Читать книгу Dawn in Damnation - Clark Casey - Страница 7

Chapter 1

Fre…

“What happened?” asked the young man with a nickel-sized bullet hole in his temple.

“Well, what’s the last thing you remember?” I asked him.

“Was playin’ cards with some cowpuncher. Drew a flush, and he ’cused me a cheatin’. So I reached for my Colt. Reckon he did the same.”

“My guess is he was faster.”

The newbie had that stunned look they all got in their eyes when they first arrived. He was hardly old enough to grow a proper beard. Just another cowpoke born in a shitty little town who’d rustled some steer, made it with a few whores, then died over a two-dollar pot.

“So’s this hell?” His voice quavered. Probably already browned his britches with fear shit.

“Not quite,” I told him.

“Purgatory then?” He tried to put on a brave face.

“Kinda… the opposite, ’spose you could say.”

“Huh?”

“Well, imagine if you was like a stone in a creek bed. After you die, a panhandler scoops you up with a bunch of other muck and runs you through his sifter. All the stuff that falls through goes straight to hell. The rest gotta be cleaned off to see if it’s worth keeping. So you might say you’re just here till the panhandler finds out whether or not you got any shine to ya.”

“Is this hell’s sifter?”

“Folks call it Damnation.”

“Who’s the panhandler?” he asked, “God?”

“Dunno.” I shrugged.

He gave the room a squinty eye, trying to reckon if it wasn’t all just a dream. The Foggy Dew had the same creaky chairs and sticky tables you’d find in any other saloon, though a little less flair perhaps. No trinkets on the mantel, just a simple dusty place to drink. Some cried when they found out where they were. Others were overjoyed they hadn’t ended up someplace worse. The kid didn’t look too impressed.

“What’s there to do ’round here?” he asked.

“Drink, play cards… wait.”

“For what?”

“Till you go to hell, of course.”

“How’s that happen?”

“Get yourself shot again, you’ll likely find out. Otherwise, you could be here a spell.”

“How long?”

“Fella in the corner was at Valley Forge with General Washington. Most don’t last a year. Some don’t make it an hour.”

“Anybody ever come back from hell?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“How ya even know they got there?”

“Hmm… Have to ask Sal that one, when he’s got a moment.”

As the suppertime crowd shuffled in, Sal was busy filling glasses. The bar was lined three deep with bullet-ridden outlaws. One thing you couldn’t kill was a man’s thirst.

“Say, you got any whores ’round here?” the kid asked.

“Whores go to heaven.”

“Ain’t what churchgoers say.”

“Got some of them here.” I pointed to the neatly dressed folks playing gin rummy in the corner. “Least the outspoken variety.”

While we were chewing the fat, a short fella in a big fancy hat moseyed up beside the newbie. The brim of his Stetson cast a shadow over his face. All that showed was a whiskerless chin and a mouth that wasn’t smiling. He paced back and forth impatiently. The newbie turned to see who was shadowing his backside. Must’ve figured he was the older of the two, ’cause he gave the little fella a mind-your-own-business smirk. The pacer lifted his face, and I recognized him. Jack looked like he was itching to put a lead plumb in somebody. It had been about a week, so that made sense. He was always taking flashy accessories off those he shot, shiny belt buckles and such. The hat must’ve been a recent acquisition. If it weren’t so big, I’d have recognized him sooner and cleared out as fast as I could.

He pushed his duster over his hip real gently, showing a pearl-handled pistol in a greased black leather holster. I inched my stool away and shielded my face. Then, at the last second, the preacher burst through the door shaking his fists in the air all willy-nilly, hollering with the energy of a much younger man.

“I’ve had a premonition from the Lord!” he bellowed. “The end is nigh upon us!”

“The end done happened already, Preach,” Fat Wally snapped back. “That’s why you’re here.”

“A man of great girth will come from the dust, then fire will rain from above!” the preacher roared even louder. “The streets will muddy, and the seed of Satan will be born unto a woman beyond the grave. For that’s how the devil canst reach where the Lord hath delivered us. The hounds will seek to destroy the demon spawn, but the portly pistoleer will protect it!”

“Good one, Preach,” Wally laughed. “A dead gal wearing the bustle wrong—and with the devil’s baby to boot! Now I’ve heard it all.”

