by Gary Jonas
Jack grabbed and cocked his rifle, then pushed to his feet. After a quick glance around to verify no other werewolves had healed enough to attack, he hurried to Chief and crouched beside him.
“You look like hell, Chief.”
“Yes, but I will get better. You will always look that way.”
Jack laughed. He couldn’t help himself. Even Chief grinned. Then he coughed. After turning his head, he spit blood.
“Help me sit up,” the big Indian said.
Jack grabbed the hand on Chief’s good arm and pulled him up. After Jack released him, Chief reached to his belt and pulled out his big bowie knife. He handed it to Jack and then pointed at a couple werewolves that were severely injured but stirring.
Leaving Chief with the rifle, Jack cut the heads off the werewolves. Cutting off an animal’s head is harder than a slaughter hand makes it look, but Jack dispatched the few remaining werewolves before any healed enough to present a danger.
When he returned to Chief’s side, Chief asked, “Where is Wolcott?”
Jack pointed to the edge of the shack. “He’s over there.”
Except that he wasn’t.
Jack hurried to the edge of the shack. A blood trail gleamed in the moonlight, leading away. After only a few feet, the trail stopped.
Wolcott had escaped.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jack stared at the place Wolcott had been. He’d shattered the other vampire’s face. How could anything heal from that? Maybe Wolcott’s whole speech about older vampires being stronger had merit. Jack’s left arm had mostly healed, but it still hurt. The wounds he’d survived tonight were mounting up. He’d need blood again, and soon. Surely Wolcott had to be worse off than that.
“Is he dead?” Chief asked.
Jack turned away from the stained patch of grass. “No. He’s not dead. He got away.”
As Jack walked toward Chief, the big man cocked his head, as if listening. Jack stopped. He heard it, too. Distant hoofbeats. Like the night before, Wolcott had stashed his horse some distance away. Obviously he’d reached it and was on his way to catch the ten o’clock train.
Jack bent low over Chief and examined the big man’s wounds. He could smell Chief’s blood, but it didn’t tempt him. “We don’t have much time. Wolcott said he was leaving tonight on the eastbound train. I won’t allow that to happen.”
Chief shoved Jack’s hands away from his bloody and broken arm. “I cannot fly. I cannot run, not fast enough.”
Jack raised his gaze to Chief. Twice, the big man had saved his life. “I can’t take you on Roulette, not if I’m going to catch Wolcott. You’re too heavy. And I need to finish this. Now. Tonight. Before he makes that train.”
Chief looked grave—or perhaps he’d just lost too much blood. “I understand.”
“But first I need to get these wounds dressed. I can’t have you bleeding to death.” Jack grinned. “I wouldn’t want all that good blood going to waste.”
Chief scoffed. “You? Treat me?”
“Seriously, Chief. Some of these bites are pretty deep.”
Chief swung his good arm in a dismissive gesture. “Scratches and bruises. Nothing more.”
Jack raised his eyebrows.
In his sternest voice Chief said, “Go already. You are wasting time.”
Jack hesitated. If Chief died from these wounds, he’d never forgive himself. Vengeance, justice, doing the right thing—none of these mattered if Chief died when Jack could have saved him.
“Go,” Chief said again.
“I’m going.”
As Jack stood and turned, thudding hooves announced that Roulette was on his way. In the seconds before his horse arrived, he freed his duster from the splintered beam inside the shack and retrieved the rifle from Chief. Then he searched the grass for his Colt. He’d knocked it from Wolcott’s hand. It had to be somewhere close but wasn’t. Getting down on his hands and knees, Jack ran his fingers through the buffalo grass, but the gun wasn’t there, and he had no more time to look for it. He kept the Henry rifle with him but gave back Chief’s big bowie knife.
“After I kill Wolcott, I’ll return with a doctor.”
Chief waved the promise aside. “You crazy? What would I want with one of your Ani-yonega witch doctors? I’ll be fine.”
Jack couldn’t tell how much of the blood spattered around was Chief’s and how much belonged to the werewolves. The arm was beyond a simple set and splint. Jack doubted the big man would ever have full use of it again. Chief was one of the largest and most powerfully built men Jack had ever seen, but no way would Chief be fine from this. Jack knew it was his fault. He should have guessed that Wolcott would be waiting for him. . . .
