by Mark Lukens
“Don’t come any closer,” Moody said. “I’ll slit the boy’s throat.”
CHAPTER 33
Jed dropped his hand down to his Colt .45, ready to draw.
“Don’t,” Moody warned. “Don’t any of you move.” He had the Bowie knife up to David’s throat, the edge of it digging into David’s skin a little. Moody’s other arm was around David’s upper arms and chest, holding him close.
“What are you doing?” Esmerelda yelled.
Moody’s face scrunched up with emotion for just a second. He looked like he was on the verge of a sob. “You saw what’s out there. We can’t defeat that. No way. Neither can this kid. We’ve only got one choice—we need to give it what it wants.”
“Be careful,” Esmerelda said. “Moody, just stay very still and think about what you’re doing right now. You’re about to cut a child’s throat.”
“You think I want to do that? You think I want to kill a child? I don’t. But there’s nothing else we can do.”
“We can fight back,” Jed said with his hand still hovering over the butt of his pistol.
“No, we can’t,” Moody snapped at him. “And this Indian boy isn’t going to save us. Billy’s not going to train him in one night to become some kind of medicine man to defeat . . . whatever that thing is out there.”
Just keep him talking, Jed thought. He’d been in negotiations like this before, and he knew the longer he kept the attacker talking, the better his chances were with either reasoning with him or finding some way to get the jump on him. “The boy has power,” he told Moody. “You have to see that. You saw what happened with the spiders. If David hadn’t helped you, those spiders would’ve been all over you. All over both of us. You might have died if David hadn’t helped you.”
Moody’s face scrunched up again as he teared up. He pulled David back even deeper into the saloon, closer to the blankets laid out on the floor. “I don’t want to do it, but it’s the only thing we can do to save our lives.”
“Just let him go,” Esmerelda said. “We can talk about this.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Moody snapped, holding on to David even tighter, the knife’s blade digging in just a little more. “Let me ask you a question, Esmerelda.”
“Anything.”
“Have you seen the future? Have you laid out the cards and seen our futures? Have you seen our future in your dreams?”
Esmerelda didn’t answer.
“Because you can’t see it,” Moody said. “You haven’t dreamed about it because we don’t have a future, do we?”
Esmerelda still didn’t answer.
Moody sighed, shuddering at the same time. He stopped moving backwards with David, standing his ground at the edge of the blankets now. His eyes darted from Esmerelda to Billy. “Drop that shotgun, Billy. And take Karl’s pistol out of your belt nice and slow.” He looked at Sanchez and then at Jed. “You too, Sanchez. And you, marshal. I want your guns on the floor. Use your left hand to unbuckle your gun belts.”
Jed and the other two hesitated.
“You kill David and it will be instant death for all of us,” Esmerelda warned Moody.
“You don’t know that,” Moody answered in a soft voice.
Keep him talking, Esmerelda, Jed thought. Keep him distracted.
“I’m serious about this,” Moody said as he looked back at Jed. He held David even tighter. It was impossible for David to move without Moody cutting into his throat. “Drop your guns right now. All of you.”
“Okay,” Jed said. He was running out of ideas. “Just stay calm.”
“Now!” Moody yelled. “Right now. Three . . . two . . .”
Before Jed even started to unbuckle his gun belt, he heard the sound of metal sliding out of leather, then a gunshot. In that same instant a hole opened up in Moody’s forehead. His body went limp instantly, the knife slipping from his hand and then dropping to the floor. David bolted away from Moody.
For a few seconds Moody stood there, his face slack, his eyes glazed over already. A trickle of blood leaked out from the bullet hole in his forehead along with a tiny wisp of smoke drifting up.
The back of Moody’s head had exploded with the gunshot, the blankets behind him sprayed with a splattering of blood, hair, and bits of bone and brain. Some of the gore dripping down Moody’s back plopped down onto the floor right behind him. And then Moody collapsed like some invisible strings holding him up had just been cut. His legs splayed out and he fell forward, his arms straight out to the sides, his face hitting the floor with a sickening crunch. The back of his head looked like bloody hamburger with jagged shards of skull sticking up through the hair.
