Tales from the Canyons of the Damned: Omnibus

by Daniel Arthur Smith

  Balancing on a footstool, Abigail grasped the weapon. It was kept high, and even William had to jump to retrieve or place it. But that was where it looked best in the home, and so it was there.

  With Abigail standing behind him, armed and at attention, William slowly opened the door. He was careful to keep it wide enough to provide a clear shot for his wife, but not so open that he lost the slab of wood’s protection should the men seek to do harm.

  Any sense of danger evaporated as quickly as a late spring rain, seeped down by the humble dusty appearance of the two men who stood on the other side of the threshold. Each held a hat in both hands, genial smiles suspended across faces dirty from too long in the desert.

  “How can I help you men?” asked William.

  Harris widened his smile, revealing snow white teeth that contrasted with his dark beard and trail-stained face. “Me and my partner were passing through when we happened across your homestead. We were hoping you might be able to oblige us with some food and hospitality.” He sniffed the aroma of a well-built stew and said, “Cookin’ sure smells good.”

  Leaning to his left, Harris looked over the doorman’s shoulder and saw that a woman inside had him covered. He dropped his hat to the floor and held both hands up. A player on the stage, he portrayed a fear he did not know.

  Bart leaned over to look inside and raised his hands likewise, cursing as he did so.

  “Look,” Harris said, “We don’t want no trouble. My partner and I didn’t mean to impose.” He turned to Bart. “Did we?”

  “No, sir,” Bart said, leaving just a hint of irony in his performance; a wolf too proud to play the role of cowering dog. Harris ground his molars at Bart’s pride, but the doorman seemed not to notice.

  “We’ll just be on our way,” Harris said. “No trouble.”

  The two men backed down the porch slowly. William dropped his head with a sigh and looked inside at Abigail. She lowered the shotgun and shrugged her shoulders.

  “Hold on,” William called to the visitors, who had turned and were walking into the night. “You’re welcome to join us for supper.” He bent down and picked up their hats from the ground, offering them back to their owners.

  Taking his hat, Harris winked and said, “Thank you. As the old masters would say, that’s awful Christian of you.”

  William led his guests inside the single room cabin to a roughly hewn pine table. He pulled a chair from the head of the table to the side, and with a wave of his hand bid Harris and Bart to sit.

  “Please, take a seat. We don’t ever have need for more than one chair. Abigail, fetch the stool from the kitchen. I’ll sit in the rocker.”

  Harris rose. “Please take the chair for yourself. A stool will serve me just fine, ma’am.”

  Watching her husband’s eyes as she returned with the seats, Abigail ladled two bowls of stew, sending some over the edge of Harris’ bowl and onto the rough, uneven table. She dropped the ladle with a clang into the common black pot serving as centerpiece and took her seat, taking up her meal in small quiet bites.

  Bart slurped hot chunks of potato and carrot into his mouth, crushing it into a paste along with niblets of corn. “Ain’t no meat in this stew.”

  “There’s chicken,” Abigail said meekly.

  “Oh.” Bart went through the bowl with his spoon. “Ain’t much. Any bread?”

  William exchanged glances with his wife and then looked sternly at the two men. “No.”

  “Bart, you’re being rude,” said Harris between mouthfuls. Breaking into a low and throaty laugh, he added, “You don’t want these nice people to think we’re bad company?”

  The married couple both looked with unease at Harris.

  “I apologize for our behavior,” Harris said to William, abruptly sober with no hint of mirth. “It’s been more than a few nights since we had somethin’ to eat.”

  The homesteader chewed considerately and grunted. “I suppose that’s to be expected when runnin’ from Ledge Town.”

  Bart brought his head out from his bowl. “Nah. We ain’t coming from Ledge. We’re headin’ to. On our terms. Black Hand gang don’t run from nothin’.”

  Abigail placed her spoon down on the table. “You’re bandits?”

  Harris made a visual sweep for the shotgun, but didn’t see it. “Of a certain type,” he said, flexing his black-gloved shooting hand.

