“Yes, of course,” Jerry replied.
“Well, It’s the same way here. The deeper the man, the darker the reflection. A simple sin, a shallow man, the lighter the reflection it creates here,” Cort said.
“Jamie, did you hear that? I think the Leftenant just called us simple,” Oliver said.
The Dragoon grinned and then shot a look at Jamie. The young gunslinger replied with a scowl and then looked away.
“Is that true?” Jerry asked.
“Best as we can figure it is, but truths are just one more thing in short supply around here,” Cort said.
“What does that say about me?” Jerry asked in confusion.
“You’re just a little more complex, that’s all my son, a deep thinker. It’s not just your sins it’s the layers of guilt and the regrets you’ve piled on top of them,” Father Callahan said.
Jerry sat in silence for a moment considering the words carefully and then pointed out what now seemed obvious.
“So, I guess this means my dark memories won’t be much help to us then?”
Father Callahan didn’t reply but turned to look at Cort. The cavalryman nodded and then said, “You would be surprised what can be made useful in a pinch. Can’t say as I can think of any time when I may need to run headlong into a snowstorm, but this place has proved me wrong before.”
“Speaking of which, just where in the hell are we headed?” Jamie demanded.
Cort turned and looked back at his riders. He had lead enough fighting men both alive and dead to recognize it when they were close to their breaking point. When good men could let fatigue and fear rule them, they weren’t quite there yet, but the riders were close. Their close call with the hounds had shaken their collective nerve. They had earned what little downtime Cort could find for them in this place.
“We’re going back to The Rose,” Cort said with more spirit than he felt.
The announcement that usually would have drawn a round of cheers and shouts of joy was answered now by only silence.
“So soon?” Father Callahan asked.
Cort guided his mount closer to priest’s and spoke softly.
“The boys need the time Padre. Right now, they’re sullen and tired, bound to lash out if we keep on. A brief R&R will take the edge off. Then we can go out again and find some fresh souls.”
It took the riders much longer this time to find the dusty bar, and it's western ghost town than it did on their last visit. Jerry tried his best to contribute picturing the sad crumbling structure, and its even sadder barkeep. But eventually they did find it, the low row of buildings appeared in the distance and drew quickly closer. The men rode down the street in silence and then dismounted in front of the old saloon. Big Al the bartender stepped out through the double doors to meet them.
“How goes it, Al? See I told you we would be back!” Jamie shouted in greeting.
Big Al didn’t reply, in fact, he didn’t even look at them. He just sat down right on the wooden steps and stared into the dusty street.
“Al, what’s wrong?” Cort asked, his eyes began sweeping town immediately wary.
“He’s inside. He’s been waiting for you. I’m supposed to stay out here,” Big Al said.
To Jerry, the big man looked as if he might start crying at any moment or perhaps had just stopped.
“What are you talking about Al? Who’s inside?” Jamie asked trying to peer up into the bar.
“I…I don’t know,” Al replied hesitantly, “I’ve never seen anyone like him before.”
With that Al buried his face in his hands and slowly shook his head. Cort had heard enough, and he drew his heavy revolver and stepped down from his horse. The rest of the riders followed his lead, and the group pushed their way into The Rose. After a brief moment of hesitation, Jerry followed after them, gripping his briefcase nervously.
The newcomer would have been hard to miss in any bar or in anytime for that matter. He was huge, inhumanly so at nearly 8 feet tall Jerry guessed. The man wore a black and white striped suit that looked ridicules; it was the kind of thing that you would never see worn outside of a carnival, except perhaps on Halloween. The gaudy suit seemed just able to fit the man’s hulking frame and broad shoulders. The saloon’s newest patron stood next to the bar with his back turned towards the door either unaware or unconcerned about the rider’s approach. Cort opened his mouth to speak, but the stranger beat him to it.
“Ahh, Lieutenant August!” the stranger said raising one of Al’s bloody shots and then added, “And company of course.”