“David!” Esmerelda yelled as she ran across the room to him. She hugged him, but then pushed him back and checked his throat.
Jed was right beside Esmerelda a moment later. The wound on David’s throat looked like a red line with just a few spots of blood dripping from it, but it wasn’t deep enough to be concerned about. A sudden anger welled up inside of Jed as he turned to Sanchez who still had his pistol in his hand.
“I had to do it,” Sanchez said, his eyes wide as he stared right at Jed. “We couldn’t give our guns to Moody. He was going to kill the boy anyway.”
Jed stared at Sanchez, saying nothing, fuming.
“He is right,” Billy said.
“You might’ve missed,” Jed told Sanchez.
Sanchez gave the slightest of shrugs, but he still kept his pistol steady and his eyes on Jed. “I might have, but I didn’t.”
Jed knew he should demand Sanchez’s gun right at that moment as a U.S. Marshal, but he also knew that he no longer had any authority as a marshal. They were all in this together now; there were no laws or jurisdictions anymore, just survival.
“Are we good?” Sanchez asked.
Jed nodded. He had to admit that Sanchez had done the right thing, and he could also admit to himself that as good of a shot as he was, he never could’ve made the same shot Sanchez had just made. “Yes, you did the right thing.”
CHAPTER 34
Jed and Sanchez rolled Moody’s body onto a blanket. Billy opened the saloon doors and stepped outside to cover them with the shotgun as they dragged Moody’s body out onto the walkway. They dragged him to the far corner of the walkway, near the edge of it by the street, leaving him in the same place they had left Karl’s body.
Jed covered Moody’s body with the rest of the blanket as best he could. He stood up and looked up the street towards the church. There was no one in front of the church, no one anywhere that he could see. The sun was setting the horizon on fire with bands of red, yellow, and orange.
They went back into the saloon. Esmerelda had lit the lanterns in the wall sconces, and the two lanterns they had been carrying around with them. She had already balled up the other blanket that Moody’s blood had splattered, and it was now stuffed into a corner in the back room.
“I will need some paint,” Billy said.
They all looked at him.
“I need to paint some . . .” He tried to think of the right word in English. “Some symbols.”
“I think I saw a few cans of paint in the storeroom,” Jed said.
Jed and Billy searched the storeroom, but all they could find was a small can of red paint and a frayed paintbrush. “It will have to do,” Billy said.
Billy set the can of paint and the brush on the floor near the saloon doors. He walked back to the table with his knife out of the sheath, gripping it in his hand.
“What’s the knife for, Billy?” Esmerelda asked nervously.
“I need to take a piece of David’s hair. I need to cut a piece for all of us.”
David looked scared.
Jed nodded at David. “It’s okay.”
Billy walked over to David. The boy was tense as Billy took the end of David’s long hair i
n his hand and cut off a small hunk of it. He handed the piece of hair to Esmerelda. “Keep this on you somewhere,” he told her.
He cut off more small hunks of hair, handing one to Sanchez and the other to Jed. He cut the last piece of the hair off for himself and stuffed the hair into the silver charm on his necklace that opened up. He twisted the charm back into place and holstered his knife on his belt.
Billy said something in Navajo to David that Jed couldn’t understand, and then he motioned at David to follow him. They walked over to the saloon doors. Esmerelda brought them a lantern as Billy emptied a few herbs into a bowl from a leather pouch he pulled out from one of his coat pockets. “I do not have everything I need,” Billy said. “But I will have to use what I have.” He lit the herbs in the bowl on fire and dipped the brush in the can of red paint. David sat on his knees, watching Billy work. As Billy started painting the first of the symbols on the wood floor, he began talking to David in Navajo, his words rambling on and on. David only said a few words back to Billy every so often, nodding at other times, his eyes on the older man the entire time.
*
Hours later Jed sat at the table with Esmerelda and Sanchez. Esmerelda had brought them another pot of strong coffee and poured some into all of their cups. David had listened to Billy as he painted his symbols on the saloon doors and the floor, but now he was exhausted and lying on a blanket.
