by Gary Jonas
Jack knelt beside Sonya. She lay with the branch protruding from her chest. He could pull it out and they could wander the West together. His hands closed around the improvised stake, but he did not yank it free. He gazed down at her face and considered his choices.
Part of him wanted to be with her, but another deeper part of him thought back to Diane, the saloon girl Sonya had fed to him. Because of Sonya, Jack had killed an innocent woman. He glanced over at Ted’s corpse. Sonya hadn’t cared that she’d killed him. He closed his eyes and considered his decision. He still loved her, but she wasn’t the woman he’d known. Had the vampirism changed her or had she always been like that? Maybe he was the one who’d changed. He let go of the branch and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Sonya.”
He looked back to the shovel and considered the option of decapitating her so she could never come back. That wasn’t something he could face. They’d spent too many good years together. He knew she’d sacrificed a great deal of herself to be with him. He respected that. Sacrificing others was where he drew the line.
He carried her body out of the mine. Wind and snow whirled through the adit as he exited, but he no longer noticed the cold. He hoisted her up onto Roulette and mounted behind her. The night was still young; he had time to do what he needed to do.
* * *
Jack stood in front of the stables, talking to Nathaniel. “When you bury her, don’t remove the stake. And don’t ever tell anyone the location of the grave.”
“Not even you?”
“I don’t know if I can make this choice again.”
“As you wish. What’s next for you?”
Jack gave him a sad smile. “I haven’t decided where I’m going. Thought I might ride out and greet the sunrise.”
Nathaniel laughed. “Not a wise decision for a strigoi. Seems to me, you’ve found your calling.” The man tapped the badge on Jack’s chest. “You can bring your own brand of justice to the night.”
Jack thought about the innocent blood on his hands. He wondered how many men he’d gunned down who might have been good people who made bad choices. Perhaps he could make up for that, balance the scales a bit. He always had the option of greeting the sun, but that card could remain up his sleeve.
Jack gave the man a final nod, mounted his horse and gazed into the night toward destinations unknown, but those were choices for later. For now, he just wanted to put Silver Plume to his back.
As he rode out of town, the snow stopped falling.
NIGHT MARSHAL #2: HIGH PLAINS MOON
by Glenn R. Sixbury
For Kim, who encouraged.
For Juli, who made it better.
For Gary, creator and friend.
For Jim, for his friendship and his additions.
CHAPTER ONE
March 1883
Jack Talon expected trouble.
In Kansas trouble hovered around the cow towns of Abilene, Dodge City, and Wichita like the clouds of dust kicked up by the endless herds of bovine on their way to slaughter. Not that Jack worried about trouble. Even when he’d been alive, trouble was more of a diversion than a danger. But Jack had always been interested in puzzles, and the rumbles he’d just heard were a puzzle. A full moon beamed from a cloudless sky and Jack was still three or four miles from town. And the small settlement that would soon appear on the horizon belonged to Fort Hays and its improper big sister, Hays City, not to one of the big cow towns.
Then the sound came again and Jack was sure. Rifle shots. Not the slow rhythm of shots from ranchers killing coyotes or rabbits but the frantic shooting of a desperate man.
“What do you think, Roulette?” he asked, talking to his horse. “Should we investigate?”
In general, Jack stayed out of other people’s business. Then he caught an anguished cry of a woman in pain or terror. That decided the matter. Jack pulled Roulette toward the sounds and spurred him into a full gallop.
As Jack topped a small rise and rushed down the other side, a moonlit landscape unfolded before him. On his right a line of trees marking the creek snaked across the prairie lowlands. A gully that emptied into the creek cut a dark line across the prairie from left to right. Perhaps a quarter mile distant, only a hundred or so paces from the creek, stood a small shack, probably sod, its one window glowing softly. On the ground, just steps from the shack’s front door, a lantern illuminated a woman bent low over a prostate form. Her husband? Suddenly the woman straightened and Jack recognized the line of a rifle leveled in her hands. Fire leapt from the end of the barrel, but he couldn’t see what she was shooting at.
