Walk the Sky (14 page)

Down on the street, Clay pulled the pistol from his holster and turned to look up at the second floor of the saloon.
 

“Shoot him!” the Reverend shouted again.
 

“He’s just a schoolteacher,” Bolton said. “He can’t hit us from down there.”
 

Roy pulled the Winchester up to the window again, resting the barrel on the sill to take aim.
 

The shot this time didn’t echo as loudly as before. Bolton thought maybe that was because his ears were still ringing from the explosion. He went to step forward to see through the window when Roy fell back into the Reverend, the rifle slipping from his grip and clattering to the floor.
 

“What—” the Reverend began.
 

Bolton gazed down at the street, where Clay slowly lowered the gun to his side, and then, panicked, he looked down at the Reverend’s right-hand man splayed across the floor.
 

In the middle of Roy’s forehead, almost perfectly placed, was the indent of a bullet hole.

23.

Witashnah witnessed everything.
 

She saw Marilyn tied to the post—her precious friend Marilyn!—and she saw Clay hurry over and untie her. She heard the first bullet that sent her friend to the ground, just as she heard the second bullet that sent Clay to the ground. She heard Those That Walk The Night off in the distance, their awful combined shuffling coming closer and closer, and she knew she couldn’t wait any longer. With no hesitation, she took one of the sticks of dynamite, lit the fuse, threw it into the nearest building on the corner, and ran.
 

It exploded almost immediately, the blast much louder and heavier than she had anticipated.
 

She hadn’t gone far—maybe fifty yards—and the blast knocked her down. She hit the ground hard but managed to quickly climb back to her feet, turning and watching the shards of burning wood floating through the air like fireflies.
 

The building looked ready to collapse in on itself.
 

Another shot rang out—a faint and distant snap just over the ringing in her ears—and she hurried back past the building to the street, expecting Clay to be dead now too.
 

But there Clay stood, lowering his pistol to his side, his gaze focused on the second floor of the saloon. His shoulder was bleeding from where he had been shot but he didn’t seem to notice.
 

Witashnah turned her attention to the saloon. She could make out two figures through the open window, two dark shapes, and she thought she heard them shouting though she couldn’t be sure. Those That Walk The Night were even closer now, their shuffling growing louder, though there was something different about the sound, something that didn’t sound right.
 

She sprinted forward. Marilyn lay dead on the ground, and just seeing her there—Marilyn’s pale face, her staring eyes, the blood—made Witashnah’s heart tighten. She wanted to do something for her friend, to say something, but instead she took a breath and looked directly at Clay.
 

“We must hurry.”
 

Clay kept his focus on the second floor of the saloon, the gun still at his side.
 

“I believe the man who killed my daughter is up there.”
 

“There is not much time. Those That Walk The Night ...”
 

It suddenly occurred to her what was different about the sound, and she turned away, facing down the street, staring off into the darkening night.
 

Suddenly gunfire erupted. The shots did not come from the saloon but elsewhere farther down the street. They were wide, too, the bullets tearing into the ground several feet away from them, spitting up dirt.
 

“What’s wrong?” Clay asked, watching her face.
 

“Do you not hear them? They are running.”
 

It was true—the shuffling had turned into a hard pounding, the feet of hundreds and hundreds of demons striking the desert floor.
 

“Then we best hurry,” Clay said. “How many sticks of dynamite are left?”
 

“Five.”
 

He scowled at her. “You used three already?”
 

“Only one.”
 

“But we brought eight back with us.”
 

“There were only six when we arrived here.”
 

“Then we need to make them count,” he said. “Hand me one.”
 

She looked at him and was surprised. The man standing there now was not the same scared and broken man she had encountered last night. Instead his eyes had darkened. His posture had straightened. His entire body had tightened. Somehow, in the space of only hours, he had become a warrior.
 

More shots rang out, the bullets still missing them, as she brought out a stick of dynamite and handed it to him.
 

“Light it.”
 

The pounding of the desert floor grew even louder as she used the piece of flintlock to spark a flame and ignite the fuse.
 

“Now run.”
 

She didn’t hesitate—she sprinted away, back toward the destroyed building, already reaching in her bag for another stick of dynamite.
 

The creatures were even closer now, a sea of black writhing shapes hurrying their way.
 

She took one last look over her shoulder just in time to see Clay throw the stick through the air, the fuse spinning end over end as it arced toward the second floor of the saloon. She heard shouting coming from the open window and then the stick of dynamite disappeared inside.
 

For an instant nothing happened, and then the second floor exploded, a blast so loud it momentarily drowned out the other gunfire and the quick and frantic approach of Those That Walk The Night.

24.

George wasn’t alone in the jailhouse.
 

Two of the Reverend’s men were with him. One was the young jailer, the other an older man with a mustache. Both held rifles aimed at the door.
 

George sat on the bench in his cell, watching the men. He didn’t know what was going on. Last night only the young jailer had stayed with him, and he hadn’t even touched his gun, as outside his friend was sacrificed ...
 

But had Clay been sacrificed?
 

George didn’t know. But something strange—well, stranger than the usual strange—was happening. These two here now tightly gripping their rifles just proved it.
 