“Why are you still here?” Chief asked. “You deaf from the explosion? I said, ‘I’ll ... be ... fine.’”
Chief had spoken the words loudly and distinctly. Even if Jack had been deaf, he could have read the big man’s lips.
Jack mounted Roulette. Without another word, he spurred the horse into a gallop and headed for town.
***
Jack dismounted a half mile from the train station. He’d gone by the barn first and drunk the blood from the other water skin. He’d been tempted to change, but the only clean clothing he had left was his Saturday-night-high-stakes suit. He refused to get that ruined. Besides, his duster covered the bloody tatters he wore now. As long as he kept the duster on, no one would notice anything wrong tonight. Granted, the duster had blood on it, but that was hard to see in the dark. Also, chew holes from a werewolf dotted one of the duster’s arms, but otherwise the coat had come through the last couple days fairly intact.
After finishing the blood, he felt a slight drunk buzz, but he also felt much stronger and his wounds had healed. Silently he thanked Chief. The big man was right about his needing to be prepared. In the future he would try to keep blood on hand, especially before going into a fight.
Besides the blood, the other item he’d retrieved from the barn was his spare pistol. He’d won the Remington 1875 in a poker game years ago. The gun worked—he always kept it clean and well-oiled—but he preferred the Colt. Both were .45 caliber. Both would kill normal humans equally well. But the Remington would affect Wolcott only as an irritant or a distraction. To kill him, Jack had retrieved a sharp piece of wood from the barn and tucked it inside his duster. It would work fine as an improvised stake. Now all he needed to do was get close enough to use it.
Jack left Roulette and followed the railroad tracks, heading south-east and deeper into town. Few houses stood along the tracks and the businesses were all closed.
As Jack approached the train station, he scanned the area, but saw no one moving. The small depot was typical for this part of the country. The building itself remained dark, but six lanterns lit the long platform alongside it. At the far end of the platform stood four men. Jack couldn’t make out their faces but he thought one man had the same height and bearing as Wolcott. Crouching low, he worked his way closer.
Soon he was near enough to identify Wolcott, although he still couldn’t make out many details. Wolcott had three men with him. Two were average height and wore scruffy clothes. The third man was huge. Not as big as Chief, but close. As the men paced, badges glinted in the lantern light. Deputies then.
No other passengers were in sight. No crew change for the train, nobody manning the dark and empty ticket office. Wolcott really did control the whole town. Those dumb enough to wander about at night had probably suffered for their carelessness weeks ago, their deaths catching the sheriff’s attention and bringing Jack to Hays City.
Where was Sara Beth? She should be here, waiting on the train. Had Wolcott killed her already? Or had she spotted Wolcott and fled?
Jack crossed the remaining distance to the station and leapt onto the train platform. He landed, feet spread shoulder-width apart, his hands at his sides. Wolcott and his men spun toward the sound of boots on wood, their eyes wide. The two smaller deputies looked like they thought
he’d appeared out of thin air, which suited Jack fine.
Wolcott smiled and widened his stance. He carried his long formal coat draped over one arm and seemed ready for a night on the town. He wore no gun. Jack guessed he’d packed it for the train journey. He probably thought Jack was dead, a mistake he’d made before. Wolcott had taken time to change clothes and freshen up for his journey and he seemed completely healed. No wounds were visible and his movements were smooth and untroubled as he casually stepped behind his transfixed deputies.
Once he had positioned his deputies between himself and Jack, Wolcott said, “These meetings have grown quite tiresome. You’ve done enough damage, don’t you think?”
“Not nearly enough,” Jack replied. “You’re still walking and talking.”
“As are you,” Wolcott said. “I presumed that my friends would delay you until after my departure. Still, I can’t blame them. Not after the nasty surprise you brought to our party. I admit that I didn’t see that one coming. A rare mistake.”
“Your last mistake.”
Wolcott waved a hand dismissively. “Hardly. I’d like to think I’ve reached a state of perfection, but when you’ve lived as long as I have, you learn that no one is ever perfect, although some of us do come closer than others.”