With that the man downed the shot in a single gulp, the glass looked tiny in his huge hand.
“Just who in the fuck are you?” Jamie demanded.
“Jamison, my boy, is that the way we greet strangers?” the man replied without turning.
Somehow the stranger’s voice had changed, it now carried the raspy weight of years and a slight Eastern Texas twang. Who’s ever voice it was struck a nerve with the young gunslinger. Jamie raised one of his Schofields and pointed it directly at the back of the big man’s bald head.
“Turn around!” he screamed, “turn the fuck around old man!”
The stranger obliged him turning slowly to face the group of killers and then casually leaned back against the bar. The man’s face was something out of a nightmare; It was a pale and bloated thing. The kind of face you would find in a cheap wax museum or perhaps on a corpse that had been in the river overnight. The eyes were sunken deeply into the skull and immediately gave Jerry the impression that the face was some gruesome kind of mask. The eyes themselves were purple and constantly in motion, now darting back and forth between the riders carrying a look of mirth. Like the eyes, the mouth also seemed recessed, and as the stranger smiled at them enjoying their obvious unease, he showed them a row of eerily perfect white teeth.
“What in the hell?” Cort whispered.
The Cavalryman raised his revolver to point at the thing, and the rest of the troop followed his lead raising their weapons to aim at the stranger. In response, the man just sighed and raised his hands in a look of mocking surrender.
“I thought it might come to this, no avoiding it I guess. Okay boys, let’s see what you got!” the stranger said with a laugh.
Needing no further invitation, the riders opened fire, and the saloon erupted into a chorus of violent. Cort’s heavy revolver set the tone hammering away with a series of deep booming blasts. Jamie Schofield’s cracked off lightning quick the gunslinger firing a pistol in each hand. Oliver’s black powder muzzleloaders added a pair of deep baritone blasts, first with the carbine and then his pistol. Shinji’s part in the fray was nearly silent as he emptied his quiver of black feathered arrows with focused precision. The barroom quickly filled with smoke and the form of the stranger was nearly lost in the dark cloud.
Jerry stood behind the line of killers hiding partially behind his raised briefcase. Father Callahan stood just to his right watching the display of violence with a seemingly dispassionate look on his face. From where they stood they could see the body of the strange newcomer being rocked and jolted as round after round struck home. But even to Jerry’s untrained eye, the scene seemed somehow wrong, somehow a bit too contrived. The rider’s gunfire slowed and then went quiet as their cylinders went empty. The abrupt silence was nearly as jarring to Jerry’s senses as the gunfire had been and left him with only the ringing in his ears.
The room seemed frozen for a moment with the only motion coming from the dissipating smoke. Then through the cloud materialized a sudden jerky movement and as it became clear, Jerry heard himself gasp. The stranger in the striped suit was still on his feet. His whole body continued to spasm and shudder as if still being struck by a hail of invisible bullets. As the riders looked on in confusion, the stranger began to make little noises with each movement and erratic gesture. A hum, a whoop or a sharp breath and all of a sudden it became clear, he was dancing.
As the scene went on the moves became more obvious a
nd more ridicules. Through it all It was clear to Jerry that the stranger was enjoying every moment of it. The man added more elaborate steps, more hip thrusts, more twists and even a dab or two. And while he did it he flashed his perfect teeth at his would-be killers in what Jerry’s father would have described as a “shit eating” grin. The routine ended with a flurry of quick, awkward movements, and the stranger dropped to his knees arms spread wide in front of him.
“Ta-da!” he exclaimed.
Confusion, shock, panic, the emotions came too quickly for Jerry to register them all. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jamie take a pair of quick halting steps backward and then Oliver took one of his own. The rider’s time in hell having taught them one thing, what you couldn’t kill outright you had to flee. Cort stood his ground at the center of the wavering line his now empty revolver down at his side and pointed at the floor. He had the look of a man that had just accepted the inevitable.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk!” the stranger said as he waved a long finger in the retreating rider’s direction.
