Shadow Falls: Badlands (7 page)

“Jus’ like we did wit them Injuns,” he turned and grinned at the Stranger, holding the bloody scalp in his hand.

Three years had taught him that he could not evacuate this memory from his mind.

“It can’t be him,” the Stranger said under his breath. The level of inhuman behavior those men had displayed that night, and many other nights, chilled his blood. He knew it would not be beyond the scope of Cyril’s savagery to have engineered the carnage he saw back at Sagebrush.

The footfall sounded again. The desert played tricks with your ears—the Stranger knew. In the dark it was difficult to judge distance—and from within the shoal, direction was impossible.

He thought of Blue, contemplating momentarily if the untethered animal could be the source of the steps. But as his eyes finally adjusted to the dim light of the moonless sky he made out the shape of the sagging old burro where he’d left it within the waterless river.

A footstep came again, this time slightly louder. Whatever was out there was drawing closer.

Slowly the Stranger lifted towards the rim of the shoal, knowing full well that if his own eyes were adjusting to the dark, the eyes of the on-comer would have been well adjusted by now.

Raising just one eye above the berm, he peeked out. Nothing. No movement. He glided his hand across the ground until he found one of the loaded Dragoons.

Another footstep—the loudest yet. He fully exposed his head, wanting to get a good look.

It’s entirely possible they don’t know you are here
, his mind told him.

He cocked his head, trying to hone in on the noise. Minutes passed, he guessed, then what seemed like an hour. He tried to keep awake, his mind bordering on delirium, but unsated exhaustion pressed on his eyelids.

He relented: the Stranger sat back against the shoal and let sleep overtake him.

But before he could sink into the beckoning unconsciousness his mind desired, he heard it again: a footstep, and another, and another. As he scrambled in his semi-awake state to look over the top of the berm, his unrested hands dropped the pistol onto the dirt. The direction of the footsteps became apparent.

They were coming from up a gully a hundred yards away. And they were definitely moving towards him.

Faster now, and even faster yet.

The Stranger pointed the gun up the dry riverbed, which hooked sharply past a large outcrop of rocks.

Fifty yards.

His eyes saw it before he blinked, but it took another before it registered: a thin rim of yellow light bending around the outcrop. Salient light in the middle of darkness.

Forgoing any more caution, the Stranger thumbed back the Colt’s hammer and crouched down, feeling in the darkness for its mate; he kept his eyes on the light, relying only on touch to locate the pistol.

Twenty-five yards.

The second Colt was nowhere to be found.

Damnit
, the Stranger thought. Quickly, impatiently, he gazed downward, hoping his eyes would help his hands. His spotted the second Dragoon behind his feet.

When he looked up, he gazed directly into the yellow ball of light coming from the center of the lantern. It was as if it radiated only at him.

His eyes, having adjusted to total darkness, lost they’re focus—the lantern’s owner obscured.

Fifteen feet.

The Stranger lifted the guns and squeezed both triggers. The twin clap of black powder thunder and muzzle flash lightning filled the minimal breach in the darkness between him and that other.

Miss. His mind, primed with the life of a gunslinger, did not hesitate; it thumbed back the hammers on both Colts for another salvo, as it seemed like the lamp itself came up to the very tip of his guns.

Inside the dim firelight, the Stanger saw the other’s face. He was paralyzed, unable to move. The twin Dragoons dropped from his hands to the dirt of the dry riverbed.

He pushed himself backward, scrambling like a crab to get away from that before him, his back finally hitting the wall of the riverbed

“It can’t be you,” the Stranger said, his terrified voice coming out like rushing air.

As the lamp lowered, the Stranger once again looked darkly upon the face of the young girl he had seen brutalized in the streets of Veracruz, blood pouring down her face from the bony wound left behind as Cyril pocketed her scalp.

Her face came down to his level, settling inches away. Her brown eyes pierced his gaze like a lance. When she opened her mouth, beyond her rotting teeth and gums seemed a bottomless chasm of never-ending darkness. He was almost shocked when from the chasm—indeed, her mouth—she spoke.

“Hello, Galen,” she said.

*****

CHAPTER 4

M
onths had passed since he’d been called by his name—the last time coming as he stood with his hands covered in blood. To him, it was a remainder of what he left behind and the darkness that hunted him nightly.

“No,” he whispered.

The girl’s face drew closer. In the firelight of the lantern, Galen could see the paleness of death in her skin.

“No,” he pleaded. The chill desert night began to envelop him—much like it had back in Kansas City, fleeing through the streets.

He had gone to visit the Gypsy and things had quickly turned wrong—very badly wrong.

It was a week getting there—by coach, horse, and foot. He came as a hired courier, bearing a small package to be “hand-delivered,” as him employer specified, to a banker in town. Galen was, at this point, going by the assumed name of Tom Holt.

When his employer, an aging rancher, asked him to go Kansas City, he began, “Tom, the only thing about a man I hold any coin in is whether or not that man can be trusted.”

Galen glanced at the door and then the window, imagining a posse waiting outside to take him away; he had not said a word about his past since be started on the ranch.

From a bookshelf the rancher produced a small rectangular box—no larger than a book—wrapped in brown paper and tied with packing twine. He held it out.

“Since I can’t go, I’d like you to deliver this to Kansas City for me,” the rancher told him.

***

Upon his arrival in Kansas City, Galen pulled his overcoat tight as an irregular mid-February snow had begun to fall. In the streets, dozens of people passed him; he was fascinated by the impersonal bustle of the city. Galen listened to his boot-steps crunch in the powder as he continued toward his destination.

