“The mineshaft!” Stokes called. “We’ll hide out there!”
He and his last gunman were already running to the dark mouth of the mine. Cane grabbed Emma’s hand and they ran after them. The Spaniards pursued them, waving their swords, axes and muskets. They still had not made a single sound, beside the quiet rustling of their bones and the creak of aged armor. One of the Spaniards blocked their path, his halberd swinging down. Stokes grabbed his underling and pushed him into the path of the falling axe. It settled with a wet thud at the top of the outlaw’s head, nearly hacking his head into two. Stokes used the time to raise his pistol and blast the skeletal conquistador through the skull.
Then they were inside, running back from the entrance and hurrying over solid rock. It was dark as pitch inside and Cane saw nothing. He reached for his belt and withdrew a match, stopping quickly to strike it on his boot. Then he realized that the conquistadors were not chasing them. Cane motioned for Emma to stop. Silas Stokes stood ahead of them, pressed against the wall.
The mine was full of neatly stacked piles of golden bars. The gold bars had sat for centuries and still shone under a layer of dust. Stokes walked back to join Cane and Emma, and then walked past them and looked at the gold.
“Holy Hosanna!” Stokes whispered. “The mother lode! And I don’t got to share it with no one!” He looked back to the cave entrance. The conquistadors were framed in the entryway, standing still and silent. “Why don’t they follow us in?” he asked.
“Perhaps it was part of the priest’s curse,” Emma suggested. “They are forced to remain in some state between life and death in these canyons and they can never even see the gold which assured their damnation.” She shivered a little and looked back at the golden bars. “They must be driven mad with the thought of the wealth resting so near to them, which they can neither take nor use.”
“But it’s a good thing that don’t go for me.” Stokes picked up one of the golden bricks. He tested the weight of the gold in one hand. “Of course, I don’t think I’ll be collecting much on this trip. I’ll have to come back once I’ve laid low in Mexico for a spell and the heat’s died down. Then I’ll return with a whole new pack of gunfighters, slaughter the Apache and these Spanish ghosts and take all the gold I want.” He looked up at Emma and Cane and raised his revolver. “But that means that our plans are gonna have to be forgotten, darling.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Emma demanded.
“That horse out there – it’s mine and I’m gonna run to it. You and the bounty hunter will run out first and the Spaniards will go after you, so I can get away.” He cocked his head and smiled. “Maybe you’ll live or maybe you’ll die – or I can shoot your legs out from under you right now and make you crawl away from them phantasms, how about that?”
“You oughtn’t to point the gun at the lady.” Cane took a step closer to Silas Stokes. His hands were at his sides, open and ready.
Stokes leveled the revolver at Cane. “Very well. I’ll point it at you. You’re big, Cane, but you’ll crumple like paper once I put a few holes through you – and I’ve still got my knife.” He cocked his revolver as Cane took a step closer. Cane looked into his eyes. He saw them flicker. Cane still held the match between his fingers. “You hear me, Cane?” Stokes demanded. “Even if I miss before you reach me, I still got my goddamn knife!”
“You could have an army,” Cane replied. “It wouldn’t matter.” He blew the match out. Darkness settled back in the mine. Cane leapt for Stokes, hurling his body into the air. He heard the revolver fire, but in the darkness, Stokes could not aim. The bullet only kissed Cane’s shoulder, slashing past his skin and drawing blood – but not stopping him.
He barreled into Stokes and slammed him against the cave wall. Stoke gasped as he tried to raise his pistol. Cane cracked his fist against Stokes’ face and grabbed his wrist, slamming it against the rock and squeezing. He heard the revolver fall from Stokes’ broken fingers, but Cane knew that Stokes would already be reaching for the knife on his belt. He didn’t have time to stop him. He let go of Stokes and stepped back, seconds before the knife slashed by his chest.
The blade didn’t bite deep, but it did draw blood. The blow stung and a wave of pain washed over Cane from his midsection. Stokes rammed his knee into Cane’s chest and knocked him down, then tackled him. They fell onto the ground together. The rough rock floor scratched into Cane’s back. The knife bit again and again. Cane’s face was close to Stokes. He could make out the long strands of blonde hair and the pinched nose, even in the darkness. He felt Stokes’ fingers tighten around his throat, while the blade came up again to stab him in the gut. Breathing was difficult and a deeper darkness flashed behind his eyes.
