys?” Al called out.

  “We won’t forget,” Cort replied turning his horse.

  “Last time, last time was nearly too long. I don’t want to take that walk.”

  “Vaya con Dios little buddy,” Jamie said with a wave.

  As the troop rode down the street, Jerry found himself riding behind the young priest again. He turned to look back as they left The Rose and its dusty street behind. Al stood on the steps and watched them ride away, tears now rolling freely down his face. He shouted after them.

  “Don’t forget me! Jamie! Priest! Don’t forget me!”

  Jerry turned back, he took a quick breath, inhaling and then coughing out a mouth full of dust.

  “Will we be back?” he asked and then paused for a moment wondering at what point he had begun to consider himself part of this pack of killers.

  “I hope so,” the priest replied and then added. “It’s been a favorite watering hole of ours for, well, a very for a long time.”

  Jerry risked one more glance back but found the ghost town and its solitary inhabitant had vanished; now only barren flat rock stretched to the horizon. He was beginning to wonder if he would ever grow used to this place and its twisted sense of time and distance. Ahead of them, Cort motioned towards Oliver, and the British Dragoon pulled his horse in riding next to the Lieutenant.

  “We need a vantage point. How about the tower?” Cort asked.

  Oliver closed his eyes as a look of overwhelming sadness crossed his usually jolly face. After a moment the Dragoon opened his eyes and simply nodded.

  “Aye,” he said, “I understand.”

  Oliver kicked his horse onward and pulled ahead of the group. Cort watched the set of his friend’s shoulders change; they slumped as if he had just shouldered a massive weight. A few heartbeats later the man shuddered, a tremor violent enough to recognize even though Oliver was riding. Ahead of them, a dark spot appeared on the horizon and Cort knew the man had been successful. They rode towards the spot, and it quickly materialized into a stone cathedral. The Lieutenant let Oliver lead them, giving the man a bit of space to ride alone.

  As the highwaymen slowed, the dust began to dissipate, giving Jerry his first clear look at the lone structure. In life it was probably much larger he realized, but at least here it was a partially collapsed ruin. The slate gray church had at one time boasted a pair of squared towers. But now one tower had collapsed in on itself, leaving the other alone to lean drunkenly, threatening to follow suit. A rusting iron railed fence encompassed the building along with a single rotting oak, and a dozen weathered gravestones. Oliver dismounted first and not waiting for the others stepped through the rusted gates and into the graveyard.

  Cort let the big man go, and watched as he walked through the graveyard reading each stone in turn. He dismounted, and the rest of the riders followed his lead. They moved through the gates and towards the cathedral doors, or at least toward where the rotting doors had once stood.

  “What is this place?” Jerry asked the Priest.

  “Oh don’t look at me son, this isn’t my doing. Though every Protestant church deserves a place in Hell if you ask me,” Father Callahan said with a grin.

  “Was that a joke?” Jerry asked.

  “I guess not, never mind,” the Priest replied shaking his head.

  The pair watched Oliver for a few moments as the big man made his way through the graveyard, moving from stone to stone. Every so often he would reach out and touch the worn names scrawled on the stone, he would wet a finger on his lips and then run it across the faded lines. But each time he rose again and moved to the next stone.

  “What is he doing?” Jerry asked.

  “Looking for the graves of his family, I think,” the Priest offered.

  “Will he find them?”

  “Don’t know, probably not is my guess, the way this place works. But that won’t stop him from looking. He’ll check each stone a dozen times over or perhaps a hundred before we leave this place. And more often than not we’ll have to force him to leave.”

  “What happened to them? To him?” Jerry asked.

  “I don’t know the details, but It’s an old story, often repeated. Men leave home, they go to war and when they return. Well, they find they have no home left to return too.”

  “What did he do?”

  “You mean to get here? Many things I’d imagine.”

  “I mean after he found that his family was, well, that they were gone?” Jerry asked.

  “He did what most do. He went and found a new war.”

  With that, the Priest turned and went through the open doors of the cathedral leaving Jerry to his thoughts and Oliver to his endless search.

  Cort climbed the tower’s rickety staircase, the rotting wooden boards groaning in protest at each step. He had climbed the tower hundreds of times over the years, and the boards had never failed him before. Perhaps that was one positive thing in a place where nothing ever really changed; it was predictable. He reached the top of the stairs and was greeted by a large brass bell weathered green, and beyond that, a commanding view of the plain.