Jack flexed his hand, wanting to shoot Wolcott’s smug face, but bullets wouldn’t finish the vampire. He needed to get closer. Keeping his pace deliberate, he started down the platform. “I notice you’re not as ugly as you were out at the ranch. How’d you manage that?”
Wolcott rubbed his chin. “It’s all about having a consistent diet, my boy. If you eat well, you live well.”
Jack continued his slow, steady march. “Not if you’re one of those who gets eaten.”
Wolcott waved his hand again. “Oh, that. How meaningless. A lion doesn’t worry about the gazelle. These bags of blood are sustenance, nothing more.”
One of the smaller deputies turned and looked at Wolcott, who smiled and added, “They serve us—or they die. It they serve us, they are rewarded. Otherwise, they are food.”
The deputy spun his head back in Jack’s direction, his eyes wide, his hands shaking. He reminded Jack of a rabbit. Too frightened to run, but destined to die if it didn’t. Wolcott must have killed a lot of people to inspire that kind of fear. How many of those kills had been just for show?
“Is that what happened to Sara Beth?” Jack asked.
“How nice it would have been if she’d been the first person I encountered. Sadly my initial meal of necessity was comprised of an elderly couple who were waiting for the train.” Wolcott’s face soured. “Tasted like ash.”
Wolcott stared down the tracks, as if ignoring Jack’s approach, but at each rhythmic strike of Jack’s boots against the planks, Wolcott jerked slightly. After another few seconds of this, he whipped his head in Jack’s direction. “I wouldn’t have needed to feed so soon had you not forced me to do it. Their deaths are on your head, not mine. As is Sara Beth’s—if you keep walking.”
Jack stopped. At fifteen paces away, he was probably close enough for his Peacemaker, but he had less faith in the Remington. He’d like to close another five steps, but Wolcott had piqued his interest. “What does Sara Beth have to do with anything?”
Wolcott looked like a bad poker player who’d drawn into a full house. “If you let me leave tonight unhindered, I promise not to kill Sara Beth after we board the train.”
Jack laughed. “You promise? What’s that worth?”
Wolcott scowled. “I assure you. My word is my bond.”
Jack took a step closer. He didn’t believe Wolcott, but the more Wolcott talked, the closer Jack approached. “What about after tonight?”
“Why on earth would I care about that cow after tonight? If you agree to go on your merry way and allow me to go on mine, I promise I will not trouble her on the train in any way, nor will I lay a hand on her at any point in the future. As far as I’m concerned, my business is concluded, with her and with you. Which is why I now bid you adieu. I can’t say it’s been a pleasure and while I don’t wish you well, I certainly do wish you on your way.”
Wolcott glanced past Jack and down the tracks to the west. “The damnable train is late again. Why can’t you Americans join the civilized world and adopt standard time zones?”
The other smaller deputy, not the rabbit, checked his watch, then held it out in Wolcott’s direction, as if he couldn’t tell time himself and wanted Wolcott to do it for him. Wolcott ignored the gesture. “Next time, I must try to find minions with at least a modicum of intelligence.”
Half-wit looked up at Wolcott. Jack guessed that the man sensed he’d been insulted but wasn’t sure. Half-wit looked down at his watch, then closed it and put it back in his pocket. After shifting from foot to foot a couple times, he faced Jack again.
Throughout the exchange, Jack had taken several slow steady steps forward, halving the distance between them.
Jack needed to be within arm’s length of Wolcott to stake him and wanted to be as close as possible to the three deputies before the shooting started. He couldn’t afford to miss, even with a single shot.
“That’s close enough, you troublesome little man.” Wolcott had pretended to ignore Jack’s approach, but now shook his head. “You could have just left. Why won’t you just go?”
He’d tried to ask the question casually, but the pitch of his voice had risen and he’d hurried the words.
Jack’s voice remained calm and measured. “You know I won’t leave. Not as long as you’re alive.”
“Well, constables, you heard him.” Wolcott pointed at Jack. “This man threatened my life. Arrest him.”
Wolcott shoved the rabbit and the half-wit forward. The giant stepped forward on his own. Jack shifted his attention to the three men. The giant stood closest to the depot building, Half-wit in the middle, and Rabbit nearest the tracks.
