Walk the Sky (12 page)

The half-demon seemed to stare at them with its eyeless gaze for several long seconds, before, quite suddenly, the arms disappeared and then the mouth and then head and it was just the cactus again.
 

Witashnah said, “They rest during the day. But they are not wholly gone. The sun causes them to slow down, but it does not stop them. I have tried what you suggested. I destroyed many of them, but it was not enough. Their number is simply too great. Not just here, but all over this land. Many of our tribes are gone, as are the white settlers. The god has turned those that were not outright killed into ... these.”
 

“You mean they were human once?”
 

“Yes.”
 

“There’s nothing we can do for them anymore, is there?”
 

“No.”
 

“Why can’t we just leave?”
 

“The god will not allow it. Those in town tried. Others did as well. The demons came back to life and killed them all.”
 

“So we’re trapped.”
 

Witashnah nodded. “The god allowed you and your friend to come here, just as it allowed the others headed to California to come here. But it will not let you escape. Not with your life.”
 

They continued on, skirting the edge of the cacti.
 

Another hour passed before they finally reached the town Clay and George had stumbled across after finding the boy in the desert. The sun was above the horizon now, though it was still low in the sky, leaving long western shadows.
 

“We must hurry,” Witashnah said. “The Reverend’s men will come soon.”
 

“Let’s check the mercantile first.”
 

Clay wasn’t sure if the dynamite would be useable or not, but at least there would be guns and ammo in Goodman’s.
 

“You go,” Witashnah said. “I will check the jailhouse.”
 

“Fine, then. Meet me at the mercantile when you’re done.”
 

While Witashnah started across the street, Clay headed to the plank walkway fronting the town’s businesses and followed it down to Goodman’s Mercantile.
 

Inside, the floor was strewn with penny candy.
 

This gave him pause, but he shook it off and moved down the nearest aisle to the back of the store, where he found the crate of dynamite right where he remembered it.
 

Clay knelt for a closer look. The schoolteacher in him didn’t know much about dynamite, but the Akecheta in him knew that if the dynamite was sweating it was probably unstable and dangerous. So that was the first thing he looked for, and he was pleased to discover the sticks were dry.
 

Behind him, a floorboard creaked.
 

“That was fast,” he said, smiling as he continued to inspect the dynamite. “I think this is just what we need.”
 

Silence.
 

“Witashnah?”
 

But before he could turn around, the barrel of a gun kissed the back of his head.

19.

“Don’t move.” The voice was young and nervous. “I don’t want to shoot you.”
 

Clay said, “I don’t want you to shoot me.”
 

The barrel didn’t move from its place on the back of his head.
 

“Now you’re gonna stand up real slow like, okay?”
 

Clay kept his hands held out at his sides. His first thought was Witashnah, what had become of her. Then something strange happened to his mind—a mental fog began to lift—and he found himself asking, “Have you ever killed a man, son?”
 

“Shut up.”
 

“Have you ever even fired your gun at someone?”
 

“I said shut up.”
 

“I’m going to give you a chance. You and the rest of your friends can leave this town now and escape with your lives. If not, well, I certainly hope your soul is right with the Lord.”
 

“
Shut up!
” the young man shouted, poking the barrel hard into the back of Clay’s head.
 

Clay closed his eyes, wondering where all of that had just come from. It certainly wasn’t something he would normally say. Even the feeling—the complete lack of fear—was something new.
 

“Now stand up,” the young man said. “Slowly.”
 

Clay rose to his feet, his knees popping with the effort. Once he stood straight, he slowly turned to find that the young man was barely even a man.
 

“How old are you? Sixteen? Seventeen?”
 

The young man stepped back and kept his revolver leveled on Clay. He motioned with the barrel for Clay to walk.
 

Clay walked slowly back down the aisle, headed toward the front of the store. The toe of his right boot struck some of the penny candy, sending them skittering across the floor. The young man waited for him to pass and then kept pace behind, keeping the barrel of the gun pressed against Clay’s lower back. Clay had to hand it to the kid. No matter his age, it was a smart move. If Clay tried anything, it would take less than a second for the young man to pull the trigger and shatter Clay’s spine with the bullet.
 

Assuming, of course, the gun didn’t misfire.
 

Assuming, too, the gun was even loaded.
 

Through the open door Clay could see others in the street. At least two of them. Each held rifles in their hands.
 

“I got one!” the young man shouted. There was pride in his voice.
 

Clay considered reminding him what his actions right now meant—how he was essentially murdering Clay—but he knew better than to waste his breath. This young man had been fooled by the Reverend, just like everyone else in that godforsaken town.
 

Clay spotted Witashnah the moment he stepped outside.
 

Another man held her at gunpoint. He stood several yards away by two horses. The other two men—older men, gray in their beards—didn’t move from where they stood directly in front of the mercantile.
 

“Only four of you?” Clay asked, stepping down off the plank walkway into the dirt. “Are you sure that’s enough?”
 

“Shut up.” The barrel nudged him in the back. “The Reverend’s none too happy with you.”
 

“The demons didn’t get me last night. Did they get anyone else?”
 

The young man hesitated. “No.”
 

“But doesn’t that go against everything the good Reverend has taught you?”
 

“Don’t listen to him, Jerry,” said one of the men with the rifles. “He knows he’s a dead man.”
 

“Gentlemen,” Clay said. “I’ll give you the same chance I gave Jerry back inside. Leave me and my companion alone, and I’ll let you live.”
 

