"Silent River"
May. 28th, 2022 10:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Silent River"
4/22/-4/24/1875
I.
With the sunrise, Johnny Packard came back down to normal. He was weary as usual after the transformation and his black horse Terror plodded reluctantly down the long hill to a stream. They both drank their fill of the cold clear water, and Johnny dunked his head a few times to rinse off the sweat and blood. It had been a rough night even for the Brimstone Kid. He ran fingers through his thick red hair and felt fresher. Behind his saddlebags was a canvas sack of oats which he fed to Terror.
He decided to walk for a while, both to stretch his legs and to make it easier for his horse. Only seventeen, Johnny was a small lean young man no more than five feet four inches tall and weighing at most a hundred and fifty pounds. In a bony sullen face, bright green eyes burned with steady anger. He wore boots, black Levis and a long-sleeved blue work shirt with an open denim vest over it. Low on his hips was a gunbelt ringed with cartridges and with big Peacemakers in twin holsters tied to his thighs with thongs. The already legendary 1873 single-action revolvers were cleaned and examined for flaws daily by their young owner. He'd go naked in the world before he'd go unarmed.
As they moseyed along, following the stream, Johnny let his black Stetson loose to hang down on his back by its knotted cord. It was daylight. The cursed Darthan coin would be cold and quiet now. Johnny saw that rise on his right had a single oak tree that overhung the stream and he led Terror up to it. It seemed like a decent spot to rest. There was grass for the horse to munch on and to cushion the ground for himself. The Brimstone Kid tied his steed to a low branch of the tree where the animal could graze easily. He uncinched his saddle and placed it on the other side of the tree before rubbing Terror down and inspecting the animal's hooves for pebbles or splits.
Lately, the coin seemed to be affecting the horse as well as Johnny at nightfall. Right now, though, Terror appeared to be a normal healthy three year old stallion. The black hide was glossy, the eyes were clear and the limbs were smooth and strong. As he finished tending his horse, the animal snorted gently and lowered its head to start nipping at the grass.
Unfurling his bedroll in the shade of the oak, Johnny decided he was too tired to consider making a fire to cook some flapjacks. He had taken a strip of jerky from his saddlebags and munched on the dried salted beef as he tugged off his boots and flexed his toes gratefully. Stretching out on the bedroll, he took out his right hand Colt and rolled over on that side with his head resting on his arm and his iron in his grip. The Kid took a few exhausted breaths and slid into a deep dreamless sleep at once.
Something woke him. He snapped into full awareness at once and opened his eyes to slits without moving his head. While sleeping, he had turned over onto his back but long habit had kept the Colt in his right hand. The sun was past overhead. He had slept about six hours and his head was clearer, but he needed to find out immediately what had rousted him.
On the other side of the tree, Terror stamped one hoof. The animal seldom whinnied. Drawing back the hammer with his thumb, Johnny sat up and peered suspiciously in all directions. There. Approaching slowly along the stream below him was a buckboard drawn by a single painted horse. Holding the reins was a white haired old man with a beard. He was wearing rough work clothes that had been worn thin by hard use.
The Brimstone Kid relaxed only slightly. Ever since he had been given the Darthan coin by Machingtok, he felt he could not trust anyone. This old man looked harmless enough, there was a rifle sitting on the buckboard by his feet, but he seemed to be no immediate threat. Still, although he gently lowered the hammer and holstered the Colt, Johnny remained on edge. He reached for his boots and tugged them on as the wagon drew near.
"Whoa, who, Bess," said the old man. He looked up the hill and saw the slight figure standing motionless with both hands resting on gun butts. "Steady, steady, son. I sure ain't no threat to you."
"No, reckon not. We don't need to parley, grandpa. I'm just passin' through these parts."
"Maybe t'aint my business," the old ventured uncertainly. "But it's just basic friendly concern. You do know you're heading toward Silent River?"
"No, cain't say as I do." Johnny swung his head around to gaze to the West, where a dark blue ribbon could be seen in the distance. "Never heard tell of any Silent River."
"Young fella, I believe you are used to taking care of yourself. Don't take this the wrong way. There's a town down there, also called Silent River." The old man took a deep breath and looked down at his hands. "Bad things are going on down there. Wicked things. Deeds that defy the laws of God and Man. Take it as a Christian gesture when I recommend you turn your feet in another direction."
A remarkably sinister grin spread over the young wanderer's face. His mouth smiled but his eyes did not. "You don't savvy who you're talkin' to, old fella. Your words just now have fired me up to ride right into Silent River."
II.
The old man introduced himself as Micah Schliede and had offered a place to stay a night if the Kid found himself in Cameron, the town twenty miles east. The Kid had simply given his own name as 'Johnny' and had thanked him politely. But he was already eager to ride toward Silent River and see what sort of misdeeds could be going on there. As he packed up his bedroll and saddled Terror, he took time as always to check that the stallion was rested and ready. A man's life depended on his horse out on the plains and deserts where there were long stretches between isolated patches of civilization.
As he vaulted nimbly into the saddle and took the reins, the youth pulled his Stetson up to cover his eyes. The presence of the Darthan coin tucked inside the Navajo beaded hatband was warm and familiar to him. Sometimes it felt like an oppressive weight, sometimes it was like a magnet tugging on him to go in a specific direction. Right now, it sure was yanking on his head to guide him west, right where the old man had warned him not to go.
Johnny smiled thinly at his own foolishness always hoping for trouble. He had been brought up by his Uncle Wade in the border town of Brimstone, Texas after his parents had died in the Blizzard of 1859. Johnny had only been a baby then and had no memory of them. Uncle Wade had often remarked that little Johnny Packard had more curiosity than common sense, that he would start fights with boys twice his size and that he sometimes seemed to have a little devil in him.
That made the Kid laugh now. 'A little devil in him'... if Uncle Wade could only have seen what would happen to his orphan boy. Damnation. Literal Damnation, Johnny chuckled. He steered Terror down alongside the stream and saw the rutted trail where the man Micah had been running his backboard. Heading west, he saw the grassland get more lush and the trees more plentiful. Soon he was riding down an incline and he saw Silent River stretched out a mile ahead.
A muddy expanse of brown water moving only sluggishly down from the Rocky Mountains, Silent River seemed to earn its name. As he watched and listened, the absence of birds or fish splashing over the surface to snatch insects was unsettling. Even the breezes died down and the air grew still and more humid. It felt oppressive. Johnny could not see any sign of a town but the faint trail led downstream so he steered Terror that way. His stomach rumbled audibly. He had some flour and dried beans in his saddlebags, and he could have made flat hard prairie flapjacks but he was unreasonably driven to find out what the old man had been afraid of.
By the side of the clearing was a patch of bare earth with four wooden crosses stuck into the dirt. He reined in Terror and leaned over in the saddle to look. They were each just two branches tied together, stripped of bark and leaves but with no attempt to provide names or dates. Johnny's green eyes narrowed in annoyance. What kind of town didn't have a Boot Hill for even vagrants or the worst outlaws? Why would these men be just thrown in for the long sleep without any sort of respect? He urged Terror to get going again.
To his right, he saw corn fields. Miles of them, tended but with no visible ears this early in the year. In the distance, he could hear cattle lowing and once the echoes of a man yodeling. Cowboys all right. Johnny rode on and spotted a trail leading up to a ranch house. Terror went up the incline and emerged on a well-packed dusty trail leading to a log fence with a gate that had a wooden sign YARBROUGH WALKING Y with a symbol representing the brand the family would use on their cattle. The Brimstone Kid approached the front gate slowly so that anyone watching would have time to see he had no bad intentions.
The ranch house was huge and elaborate, with a wraparound deck, large windows that must have been brought in from back East, even a flagstone area with a firepit for cooking outdoors. A stable and a barn could be seen behind it. Over the front door, with its wrought iron scraper for getting mud off boots, was nailed the skull of an immense longhorn. Before Johnny could approach too closely, two ranchhands emerged from the open barn door and blocked his path. One was holding a Winchester, but with the barrels pointed down. The other man said, "What's your business here at the Walking Y, mister?"
"Just looking for work," Johnny answered peaceably. "I grew up with cattle in West Texas. I can handle most chores around a ranch."
"You're just a youngun," said the rifle-weilding man. "I swear, I think you're not of age to be riding around by yourself. You know there's Kiowa out there, dontcha?"