  The cavalryman scanned the horizon in a nearly 360-degree arc. His line of sight was broken only by the uppermost branches of the dead oak and the four corner posts that supported the sharp peak of the roof above him. He saw nothing, just miles, and miles of flat hard ground stretched out before him. Cort released a small sigh and hunkered down with his back to one of the posts. He removed his brass spyglass from its case and settled in for what he knew could be a long wait.

  More than a hundred feet below Cort, Jerry entered the church for the first time. Just inside the entryway stood a pair of doorways, one collapsed while the other held a set of stairs leading upward. The priest sat on the bottom step, his Bible open in his lap. The floors were old stone worn smooth and polished by the passing of thousands of parishioners. What remained of the walls held a series of narrow windows that at one time appeared to have held ornate stained-glass windows, but now all were empty. Only a half dozen wooden pews had survived the collapse of the ceiling, the rest of the church now lay buried under tons of block, beams and slate roofing. The effect gave the ruin an almost cave-like feeling.

  Jamie lay stretched out on a pew, his hat resting on the floor a few feet away, and he was lazily spinning cards in its direction, the gunfighter looked up as Jerry entered.

  “Bring me a smoke, little man,” Jamie called.

  Jerry hurried over to the pew and setting his briefcase down, unlocked it and retrieved the Lucky Strikes. The insurance adjuster put two of the cigarettes in his mouth and lit them both at the same time. His hand was barely shaking as he handed over one of the lit cigarettes to the gunfighter. Jamie tossed the last card in his hand then took a long pull from the Lucky Strike. He blew out a long cloud of smoke, and his eyes settled back on Jerry.

  “So, Jerry, tell me a fucking story.”

  “What? You mean like, like my story? Why I’m here?” Jerry stammered in surprise.

  “I don’t give a shit. Anything, fucking entertain me,” Jamie demanded.

  “I…I don’t know…,” Jerry began.

  “What did I miss?” Oliver asked as he strode into the ruined church.

  “Jerry was about to tell us a story,” Jamie answered.

  “Oh thank Christ. Got one of those for me lad?” Oliver asked.

  Jerry nodded in reply, but before he could even lift his case, Oliver reached over and plucked the burning cigarette from between his lips.

  “You're a lifesaver Jerr,” Oliver sa
id.

  Jamie laughed out loud at the exchange, and the Dragoon sat down in the pew next to him. But even as the men laughed Jerry couldn’t help but notice that the big man looked paler than normal and the cigarette trembled slightly in his hand.

  “Are you alright Oliver?” Father Callahan asked as he approached.

  “Just cheeky, in fact never better. Since when do you give a shit priest? It’s not like I’m part of your flock,” Oliver replied.

  The Priest said nothing but sat down heavily on the next pew over. For a few moments, no one spoke, and Jerry suddenly realized they were all waiting for him.

  “Well?” Jamie asked.

  Jerry sat down on the dusty floor in front of the pews, and a moment later Shinji entered and sat down on the floor next to him. Jerry looked over and found the same expectant expression on Shinji's face as he had on the others. It seemed even the language barrier could stop story time in hell.

  “I, I don’t know what you want to hear,” Jerry said lamely.

  “Believe me, lad, anything will do,” Oliver replied.

  “Tell us about the last time you had a woman,” Jamie offered.

  “Oh yeah, tell us about that,” Oliver nodded in agreement.

  From the corner of his eye, Jerry saw the priest shake his head.

  “Ok, yeah,” Jerry replied nodding in agreement.

  The memory flashed back to him then, the last time he and his wife. Wait, he had a wife he suddenly realized. Yes, and her name was Rachel. Why had remembering his wife’s name seemed like such a chore? Why had it taken some effort to remember her? Had he thought about her once since he had arrived in this place he suddenly wondered? No, he didn’t think he had. That seemed odd, didn’t it? Of course, they had been divorced nearly three years before he…well before he woke up here.

  The last time he and Rachel had made love had been, well it had been a disaster. She had texted to tell him she would be working late again; it was the third night that week. He was upset and convinced more than ever that she was cheating on him. Probably with another attorney in her firm he guessed. He didn’t respond to her text he just started drinking. He used to go out with her to company dinners, even then it had been awkward. She an up and coming attorney in a big law firm, him an Insurance salesman in a dead-end job. Now that he had lost his job entirely, she didn’t bother even telling her coworkers she was married.