The Road to Hellfire

by Michael Panush

  But then he heard the cry behind him. “Cane!” It was Lord Sixham’s voice, without the veneer of aristocracy. The guns of Stokes’ band fell silent and Cane turned on his heel, the rifle at the ready. He saw Lord Sixham, with a hand on Bennet’s shoulder. The dime novelist had been forced to his knees, and Lord Sixham had his staff pulled back like an executioner’s axe. “Drop your weapons or I’ll blast your friend open like a fat pimple!”

  “He ain’t my friend,” Cane muttered, more to himself than anyone else. He kept his rifle aimed at Sixham, his finger curled around the trigger. He didn’t know what to do. He stared into Bennet’s eyes. Sweat was running down the dime novelist’s cheeks and he was shivering madly. Next to them, the cabin blazed away under green fire, the crackling of flames consuming the dry wood echoing across the silent street.

  “Please, Mr. Cane…” Bennet whispered.

  Lord Sixham planted his boot in Bennet’s back and kicked him to the ground. “Then he will die,” Sixham explained. “And he will curse your name with his dying breath.”

  Cane dropped his rifle. He drew out his revolvers and let them fall. His guns landed hard in the dirt, dust rising up from where they fell. Cane sighed. Barnaby Bennet was many things, but he was innocent and Cane did not want him to die. The bounty hunter lowered his eyes, waiting for what would happen next.

  “Thank you,” Bennet cried. “You truly are a hero—”

  “I’m a sentimental idiot. And now we’re both gonna die.” That was all Cane managed to say before Stokes reached him. Stokes swung down his rifle butt, driving it into Cane’s back. Cane hit the ground and then Stokes’ boot slammed down into his gut. Cane felt his innards shift under his skin. Pure whiteness flashed over his eyes, as pain washed over him.

  From far away, Cane could here Sixham’s voice. “Prepare the torches,” Lord Sixham ordered. “We shall begin the ritual.”

  When Cane’s eyes peeled open, he saw he was held between two outlaws from Jasper Stokes’ band. Lord Sixham stood in front of him, the burning staff held in his hand. More of Stokes’ road agents flanked him, both holding up blazing torches. The fire from the torches and the green flames on Lord Sixham cast dancing shadows against the abandoned buildings of Sanctuary, which shifted and turned with each passing second. Sixham’s face was fixed in a cold, malevolent smile as his eyes followed the dancing flames.

  Jasper Stokes stood off to the side, watching everything. Barnaby Bennet was crouched on the ground, still shivering in terror. The outlaws of Stokes’ gang stood around them, all watching in excited silence. Their horses were tied to hitching posts, a little down the block from the center of the main street. Cane glanced down and saw his own guns, lying in the dust. If he wasn’t being held down, he could almost reach out and touch them.

  “I wanted to wait until you were awake, before I slaughtered you,” Lord Sixham announced. “I wanted you to feel pain and fear as I sliced you apart and sucked in your souls. It’s unimportant for the ritual, but I wanted you feel pain and fear anyway.”

  “You do sure spend a lot of time thinking on me,” Cane muttered.

  “Indeed.” Lord Sixham shrugged. “It’s revenge, I think. In London, you stopped the worshipping of my Thanatolian Brotherhood. You even reduced our place of worship to rubble.”

  “You was cutting down innocent folk in the street!” Cane roared.

  Lord Sixham kept his eyes on the flickering glow at the end of his staff. “It was but a small tribute to the Gods of Death. Once I take your souls, I shall join the ranks of those fearful deities and grant them a wondrous harvest.” His smile faded and his eyes seemed far away as they watched the flames leap and dance. “Then everyone shall know of the glory of death and I will receive my rightful place as a prophet.” His smile did not return. “I don’t know if I want that. But I do long to send others into the black void of death.” Sixham raised his staff again. “I’ll start with you.”

  He drew closer, when Barnaby Bennet’s voice rang through the ghost town. “Mr. Sixham, er, Lord Sixham, rather!” Lord Sixham stopped in his tracks and turned to stare at Bennet. “If I could have a word?” Bennet came to his feet. “You mentioned that you are the prophet of some newly arrived religious order?”

  “Yes…” Lord Sixham agreed.