He strode up along the riverfront watching the steamboats motor up the Mississippi, passing a docked riverboat from which raucous music and laughter could be heard. He knew he could have no part of such sociality. As he arrived, the realization suddenly hit him he had travelled all this way only to wait until the next morning, for the address he’d been given was a bank. He peeked in through the darkened windows, wondering if the intended recipient would be waiting for him after-hours. He tapped on the glass, seeing only his reflection. There was no answer.

There had been no shortage of places to stay in town; he had passed at least a half dozen different signs offering lodging. The rancher had, generously, given him enough traveling money to afford one of the finer hotels. Although he approached the front door of one, the Carthaginian, spending a single dollar for a room didn’t sit right with Galen—especially when he knew that in a town like this he could find a bunkhouse for just a dime a night.

He turned back to look for one of the boarding houses he’d passed eventually making his way off the beaten path. He saw a storefront window, behind which a woman in a black shawl sat in an ornate rocker. All of the other storefronts were closed, all windows darkened but this one. Across the pane, in large uneven letters, was painted one word.

Fortune.

As he crossed the street, he couldn’t make out much of her face; her long, silken, raven black hair hid her down-turned face. From this angle Galen thought the woman beautiful and his gaze lingered—until she lifted her own gaze—matching hers with his—and revealed the weathered, tan face of an old Gypsy crone.

Something in her gaze snagged at him like hooked barbs sunk into his skin, forcing Galen to fight to tear his eyes away from hers. As he continued down the street, he shuddered and pushed the thought of the crone’s stare out of his mind.

After checking into a simple but clean boarding house, Galen found himself restless—unable to lie down for the night just yet. An itch had started—first in his toes, then slowly traveling up into his body, ultimately leaching to his mind: the need for a drink. It had been weeks—since before he had arrived at the ranch. Finally, he decided it was madness to let this desire eat into his brain this way. He put on his duster and headed back into the cold.

The place he chose had no sign—or any indication of a name—but offered an open space at the bar seen through the double doors. The bartender, a mustachioed sort with a farm boy’s body, poured Galen a shot. Oh, that magnificent burn as it greedily went down. Grinning, Galen ordered another.

He hadn’t been at the bar longer than five minutes when he spotted her—a frill-laced, powder blue dress clinging to her voluptuous figure—as she sat at a nearby table, laughing along with a noisy cadre of gentlemen showing off in black suits. Momentarily, she gazed his way momentarily before turning back. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen—her face, that of an angel.

He must have been staring for quite a while, because at some point he finally felt a poke at his shoulder. He caught the bartender grinning at him.

“That’s Sally,” the bartender said. “Best piece of tail in three states.”

“How much?” asked Galen.

“If you have to ask—”

“I asked how much?”

“One hundred.”

“A hundred!” jumped Galen, saying it loudly enough that plenty of people around him heard.

With his hands, the bartender signaled for Galen to keep it down.

“For five bucks you can have Daisy,” the bartender said, nodding his head toward the staircase rail. Standing there, chewing her nails, leaned a dumpy and fairly unattractive whore. Her wide moon-face bore thin lips and a large nose. As Galen watched, she pulled her hand back from her mouth, checking her nails to examine her latest efforts.

Daisy closed the door to her room behind them. Deftly, she unhooked her dress and let it fall to the floor. Galen looked around. At best the room was plain, with an iron bed, a padded chair, and table a by the window. At worst it was a dim and grungy rat-infested cheap billet surrounded by thin walls covered in torn and yellowed parlor paper. Following suit, Galen undid his pants, kicked them to the side, and reclined on the bed.

Daisy rung out a cloth from a bowl of water and washed him down. She undid her undergarment, revealing pendulous and misshapen breasts and an unruly thatch of pubic hair that began just below her belly.

She climbed on top of him, riding him until he climaxed with a stern grunt. After it was over, Daisy climbed down off the bed, turned her back, and wordlessly put her clothes back on. The whole process took less than five minutes.

Galen stood and put his pants back on. “Would you like to sit and talk for a spell?” he asked.

“Sure,” Daisy answered flatly, her voice devoid of emotion. He smoothed a spot on the blanket for her.

“Been here long?” he asked.

“Mebbe, tuh— tuh— two years.”

Galen suddenly realized why she barely spoke. Daisy turned her eyes downward, obviously ashamed of her stutter.

“Daisy, that’s a pretty name.”

She nodded sheepishly.

“My name’s Galen,” he said—then wondered why he’d done that. Not even the rancher knew his name. It had to have been the whisky talking.

“Guh— guh— Galen, that’s nuh— nuh— nice.”

“You always talked like that?”

“Yuh— yuh— yuh— yes.”

Galen scratched his head. It had been so long since he’d had a proper conversation with a woman that he had no idea what to say.

“I sh— should prolly get back downstairs,” she finally said.

Together they left the room, not speaking. As Daisy took her usual spot on the staircase rail, Galen went back to the bar to get another drink.

He had no idea what time it was when he stumbled out onto the street. He had watched another man—a dandy in a cheap suit—take Daisy to her room and decided he wanted to leave before she came back out.

Why did I even care?
he wondered. A woman with a crippled voice like that was lucky to make a living selling herself, he figured.

The snow continued to fall lightly. As he crossed Washington Street heading back to the boarding house, he noticed the Gypsy’s window was still lit as the old crone sat in her rocking chair, unmoved since he last saw her. Her raven colored hair still shone in the firelight.

He had no intention of getting any closer, but before he realized it, his feet, which seemed to obey some external call, had brought his nose to within inches of the painted, gold-trimmed “Fortune”. As his feet entered through the front door a single bell jangled pleasantly above his head.