“They knew I had to try to stop them from freeing what’s under the mines.”
“What is under there, Malachi?” Highfather asked. “How do you know about it?”
“It’s my job, Jonathan. It’s been my family’s job for a long time.”
Mutt sniffed the air. “Company, Jonathan,” he said.
Harry Pratt and Jim Negrey entered the saloon. They both looked exhausted. Dark circles ringed their eyes and the horror and chaos of the streets clung to their gaunt faces. Jim cradled a rifle in his arms. The butt of a six-gun protruded from the pocket of his stained and torn coat. Harry’s long coat was covered in dark, drying stains, but the shimmering silver and gold breastplate beneath his torn shirt was spotless, as was the glistening blade that he held in his hand.
“Ah, you brought it,” Bick said. “The Sword of Laban. Very good, Harry; we’ll need it.”
“You, you knew about this, Bick?” Harry said, lifting the sword.
Mutt ruffled Jim’s hair as the boy passed. Jim took a seat next to the Indian.
“How you holding up, ‘Deputy’?” Mutt asked with a grin.
“I want a raise.” The boy smiled thinly.
“Yeah, me, too.”
“Please sit,” Bick said. He poured drinks for everyone. Jim reached for his whiskey, but Highfather slid it across the table to Mutt, who quickly tossed it back. “Yes, Harry, I know about the sword and the other treasures of your faith that your family was tasked with protecting. My family was here when they were first hidden, and I had many talks with your father about them.”
“So all that Mormon hooey is real?” Jim asked.
“Faith,” Bick said, “gives a thing power. Belief is one of the most powerful assets mankind possesses. It’s a damn shame so few folks take advantage of it. Of course the world is set up to make it hard to believe, really believe—that’s part of the elegant trap of it.”
“So is that a yes, or a no?” Jim asked Mutt.
There was a howling screech outside, close. It came from a once-human throat.
“Answers, Malachi,” Highfather said. “We don’t have the time for pretty words.”
Bick stood and walked to the stained-glass and brass door of the Paradise. He closed his eyes and placed his palm on the door for a moment. There was a hiss of smoke that had no odor, and when he removed his hand the print remained on the glass. He paused, looked toward the shadows of the second floor of the saloon, nodded, then walked back to the table.
“No one will disturb us for a time, Sheriff. I assure you. You wanted answers, now that we are all here, I’ll give them to you. But first, Master Jim, do you have it with you?”
“Sir?”
“The power you carry, Jim,” Bick said. “You have it about you, on you. Real power. No more time for hiding, we need it, now.”
“Leave the boy be, Bick,” Highfather growled.
Bick looked to Mutt. “You sense it, don’t you, Deputy?”
Mutt leaned toward Jim. “Show them. I promise, ain’t nobody taking it away from you. I give you my word on that.”
Reluctantly, the boy reached into his pocket and removed the handkerchief. He carefully unfolded it on the table, revealing the jade eye.
“What is that, Jim?” Highfather asked.
“My pa’s eye,” Jim said. “He lost his in the war and some crazy Johnnymen gave him this one.”
“How did you end up with it?” Pratt asked.
“Got it back from the bastards who killed my pa.”
“I see,” Bick said, his attention locked on the eye. “What did you make of it, Deputy Mutt?”
“Why the hell you asking me, Bick?”
“Surely you sensed this, yes?”
“Go to hell,” Mutt said, then, “Yeah. Yeah I did. It’s how I found the boy out in the Forty-Mile.” He turned to look at Jim. “But it ain’t why I brought you back here, Jim, I swear.”
“I know,” Jim said. “You ain’t no snake, Mutt.”
“Very true,” Bick said, pulling his gaze from the orb. “It’s Chinese in origin. That makes it Ch’eng Huang’s domain. I wanted him to be here, but he refuses to leave Johnny Town. Master Jim will have to go to him.”