  “Ah. Well, that is quite fortuitous, I must say.” Bennet took a shaky, unsure step towards Lord Sixham. He moved like his bones were made of glass and he was afraid they would shatter. “You see, I am a writer of no small skill. After you achieve godhood you will doubtlessly need someone of my skills to spread your holy word.” He rested a palm on his flabby chest. “And I hereby volunteer my own considerable services.”

  “You are a writer?” Sixham asked. He looked at Cane. “Is this true?”

  Cane nodded weakly. He had no idea what Bennet’s game was.

  “I am a published writer,” Bennet added. “Clayton Cane himself was going to be the subject of my latest literary masterwork but you intrigue me more, Lord Sixham. After all, why write about a gunslinger when you can write the testament of a god?” He reached for his coat. “If I may grant you a look at my—” He fell silent, as all of the guns of the Stokes Gang turned to face him. Bennet’s face lost what little color it had. “I was merely reaching for my previously written book, to use as an example,” Bennet explained. “Not a derringer or other small firearm.”

  Stokes turned to Lord Sixham. “What do you figure, your lordship?”

  “Let him produce this book,” Lord Sixham said. “The idea intrigues me.”

  “Splendid.” Bennet smiled weakly as the guns of the road agents lowered. Bennet withdrew the battered volume of Billy Kid against the Invaders from Mars. “It is rather inauspicious as the precursor to a new bible, but it does have its qualities.” Bennet walked closer to Lord Sixham, the book outstretched. “Here, the light in this picturesque ghost town is beginning to fade. If I can perhaps hold my book closer to the flames of this torch…”

  Sixham nodded and Bennet raised his dime novel, holding it close to the blazing torch held by one Stokes’ gang. The book reached the tip of the flame and then the fire leapt onto the tattered, dry pages. The book burst into flames, fire dancing between the covers. Bennet pulled the blazing book back and then hurled it straight into the face of one of Cane’s guards.

  The fellow reeled back, burning pages falling onto his skin. He let out a choked cry of pure pain – until Cane slugged him hard in the chest. Cane ripped himself free of his second captor, then grabbed the outlaw’s arm and slammed him back hard onto the wooden boardwalk. The aged wood cracked under the impact. Bennet had given Cane the moment he needed. Cane leapt onto the ground, hands outstretched. He grabbed his revolvers and came up firing.

  In the cabin, before they had been captured, Cane had been able to reload both six-guns. Now he unloaded each of them, blasting out twelve shots into the assembled outlaws. He stood his ground, picked his target and fired with the coldness and accuracy of a machine – and each shot struck its mark.

  Stokes’ gang didn’t have time to run for cover and only fired back a few shots. They died together, falling into the dusty main street, or slumping against the abandoned buildings. One gunman tumbled back into an empty watering trough, his head lying on the rim as he breathed his last. Blood ran into the dry dust and soon the guns of the outlaws joined the red stream on the earth, fallen from dead hands.

  Lord Sixham twisted the handle of his staff. He slid a long thin blade from the cane and held it up, tossing down the empty wooden scabbard. The thin blade was bathed in green fire, and seemed like an emerald lightning bolt held in Sixham’s hands.

  “A stroke of luck, Cane,” Sixham said. “But it won’t save you.” His eyes flashed.

  Another snake emerged out of the dust at Cane’s feet. It was a cobra, a living dark band with an extended hood and fangs dripping with venom under glowing green eyes. There was no time to reload the revolvers. Cane simply kicked out, cracking the toe of his boot into
the belly of the snake and sending it hurtling back. More snakes hissed to life, seemingly crawling out of the ground itself like great venomous worms.

  “Hell!” Cane snarled. Another snake shot out, aiming to bite into his leg. Cane was faster. He grabbed the serpent’s midsection and hurled it away, then glared up at Lord Sixham. He started towards him, ignoring the other snakes seeping out of the ground under his boots.

  “Mr. Cane!” It was Bennet. He had grabbed Cane’s rifle from where it lay on the ground. “Bellerophon needs his spear!” He hurled the weapon through the air.

  Cane caught the repeating rifle, though he had no idea what Bennet was talking about. He worked the lever and fired down, blasting the cobras around him. Their pieces tumbled back into the dust, sinking away into nothing but dark earth. Cane used the rifle quickly, vanquishing the snakes as he charged for Lord Sixham. The rifle clicked empty, just before he reached Sixham. Cane didn’t mind. He wanted to kill someone with his hands today.