“I have seen it!” he hollered fearsomely. “The flying minions will multiply, and Damnation will grow in head and breadth! The light of the Lord will shine upon us all once more. Then weeds will sprout from the barren dust, but by then it will be too late! Once this domain is fattened like a calf, the evil one will slaughter us all!”

Jack, for one, had heard enough. He doffed his oversized hat and leveled his gun with his winking boyish face. The shot ripped through the side of the preacher’s throat. The old coot gripped the wound and doubled over, then flopped back into a chair, sucking short, quick breaths from the hole as blood gurgled between his fingers. Jack reholstered his weapon, happy to have put a bullet in somebody, and he slowly wandered out of the barroom for a breath of dusty air. The newbie had no idea how close he’d come to getting a lead necktie.

“That preacher fella gonna go to hell?” he asked.

“When he bleeds out,” I answered. “Reckon so.”

“Ain’t there some way of gettin’ outta here, aside from goin’ to hell?” the kid fretted. “Can I get to heaven, mister?”

“Some think so,” I told him. “They reckon if you last a whole year in Damnation without shootin’ no one, the Lord’ll forgive whatever you done. After twelve months without sin, the gates of heaven open up.”

“Anybody done it?”

“Record’s six months. That fella wasn’t right in the head though. Didn’t leave his room for four of ’em. Came out to tell us all he was Christ. Then the preacher shot ’em in the gut just to prove he wasn’t.”

“You’re tellin’ me there might be a chance a gettin’ to heaven if you don’t shoot nobody for a year, and the only one to try it was some loon who thought he was Christ.”

“Well, truth is I’m fixin’ to give it a go myself,” I told him. “I already got more’n two months under my belt.”

“Is that all?” the kid sneered. Just then, a gust of wind pushed the swinging doors open, bringing in a cloud of dust. A figure in all black followed the dirty breeze into the barroom. The load of hay on his skull fell to his shoulders. It was combed back real neat like a girl’s, with a gob of pomade. He wasn’t real tall or thick, but looked powerful just the same, like a diamondback whose every muscle is made for striking. Otherwise, you might’ve took him for a tenderfoot with soft hands and fancy clothes.

The men at the bar all hot-footed out of his way. Sal placed a bottle of gin in front of him, then retreated to the far side of the bar. Most folks drank bathtub whiskey or flat beer, but he had himself an educated thirst for the juice of juniper berries. Some of the newer fellas let their eyes linger a little too long, so he hissed like an angry cat.

“What’s that? Some kinda vampire?” the kid asked with a nervous giggle.

“Yup.”

“You shittin’ me? They’re real! Thought they couldn’t come out during the day―least that’s what the storybooks say.”

“Can come out at dusk, and it’s always dusk in Damnation.”

“Always?”

“Long as I been here, and that’s nearly fifteen years.”

“That vampire drink folks’ blood?”

“Nah, everybody here’s already dead. Blood’s as cold as a crocodile’s. That’s why he’s so ornery.”

“Can he fly?”

“Leaps real far, almost like flying. Fast as a bugger, too.”

“Any more like him around?”

“Nope, just the one. Musta done something halfway decent to end up here instead of hell. Don’t think he appreciates it much though.”

“Next, you gonna tell me there’s werewolves, too,” he laughed.

“They drink down the road at their own saloon.”

“Does everyone who don’t go to heaven or hell wind up here?”

“Ain’t seen my dead Uncle Joe,” I said. “And he didn’t seem ripe for neither place. Can’t speak for the rest. It’s a small town, though.”

The kid eased back and took a gulp of the coffin varnish that passed for whiskey. Some folks were so relieved they ended up short of hell that they got a little cocky. Reckoned there wasn’t much else to be afraid of. “Don’t seem like such a bad place,” he said.

“You just gotta watch what you say ’round here,” I warned him. “Folks draw real fast. They get sick of being here. Puts ’em in bad spirits, and they’ll draw if you so much as brush against a fella’s sleeve.”

“Like Dodge City.”

“Worse than that. You risk getting sent to hell every time you leave the rooming house. But it gets more boring than church if you don’t stretch your legs once in a while.”

“Let me get this straight. If you get shot, you go to hell forever. But if you don’t, you can hang out here long as you like, play cards, and maybe have a go at them old churchgoing ladies.”

“That’s about the size of it,” I told him.

“Sounds like you need a sheriff,” he said.