"Kinda puny kid, too," laughed the other one. "Fella that size probly needs a hand gettin' up on a hoss."
"I'm big enough to whup your ass," Johnny said in the same calm even voice.
"WHAT did you say?"
"You heard me fine," the Brimstone Kid told them as he dismounted lightly as a cat. Each of the ranchhands was half a foot taller and nearly a hundred pounds heavier than he was. Johnny didn't care. "One at a time or both together, it don't make no never mind to me."
"Little man, don't be in such an all-fired rush to get busted." The bigger ranchhand went back to lean his Winchester up against a post before standing alongside his partner. "I reckon an easy beatin' now might teach you some manners and save you a serious thrashin' later in life."
Johnny grinned and a red glint sparked in his eyes. "Let's come to the scratch, hombres."
With the last word, the Kid took three running steps and dove headlong to knock both bigger down in a pile of flailing arms and legs. They were taken by surprise. Both had expected a few more minutes of tough talk and threats before this youngster would either back down or before one of them had to slap him around. Instead they were slammed on their backs in the dirt. Johnny leaped up and came down with both knees in the pit of the older ranchhand's stomach. The man vomited explosively and started gagging. Without a second's pause, the Kid was launching himself at the remaining opponent with both fists swinging furiously. He was small but all hard muscle and bone, and he struck as ferociously as a wildcat. The ranchhand reeled back, hands lowered and all defenses dropped. Johnny threw a final uppercut that started down by his own knees and which clapped the man's jaws shut with a cracking noise. At least one tooth was broken by that blow.
Stepping back, tucking in his shirt where it had come loose, Johnny Packard still was eager for more. Neither cowboy was in any shape to continue fighting. As he started to catch his breath, two ice-cold hands tightened around his neck from behind. The Kid reacted instantly, stamping down with his boot on the attacker's foot and then driving his elbow back into the man's stomach. Neither blow had any apparent effect. Johnny reached up to grab the hands which were choking him and felt a jolt of revulsion. The skin was cold and rigid, like that of a dead man. He struggled and swung his legs up and then down in an effort to throw off the man's balance but nothing worked.
Everything started receding into a grey haze. Too late, his hands dropped to the butts of his Colts. He couldn't grasp them. Johnny didn't feel actual fear, there was just the grim determination to think of some way to free himself. His ears were ringing... yet he heard a voice with a French accent say from an immense distance, "Tres bien, Fabien. Hold him like that." His awareness faded into the dark.
III.
He was only dazed for a few minutes and even then he never completely lost consciousness. He heard a second man's voice, deeper and more authoritative, yelling. He felt himself being carried and then he was sitting in a chair as he regained his senses. Johnny touched his neck gingerly, relieved to find he was breathing normally. His eyesight cleared. Instinctively his hands darted down but found only empty holsters. A heavy hand pressed down on each of his shoulders.
"Someone's gonna pay through the nose..." he muttered. The Kid saw he was in a remarkably elegant dining room for this remote part of Nevada. Handmade furniture of dark polished wood. A long table with a white cloth covering it. Candles in glass bowls. Paintings and stuffed animal heads on the wall. By the door was a long barometer used to help predict storms. Everything was spotless as if it had been scrubbed just for him.
Johnny tried to get up but it felt like a mountain was braced to hold him down. He swung his head around to glare up at his captor but froze in shock. He was being kept in his chair by a big black man naked to the waist, wearing only a dingy pair of white trousers. The man's head was shaven and he had a long, gaunt face with sunken cheeks. What gave the Kid a shiver was that the man's eyes were rolled up so only the whites showed.
"Brother, I don't know what ails you..." Johnny began. He was cut short by a cultured voice from the doorway.
"Fabien cannot hear you," said a dark man in a neat tropical suit of white linen, complete with a red silk cravat. He was leaned on a mahogany cane that was capped with a faceted green gem. Johnny saw that the man was of mixed race, with tight wavy hair plastered down with pomade. Shrewd intelligent eyes in a narrow face examined him as the man entered the room and stood just beyond arm's reach.
"Mister, I don't know you," Johnny said. "But I warn you fair and plain you'd best let me go before there's grief..."
The man pulled out a chair and delicately perched on the edge of the seat. He folded manicured hands on the gem capping his cane and smiled. The smug confidence in that smile infuriated Johnny. "Have you ever been to New Orleans, Mr Packard?"
"Packard? Where'd you get that name?"
"Oh, you are becoming well-known, mon ami. In only a year, you have been quite active with your picturesque exploits. The Brimstone Kid, a cursed cowboy riding out of the jaws of Hell. I am Baron Ambroise, lately of New Orleans but originally from Haiti. Now I find myself in the veritable wilderness where pioneers are settling on the plains and your native buffalo are being replaced by mundane steers."
"That's right pretty talk," Johnny said. "I calculate you've had book learning. Get your amigo's hands off me before I take offense."
"I think it would be prudent to keep you restrained for the moment," Ambroise said with that infuriating smile. "Your blood seems to be running hot right now. Fabien will keep you still until I feel you have calmed down. You are on the estate of a man named Horace Yarbrough. He is quite wealthy by American standards. His holdings include most of this valley. The town of Silent River is in his pocket, as we say."
The Brimstone Kid could tell that his Stetson still hung around his neck. The presence of the gremthom coin in its band throbbed between his shoulder blades, growing painfully warm. He knew that was a warning he was in the presence of the unholy. "Mr Ambroise, let's put our cards on the table. I have to admit I tangled with those two rannies when it wasn't maybe completely called for. But I didn't kill 'em. I reckon they've learned not to judge a man by how high his head reaches when he stands up."
The door at the far end opened and an Indian woman of middle age entered carrying a tray with china plates and bowls. The aroma of hot beef stew and fresh biscuits made Johnny's stomach growl. He watched with interest he couldn't conceal as the squaw set up the plates on the table near them, unrolled cloth napkins that held the proper silverware and bowed before leaving.
"Mr Yarbrough will not be joining us for our dinner," the man called Ambroise offered. "But there is no reason we should not refresh ourselves." As he spoke, the Indian woman returned with a tray which held glasses, a bottle of red wine and a bowl of apples and grapes. She inclined her head again before leaving.
"Thank you, Martha," Ambroise called after her. He pulled his chair up to the table and took a delicate sniff. "Ahh. The chef has started adding cayenne and sliced onions. Even simple fare is better with seasoning. Do you feel inclined to join me, Mr Packard?"
The Kid did not hesitate. "I'd be right happy for some grub right now. But first I need to know how my hoss is?"
"The black stallion? He is safe. We tethered him under a tree and brought your saddle and gear into the house."
"Glad I am to hear that," Johnny said. "He's a fine one, that's fer sure and I'd be riled if any harm came to him. Now, supposin' your servant here unhands me?"
"Fabien." Just the one word. The big half-naked man released Johnny, who shook himself angrily and got up to go over to a chair at the table. He glared back at the unresponsive Fabien.
"I got no beef with the colored folks," Johnny said. "I worked with some in Texas and they wasn't no different than other cowpokes. Some good men, some bad, like everyone else. But your compadre Fabien over there, he seems a mite unusual."
"Ah," replied Ambroise as he carefully arranged his tableware, then examined the chilled wine bottle. "Not a good year, I'm afraid. Yes, Fabien is in some ways an ideal servant. He never speaks, never shirks, never fails to complete a task. He doesn't drink or gamble, has no interest in women."
Johnny ladled out a generous amount of the meal onto his own plate, snatched up a biscuit and began dunking pieces of it in the stew. "These sinkers is aces," he said between swallows. He could not help but keep looking over at where the big black man was standing motionless as a statue. "How's he see, anyways?"
"Not as you or I do," answered Ambroise. The strange man began to eat deliberately but steadily, following each thoroughly chewed mouthful with a sip of the wine. "You might as well know. Fabien was hanged more than three years ago. He is not a living man, but what we call a Zuvembie."
IV.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Ambroise asked, "Have you ever heard of Voodoo, Mr Packard?"
"Yeah I have," Johnny answered, getting his plate clean of the last bit of stew with the last bit of biscuit. "When I were eleven, Uncle Wade had an old ex-slave from New Orleans bunkin' with us. He told me lots about his religion. The little dolls you stick pins in, the bags of herbs you bury under the path where an enemy's gonna walk..."