  William’s hands were tensely gripping the pinewood. “You’re not… killers then?”

  “Now, don’t put words in my mouth,” Harris said, shoveling a mouthful of stew.

  The chu-chuck of the shotgun sounded from beneath the table. Harris looked at Abigail, whose red lips were white with concentration. “Get out,” she said. “Get out or I’ll end you both.”

  Harris rested his bearded chin on interlaced fingers, gazing into Abigail’s eyes and spoke in trance-like sing-song voice. “You think I’ll murder you? No. Bart might, if I let him have the chance. It's just his way. But not me, man. I’ve killed more men, women, and children than you’ve ever met. But I ain’t never murdered any of ‘em.”

  Pushing back from his rocker, and jumping up from the table, William pointed to the door and shouted, “Out now, or I’ll bury you in the morning.”

  Harris arched an eyebrow, but remained planted in his seat. Bart began to slowly draw his hands toward his lap.

  Abigail swung the weapon beneath the table and aimed it at Bart’s gut. “Palms flat on the table!”

  “Better do it, Bart,” said Harris. “Only one man ‘sides me can take my life, but your fate ain’t the same. Hate to lose you now.”

  Bart obeyed his boss.

  “Now,” Harris said, turning his attention to Abigail, “I can’t quite place your accent, but you ain’t from the New Oregon territory, is ya? Malibu, maybe?”

  Pulling the shotgun out from underneath the table, Abigail glanced at her husband and answered. “No. We’re not.” Holding the weapon gave her a sense of power and authority. A part of her hidden somewhere deep down wanted the men to give her a reason to pull the trigger. She wanted to watch their bodies fly across the room with the thunderous booms of the gun.

  Harris laughed like an old friend amused by a new truth. “I didn’t think so. And those graves, the family plots outside, those were whoever lived her before you found the place. Tell me if it isn’t true.”

  William and Abigail looked at one another. “We, we didn’t kill them,” William managed. “They were buried and this place was empty when we found it.”

  “But the newest grave. The small one. Cradle sized. That one was your kin. Tell me if it isn’t true.”

  “Yes,” said Abigail, her jaw clenching to reveal mandibles like iron as she fought back the sudden lump in her throat.

  Tears welled in William’s eyes. “How—how did you?”

  “You came here from another world. Tell me if it isn’t true.”

  Bart, Abigail, and William all stared at Harris. Struck dumb at his words.

  “How?”

  “Came through Ledge Town but started California? Had to run from what was behind that door? Had to go with nothing into the night, little infant child in arms and then you found this abandoned cabin and tried to scrape out a living but the baby… the baby, well he just cried and cried, didn’t he?”

  “Hell, boss,” said Bart, rubbing his face, unnerved.

  Harris stood up, but the shotgun did not follow. “And he just kept on crying while you dug, and planted, and prayed that something would grow, watering the crops with your tears every night. See, I saw it all, man.” He tapped the side of his temple with his index finger. “The devil showed it to me just before I came to call.

  “Let me tell you why we’re going to Ledge. If you don’t understand, Abigail, pull the trigger. You see, this world is hurting bad. Hurtin’ like your little son’s swelled belly. Only it ain’t just this world, man. It’s every world. It’s every time. It’s death and pain and it’s only gettin’ worse. He showed me,
man. The devil, he showed me the whoooole thing.”

  Harris whipped his hair back and then forward again so it covered his face, almost blending into his beard. His eyes peered outward like a great cat staring through a bamboo jungle. “And he showed me something else, man.” He laughed and tottered as if drunk. “There are worse things than the devil. Did you know that? See, the devil has a master. And he’s got the whole wide world in his hand, wrapped up tight. And he’s squeezing hard, man. And the only way to make the pain go away is to bring mercy to those who suffer.”

  Abigail was trembling, and she felt like her soul was torn in two when Harris looked straight into her eyes from beneath the oily, stringy hair now hanging in front of his face.