“Keep your voice down!” Sal hollered. “Somebody set this boy straight before Jack hears him and shoots up the whole bar!”

“What’d I say?” the newbie blathered.

“Pipe down!” Sal ordered. “No more of your lollygagging—that is if you’re hoping to last the night.” He stormed off, leaving the kid moping over an empty glass.

“Jack don’t like to hear no talk of… ahem, law enforcement,” I explained

“Who’s Jack?”

“Member that short fella in the Stetson who kilt the preacher?”

* * * *

When he had first come to town some ten years earlier, Jack Finney was the measliest pipsqueak who’d ever darkened the doorstep of the Foggy Dew saloon. He needed a boost to get on a barstool. Hadn’t made it all but two steps into the room before the betting began on how long he’d last—and nobody wagered a dime past suppertime.

Back then, the quickest gun in town was a sheriff from Lexington, Kentucky, named Jeremiah. He was a good old boy with a righteous streak. He might’ve taken a few bribes when he was alive, but he kept the peace and went to church every Sunday. He’d been the sort to give everyone a fair shake till they crossed the line, but the way he had met his end changed all that. He was scouting for rustlers, and a couple of two-bit thieves dressed as priests got the drop on him. They gut-shot him and stole his horse and guns, leaving him to die in the woods. It wasn’t the bullet wound that did him in, though. They only shot him with a .22, but the pain kept him from walking. Couldn’t even crawl to a creek for water. He went four days without anything to eat or drink. He was so parched his tongue blew up as big as a bullfrog’s, and he began seeing things that weren’t there. Reckoned it best to end his suffering while he could still think clearly. Didn’t have no knife, so he widened his wound with his fingertips, trying to bleed out faster. Eventually his heart gave out. After he arrived in Damnation, the stretched-out bullet hole in his belly didn’t mend properly, so bits of food and whiskey sometimes leaked out when he laughed. He claimed the spillage was the reason why he was always so damn hungry and thirsty.

Jeremiah wasn’t officially appointed sheriff of Damnation. He just happened to be wearing a star when he died. Then he shot a mess of people right away, so folks quickly deferred to him. His suspicious nature wasn’t helped any by having been gunned down by phony clergymen. He didn’t like to go at anyone head-on who hadn’t been tested. He preferred to see them show their stuff against someone else first.

Even someone as scrawny as Jack needed to be tested, and Jeremiah watched him closely as the boys bullied him. It gave them no small joy to hear the kid squeal. Just a few hours after he arrived, a Comanchero who had only been in town a couple of weeks stepped to Jack. He was a half-Mexican bandito who had made his living by stealing goods and livestock from gringos and trading them with Indians. His occupation had cost him an eye at some point, and he wore a black patch over the empty socket. The crosshatch scars on his cheeks and forearms attested to the many knife fights he’d managed to survive. He still had a sneaky way about him, always lurking in the shadows, ready to slit a throat. Now, he stared Jack down with the one good eye.

“My boots could use a shine, boy,” he announced. Jack looked around the room, hoping someone’d laugh to let him know it was just a joke, but nobody said a word. “Well, don’t just stand there,” the Comanchero yelled. “Get down and give ’em a shine!” Jack slowly bent before the dirty boots. They were covered in blood and shit and dribbles of piss, then caked in so much dust you couldn’t tell what color they were.

“Give ’em a spit shine!” the Comanchero ordered. Jack’s eyes grew tearful. He puckered his mouth to offer a gob of spit, and sure enough the boot crashed into his face. The whole room erupted in laughter. Jack rolled over on the floor, moaning and wishing he’d never died. A ribbon of blood leaked from his lip over his chin.

Jeremiah had been keeping a keen eye on the Comanchero ever since he’d arrived. Didn’t trust a man who traded with Indians. The one-eyed bandito had already knifed a couple of fellas over card games. Nobody’d seen him shoot yet though, so there was no way of knowing how fast he was. He carried a greased Schofield revolver, which split in the middle so you could load all six chambers at once instead of one at a time, like the older Colts. It was a soldier’s weapon, good for extended battle, but he seemed to prefer slashing throats by surprise. Jeremiah reckoned this would be a good chance to find out if his pistol work was as worrisome as his knife play.

“You don’t gotta take no more ribbing today,” Jeremiah told the boy as he tended to his lip. “Long as you outdraw somebody. And since Cyclops here is so keen on you, might as well be him. Winner gets free drinks and grub for the rest of the day.”