Ambroise sipped at the wine and gave the glass a disapproving look. "My young friend, what you know as Voodoo is only an echo and a shadow of deeper darker arts. It is like adults singing songs they heard only once as children and barely remember. Beneath Voodoo, its real foundation is the forbidden knowledge revealed by the vile Sulla Chun on the isle of Ulgor. That was in the Darthan Age of thirty thousand years ago."
"Darthan...?" repeated the Brimstone Kid, feeling the oppressive presence of the ancient coin under the hatband on his back. Machingtok had only used the word once.
"Yes. You seem strongly affected by the word, Mr Packard."
"Huh. Mebbe it's knowing there is a dead man standing behind me ready to crack my haid if you tell him to do so."
"I need to ensure my own safety, of course. I was a Houngan, either a priest or a witch doctor depending on how one looks at it." Baron Ambrois stroked a clean-shaven chin and watched Johnny's reactions. "The secrets of Voodoo were not enough for me. I wanted to learn more. I dug deeper, took many risks, went on many pilgrimages. I read books bound in Human skin which are mortal peril to hold, much less read and I delved deeply into their mysteries."
Johnny wiped his mouth and hands with the napkin. "Time to parley, Mr Ambroise. You ain't killed me right away after spillin' these beans, so I calculate you have some plans in mind."
The man from Haiti smiled. His French accent grew less or more prominent according to his emotional state. This close, it could be seen he had tattoos on the inside of his wrists which peeked out from under the frilly cuffs. "Ah, but you see, that will be for M. Yarbrough to decide. I am employed here because it is only I who can command Fabien."
"Yeah? Educate me, Ambroise. What does a rancher and farmer want with a goddam Zuvembie anyway? How much work can he do? What's he good for, other than scarin' folks?"
"I believe you shall see for yourself. That sounds like Mr Yarbrough now."
Outside had been the whinnying of horses and the voices of men talking excitedly. They heard thumping footfalls and then the dining room door crashed open as Yarbrough stormed in. He was a short fat man in a tailored black suit with a bolo tie and boots with four-inch heels to attempt giving him some stature. There was nothing soft or indecisive about the hard square face with a greying mustache over a bear-trap of a mouth. He stomped into that room and took it over.
"So this is the notorious Brimstone Kid!" he announced as if he wanted the ranchhands outside to hear every word. "What do you make of him, Ambroise?"
The Haitian stood up when his employer had entered. After a second's hesitation, Johnny did the same. Ambroise said, "There is much more to him than meets the eye, boss. He has tapped some potent and-- I believe-- malevolent power."
Yarbrough stepped over to the table and scrutinized the Kid as if he was some farm equipment he debated purchasing. "My boys said you came here seeking work. I have enough field hands and wranglers and carpenters and chefs. You may well be valuable to me because of your more infamous abilities."
"I ain't no hired gun," Johnny answered firmly. "Honest work I'll do and I'll break my back doing it. But I don't fight for pay. Never have."
Glancing over at Fabien, Yarbrough jerked a fat thumb at the Undead. "I see you have already met my best instrument of fear. He has been shot many times, yet the wounds heal up within a few hours. You can't kill that which is already dead... as the fools in town have come to accept."
"I reckon it's clear which way the cat jumps, then. Your Zuvembie keeps the folks in Silent River afraid so they'll do whatever you want," Johnny said. "They dasn't stand up to you."
"And now I think I have found a second instrument of fear," Yarbrough barked in glee. "The Brimstone Kid. The cowboy who rides from Hell. When the townspeople see you alongside Fabien, their spirit will be crushed even more thoroughly. But you yourself will not have to bloody your hands. Your appearance is enough. And you will be well paid, you will be provided a comfortable room here with a feather bed, good meals and a young Mexican mujere brought in if you like. Beats sleeping on the cold hard ground and living on boiled beans and pancakes, drinking bitter strong tea. Think about it."
"Maybe I will take you up on your offer. I don't owe those folks anything. The lunch I just had is the best hot meal I've stuck behind my belt in a long stretch and I could stand a lot more of such." Johnny turned to look back at where Fabien stood behind him, still unmoving, still staring with sightless white eyes in a dark face. "He seems broken to bit and saddle. I don't see where I would have a problem with this, Mr Yarbrough."
"Glad to hear it. You won't regret this, Kid. After I consolidate my grip on the Silver River valley, I'll expand it. Maybe the whole county, maybe even the State. Why not? I have a killer who can't be himself killed and I have a living legend on my team." He pointed a stubby finger at Ambroise and laughed. "And I owe it all to this damned Frenchie mulatto. I didn't believe his claims about Voodoo until I saw the results with my own eyes. You're already living in luxury, boy. I've got my crew planning a cabin of your own for just you."
"I would appreciate that," Ambroise replied evenly. "I certainly merit being treated well. As we both know, Fabien answers only to me. If something were to befall me, some unfortunate fatal accident let us say, Fabien would go berserk. He would become a slaughtering beast such as the West has never seen. Which reminds me, I need more spending money. My luck with the cards is about to turn."
Obviously irritated, Yarbrough dismissed that with a wave of a broad hand. "Let's not bring up unpleasant business right now. I'm taking a hot bath and a brief rest before we all go into town. The citizens of Silent River intend to have a public meeting tonight to find a way to defy me. Picture their faces when they see my twin enforcers walking up to them!" He chuckled and left the room.
"Come, Johnny," said Ambroise. "You might as well make yourself comfortable in a guest room before we leave. It's likely to be an exciting night."
Behind him, Johnny Packard let a wolfish grin break unseen across his face. More than you know, he thought, more than you know!
V.
A sultry red sun touched the mountains to the West, turning scattered cirrus clouds a faint salmon color. Shadows stretched long and exaggerated. Riding his black horse Terror behind the stagecoach, the Kid fought to keep from laughing in gleeful anticipation. He had been given his Peacemakers back, unloaded, and the cartridges had been removed from his belt. This had not surprised him. Yarbrough had admitted he did not trust Johnny fully just yet.
Ahead of him was a dark brown stagecoach with gold trim, pulled by four horses. Painted on both door panels in gold was the Walking Y logo of Yardbrough's brand. Holding the reins was the ranch foreman, a weathered man hitting fifty who looked tough as leather. Laid down next to him was a double-barreled shotgun and he also wore an old Army pistol stuck in his belt. Riding within that coach were boss Horace Yarbrough, Haiti mystic Baron Ambroise and something that had once been a living man.
The town of Silent River was not large, just a main street flanked by a dozen buildings up on platforms to deal with mud and flooding. Wooden planks stretched on the ground from building to building to help pedestrians cross. There was at least one saloon, one barber shop and rooming house, a stable and hardware store that sold and repaired tackle. The one stone building was a whitewashed jail with sheriff's office. Here was where that a crowd of over one hundred townspeople had assembled. They were mostly working class men, with a scattering of tough frontier wives and no children in sight.
Standing at the top of the cement platform in front of the jail was the mayor of Silent River. Surprisingly, he was rather young, tall and lanky and dignified. He had no jacket on, standing there in dress pants and a white long-sleeved shirt with open collar. Beside him was the walrus-mustached sheriff. As he saw the stagecoach nearing, Mayor McKinnon pointed and shouted, "Speak of the devil and he will appear!"
The crowd murmured angrily but parted as Yarbrough emerged and approached the front of the jail. Close behind him was Ambrois, followed by the stiff-legged Zuvembie whose blank white eyes did not move. They came right up within reach of the infuriated mayor. Uneasy quiet fell over the assembly.
"Mr Yarbrough!" shouted the mayor. "With any luck, you'll soon be on the other side of this jail door... as you deserve."
"You're free to speak your mind," Yarbrough answered unemotionally. "Because it don't matter none. You know, all of you sheep know, that my word stands above any law you might pass. I've come to inform everyone that I am imposing a levy to cover expansion of the Walking Y. I want one hundred dollars from every business owner and fifty dollars from every homesteader. My servants will collect on the last day of this month."
The outrage and fury which rippled through the crowd was immediate. Many of the townsfolk held rifles and a few wore pistols at their sides, and those individuals started shifting around to surround the ranch owner. Yarbrough leered in response. He made a 'come here' gesture with one puffy hand and Fabien strode through the townspeople who hastily got out of the way.