“I don’t mind you are trying to kill me, you’re killers after all. But if you run then I’ll be forced to give chase and believe me, exercise, in any form is something I find dreadfully tedious,” he warned.
“What do you want?” Cort asked.
“The same thing most people want when they come to a place like this… a drink. Barkeep, a round of your bloodiest for me and my new acquaintances!” the stranger shouted leaping to his feet.
Cort glanced around at his men, most of which looked as if they were still considering running as an option. Then he took a step forward and pulling out a chair sat down heavily at the nearest table. After a moment’s hesitation, he tossed his useless revolver onto the table in front of him. The rest of the riders shared a series of nervous glances and then reluctantly followed his lead, Jerry took the seat just to Cort’s right.
“Where is that miserable excuse for a bartender? Alvin, if you're too busy sobbing somewhere to manage your own customers, well I swear!” the stranger shouted.
Big Al appeared a moment later in the doorway, his face was red and his eyes still puffy.
“Oh good, there you are Alvin. I have only been screaming for you for practically forever. A round of drinks for me and my new friends,” the newcomer demanded.
Big Al nodded dumbly in reply and then with an exaggerated sigh, the stranger took a seat directly across the table from Cort, his chair protesting with a loud groan. The man folded his hands neatly in front of him, and his purple eyes darted around the table at the seated riders. It wasn’t until those eyes settled on a spot somewhere over Jerry’s left shoulder that he realized the priest still stood.
“Father Callahan, why don’t you join us?” the stranger asked.
In reply, the priest took two quick steps forward and pointed an accusing finger at the newcomer.
“I see you, and I name thee, I name thee demon!” the priest shouted.
To a man, the rider’s eyes flashed back and forth between Father Callahan and the stranger. Each man tensed wondering if violence would ensue. Each now forced to decide for themselves if they would try to intervene or not. Big Al was halfway back from the bar he froze in his tracks suddenly much more interested in staring down at the tray of bloody drinks in his arms.
The stranger’s reaction was nothing that any of them could have expected. The man slammed a clenched fist down on the table and broke into a fit of laughter. It was a deep rolling thing, and the man was rocking back in forth in his chair nearly out of control. The riders exchanged nervous glances with Father Callahan, and the priest looked around as if confused at first, and then slowly he lowered his accusing finger.
Finally, the stranger was able to stifle his laughter long enough to form words. “Holy men! Such a flair for the dramatic,” he said fighting back a fresh wave of laughter and then added.
“And hypocrisy it would seem, coming from a murderer such as yourself,” at the stranger’s words the priest’s entire demeanor seemed to change. His shoulders slumped, and his eyes fell to the floor.
“Yes, I know all about you Father Royce James Callahan. Perhaps you should take a seat and try your hand at listening for once instead of preaching. Perhaps you will find you have more of a knack for it.”
The priest took a few halting steps backward, and when his back touched the barroom wall, he slid down it and sat on the floor. The stranger turned back to the rest of the seated riders.
“In fact, I know each of you. I know your lives, I know your sins, I know the secrets you held in life and the ones you now hold here in death. Nothing happens in this realm without my knowledge,” the stranger said. Turning to face each of them in turn as he spoke, his purple eyes unnatural and unblinking.
“Then you are a demon like the Padre says?” Cort asked meeting the eerie gaze.
“What do you think Lieutenant?” the stranger asked.
Cort paused for a long moment before he replied. “I think that in the time I’ve been here. The only thing I’ve seen even comes close to that description are the monsters that on occasion, try and run us down.”
“Yes, the Hounds as I believe you refer to them. A more apt name than perhaps you realize. Mindless beasts doing no more than playing fetch, dragging their prey off towards their master’s cursed lake,” the stranger said with a grin.
“Alvin! Where are those damn drinks!” he suddenly shouted.
