Tears of Blood

by James W. Marvin

  It had to be one or the other. Martha Verity didn’t know which would be worse. Wondered whether Abe was dead yet. Cowered under her blankets, sodden with fear.

  Abe still lived.

  Despite the monstrous ill-treatment from his wife, he hadn’t died. But he had become mad. His mind had deserted him through the long endless dark hours of being tied and whipped and mocked.

  The upright Mayor of Dead Hawk no longer existed.

  All that there was now dwelling inside his skull was a small worm. A red worm of insensate rage. Pulsing as he lay in the bushes close to his wife’s tent, where Ike Holton had laid him after cutting him free.

  Abe Verity hardly noticed the burst of gunfire, or the fact that his kidnappers had nearly all met bloody retribution. That was beyond him. All he knew was that he lived and that his wife lived. He thought that she was in the tent nearest to him. But he was too weak to do anything about it. His arms without feeling after being freed from his bondage.

  So he waited.

  Eyes closed in the warmth of thinking of revenge. A glow that tired through his pain-racked body. It was the only thing that kept him alive.

  So all four of them waited. Crow for Ike to move so that he could kill him. Ike for Crow to try something or for enough time to pass for evening to come in, giving him the chance of escaping the deadly trap. Martha Verity waited ‘ for . . . she didn’t know. Simply for her fear to pass. And outside her closed tent, her husband waited patiently, with no sense of the passing of time, for strength to come so that he could do what he had to.

  The morning drifted by.

  From his eyrie Crow could see virtually all of the camp. He knew roughly where Holton was and considered trying to pepper the area with bullets, but he didn’t have that much ammunition. For the same reason he decided not to gun down the horses. They were still all shifting restlessly and there was no guarantee he could bring them down with a round each.

  No. He was content for the time being to wait it out. He was in shade from the overhanging cliffs scraping the sky a t behind him. Knowing that darkness would mean he’d lost the game.

  But there was still time. At least another seven or eight hours of light.

  Martha Verity finally fell into an uncomfortable sleep, sucking her thumb, like a baby, curled up into a fetal position. The gray blanket tugged over her head, shutting out the filtered light through the tent roof and walls. Shutting out her fears.

  It was three o’clock when Crow made his move. Reaching in his vest pocket and pulling out the gold hunter watch. Clicking the case open and glancing at the sharp Roman numerals. Clear against the white of the face. Putting it back again.

  Ike would expect him to wait until it was dusk before making a move. That would be when Ike also made his try. Crow was sure of that. Sure enough to take the chance of moving much sooner. ‘

  He edged himself off the ledge, taking the greatest care not to be seen from the bushes. If Holton saw him, he could break cover and pick him off as he climbed back down the rock-face. It took nearly a half hour to complete the silent scramble. Once his boot-heel slipped as a piece of the red rock crumbled from beneath him and he hung for agonizing seconds by the tips of his fingers.

  When he reached the bottom, Crow sat down, back against the cliff, again steadying his breathing for the next part of the grim game.

  Out of sight of the camp, the man in black crawled into the bed of the stream, keeping the rifle slung across his a shoulders. Working his way up the water-course towards the last of the gang. Keeping low. Moving only a couple of painful yards at a time. Then stopping and listening, trying to catch the sound of feet above the murmuring of the water.

  Passing the bobbing corpse. Pushing on as if the body wasn’t even there.

  Getting closer to Ike Holton.

  And to the Veritys.

  Painfully Abe Verity moved his fingers. It hurt less than before. Experimentally he tried to wriggle a few inches towards the nearest tent. Managing it. So slowly that it was hard to detect any movement at all. Ike Holton was within twenty feet of him, behind some bushes, back to the pool. The noise of the waterfall drowned out the rustling of Abe’s progress. Holton had both his pistols laid in front of him. Both cocked with a round under the hammer. He’d tried holding them ready, but his fingers had been sweating too much and he’d finally put them on the sandy stone, ready for a quick draw.

