The Shotgun Arcana (38 page)

“Not all, and not without help,” Mutt said. “I sure as hell ain’t wise, but I know who I am, and that’s good enough.”

“Very good,” Wodziwob said. “You are exactly who we need.”

“Usually when I hear that kind of talk, it means trouble is hitchin’ up his horse outside,” Mutt said. “Who’s ‘we’?”

“As you know, the land hereabout is powerful—like you, it straddles many worlds,” Wodziwob said. “It is a crossroads of many ancient powers and spirits—a place of mystery and
pua
that has existed since the dawn of the world. And as long as there has been life, since the time when only the animals talked here, since the Dine came to live in these lands, and even now, as the whites swarm over it like locusts, it has fallen to a small, secret council to protect all who live here from the bad medicine of this place and to protect the wellsprings of good medicine that flow here from abuse or destruction.”

Mutt grew calm, even solemn, as the old man spoke.

“We were founded by the powerful Puakantï, Be’kiwa-ah, he who was a servant of Esa, Wolf—the creator force, the Great Medicine.”

Wodziwob held up a single perfect feather. It tapered from a dark gray at its edges to a deep black. “Be’kiwa-ah gave the first of us this totem of power, that we might call upon him and make his medicine our own.”

Mutt felt the power coming off the feather in waves, like the ocean crashing against the land. “We move in shadow and silence,” Wodziwob continued, “seeking no glory in our duty. Our reward is how we protect so many with so few seeing the tracks of our passing. As the time of the end grows closer, so, too, does the danger in these lands.…”

“Whoa,” Mutt said. “‘Time of the end’? We went through that last year, the Uktena was bound. The boy, my friend Jim, he used the Ulun’suti—the crystal eye that came from the skull of the Uktena—to wake the dead spirits in the desert. The spirits held the Uktena down in his well. World saved, right? Right?”

Wodziwob said nothing.

“Well, ain’t that a little kick of sunshine up your backside,” Mutt said. He rubbed his face, and then drank more water.

“Prophet, are you sure this is the one the spirits told you to give the mission to?” Mahkah asked, giving Mutt a sidelong glance of disapproval. “The Snake-Man is powerful and cunning. He has god-venom in his veins, but this man, he is disrespectful and acts a fool. His mind is neither serious nor disciplined. If he fails, then Snake-Man gets the skull and many will die.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Mutt said, wiping his mouth. “Hey, what mission? I never said anything about a mission here.”

“He is what he is,” Wodziwob said. “Born of dust and flame. His blood is as strong as Snake-Man’s. Yes, I am sure.”

“Who’s Snake-Man?” Mutt asked.

“He was one of us,” Mahkah said. “Initiated into our council. One of our greatest…”

“He was a warrior and Puakantï of the Northern Paiute. He lost his family when the white soldiers came to punish us for trying to stop the white settlers from taking our land. They killed us, we killed them. It grew, like a prairie fire. They called it the Snake War.”

“I know of it,” Mutt said. “Died down a few years back, I understand.”

“Not for Snake-Man,” Wodziwob said. “It will never end for him.”

“His name is Awan,” Mahkah said. “But after his family was destroyed he took the name Snake-Man. He said if the whites were going to call us all snakes, he would be the face and name they would fear in the deepest night.”

“He has murdered over a hundred and twenty-five white men, women and children in his search for revenge,” Wodziwob said, shaking his head. “And over fifty of his own people, including women and children. He has … lost his way.”

“You want me to bring him in,” Mutt said. “Why the hell me? More importantly, why the hell should I?”

“You are said to be like him,” Mahkah explained. “He claims to be the son of Snake—the spirit of wisdom, initiation and healing. A powerful spirit, to be sure.”

“And you, they say,” Wodziwob said, “are the son of Coyote—the trickster, the bringer of fire and forbidden knowledge. Another powerful spirit.”

Mutt shook his head. “Me and my kin, we don’t talk much, lest we gotta. Why you after him? What’s all this about a skull?”

“It is the skull of the brother-killer, the one known as Pauguk. The skull is home to a powerful Manitou,” Wodziwob said. “Old as man. The soul of a thing, the idea given energy. The Algonquian call it Gitche Manitou—the Great Spirit, a god.”

“So the skull’s holding a god,” Mutt said. “Or an idea, or both. Of what?”

