Heaven's Gate (20 page)

“Did they find anything?”

“Who?”

“The Inquisitors.”

“You planning to steal from them? No, I told you, there’s nothing up there.”

“Didn’t tell them about the gun, though, did you? For your sake I hope you haven’t already sold it.”

“No, I’ve still got it.” The man assures her, looking helplessly out over the dregs of his customers but not one of them meets his eye. “It’s in the safe in the back room.”

“Then I suggest we go and retrieve it, as soon as possible.”

Left outside, Sam can’t resist the urge to approach the source of the commotion coming from around the corner. With the reigns of the two horses still in his left hand, he inches over to the entrance to the alleyway and stares out at the scene on the main street. Four white clad Pardoners are standing in a menacing semi-circle around an abnormally tall man, wearing a wide brimmed hat that would be more appropriate in the heat of the west than in the relatively temperate conditions to be found along the Blue Snake. The man’s clothes are unremarkable, a slightly stained white shirt and denim pants and a dark jacket. What draws Sam’s eye almost immediately are the two pistols riding at his hips; both look to be the work of a master gunsmith and matched, yet each is subtly different. Then it hits him, one gun has been made differently to accommodate an abnormality on the tall man’s right hand. Sure enough a glance at the right hand confirms his suspicion and explains why the Pardoners have accosted him. The sixth and seventh fingers on the man’s right hand were unmistakable, as was the thin webbing between them; it was a small enough abnormality, a deformity which would have been overlooked in some of the small towns on the edge of the Western desert, where the needs of a dwindling community often outweigh the precepts of the Union at large. No doubt that was how the mutant had been allowed to grow to maturity, had the Inquisitors in this part of the world found him as an infant he would probably have been burned and his mother with him, for good measure, in order to maintain the purity of God’s children.

The mutant was too old to have been subjected to the harsher laws that had resurfaced with the ascendance of the Inquisition. As it was the four Pardoners seemed intent on provoking the mutant into any reaction that would allow them to correct the mistake they deemed to have been made some nineteen or so years ago in allowing the mutant to live. The small groups of townspeople, who had gathered at a safe distance all down the street, just as Sam had done, would no doubt be only too eager to see summary justice carried out but even though all mutations were an offence to God, in whose image the righteous were shaped, there were forms to be followed. Before the Crusade such minor deviations had been allowed and the protests of citizens, who had known such people all their lives, meant that there were laws stating that older mutants with such small flaws could not simply be killed outright. Had they chosen to insist on castration, however, the laws both old and new would have supported the demand. One of the White clad figures was pointing this out to the unfortunate man, even as Sam reached the end of the ally.

“No need to scowl like that, citizen,” the Pardoner practically spat as he said the last word. “I only asked you to drop your pants, we can’t be too careful, can we?”

“You want to do this here, in the street?” The seven fingered man asks, a note of distaste slipping past his iron restraint and
colouring
his quiet voice.

“You think the ladies will mind do you?” Another Pardoner chimes. “Don’t worry, there are geldings on the rail over there, they’re as likely to look at those animals as a beast like you.”

In spite of their attempts to provoke him, the man’s face is still calm. No doubt this is not the first time he has had to deal with this kind of abuse.

“If I do this, you will leave me to go about my business?”

“What else would we do? It is the law, after all.”

“Very well.” The mutant answers with a restraint that belies the hatred that Sam can sense boiling off of the man. Without further complaint the mutant reaches for his belt buckle and loosens it with a deft use of all seven fingers, an unnatural movement that does not go unnoticed by the outraged Pardoners. His trousers fall, to reveal a mass of old scar tissue, which confirms that whoever had raised him had followed the law and ensured that he would never pass on his mutation.

“Have you seen enough now?” he asks, pulling up the sagging trousers and fastening the heavy gun belt with a speed that even Sam finds impressive.

“Did I say you could pull them up, citizen?” The lead Pardoner asks sweetly.

“What more could you need to see?” The mutant asks defiantly, “I though it was agreed that I could go about my business once you were satisfied.”

“But I am not satisfied, citizen. I saw a lot of scarring, but that doesn’t mean it’s not working.”

Blake can barely believe his ears when the Pardoner says this. The lie is blatant, since even from a distance, it had been clear that the man’s genitals had been mutilated beyond any hope of functioning. The wonder was rather that he had, somehow, walked away from such terrible wounds alive.

“There’s no telling without a closer examination, especially with your type, you’ve got extra fingers who knows what else you might have spare.”

The mutant stiffens at the sound of laughter from the crowd. The Pardoners are too pious to show their enjoyment of their spokesman’s wit.

“No need to take it that way, friend, just fulfilling our trust. I assure you we will take no pleasure in what we might have to do, but it is your soul’s sin or the sins of your parents, which have made this necessary. Indeed, I ask your Christian forgiveness for what might yet prove necessary.” The Pardoner says producing a curved knife from the recesses of his robes.

“You have no forgiveness from me and I assure you that the mob that did this to me when I was fourteen was very through,” the mutant snarls, “what they didn’t cut they burnt away.” His face becomes glazed at the memory of unimaginable pain. “You’ve had your fun, now leave me be. I am no threat to your daughters nor your ruthless Christ.”

Sam winces at the blasphemy. Not because it upsets him, the truths of his life are pretty much set, another’s lack of faith has nothing to do with his knowledge of good and evil or his absolute certainty of his own damnation but he knows that this is just what the Pardoners have been pushing for, an excuse to expunge the mutant.

“How dare you take our Lord’s name in vain, you filth?” The sandy haired Pardoner, who up to this point had been silent, barks, whipping out a pistol with the speed of a gunslinger.