  Martha had woken once. P

  Blinking as she tried to remember where she was and what had happened. Then she recalled the shooting and the noise of men dying. Maybe they’d gone away and left her. Maybe she was going to be safe. There was an unopened bottle of whisky near the flap of her tent and she crawled cautiously to it. Opening it. Taking a burning mouthful. And another. Unlacing the door of the tent with trembling lingers. Not putting her head out. Just peeking into the cooler air.

  There was nothing to see. Abe’s body had gone. Maybe he’d been rescued and nobody had thought to search for her.

  ‘Could be,’ she muttered. Taking another gulp of the liquor. ‘Yeah. Could fuckin’ be.’ It was getting to her.

  By the time she’d drained half the bottle she felt sleepy again. Less frightened. Soon there was only the sound of snoring in the tent.

  There was a sharp vee cut in the soft rock where the pool opened out into the stream. Worn down by the water over the years. Crow figured that if he could get up through that, then he’d be behind where Ike was lurking, with a good chance of a clear shot. It was reaching the stage where the Winchester had done its good work and was now more of a hindrance than a help. He unslung it and laid it gently against the wall of the narrow river.

  If he came through he’d pick it up later. If he didn’t, it wouldn’t much matter.

  ‘Lyin’ eyes,’ whispered Abe Verity. Now close against the tent. Knowing it was where his wife had been sleeping. Certain she was still there. His crazed brain never for a moment accepting the possibility that she might not be inside. ‘Lyin’ eyes. Martha and her lyin’ eyes. Teach…eyes. Lyin’.’

  The flap was unlaced and he lay right by it. Resting again for a moment, gathering the remaining shards of his strength.

  Ready.

  Martha was dreaming. Tongue flicking at her dry lips, recalling the excitement of being filled by three men at once. Controlling all of them.

  She sighed in the stillness, half-waking. Feeling the faint breath of cool air on her arms.

  Her eyes blinked open, wondering whether she’d imagined a shadow.

  Crow was up the steep wall of rock and sliding through waist-deep water. He could see Ike Holton’s boots where the huge figure was waiting for him. But looking in the wrong direction.

  ‘Lyin’ eyes,’ breathed Abraham Verity.

  Isaiah Holton was taut as a bow-string, ready for that bastard Crow to try and second-guess him.

  There had been a shadow. Martha Verity started to sit up.

  Another ten feet and Crow would have the grizzle-haired shootist cold.

  ‘Lyin’…’

  The scream from the woman was born of starkest terror. A raw wail of white terror as she saw what had come crawling into her tent. Close enough to touch her.

  ‘Noooooooo!!!! Abe, noooooo!!!!’

  Outside the tent the cry brought a quick response. Ike immediately guessed that Crow was making his attempt now, and that the woman had seen him. So he burst out of his hiding place by the pool, both guns, in his fists. Leaving Crow cursing in the water, seeing his prey vanish. Puzzled as to what could be happening among the bushes.

  Inside the tent, it was everyone’s worst nightmare be-

  coming incarnate.

  Martha was tangled in the blankets, unable to free herself as she fought in blind panic. The thing that groped for her moved with a dreamlike slowness, but there was no escape from it. From the gripping fingers and the jagged nails. The broken stumps of yellowed teeth and the charnel-house breath. Mad eyes, rimmed with blood that stared fixedly at her from a
white death-mask of a face. A naked mewing creature.

  A creature that she had made herself.

  Her husband!

  Ike Holton was slow to realize what was happening. Standing fixed by the horrific quality of the cries for help. Seeing the canvas walls of me woman’s tent bucking as something rolled against it. The bedlam drowning out any sound of Crow creeping nearer to him. The sawn-down Purdey in his right hand. Closing the gap. If he got close enough then the scatter-gun would rip the huge figure apart. If he didn’t, then he might as well have spat a mouthful of dried peas.

  But he still couldn’t get a clear sight of Holton. The last survivor of the outlaws kept shifting backwards and forwards round the two dead trees where Crow and Verity had been tied.

