by Gary Jonas
“Hey,” Jack called, “your penny.”
Jack flipped the coin before the Indian was ready. The coin blurred in the shadows, barely visible, before a lightning-fast hand snatched it from the air. It reminded Jack of a trained falcon he had once seen catching lures. The Indian’s eyes flashed yellow again.
“That’s what I thought,” Jack said and smiled before biting the end off his cigar. After placing the cigar in his mouth, he struck a match on the door frame, lit the cigar, and disappeared inside the saloon.
#
Jack had been playing cards for barely an hour when the other vampire arrived. It’s not that the stranger announced he was a vampire, but Jack had come to Hays City at the request of his long time friend and Ellis County Sheriff, Charlie Howard. Charlie’s telegram had asked for Jack’s help tracking down a local murderer. Nearly two dozen victims had been found, most with their throats torn out, many with a curious lack of blood. To Jack, it sounded like his old friend had vampire problems, and here, at Jack’s table, stood an especially pale man who—except for the Webley revolver holstered at his hip—looked like he’d walked straight out of a Dickens novel. The vampire wore an English-cut vest and top coat, and he carried a silver-topped cane. He was unusually tall and relatively slender, with a narrow, angular face and sharp eyes. Both his nose and collar were turned up, with the collar starched stiff enough to cut an apple.
After encountering werewolves and a creepy cigar Indian, Jack decided that a decent, usually law-abiding vampire couldn’t go anywhere these days without running into the supernatural.
In a crisp British accent, the newly arrived vampire announced, “I am Lord Buckminster Wolcott and I wish you to leave.”
“Well, Bucky, you know what they say. If wishes were horses, we’d all be riding one.”
Jack returned his attention to the cards. Fanning them in front of him, he was deciding what kind of flourish would be most irritating when the vampire trapped the cards with the silver head of his cane. Stacks of chips tumbled and the room went quiet. Jack noticed, with interest, that the cane’s head was that of a snarling wolf with two small red gems for eyes. The eyes seemed to sparkle and move, giving the wolf head a look of life that couldn’t be ignored.
When Jack looked up, the vampire removed his cane from the table. This self-proclaimed lord had dark, intense eyes. Jack felt the power behind them as the man spoke in a measured, mesmerizing voice. “You are interfering with my game. You shall leave town at once.”
Jack had the sudden urge to return to Denver. He wanted to be back at the Arcade on Colfax Avenue, where he’d been happily playing cards just a week ago. He could retrieve his saddlebags and his Henry rifle from the barman and be on his way in no time. Why was he wasting time in Hays City anyway?
Jack shivered and blinked, and the urge passed. As casually as he could manage, he examined his many stacks of chips, then looked at the three players he’d nearly cleaned out. They were all scooting away from the table, their eyes darting between the two men. “Not much of a game. I suppose you can have it.”
“I’m not talking about cards,” Wolcott said.
“Well, I am, so I guess we have nothing further to discuss.” Jack put his left arm around his winnings, scooped them into his hat, and set the hat on the table. “Listen, Bucky. I just got into town a few hours ago. I wanted to relax, have a drink, and play some cards. I’m not looking for trouble. Yet.”
“That’s not what my sources say.”
Jack gulped the last of his whiskey. “Perhaps your sources are mistaken.”
The vampire smiled. No fangs were visible, but his canines were longer than they should be. Jack wondered how he did that. Jack’s fangs extended only when he was about to feed or when he concentrated on thoughts of blood. He couldn’t bump them out a bit just for effect. He would need to work on that trick.
“You claim you did not visit the Mason ranch earlier this evening?”
“I can’t rightly say. I passed a small homestead on the way into town. Calling it a ranch would be a mite grandiose. I paused at the aforementioned dwelling long enough to comfort a young woman who had tragically lost her husband to a pack of wild dogs. I put the dogs down, of course.”
The muscles around Wolcott’s eyes tightened and his hand drifted toward the Webley revolver at his side. He was no longer smiling. “You’re not leaving here alive.”
“I can’t argue that.” Jack grinned.