Jack hunched low over Roulette’s neck and urged him to run faster.
Both his blessed Colt 45 and his Henry repeating rifle were within easy reach but he didn’t draw either weapon. Even the rifle was useless at this range, but Roulette’s long strides would have him there in less than half a minute. The woman fired again and this time Jack caught a blurred glimpse of her intended targets. Three dog-sized shapes circled the woman, probably mountain wolves, but larger than any Jack had ever seen. As she fired again, Jack realized that they were toying with her—but that made no sense. Wild wolves would have killed her or run off by now.
As Jack thundered closer, three pairs of glowing eyes turned in his direction. Without slowing, he reached down and drew out his rifle, cocking the weapon with a double snap of his wrist. At a hundred yards, he jerked hard on Roulette’s reins, leapt from the saddle, and landed in a crouch. After dropping to one knee, he sighted the rifle on the wolf farthest from the woman and fired. He expected to hear a sharp cry as the bullet hit. The animal twitched but didn’t cry out and didn’t run. Jack was a better shot with a pistol than his rifle, but only because he had always been exceptional with a pistol in his hand. From this distance, even at night, he was sure he hadn’t missed. After chambering another round, he aimed with a bit more care and fired.
The wolf flinched. Then it stood up.
Jack blinked. ”You don’t see that everyday.”
He raised the rifle again, but before he could fire, the other two wolves rose to a hunched standing position. All three animals looked in his direction. “Looks like company’s coming.”
The wolves dropped to all fours and loped toward him, their yellow eyes burning in the moonlight, their fangs flashing white. Jack began firing the rifle as quickly as he could load, sight, and squeeze the trigger. Now he understood the desperately rapid shots that had brought him in this direction. He shot the same animal again and again, each shot slowing the beast until he finally brought it to the ground, but the other two were almost upon him. With lightning reflexes he’d developed for years when he was alive, Jack drew his Colt Peacemaker and shot the first in the face when it was only ten yards away. A satisfying human-animal scream erupted from the creature as Jack brought the pistol toward the second—but too late. The beast hit him in the chest as he fired. He fell backward, its claws ripping through his duster, its snarls savage, its jaws snapping toward his throat.
Jack used the beast’s momentum against it, kicking with his legs as his back hit the ground and launching the animal into a somersault. As he did so, claws dug into his left shoulder and tore a huge gash in his dead flesh. Fiery pain burned through him. The beast twisted in the air and landed on its feet. Jack rolled, his Peacemaker still in his hand. Before the beast could spring again, he fired three rapid shots into its brain. With a groan and a mighty exhale of air, it went down.
The first wolf he’d shot in the head was doing a mixed scream-howl while twisting violently on the ground and clawing at its smoking face. Jack pushed himself to his feet, took a quick step in the wolf’s direction, and emptied his Colt: two shots at point-blank range.
The animal shuttered and stilled. It resembled a normal wolf but its snout was a bit shorter and thicker, giving it a face that looked like a cross between a wolf’s and a baboon’s. Its ears were wolf-like but larger and its shoulders and legs were rippled with muscle. Most tellin
g, this wolf had a broader, more horizontal body than any wolf would ever have. More like a man’s.
Werewolves.
Jack grimaced as he clumsily reloaded his pistol, struggling with his injured arm, the pain white hot and searing. Four months ago, he might have been surprised to discover that werewolves were real and that they liked to snack on ranchers and their wives. But that had been before he’d met his first vampire, before he’d been attacked by that vampire, before his beautiful wife, Sonya, had sacrificed an innocent barmaid to his new and never-ending hunger. He would be forever haunted by how pleased Sonya had looked as he sunk his fangs into the girl’s jugular. Pleased that he had become a monster. Hopeful that he would make her a monster. Never.
A woman’s scream pierced the memory. For an instant, Jack saw Sonya’s dead body, a tree branch driven through her chest. Then the woman screamed again and the image of Sonya vanished.