The Reverend had been on a tear this morning, angry with his men about something. George hadn’t been able to make out the words through the barred window, but he’d heard the rage and displeasure in the Reverend’s voice. Something had gone terribly wrong. That much was evident.
 

But what exactly had gone wrong, George couldn’t say.
 

Throughout the day, he had gone from believing Clay had somehow managed to escape last night, to believing if Clay had escaped he would have come back, and since he hadn’t come back, then he probably hadn’t escaped after all. Which meant the Reverend was ranting about something else altogether. What else would have riled the man up like that?
 

In the end, George had to admit he didn’t have the slightest idea of what had happened last night or what had gotten under the skin of the Reverend this morning. All he knew for certain, hours later, was that night was approaching, he was still locked in his cell, and that if it all ended tonight he would die without regret. He had done the right thing in helping Clay escape the injustice imposed by Bolton and Logan. And if it had brought George here, to this place and time, and this fate, then so be it.
 

Something shifted.
 

George sensed it immediately.
 

He leaned forward and listened to the hush that seemed to have fallen over the town. The sudden quiet had become familiar now. He imagined it arrived every night, just as darkness was falling, just before the demons came forth from the desert.
 

The young jailer leaned forward even more on his chair. He moved the rifle from one leg to the other and slipped his hand inside the trigger guard.
 

Off in the distance, the quiet finally broke.
 

That god-awful shuffling started up, as George had known it would, and it brought to mind a herd of buffalo snorting warm air on a cold morning. He had no idea why the sound brought up that particular image, but it filled his mind almost immediately and was lost again only after he heard the sound of voices somewhere outside.
 

For a moment, George wasn’t sure he had heard voices at all—maybe it had been his mind making another unexplainable jump—but by the time he had convinced himself it had been voices, a single gunshot rang out from somewhere down the street.
 

There was a brief silence, then another shot.
 

Both of the Reverend’s men roused off their chairs to their feet. They kept the rifles aimed at the door.
 

An explosion went off outside.
 

A flash of light through the jailhouse windows bloomed briefly. The repercussion from the blast rattled the jail cell bars. Dust rained down from the ceiling.
 

George moved to the bars to see what was going on.
 

The explosion had been nearby, just down the street.
 

Another single gunshot sounded, followed moments later by an explosion of gunfire.
 

George couldn’t see what was going on from the cell, but he could smell the acidy smoke and gunpowder in the air.
 

What the hell was going on out there?
 

Another explosion of sound erupted.
 

Not gunfire this time.
 

And not from down the street.
 

Someone was pounding on the jailhouse door.
 

In one moment, all the color fell out of the face of the young jailer. In the next moment, the kid panicked and opened fire at the door. The second guard joined in a second later and the room became deafening.
 

George watched them riddle the door until their rifles finally kicked out the last shells and there were no more bullets.
 

The room fell into an eerie silence.
 

Smoke hung thick in the air, drifting in the soft breath of moonlight.
 

The two guards exchanged a glance that betrayed their apprehension. Then the older man motioned the kid to open the door.
 

George moved to the front of the cell. He wrapped his fingers around the bars and felt the cool metal press into his palms.
 

The kid approached the door as if he thought it might explode with the slightest misstep. He took hold of the knob, sucked in a breath, and yanked the door open. As he stepped back, he raised the empty rifle.
 

Nothing stood on the other side.

Not a person.

Not a demon.

Not the Reverend.

Nothing.

The kid lowered his rifle and turned back to his partner. He whispered, “There’s nobody—”
 

A figure stepped into the doorway.
 

Two quick shots rang out, and both guards collapsed to the floor.
 

The figure entered the jailhouse, stopping long enough to pick up the cell key from the desk, and approached the cell door.
 

George said, incredulous, “Clay?”
 

“We need to hurry.”
 

Outside, a new round of gunfire went off, barely heard beneath another raucous explosion. Once the sound of the explosion began to quiet, another sound moved to the front of George’s mind—the shuffling of the demons.
 

Only ... they weren’t shuffling. Not like they had last night. But they were close now. Nearly in the street.
 

Clay shoved the key into the lock, turned it, pulled the cell door open.
 

“They’re already here,” Clay said. “We have to hurry.”
 

“Who? More of the Reverend’s men?”
 

“Those That Walk The Night.” Clay took the rifle hanging off his shoulder and shoved it in George’s hand. “Get moving.”

25.

It wasn’t the explosion that ended Reverend Titus Willard’s life, but rather the saloon stairs. Only the stairs themselves did not kill him; they were merely the means to an end.
 

Bolton was closest to the door when Clay, down on the street below them, threw the dynamite. He should have been the first one out. But Willard moved quicker than he had ever moved in his life, flaying his arms at Bolton until his fingers grasped part of the man’s shirt, and he managed to pull Bolton back, creating enough space to slip through.
 

Willard ran.
 

Right down the hallway of the saloon, right for the stairs. The distance wasn’t that far but it felt like miles. He was briefly aware that his heart was pounding something awful. He could feel it in his chest and in his throat and in his head. A bead of sweat had formed on his brow and hung on one eyebrow, just dangling there, until it dropped into his eye. He blinked suddenly, and right then the dynamite exploded, rocking the entire saloon, and Willard, having reached the stairs, tripped over his own feet.