The vampire straightened, his gaze roving over Jack, probably taking in his own pale complexion. Tendons in the vampire’s wrist tightened and a couple fingers twitched.
“Listen friend,” Jack said, “by the look on your face, I’d say those dogs must have belonged to you. A pity. You really should learn to tie up your animals. They were a mangy lot, but I suppose you cared for them in your own way. This should cover what they were worth.”
Using his left hand, Jack flipped a couple white chips in the vampire’s direction. While the chips were in the air, Jack’s right hand moved toward his pistol.
The vampire let loose a growl and flipped up the table. It would have caught Jack full in the face if he hadn’t been ready. Instead, at the vampire’s first move, Jack slid down to his right knee. He used his left forearm and the table’s own momentum to flip it past him. The vampire drew his gun and fired into the table where Jack should have been, clearly planning to shoot Jack as he struggled beneath it. Jack fired twice, hitting the vampire in the chest with both shots. Shock and disbelief crossed the vampire’s face before he crumpled. Jack stood and looked down at the vampire, who twitched once and then lay motionless. The blessed Colt had done its job.
The entire gunfight had lasted only a second or two. The room remained in silence at least twice that long before it erupted in excited chatter. A man stepped forward, bent low to touch the vampire, and announced, “He’s dead.”
“I could have told you that five minutes ago,” Jack said wryly.
After a glance around the room, he holstered his Peacemaker and retrieved his hat from under the table. Using the hat, he gathered his scattered chips. That’s when a low voice spoke from behind him. “Stranger, keep your hands away from your gun. I’m the Hays City deputy marshal and you’re under arrest.”
CHAPTER THREE
Welcome to Hays City, Jack thought. “It was clearly self-defense.”
“The judge’ll decide that.” A gun pressed into Jack’s back and his pistol was removed from its holster. “I ain’t got no irons with me,” the deputy marshal said, “so we’re going to walk over to the jailhouse slow and easy. If you start anything....”
“Listen,” Jack said, “I’m a United States Marshal and I’m friends with your sheriff, Charlie Howard. If you allow me, I’ll be happy to—“
The barrel of the pistol slammed against Jack’s skull, knocking him to his knees. His hat fell and scattered the chips again. As Jack had spoken, he’d started to turn around. The U.S. Marshal badge he’d picked up in Silver Plume, Colorado, was in his shirt pocket and he planned to show it to this hick.
“Listen, Mister, I ain’t interested in anything you’re happy to do and I don’t care if you’re friends with President Arthur himself. You’re going to get up, walk to the jail, and if you’re lucky, the judge won’t order you hanged.”
Jack’s head ached, but already the pain was fading. Even so, Jack purposefully swayed as he climbed a chair and regained his feet. He might need to use the injured routine to take this deputy by surprise, but not here. Dozens of eyes stared as he trudged toward the door. Better to get this hick outside and deal with him there. Fewer witnesses.
As Jack reached the swinging saloon doors, he called to the barmaid he’d been generously tipping all night, “Be so kind as to gather my hat and my chips, would you? I’ll be back to pick them up directly.”
The deputy growled and shoved Jack outside. With a hand on Jack’s shoulder, he turned him left and pushed him along the boardwalk. Wood creaked under their b
oots, and Jack concentrated on the man’s footsteps. Light and somewhat clumsy. A small man then. A Chihuahua, quivering and ready to bite.
Jack kept his voice calm and friendly. “I really am a U.S. Marshal. My badge is in my pocket.”
“Really?” The deputy snorted. “What dead body did you steal that off of?”
“I assure you, sir, that was not the case. I acquired the badge when its previous owner retired unexpectedly.”
“Shut up!” the deputy growled. “You think I’m stupid?”
“Now that you mention it—“
“Hell, I know who you are. Half the town knows. When your sheriff buddy sent off for somebody as famous as Suicide Jack Talon, word was bound to get around. We’ve been waiting for you to get to town for three days now. We just thought you’d come in on the train, not ride around the county acting like some fancy pants in shining armor.”