In the gloom as the sun set, with light coming from an oil lamp fastened by the door of the jail, the Zuvembie was an unsettling sight. Still wearing only a pair of tattered pants, his exposed black skin was dry and unhealthy-looking. The shrivelled face looked more sunken and lifeless than ever. Whoever he had been in life, that man was lost forever. Only his shell remained.
"Yeah that's right!" laughed Yarbrough. "You damn well should be afraid. Can you see the marks where Tim Foster's bullets went through my servant? Can you see how they closed up without harming him? If I give him the word, Fabien will kill you all and there is nothing that you can do to stop him!"
Everyone shrank back not in normal fear but with the bone-deep horror that comes from witnessing that which should not be. The dead should not walk, and the sight of Fabien weakened the resolve of even the bravest in the crowd.
"But I have even better news for you fools," Yarbrough continued. The short fat man removed his flat-brimmed hat and gestured with it. "Coming to my side now is a rider you have heard tales of. Johnny, come up here, will you?"
The black horse Terror snorted and scalding steam spewed from his nostrils. The stallion's dark eyes had turned bright red. Riding the transforming animal, the Kid felt the Darthan coin in his beaded hatband burning painfully hot on his forehead. Suddenly, he felt more alive and vital than he ever did during the day. He could almost hear the blood roaring through his veins and pounding at his temples. The young wanderer brought Terror to a halt directly in front of the Zuvembie and Ambrois, turning around in the saddle to survey the crowd.
From a dozen mouths came the same words. "Brimstone Kid!" "Oh my Lawd, it's really him." "The Brimstone Kid, here in Silent River!"
"Best y'all keep quiet," Johnny called out in a voice that was suddenly hollow and sepulchral. The crowd drew back even further, some people getting tangled up with each other. No one seemed inclined to meet the gaze of the young gunfighter's eyes, which now had lambent red glints in them.
With an obvious effort, the sheriff squared his shoulders and stepped forward to face the bizarre collection of threats in front of him. John Goldpaugh had held his office for eighteen years. He was well into middle age, with a belly pushing out against his belt and a hairline receding up past his temples. The badge of office flashed against the dark material of his vest and he touched it as if drawing support. Low on his right hip, hanging in a well-worn holster, was his sidearm, a Colt 1851 Navy revolver.
"Horace Yarbrough," he began, then had to swallow and start again. "As the peace officer of the town of Silent River, I say the good people here have suffered enough of your abuse. We're taking a vote at the Grange tonight to have you evicted from your land and forbidden to ever enter this valley again."
"Without charges? Without a trial?" Yarbrough cackled. "I don't think so! You're a weak old man, Goldpaugh. You don't dare arrest me."
"The charge is witchcraft!" snapped the mayor from behind the sheriff. "We are within our rights to dangle you from the Hanging Tree up by the cemetery with no hearing at all."
Baron Ambrois placed a hand on the dark shoulder of his unholy servant. "Your mouth speak words your body cannot follow up. You have seen your puny weapons fire against Fabien without effect. Bow down! Kneel before your true masters!"
"May God have mercy on me for what I do now," Sheriff John Goldpaugh announced sternly. "Whatever punishment I may receive, I take my duty to the people of Silent River seriously. I cannot harm your diabolical servant, Ambroise.. but then, he is not the real threat, is he?"
The Haitian houngan experienced a split-second flash of alarm as he understood those words. Before he could act, the sheriff hooked the butt of his gun, drew and fired three times. The solid .36 caliber bullets smashed into Ambroise's chest and stomach, driving him back a few steps. The sorcerer fell to his knees, both hands trying in desperate futility to stop the heavy bleeding as a wheeze came from his punctured lungs.
"This.. is YOUR fault, Yarbrough. Fabien, kill him before I die!"
The Zuvembie had not even reacted to the gunshots, standing as still as a carved ebony idol, but those words reached him. He whirled and both huge hands darted forward to seize Horace Yarbrough in a grip which no living Human could break. Yarbrough struggled, kicked and screamed but no one even tried to come to his aid. Fabien lifted the wriggling fat man up off the ground, raised one knee and broke Yarbrough's spine with a sound no one witnessing would ever forget. He threw the dying man hard to the ground.
Leaping down off Terror, Johnny Packard knew he had to act fast. From what Ambroise had said earlier, a Zuvembie without its master would go on a blood-spilling rampage and no one there would be able to stop it. He grabbed the arm of a townsman who was carrying a Colt 45 like his own. "Hold still, mister, hold still I say!" Johnny's voice had an echo to it that frightened the man even more than he already was and the young cowboy's fingers dug into his arm like iron claws.
There were only seconds to act. The Brimstone Kid tugged three cartridges from loops on the man's gunbelt and then shoved him roughly away. Breaking open the cylinder of his own Peacemaker, Johnny thumbed in the three shells, closed and spun the cylinder, and stepped forward to face the Zuvembie who was tossing Yarbrough's body aside.
The Kid raised his gun, which shimmered as if it had been sitting in an oven. He himself looked more alarming with each minute as the Darthan curse settled in. His eyebrows had grown thick and spiky over glittering eyes which were more red than green at this point. "Hey, you! Yeah, you. Give me your purtiest smile."
Fabien straightened and lurched directly toward the young gunfighter, big hands reaching up to clutch. Johnny fired three times, the detonations of each shot cracking like thunder close at hand and the muzzle flashes were bright as scarlet lightning. The undead horror was picked up off his feet entirely by the impacts to crash on his back in the dust. He did not even flinch.
The crowd had not panicked or tried to flee. They all stood as paralyzed as deer facing a crouching cougar. In another second, the body of Fabien caved in with a moist plop. The rankest stench imaginable rose into the night air as the corpse decayed into a mass of goo. That stirred the crowd to gagging and choking, and now most of them spun around to run off in near hysteria.
Facing the sheriff and mayor, Johnny Packard twirled his Colt in a fancy pattern that showed long hours of practice before jamming it back down into its holster. "I don't need no thank-yous, boys," the Kid drawled sardonically. "Truth be told, I warn you I might prove as big a problem as these varmints wuz. I ain't no choir boy!"
Sheriff John Goldpaugh got hold of himself with a great effort. "Seein' sights like this.. it's enough to make a man wonder if his mind is sound."
"Aw, yer fine," the Brimstone Kid snorted. "It's all over now, Sheriff, and I have to say you've got sand fer sure to stand up like that. You expected to die, din't you?"
"Yes I did. But I took my oath and I stand by it." He started down the three steps on the side of the concrete platform while the mayor remained behind staring at the remains of three men sprawled nearby. "There was no reward posted for any of them devils, Kid. But I feel sure the town of Silent River will be glad to give you any reasonable amount you request..."
Johnny thought of the gold dust hidden in the seams of his saddle and the seventy silver dollars in their pouch in his saddlebags, untouched by Yarbrough. He had taken them weeks earlier from the Night Riders of Mesquite. "I don't need no money," he answered, still in that unnatural hollow voice. "But if you fetch me a box of shells for my Colts, I'd be obliged. Yarbrough took mine."
The sheriff hustled inside his office and returned with a white cardboard box holding one hundred cartridges. Johnny glanced at them to be sure they were the right caliber and nodded his thanks. "That's all I require, Mr Goldpaugh. I wish you a good life."
Only a handful of the townspeople had remained and now one worked up enough nerve to ask, "Then you- you won't be staying here?"
Johnny gave a mocking laugh that was much too ominous to suit his youth. "Hell, you needn't be worried about me, friend. I'm showing this town my heels. I got no choice, I'm cursed to wander." He whistled. Some distance away, Terror rose up on his hind legs and came down with a thud that everyone felt through their boots. The black stallion trotted forward and Johnny seized the saddlehorn to vault lightly up into place. He took the reins and Terror snorted in eagerness to run.
"We owe you our freedom, Kid," said the sheriff as he took off his hat. "You gave us our lives back."
"Put them lives to good use!" Johnny Packard yelled. "You got no idea how fortunate you all are. May we never meet again." He wheeled his horse around and took off at a full gallop down the empty Main Street on the way out of Silent River. Behind him, a handful of shaken souls stared down at the loathsome puddle in the dirt from which ribs and a skull had emerged.
