Skinwalkers (4 page)

“God damn it, Hank!“ Garrett, the saloon’s owner-operator, stormed down the varnished wooden stairs leading to the main floor. He inserted his own chaw of tobacco into his bottom lip with his right hand. Garrett’s left shirt sleeve was folded and pinned to his torso beneath his vest. Nothing but air filled the space that should’ve been occupied by his left arm. “Quit running that cocksucker of yours and use the fucking spittoon if you’re going to frequent my establishment.“

“Oh,“ Hank said. “Sorry, Garrett. I forgot.“

“Yeah?“ Garrett said. “Well, see that you fucking remember from here on out or I’ll have Little Joe scrubbing the floor with your scalp.“

The prongs of Hank’s mustache formed into a large “O“ as the six-and-a-half-foot-tall Indian known as Little Joe winked at him from across the bar. The abundant scars on the Indian’s face bunched and twisted with the gesture, serving to make him even more intimidating than usual.

“You going to take that,
Pecos
?“ Wilson, the town general owner, shuffled the saloon’s well-worn deck of cards with hands made tough and leathery by hard work and unforgiving sun. Beside him,
Jimbo
, the final card player, erupted into guffaws, his hard, round gut shaking. The blacksmith’s laughter was infectious, and Robby and Wilson joined in.

“What the fuck are you laughing at?“ Hank asked Robby. Robby quickly found silence on the inside of his whiskey glass.

Garrett exited the stairs. “That goes for all you swinging dicks.“ He looked around the bar, his gaze tracking across four or five empty wooden tables to peer at the bat-winged entrance and the two windows bookending it. He turned around, his eyes running the length of the promenade upstairs and the four doors closed to it. Then he shifted his gaze to Little Joe. “Where the fuck’s Max?“

“I’m right fucking here.“ Maxine Lopez entered the saloon and every man there felt the lust Adam held for Lilith in Eden’s garden. She was striking, all her curves and planes positioned perfectly and moving in a continuous, liquid motion with her approach. The frilly bedclothes she wore beneath her shawl exposed just enough copper skin to make you want to unravel the mystery of what you didn’t see. The smoking cigar she suckled between her bee-stung lips only added to her sultry beauty.

Maxine sashayed the length of the bar to stand before Garrett.

“I told the doc no more house calls,“ Garrett said.

Maxine extinguished her cigar in a tray already black with ash. “Who says I was seeing the doc?“

Garrett frowned. “It’s not like the town’s overflowing with customers these days. Give it up.“

Maxine ran her hand along the bar, leaving ten coins in its wake. Maxine slinked by Garrett for the stairs, rubbing her body against him as she passed.

“When we gonna fuck, Max?“ Hank blurted.

Maxine climbed the stairs, not bothering to look back. “When you win at cards more than once in a blue moon, Hank. Or when hell freezes over. Personally, I’m betting on the latter.“

Hank’s cheeks flushed crimson. His fellow card players erupted with laughter once again. Garrett watched Maxine until she entered her room on the second floor. “Speaking of whores, where’s
Gerdie
?“

“
Gerdie
?“

Little Joe pointed upstairs and mimed praying.

Garrett raised his eyebrows and smiled.

“Amen.“

R
everend Phillips removed the bit from his mouth and fell onto his side, panting and exhausted. “Ah, Ms. Gertrude.“ The tall, naked man peered at the behemoth of a woman who’d been riding his back.“It was quite unfortunate the iron-willed Madame Maxine was not here to rid me of my devils. But truly, the Lord doth provide.“

Gertrude was already dressing herself. “Five dollars for the poke, Preacher. Two extra for the rest.“

“Yes, of course.“

The reverend rose to his hands and knees and removed his pants from where they hung on the bedpost so that he could climb into them. He reached inside his pocket and produced several coins.

“And, might I say, Ms. Gertrude—“

Reverend Phillips handed the large whore her money as he dropped onto the bed.

“Worth every dime and nickel. Some men might find your girth a deterrent. But your immense bulk upon my back was every bit as enjoyable as the touch of the Madame’s boot heel. The hellfire that possessed me hath been quenched, and I’m once again worthy to perform God’s service.“

“Hallelujah, Preacher. You’re short a dollar.“

“Uh, well, yes. You see, with only the few of us here, in town, and the Indians not exactly taking to the Christian way of late, the offering plate has left something to be desired.“

“I’ll tell Little Joe—“

“No!“ Reverend Phillips jumped to his feet. “No, child. No need to bother the good Mr. Joe, God bless that savage heathen.

“Perhaps you and I can come to some sort of arrangement? I saw how you took a shine to my layer cake, last Sunday potluck. Perhaps I could whip up another and bring it around—? In the service of the Lord, of course.“

Gertrude’s eyes grew so large upon her chubby face they looked like boiled eggs dipped in flapjacks. She nodded enthusiastically, her multiple chins wagging to and fro.

“God be praised
.
“

A
lthough, in all probability, it meant he was that much closer to the hangman’s noose, J.T. Farnsworth was pleased to see a town ahead of them in the distance—a last bastion of civilization standing before a wilderness of hill, mountain, and blood-red sky.

Nightfall and the dangers it held weren’t that far away. But towns were safe places. Towns had doors you could lock and people to surround yourself with. Mad troll Indians did not frequent towns. They stayed in the open badlands or in dark caves under bridges.

Farnsworth had been glad when, that morning, they’d headed in the direction opposite that of the Navajo war party—that’s what the bounty hunter had told him the Indians were—Navajos out for blood. And lucky for the two of them that the Indians been on the move with a set purpose, otherwise they might have decided to do more than just ride by the night before.

