Hell Come Sundown (7 page)

“Do they know you?”

“I only met them once or twice, and that was before the war. Odds are they wouldn't recognize me. Besides, there's always the chance they've moved on and someone else is running things now.”

“Do you want to risk it?”

“We'll have to. Whatever I've got a line on has been here recently. I can feel it.” As they approached the trading post, Hell pulled the reins in on his horse, bringing it to a sudden halt. “You hear that?” he whispered.

“I don't hear anything.”

“That's just it. It's
too
quiet. The Tuckers had themselves a big ol' coonhound that would howl like the dickens the moment anyone rode in. And even at this time of night, we should be able to hear the livestock making some kind of noise. I've only been one other place that was as quiet as this place is right now—Golgotha.”

Hell dismounted, signaling for Pretty Woman to do the same. They approached the main building from opposing sides, moving fast and low, weapons drawn. Pretty Woman circled around back while Hell approached the front. No lamplight came from any of the windows facing the dooryard. None of the curtains so much as twitched. As Hell approached the front door, he caught a stench so foul it made him stagger.

“Hold it right there!” a voice called out from the deep shadow cast by the wooden overhang suspended above the door.

“One step closer and I'll blow your ass to Kingdom Come!”

“I mean no harm, friend,” Hell replied, holstering his gun.

The owner of the voice stepped forward, revealing himself to be a man in his late fifties, with unkempt gray hair and whiskers. The old-timer had the wiry build and sunburned skin of a veteran fence-rider, dressed in a denim work shirt and well-worn dungarees. He was also armed with a shotgun, which was pointed level at Sam's chest. As the older man moved closer, favoring his left leg, the stink moved along with him.

“Who the heck are you, stranger?” the old-timer asked.

“The name's Hell. Sam Hell,” he replied, coughing into a clenched fist. “What is that stink?”

The muzzle of the shotgun wavered slightly. “Afraid that's me,” he explained, gesturing to his pants, which were soaked from the knees down in shit. “Now what do you want, mister?”

“I want you to put down your shotgun.”

“I'm afraid that just ain't gonna fuckin' happen.”

“Want to put money on that, old man?” Pretty Woman asked as she reached around the old-timer's shoulder and placed the blade of her knife against his grizzled throat.

“Let's not do anything god-damn rash,” the old man said as he dropped the shotgun and put his hands on the top of his head. “Pardon, my French.”

“You have nothing to fear from us. As I said, my name is Sam Hell, and this is my traveling companion, Pretty Woman.”

The old-timer raised an eyebrow and let out with a low whistle. “My-my! Ain't you as fine as cream gravy, even if you is a squaw.”

“I could have slit your throat from ear to ear, you old buzzard,” Pretty Woman growled in reply as she returned her knife to its sheath. “Don't make me regret that.”

“A feisty one, eh?” he grinned, displaying missing teeth.

Pretty Woman rolled her eyes and turned to address her traveling companion. “I checked the back way. No sign of life. Even the pigs in the sty are gone.”

Hell fixed the old man with a hard stare. “Okay, mister—?”

“Johnson. But most folks call me Cuss.”

“All right, Cuss—where is everybody?”

“They're gone. Carried off by a bunch of cocksucking fiends. Pardon my French.”

“Come again?”

“You wouldn't believe my story, even if I told you.”

“You'd be surprised by what I'll believe,” Hell replied, pulling a handkerchief from his back pocket and placing it over his nose. “But would it be too much of a bother for you to change out of those clothes before you start telling it?”

In deference to Sam and Pretty Woman's olfactory senses, Cuss lead them to a small shed near the livery stable that served as his living quarters. The interior was spartan, but surprisingly tidy, with the only furniture being a rope bed fitted with a horsehair mattress, a chair and small washstand with a basin.

“Normally, I'm a modest man,” the ranch hand said as he reached under his bed and dragged out a pasteboard suitcase. “I don't usually change my drawers in front of them who ain't kin, or at least I haven't rode with a spell. But modesty be damned! I can't stand myself any longer!”