“He needs to rest now,” Billy had said when David went to lie down. “He needs to enter the dream world to learn more.”
Now Billy sat alone near the saloon doors. He was down on his knees, his eagle feather in his fingers, waving the feather around slowly. Billy told them that he was going to perform something he called the Blessing Way ceremony, but he was also going to perform another ceremony called the Enemy Way.
Would it help? Jed wasn’t sure, but he found himself oddly comforted by the low sounds of Billy’s chanting. He looked from Billy to David, watching him for a moment as he slept. He wondered why a child would be saddled with this kind of power and responsibility.
Sanchez was toying with the gold crucifix around his neck as he sipped his coffee.
Jed looked at Esmerelda. “Can you shoot a shotgun?”
“Just point and shoot,” she said with a small smile.
“It’s got a kick to it.”
Esmerelda nodded. “I’ve shot one before. Purvis showed me how.”
Jed didn’t bother asking Esmerelda who Purvis was. “You’ll use the shotgun when the time comes. I found another box of shotgun shells in Moody’s office. Billy can use Karl’s gun.” Jed had his Colt .45, and of course Sanchez had his pair of expensive pistols.
“So that’s the plan?” Esmerelda asked. “Just shoot at them until we run out of bullets?”
Jed shrugged. “Maybe each of us should save a bullet for ourselves.”
No one said anything for a moment.
“I don’t want to be one of those things out there,” Jed explained. “I don’t want to be kept alive and made to do those things.”
“Their spirits have moved on,” Billy said.
Jed whirled around in his chair. He hadn’t heard Billy walk up to the table; he hadn’t even realized that he had stopped chanting.
“They are not alive anymore,” Billy said.
“I agree,” Esmerelda added. “I don’t think anyone out there is alive anymore. I can’t . . . I can’t feel anything from them except . . .” She hesitated.
“Except what?” Jed asked her.
“Nothing except darkness from them. A void. Nothingness. But there’s something else out there, an evil like I’ve never felt before.”
“Like the devil,” Sanchez said, still rubbing his crucifix with two fingers.
“They’re just empty bodies now,” Esmerelda said. “Empty shells to be filled with that thing’s evil. They are puppets in every sense of the word. That thing controls all of them, bits of itself inside each one of them. It wants us to believe they are still alive and suffering. It wants us terrified of being trapped between life and death, but it’s all a lie. Billy’s right, everyone out there is already dead.”
“We don’t save a bullet for ourselves,” Sanchez said. “We all fight to the death.”
Jed felt a twinge of anger at Sanchez’s words, feeling slighted in some way like Sanchez was calling him a coward for suggesting that they take themselves out. Saving a bullet for oneself had been a common practice for some time now instead of being captured alive by a tribe like the Apache or Comanche. A bullet in the brain was much preferable to a torturous death that could last for days or even weeks.
But Jed let his anger slip away. He held Sanchez’s stare for a moment and then nodded. “Then we fight. We use every last bullet.”
“I want to see my family again,” Sanchez said. “I want to go back home to Mexico and see my mother and father again, and my brothers. But I came here on this adventure knowing that I may not make it back, knowing that I could die at any time.” He shrugged. “I’m ready to die if it comes to that.”
Sanchez had already been facing a certain death swinging from the hangman’s noose in Smith Junction, Jed thought. Even if none of this would have happened here in this town and Jed had turned Sanchez in, he could see that Sanchez would not have gone to his death kicking and screaming, crying and begging. He pictured Sanchez on his walk to the gallows through an angry crowd of townspeople, Sanchez stoic and calm as people shouted and spat at him. He could imagine Sanchez climbing the gallows steps with his back straight and head held high above the hatred, not willing to make a fool of himself in front of the crowd, not willing to give them that satisfaction.
Billy went back to his lantern near the front door and the bowl of herbs that was still smoking and sending a slightly pungent odor their way. He crouched down with his eagle feather again, chanting softly.
“I guess you found your adventure,” Esmerelda told Sanchez, drawing Jed’s attention back to them.