The Comanchero glared at Jeremiah, but it was difficult for him to express himself properly with just the one eye. “In the land of the blind,” he said solemnly, “the one-eyed man is king.” Then he turned and headed outside.

“Well, shit… Good thing we ain’t all blind!” Jeremiah laughed and shoved Jack toward the door.

Mostly out of boredom, ten or fifteen men wandered out in front of the saloon. The sky was always an ashen yellow, no brighter than dusk. The clouds never lifted but streaks of orange and violet broke through in spots. It was pretty, only it never changed. I reckoned the living were so keen on sunsets because they didn’t last. Even the prettiest lady in the world would get tiresome if you were stuck staring at her for eternity—especially if there was no chance of giving her a poke.

Most of the fellas didn’t consider the gunfight worth vacating a stool, particularly if you had a good one near the fire. Most newbies didn’t last their first week, and a skinny teenager like Jack didn’t inspire any wagering. As a matter of duty, I went out to document his getting sent to hell. They stood in the center of the road as we lined the rotted-out boardwalk. Sal handed Jack an old Colt and a single bullet. The weight of the gun nearly caused him to drop it.

“Is that all I get?” Jack’s voice cracked in disbelief. “Just one bullet!”

“Jeremiah don’t want you gettin’ no ideas. This way, if you take a shot at him, one of his men’ll get you for sure.”

“But what if I miss?” It was a fair question. The scared hand of the newbie could easily empty a six-shooter before hitting his target.

“Then I suppose the half-breed can take his sweet time returning fire,” Sal answered.

They lined up back to back. Jack’s head didn’t reach the Comanchero’s shoulder blade. On Jeremiah’s mark, they each began marching in opposite directions. At the count of ten, they both turned. Jack’s slight frame made him more nimble. His hips swiveled squarely in place, slightly ahead of the bandito’s. He proved to have naturally quick hands, although they trembled with the weight of the giant Colt. His itty-bitty finger struggled to squeeze the rusty trigger. The bandito caught up with the steady arm of a practiced killer. The missing eye was a big disadvantage. He had to wait until he was fully turned around to take proper aim. Jack managed to get off a lucky shot, but it only winged the bandito’s right arm. As he gripped the wound, tar-black blood spilled between his fingers, and the gun slipped from his hand.

They both looked at each other for a cold second. With no bullets left, Jack had two choices: stand there and wait to die or attack with everything he had. The little fella let out a blood-curdling shriek, then charged. The bandito debated for a split second whether he should pick up his gun with his left hand or pull the knife from his belt. Neither were necessary. He could have just knocked the kid down and stomped on him, but the moment of indecision cost him. Jack closed the distance between them and was on him like a saddle sore. Still hollering like a loon, he swung a wide haymaker with the rusty Colt clenched in his fist, braining the bandito above his ear. The edge of the cylinder ripped out a silver dollar-sized chunk of scalp. The Comanchero’s eye stilled after the blow. Tears were running down Jack’s cheeks. He was only seventeen and had never murdered anyone before—let alone a dead man.

Those who hadn’t bothered to come outside and watch the fight would hear the retelling of it for months afterward. The skinny teenager kept smashing the bandit’s skull, fearing that if he let up for even a second, he’d be done for. First, the left ear shredded, then the flesh from neck to forehead scraped off. Hairy clumps of scalp clung to the gun barrel like leaves on a rake. Jack sobbed with one swing, then screamed with the next. Some of the noises didn’t even sound human, more like a coyote’s yelp. When he finally tired, there was no more casing left to hold the brains together. A dark porridge spilled onto the ground like chuck-wagon stew. Jack collapsed on the body and lay there twitching and panting in exhaustion. When they pulled him off, he was as bloody as the bandito. He went back in the saloon and sat in the corner, still shaking as he nursed a beer. Sal gave him a couple of pork chops, and he wolfed them down hungrily. Everyone left him in peace for the rest of the day.

The next morning, Jack skulked into the saloon at breakfast time with dried blood still on his cheeks and hands. He looked like an Indian in war paint. Since he’d proven himself the day before, he wasn’t expecting any trouble—at least not before he ate.

“You only earned a pass for one day, kid,” Jeremiah announced. One of his men handed the boy the same rusty blood-stained Colt with a single bullet already in the chamber.