4/7/2017
4/22/-4/24/1875
I.
With the sunrise, Johnny Packard came back down to normal. He was weary as usual after the transformation and his black horse Terror plodded reluctantly down the long hill to a stream. They both drank their fill of the cold clear water, and Johnny dunked his head a few times to rinse off the sweat and blood. It had been a rough night even for the Brimstone Kid. He ran fingers through his thick red hair and felt fresher. Behind his saddlebags was a canvas sack of oats which he fed to Terror.
He decided to walk for a while, both to stretch his legs and to make it easier for his horse. Only seventeen, Johnny was a small lean young man no more than five feet four inches tall and weighing at most a hundred and fifty pounds. In a bony sullen face, bright green eyes burned with steady anger. He wore boots, black Levis and a long-sleeved blue work shirt with an open denim vest over it. Low on his hips was a gunbelt ringed with cartridges and with big Peacemakers in twin holsters tied to his thighs with thongs. The already legendary 1873 single-action revolvers were cleaned and examined for flaws daily by their young owner. He'd go naked in the world before he'd go unarmed.
As they moseyed along, following the stream, Johnny let his black Stetson loose to hang down on his back by its knotted cord. It was daylight. The cursed Darthan coin would be cold and quiet now. Johnny saw that rise on his right had a single oak tree that overhung the stream and he led Terror up to it. It seemed like a decent spot to rest. There was grass for the horse to munch on and to cushion the ground for himself. The Brimstone Kid tied his steed to a low branch of the tree where the animal could graze easily. He uncinched his saddle and placed it on the other side of the tree before rubbing Terror down and inspecting the animal's hooves for pebbles or splits.
Lately, the coin seemed to be affecting the horse as well as Johnny at nightfall. Right now, though, Terror appeared to be a normal healthy three year old stallion. The black hide was glossy, the eyes were clear and the limbs were smooth and strong. As he finished tending his horse, the animal snorted gently and lowered its head to start nipping at the grass.
Unfurling his bedroll in the shade of the oak, Johnny decided he was too tired to consider making a fire to cook some flapjacks. He had taken a strip of jerky from his saddlebags and munched on the dried salted beef as he tugged off his boots and flexed his toes gratefully. Stretching out on the bedroll, he took out his right hand Colt and rolled over on that side with his head resting on his arm and his iron in his grip. The Kid took a few exhausted breaths and slid into a deep dreamless sleep at once.
Something woke him. He snapped into full awareness at once and opened his eyes to slits without moving his head. While sleeping, he had turned over onto his back but long habit had kept the Colt in his right hand. The sun was past overhead. He had slept about six hours and his head was clearer, but he needed to find out immediately what had rousted him.
On the other side of the tree, Terror stamped one hoof. The animal seldom whinnied. Drawing back the hammer with his thumb, Johnny sat up and peered suspiciously in all directions. There. Approaching slowly along the stream below him was a buckboard drawn by a single painted horse. Holding the reins was a white haired old man with a beard. He was wearing rough work clothes that had been worn thin by hard use.
The Brimstone Kid relaxed only slightly. Ever since he had been given the Darthan coin by Machingtok, he felt he could not trust anyone. This old man looked harmless enough, there was a rifle sitting on the buckboard by his feet, but he seemed to be no immediate threat. Still, although he gently lowered the hammer and holstered the Colt, Johnny remained on edge. He reached for his boots and tugged them on as the wagon drew near.
"Whoa, who, Bess," said the old man. He looked up the hill and saw the slight figure standing motionless with both hands resting on gun butts. "Steady, steady, son. I sure ain't no threat to you."
"No, reckon not. We don't need to parley, grandpa. I'm just passin' through these parts."
"Maybe t'aint my business," the old ventured uncertainly. "But it's just basic friendly concern. You do know you're heading toward Silent River?"
"No, cain't say as I do." Johnny swung his head around to gaze to the West, where a dark blue ribbon could be seen in the distance. "Never heard tell of any Silent River."
"Young fella, I believe you are used to taking care of yourself. Don't take this the wrong way. There's a town down there, also called Silent River." The old man took a deep breath and looked down at his hands. "Bad things are going on down there. Wicked things. Deeds that defy the laws of God and Man. Take it as a Christian gesture when I recommend you turn your feet in another direction."
A remarkably sinister grin spread over the young wanderer's face. His mouth smiled but his eyes did not. "You don't savvy who you're talkin' to, old fella. Your words just now have fired me up to ride right into Silent River."
II.
The old man introduced himself as Micah Schliede and had offered a place to stay a night if the Kid found himself in Cameron, the town twenty miles east. The Kid had simply given his own name as 'Johnny' and had thanked him politely. But he was already eager to ride toward Silent River and see what sort of misdeeds could be going on there. As he packed up his bedroll and saddled Terror, he took time as always to check that the stallion was rested and ready. A man's life depended on his horse out on the plains and deserts where there were long stretches between isolated patches of civilization.
As he vaulted nimbly into the saddle and took the reins, the youth pulled his Stetson up to cover his eyes. The presence of the Darthan coin tucked inside the Navajo beaded hatband was warm and familiar to him. Sometimes it felt like an oppressive weight, sometimes it was like a magnet tugging on him to go in a specific direction. Right now, it sure was yanking on his head to guide him west, right where the old man had warned him not to go.
Johnny smiled thinly at his own foolishness always hoping for trouble. He had been brought up by his Uncle Wade in the border town of Brimstone, Texas after his parents had died in the Blizzard of 1859. Johnny had only been a baby then and had no memory of them. Uncle Wade had often remarked that little Johnny Packard had more curiosity than common sense, that he would start fights with boys twice his size and that he sometimes seemed to have a little devil in him.
That made the Kid laugh now. 'A little devil in him'... if Uncle Wade could only have seen what would happen to his orphan boy. Damnation. Literal Damnation, Johnny chuckled. He steered Terror down alongside the stream and saw the rutted trail where the man Micah had been running his backboard. Heading west, he saw the grassland get more lush and the trees more plentiful. Soon he was riding down an incline and he saw Silent River stretched out a mile ahead.
A muddy expanse of brown water moving only sluggishly down from the Rocky Mountains, Silent River seemed to earn its name. As he watched and listened, the absence of birds or fish splashing over the surface to snatch insects was unsettling. Even the breezes died down and the air grew still and more humid. It felt oppressive. Johnny could not see any sign of a town but the faint trail led downstream so he steered Terror that way. His stomach rumbled audibly. He had some flour and dried beans in his saddlebags, and he could have made flat hard prairie flapjacks but he was unreasonably driven to find out what the old man had been afraid of.
By the side of the clearing was a patch of bare earth with four wooden crosses stuck into the dirt. He reined in Terror and leaned over in the saddle to look. They were each just two branches tied together, stripped of bark and leaves but with no attempt to provide names or dates. Johnny's green eyes narrowed in annoyance. What kind of town didn't have a Boot Hill for even vagrants or the worst outlaws? Why would these men be just thrown in for the long sleep without any sort of respect? He urged Terror to get going again.
To his right, he saw corn fields. Miles of them, tended but with no visible ears this early in the year. In the distance, he could hear cattle lowing and once the echoes of a man yodeling. Cowboys all right. Johnny rode on and spotted a trail leading up to a ranch house. Terror went up the incline and emerged on a well-packed dusty trail leading to a log fence with a gate that had a wooden sign YARBROUGH WALKING Y with a symbol representing the brand the family would use on their cattle. The Brimstone Kid approached the front gate slowly so that anyone watching would have time to see he had no bad intentions.
The ranch house was huge and elaborate, with a wraparound deck, large windows that must have been brought in from back East, even a flagstone area with a firepit for cooking outdoors. A stable and a barn could be seen behind it. Over the front door, with its wrought iron scraper for getting mud off boots, was nailed the skull of an immense longhorn. Before Johnny could approach too closely, two ranchhands emerged from the open barn door and blocked his path. One was holding a Winchester, but with the barrels pointed down. The other man said, "What's your business here at the Walking Y, mister?"
"Just looking for work," Johnny answered peaceably. "I grew up with cattle in West Texas. I can handle most chores around a ranch."
"You're just a youngun," said the rifle-weilding man. "I swear, I think you're not of age to be riding around by yourself. You know there's Kiowa out there, dontcha?"
