The Shotgun Arcana (53 page)

Fire. Fire engulfed Maude’s body, her mind. Searing, bright, pure. The fire that birthed the world and heralds its end devoured her. Then, after an eternity of bright perfect pain, it was quenched in infinite cooling darkness. Maude slept, and dreamed of being born again out of the sun, wreathed in flame.

The Ace of Swords

Thanksgiving passed and the dawn came. The rain departed, but even with the bright sunlight, it was cold. Praetorians knocked on the doors of every residence, shack and tent, spreading the word that Malachi Bick and Jon Highfather would be executed today at noon, in front of the Paradise Falls. Attendance by all citizens of Golgotha was mandatory by order of the sheriff and now mayor, Ray Zeal.

The ruins of the Reid house sat at the northern end of Argent Mountain. In the hard light of morning, they consisted of uneven, blackened walls of crumbling brick and a few charred broken bones of timber, jutting up from the frame that had been devoured by fire. The house had once been one of the finest homes in Golgotha, until fire claimed it last year. Most folks avoided the ruins, especially at night. Rumors persisted that the whole area was haunted.

Slowly, they began to arrive as had been prearranged. Kate Warne showed first, tired and cold from over a day of running, fighting and hiding from Zeal’s troops. She carried a rifle and still wore her badge proudly. Next was Harry Pratt, dressed in his long heavy coat, with his breastplate and sword concealed beneath. Harry, too, carried a rifle and pistol he had liberated from some of Zeal’s men who had been guarding his house.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” Pratt said. “I’m Harry Pratt, the mayor of Golgotha.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Kate said. “I’m Kate Warne, and I work for you now.”

“I did tell Jon to hire more deputies,” Pratt said. “I hope he’s still alive.”

“Me too,” Kate said. “I hope that reputation of his has held; besides, I want to kill him myself for putting me in the middle of this.”

Next came Black Rowan and the Scholar. The two of them carried a large carpetbag full of guns and ammunition collected from the Praetorians. “Well,” Rowan said with a smile that poorly hid her exhaustion.”Isn’t this quite the lovely little band we have here. Mayor Pratt, I’ve heard so much about you. A pleasure to finally meet you. And you,” Rowan said, nodding to Kate as she dropped the bag of guns at her feet and drew out a small silver flask, took a sip and handed it to Warne, “where exactly is your grand legal system now, hmm?”

Kate raised the flask and took a drink. “I am currently reassessing my faith in the legal system,” she said. “At least in relation to this damn town. Glad to see you again. We’ll need all the help we can get to turn this around.”

The Scholar, seemingly oblivious to the bandaged, bloody bullet wound in his leg, nodded toward a patch of dense scrub below the rise the ruins were on. “Madam, I saw some movement down there. Looked like an animal, but I’m not sure. Should I—”

Mutt walked out of the scrub, a rifle slung over his shoulder and a bloody knot of human scalps at his belt. Jon Highfather’s silver star was on Mutt’s vest. Harry had seen Mutt angry, giddy, falling-down drunk and taunting-mean. He had never seen the Indian like this before. Harry walked up to meet him.

“Are you all right?” he asked. Mutt looked at him with tired, red, soul-weary eyes.

“Jon asked me to be sheriff until this blows over,” Mutt said, his voice a steel rasp. “He figured Zeal would take him after what happened to Vellas and he said he knew I’d come save his ass if it needed saving. If you’re up to scrappin’ about it…”

“No,” Harry said. “No. Jon’s right. I can’t think of a better man for the job, Sheriff.”

Mutt nodded and walked up to join the others. “This all we got? I was hoping for a few more.”

“My people will be here,” Rowan said. “I’m betting that weather yesterday threw them off a bit.”

“What people?” Kate asked, but Mutt continued.

“All right,” Mutt said, “we are still outgunned. I know we made a dent in them yesterday,” Mutt dropped the bloody scalps on the ground next to the bag of captured guns, “and there are a damn sight fewer than there were when they rode into town, but I’d say we’re still outnumbered a good six to one, at least. Jon and Bick had worked a few deals, like with Rowan here, and I picked us up some extra help as well last night.”

“Who?” Harry asked.

“These people are crazy as bedbugs,” Mutt said, “and sometimes you need to fight crazy with crazy. So I got us some … unconventional help. He’ll be along. We’ve only got about five hours till they are going to kill Jon and Bick, so we need to figure out a way to get the hostages free and handle Zeal. He’s not a normal man, at least that’s what Bick told Jon. Any ideas how to deal with him?”