The shout seemed to snap Big Al from his trance, and he rushed towards the table with renewed vigor. Then with a shaky hand, he placed the blood red drinks in front of each of the riders in turn. Finally, as he approached the tall stranger, the man took his drink and then gestured towards the priest next to the wall.
“Don’t forget Father Callahan now. In a place like this everyone needs a vice,” the stranger said with a grin.
“I couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t answer my question,” Cort pointed out as he looked down into his dark red whiskey.
The stranger smiled at Cort and shared with him a guilty look, the kind of look you see when someone knows they have been caught in a lie but doesn’t feel the necessary guilt to truly care.
“No I guess I didn’t, did I?” the stranger replied.
The thing paused then for a long moment, and his eyes drifted away as if considering something and just when it seemed he wouldn’t say another word he spoke.
“Some would call me a demon, in fact, some in this very room it would seem,” he said with a look towards the priest.
“But I didn’t crawl from the pit to serve the fallen angel. When you think about it, he is simply playing the role of a spoiled child. Trying to ruin for all what he can longer have himself. But mommy If I’m not allowed back into the water park then why should anyone else be?” the stranger said, his voice suddenly that of a petulant child.
“That’s his philosophy, and before you ask, I’m not a big fan of angels either. Those self-righteous sons-of-bitches like to call themselves subtle, but I just call them boring,” the stranger paused again, his eyes now darting around the room from each face in turn.
“I’m something else…something new…it would seem. I’m not exactly sure how or why I exist, but exist I surely do. Perhaps I’m just a reflection of the state of affairs in the world of the living? So many unaffiliated these days, out only for themselves. Like me bound to no kingdom, not the one above or the one below.”
The stranger paused and when he spoke again this time his words carried a weight and a dangerous edge that they hadn’t had before.
“I’m born of this place. I know it like no other ever will or ever can and it is here that I intend to reign. An independent operator beholden to none.”
The room was silent, every man turning over the stranger’s words in his own head and his own heart.
Cort spoke first. “Just so we’re clear on this. You're saying you’re going to try and start your own little what? Fiefdom? Right here in hell? All by yours
elf?”
The stranger’s grin returned in a blink, “Well, something like that. But it won’t be by myself,” he corrected.
The air seemed to have left the room for a moment. No one spoke. Jerry found the room starting to darken around its edges and realized he had forgotten to breathe.
“You’re here to offer us a job then?” Cort asked.
“Oh, no not really. I’m sorry how embarrassing this must be,” the stranger said covering his mouth in mock embarrassment.
“You see, calling it a job offer suggests… well, that you have some choice in the matter. I’m here to tell you simply that you work for me now.”
Without pause, Cort asked, “And if we refuse?”
“You are free to refuse, but then, of course, I’m also free to pull your heads away from your bodies. I think we have demonstrated fairly handily here that you can’t hurt me. And I’ll have you know that you can’t hide from me either, not in this world. I know all of your darkest torments. Jamie’s canyons, Oliver’s graveyard, your battlefields, even Jerry’s frozen highway, none of them will offer you a refuge from me,” the stranger explained casually.
The room was silent for a few moments as the man in the striped suit lifted Big Al’s drink and peered into the blood red liquor as he slowly swirled the glass.
“Of course, it’s the same reason you should want to help me. Think about it Lieutenant; I can tell you exactly where and when new souls have arrived. No more waiting, no more watching and hoping you blindly stumble across them out there on the plain. You’ll know exactly where they are from the moment they arrive,” the stranger paused turning to make sure he spoke to the whole group.
“You’ll also KNOW where the hounds will be hunting each day for that matter. No more risking your neck on desperate escapes through the snow,” he said and sent a wink towards Jerry.
“You can tell us all of that?” Cort asked.
“I can and I will,” the man promised.
“If you know all of those things if you're truly as unkillable as you seem, why do you need us at all?” Jamie questioned.
Hell's Highwaymen Page 14