  “You see,” Harris said, “sometimes the only way to bring mercy is to do the very thing you never imagined could happen. Sometimes, when the world is crying out in pain and there’s nothing else you can do ease that suffering, you pick up the pillow, sing a soft lullaby, and muffle those cries until all is peaceful and still. Silent night. Holy night. That’s mercy.”

  Tears streamed down Abigail’s face. William turned to her, his own vision blurred with wet disbelief. “A-Abby?”

  “And me? I can’t do it alone,” Harris said. “It needs to be more than just me. What you saw where you came from? You didn’t escape it, man. It’s barely being held back. Oregon will fall, same as everywhere else. Only way to stop the darkness is to become darker still. The world needs people to do the hard jobs, Abby. It needs us.”

  The shotgun boomed in reply, filling the room with a spectacular, momentary flash. Buckshot ripped into Williams face, neck, and chest, sending him hurling across the room.

  Bart jumped up from his seat and slapped his thigh. “Hot damn! Look how that sumbitch flied.”

  Abigail swung the weapon at Bart, cutting his jubilation at once. She aimed, shaking, but didn’t fire.

  Walking around the table, Harris took the weapon from Abigail’s trembling hands. He pulled his pistol and looked Abigail in the eyes.

  “Show her,” Bart said, “show her that you can’t aim iron at the Black Hand Gang!” He was teeming with anticipation, eager for more spilt blood.

  “That’ll do, friend,” Harris said. With a fluid motion, his eyes still fixed on Abigail, he pointed his six-shooter behind him and shot Bart between his eyes. The bandit dropped with a thud, his face still wearing the shock of betrayal as it slammed unceremoniously onto the pine wood floor.

  “Mercy,” mumbled Abigail. She had killed her child, and now her husband. But it wasn’t murder. Hunger, endless winters, the dead rising again to torment the living—all of it was forever removed from the two people she loved most in the world. It was mercy, just like Harris said.

  “That’s right,” said Harris, putting a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “You did just fine. Crossing over is the hardest thing. Men like Bart can kill and kill, but don’t never cross over like you and I. Your husband, he wouldn’t have understood and wouldn’t let you come along, man. And then I’d have had to kill you both.”

  Harris sat back down and began to finish his meal. He looked up at Abigail, who stood dazed and distant. “I reckon you’ll want to bury your kin?”

  The words woke Abigail from her trance. “Next to the baby. He’d have wanted that.”

  “That’s the Christian thing to do.” Harris went back to his meal. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”

  “Will you be… burying him? Bart?”

  Harris shook his head. “No. He doesn’t deserve it. Take his guns and let him lie.”

  “What are you going to do once you reach Ledge Town?”

  Sucking his teeth, Harris looked up from his seat. “Look to see what’s on the other side of that door you came from. If it’s the right one, go inside it. If not, close it up the best we can and bring mercy to the pioneers before whatever’s on the other side can break through. Won’t be long.”

  “Cremation,” said Abigail.

  “How’s that?”

  “I’ll burn the house around William,” She threw rags and wood into the hearth, and fanned the flames until they took to the floor. “No more lost time. We hitch up the wagon out back to the mule and ride straight to town.”

  Harris sat in the cart with Abigail as the orange glow of the burning cabin lit up the night. He clicked his tongue and swayed as the wagon began its tumultuous motion, the fire crackling in the background. “Can’t keep the devil waitin’.”

  The pair rode in silence underneath the high desert’s night sky, a brilliant canopy of worlds and galaxies. Harris looked up at the stars and spat on the open cart’s floorboard. “All them stars, and everyone of ‘em is facing its own little end of days, man.”

  High desert gave way to true desert, and the duo left the wagon when the sands became too soft for the wooden wheels to navigate. Abigail rode the mule while Harris pulled the rein, singing Buffalo Girl to the night sky.

  ~*~

  THE TOMBS

  Daniel Arthur Smith

  ~*~

  When Tito was picked up for open container, he’d spent thirty-one hours in the Tombs. That was his longest stretch by far. The next closest to that was twenty-three hours, and both times were because he was picked up on a Saturday night and had to wait—along with everyone else in the Tombs—until late Sunday afternoon for the court to open. He wasn’t sure how long ago he’d been locked in the bullpen, but it was way past thirty-one hours.