“Any volunteers to draw against this hayseed? Winner gets free drinks and grub for the day.”

A cowboy with some experience stepped forward. He wasn’t a trained gunfighter but had survived four or five draws since he’d arrived two months earlier. He didn’t have much of a knack for cards, so he supported himself with his pistol work. Found it easier to spot a fella with a mess of chips in front of him, wait till he drank too much, then pick a fight. The winner typically claimed the loser’s possessions.

Jack and the cowboy headed out to the road, and this time half the saloon followed. The rest still didn’t consider the action good enough. The payout on the cowboy wasn’t very good because nobody thought the newbie’s luck could possibly last another day.

They stood back to back and walked off ten paces. This time, Jack was a little smoother and more deliberate in his draw. Meanwhile, the cowboy jammed his hand into his holster and plucked up his gun, letting off two screaming shots in rapid succession. Both struck the ground in front of Jack. He flinched but maintained his composure. He had learned it was better to squeeze the trigger instead of jerking it. The cowboy had just leveled his barrel to send the third bullet into Jack’s chest when his own shirt reddened like a rose blossoming from his heart. He fell to the dust. Jack went back inside and ate some more pork chops.

Each day, Jeremiah called for a new volunteer, and each day Jack faced him. Wasn’t any choice in the matter. With just a single bullet in the chamber, he couldn’t raise the barrel at the man who handed him the gun. There were always two men beside Jeremiah who would’ve gunned him down. His best hope was to keep firing away at whoever they put in front of him. The first few men weren’t very good, but it gave him a chance to learn. The best living gunfighters had upward of thirty kills under their belt, but those were spaced out by months and sometimes years. Jack had the advantage of drawing every single day, which allowed him to fix his flaws while they were still fresh in his mind. And since he had just the one bullet, he put every bit of his concentration into aiming it.

At first Jeremiah was glad to be able to test folks out and separate the wheat from the chaff. He could see their weaknesses when they drew against the kid, and note if someone dipped their shoulder before they pulled. He figured he’d get the upper hand on whoever gunned the kid down. The thing was that nobody could, so all that information went to waste when they fell. Also, Jack learned something new every day. His hand got steadier and quicker. He didn’t even bother asking for breakfast. Just marched straight up and stuck out his hand for the gun and the bullet, then he waited outside to see who’d follow. It didn’t escape Jeremiah’s attention that he was making a bona fide gunslinger out of the boy, who’d likely be even harder to control.

Everyone else found it a nice change of pace to start out the day with a gunfight. Gave folks something to look forward to, a reason to get out of bed. We all gathered beside the road each morning, even a few of the Indians who camped out in the dusty plains surrounding the town. People started to root for the little fella, and eventually the betting pool swung to favor him against the hardened outlaws who were just in it for free grub and drinks. After a few weeks, Jack gained a lifetime’s worth of experience. Then the day came when there were no more volunteers to go up against him.

“All right, boy, you ain’t gotta go against no one today,” Jeremiah announced. “Drink and eat as much as you like. Nobody’ll hassle you. But tomorrow, you go against me.”

Everyone was itching to see the matchup. Jeremiah had been studying Jack for a month, but Jack had been practicing every day of that month. Wasn’t even the teensiest bit nervous anymore. His aim was dead on and his hand as steady as a post. But Jeremiah didn’t intend to get hoodwinked by another thief dressed as a priest. He had found one weakness that he could use to his advantage.

Jack was only given the one bullet each day, so he couldn’t risk aiming at his opponent’s head, where a couple of inches in either direction might miss it entirely. And he couldn’t fire off a quick shot at a fella’s legs, since a wounded man might still overpower him. He always shot at the center of the chest, where the target was the widest.

That afternoon, I overheard Jeremiah telling the blacksmith to mold him a sheet of tin. The next morning at breakfast time, Jeremiah was sitting at the bar with his back to the door. He was all by himself, carelessly gobbling down a plateful of beans. A glint of metal shined from under his collar. He’d gotten up early so he could have the blacksmith fit it in place while everyone was still asleep. If it succeeded in stopping Jack’s first bullet, he’d have all the time in the world to aim, and since he knew right where the bullet was going, he had extra metal layered in the center. Probably wouldn’t stop a buffalo gun, but it’d do for a rusty old Colt. It was a pretty good plan... till Jack came through the door an hour earlier than usual.