“I know.” The girl’s voice came from atop one of the crumbling, blackened brick walls. She was young, in her twenties, dressed in a simple pair of canvas work pants, boots and a shirt with a too-large barn jacket over it. Her brown hair was tied back in a ponytail.

“You are quiet as hell,” Mutt said. “How’d you get up there exactly? Fly?”

“Something like that,” the girl said. “I’m Emily Bright. Malachi Bick is my father. I’m here to help.”

The Scholar offered the girl a hand and Emily dropped down gracefully. She looked even smaller next to Rowan’s huge right-hand man.

“I know how to deal with Zeal,” Emily said. “Or at least keep him distracted for a time. There is something my father told me about, it’s in his desk at the Paradise Falls. If I can get in there, I can get it. It will fix Zeal.”

“The Paradise Falls is Zeal’s command HQ. It’s thick with soldiers and Zeal’s people,” Kate said. “How the hell are we supposed to get you in there?”

“I’ll get her in.” Again, no one had heard the approach. Mutt spun around. His eyes opened wide, the light falling back into them.

Maude Stapleton, in wet, bloody, torn clothes, her bandana hanging around her neck, her hair falling down her shoulders, cleared the rise, Golgotha at her back. Mutt ran to her, laughing, whooping. Maude smiled as he scooped her up off the ground and spun her. He pulled her close, no resistance, no hesitation, no doubt, and kissed her. Maude slid her arms around his neck and returned the kiss.

“Goddamn,” Kate said. “I knew it was her! Maybe we got a chance after all.”

The Seven of Pentacles

The Main Street of Golgotha was choked with citizens, forced to turn out for the executions. Praetorians with rifles on horseback skirted the edge of the crowd of hundreds that ran up and down Golgotha’s main thoroughfare. Even a sizable portion of Johnny Town’s population had come out to watch the event, clustered together near the edges of the crowds, silent and stone-faced.

In the balcony that overlooked Main, on the second floor of the Paradise Falls, Charles Cook sat. His servant, Lazare, stood behind Cook with the ever-present parasol to give the industrial baron shade. Cook glared at the second-in-command of his private army.

“What the hell do you mean we’ve lost over twenty men in the last day, including Colonel Whitmore?” Cook said. “That’s over a quarter of our force! These people are miners and hicks, how in the name of perdition are they taking out armed, trained and alert military personnel? What the fuck do I pay you people for?”

“Sir, I…,” the red-faced and frightened Praetorian stammered. “Colonel Whitmore took a group of men to acquire the whores over at the Dove’s Roost last night. They just … vanished, along with the whores, sir.”

“Shut up and get out!” Cook bellowed. “Find Whitmore and execute whoever is responsible for this, or goddamn you, I’ll eat your eyeballs tonight!”

The mercenary departed. Cook sighed and took a sip from his cocktail and tried to relax by watching the massive crowd and remembering that he was in control of each and every one of them. Below, on the large porch of the saloon, more Praetorians stood guard, rifles at the ready, should the crowd suddenly develop a backbone. They had even set up a large tripod-mounted Gatling gun that could mow down civilians like wheat before a sickle, if need be. Professor Zenith was also present, fiddling with the infernal device on his wagon, readying it to terrify and suppress the crowds. The squirrelly little man had been demanding access to more children for his experiments, and Cook knew that he’d need to bring the matter to Zeal. Taking too many children of the locals too soon would cause friction. Still, they were entrenched now, with far superior firepower and the legitimacy of being in control of the government.

An elevated platform had been prepared overnight in front of the saloon, blocking a good portion of Main Street, so that everyone could see Bick and Highfather die. Yes, Cook thought, it was a beautiful, clear Friday afternoon and tonight they would celebrate and begin the process of changing Golgotha into the kind of town they wanted, culling the weak and the sentimental. Cook could feel the power of this place and its dark light, like an invisible beacon calling to those like him and Zeal. Golgotha would be the new Gomorrah. The captain of industry licked his lips just thinking about it. He was home.

Yes, a beautiful day indeed.

Below, Ray Zeal stood beside the Snake-Man on the porch to the Paradise Falls.

“I don’t like this,” Snake-Man said. “Have you heard anything from Chi Mo Duan? Was he successful in killing the old man in Johnny Town?”

Zeal nodded absently as he waved to passersby. The smiles on their faces were no longer genuine. They knew, finally: They understood what they had welcomed into their town and they were afraid, but it was too late now.

“Yes,” Zeal said. “Two Green Ribbon Tong members showed up yesterday with a message from him. Johnny Town is secured and ours.”