“Murder,” Wodziwob said. “The skull holds the Manitou of unmaking all things living. It was born out of men, and so terrible that the Great Spirit locked it away in the skull of Pauguk, who dreamed it up.”

“Great,” Mutt said. “Couldn’t just sweep it the hell away. Nope, that’d be too damn easy. Good ole Great Spirit.”

Wodziwob lashed out so quickly Mutt didn’t even comprehend what he had done until he had done it. The old man slapped both sides of Mutt’s face, hard. Wodziwob’s face remained as placid as an endless blue sky.

“At some point in your life, maybe at many, the words you uttered could be applied to you. All things exist for a reason—not just the ones we want to exist.”

“That include those white men you advertisin’ to wipe from the face of the earth?” Mutt asked, rubbing his stinging cheek.

Wodziwob shrugged.

“The spirits talk to me; I listen and tell what they say. I don’t always understand it. Perhaps, the driving of the whites from our lands is now the right thing at the right time. I do not question the seasons, or the sun and moon. I will not question the wisdom of the spirits.”

“Well, I sure as hell do,” Mutt said. “So this skull is out there and your renegade is hunting for it?”

“Yes,” Wodziwob said. “He now serves a very bad, very powerful being who is hunting for it. This being is a messenger of the Great Spirit. He believes he does the Great Spirit’s work.”

“Does he?” Mutt asked.

“The Great Spirit speaks with many voices,” Wodziwob said. “He has a different voice for each of us.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question,” Mutt said.

“You get that a lot with the Great Spirit,” Wodziwob said. “This spirit messenger calls himself Ray Zeal.”

“A white man?” Mutt said.

“He walks as one,” Wodziwob said. “But he is older than this world and dangerous.”

“Of course he is,” Mutt said. “Never met one that was sweet as pie.”

“I can tell you where the skull is hidden,” Wodziwob said. “The medicine man who helped hide it and worked the medicine to protect it was one of our number. If you can find it and secure it before Snake-Man does, please bring it to me. I can ensure it is kept safe and the Manitou within it will sleep. If Zeal and Snake-Man get it, death and madness will stride the world of mortal man.”

“You assume I trust you with this thing,” Mutt said, standing. “You never did tell me who this secret council is, exactly.”

“We are the Black Feathers,” Wodziwob said. “I understand trust is earned. It comes in time, Mutt. We would be honored to have you join us.”

Justice (Reversed)

Martin Anderton thought that crossing the Atlantic on a ship was perhaps the greatest discomfort he had ever known until he had undertaken the stagecoach to reach his daughter, Maude, in the little shithole she lived in—Golgotha, Nevada. Anderton experienced the indignity and the crassness of close quarters travel with a number of the unwashed riffraff who were now headed out west in droves to stake a claim to gold or silver, or to get lost in some seedy little cattle camp like this Golgotha—hiding from creditors, the law, abandoned families and past deeds. The proximity he had to endure to some of these people made his skin crawl and each time he thought of his silent, shy, beautiful daughter and his baby granddaughter alone out here in this godforsaken desert now that Maude’s husband, Arthur, had passed, he knew he had made the correct choice in coming out to fetch them. However, he had determined by the time the stagecoach reached the Colorado Territories that his return with the girls would be by train.

Besides the constant, kidney-smashing jostling that made one feel as if they had been in a bare-knuckle altercation, the stench from the bodies of his fellow passengers made Anderton seriously consider walking several times. When he could no longer mask his discomfort, one of the other travelers, a whiskey-soaked puke by the name of Dorsey, informed him the stink was far worse if he had come in the summer.

The Missourian had offered Anderton some of his libation as a remedy to the discomforts of the road. He explained it was good stagecoach etiquette to share one’s “hooch.” Anderton politely declined, since the only thing he could imagine worse than traveling by stagecoach sober was traveling by stagecoach hung-over.

They were close to Golgotha, Anderton was informed at one of the coach stations, in an arid wasteland charmingly called Sand Springs but more suited to an infernal appellation.

“We should be getting on to Golgotha pretty soon, sir,” said the Wells Fargo coach driver, a rustic but stalwart chap who went by the folksy sobriquet of Pony Bob. “Odd place to be sure—damned odd, but they got fine vittles, soft beds and clean water. Can’t ask for much else this far out.”