“Hold it,” Highfather said. “Why in hell would I let this boy wander off to Johnny Town and into the arms of that old villain on your say-so. Hell, Malachi, you and Huang are the two worst people in this town, why should we trust either of you, and you still haven’t answered a single damn—”
“What do you think is going on here, Jonathan?” Bick asked, his voice rising, eyes darkening. “You’re an intelligent man; I have no intention of insulting you. Why? Why is Golgotha the town where the owls speak and the stones moan? Why is this the town that attracts monsters and saints, both mortal and preternatural? Why is our schoolhouse haunted? Why did Old Lady Bellamy wear the skins of corpses on the new moon? How did old Odd Tom’s dolls come to life and kill people? Why do you still pour a ring of salt around that unmarked grave and how did this little ditch of a town become the final resting place of some of Heaven’s treasures?
“There is a presence here, Sheriff, older than mankind, older than the world and the stars, older than gods. Imprisoned here, it still has power over what we laughingly call reality. It sleeps a fitful sleep and dreams of only darkness and death. You’ve been a lawman here long enough to have felt it. Anyone who lives here for a time comes to know it, but we don’t speak of it, dare not, for fear of giving it power.”
“And Ambrose and his cult want to cut it loose,” Highfather said.
“Each soul he corrupts weakens the power that binds it, and makes the creature stronger,” Bick said, nodding.
“What happens if it gets out?” Jim asked.
The men were silent, their faces stone.
“Let’s see to it that doesn’t happen,” Harry said. “Malachi, is there any way to save the people infected by this thing?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m sorry, Harry, I just don’t know.” Bick took another drink. He lit a cheroot with trembling, bruised hands and continued.
“We have two paths ahead of us: One, stop the ritual Ambrose is even now preparing to undertake in the mine, seal the chambers in the new vein they opened that grant access to the creature and hope the bonds holding it since before the dawn of time don’t fail.”
“And the second?” Pratt asked.
Bick pointed to Jim and the eye. “That eye has power, more than anything in this town, perhaps in this world, or any other world, even more so than the angelic treasures you possess, Harry. It may hold the key to binding the creature, if we are too late to stop Ambrose.”
“I, I rightly don’t think it can do all that, sir,” Jim said.
“Go ask Ch’eng Huang,” Bick said. “He can tell you.”
“You trust him?” Mutt asked.
“We all have parts to play in this,” Bick said. “I believe that is his role.”
“Okay,” Highfather said. “Jim heads for Johnny Town and the rest of us get to the mine and try to scuttle Ambrose and his crew.”
“Dibs on Phillips,” Mutt said, tossing back another shot of whiskey.
“Fly in the ointment,” Highfather said. “Between us, we got maybe half a dozen silver shells left. And there are way too many of them for us to all make consistent, accurate head shots to drop them with regular bullets before they get us.”
“Speak for yourself.” Mutt smiled.
“The Sword of Laban will fell any creature, mortal or otherwise,” Bick said.
“He’s right, Jon,” Harry said. “This thing’s kept me alive all night long.”
“And,” Bick said, sliding the wooden case over to Highfather, “this is for you.”
The sheriff snapped open the small brass clasps on the case and opened it. It was lined with white silk and held a beautiful cavalry saber. The blade was inlaid with golden patterns reminiscent of flames along its length.
“She’s a beauty,” Highfather s
aid.
“It was mine, from back in the war,” Bick said wistfully. “Take it.”
Highfather grasped the blade; it was light, almost weightless. It slid easily out of the case. As he lifted it, its blade seemed to drink in the light from the lamp, amplify it, refine it, send it cascading along the polished, golden surface. The room seemed to get warmer, brighter. An odd combination of awe and sadness crossed Bick’s face. He nodded, slightly.
“What magnificent creatures,” he muttered.
Mutt narrowed his eyes as Highfather raised the blade to examine it, and then the deputy’s eyes widened in surprise and confusion. He snapped a glance at Bick and then shook his head.
“She’s a fine blade,” Bick said. “ She will see you through this, Sheriff.”
“Not that I’m not obliged, but why aren’t you carrying it?”
“Because I can’t go with you,” Bick said.
“Never took you for a coward, “ Highfather said. “What is it, then?”