"Kinda puny kid, too," laughed the other one. "Fella that size probly needs a hand gettin' up on a hoss."
"I'm big enough to whup your ass," Johnny said in the same calm even voice.
"WHAT did you say?"
"You heard me fine," the Brimstone Kid told them as he dismounted lightly as a cat. Each of the ranchhands was half a foot taller and nearly a hundred pounds heavier than he was. Johnny didn't care. "One at a time or both together, it don't make no never mind to me."
"Little man, don't be in such an all-fired rush to get busted." The bigger ranchhand went back to lean his Winchester up against a post before standing alongside his partner. "I reckon an easy beatin' now might teach you some manners and save you a serious thrashin' later in life."
Johnny grinned and a red glint sparked in his eyes. "Let's come to the scratch, hombres."
With the last word, the Kid took three running steps and dove headlong to knock both bigger down in a pile of flailing arms and legs. They were taken by surprise. Both had expected a few more minutes of tough talk and threats before this youngster would either back down or before one of them had to slap him around. Instead they were slammed on their backs in the dirt. Johnny leaped up and came down with both knees in the pit of the older ranchhand's stomach. The man vomited explosively and started gagging. Without a second's pause, the Kid was launching himself at the remaining opponent with both fists swinging furiously. He was small but all hard muscle and bone, and he struck as ferociously as a wildcat. The ranchhand reeled back, hands lowered and all defenses dropped. Johnny threw a final uppercut that started down by his own knees and which clapped the man's jaws shut with a cracking noise. At least one tooth was broken by that blow.
Stepping back, tucking in his shirt where it had come loose, Johnny Packard still was eager for more. Neither cowboy was in any shape to continue fighting. As he started to catch his breath, two ice-cold hands tightened around his neck from behind. The Kid reacted instantly, stamping down with his boot on the attacker's foot and then driving his elbow back into the man's stomach. Neither blow had any apparent effect. Johnny reached up to grab the hands which were choking him and felt a jolt of revulsion. The skin was cold and rigid, like that of a dead man. He struggled and swung his legs up and then down in an effort to throw off the man's balance but nothing worked.
Everything started receding into a grey haze. Too late, his hands dropped to the butts of his Colts. He couldn't grasp them. Johnny didn't feel actual fear, there was just the grim determination to think of some way to free himself. His ears were ringing... yet he heard a voice with a French accent say from an immense distance, "Tres bien, Fabien. Hold him like that." His awareness faded into the dark.
III.
He was only dazed for a few minutes and even then he never completely lost consciousness. He heard a second man's voice, deeper and more authoritative, yelling. He felt himself being carried and then he was sitting in a chair as he regained his senses. Johnny touched his neck gingerly, relieved to find he was breathing normally. His eyesight cleared. Instinctively his hands darted down but found only empty holsters. A heavy hand pressed down on each of his shoulders.
"Someone's gonna pay through the nose..." he muttered. The Kid saw he was in a remarkably elegant dining room for this remote part of Nevada. Handmade furniture of dark polished wood. A long table with a white cloth covering it. Candles in glass bowls. Paintings and stuffed animal heads on the wall. By the door was a long barometer used to help predict storms. Everything was spotless as if it had been scrubbed just for him.
Johnny tried to get up but it felt like a mountain was braced to hold him down. He swung his head around to glare up at his captor but froze in shock. He was being kept in his chair by a big black man naked to the waist, wearing only a dingy pair of white trousers. The man's head was shaven and he had a long, gaunt face with sunken cheeks. What gave the Kid a shiver was that the man's eyes were rolled up so only the whites showed.
"Brother, I don't know what ails you..." Johnny began. He was cut short by a cultured voice from the doorway.
"Fabien cannot hear you," said a dark man in a neat tropical suit of white linen, complete with a red silk cravat. He was leaned on a mahogany cane that was capped with a faceted green gem. Johnny saw that the man was of mixed race, with tight wavy hair plastered down with pomade. Shrewd intelligent eyes in a narrow face examined him as the man entered the room and stood just beyond arm's reach.
"Mister, I don't know you," Johnny said. "But I warn you fair and plain you'd best let me go before there's grief..."
The man pulled out a chair and delicately perched on the edge of the seat. He folded manicured hands on the gem capping his cane and smiled. The smug confidence in that smile infuriated Johnny. "Have you ever been to New Orleans, Mr Packard?"
"Packard? Where'd you get that name?"
"Oh, you are becoming well-known, mon ami. In only a year, you have been quite active with your picturesque exploits. The Brimstone Kid, a cursed cowboy riding out of the jaws of Hell. I am Baron Ambroise, lately of New Orleans but originally from Haiti. Now I find myself in the veritable wilderness where pioneers are settling on the plains and your native buffalo are being replaced by mundane steers."
"That's right pretty talk," Johnny said. "I calculate you've had book learning. Get your amigo's hands off me before I take offense."
"I think it would be prudent to keep you restrained for the moment," Ambroise said with that infuriating smile. "Your blood seems to be running hot right now. Fabien will keep you still until I feel you have calmed down. You are on the estate of a man named Horace Yarbrough. He is quite wealthy by American standards. His holdings include most of this valley. The town of Silent River is in his pocket, as we say."
The Brimstone Kid could tell that his Stetson still hung around his neck. The presence of the gremthom coin in its band throbbed between his shoulder blades, growing painfully warm. He knew that was a warning he was in the presence of the unholy. "Mr Ambroise, let's put our cards on the table. I have to admit I tangled with those two rannies when it wasn't maybe completely called for. But I didn't kill 'em. I reckon they've learned not to judge a man by how high his head reaches when he stands up."
The door at the far end opened and an Indian woman of middle age entered carrying a tray with china plates and bowls. The aroma of hot beef stew and fresh biscuits made Johnny's stomach growl. He watched with interest he couldn't conceal as the squaw set up the plates on the table near them, unrolled cloth napkins that held the proper silverware and bowed before leaving.
"Mr Yarbrough will not be joining us for our dinner," the man called Ambroise offered. "But there is no reason we should not refresh ourselves." As he spoke, the Indian woman returned with a tray which held glasses, a bottle of red wine and a bowl of apples and grapes. She inclined her head again before leaving.
"Thank you, Martha," Ambroise called after her. He pulled his chair up to the table and took a delicate sniff. "Ahh. The chef has started adding cayenne and sliced onions. Even simple fare is better with seasoning. Do you feel inclined to join me, Mr Packard?"
The Kid did not hesitate. "I'd be right happy for some grub right now. But first I need to know how my hoss is?"
"The black stallion? He is safe. We tethered him under a tree and brought your saddle and gear into the house."
"Glad I am to hear that," Johnny said. "He's a fine one, that's fer sure and I'd be riled if any harm came to him. Now, supposin' your servant here unhands me?"
"Fabien." Just the one word. The big half-naked man released Johnny, who shook himself angrily and got up to go over to a chair at the table. He glared back at the unresponsive Fabien.
"I got no beef with the colored folks," Johnny said. "I worked with some in Texas and they wasn't no different than other cowpokes. Some good men, some bad, like everyone else. But your compadre Fabien over there, he seems a mite unusual."
"Ah," replied Ambroise as he carefully arranged his tableware, then examined the chilled wine bottle. "Not a good year, I'm afraid. Yes, Fabien is in some ways an ideal servant. He never speaks, never shirks, never fails to complete a task. He doesn't drink or gamble, has no interest in women."
Johnny ladled out a generous amount of the meal onto his own plate, snatched up a biscuit and began dunking pieces of it in the stew. "These sinkers is aces," he said between swallows. He could not help but keep looking over at where the big black man was standing motionless as a statue. "How's he see, anyways?"
"Not as you or I do," answered Ambroise. The strange man began to eat deliberately but steadily, following each thoroughly chewed mouthful with a sip of the wine. "You might as well know. Fabien was hanged more than three years ago. He is not a living man, but what we call a Zuvembie."
IV.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Ambroise asked, "Have you ever heard of Voodoo, Mr Packard?"
"Yeah I have," Johnny answered, getting his plate clean of the last bit of stew with the last bit of biscuit. "When I were eleven, Uncle Wade had an old ex-slave from New Orleans bunkin' with us. He told me lots about his religion. The little dolls you stick pins in, the bags of herbs you bury under the path where an enemy's gonna walk..."
