Dead of Winter (13 page)

  "Of course." He took a breath. "The second type of vampire, and by far the more fearsome, is a creature we call the
nosferatu
."

  "And what do they do?"

  "Quite simply, a
nosferatu
is a vampire whose human soul has been restored to his body."

  Cora frowned. "Ain't having a soul a good thing?"

  "One would think so, but it's actually quite dreadful. You see, the human soul may be restored, but the creature still possesses all of the characteristics of the
vrykolakas
, such as enhanced strength, enhanced speed, and the need to consume human blood. It's also theorized that they gain some new powers as a result of this unholy ascension."

  "What sort of powers?"

  "Transformation, for one thing. Most of the
nosferatu
recorded in history have had the power to assume other shapes, such as animals. This allows them to move undetected through a population to single out victims."

  "I ain't following you," Cora said. "Wouldn't the human soul make them go all soft on killing folk?"

  "Initially, yes, and I imagine there are some that never recover from discovering what they are. If any such vampires exist, however, they keep entirely to themselves." He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. "Although, between us, it is my belief that those who can't live with the burden of vampirism simply choose to end their own lives."

  "Maybe so, but why are you whispering? You trying to keep it from this snoring sop?" She kicked at Ben's bench.

  "My apologies," James replied, sitting upright again and adjusting his hat. "It's just that my theory isn't particularly popular among most vampire scholars."

  "There are other vampire scholars? And here I thought only us hunters and them musty old priests went in for such tales."

  "Oh, my, no." James shook his head. "Why, there's an entire fraternity of scholars at Oxford dedicated to unveiling the secrets of the undead. A secret fraternity, mind you, but very knowledgeable."

  "So that's your story, is it? You're running errands for this educated group? What, did they take a special interest in American spooks all of a sudden?"

  "Hardly," James said indignantly, "nor am I here at their behest. As I said earlier, I am in the employ of Lord Harcourt."

  "You never did say what you do for him. You some kind of property minder?"

  "Not at all. My services follow my interest."

  "So you tell him about vampires?" Cora asked, raising an eyebrow.

  "Essentially, yes. Actually, my line of work is remarkably similar to what I imagine yours might be. We're both mercenaries of sorts." Cora failed to hold in another gale of laughter, much to James's annoyance. "You've not much experience with manners, have you?"

  "All kinds," Cora replied. "I just never learned none."

  "So I see," James said, standing to his feet. "Well, I shall leave you to reflect on those encounters in the hope that you may learn from them still. Our tickets make us traveling mates, so I suppose I must leave my trunk here, but I believe a rather lengthy stroll about the train is in order."

  Cora watched him leave before resuming her vigil at the window. She'd met Englishmen before in her travels, but hadn't had the opportunity to speak much with one. The last one she'd run into had been in a St Louis sheriff station. He'd been bound for San Francisco when his train ran afoul of the James Younger Gang. Lost all his possessions, he'd said, and he was mighty angry about it. That sort of thing wouldn't have happened on a British rail, he'd said. Cora and Ben had been there chasing after a spook that ended up being another misunderstanding, so she'd stopped by the station to inform the lawmen there that they'd be moving on. The foreigner hadn't appreciated her cutting in on his time with the sheriff and made sure she'd known it. He could have been speaking Blackfoot for all the heed she paid him, which only made him angrier.

  This James Townsend was different. Cora had never given much thought to the possibility of actually studying vampires as a hobby. Leave it to a bunch of old English codgers to think that such a thing would be interesting. What little schooling she'd received in her life had come from Ben when he'd taught her to read. She liked it well enough, though she'd never taken to it like he had. She couldn't fathom someone devoting an entire life to reading books. Her back got itchy if she sat too long in one place, and besides, nobody ever did anybody else any good by reading. It was much better to ride through the world doing good for those as needed it. Better money, too.