  Lord Sixham swung his blade down towards Cane’s skull, nearly hacking it in half. Cane felt the heat from the green flames on the sword and dropped down, falling into the dust. He came up with a powerful uppercut, pounding his fist into Sixham’s chin. Lord Sixham winced as he lost his footing but Cane felt pure pain seeping into his hands. The flickering green flame that clothed Sixham like a second skin was still there. Cane’s knuckles came away burnt.

  “You see, you patchwork wretch?” Lord Sixham asked. “You can’t beat me, with fist or bullet!” He raised his thin blade. “I have embraced the power of death and it has made me invincible!” He slashed down.

  But Cane was ready. Cane reached out and grabbed Sixham’s wrists with both of his own hands. “You’re a novice when it comes to killing men,” Cane said, as the fires bit into his palms. “And you’ve picked a fight with the master.” He twisted the blade around, not letting go despite the blazing pain. He forced the point of the blade to face Lord Sixham’s chest and then he pushed with all his might.

  “No!” Sixham’s eyes flashed with realization at what was happening. He tried to pull free, but the point of the sword still drew closer and closer to his gut. The green fire surged around him, but Cane did not let go. “You can’t—” Lord Sixham tried his best to resist Cane, but it was like trying to hold back a tidal wave or an avalanche. Cane’s strength overwhelmed Sixham.

  “Them souls you trapped are still in that sword of yours,” Cane explained. “Time to let them out.” He made on final push. The burning green blade plunged deep into Lord Sixham’s belly, skewering him until the tip rammed out of his back. Cane let go and stepped away as Sixham crumpled.

  The souls trapped in the blade freed themselves, ripping through Sixham’s body as they shot out. They pierced through his chest, tearing out chunks of flesh as they winged their way to freedom in strange gusts of green wind. Cane watched as Lord Sixham’s body shook and broke. Gaping holes were gouged in his body by the fleeing souls. Green light shone from behind every wound. It finished quickly and then Lord Sixham lay dead, broken and bleeding in the dust. His body looked like it had been hit with canister shot.

  “I’ve seen men die in a thousand ways,” Cane said, almost to himself. “But that’s a new one on me.”

  “Not a step further, Cane!” It was Jasper Stokes. Cane sighed. He turned around and saw Stokes covering the bounty hunter with a double-barreled shotgun. “You may have killed his lordship, but you won’t kill me!” Jasper Stokes was panicked, the gun clutched between his fingers like a bit of driftwood in the hand of a drowning man. “I’m smarter than Sixham. I’m smarter than my brother. I won’t give you the chance to kill me.”

  Bennet ‘s voice echoed across the body-strewn street. “Pull that trigger and you will follow Mr. Cane into oblivion!” The dime novelist stood between them, aiming a revolver at Stokes. He had grabbed the weapon from a dead outlaw and now held it clumsily with the muzzle trained on Stokes. “Now drop your coach gun!”

  Stokes turned to Bennet. “You ain’t gonna pull that trigger.” He walked calmly towards him, pointing his own rifle at the author. Cane saw Bennet shiver. “I can tell that just by looking at you, boy.”

  “Do not judge my appearance!” Bennet cried.

  “I’ll judge all I want. I’ll call you a gutless, bloated worm, on account of that’s what you are.” Stokes drew closer. Cane could see the smile through his thick and tangled beard. “You won’t prove me wrong, you weak-willed worm. You won’t ever pull that trigger and prove yourself a killer.” The gun wavered in Bennet’s hand. Stokes smiled as he brought his rifle to his shoulder. “I’ll have all the time in the world to gun you and El Mosiaco down.”

  Cane saw the opportunity – however small it was. He sprang towards Jasper Stokes, leaping across the dusty earth and tackling the outlaw. Cane swung his fists into Stokes, each strike coming down with inhuman force. Bones broke under the blows and Stokes crumpled. Cane knelt lower and continued raining blows down, pounding into the skull and belly of Jasper Stokes. He heard Stokes gurgle and cough and then he was making noises even quieter than that as the punches finally slowed.

  When Cane finished, Stokes’ face was a mass of mashed skin, broken bone, sprayed blood and pulp. Cane stood up, breathing heavily. His hands ached – but he felt fine. He looked back at Stokes and cleaned his knuckles on his coat. Bennet was still clutching the revolver and shivering. The dime novelist was staring at Cane in horror.