“I still don’t like it. Pratt has disappeared, Highfather’s deputies are still out there and Mutt is not to be trifled with, I can assure you.”

“Part of the reason for our little show,” Zeal said. “He will come rushing to Highfather’s rescue and offer himself up to us in the process.”

Snake-Man nodded.

“You’ll get another shot at Mutt, I assure you, once he gives up the skull.”

“Where were you off to so early this morning?” Snake-Man asked. “I saw you ride out without an escort.”

“I was seeing to Dr. Tumblety,” Zeal said. “Most remarkable man. Has a very clear vision. I helped him with something and then we said our good-byes. He is my High Priest now, my missionary in the world, and he will do truly great works.”

Zeal looked up at the sun. “Well,” he said, smiling at the stern-faced medicine man, “time to get this show on the road.”

*   *   *

The Golgotha schoolhouse was a pretty whitewashed building that sat in a pastoral-looking field of grass at the northeastern base of Rose Hill. The schoolmaster’s house was a small one-room cottage a few hundred feet from the school proper. The school had been built by the Mormons when they first arrived and was open to all the children of Golgotha, regardless of denomination.

The schoolhouse had seen its share of trouble, just like the rest of Golgotha—the place was rumored to be haunted. There was a weeping lady in white, her face always hidden by her long black hair, who stood in the school’s yard and was often seen by travelers passing by on Old Stone Road. Then there was a horrid, hooded apparition that appeared from time to time inside the school itself, dressed in tattered shadowy raiment and carrying a hand sickle. The town had lost five schoolmasters and mistresses since the school was built and in many circles back east it was joked that being offered an appointment to teach in Golgotha was the fastest way to a very early retirement.

Inside the schoolhouse, the fourteen children had been instructed to lie on the floor and be quiet by the two people who had surprised Mr. Whorly, the last schoolmaster, a few days ago. They had laid Mr. Whorly on his desk, tied him up and then proceeded to cut him open while he was still alive. Eventually he stopped screaming and begging. The room smelled of rotting meat and rancid blood. When the children complained of having to go to the bathroom, they were dragged by the man named Elijah Barrows to the cloakroom, and told to defecate and urinate on the floor while he watched. If the children voiced their hunger, a frightening, gaunt creature who said her name was Mme. LaTour would cut off a piece of Mr. Whorly’s flesh and order them to eat it. Only one child had said he was hungry after that; he had retched and sobbed after eating the flesh until he was silent, pale and still.

Barrows kept watch on the front steps of the schoolhouse during the day and then they barricaded the one door with benches, tables and chairs at night. Many of the children had begun to get ill from lack of food and water. Mme. LaTour assured them that in a few more days, Mr. Whorly’s fly-covered, maggot-infested corpse would begin to look very good indeed. Then their true education could begin—they were to be the first of the new citizens of Golgotha. Each night, their two captors forced them to say prayers to something called Raziel. They did, but then many silently whispered prayers to the more gentle-seeming gods of their fathers and mothers. Others merely wept themselves to sleep, feeling more and more of their insides hollow out with each passing day.

Today was Friday and it was close to noon. Barrows was out on the steps with a pair of rifles, his knives and a few pistols. LaTour was working on another of her monstrous anatomical diagrams on the large slate board at the front of the room.

Barrows saw a Praetorian approach down Old Stone and began to cross the field toward the school. He dropped the chunk of wood he had been carving on and grabbed a rifle.

“Hey, hey! You ain’t supposed to come out here unless Mr. Zeal’s with you! Stop!”

The rider didn’t stop. He was a slender man with brown hair and delicate features. The rider let go of the reins and suddenly had two Colt pistols in his hands.

Kate cursed as she drew the guns and spurred her horse. She had hoped to get a lot closer. The man raised the rifle, shouted for someone named LaTour and opened fire. Kate fired as well.

Inside, Mme. LaTour grabbed the gore-coated knife they had used on the schoolmaster and moved quickly toward the children. There was a crash as part of the floor exploded into broken wooden planks and nails. The Scholar had crawled under the schoolhouse hours ago and had been working to quietly loosen several of the boards so that he could push up into the room. Now that he heard the shouting and knew the Warne woman’s frontal assault was underway, there was no more time to waste. He pushed on the loosened boards with all of his massive strength, roaring as he smashed up into the schoolroom. The children screamed and shouted. LaTour grabbed a young man of about twelve, Tom Benoit, pulled his hair to expose his pale neck and stuck the filthy butcher knife to his throat. The Scholar, his cudgel in hand, climbed up into the room.