  Cora glanced skyward through the window. A thick mat of cold, heavy clouds covered the peaks ahead. Old Man Winter was setting up for a tantrum, it seemed. She loathed the idea of hunting that wendigo creature in a blizzard. If Father Baez was right, the blizzard would only make it stronger. Still, when the special bullets arrived, she and Ben would hunt it, snow or no snow.

  Leaning her head against the wall, she pulled her hat over her eyes. Best to rest up before reaching Leadville. She closed her eyes and let the swaying of the car relax her, hoping she would be asleep by the time James Townsend returned to the cabin.

 
 

 
 
 

Mart Duggan's cold blue eyes bored into Cora as soon as she stepped off the train. "Where in the hell have you been?"

  "Where I said we was going," Cora said, taking a step backward.

  "Well, you should have been here doing what I'm paying you to do," the marshal replied.

  "You ain't paid us nothing yet."

  Duggan ignored the comment. "We had a run-in with that creature right here in town, and I lost me a good man to it."

  "See now, didn't I tell you that, marshal? I said it would start eating up your townsfolk. It's called a wendigo, if you want to know."

  "I don't give a damn what it's called." Duggan pointed his finger in her face. "What I want is to see it dead."

  "All in good time," Cora said. "Thanks to our little trip, we've got the means to do exactly that. Should be arriving in a few days."

  "A few days? What the hell are we supposed to do until then?"

  "What I done told you to do," Cora said. "Get yourself some silver bullets and fire."

  The marshal's fury waned a little. "You were right about that. I'll say that much."

  Cora nodded. "Tell me what happened."

  "Me and George Murray were settling a fight down at the Pioneer when we heard a scream from out in the street," Duggan said. "We ran outside to see this spindly-looking thing lurking about in the shadows. Somebody screamed again, and we saw it was a woman in the thing's hands. That scream was the last sound she ever made before the creature bit her head right off. The rest of her body was quick enough to follow it down that thing's gullet. Hell, we didn't even get a chance to fire before she was all ate up."

  Duggan paused for a moment to gather his wits. The memory still unsettled him. Not even a grizzly could have killed the woman so quickly. This monster, this wendigo, was far more savage than he ever imagined any creature could be. He could still hear the woman's screams and see her blood on the creature's jaws as it devoured her whole. Those images had even worked their way into his dreams, and he was not a man given to nightmares.

  He took a deep breath. "By that time, me and George was dug in by the saloon. George had his rifle handy, and I had my pistol. Between the two of us, we put enough holes in that thing to bring down half the Cheyenne nation, but we might as well have been pissing on it for all the good we did. Jack Evans even came up and helped out, but it still wasn't no good." The marshal paused again. "I've been a lawman for a good number of years now, but I ain't never seen such a thing. That bastard done swept up my deputies and made to eat them both when I recalled what you said about the fire. I humped it into the Pioneer and pulled out a handy pair of burning logs from the fire. By the time I got back out, George had already been ate and Jack was staring down its gullet. I waved the fire at it, and it made tracks right quick. Once it cleared out, Jack and I scouted out the rest of town, but it must have run on back to its cave."

  Cora took a minute to ponder the news. "Well, marshal, I have to say I'm impressed. I never figured you for facing down the wendigo like that."

  "Did what I had to," Duggan replied, surprised by the compliment. "Damn thing was fixing to eat my men, and you wasn't around to stop it."

  "Won't say I'm sorry I wasn't," Cora said. "You routed it well enough, and what we learned in Denver was well worth the people that got ate."

  Duggan's temper flared. "George Murray was a right fine deputy, little missie. I won't have you or anyone else say he wasn't."

  "Never said no such thing," Cora said, holding up her hands. "All I said was that our trip to see Father Baez was worth his life. You see, while George was getting ate, we was learning how his killer could be killed."

  "So it can die." The marshal's eyes lit up with vengeance. "What's the trick?"

  "Well, seems this wendigo is an Indian monster."

  "Indians?" Duggan asked. "There ain't been any Indian threat in these parts for years. They trying an uprising of some sort?"