Cane slammed his fist into Stokes’ ribs and pulled himself free. He rolled over, gasping for air as Stokes scrambled for him. The relief from pain would only be temporary. He could hear Stokes panting and knew it was only a matter of time before the knife went up again. Cane’s fingers reached out, grasping in the dirt. They hit something solid. He reached out and felt something cold and hard under his grip. Cane realized it was one of the gold bars.
He swung the bar up, just as Stokes came crawling towards him, the knife in one hand. “You..goddamn…freak…” Stokes whispered. Cane slammed the bar into Stokes’ head with all of his strength. It nearly bent the malleable gold. Stokes hit the ground, his face a mass of spewing blood. Stokes started to scream. Cane slammed down the bar again and Stokes stopped screaming.
With a groan, Cane came to his feet. He looked down at Stokes, raised one of his boots and stomped down. He swung down his foot three times, until Stokes lay still and made no noise at all. Cane breathed out and leaned against the stone wall. He looked up and saw Emma staring at him. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark. She could see him.
In that moment, Cane knew that he was just as terrifying as the dead men outside. He caught his breath as he looked at Emma, and wiped his hands free of gore. He took a step towards her and she didn’t look away.
“Miss Finch,” Cane said, keeping his voice soft. “We gotta go.”
“Y-yes.” Emma agreed. “Of course.”
Cane looked down at Stokes’ body. It was still recognizable. He could still get some bounty off of it. He grabbed Stokes’ arm and hauled it up, tossing it roughly over his shoulder. He was dizzy from their battle, bleeding in a dozen places and fatigued beyond belief from a day’s walk in the canyons. But he had to get Emma to safety.
He looked back at the schoolteacher. “Now, Stokes’ horse is still out there. That nag seems tired, but I bet it’s strong. We’ll have to double up on it. We’ll ride it out of here and up into the canyons. You go on and after me and just hold on tight. You got that, ma’am?”
“Yes, Mr. Cane.” Emma nodded dutifully. She looked down at Stokes. “And him?”
“He’s going with us. His hide’s still worth cash.” Cane walked over to the wall of the cave. He knelt down, grabbed the fallen revolver and slid open the cylinder to reload it. He took Stokes’ knife, the blade still bloody, and slid it into his belt. Cane held the revolver with one hand. The familiar weight was a comfort in his hands. “You ready, Miss Finch?”
“I believe so,” Emma agreed.
“All right. Let’s go.” Cane started down the mine, moving to the entrance. Emma followed him, staying close behind.
Cane’s legs moved at a faster pace. He saw the night sky and the full moon – and the dead conquistadors waiting for him. Cane looked past the line of infantrymen and then he saw that the Spaniards had brought something up. Their dead minds must have kept some semblance of martial order, along with how to operate their ancient weapons. They knew that when trouble came to their land, they would have to bring in every weapon they had. Cane saw the broad muzzle of a heavy cannon, facing the mouth of the cave, with a dead man already lighting the fuse.
“Run!” Cane roared, as he raised his pistol to meet the dead Spaniards. Emma and Cane hurtled out of the mine, just
as the cannon thundered to life. The shot rushed over their head and slammed into the dirt behind them. Dust and fragments of bone showered done in a chunky rain. Harquebus shorts cracked through the air around them. Cane raised his revolver and fired back.
He fired six shots, cracking away with his revolver and then thumbing back the hammer and firing again. Six dead Spaniards reeled back, their dusty skulls and rusted helmets split open and their spindly bodies flailing like broken dolls as they hit the ground. Cane and Emma ran for the tethered horse and then they reached it. Cane holstered the empty six-gun and grabbed a lariat from Stokes’ saddle. He quickly tied one end to a stirrup and the other around Stokes’ leg.
“Mr. Cane!” Emma shouted. “Behind you!”
Cane heard a heavy blade whistling through the air, aimed at his skull. He pulled the blade from his belt and raised it, catching his dead attacker’s broadsword on the small knife. The impact made Cane feel like his wrists had shattered. He slammed out with his fist, cracking it against the face of the conquistador. The Spaniard reeled. Cane stabbed out with the knife, driving it into the dead man’s forehead and piercing rotten skull until the blade was buried to the handle. That was the last weapon Cane had. It was time to run.