Again, Clay couldn’t believe he spoke the words as they left his mouth. The two men couldn’t seem to believe the words either. They smiled at each other and guffawed.
 

“Stupid old man,” Jerry said behind him, and the barrel disappeared just long enough for Jerry’s foot to replace it.
 

The heel hit Clay right in the back and sent him stumbling forward, sprawling in the dirt.
 

Clay landed on his face, his hands splayed out at his sides. He groaned and slowly inched his knees forward so his buttock was raised in the air.
 

“Jerry? That was a very unwise thing to do.”
 

“If you don’t shut your mouth, old man,” Jerry said, stepping close and leaning down so the gun’s barrel was right by Clay’s head, “then I’m going to shut it for you.”
 

That, Clay thought, closing his eyes, was an unwise thing to do as well.
 

And suddenly he jerked himself up, grabbing the revolver out of Jerry’s hand, twisting hard enough to snap Jerry’s trigger finger.
 

As the young man screamed, Clay took possession of the gun and fired at the two older men with the rifles, one shot each, both in the face.
 

He was on his feet a second later just as Jerry tried to kick out at him.
 

Clay grabbed the young man’s foot in mid-air and twisted, sending Jerry sprawling to the dirt.
 

He stepped past Jerry, shooting him in the chest, and raised the gun at the man who had been holding onto Witashnah.
 

This man raised his weapon to fire at Clay but Witashnah hit him at the last second, sending the man’s shot wide, and Clay aimed and fired and struck the man in the shoulder.
 

But the man didn’t go down.
 

He raised the gun again.
 

Witashnah tried to hit him again.
 

He smacked her with the gun on the side of the head, sending her to the ground, then aimed once more at Clay who was advancing, taking close aim, squeezing off a shot—
bang!
—and the bullet tore into the man’s arm, sending his weapon flying.
 

The man, panicked, turned and grabbed hold of one of the horses, swung himself up onto it and kicked it hard, the horse whinnying and then galloping away.
 

Clay tossed the revolver aside and hurried over to the two older men. He picked up one of their rifles, checked the chamber, and then brought the stock to his shoulder.
 

He lined his eye up with the sight and watched as the last of the Reverend’s men hurried away.
 

He let in a breath, let out a breath, keeping his eye on the target, watching the man growing smaller and smaller.
 

In his mind Clay calculated the distance and the slight amount of wind and the final trajectory of the bullet, and at the last moment he raised the rifle just slightly and squeezed the trigger.
 

The rifle kicked in his hands.
 

The shot rang out in the silence.
 

For a long moment nothing happened—just the man riding off on the horse—and then suddenly the man jerked and went rigid and fell off to the side, his foot catching in the stirrup and dragging him along dead as the horse continued onward out of town.
 

Clay stood frozen for an instant, his entire body shaking. It wasn’t until that instant passed that he realized just how much pain he was in. Muscles he hadn’t used in quite some time screamed out their agony.
 

He tossed the rifle aside and hurried over to where Witashnah was slowly picking herself up off the ground.
 

“Are you all right?”
 

Her face was bruised, blood streaking her cheek.
 

“I am fine. How ... how did you do that?”
 

Clay shook his head. “It wasn’t all me. It was ... your grandfather.”
 

She just stared back at him.
 

“He was a warrior, wasn’t he? When he was younger. He killed many men in battle.”
 

Witashnah nodded slightly. “I have heard stories.”
 

Clay looked back at the three dead bodies in the street.
 

“Others might be coming.”
 

“That horse may return to town as well.”
 

Clay motioned at the mercantile.
 

“Then we best hurry.”

20.

The sun had gone past the midday mark by the time Clay and Witashnah returned to the cave. They were both exhausted. Clay was still hurting from the shootout, and the bruise on Witashnah’s face had darkened. But it was the weight of saving George and dealing with Those That Walk The Night that had Clay feeling overwhelmed.
 

They stored the cache of guns and ammunition taken from the Reverend’s men, as well as the eight sticks of dynamite Clay had found in the crate at Goodman’s Mercantile, just inside the chamber.
 

Akecheta was hunched near the fire, his head bowed in sleep.
 

Clay sat across from the old Indian and watched as Witashnah checked on her grandfather.
 

“Is he okay?”
 

She nodded.
 

Before they had left town, they had moved the bodies of the Reverend’s men to a back bedroom of the Red Queen Saloon. Then they unsaddled the horses and set them free. They hoped it would buy them some additional time. If the Reverend came looking, it would be a while before he stumbled across the bodies. Apparently, the ploy had worked. There had been no sign of the Reverend or any of his men on their long journey back to the cave.
 

“Hungry?” Witashnah asked. She extended him a strip of smoke-dried meat. “I found some under the counter at the saloon.”
 

It wasn’t much, but it would be enough to tide him over.
 

“Thank you.”
 

He tore a bite out of the dried meat and found his thoughts drifting back to what had happened in town. He had killed intentionally. It hadn’t been an accident like it was with Mayor Bolton’s son. This time it had been with clear intent.
 

The guilt and horror should have brought him to his knees, but Clay felt nothing. He had done what he had needed to do, because if he hadn’t it would have cost Witashnah her life, George his life, and in the end Clay his life as well.
 

But he hadn’t killed on his own.
 

He had been guided by Akecheta, who was part of him now.