Cuss removed a folded pair of dungarees from the suitcase and snapped them open with a practiced flick of his wrists. He kicked off his boots and unbuttoned the fly of his soiled jeans, peeled them off and tossed them out the front door. Dressed in nothing but his union suit, he sat down in the solitary chair and began to pull on his clean pants.

“Aren't you gonna change your long johns, too?” Hell asked.

“Ain't got but one god-damn pair,” Cuss grunted as he threaded a belt through the loops of his pants. “Besides, they been through worse without needin' a wash.”

“Maybe you could borrow a pair from the Tucker's inventory? I'm sure they wouldn't mind.”

“I already checked the trading post,” Cuss sighed, wiping at the muck that encrusted his boots with an old rag. “Them thievin' marauders took everything that weren't nailed down. Pots, pans, blankets, bolts of trade cloth … you name it, they hauled it off.”

“You want to tell us what happened?” Hell asked, folding his arms across his chest.

The ranch hand stared at the boot he held in his hands for a long moment before replying. “I been workin' for the Tuckers ever since I got throwed by that god-damn bronco over at the Lazy J. Must be goin' on five years now. It busted up my leg somethin' awful. Doc said I was lucky they didn't take it off at the knee. It's good for walkin' and such, but it keeps me from ridin' herd. Jimbo, he took me on after that. Mostly I see to the horses, while him and the missus tend to the folks that come through. The pay ain't much, but I got a clean, dry place to bunk, and I'm allowed to take my meals in the house. For an ornery ol' hoot-owl like myself, I have to say it's a sweet deal.

“We don't get much in the way of trouble out here. The stage comes and goes twice a week, and that's about it in terms of excitement. The Tuckers have made a point of bein' fair in their dealings, and it's helped keep them in good stead with the Injuns and Meskins hereabouts. The worst we've ever had to worry about was a horse thief or two. But that was before today.

“I knowed there wasn't something right with them cocksuckers the moment I clapped eyes on 'em. There was ten of 'em: eight men and two women. They was drivin' three covered wagons. Claimed they was homesteaders headed out West. They said they'd been on the road for the better part of a month and were runnin' low on flour and sugar and the like, and were hankerin' to spend a night under a solid roof. But they didn't strike me as settlers. For one, the men seemed a touch hard for farmers, if you get my drift. The womenfolk didn't strike me as proper ladies, neither. And there weren't a young'un to be seen, which struck me as odd. Besides, I don't trust folks that smile when they ain't got no god damn reason to, and these folks was showin' way too much teeth for my liking.

“I ain't the most sociable of fellers, but Jimbo, he's a natural-born host. Always happy to see folks, eager listen to their stories and do whatever it takes to sell 'em whatever they need before sendin' them on their way. He told me to go make sure their horses were properly stabled. So I go to unhitch their horses and put 'em up in the barn, so they can get watered and fed, right? But one of 'em comes runnin' up and says he'll tend to it himself. It weren't no skin off my nose, but it struck me as peculiar. I couldn't help but feel like maybe there was somethin' in them wagons they didn't want me to know about. But all I saw in the first wagon was a long wooden box, like them cedar chests you keep blankets in.

“I told Jimbo I thought maybe the newcomers might be gunrunners lookin' to deal with the Apache, but he said I was bein' suspicious and unchristian. Suspicious, hell!” Cuss said with a bitter laugh as he spat on the boot he was cleaning. “I'm just cautious is all. Anyways, just before dusk, the El Paso stage pulls up, more or less on time. Besides the driver, Clem Jones, and his assistant Elmer, there was an older married couple name of Crocker and some flannel-mouthed salesman out of St. Louis, which meant that the station was gonna be packed to the rafters come suppertime.

“Like I said, normally I take my meals at the Tucker's table, but the idea of breaking bread with those homesteaders didn't sit right with me. So when Jimbo told me that there weren't no room for me, on account of the guests, I weren't sore about it. Dottie still fixed me up a plate of fried chicken and cat-head biscuits, smothered in white-eye gravy, and had her youngest, Loretta, run it out to me, along with a jar of sassafras tea.