“Come on now, Miss Finch!” Cane cried, vaulting into the saddle. He reached down and scooped up Emma. She was light, like a bird or a leaf that might take wing and leave him at any moment. He kicked in his spurs and his horse rode from the smoldering campfire at a gallop.
Behind them, the conquistador cannon thundered again. Cane swerved the horse to the right, just out of reach of the cannon shot. Stone and bone fragments flew into the air, but Cane and Emma rode on. Behind them, Stokes was dragged on the lariat. Cane imagined the body would be beaten and bruised to jelly by the time it reached the marshal – but it would still be worth the bounty.
They rode away from the San Tomas Mine, back into the narrow rocky trails and canyon. The Spaniards did not follow them. Their curse remained and they could never leave. Cane wondered what that would be like – to be trapped forever in the form of an unrepentant killer, never able to lay down their arms and choose another life. Perhaps he didn’t have to wonder what that was like after all.
He and Emma rode along in silence, hurrying through the night. Emma finally turned back to Cane. “Will the Apache cause us any trouble?” she asked. “As we make our departure?”
“No, ma’am,” Cane answered. “Pablo Rojo and me are old friends. Soon as he sees what’s left of Stokes, he’ll let us pass.”
“And the gold, sir?” Emma wondered. “Will you try to take it, now that you know its location?”
“Hell no.” Cane glanced over his shoulder. “It’s the Apaches’ gold – and they’re welcome to it.” He looked back at Emma. “You think that’s foolish.”
“Not at all.” Emma smiled a little. “Mr. Stokes called you a monster, but your actions have proven you as perhaps the noblest gentleman that I have ever met. Now, let us leave this place as quickly as possible, if you would be so kind.”
“I’ll oblige you,” Cane replied, and gave his horse another taste of the spur, to urge him further down the canyons. In the darkness, a sudden smile had crossed his scarred face. It was a rarity and he was more than a little glad the darkness prevented Emma from seeing it.
It was early evening in New Orleans, when Clayton Cane walked along the slick cobblestones of the French Quarter. Gray mist covered the city like a veil. Lights twinkled behind frosted windows, gleaming on the old colonial houses and colored wooden roofs and boardwalk. The clatter of carriages and footfalls resounded down the streets, joining with songs of drunken revelry and snatches of popular airs coming from the saloons and dance halls. This was where the sinners of the south crawled, where every taste could be satisfied – though it meant risking some danger. Cane was a sinner and danger did not frighten him.
He was a big, bulky man, with broad shoulders and limbs thick with muscle. He wore a tattered duster, a broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his face, and twin revolvers rested in holsters on his gun belt with the ease given to any familiar weight. But it was Cane’s face that drew the most attention. It was a mass of crisscrossing scars, carved around a blunt nose and cold eyes of different colors. Clayton Cane was a bounty hunter, gunslinger and soldier of fortune by trade and his scarred face had earned him a feared nickname in the bloody border country where he plied his grim trade. They called him El Mosaico.
Even in New Orleans, Cane was not unknown, and his sheer size and the pistols on his belt made those who did not know his name turn away. Cane couldn’t have that. He needed to get noticed, if he was to fulfill his purpose in coming to the Quarter. He glanced up at a garishly painted wooden sign rocking like a flag on a pole above some bawdy saloon, called the Shaded Elm. It seemed likely enough. Cane walked in through the batwing doors.
The saloon was packed. Well-dressed gamblers and cardsharps earned their bread in card games set around the long tables. Swamp rats with long knives and pistols on their belts sucked back whiskey and contemplated acts of violence. Saloons girls in little more than corsets strutted about, waiting to be bought a drink. The saloon stank of bad booze and vomit, and an off-key piano tinkled away somewhere in its recesses. Cane strode over to the bar and sat down, without ordering anything. He waited. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Well, golly!” A harsh voice with a pure Southern twang reached Cane’s ears. He turned slowly and saw one of the swamp rats standing next to him. The fellow was a rangy brute, the kind you could find cluttering up the corners of any bar. He had a lean, cruel face that reminded Cane of a hungry dog, a bowler hat set at a jaunty angle above his ragged blonde hair. His hand rested on the skinning knife on his belt, and two of his friends stood behind him. “I thought I’d seen ugly. Hell, I thought I knew what ugly was. But you, boy, you go on and set the definition!”