Ambroise sipped at the wine and gave the glass a disapproving look. "My young friend, what you know as Voodoo is only an echo and a shadow of deeper darker arts. It is like adults singing songs they heard only once as children and barely remember. Beneath Voodoo, its real foundation is the forbidden knowledge revealed by the vile Sulla Chun on the isle of Ulgor. That was in the Darthan Age of thirty thousand years ago."
"Darthan...?" repeated the Brimstone Kid, feeling the oppressive presence of the ancient coin under the hatband on his back. Machingtok had only used the word once.
"Yes. You seem strongly affected by the word, Mr Packard."
"Huh. Mebbe it's knowing there is a dead man standing behind me ready to crack my haid if you tell him to do so."
"I need to ensure my own safety, of course. I was a Houngan, either a priest or a witch doctor depending on how one looks at it." Baron Ambrois stroked a clean-shaven chin and watched Johnny's reactions. "The secrets of Voodoo were not enough for me. I wanted to learn more. I dug deeper, took many risks, went on many pilgrimages. I read books bound in Human skin which are mortal peril to hold, much less read and I delved deeply into their mysteries."
Johnny wiped his mouth and hands with the napkin. "Time to parley, Mr Ambroise. You ain't killed me right away after spillin' these beans, so I calculate you have some plans in mind."
The man from Haiti smiled. His French accent grew less or more prominent according to his emotional state. This close, it could be seen he had tattoos on the inside of his wrists which peeked out from under the frilly cuffs. "Ah, but you see, that will be for M. Yarbrough to decide. I am employed here because it is only I who can command Fabien."
"Yeah? Educate me, Ambroise. What does a rancher and farmer want with a goddam Zuvembie anyway? How much work can he do? What's he good for, other than scarin' folks?"
"I believe you shall see for yourself. That sounds like Mr Yarbrough now."
Outside had been the whinnying of horses and the voices of men talking excitedly. They heard thumping footfalls and then the dining room door crashed open as Yarbrough stormed in. He was a short fat man in a tailored black suit with a bolo tie and boots with four-inch heels to attempt giving him some stature. There was nothing soft or indecisive about the hard square face with a greying mustache over a bear-trap of a mouth. He stomped into that room and took it over.
"So this is the notorious Brimstone Kid!" he announced as if he wanted the ranchhands outside to hear every word. "What do you make of him, Ambroise?"
The Haitian stood up when his employer had entered. After a second's hesitation, Johnny did the same. Ambroise said, "There is much more to him than meets the eye, boss. He has tapped some potent and-- I believe-- malevolent power."
Yarbrough stepped over to the table and scrutinized the Kid as if he was some farm equipment he debated purchasing. "My boys said you came here seeking work. I have enough field hands and wranglers and carpenters and chefs. You may well be valuable to me because of your more infamous abilities."
"I ain't no hired gun," Johnny answered firmly. "Honest work I'll do and I'll break my back doing it. But I don't fight for pay. Never have."
Glancing over at Fabien, Yarbrough jerked a fat thumb at the Undead. "I see you have already met my best instrument of fear. He has been shot many times, yet the wounds heal up within a few hours. You can't kill that which is already dead... as the fools in town have come to accept."
"I reckon it's clear which way the cat jumps, then. Your Zuvembie keeps the folks in Silent River afraid so they'll do whatever you want," Johnny said. "They dasn't stand up to you."
"And now I think I have found a second instrument of fear," Yarbrough barked in glee. "The Brimstone Kid. The cowboy who rides from Hell. When the townspeople see you alongside Fabien, their spirit will be crushed even more thoroughly. But you yourself will not have to bloody your hands. Your appearance is enough. And you will be well paid, you will be provided a comfortable room here with a feather bed, good meals and a young Mexican mujere brought in if you like. Beats sleeping on the cold hard ground and living on boiled beans and pancakes, drinking bitter strong tea. Think about it."
"Maybe I will take you up on your offer. I don't owe those folks anything. The lunch I just had is the best hot meal I've stuck behind my belt in a long stretch and I could stand a lot more of such." Johnny turned to look back at where Fabien stood behind him, still unmoving, still staring with sightless white eyes in a dark face. "He seems broken to bit and saddle. I don't see where I would have a problem with this, Mr Yarbrough."
"Glad to hear it. You won't regret this, Kid. After I consolidate my grip on the Silver River valley, I'll expand it. Maybe the whole county, maybe even the State. Why not? I have a killer who can't be himself killed and I have a living legend on my team." He pointed a stubby finger at Ambroise and laughed. "And I owe it all to this damned Frenchie mulatto. I didn't believe his claims about Voodoo until I saw the results with my own eyes. You're already living in luxury, boy. I've got my crew planning a cabin of your own for just you."
"I would appreciate that," Ambroise replied evenly. "I certainly merit being treated well. As we both know, Fabien answers only to me. If something were to befall me, some unfortunate fatal accident let us say, Fabien would go berserk. He would become a slaughtering beast such as the West has never seen. Which reminds me, I need more spending money. My luck with the cards is about to turn."
Obviously irritated, Yarbrough dismissed that with a wave of a broad hand. "Let's not bring up unpleasant business right now. I'm taking a hot bath and a brief rest before we all go into town. The citizens of Silent River intend to have a public meeting tonight to find a way to defy me. Picture their faces when they see my twin enforcers walking up to them!" He chuckled and left the room.
"Come, Johnny," said Ambroise. "You might as well make yourself comfortable in a guest room before we leave. It's likely to be an exciting night."
Behind him, Johnny Packard let a wolfish grin break unseen across his face. More than you know, he thought, more than you know!
V.
A sultry red sun touched the mountains to the West, turning scattered cirrus clouds a faint salmon color. Shadows stretched long and exaggerated. Riding his black horse Terror behind the stagecoach, the Kid fought to keep from laughing in gleeful anticipation. He had been given his Peacemakers back, unloaded, and the cartridges had been removed from his belt. This had not surprised him. Yarbrough had admitted he did not trust Johnny fully just yet.
Ahead of him was a dark brown stagecoach with gold trim, pulled by four horses. Painted on both door panels in gold was the Walking Y logo of Yardbrough's brand. Holding the reins was the ranch foreman, a weathered man hitting fifty who looked tough as leather. Laid down next to him was a double-barreled shotgun and he also wore an old Army pistol stuck in his belt. Riding within that coach were boss Horace Yarbrough, Haiti mystic Baron Ambroise and something that had once been a living man.
The town of Silent River was not large, just a main street flanked by a dozen buildings up on platforms to deal with mud and flooding. Wooden planks stretched on the ground from building to building to help pedestrians cross. There was at least one saloon, one barber shop and rooming house, a stable and hardware store that sold and repaired tackle. The one stone building was a whitewashed jail with sheriff's office. Here was where that a crowd of over one hundred townspeople had assembled. They were mostly working class men, with a scattering of tough frontier wives and no children in sight.
Standing at the top of the cement platform in front of the jail was the mayor of Silent River. Surprisingly, he was rather young, tall and lanky and dignified. He had no jacket on, standing there in dress pants and a white long-sleeved shirt with open collar. Beside him was the walrus-mustached sheriff. As he saw the stagecoach nearing, Mayor McKinnon pointed and shouted, "Speak of the devil and he will appear!"
The crowd murmured angrily but parted as Yarbrough emerged and approached the front of the jail. Close behind him was Ambrois, followed by the stiff-legged Zuvembie whose blank white eyes did not move. They came right up within reach of the infuriated mayor. Uneasy quiet fell over the assembly.
"Mr Yarbrough!" shouted the mayor. "With any luck, you'll soon be on the other side of this jail door... as you deserve."
"You're free to speak your mind," Yarbrough answered unemotionally. "Because it don't matter none. You know, all of you sheep know, that my word stands above any law you might pass. I've come to inform everyone that I am imposing a levy to cover expansion of the Walking Y. I want one hundred dollars from every business owner and fifty dollars from every homesteader. My servants will collect on the last day of this month."
The outrage and fury which rippled through the crowd was immediate. Many of the townsfolk held rifles and a few wore pistols at their sides, and those individuals started shifting around to surround the ranch owner. Yarbrough leered in response. He made a 'come here' gesture with one puffy hand and Fabien strode through the townspeople who hastily got out of the way.
