The Six-Gun Tarot (41 page)

“Jig’s up, boys,” he said sullenly. “Lay ’em down.”

The other robbers complied.

“Still pushing that luck of yours,” Mutt said to Highfather softly.

Jon pushed his hat up and spared a second to look at the dying sky.

“Not time yet. Hey, look over there.”

Down Main, in the direction of the theatre, a mob of the Stained suddenly came into view, pursuing a small group of the uninfected. The survivors were led by Dan Powell, one of Jon’s deputies.

“Dan, over here!” Highfather shouted, drawing his pistol. The sheriff turned to address the thieves.

“Like I said before, none of us has the time for this right now, Donnie. I’m hereby deputizing you and your boys. Pick up your guns and move your asses!”

He spurred Bright to a full gallop and charged down Main. Mutt, on Muha, followed.

The mob was at least twenty strong, lumbering and hissing. Their wet faces were black, broken mirrors that reflected the tongues of flame crawling up the walls of Chauncey’s Tobacconist, across the street from Shultz’s General Store. Heartened by the sight of Highfather and his reluctant posse, Dan and the few armed men with him turned to face the monstrous horde descending on them.

“Hot damn, it’s the sheriff! Okay, boys, light ’em up!”

Fire and thunder roared from the guns.

“Aim for the heads!” Highfather shouted over the blast of his own pistol. “You have any silver rounds left, Dan?”

“All used up to git us this far!”

Donnie and his boys raced by on horseback, whooping and firing into the mob as they passed. A few of the Stained dropped from the rain of bullets. One of the survivors with Dan, Mrs. Gunderson, screamed as her infected nephew, Roland, clawed at her arm, trying to drag her into the mass of the Stained. Mutt pivoted on Muha, fired his rifle into Roland’s chest at point-blank range, grabbed Mrs. Gunderson and scooped her up onto the horse. The boy flew backward, chest smoking, knocking over several of the other infected. The sheriff, his deputy and Dan’s small band formed a circle, with the unarmed survivors at the center. Volleys of gunfire ripped into the swarm of the Stained. Donnie and his crew made another pass, flanking them with more gunfire. One of Donnie’s crew screamed as he was pulled down by one of the infected. The boy had no time to do anything but whimper as one of the Stained crouched over him, grinding its wet mouth to the fallen thief’s, filling him with alien darkness.

“I’m out; any more shells?” Dan asked.

Highfather swallowed hard, passed his last three bullets to Dan and glanced at Mutt, who dispatched another hissing member of the mob with a well-placed rifle shot.

The deputy shook his head. “I’m out too now. We still got knives.”

A shrill call echoed across the valley. It came from the top of Argent Mountain. It sounded like a cat screaming while it drowned, screaming with far too many mouths. The sound filled Highfather’s head with a buzzing mass of bees made of pain and nausea. All of the Stained stopped in their tracks and rocked gently at the inhuman wailing. After what seemed like forever, the sound ended; and with its end, the infected scattered, disappearing into the alleys of Main Street. Six lay dead; then suddenly two of them shuddered and got to their feet. Roland Gunderson was one of them. The two resurrected Stained staggered clumsily after their fleeing kin.

“I’ll be damned,” Dan muttered.

“What was that god-awful noise?” Highfather asked.

“A call to prayer,” a voice as smoky as whiskey said.

Malachi Bick stepped into view; the fire from Chauncey’s backlit him, fluttering like wings. “The faithful are being called home.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Highfather said.

“It means we don’t have much time,” Bick said. “We need to talk, Sheriff.”

“I knew you were messed up in this somehow or other, Malachi. You had—”

“As I said, time is of the essence. I need to speak to you, your deputy, Mayor Pratt and young Master Jim as soon as you can summon them.”

“What the hell do you want to talk to the boy for?” Mutt asked.

“I’d rather not say out in the street. Sheriff?”

Highfather sighed. “Dan, you got any notion where the mayor might be?”

“Harry? Yeah, he was headed to the jail to try to get more ammo. He done a hell of a job tonight, Jon, Harry did. When those things showed up at the social, Harry got everyone out of there real quick. Saved a mess of folks, kept them from rabbiting. His old man would have been real proud of him.”

Donnie and his boys rode up, yipping and howling. “Damn, Sheriff, if I knew being a lawman was this much fun, I’d have signed up a long time ago!”

“Yeah, it’s a hoot. Listen, Donnie, you and your boys still got ammo, right?”