“After I was finished with my feed, I fetched my pipe and tobacco so's to have my evening smoke before turnin' in. The sun had only been down about five minutes when I heard screams comin' from the house. I look out my door and see lit'l Loretta run out, two of the homesteaders hot on her heels. Seein' how she's a wee thing, and they was big, strong cocksuckers, it didn't take much for 'em to tackle her and drag her back indoors. I grabbed my shotgun, snuck up on the house and looked in the window to see what was going on.

“Them god-damn phony homesteaders had Jimbo and the others lyin' on the floor, trussed up like turkeys ready for a shoot.

Then in walked this tall drink of water I ain't seen before. He was dressed in a fancy-ass embroidered silk vest with smoked glass cheaters, like a high-card gambler. By the way the others kowtowed to him, I could see he was the boss of the outfit.

“At first I figgered he must have rode in from wherever it was he'd been hidin' during the day, but there weren't a spot of dust on him. I wondered where this feller had been keepin' himself, if he'd been at the station all along without me seein' him. Then he smiled, and I seen his teeth, and I remembered the wooden box in the back of the wagon.

“I ain't an educated man, but I ain't no god-damn fool. I don't normally hold with superstition. But I been around the barn more than once, and I seen things in my day there weren't no way of explainin'. And what I saw through that window was the Devil made flesh, and there's no way anyone can tell me fuckin' different.

“The boss-devil, he snatched up Jimbo off the floor and tossed him onto the table like he was a Sunday ham. Then he buried his fangs in his throat and drank his blood like a hound lappin' up buttermilk. When I saw that, I couldn't help but call out to Jesus. The boss-devil, he yanked his head up and stared right at where I was hidin' and pointed a finger in my direction. The nails on his hands were as long and yellow as the claws on a buzzard.

“I knew there was no way I could outrun 'em with my bum leg, even with a head start. I had to hide, and hide quick. The closest place was the jakes. I pulled the door shut just as the boss-devil's posse poured out of the house, runnin' here and there, checkin' the barn, sheds and other buildings. I could tell they weren't gonna stop lookin' until they found me.

“What I did next was the only thing I
could
do if I wanted to survive—I lifted up the privy box and crawled down the goddamn hole. Lucky for me, it was a relatively new crapper—Jimbo and me had dug it just a month before—so I was only standing in muck up to my knees, not my chin. As bad as I smell now, it ain't
nothin'
compared to the stench down there!

“I'd just pulled the box back into place from underneath, when I heard the outhouse door open. I dropped back into the pit, fearful they might have seen me. The odor was enough to gag a maggot. I had to put a hand over my mouth to keep from retchin', for fear the noise would give me away. And if that weren't insult enough to my pride, the son-bitch dropped his pants and relieved himself right on top of me! I still had my shotgun, and believe you me, I was sorely tempted to haul off and blow that bastard's bowels out the top of his skull!

“Although I couldn't see a god-damn thing, I could hear them laughin' and shoutin' as they rustled the livestock and loaded up their wagons. I made out Loretta and Dottie's voices amid the ruckus. Dottie was calling out to Jesus for help, while Loretta was crying for her daddy, bless her. Listening to that child wailin' her heart out nearly made mine break in two! I wanted to go and save them, but I was so damned scared, all I could do was stand there up to my knees in shit.”

“There's nothing you could have done that would have helped the Tuckers,” Hell assured him.

“Mebbe. I might be a graybeard now, but there was a day when I could look a curly wolf in the eye and make him blink. Hell, you don't get to be my age in this country and not know how to take care of yourself. It's a sad state of affairs when a man like me has to hide in a shit-hole. I tell you what, though—it was a far sight easier to crawl down there than it was to crawl up. I hadn't been free but a few minutes when I seen you sneakin' through the dooryard.”

“How long do you reckon it's been since they lit out?” Hell asked.

“Judging from where the moon is now, I'd say at least two hours.”

“I saw wagon tracks leading west, Sam,” Pretty Woman said, confirming what Cuss had told them. “Judging from their depth, they're heavily loaded, and they're running a string of at least ten horses, besides the ones hitched to the wagons.”

“Good—then there's a chance we might be able to catch him before daylight breaks. Thank you for your help, Mr. Johnson,” Hell said, touching the brim of his hat. “C'mon, Pretty—time to ride!”