  The man in black had already guessed that it was the tortured figure of Abraham Verity that had managed to cling to enough vestiges of life to break into his wife’s tent and wreak his revenge on her. What Crow didn’t know was that Verity was insane. Nor did he even begin to guess at the monstrous shape that revenge would take.

  Martha never properly knew what was happening to her. And, even allowing for her wickedness, it was perhaps as well that she was allowed a sort of mercy at her ending.

  She was on her back, legs trapped in the blankets. Hands pummeling at the crazed and naked figure of her husband as he lurched on top of her, pinning her down with his weight. Iron fingers gripping her throat, choking her. Shutting off the air from her lungs. Making her struggle for life an inevitable defeat. Gradually she felt herself weakening. There was a red mist swirling in front of her eyes. Her tongue protruded from her gaping mouth. Purpling and swelling. There was the warmth of blood trickling from her nose.

  Darkness closed in on her. Her body relaxed, and she fouled herself as she slipped into unconsciousness. Her throat hurt, then that went away.

  For a moment there was terrible agony and her eyes seemed to burst with white pain. It brought her round, but only for a moment. She didn’t know whether her eyes were open or closed and there was an infinity of suffering in that moment. It was black. Midnight black. Then the fingers were round her throat again and she died quietly at the last. Vaguely wondering why she could hear someone laughing.

  If it was laughing.

  Both Ike Holton and Crow heard the appalling sound of crazed laughter from the tent. Stopping suddenly. The flap opening. The huge figure of Ike Holton boggled in horror at what emerged. Realizing that he’d been wrong. It wasn’t Crow in there.

  Which meant that Crow must be somewhere else.

  He was close behind the giant, but still not close enough to go for him with the shotgun. Considering drawing the pistol instead. Distracted by the appearance of Abe Verity, lurching from the small tent, fresh blood splattered all over his face and chest. Hands and wrists like red gauntlets. Fists closed as if he was hiding some secret from a dear friend.

  He hesitated as he saw Holton facing him, eyes taking in the figure of Crow, still standing in the middle of the pool cradling the Purdey. And his face broke into a vacuous smile.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, voice loud and clear. ‘I done what I said. Taught her.’

  ‘What?’ whispered Ike, holding both pistols like toys in his massive hands. ‘What have you done, Mayor?’

  ‘She won’t use them no more,’ grinned Verity, swaying on his feet. Taking several wobbling steps closer to Holton. Bringing him within five paces. Hands outstretched.

  ‘Use what?’

  ‘These.’ Opening his hands. Showing that each held a round white globe, blue-spotted. Smeared with pink as though they were crying tears of blood. Shreds of torn gristle macabre evidence that he’d used to rip them from the living flesh. ‘It’s her lyin’ eyes,’ he said.

  Things happened fast.

  Holton half-turned away in revulsion, suddenly noticing

  Crow in the water. Snapping oft several quick shots at him. The man in black diving sideways under water, vanishing in a flurry of white spray. Emerging ten feet away to see that Holton was grappling with the madman, who held him round the neck. The torn eyes of his wife trampled in the dirt at their feet.

  ‘You went with her! I know you. I’ll have your eyes too!!!’ he screamed while Holton clubbed at him with the pistols. Unable to shoot at Crow.

  Ike was covered by Verity and Crow couldn’t risk a shot without the certainty of hitting the Mayor. But if he didn’t fire the Purdey, then Holton would be able to kill him.

  It wasn’t a difficult decision.

  Just as he squeezed the trigger, Holton saw the danger and pushed Verity away. But the shot still tore into the flailing figure. Smashing into his throat and ripping it apart. Opening up the front of his neck. Severing muscle and skin. Splintering the small bones at the top of the spine and exiting in a welter of sprayed blood and flesh. Verity died without making a sound, spinning to the earth.

  ‘You gave your word, you bastard!’ yelled Holton, starting to face Crow.

  The man in the water didn’t waste time on replying. It didn’t matter much to him whether he kept his word or not. Living, like someone once said, was the mistakes you didn’t make. Ike had made the mistake of trusting another killer.

  He paid the price in full.