Donnie and most of his boys nodded.

“Good, toss Dan here some shells. I want you and the boys to escort these good people home. Get them to some place safe, and then get you and yours on home and stay put. You did good work tonight, Donnie.”

Broyles smiled. It was genuine, like a child who was bringing home his first good marks from school.

“Thanks, Sheriff,” Donnie said. “Come on now, folks; let’s get you all home. Maybe if we’re lucky we’ll run into some more of those things!”

Highfather turned to Dan. “I need you to find Harry. Tell him to meet me here, at the Paradise Falls, as quick as he can. Then get yourself home too.”

“Don’t got to tell me twice,” Dan said, reloading his rifle. “I’m grabbing Gladys and the boys and we are skedaddling outta here. You may want to think about that too. I’ve lived in this town for a long time and I’ve been through some powerful weird things here, but nothing like this, ever. It might be time to go, Jon.”

Highfather saw another star detach itself from the icy black firmament and burn, tumbling, toward the dark shroud of the horizon.

“Not leaving my home, Dan. I’m of a mind to fix this.”

Bick had already removed the boards nailed over the doors to the Paradise Falls. Highfather and Mutt followed him inside. A lit oil lamp was sitting on a red-felt octagonal card table in the back of the main room, as was a bottle of whiskey and six glasses. There was also a long rectangular wooden box on the table.

“No more dancing, Malachi,” Highfather said. “The squatters going crazy up on the ridge, Stapleton’s death, what happened to Holly Pratt, these strangers—Ambrose and Phillips. What is this god, this thing they are trying to awaken? Time to acknowledge the corn. I want answers, or else I’ll finish the job on you someone already started.”

Bick groaned as he fell into one of the chairs. He poured himself a finger of whiskey into one of the glasses. “It was Phillips, at Ambrose’s command.” He drained the glass. “They killed Caleb.”

Highfather reached across the table and picked up a glass. Bick filled it, offered one to Mutt. The deputy shook his head curtly and kept watching the door while he reloaded his rifle.

“I was sorry to hear about your son. Powerful sorry,” Highfather said. “My condolences. He seemed a decent fella.”

“Thank you, Sheriff.”

“Why did they do it?”

“They knew I had to try to stop them from freeing what’s under the mines.”

“What is under there, Malachi?” Highfather asked. “How do you know about it?”

“It’s my job, Jonathan. It’s been my family’s job for a long time.”

Mutt sniffed the air. “Company, Jonathan,” he said.

Harry Pratt and Jim Negrey entered the saloon. They both looked exhausted. Dark circles ringed their eyes and the horror and chaos of the streets clung to their gaunt faces. Jim cradled a rifle in his arms. The butt of a six-gun protruded from the pocket of his stained and torn coat. Harry’s long coat was covered in dark, drying stains, but the shimmering silver and gold breastplate beneath his torn shirt was spotless, as was the glistening blade that he held in his hand.

“Ah, you brought it,” Bick said. “The Sword of Laban. Very good, Harry; we’ll need it.”

“You, you knew about this, Bick?” Harry said, lifting the sword.

Mutt ruffled Jim’s hair as the boy passed. Jim took a seat next to the Indian.

“How you holding up, ‘Deputy’?” Mutt asked with a grin.

“I want a raise.” The boy smiled thinly.

“Yeah, me, too.”

“Please sit,” Bick said. He poured drinks for everyone. Jim reached for his whiskey, but Highfather slid it across the table to Mutt, who quickly tossed it back. “Yes, Harry, I know about the sword and the other treasures of your faith that your family was tasked with protecting. My family was here when they were first hidden, and I had many talks with your father about them.”

“So all that Mormon hooey is real?” Jim asked.

“Faith,” Bick said, “gives a thing power. Belief is one of the most powerful assets mankind possesses. It’s a damn shame so few folks take advantage of it. Of course the world is set up to make it hard to believe, really believe—that’s part of the elegant trap of it.”

“So is that a yes, or a no?” Jim asked Mutt.

There was a howling screech outside, close. It came from a once-human throat.

“Answers, Malachi,” Highfather said. “We don’t have the time for pretty words.”

Bick stood and walked to the stained-glass and brass door of the Paradise. He closed his eyes and placed his palm on the door for a moment. There was a hiss of smoke that had no odor, and when he removed his hand the print remained on the glass. He paused, looked toward the shadows of the second floor of the saloon, nodded, then walked back to the table.