In the gloom as the sun set, with light coming from an oil lamp fastened by the door of the jail, the Zuvembie was an unsettling sight. Still wearing only a pair of tattered pants, his exposed black skin was dry and unhealthy-looking. The shrivelled face looked more sunken and lifeless than ever. Whoever he had been in life, that man was lost forever. Only his shell remained.
"Yeah that's right!" laughed Yarbrough. "You damn well should be afraid. Can you see the marks where Tim Foster's bullets went through my servant? Can you see how they closed up without harming him? If I give him the word, Fabien will kill you all and there is nothing that you can do to stop him!"
Everyone shrank back not in normal fear but with the bone-deep horror that comes from witnessing that which should not be. The dead should not walk, and the sight of Fabien weakened the resolve of even the bravest in the crowd.
"But I have even better news for you fools," Yarbrough continued. The short fat man removed his flat-brimmed hat and gestured with it. "Coming to my side now is a rider you have heard tales of. Johnny, come up here, will you?"
The black horse Terror snorted and scalding steam spewed from his nostrils. The stallion's dark eyes had turned bright red. Riding the transforming animal, the Kid felt the Darthan coin in his beaded hatband burning painfully hot on his forehead. Suddenly, he felt more alive and vital than he ever did during the day. He could almost hear the blood roaring through his veins and pounding at his temples. The young wanderer brought Terror to a halt directly in front of the Zuvembie and Ambrois, turning around in the saddle to survey the crowd.
From a dozen mouths came the same words. "Brimstone Kid!" "Oh my Lawd, it's really him." "The Brimstone Kid, here in Silent River!"
"Best y'all keep quiet," Johnny called out in a voice that was suddenly hollow and sepulchral. The crowd drew back even further, some people getting tangled up with each other. No one seemed inclined to meet the gaze of the young gunfighter's eyes, which now had lambent red glints in them.
With an obvious effort, the sheriff squared his shoulders and stepped forward to face the bizarre collection of threats in front of him. John Goldpaugh had held his office for eighteen years. He was well into middle age, with a belly pushing out against his belt and a hairline receding up past his temples. The badge of office flashed against the dark material of his vest and he touched it as if drawing support. Low on his right hip, hanging in a well-worn holster, was his sidearm, a Colt 1851 Navy revolver.
"Horace Yarbrough," he began, then had to swallow and start again. "As the peace officer of the town of Silent River, I say the good people here have suffered enough of your abuse. We're taking a vote at the Grange tonight to have you evicted from your land and forbidden to ever enter this valley again."
"Without charges? Without a trial?" Yarbrough cackled. "I don't think so! You're a weak old man, Goldpaugh. You don't dare arrest me."
"The charge is witchcraft!" snapped the mayor from behind the sheriff. "We are within our rights to dangle you from the Hanging Tree up by the cemetery with no hearing at all."
Baron Ambrois placed a hand on the dark shoulder of his unholy servant. "Your mouth speak words your body cannot follow up. You have seen your puny weapons fire against Fabien without effect. Bow down! Kneel before your true masters!"
"May God have mercy on me for what I do now," Sheriff John Goldpaugh announced sternly. "Whatever punishment I may receive, I take my duty to the people of Silent River seriously. I cannot harm your diabolical servant, Ambroise.. but then, he is not the real threat, is he?"
The Haitian houngan experienced a split-second flash of alarm as he understood those words. Before he could act, the sheriff hooked the butt of his gun, drew and fired three times. The solid .36 caliber bullets smashed into Ambroise's chest and stomach, driving him back a few steps. The sorcerer fell to his knees, both hands trying in desperate futility to stop the heavy bleeding as a wheeze came from his punctured lungs.
"This.. is YOUR fault, Yarbrough. Fabien, kill him before I die!"
The Zuvembie had not even reacted to the gunshots, standing as still as a carved ebony idol, but those words reached him. He whirled and both huge hands darted forward to seize Horace Yarbrough in a grip which no living Human could break. Yarbrough struggled, kicked and screamed but no one even tried to come to his aid. Fabien lifted the wriggling fat man up off the ground, raised one knee and broke Yarbrough's spine with a sound no one witnessing would ever forget. He threw the dying man hard to the ground.
Leaping down off Terror, Johnny Packard knew he had to act fast. From what Ambroise had said earlier, a Zuvembie without its master would go on a blood-spilling rampage and no one there would be able to stop it. He grabbed the arm of a townsman who was carrying a Colt 45 like his own. "Hold still, mister, hold still I say!" Johnny's voice had an echo to it that frightened the man even more than he already was and the young cowboy's fingers dug into his arm like iron claws.
There were only seconds to act. The Brimstone Kid tugged three cartridges from loops on the man's gunbelt and then shoved him roughly away. Breaking open the cylinder of his own Peacemaker, Johnny thumbed in the three shells, closed and spun the cylinder, and stepped forward to face the Zuvembie who was tossing Yarbrough's body aside.
The Kid raised his gun, which shimmered as if it had been sitting in an oven. He himself looked more alarming with each minute as the Darthan curse settled in. His eyebrows had grown thick and spiky over glittering eyes which were more red than green at this point. "Hey, you! Yeah, you. Give me your purtiest smile."
Fabien straightened and lurched directly toward the young gunfighter, big hands reaching up to clutch. Johnny fired three times, the detonations of each shot cracking like thunder close at hand and the muzzle flashes were bright as scarlet lightning. The undead horror was picked up off his feet entirely by the impacts to crash on his back in the dust. He did not even flinch.
The crowd had not panicked or tried to flee. They all stood as paralyzed as deer facing a crouching cougar. In another second, the body of Fabien caved in with a moist plop. The rankest stench imaginable rose into the night air as the corpse decayed into a mass of goo. That stirred the crowd to gagging and choking, and now most of them spun around to run off in near hysteria.
Facing the sheriff and mayor, Johnny Packard twirled his Colt in a fancy pattern that showed long hours of practice before jamming it back down into its holster. "I don't need no thank-yous, boys," the Kid drawled sardonically. "Truth be told, I warn you I might prove as big a problem as these varmints wuz. I ain't no choir boy!"
Sheriff John Goldpaugh got hold of himself with a great effort. "Seein' sights like this.. it's enough to make a man wonder if his mind is sound."
"Aw, yer fine," the Brimstone Kid snorted. "It's all over now, Sheriff, and I have to say you've got sand fer sure to stand up like that. You expected to die, din't you?"
"Yes I did. But I took my oath and I stand by it." He started down the three steps on the side of the concrete platform while the mayor remained behind staring at the remains of three men sprawled nearby. "There was no reward posted for any of them devils, Kid. But I feel sure the town of Silent River will be glad to give you any reasonable amount you request..."
Johnny thought of the gold dust hidden in the seams of his saddle and the seventy silver dollars in their pouch in his saddlebags, untouched by Yarbrough. He had taken them weeks earlier from the Night Riders of Mesquite. "I don't need no money," he answered, still in that unnatural hollow voice. "But if you fetch me a box of shells for my Colts, I'd be obliged. Yarbrough took mine."
The sheriff hustled inside his office and returned with a white cardboard box holding one hundred cartridges. Johnny glanced at them to be sure they were the right caliber and nodded his thanks. "That's all I require, Mr Goldpaugh. I wish you a good life."
Only a handful of the townspeople had remained and now one worked up enough nerve to ask, "Then you- you won't be staying here?"
Johnny gave a mocking laugh that was much too ominous to suit his youth. "Hell, you needn't be worried about me, friend. I'm showing this town my heels. I got no choice, I'm cursed to wander." He whistled. Some distance away, Terror rose up on his hind legs and came down with a thud that everyone felt through their boots. The black stallion trotted forward and Johnny seized the saddlehorn to vault lightly up into place. He took the reins and Terror snorted in eagerness to run.
"We owe you our freedom, Kid," said the sheriff as he took off his hat. "You gave us our lives back."
"Put them lives to good use!" Johnny Packard yelled. "You got no idea how fortunate you all are. May we never meet again." He wheeled his horse around and took off at a full gallop down the empty Main Street on the way out of Silent River. Behind him, a handful of shaken souls stared down at the loathsome puddle in the dirt from which ribs and a skull had emerged.
4/7/2017