  The second barrel of the Purdey blasting his stomach apart, knocking him on his back. Both guns falling from his hands. Dying as he tried the futile gesture of stuffing his own loops of mangled intestine back into his guts.

  The canyon was suddenly very quiet.

  The ride back to Dead Hawk took three days. There was sign of more Apache activity and Crow took it slowly and cautiously.

  Finally reaching the little town just before dark. Riding up to the office of the Sheriff and walking wearily in, carrying his bulky saddle-bags.

  Refusing to open them or talk until Jacob Verity was brought. Drinking coffee, ignoring the questions of half the town crammed into the room.

  The banker finally appeared carrying a small leather case. Leaning heavily on a stick. He’d aged years in the week that Crow had been away, line etched deeper around his mouth and eyes. His race was nearly run.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You got money there? You owe me some, Mister Verity.’

  ‘I have enough for whatever you can have done. Which appears to be very little.’

  ‘Sure. There’s three hundred and fifty dollars for the kidnap gang. Another fifty for their leader, though I figure he should be worth more? He was fumbling in the one bag as he talked. Finally tugging out eight human ears, strung together with a length of rawhide. Withered and leathery.

  ‘My brother?

  ‘Patience, Verity. There’s another thirty for the evidence of the woman.’ Throwing down a scalp. Long yellow hair, thickly matted with dirt and blackened blood. r

  Verity looked as if he was about to die on the spot. Several of the onlookers had left hurriedly at the gory specimens of Crow’s efficiency as a killer and hunter.

  ‘What about the Mayor? They shoot him?’ asked the Sheriff, Ben Derekson, touching himself nervously where his ass still pained him.

  ‘No. It’s a long story, Derekson. After I’ve eaten and washed and we’ve settled these debts, then I’ll tell it to anyone wants to listen. There’s one last payment owing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hundred dollars.’

  ‘My brother is dead,’ sighed Verity, sitting down in a vacant chair.

  ‘You said three thousand if’n I brought you back the head of your family,’ said Crow, grinning wolfishly. ‘But I I’ll just charge you the hundred.’

  Delving in the other bag and tugging out the round, dried, blood-sodden object that had once been the head of Abe Verity. Laying it gently on the table.

  ‘I’ll be over yonder restin’ if’n anyone wants me,’ he said. Passing through the silent crowd of town’s people.

  Closing the door softly behind him. Breathing deeply as he stood in the street of Dead Hawk. Glad to be free of the stink of death.

&
nbsp; Until the next time.

  Crow will return in BLACK TRAIL

  Coming soon from

  Piccadilly Publishing!

  About the Author

  Laurence James was a member of the original 'Piccadilly Cowboys'. In 1972 he became a full-time freelance author and journalist and for many years thereafter published short science fiction stories in both Britain and the U.S. In 1974 he published his first novel, Earth Lies Sleeping which introduces galactic secret agent Simon Rack. The series is shortly to appear in electronic form under the PP imprint. At around the same time, Laurence published a fantasy saga of Hells Angels under the name 'Mick Norman'. The four books, Angels from Hell, Angel Challenge, Guardian Angels and Angels on my Mind, were later repackaged as The Angel Chronicles by Creation Books. Laurence went on to enjoy a highly prolific career, publishing dozens of novels under his own name as well as various pen names. Today Laurence is best-remembered for his post apocalyptic Deathlands series, for which he penned more than thirty novels under the name 'James Axler'. He was also a gifted western writer, and among his many western credits are such series as Crow, Apache, Herne the Hunter, Caleb Thorn and Gunslinger. His other series work included The Witches as 'James Darke', Wolfshead as by 'Arthur Frazier', The Vikings as 'Neil Langholm', Survival 2000 as 'James McPhee', the Confessions series as 'Jonathan May', The Killers as 'Klaus Netzen' and The Eagles as 'Andrew Quiller, plus two stand-alone novels as 'Richard Haigh'. His frequent collaborators included Terry Harknett, John Harvey, Angus Wells and Kenneth Bulmer.

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