The deputy tugged Jack to the left and they walked along the alley. Little light penetrated the shadows and no one else was in sight. They weren’t headed toward the jail. This deputy was about to make the last mistake of his imbecilic life.
“So there were others waiting for me? Like that nice man I killed in the bar?”
“That weren’t no man. And you didn’t kill him. He was just playin’ possum so I could get you out of there.”
Jack considered that. He’d killed his sire, Smythe, at close range with a bullet made of wood, but the bullets he carried now were normal lead. His Peacemaker was blessed. That would slow down anything evil, but would it kill a vampire? As with the werewolves, if he destroyed heart or brain. . . .
The footsteps behind Jack stopped. He turned around. The deputy stood a few steps away, his eyes wide open, his mouth catfishing as his breath steamed in the night air. “There’s some things in this world ain’t no man ought to know about. It’s best for you this way. Shot while tryin’ to escape. It’s better’n what would happen to you when he heals up proper and comes for you.”
The deputy lifted his gun and pointed it at Jack’s heart. The barrel trembled slightly. There was that Chihuahua again. Ready to bite but afraid to do so.
Perhaps this man didn’t deserve death as much as some—it sounded like he was just following orders—but if he was willing to shoot Jack in cold blood, he’d made his choice and would have to die with it. Jack readied himself. He might heal quickly, but getting shot still hurt like hell.
As the deputy’s finger tightened on the trigger, a huge dark shape leapt from the shadows and engulfed the little man. The deputy hit the ground with a humph as the air burst from his lungs. A club-like arm came down across the man’s jaw and the tiny deputy fell still. A head turned and Jack caught sight of yellow eyes. The massive shape was up and moving at Jack faster than he would have believed possible. He reached for his gun, but the deputy had taken it. Before he could spin away, the giant was on him. He collapsed beneath its crushing weight and looked up into the face of the cigar Indian he’d met earlier. The man had looked massive then, but with his entire weight across Jack’s chest, he felt even bigger than he looked.
A knife flashed silver in the dim light and its blade, at least a foot long, pressed into Jack’s throat. “Move, Spirit taker, and you lose your head.”
Jack grinned. “You’re being a bit overly dramatic, don’t you think? And what happened to your pigeon-English accent? Did you sell it along with the cigars?”
The Indian tensed a moment, then lifted his head and laughed, a deep, rich belly laugh that filled the night and echoed off the wooden walls along the alley. He rose and reached out a massive hand. Jack used it to pull himself up.
“You are brave,” the Indian said.
The big man spoke English perfectly, a little too perfectly, like a foreigner who learns it as a second language.
“There’s not much reason to fear death when you’re already dead.”
The Indian nodded, then pointed at the little deputy. “Do you wish to feed?”
Jack considered that a moment. “You know who I am?”
“I know what you are. You are spirit taker. You consume the blood of others and suck the souls from their bodies.”
“I don’t feed on people, Chief.” Remembering the woman’s husband from earlier, he added, “Not usually, anyway. If they try to kill me, if they’re already dying, if they really piss me off ... there are exceptions. Sometimes I don’t have much choice if I want to survive, but I’ve discovered that there’s plenty of folk who don’t deserve to live.”
The Indian did not speak for several seconds. Instead, he cocked his head and stared at Jack while his eyes faded from yellow to natural brown.
Silver strands ran through the man’s braids and through the hair pulled tight across his head. Laugh lines guarded his eyes and worry lines descended from the corners of his mouth, but his expression remained neutral. He was probably one hell of a poker player.
Pointing at the Chihuahua, the big man said, “He would have killed you.”
“Maybe. Had he pulled the trigger, I would have known for sure he was capable of murder, but you didn’t give him long enough to decide. I don’t need to kill him for something he only threatened to do.”
The Indian nodded and Jack heard steel against leather as the big bowie knife slid back into its sheathe. Jack had the feeling he’d just passed some kind of test.
The Indian said, “I have been told that spirit takers are always hungry.”