The boy was through playing by another man’s rules—that much was clear. He grabbed the sheriff’s hair from behind and yanked his head back, exposing his neck to the ceiling.

“Ain’t gonna be any sheriffs parsing out the bullets no more!” Jack said as he pulled out the Comanchero’s knife. He must’ve pocketed it the first day he’d arrived, when he killed the half-breed and collapsed on top of him. We thought he was just twitching with fear but he was really fleecing that knife from the body. Ever since then, the boy had been biding his time, trying to stay alive till he got close enough and no one was by Jeremiah’s side. Jack ran the blade across the sheriff’s throat before he could say a damn thing.

By the time Jeremiah’s men arrived, Jack had already helped himself to his pretty pearl-handled pistols. He smiled at them tauntingly. They wouldn’t have pulled on him if he only had two bullets, let alone twelve. The next week, Jack shot one of the men for fun. The week after, he shot the other. He had learned from Jeremiah not to trust anyone, but also not to grow soft. He made a point of going up against someone at least once a week to keep sharp—and he wasn’t too fickle about who. Unlike Jeremiah, he had no problem with shooting untested newbies. Felt it kept him on his toes. And the bullying he’d endured didn’t make him sympathize with the misfortunes of others. He turned into the meanest son of a bitch in town, so nobody ever mentioned sheriffs around him again.

* * * *

“I still say you need someone to uphold the rules around here,” argued the newbie with the nickel-sized bullet hole in his temple.

“Oh, and what rules would you suggest?” I asked.

“Well, no shootin’ each other for one. You fellas are playing for keeps here. Ain’t like before when we wasn’t sure what happened after you died. This is it!”

“So, what if someone accuses you of cheatin’, like the fella you said put that bullet in your head?”

“Could wrestle,” he suggested.

“And if a fella ain’t much for wrestlin’?”

“Well then, he shouldn’t call nobody a cheater. And if somebody calls him a cheater, he could just go to the sheriff.”

“Sounds like you got it all worked out,” I said. “Lemme ask you another question—how’s a fella get a bullet in the side of his head from an argument at a card table? Weren’t you lookin’ at the man when he called you a cheater? Or did he somehow sneak up beside ya?”

“No. I mean yes.” He fidgeted nervously. “I guess I kinda turned away when he shot me.”

“Is that so?”

“It happened real fast.”

“Thought you said the last thing you remembered was that you drew and reckoned he done the same. You telling me you drew your pistol and looked away before you even pulled the trigger?”

“I dunno! What ya want from me, mister?”

“Why’d ya do it?” I pressed him.

“Do what? I tole ya, mister. He ’cused me a cheatin’. Then he shot me ’fore I could shoot him.”

“Did he do it real close, or was he sitting across the table?”

“He was across the table,” he blubbered. “We was sitting as far apart as them two fellas over there.”

“Interesting.” I nodded.

“How’s that?”

“’Cause that bullet hole’s got a ring around it like a hot barrel was pressed to your head. You know what I think? I think you pulled the trigger yourself and you’re ashamed of it, so you cooked up a story about an argument over cards. And I’m damn sick of pissants like you coming in here and making stuff up. What I wanna know now is why you done it?”

Looked like his face was going to shatter from holding it all in. Finally, he broke down. “I had the sadness, sir. I always had it—long as I can remember. My pa had it before me and, from what I heard, his pa before him. Couldn’t be helped. It made me do lots a bad things, and it weren’t never gonna go away. So I done myself in.”

“All right then.” I scribbled down a note. “Sal, get this fella a drink on me.”

“Thanks, mister. I appreciate it,” he smiled. “And just ’cause I done myself in don’t mean I’m wrong in what I’m sayin’. Matter of fact, killin’ myself made me realize things.”

“Oh?”

“Like how special stuff is. Even breathin’ this dusty air and sittin’ here in this dark saloon talkin’ with you. It’s all special! If y’all only knew what was good for ya, you’d stop shootin’ each other this very day. Just think,” his voice lifted, “if what you were sayin’ earlier’s true, then a year from today the whole darn town could march straight up to heaven together!”

Some sodbusters at a nearby table burst into laughter.

“Shit, boy, when’s the last time you seen a fella do what’s best for him?” I asked. “You think if you pluck a man from his life and stick him in a one-horse town with a hundred other rotten bastards he’s gonna act better?”