“Like I said, we all have roles to play in this. I … I’m … not allowed. There are rules.… It’s complicated. I can’t, I wish I could, but I can’t. It has to be up to you … four.”
Highfather stood, sword in hand, and stared at Bick.
“Someday, I will get the whole story out of you, Malachi.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“Let’s go,” Highfather said to the others. “We’re burning starlight.”
“Wait,” Jim said. “What about Mutt? He ain’t got no fancy sword to protect him!”
The deputy smiled and slapped him on the back. “Don’t worry, kid, I think I got something better. I just recollected something my old man told me not too long ago.”
Bick rose as they pushed open the doors to the street. He opened his mouth, tried to think of words to say, to express his insides. He failed. He nodded to them. Highfather nodded back, and then they were gone into the night.
“You can come out now,” Bick said, pouring whiskey into the empty sixth glass. “Please join me for a drink.”
A shadow detached itself from its brethren on the second floor of the Paradise Falls. The figure moved down the stairs to the bar’s main floor. The stairs did not creak. A woman, dressed in black, wearing pants and boots best suited to a man, approached Bick. Her graying brown hair was held in a tight bun; her mouth and nose were hidden behind a blood-spattered neckerchief. She had a heavy canvas bag with the strap slung over her shoulder and across her chest.
She stood, her gold-brown eyes boring into the saloon owner. She took the glass from his hand and pulled down the neckerchief-mask.
“Mrs. Stapleton,” Bick said. “I never had the chance to offer you condolences for Arthur’s death. I am sorry for you and your daughter. He was a good and faithful employee for many years.”
“I came here to torture you,” Maude said. She paused to toss back the shot of whiskey, then placed the empty glass on the red-felt table with a hollow click. “Find out what I could about Arthur’s death and how it’s tied to what’s happening to the town now, how you are connected to this new misery, and then I planned to kill you, Mr. Bick, because of what this madness that you have set in motion has done to my family.”
“What has happened?” Bick said. “Where is your child?”
“She is one of those … things now,” Maude said.
“I’m sorry,” Bick said.
“I heard what you said while the others were here,” Maude said. “Is there a way, any way, to bring her back?”
“Honestly, I don’t know,” Bick said. “The sheriff had your husband’s body examined, and he was apparently poisoned by the same black substance. It appears to share certain qualities with venom and blood. At least that was what I was able to ascertain before this night fell and my sources grew quiet.”
“Blood and poison…,” Maude said, nodding. “I may have something that can help with that.”
“Yes,” Bick said. “You just might. You are a Daughter of Lilith, aren’t you?”
She paused, frowned and poured herself a second drink, then thought better of it and set it down. “Yes, I am. How do you know about that?”
“My … family has had a long awareness, and sometimes an association, with those who carry Lilith’s Load. I assure you, the world is in danger tonight and your talents and insights can turn the tide.”
“All I want is to find my daughter,” Maude said. “And I am going to do that and try to heal her of this madness you have brought down on us.”
“I believe the course of action you are thinking about is sound,” Bick said. “ It may save her. It may save us all.”
“What are you talking about?” she said. “I haven’t even decided— Never mind.”
“Do you still intend to kill me?” Bick asked. He wasn’t afraid. Maude was troubled by how hard it was to read his body language, his facial cues. They were all there but subtle, so faint as to almost be nonexistent. It was like trying to predict a moving dead man. Perhaps he was.
“No,” she said. “There’s been enough death tonight, and more to come, I’m afraid. But how much of that death is on your hands, Mr. Bick?”
“A fair portion, madame,” he said, reaching for her abandoned drink and cradling the shot glass in his palm, regarding it. “A fair portion.”
He drained the glass. When he looked up, Maude Stapleton was gone. Bick rose from his chair; a scar of a smile crossed his face. Good. There was another tiny spark of hope out in the darkness now.
The scar faded. His eyes grew wide and dark as it settled over him. She was right. A lot of good people were dead, because of his actions, his pride. It felt like acid hissing in him, burning.