Nodding in Wolcott’s direction, Jack said, “He’s leaving town. You don’t need to do what he says anymore. There’s no need for any of you to get hurt.”
The giant deputy spoke. Jack noted that both his voice and his hands were steady. “Them’s some mighty brave words. We’ve got three guns against your one. You really think this is a fair fight?”
Jack cocked his head and sighed. “No, I don’t. If you want a fair fight, I recommend you get a couple more men.”
The big man reached for his pistol. “Why, you dirty—“
Jack shot him before his gun cleared its holster.
Half-wit drew next. Jack swung his pistol to the right and fired. The shot struck Half-wit in the left shoulder. He stumbled but didn’t go down. Damned Remington. Jack shot him again, this time in the heart, and he dropped.
Jack turned toward Rabbit. The third deputy had already drawn his gun. Jack had underestimated him. But the man’s hands shook and he didn’t fire. He might be fast on the draw, but it was speed borne of fear.
Jack cocked the pistol but didn’t point it at Rabbit. “There’s no need for this. You can go. Don’t worry about Wolcott. He won’t hurt you anymore.”
At first, Jack thought his words had gotten through. Rabbit took a couple steps to his right, then hesitated.
“Don’t,” Jack said.
In a flash, Rabbit raised his gun and fired. The shot whistled over Jack’s left shoulder, smashed the train station window, and sprayed Jack with glass. Ignoring both the shot and the glass, Jack put a bullet in Rabbit’s heart.
As Jack straightened, glass tumbled off his shoulders and tinkled to the platform around his feet. He shook himself like an old hound dog, clearing the rest of the glass, and then holstered his pistol. “Lord Bucky, you’re next.”
Wolcott rolled his eyes. “But it’s such a bloody waste of time. We can’t hurt each other.”
Jack smiled and pulled the stake from inside his duster. “Of course we can. It’s time we danced, you and I.”
He started forward.
“If you insis
t,” Wolcott said, “but before we commence what will certainly be our last confrontation, I have something important to tell you.”
Jack stopped, his eyes roaming the shadows behind Wolcott. Something was wrong. Wolcott stood relaxed, his arms folded under his expensive coat, his expression interested but devoid of fear. Jack peered into the darkened depot and even risked a quick glance behind him. He expected an ambush. He expected Wolcott to signal an attack. The man was too calm not to have a plan already in motion.
Wolcott spoke in a quiet voice that nonetheless quivered with barely controlled excitement. “I lied before,” he said. “Well, I didn’t lie, but I didn’t exactly tell the truth, either. You see, I did feed first on that old couple, and they did taste awful. I couldn’t leave their dusty old blood in my mouth, so I cleansed my palate. Granted, I’d planned to save her for the train, but necessity makes fools of us all.”
The meaning of Wolcott’s words hit Jack like a shovel to the face. Sara Beth. Dead. For a moment, Jack’s shock and rage threatened to take him. Last night, when Sara Beth screamed, it led him here. Her dying made everything seem like a waste. Jack remained in this world to help people. He hadn’t helped Sara Beth. Had the last couple days mattered at all?
Jack forced himself back to calm. In a fight, emotions usually got you killed. He had to concentrate. Wolcott had been running a bluff, drawing to an obvious straight when all he really had was—what? Jack didn’t believe Wolcott would bluff blind.
Wolcott smiled. He pulled his left arm from beneath his coat and wiggled his fingers, revealing an empty hand. Jack’s gaze had been drawn to the movement. Too late, he realized his mistake. Before he could act, noise and light erupted from beneath the top coat Wolcott had slung over his right arm. Fire burned through Jack’s chest. The shot had missed his heart, but he reeled from the pain and shock of the bullet’s impact.
Wolcott tossed the top coat aside. Jack switched the stake to his left hand and reached for the Remington with his right. Jack was fast, but not fast enough. Wolcott took careful aim and fired. The bullet hit Jack in the heart. He felt the hand of death squeezing the life out of him. He dropped to his knees and Wolcott shot him again. As Jack raised his head, Wolcott put a third bullet into Jack’s chest. How many shots had hit his heart, he wasn’t sure, but warm blood ran down his belly and soaked his shirt.