Jack spun and looked for Roulette. The stallion had bolted at the werewolves’ attack. Smart horse. Jack holstered his Colt and sprinted toward the woman, glad the consumption he suffered in life was gone but still dissatisfied with the trade that cured it. The werewolf he had dropped with the rifle had not stayed down. Apparently the silver bullets legends were true. Bloody, it growled as it limped toward the woman. Rather than fleeing into the house, she cocked and dry fired the rifle again and again.
The beast crouched to spring.
Jack slowed, only steps away. “Hey, hair-lip!”
The werewolf paused, a low growl emanating from its throat, but otherwise ignored Jack. It leapt at the woman, its front claws outstretched, its mouth gaping, its teeth catching the moonlight. The woman shrieked and dropped the rifle. Jack drew the Peacemaker and fired. The dead weight of the beast collapsed the woman and trapped her beneath it. He hurried forward, pushed the werewolf off her, and felt for a pulse. She was alive and breathing. Fainted apparently. He should probably loosen her clothing. Ignoring that impulse for the moment, he turned toward her husband.
The man’s chest heaved sporadically. Jack started for him, intending to help, then halted abruptly as the intoxicating smell of the man’s blood hit him. A wave of all-consuming hunger doubled him over. He’d been living on animal blood for weeks. He stumbled forward and dropped to his knees. He hated the hunger. Even more, he hated the lack of control. “Why Sonya? Why?” She should have let him die.
Then he looked into the man’s eyes, saw the torn shirt and pants and the multiple wounds across his body. He smelled the man’s guts mixed with the overpowering scent of his blood and knew the man was going to die. And not only because Jack was about to kill him.
***
Jack’s arm healed before he finished feeding. Without human blood, it would have taken days to heal. He pulled back from the man’s dead body and wiped his lips and chin with a handkerchief. The red spatters on the white cloth reminded him of the times he’d coughed up blood when he’d been battling consumption. Now he felt wonderful, satisfied, and hated himself for it. He doubted this man deserved to die. As for the werewolves....
The nearest werewolf had changed. In its place lay a naked man, small in death and even smaller compared to the wolf shape it had possessed only a few minutes ago. On the ground in the direction Jack had come lay two more naked corpses, their white skin pale in the moonlight. Both dead then. Why? He didn’t have silver bullets. The Peacemaker was blessed. Had that made the difference? He examined the closest body and saw that his shot had been true. Right through the heart. The other two had been shot in the brain. Heart and brain. Take those away and how could anything live? He’d figure out the details later. For now, he was tired. He could use a drink.
That brought to mind the woman. She lay on her side, breathing softly. If she’d seen what he’d done to her husband, he’d need to kill her, too, which defeated the purpose of saving her. His hunger was temporarily sated. Even with the smell of blood thick in the air, he felt safe approaching her.
Jack bent low over the woman to revive her but stopped, shocked by the woman’s beauty. Her face was perfectly proportioned, a natural beauty Jack had rarely seen. What was she doing on this small ranch in the middle of nowhere? She appeared to be healthy and strong, her child-bearing hips offset by an impressive bosom and naturally narrow waist. Jack took her hand in his. No calluses. This was no rancher’s wife.
“Ma’am,” Jack said, gently shaking her shoulder. She stirred and blinked. When she opened her eyes, she looked like a fawn taking its first look at a sun-bright world. At that moment, Jack would have done anything she asked. “Ma’am, I’ve got to get you inside.”
Her eyes widened. “Who are you? Where’s Charles?””
She glanced past him, saw the body that used to be her husband and gasped. “Charles!” She tried to get up, but Jack held her down. “Let go! Who are you? Let me be!”
“Ma’am, you don’t want to remember him like this. He’s gone.” She continued to struggle and he calmly repeated. “He’s gone.”
Her struggles slowed, then stopped.
“Let me get you into the house,” he said, and helped her to her feet.
The sod shack was even smaller inside than it looked from the outside. Just one room, with a bed along one wall and a table and two chairs near the opposite wall. Jack guided the woman to the bed and helped her lie down.
“Who are you?” she asked more calmly.
“My name’s Jack, ma’am. I was on my way to Hays City when I heard the commotion.”