Bick sat down; he stood up again. He picked up the whiskey bottle and began to put it to his lips; then he hurled it in rage. It exploded against the wall and he collapsed again into his chair. He rubbed his eyes and felt the heat of the tears well up behind them. He looked at the empty case that had held his blade, his badge of office, and his battered and torn body was wracked by sobs.
Left powerless in two worlds, helpless to act, forbidden to act. He did something he had often mocked mortals for, in his darkest hours. He began to pray.
The Ace of Wands
Outside the Paradise Falls, Mutt pulled Jim aside. “Don’t turn your back on that old Chinese bastard. He’s an odd one. Never smelled right to me.”
“I’ll be fine; don’t start fretting like an old lady!”
“Shut your mouth, boy! You be careful, or I will personally kick your ass.”
“Yessir.”
Highfather and Harry returned from scouting the street for any signs of the Stained.
“Coast is clear, fellas. Jim, you run all the way there, you hear me? Don’t stop for nothing.”
“Yessir, Sheriff,” Jim said.
“Okay, go!” Highfather said.
They headed off in opposite directions; Highfather, Mutt and Harry cut behind Main toward the stand of trees called Lover’s Grove and the town well. Past that was a goat path, which would bring them up Argent Mountain to the old ruins near the entrance to the mine.
Jim sprinted down Main in the direction of Prosperity Street. From there, it was a quick left, then a right onto Bick Street and the narrow maze of Johnny Town. The rifle felt heavy in his hands and he wondered if they were okay, back home. He imagined Ma, holding Lottie, singing one of the Psalms, softly, as the stars burned away, one by one.
He pushed the image away; it filled him with a panic, like a horse in a burning barn. It served no good. He wasn’t there, he was here, and here he could do something about it; he could save them, save home, even if he could never see it again.
He turned the corner and paused to catch his breath. Three hatchets festooned with emerald ribbons seemed to materialize in the wooden wall beside him. Jim froze. A Chinaman, dressed in black, stepped from the darkness, lowering his throwing arm.
“What are you doing here, boy?” the man asked with a ca
lm menace. Two more Green Ribbon hatchet men appeared where Jim had sworn there was nothing but air and shadow.
“Ch’eng Huang,” Jim said as calmly as he could. “Tell him I’m here for the answers he promised me.”
The tong soldiers brought him to the Celestial Palace, the bar he had tried to get into a few nights ago. The tattooed man, Kada, who had chased him that night stood guard as he had then, but now Kada had a rifle in his hands and an ammo belt slung over his shoulder. The smaller man, the one who spoke such good English, smiled as he saw Jim and his escorts approach.
“Welcome back, little white eyes. The venerable one awaits you. The guns will stay out here, of course.”
“You try to take my pa’s eye and you and I will—”
“I assure you, my orders are only to disarm you, nothing more.”
Jim heard a piano playing inside. He handed the rifle and then the pistol out of his pocket to the small man.
“Enter,” the small man said.
Though it didn’t look it on the outside, the Celestial Palace was as fancy as the Paradise Falls on the inside. It looked like a real palace from one of those one thousand Arabian Nights stories he had read in the dime novels. There were silk curtains and dragon statues of jade, vases and urns delicately painted with cherry blossoms and wide columns of blue and gold.
The place smelled funny, sweet, cloying but harsh, choking. Underneath it was a rotted, futile death smell, kind of like what he had caught off of Mrs. Pratt when she had tried to kill Harry at the social. It made Jim feel like someone was slowly smothering him with a silk pillow soaked in perfume and ether.
The tables were low to the ground and there were large cushions instead of chairs. Large hookahs with individual pipes running off of them squatted at the centers of the tables, like spiders made of glass and brass.
The Palace also had the same odd quality Jim had experienced in the alleyways of Johnny Town—it seemed to be larger, more complex, than the space it occupied would permit.
“Wait please,” the hatchet man said, and then hurried off quietly.
The piano player was in the corner, partially hidden by a column and a paper screen. Jim walked over to him while he played. He was thin, muscular man with long red-brown hair, like a woman or an Indian. He looked up from the keys his hands moved across, to Jim. He smiled.
The Six-Gun Tarot Page 33