“No,” Anderton said, finding himself in full agreement with Pony Bob. “I don’t suppose you can.”

So when the coach clattered to a stop hours before they should be arriving in Golgotha, Anderton was already on edge. He slipped the small derringer out of his vest pocket and into his palm as the other passengers began to rouse from the torpor of the trail.

“Everyone out!” Pony Bob shouted. “Unexpected stop, folks. Everyone out of the coach!”

The doors were unlocked and Anderton and the five other passengers clambered out into the blindingly bright Nevada daylight. The coach was surrounded by soldiers on horseback, dressed in tan fatigue blouses, trousers, suspenders, leggings and slouch hats. None of the men wore insignia denoting rank or unit. They were armed with pistols at their belts and sabers. They covered the passengers and the coach driver and his second, riding shotgun, with Springfield “trapdoor” .50 caliber rifles.

Anderton counted about a dozen men surrounding the coach and blocking the road. Off about a hundred yards from the roadside was a large military camp, bristling with activity. Anderton guessed there were about fifty troops in total based here, as well as a sizable civilian presence. Calculating the odds in his mind, he casually slipped his small pistol back into his pocket.

“What gives?” Pony Bob said to the man who seemed to be commanding the troops. The leader had a prodigious, drooping mustache and several days’ growth of beard on his grim face. His hand rested on the hilt of his cavalry saber. “All these bodies in government suits? Mind explaining why you’re blocking the coach way there, mister?”

“You’re headed for Golgotha,” the commander said. “You’re damn lucky we caught you. Place is sealed up by order of Governor Blasdel of Nevada. Got an outbreak of scarlet fever all over the town. Mayor Pratt asked the governor for assistance and to quarantine the town until further notice. No one in or out.”

The passengers began to grumble. One woman seemed faint. “My husband is in Golgotha!” she said to the commander. “Is he all right?” The commander shrugged.

“Couldn’t tell you. Last report was there were bodies piling up all over.”

The woman swooned and Dorsey managed to catch her and lead her back toward the shade of the coach. Many of the circle of mounted soldiers chuckled at the woman’s obvious dismay. Anderton and Pony Bob were both shocked at such a cruel reaction.

“See here now!” Anderton said loudly. “My name is Martin Anderton, founder, president and owner of the Anderton Mercantile Venture Companies of Charleston, South Carolina. I am on a mission of grave importance. My daughter and granddaughter are in Golgotha, and I am willing to take the risk of venturing into the town with any expeditionary or reinforcement force you may be sending in there. I have to get my family out.”

The commander shrugged again. He seemed good at it. “Most likely they are already dead,” he said blandly. “Even if they are not, no one goes in or out. We’ve got every route into Golgotha blocked. We’ll ship their bodies back to you in South Carolin-ah.”

The soldiers laughed at the commander’s faux Southern accent. Anderton’s face grew red.

“Look here, you blasé myrmidon! I am personal friends with Governor Scott of South Carolina and you will fetch me your commanding officer immediately, or else I can assure you your next command will be digging latrine holes in a worse place than this!”

The Commander’s face didn’t change at all and Anderton noticed his grip on his saber tightened. Several of the men under his command readied their rifles. The commander looked toward the camp.

Anderton noted a tall, extremely corpulent bald man dressed in a very expensive tailored suit, who was watching the confrontation with the commander while reclining in a high-backed French-style chair that seemed more appropriate for a parlor than the wasteland. The fat man was gnawing on something he held in one hand. A slender black man dressed in the fastidious attire of a butler stood beside the fat man, shading him from the brutal desert sun with a large parasol. The fat man pulled his lips away from his repast and shook his head very slightly to the commander, who in turn nodded and saluted the fat man.

“You have ten minutes to get your horses water and any for yourselves you can scare up,” the commander said. He leaned forward and pointed toward the makeshift coral. As he did so, Anderton observed an odd talisman about his neck that fell forward as he shifted and hung free of his tunic—a single yellowed human tooth, with a hole drilled through it to accommodate a thin silver chain. Anderton wondered if it had belonged to an Indian warrior this odd, cold man had slain on the field of battle. “Then you turn this coach around and head back where you came from. You tell anyone you see headed this way to head back. Golgotha is a graveyard until this sickness runs its course and anyone trying to get in or out past us will be shot. That clear enough for you, Mr. Big Bug from South Carolina?”