“You need to leave.” Her face had the cold look of a statue’s, beautiful but marble hard.
Jack cocked his head. “I mean you no harm. As I said, I was just—“
The woman drew a pistol from beneath a pillow and aimed it at Jack. “Leave. Now.”
Except for the barmaid Sonya had fed him in his moment of weakness, Jack had never intentionally hurt a woman, but none had ever pointed a pistol at him, either. If he’d been alive, he might have shot her. After all, one could never be too careful. When one was alive, anyway. In his current state, he could afford to wait. Since he’d just fed and would heal in only moments, if she shot him now, it would be the last thing she ever did.
“Are you sure you want to do that, ma’am? I was only trying to help.”
Her face remained hard. “I don’t need your help.”
“I beg to differ.”
She cocked the weapon. Not slowly and awkwardly, the way most women would, but with a quick motion and a strong thumb. She might not be a rancher’s wife, but she knew how to shoot like one.
Jack grinned. “If you put it that way.”
He tipped his hat to her, nodded, and walked out the door.
Before he’d gone ten steps, he heard sobs. If he went back now, he could disarm her easily enough. In her moment of weakness and grief, she might even ask him to spend the night. Regardless of what she said, she did need his help, to bury the bodies if nothing else, but Jack believed in allowing people to choose their own destinies. She’d made her choice.
Jack whistled and Roulette trotted toward him out of the darkness. The horse fidgeted, its nostrils flaring at the smell of blood and death. Jack smelled something else. Tar perhaps. The smell permeated his nostrils, driving out the coppery scent of blood. Why would anyone want to build a shack here and put up with that reek every day? Some people couldn’t afford to be particular, and judging by the shack, this wife and her late husband had long been on the short side of cash. Still, with the moonlit prairies stretching away for miles in every direction, there had to be a better homestead available than this.
Roulette nickered, his hooves stamping a nervous rhythm. Jack spoke softly and smoothly, then swung into the saddle and headed northeast. He let Roulette have his head, but even with the relaxed gait, he figured he would make Hays City within the hour.
CHAPTER TWO
Jack dismounted in front of the first saloon he found. He removed his saddlebags and slung them over his left shoulder. Then he pulled
the Henry rifle free from the saddle and cradled it in his left arm, barrel down. He felt eyes watching him but saw no one. He looped Roulette’s reins once around the hitching post, careful not to move his hand toward his gun but also listening for the cock of a hammer or the sound of metal against leather. Old habits died harder than he did.
As he turned, he caught a flash of eyes near the saloon’s doorway. Someone in the shadows had just looked away. Jack started in that direction, weaving slightly, as if he’d been drinking—which, in a way, he had.
As Jack approached the shadows, the man there asked, “You wantem cigar? Only one cent.”
Jack paused, letting his eyes go slack as if he were having trouble focusing. He heard no sounds beyond the man’s breathing and the creaking of the boards beneath their feet. As his vision grew used to the shadows, he picked out the shape of a big man, nearly a head taller than Jack and easily twice as wide. He had no visible weapons. Jack tried to relax, but failed. “Cigar, eh?”
A weathered, beefy hand nearly as big as a bucket held forth a couple dozen cigars and Jack took one. He was sure this man had been watching him, and even though Jack saw no gun, he sensed danger. As his vision penetrated the darkness, he made out the long black braids and dark skin of an Indian. Like most Indians in this part of the country, he dressed simply. A well-worn hat sat high on his head. His jeans and plain cotton shirt were torn and dirty. Then Jack looked up into the man’s eyes. Yellow eyes. No human had yellow eyes.
But were they really yellow? Jack blinked. No, the eyes were dark brown, almost black. Their yellow appearance had been a trick of the light. Nothing more.
The Indian glared down at him. Was that a look of hatred? Jack had never seen this mountain of a man before; he was sure of that. Perhaps it was just the big man’s natural look, because when Jack looked again, he saw only a quizzical expression, as if the Indian were trying to place him. Perhaps Jack looked like someone the Indian had once known. After another moment, the Indian turned and shuffled away.