“No one will disturb us for a time, Sheriff. I assure you. You wanted answers, now that we are all here, I’ll give them to you. But first, Master Jim, do you have it with you?”

“Sir?”

“The power you carry, Jim,” Bick said. “You have it about you, on you. Real power. No more time for hiding, we need it, now.”

“Leave the boy be, Bick,” Highfather growled.

Bick looked to Mutt. “You sense it, don’t you, Deputy?”

Mutt leaned toward Jim. “Show them. I promise, ain’t nobody taking it away from you. I give you my word on that.”

Reluctantly, the boy reached into his pocket and removed the handkerchief. He carefully unfolded it on the table, revealing the jade eye.

“What is that, Jim?” Highfather asked.

“My pa’s eye,” Jim said. “He lost his in the war and some crazy Johnnymen gave him this one.”

“How did you end up with it?” Pratt asked.

“Got it back from the bastards who killed my pa.”

“I see,” Bick said, his attention locked on the eye. “What did you make of it, Deputy Mutt?”

“Why the hell you asking me, Bick?”

“Surely you sensed this, yes?”

“Go to hell,” Mutt said, then, “Yeah. Yeah I did. It’s how I found the boy out in the Forty-Mile.” He turned to look at Jim. “But it ain’t why I brought you back here, Jim, I swear.”

“I know,” Jim said. “You ain’t no snake, Mutt.”

“Very true,” Bick said, pulling his gaze from the orb. “It’s Chinese in origin. That makes it Ch’eng Huang’s domain. I wanted him to be here, but he refuses to leave Johnny Town. Master Jim will have to go to him.”

“Hold it,” Highfather said. “Why in hell would I let this boy wander off to Johnny Town and into the arms of that old villain on your say-so. Hell, Malachi, you and Huang are the two worst people in this town, why should we trust either of you, and you still haven’t answered a single damn—”

“What do you think is going on here, Jonathan?” Bick asked, his voice rising, eyes darkening. “You’re an intelligent man; I have no intention of insulting you. Why? Why is Golgotha the town where the owls speak and the stones moan? Why is this the town that attracts monsters and saints, both mortal and preternatural? Why is our schoolhouse haunted? Why did Old Lady Bellamy wear the skins of corpses on the new moon? How did old Odd Tom’s dolls come to life and kill people? Why do you still pour a ring of salt around that unmarked grave and how did this little ditch of a town become the final resting place of some of Heaven’s treasures?

“There is a presence here, Sheriff, older than mankind, older than the world and the stars, older than gods. Imprisoned here, it still has power over what we laughingly call reality. It sleeps a fitful sleep and dreams of only darkness and death. You’ve been a lawman here long enough to have felt it. Anyone who lives here for a time comes to know it, but we don’t speak of it, dare not, for fear of giving it power.”

“And Ambrose and his cult want to cut it loose,” Highfather said.

“Each soul he corrupts weakens the power that binds it, and makes the creature stronger,” Bick said, nodding.

“What happens if it gets out?” Jim asked.

The men were silent, their faces stone.

“Let’s see to it that doesn’t happen,” Harry said. “Malachi, is there any way to save the people infected by this thing?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m sorry, Harry, I just don’t know.” Bick took another drink. He lit a cheroot with trembling, bruised hands and continued.

“We have two paths ahead of us: One, stop the ritual Ambrose is even now preparing to undertake in the mine, seal the chambers in the new vein they opened that grant access to the creature and hope the bonds holding it since before the dawn of time don’t fail.”

“And the second?” Pratt asked.

Bick pointed to Jim and the eye. “That eye has power, more than anything in this town, perhaps in this world, or any other world, even more so than the angelic treasures you possess, Harry. It may hold the key to binding the creature, if we are too late to stop Ambrose.”

“I, I rightly don’t think it can do all that, sir,” Jim said.

“Go ask Ch’eng Huang,” Bick said. “He can tell you.”

“You trust him?” Mutt asked.

“We all have parts to play in this,” Bick said. “I believe that is his role.”

“Okay,” Highfather said. “Jim heads for Johnny Town and the rest of us get to the mine and try to scuttle Ambrose and his crew.”

“Dibs on Phillips,” Mutt said, tossing back another shot of whiskey.

“Fly in the ointment,” Highfather said. “Between us, we got maybe half a dozen silver shells left. And there are way too many of them for us to all make consistent, accurate head shots to drop them with regular bullets before they get us.”