  Cora shook her head. "No, they didn't cause it or call it into being or nothing. They're just the ones who know what it is and how to lick it."

  "Which Indians? The Utes?"

  "No, some tribe back East. Father Baez had to send out a telegram to his friends in Boston, and they told him the whole story on the wendigo."

  "So how can it be killed?"

  "Well, as I said before, silver and fire are weak spots, but to put it to rest proper, the silver needs the blessing of an Indian shaman."

  Duggan's shoulders slumped. "We ain't got one, and I can't imagine any of the local tribes would be too willing to loan us one."

  "Don't you worry your head about that," Cora said. "The priest in Boston's agreed to settle the whole matter for us. He'll be sending out some silver bullets blessed by one of the tribes in the area."

  "So all we have to do is shoot it with them and it'll die?"

  "As I understand it, yes," she replied.

  "Good," Duggan said, clapping her on the shoulder. "I trust you'll come calling when they arrive, then?"

  "Don't see how we'll need your help, but I won't keep you in the dark."

  The marshal nodded and left without another word. Cora watched him go, her arms tucked inside the sleeves of her buffalo-hide coat. Hearing how he'd managed to route the wendigo had surprised her. The marshal was made of tougher stuff than she'd thought, even after watching him stand down that group of miners. Drunken miners were easy enough to predict, but it took real guts to go up against a true creature of the night.

  Feats like that always began out of desperation, either for yourself or someone else. Nobody in their right mind ever took a supernatural creature head on unless they knew what they were doing, and nobody ever knew that the first time around. It was a wonder anybody lived to tell such tales, but some people just had more luck.

  "Ben!" she shouted, turning back toward the train. "Where you at? Let's get them bags and get back to our room!"

 

Cora sat on the cornshuck mattress and sighed. She was glad the same room was still available when they'd arrived back at the Northern Hotel. Staying in the same room in a city was a sort of tradition for them. It helped them feel more at home when they arrived at each place, and every new city they visited soon had a room they liked to call theirs.

  Ben would apologize for it from time to time, saying he felt bad for not being able to provide a real house for his wife. She would always wave him off, saying she preferred the roaming lifestyle, anyway. Wandering from town to town, turning in local bounties, and moving on had seemed romantic, the sort of lifestyle most every woman they met grew to envy. She wasn't tied to children, a cooking stove, or a washboard. They were free to go where they pleased, sometimes sleeping under the summer stars for several nights in a row while on a hunt, sometimes bedding down for a month at a time in a city while investigating rumors and playing cards. Some folk called them heroes when they finished a job, even as they were collecting their pay from the local law. The life seemed to fit them like a well-tailored coat.

  Or at least it had. As Cora sat on the bed, she could feel a dull ache in her feet and her fingers. Even a day of nothing but sitting in a train coach had left her slightly stiff. Getting up on a cold morning hurt more than it used to, and her draw wasn't as fast or as sharp as it was when they'd turned in their first bounty. Age. She'd felt it, fighting the wendigo in the mineshaft; the monster's chill had hurt her more than it should have.

  She looked over at Ben, who was stretched out on the bed next to her reading a book. If time took its toll on him, he certainly never showed it. His brown mustache, a shade lighter than the hair on his head, showed no signs of graying, and his sky-blue eyes were still clear and bright. The pains of a long day of travel seemed to slide right off his back as they walked to the hotel from the station. Of course, that could have been because she'd carried the bags.

  "You know, I sometimes wonder if we ought to retire soon," she said, leaning back against the headboard.

  "Why's that?" Ben asked, looking up from his book.

  "Seems to me we're about used up is all," Cora said. "Worn out like a pair of old pack mules. Somebody's bound to tie us to a tree and shoot us before too long."

  "Not so long as we're useful, I reckon."

  "But how long until we run out of useful? Take the situation here: we was nearly outdone by a fool of a marshal, and we had to go see a priest to even understand what it is we ought to be experts at fighting."