“That’s why you need somebody to keep ’em in line, like a sheriff!”

“Keep it down!” Sal scolded. “You say that word again, and I’ll send ya to hell myself.”

“Just out of curiosity,” I asked the kid, “who you reckon might be capable of stopping these bored and hateful men from shootin’ each another?”

It was a subject I’d given a fair amount of thought to. The last time I had preached pacifism, some old-timer tried to gut me, and I had to shoot him—much to everyone’s amusement. That’s when I took to practicing it instead of preaching it. Everyone could go on blasting one another over nothing. Hopefully, I’d slip between the cracks right into heaven. Sure, every so often a newbie’d come at me for asking the wrong questions, but I’d gotten a knack for avoiding them. Hadn’t even heeled myself in a month.

The kid was still giving the question serious consideration. He peered down the bar to where the vampire was drinking by himself. “How ’bout that fella?” he suggested. “Looks like he could uphold rules well enough. He’s gotta be quicker than Jack or any other man.”

“I expect he is,” I agreed. “And he probably could whip this town into shape real quick, if he was inclined to. And if anyone was compelled to ask him.”

“Well, dang! That’s exactly what I’m gonna do.” The kid sprang to his feet and walked straight over before I could stop him. Wanted to show he was more than a cowardly suicide. Strutted up with the gumption of a mayor on Election Day. Didn’t even seem to notice the yellow glow in the vampire’s eyes growing brighter as he approached. He stuck out his hand real friendly-like and said, “Howdy, pardner. My name’s Fre…!”

Didn’t even get out his full name. The vampire snatched the outstretched hand like an apple from a tree and pressed the boy’s wrist to his lips. Yellow fangs sprang from his gums and pierced the soft sunburnt flesh. He clamped down on the bone without swallowing the blood that was pouring out. With one yank of his neck, the hand tore clean off. The kid screamed like one of them lady opera singers, so high and loud I thought the chandelier’d shatter. The vampire tossed the hand to the ground with the fingers still twitching like a daddy longlegs. Then he spat out some blood in disgust. The kid gripped his stump in shock. Then for some reason, he started scooping up the veins and muck dangling out. Tried to put them back inside like he was stuffing a sausage. Suppose he thought it could be mended somehow. All the while he kept screaming.

“Aw, come on, Sal,” Fat Wally complained from the poker table. “Hobble that measly cowpoke’s lip. Some of us are trying to play cards here. Can’t concentrate with all his yellin’. Shit, I think Red’s finally got himself something better than a pair of bullshit,” he said, and the others laughed.

Sal moseyed to the end of the bar in no particular hurry. Wasn’t the type to break a sweat if he didn’t have to. He wiped his hands off on his apron, then grabbed the scattergun from the umbrella stand. He came around the other side of the bar and pressed the barrel against the kid’s chest to avoid any buckshot spray. He pulled the trigger, and the boy was thrown five paces backward onto the floor with a wet thud.

“Goddamnit!” Red hollered. “You stood too close again, Sal. Done shot the guts clear out his back. Got it all over my dang cards. I call re-deal!” The other players grumbled and mucked their cards, arguing that Red probably didn’t have shit anyways.

“He could’ve at least got sent to hell like a man, instead of a little girl that seen a bug,” Fat Wally remarked. “When your time comes, boys, whatever you do, don’t go out like a ‘Fre…!’” Wally clutched his wrist, imitating the boy’s shock at seeing his hand torn off. The fellas laughed good and hard at that one, and from then on anyone who left Damnation in a cowardly manner was referred to as a “Fre…!”

The Chinaman who tended to the pigs came and dragged Fre’s body to the pigpen. The preacher had bled out by then, so he took him, too. The pigs chewed the cold corpses to bits. There wouldn’t have been any trace that they were ever in town if I didn’t remember to write down a few words about them. On account of all the gunfights, the swine were always plump and juicy. Most folks agreed that the best thing about Damnation was you could eat all the bacon you’d ever wanted.

The vampire finished his drink, then left without a word. A little while later, Jack came back in and scanned the room to see if anyone else needed shooting. Those were the last of the simple days when everyone knew their place, and there was still peace between us and the wolves. Then, just like the preacher had preached, a new gunfighter came to town and stirred up a real shit storm.