  “That’s the sort of man I am,” Cane said. He grabbed Stokes’ body and started dragging him across the dusty main street. He hauled him to the outlaws’ horses, aiming to ride one back to town. Even with a broken face, Jasper Stokes was still worth a bounty. “You still want to write about me as some kind of gunslinger hero?”

  For once, Barnaby Bennet was lost for words. “I…I don’t know…I simply don’t. What else would I write of?”

  “You’re a fellow who pulled a bullet from a man’s arm in the middle of a gunfight, fixed up a plan to stop some murderous British occultist from becoming a god and did it all without staining your hands in blood,” Cane explained. “Why don’t you write about yourself?” He slammed Stokes’ body over one of the horses, gripped its reins and hoisted himself onto the saddle of another.

  “An autobiographical effort?” Bennet nodded to himself. “Yes, that would be an interesting story.” He looked up at Cane as the bounty hunter rode down through the street, the horse with Jasper Stokes’ body trotting after him. “But what of you, sir? Who shall tell your story?”

  “Nobody,” Cane replied. “No one cares for the story of a dead man.” He rode down the street, breaking into a gallop as he neared the edge of the ghost town.

  Few white men would work for a Celestial Tong Boss like Mr. Lo, but Clayton Cane was like few white men. Cane was a bounty hunter, soldier of fortune and gun-for-hire. He’d killed men for money all of his life and whether his employer came from the United States or far-off China didn’t matter much to him. In San Francisco’s Chinatown, making money meant working with the Tongs. The booming Chinatown was a profitable as any goldmine and the Tongs controlled it all. Gambling, opium, or any other vice imaginable – all were for sale somewhere in the cramped streets. Chinaman and white alike frequented the dens where they all took place. But even so, Cane stood out in a crowd.

  He was broad-shouldered, with lean muscle in his thick limbs. A worn duster rested on his shoulders while a broad-brimmed hat shaded his eyes. His face was what received the most attention. It was a mass of crisscrossing scars over weathered skin as tough as rawhide, surrounding two eyes that shared the same coldness – but not the same color. Cane carried two revolvers on his waist and a rifle on his back. They seemed a familiar weight. He glared hatefully at the narrow alley as he walked under a string of paper lanterns and reached the entrance to the Golden Lotus.

  It was evening already in Chinatown, and the nightly mist settled over the city like a shroud. The rambling section of Frisco sprawled out in all dir
ections, a warren of shops, tenement buildings and the occasional temple with the sloped roof of another faith. But there were the opium and gambling dens too, beginning their roaring nightly trade. The Golden Lotus was one of them.

  A Tong hatchetman stood by the door of the Golden Lotus, arms folded and long knife in his belt. He wore a Chinese style colorless robe, with a Western broad-brimmed hat. He stared up at Cane and cracked a smile. “You looking for dope, big man?” he asked. “If I was ugly as you, I look for dope too.”

  “I ain’t here for dope,” Cane replied.

  The hatchetman grinned. “No? Then get lost. We don’t want no one with a face like yours in our joint. You drive customers away.” He suddenly pulled his dagger free. “Go away, ugly man – before I give you some new scars.”

  Cane drove his fist square into the hatchetman’s chest. The Tong soldier gasped and sunk back, then slashed wildly for Cane. His blade struck only air. Cane dodged the blow and delivered a quick hook to the hatchetman’s chin, knocking him back. Cane kneed him in the gut and watched him crumple to the ground. He rested his boot on the hatchetman’s chest.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Lo,” Cane explained, still calm. “I’m Clayton Cane. I got his letter and I’m here to work for him.”

  “Oh…” The hatchetman looked up from where he lay on the ground. “I been told to look for you.” Cane pulled away his boot and the hatchetman came slowly and painfully to his feet. “Come on in then,” he wheezed. “Welcome to the Golden Lotus.” He pushed open the door and Cane followed him inside, his boots tramping on the wooden floor.

  The Golden Lotus was like many Chinatown dives, offering a mix of opium and gambling. It was a double-storied building the size of a barn. The addicts had one corner, lounging on pallets while Celestials moved around them, replaced their pipes and cleaned their mess. The opium fiends were as languid and limp as the tattered blankets under their backs. The other half of the Golden Lotus’ bottom floor was given to fantan and other games of chance. The gamblers, white men and Celestials both, sat around round wooden tables and played. A full bar stood in one end of the Golden Lotus, while a stairwell led up to the second story. Cane glanced up and saw a number of Chinese girls in dirtied shifts, leaning over the railing and watching everything.