Sam watches the mutant’s reaction, his own enhanced senses telling him that the mutant had registered the move and could have returned fire even faster than the snake like Pardoner. Instead he takes off his hat in a blurred flourish, revealing an unnaturally high forehead framed by close cropped dark hair, a flicker of light reflected from something behind the fleshy ridges of the man’s forehead give same some hint of what is to come.

The Pardoners are too obsessed with the mutant’s seven fingers to look at the horizontal slit on his forehead and too used to meeting no resistance from the poor wretches who nature had similarly betrayed, to expect this mutant to be able to defend himself. The sandy haired man squeezes the trigger, with every intent of simply dispatching another insult to the Christ man and the purity of the race. Instead his own eyes widen as a third eye snaps open in the middle of the mutant’s forehead. The mutant sways like a sapling in the wind, stepping past the bullet as if he could somehow see it. A scream from his horse behind him echoes down the street, even as his own unique pistols clear their holsters. Sam cannot help but appreciate the smooth, quick motion that marks the mutant as every inch a gunslinger. More than half the skill in that profession relies not on speed per se but on aim and Sam has no doubt that the three eyes darting in the mutant’s head give him an advantage the sandy haired bully simply cannot match. His gun barks once, spitting fire and the Pardoners’ gunman grips his hand, cursing as the butt of his own weapon and one of his fingers shatter under the impact of the mutant’s bullet.

Apart from the cries of the wounded horse and the Pardoner the street is silent now; the crowd, which had been enjoying the spectacle, seems to suddenly melt away. The mutant keeps his guns trained on the Pardoners in front of him and takes a quick glance back at his horse, his third eye swivels in the opposite direction, keeping his enemies in his sights. It takes him only a second to ascertain his horse’s condition, he whispers an apology to the wounded animal, then the gun in his left hand bucks twice and the horse keels over, released from its agony. The face that he turns back on the Pardoners is dark with rage, made all the more terrible by the alien aspect of the third eye glowering from his forehead.

“There was no need for this,” the mutant spits, “I was leaving anyway, if you value your lives then you will let me go. If you meant to cause me pain then you have done so.” With deft hands Sam ties the horses to the rail, draws a rifle from the saddle and adopts a crouched position in the alley. For all he seems to have had experience with harassment and violence, the mutant clearly has no understanding of how the true fanatics of the Inquisition operate. There is no possibility of them letting him simply walk away and Sam very much doubts that there are only four of them involved in this.

“There is every need for this!” The sandy haired gunman shrieks. “God’s children should not have to endure abominations such as you.”

Blood leaks from the man’s ruined hand, as he waves it in the mutant’s direction.

“Your sin is written upon your
Hellspawn
face.”

Crimson drops spill inches from the mutant’s face, causing him to involuntarily step backwards. Whatever sensory advantages the mutant has, he is not watching for the movement in the second story window across the street, Sam, on the other hand has been waiting for just this sort of attack. Before the shadow at the window can take aim at the distracted gunfighter, Sam drops it with a single shot. At the sound of the shot the mutant retreats into the doorway of the inn and the Pardoners scatter. The sound of shattering glass comes from the buildings across the street, followed by a volley of shots that explode around the crouched figure in the doorway and the entrance to the alleyway. Seconds later, Sam unleashes a withering series of shots of his own, hitting at least one of the Inquisitors in the ambush across the road and causing him to slump forward in the window. As soon as the seven fingered gunman realizes that the first shot had been from an unlooked for ally, he turns his attention entirely back to the Pardoners dashing across the street. Two fall before they can make the safety of the building, even under the cover of their brothers’ deadly fire.

Lillian hears the first shots hit the side of the building, even from the back room. It takes a few prods with the knife to turn the landlord’s attention from the sound of breaking glass and shouting patrons, back to the safe. Reluctantly the man opens the heavy steel door to reveal a pitiful collection of personal treasures. By far the most valuable item is the silver plated, black handled pistol, marked with the insignia of the Carter family. Keeping the knife in the small of the innkeeper’s back, Lillian snatches up her prized weapon with her free hand. An unexpected kick to the landlord’s buttocks sees him spilled forward onto the floor; by the time he has regained himself, Lillian is tightening the gun belt at her waist’

“Do I need to remind you that I am quick with this?” She asks, fondly stroking the ebony handle of the pistol.

“N-no,” the landlord says, shaking his head.

“Good, now I see you found my wallet as well,” Lillian says, putting her hand into the safe and drawing forth the bag of coins that Father Rugan had thrust into her hands at their last meeting, “so all that’s left is for you to quickly show me to my room, there’s something I forgot.”

Outside more gunfire rakes the front of the inn, causing the innkeeper to look pained. “Don’t worry I won’t need you much longer and then you can go and see about that other commotion.”

“I don’t know how you’re planning to get away with this,” the innkeeper says over his shoulder as he precedes her from the room, “they’ve been watching this place for days.”

“I thought you said they didn’t find anything.”

“They didn’t, but Ned Brown hasn’t stopped talking about the strange girl, who pulled a pistol on him last week.”

“Why didn’t you mention it before?”

“I didn’t recognize you before, not with no hair and dressed like a boy. I thought you were just a thief who’d listened to Ned’s stories, like they all did and figured I still had the gun, but you knew that purse and you didn’t take anything else. I can guess who you are.”

“Not a good idea…”

“Don’t worry I won’t tell anyone, in fact I have to tell you something.”

“What is that?” Lillian asks, crouching low behind innkeeper, as they pick their way past the chaos in the adjoining common room and make their way upstairs.

“One of them is still up there, I think he’s waiting for you.”

“Since when?”

“Last night. It was him who brought the Inquisitors here.”