Was he asking because he didn’t trust Jack if he hadn’t fed? Jack looked at the body near his feet. His every instinct screamed to bend over and sink his fangs into the helpless man’s throat. The sensation of blood filling his mouth called to him. He hated being reduced to someone lower than a bedraggled dragon chaser begging at the back door of an opium den. If he hadn’t fed earlier, the temptation would have been even greater. Could he have resisted?
“I appreciate your concern for my sustenance, Chief, but no, I’m not going to feed on this Chihuahua. He was just following orders. It’s his boss who’s the real problem. I’m assuming he’s that nice gentleman I met at the saloon.”
The Indian continued to stare at him, his face impossible to read. “You shot him.” It was not a question.
“The nice gentlemen drew first. There’s something you should learn about me, Chief. I don’t start that many fights, but I do tend to finish them.”
“He was also a spirit taker, and he had fed recently. Your bullets should not have harmed him.”
Jack bent over and picked up his gun. The Indian’s hand went to his knife until Jack holstered his pistol. Trust—a hard thing to come by.
Jack patted the blessed revolver. “That’s a long story.”
“Good. We will sit and talk.” The Indian’s face broke into a wide smile. “I have cigars.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Jack and the Indian continued down the alley, then turned west toward the edge of town.
“So what’s your story, Chief? Why interfere with me and the Chihuahua? Since you knew I was a spirit-whatever, you knew he couldn’t hurt me.”
“Spirit taker.”
“Ya. About that. My name’s Jack. I don’t much care for the word spirit taker.”
The Indian shrugged. “A Dodo bird may not like its name, but that does not change what it is.”
“So what about you? What’s your name?”
“My friends call me Dan Wolf.”
“All right, Dan. You can call me Jack.”
“You are not my friend, Ukashana.”
Jack rubbed his chin and studied the big man walking beside him. Still the same poker face. Perhaps Chief was joking, but Jack figured he would let it lie for now. “Fair enough, Chief. So why are we going to talk?”
“Because you did not eat the tiny man.”
They walked in silence while Jack pondered what Chief had said. Jack had passed the first test, but only the first test. The talk would likely be the second. And the last. Jack didn’t appreciate getting put th
rough his paces by anyone.
A corral blocked the end of the street. After circling the corral, they left Hays City proper and crossed a barren patch of ground. In the distance stood the shadowy form of a small barn. As they drew nearer, the moonlight revealed a drooping roof and leaning walls. Black paint flecks that were probably red by day dotted the boards around the door. While the barn couldn’t be older than twenty or thirty years—Hays City hadn’t been around long—the harsh Kansas winters and blistering summers rotted wood quickly if it wasn’t properly cared for. Chief stopped just inside the barn, struck a match, and lit a rusted lantern he retrieved from its nail on the wall. In a corner of the barn stood a bed roll, and nearby, a ring of charred stones. Chief grabbed some twigs from a stack of wood near the bed roll and built a small fire. After retrieving a dented tin coffee boiler from near his bed roll, he filled it with water from a bucket by the door and using a triangle of sturdy sticks, hung the boiler over the flames.
Chief sat near the fire and pulled out two cigars. “Now we smoke.”
When the tips of both cigars were glowing and a haze of smoke ringed their heads, Jack turned his cigar sideways to get a better look. “You smoke a very fine cigar.”
“These are five cent cigars. They are for smoking. The others, like the one you had earlier, are for selling.”
Rather than sitting cross-legged like Chief, Jack rested on his knees, his legs slightly spread, the angle of his shoulder holster such that he could draw his Colt quickly if needed. “I admire your taste, Chief.”
The big man nodded, the fire casting flickering shadows across his face.
Jack took a couple long puffs before he spoke. “You’re a hard man to read, but I’m not totally devoid of skill in that area. For example, these cigars. Expensive. Since you shared one with me, I doubt they’re your only two. That means either you have money or you’re a damned good thief. And Indians are lousy thiefs. Also, you don’t strike me as fresh off the reservation. Your command of the language is excellent and I dare say you’ve got less of a Western accent than I do. Educated in the East, I’d venture.”