The two men reached the town’s entrance, a freestanding frame with a wooden plank suspended from its header by rusted hinges. It creaked as it swung in the faint breeze, the two ugly vultures perched above it squawking and ruffling their wings as if in welcome.

J.T. squinted as he gazed at the sign, but couldn’t make out what it said. He reached inside his pants pocket, a difficult task thanks to his shackled hands and the bony-backed mule rocking beneath him, and produced a pair of round spectacles. He spat on the lenses and then rubbed them against his trousers.

He managed to put them on and threw back his head in surprise as the sign came into focus. It read
:

PERDITION

All Welcome

A bad comedian had carved,
Abandon all hope, ye cocksuckers!
diagonally across the sign’s face.

“How far to Santa Fe?“

“A fucking long way, Professor,“ the bounty hunter said. “What? You all the sudden in a hurry to get before that judge?“

Farnsworth looked up at the vultures as he and the bounty hunter rode beneath the sign. The vultures stared back. Farnsworth could’ve sworn there was an intelligence in their gaze—an insight malevolent in its nature.

“We should keep riding,“ Farnsworth said.

“Tonight? Through those mountains? To the judge in Santa Fe?“

Farnsworth nodded without taking his eyes off the vultures.

The bounty hunter shook his head.

“Damned if I
ain’t
heard it all.“

They entered the town and Farnsworth scanned the main thoroughfare: nothing but a dusty, sodden path empty of anything but a few rolling tumbleweeds. The town itself couldn’t have extended farther than a few hundred feet. Most of it appeared to be run down and abandoned. There was, however, a horse tied to a hitching rail alongside what appeared to be a saloon.

Someone still lives in this godforsaken place
.

Beyond the saloon, the town’s decrepit wooden buildings petered out, giving way to a handful of adobe structures. Farnsworth thought this arrangement of structures odd and mismatched. But then he noticed the large adobe mission just outside of town. It stood like a
steepled
cube at the feet of the mountains towering over Perdition.

Spanish must have started this town to convert the aboriginals,
Farnsworth thought.
Gold rush probably moved everyone on over to California. This place is a ghost town and it will only be ghosts and trolls that walk it!

Farnsworth cursed his thoughts for they turned back to the troll and caused him to shiver in his saddle.

T
he bounty hunter and Farnsworth rode up to the saloon. A small Mexican boy, golden in the setting sun, sat on the porch, rocking back and forth, his eyes turned up so they looked like blank eggshells. The sleeping mongrel on the steps beside him let out a loud, dry fart as if to welcome them.

The bounty hunter dismounted and removed a Henry repeating rifle and saddlebag from his horse. He slung the saddlebag over his left shoulder and moved the rifle to his right hand, barrel pointed toward the earth. With his free hand, he helped Farnsworth slide off the mule. Holding Farnsworth’s right bicep, he led him up the stairs to the saloon.

“What an odd, little fellow.“ Farnsworth reached down to pat the boy on the head. The boy’s eyes rolled forward and he hissed as he
bared
his teeth. Before Farnsworth could withdraw his hand, the boy clamped down on the writer’s palm, sinking his teeth into the flesh.

Farnsworth screamed a litany of obscenities as he jerked his hand free with a rattle of chain. He checked it to make sure the skin remained unbroken. The boy hissed again and then took off around the side of the saloon. The dog didn’t move. Looking at him, Farnsworth doubted if anything short of the End of Days could draw the mutt out of slumber.

Farnsworth peered inside the saloon. A petite, attractive blonde waved to him, giggling and batting her eyes.

“Maybe we
should
ride on, Professor—?“ the bounty hunter said, a smile on his face.

Farnsworth removed his spectacles and ran a hand through his tangled hair. “No, no, no, good sir. Are we not both vexed and weary from the long day’s ride? Surely this venue has proper accommodations for men such as us.“

“Changed your mind, huh? Okay. We’ll stay. But don’t you be getting any ideas in the way of escape.“

“Perish the thought, my good man.“

“
Yeah
.“

The bounty hunter led Farnsworth through the saloon’s batwing doors and the jovial laughter and banging piano music that had been floating through the air came to a halt. The bounty hunter scanned the room.

A few empty tables directly ahead. Four armed card players in the corner; two whores trying to get their attention. No real trouble there, unless someone decided to be stupid. A pale, thin man at the piano in back of the room, beside a staircase. Unarmed, soft as they come. Probably a minister. A frowning, walrus-sized whore beside him. Hallway leading out back. A gamble what’s out there. But, no one on the stairs, or on the promenade above. All doors leading onto the promenade are shut—no slight gaps for persons to shoot through. Still, unknown what’s behind them. Like with the rear entrance, have to be careful. On the left, two men. One-armed man leaning on the bar, his right hand in his pocket—probably on a derringer. The owner. Poison, but hesitant. It’s the big Indian with the knife in his belt and the scattergun I’ll bet he’s got under the bar that One-arm’s counting on to take care of business, should the need arise.

“I need the sheriff,“ the bounty hunter said.

“
Ain’t
no law in Perdition,“ a mustachioed card player yelled. “Besides, we don’t serve your kind around here,
darky
.“

The bounty hunter ignored him. His eyes warred in the air with the Indian’s, both waiting to see the slightest change in the other that might telegraph the need for action. The bounty hunter strode up to the bar. Farnsworth stumbled, protesting as the bounty hunter pushed him along.