Sanchez smiled at her. “My father is a very wealthy man, as was his father before him. My family owns ranches, farms, and mines. We employ hundreds of people. I am to inherit that fortune, along with my brothers. But first, I wanted to travel and find adventure before I found a woman to marry and settle down in that life.”
“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” Jed asked.
Sanchez took a sip of coffee, taking his time before he answered. “When I was seventeen years old, my father hired a gringo to help protect him. The man was tall and thin. He looked like he was maybe forty years old. He didn’t look . . . what’s the word I’m looking for?”
“Intimidating?” Esmerelda offered.
Sanchez snapped his fingers and smiled. “That’s the word. He didn’t look intimidating, but there was this darkness about the man, something that made men shrink back without knowing what it really was. It was like everyone could tell that this gringo was dangerous, and that he had seen death. Not only seen death, but dealt it out many times during his life. I saw him practicing with his pistol one day and I approached him. I had heard rumors that the gringo used to be a lawman and a gunslinger before, and the way he was shooting, I could believe it. Some of my father’s men even said there was a bounty on the gringo’s head. But of course none of my father’s workers would dare cross my father by turning the gringo in, so he knew he was safe. He was an important man to my father, traveling with my father to protect him like a . . .” Again, Sanchez searched for the right word.
“Like a bodyguard,” Esmerelda said.
Sanchez smiled, bowing his head slightly. “That’s it exactly. Like a bodyguard. I was around the gringo often, and I asked him to teach me to shoot like he did. Of course he said no, but eventually my father allowed the gringo to teach me to shoot. But the gringo told me that he would only teach me if I agreed to one condition—I had to promise that I would only use my skill for good and
self-defense. I made the promise and the gringo taught me and my brothers. My brothers grew bored quickly, but I was . . . fascinated. Obsessed. I listened to the gringo’s stories about his adventures in many places, from Texas to Montana. He told me stories about the famous lawmen he had worked with. And he told other stories of robberies and gunfights. Those stories seemed like fairy tales to me, beyond belief, but I told myself that I would one day travel north to see those lands and have those kinds of adventures.”
Jed was getting an idea of who the old man might be, but it couldn’t be possible, could it? “What was the gringo’s name?” he asked Sanchez. “Was his name Dave Mather? Mysterious Dave Mather?”
Sanchez smiled and shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter now, does it? The name he used in Mexico wasn’t his real name.”
“Who’s Mysterious Dave Mather?” Esmerelda asked.
“He was a lawman in Montana and Kansas,” Jed said. “He even worked with Wyatt Earp for a short time. But he was also a gunslinger and a criminal. Many claimed he got away with a lot of crimes through the years. He jumped bail around ’85 and was never heard from again.” Jed looked right at Sanchez.
Sanchez just smiled. “I kept my promise to the gringo,” he said like he was trying to change the subject. “I only used my skills for self-defense.”
Jed stared at him. He knew Sanchez wasn’t going to admit to who the gringo really was down in Mexico. Maybe the man was still there under the employ of his father. “What really happened in that shootout in Smith Junction?”
Sanchez sighed. He gave a wave of his hand. “What does it matter now?”
“Tell us,” Esmerelda implored.
Jed waited.
“A man was going to kill me,” Sanchez said.
“Why?” Jed asked him.
“For just being Mexican,” Sanchez answered. “He wanted my pistols. My boots. My silver coins. He wanted anything of value I had. He said a filthy Mexican didn’t deserve to have the things I had. He insulted me, and I challenged him on it.” Sanchez paused for a moment. “The man was drunk, but he took my challenge. We stepped out into the street. It was over in a few seconds. But the townspeople rushed at me, many of them already yelling that I had killed the man in cold blood. Others were running to get the sheriff and his deputies. My horse was nearby. I had no choice but to ride away. I rode east for a few days, staying in some small towns, and then camping out in the desert. I waited a few weeks until I was sure I had thrown them off my trail, and then I started heading south. And that’s when that sandstorm came. I saw this town on the horizon and here I am now.”