Cane said nothing. He rested his hands flat on the bar.
“What happened, friend? You try and kiss a porcupine’s backside?” The barroom rowdy snickered with laughter. He nudged Cane’s shoulder. “I’m kidding, friend. I truly am. I’d buy you a drink – but will the liquor leak out through them holes in your cheek?” He smiled broadly, showing gaps between his yellowed teeth. “What done it? Why don’t you tell me, so you can bring some ease to my mind?”
“The war.” Cane let one of his hands slide off the bar. He balled it into a fist. Then he slammed it into the chin of the swamp rat, sending him sprawling back against the bar. Cane followed up his first blow by driving a hard left into the braggart’s guts. His heavy fist sunk in deeply, doubling over Cane’s squalling victim.
The swamp rat glared up at Cane, going for his knife. “You ugly old bastard!” he roared. “I’ll cut you to ribbons! I’ll make you uglier still before you go to the devil!” He slashed down, but Cane stepped neatly out of the way of the flashing, rusted blade, and kicked into the knee of the swamp rat. Cane put all of his force beneath the blow and heard the high, clear crack of bone before the swamp rat wailed in sheer pain.
The two companions of the barroom ruffian leapt at Cane, one going for his knife while the other pulled his pistol. Cane fell upon them like an avalanche, his heavy arms swinging out and crashing down into bone and flesh. He walloped the fellow with the knife, then grabbed his collar and hoisted him up. He looked into the man’s unshaven, terrified face before hurling him back, tossing him into his companion and sending them both crashing to the ground.
The other patrons of the saloon stayed quiet. They had seen these brawls a thousand times, and except for the skill and rage behind each of Cane’s blows, this one was no different. The bartender had already whispered to one of the cardsharps, who left his game without a word and scooted away. Now it was just a matter of time.
Cane looked down at his beaten foes. They lay in a mass, groaning and clutching their busted limbs. Cane curled back his lips, into a fierce parody of a smile. That’s when he heard heavy boots coming pa
st the porch and the batwing doors swung open. Cane turned around, and saw two burly colored men, both in dark broadcloth suits and top hats. They looked like undertakers. One was covering Cane with a repeating rifle.
“You stirred up trouble in our joint, sir.” The colored man without the rifle approached Cane. He had a thick moustache and sideburns, and the tip of his nose had been sliced off, making his face look lopsided. He looked over Cane’s scars. If he wondered about them, he didn’t say so. “You’re the one they call El Mosaico, ain’t you?” he asked. “Bounty killer, is that right?”
“Yeah,” Cane muttered.
“My name’s Randolph. I work for Madam Glow. She runs this part of town, like a queen rules her kingdom. You coming with me, sir, or I’ll have you shot and dragged along.” He nodded to his friend with the rifle. “Long gun over there ain’t for show. But I got a feeling you want to have words with Madam Glow, else you wouldn’t stir up this sort of trouble. That right too?”
“That’s right,” Cane replied. “Let’s go.”
They walked out of the bar. The Negro with the rifle didn’t bother covering Cane as they walked into the street. Behind them, the bartender breathed a sigh of relief. He was glad to see Clayton Cane go.
Randolph led Cane to the manor house of Madam Glow. Cane didn’t have to ask who she was. Madam Glow was the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans, a mambo who served as priestess, witch doctor, and political boss to the French Quarter’s free Black community. She communicated with gods and devils, and called down spirits to do her bidding. They said that Madam Glow had learned the conjure-woman’s trade from her mother, or that she and her mother was the same person, for Madam Glow was a stranger to death itself. Clayton Cane didn’t particularly care one way or the other. He just wanted to see her.
They brought Cane into a richly adorned parlor room, which could have come from any high society mansion – except for the skulls, bones and bags of herbs hanging down from the ceiling in strange chandeliers. High windows overlooked the street and the let the moonlight shine in. Cane sat down in a high-backed armchair. Randolph stood in the corner, while two other colored guards flanked the door. They gripped their rifles tightly and stared at Cane. They hadn’t asked to take away his revolvers. Cane wouldn’t have let them.
The Road to Hellfire Page 5