  It had been days.

  The bust this time around was for jumping a turnstile at the 135th Street station. He was on his way to the job when the undercover pinched him. That was at about eight-thirty. He was in the 28th Precinct holding by nine and then riding the van down to Central Booking in time for lunch. He’d just gotten his sandwich, a warm slice of bologna slapped between two stale pieces of bread, when one of the COs killed the lights. He wasn’t sure how long that lasted, but it was darker than dark, and cold, and there was some fighting and there was some death. His gut quivered with the death. It wasn’t one of the dozen guys in his cell, it was in the bullpen across the corridor. Two gangbangers tangoing in the blackness.

  “Get away!” one yelled.

  “Don’t touch me!” yelled the other.

  “I’ll leak you!” yelled the first, and then a series of rapid soggy thwacks and the accompanying moan of some poor sucker caught in between. Tito didn’t need to see the deal play out to catch the graphic details.

  There was some bitching, a lot when the lights went out, and then less as time passed.

  The lights never came back. And neither did the COs. Periodically a man, forced to use the wreaking open toilet in the corner of the bullpen, would call out for paper. “Paper, please, CO?”

  The first few call outs were met with jibes from the other bullpens.

  “Gonna show that ass?”

  “Don’t fall in!”

  But as more and more men crawled over each other in the dark to use the feces-lined commode, the less was said by anyone.

  This wasn’t Tito’s first visit to the Tombs. Something wasn’t right. The lights were supposed to always be on, twenty-four seven—and there were always COs at the end of the corridor. If there were a power outage he expected that one of the big bulls—a pissed-at-the-world ex-jock that peaked in his teens—would be in there pointing a flashlight in their faces and barking, “Don’t move!” and “Shut up!”

  No one was walking around outside of those bars.

  That wasn’t right.

  At any given time, there were a hundred and fifty male prisoners and some fifty female prisoners huddled in the bullpens. The COs may get away with abusing everyone down in the Tombs, holding people longer than was right, but there was no way that they could forget about two hundred people.

  There were twenty men crammed into the dark bullpen with Tito.

  Even in the pitch black, he could bet everyone was in the fetal position, wedged in across the floor or on one of the th
ree concrete benches lining the walls.

  He could hear the pulse and breath of every other man in that cell. The grease they communally blew into the humid air matted down his hair, and oiled his skin and the tinge of ammonia and urine weighed heavy on his tongue. He buried his nose beneath his collar but the waste that bled out of his pores absorbed into the wick of his tight black Nike sports tee, making the fabric as rancid as the air around him.

  Tito lay curled up on a bench, a lucky, precious piece of real estate he’d scored when the COs took the last list of names up to the bullpens behind the courtroom, the next stop in the process before freedom—or Riker’s. His head was propped up on a pillow of two empty cardboard milk cartons he’d found in the dark. Tito was still. Hunkered. Waiting.

  From the first few hours, one of the junkies in the psych bullpen asked the questions they all wanted answered. A child of a man, he bellowed, “CO, where’s the lights?” and a few minutes later, “CO, where’s the food?” then, “CO, what time is it?” and, “CO, where’d you go?”

  There were no answers.

  Tito figured the junkie was soup for brains because he repeated the questions every couple of hours. Still no answers came. One time, early on, a frustrated voice—definitely not a CO—hollered from across the block for the junkie to shut up. The junkie did, for a couple hours, and then, like déjà vu, the round of answerless questions returned.

  Tito’s stomach had shrunk hours—maybe days—before. He wasn’t hungry so much as gut sore. He was thirsty. No power meant no water fountain. He tried not to think about it. If the lights had been on there might have been fighting. In the perpetual darkness, they slept, or tried to sleep, and waited.

  When Tito heard the slap of the hard-soled shoes on the tiled floor of the corridor, he thought he was experiencing an audio hallucination. He rolled away from the wall to face the blackness, the direction of the walker behind the bars.