"The Eyeless Legion"
May. 15th, 2022 03:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"The Eyeless Legion"
5/27-5/29/1881
I.
The peddler's cart creaked to a halt on Rose Street directly before Blind Man's Alley. Piles of garbage had been sitting in the sun all day, with frequent contributions of urine from street children, and flies were buzzing happily around the stinking heaps. The swaybacked old horse that pulled the wagon full of pots and pans and scissors and cutlery slumped gratefully. A woman's hat adorned the horse's head, with holes cut for the ears that twitched as flies tormented the beast.
"Here ya go, Tony," called out the driver of the wagon. "Home before dark."
Struggling off the seat next to the driver, an old man in tattered rags got himself situated on the sidewalk. He tapped the curb with his cane. Opaque glasses hid his eyes completely, but his unwashed lanky hair was blowing to nearly cover his face in any case. "You have my gratitude," said 'Tony.' "Here, take this fifty-cent piece in recompense..."?
"Nah, nah, that's a-okay," replied the driver. "This was on my route anyway and you are no trouble as company. Maybe I pick you up tomorrow if I pass through here again, eh?"
"I would like that, Gino. Thank you again." The blind man stood listening as the driver tsked his horse and the cart rumbled away. It was in fact getting dark quickly, here almost in the shadow of the Manhattan Bridge. Streetlamps had not been installed in this part of the city.
Tony stood for a moment, sorting out the sounds of children howling at play, of a couple up on the second floor arguing over some trifle, of an untalented hand scratching away on a fiddle. All so familiar. He turned around, tapping his cane to give warning to anyone who might come hurrying along, and stepped between two delapidated tenements. Here was a dead end alley marked at its mouth by a knee high cement pillar used for tying up wagons.
Shuffling into Blind Man's Alley, counting his steps, Tony tucked away his tin begging cup. He stopped at an umarked wooden door and rapped five times with his knuckles. It creaked open a crack.
"What's the haul?" demanded a woman's voice.
"Six dollars and three-five cents," Tony answered. "Plus a turnip and an inker."
"Good enough. Enter and be welcome, brother of the Legion." The door swung outward and a thin elderly woman in a floral brocade dress tugged him inside.
The windows had been painted black. Not a candle was lit, not an electric light burned. It was unrelieved darkness within that large room where he tapped his way. Finding a table with a bench, he dropped down into an unoccupied spot.
All about him, he could hear men moving. Some were ripped off chunks of bread and chewing with their mouths open. Some gurgled beer from mugs. He was so used to these noises that he would have been alarmed if they had been absent.
A refined upper-class voice asked, "You know our rules. The cash you may keep but any tidits you liberated will go into our fund. Hand them over, Tony."
Turning toward the voice, Tony held out a heavy gold pocket watch, disconnected from its chain, and an elegant fountain pen. "I obey the rules as we all must, Dr Bernard."
"For the best," said the mellow voice. "Fellows of the Eyeless Legion, my wife is concocting one of her famous stews for tonight, with several hambones to add savor. It will be doled out shortly. But first, I must remind you all of the danger we are in."
In the unlit room, where not a glimmer of light showed under a door or through a window crack, Dr Bernard's voice went on, "Our late landlord is sorely missed. The new owners of this property, the MacDermott brothers, continue to speak of demolishing this building and turning us all out. They want to erect a clothing store-- fine suits and hats for gentlemen."
The angry muttering that met this statement was unanimous. Bernard paused and then added in a ringing tone, "So they think. They have not reckoned with the Eyeless Legion!"
From out of utter blackness, wild laughter rang out and grew louder. Blind men laughing in the dark.
II.
On his second day in New York City, Johnny Packard felt he was finally getting his bearings. The four day train ride from Santa Fe had been disorienting enough in itself. He was not used to traveling at such speed through countryside that seemed to rush past the windows, and the frequent stops at stations for meals from vendors had only driven in how unusual rail travel was. But he had arrived safely with his carpetbag and his suitcase in hand, walking through Grand Central and making his way through a crowd larger than any he had ever imagined.
Before leaving Texas, Johnny had purchased new clothes. The black Stetson had been replaced by a bowler with a curved brim, the denim jeans and flannel work shirt by a dark suit complete with a necktie and vest. His new boots had much shorter heels and a lower arch than the riding boots he had grown up in.
Locked in his suitcase, his gunbelt with its twin holsters was folded up. That left him feeling naked and vulnerable as a wildcat with its claws pulled. But he had been told he simply couldn't walk around Manhattan armed like that. Johnny kept one of the big .45 Peacemakers stuck in his belt where his suit jacket concealed it. He would not go unarmed seeking a killer if he had anything to say about it.
And, more crucial than anything else in his life, the ancient coin of hot copper-colored metal had been transferred from his Stetson into the silk band of his derby. That cursed token was what made him the Brimstone Kid in reality as well as name.
Slumping in a deeply-cushioned easy chair by a window, Johnny closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. Too much novelty in too short a time. He had to force himself to remember why he had come East, why Old Man Singleton had telegraphed ahead to reserve rooms for him at this ritzy hotel and paid for his fare. The grizzled Singleton patriarch had given Johnny a mission. He was tracking a man heartless enough to kidnap two children and murder them when they were inconvenient.
It was past time to get going. Rising and stretching, Johnny Packard stood only five feet four inches and barely one hundred and forty pounds but it was all lean muscle, tough as rawhide from an active life. The shaggy head of dark red hair and green eyes in a narrow face added to a distinctive look that identified him all over the Southwest. There were no wanted posters for the Brimstone Kid, but he was the star of many campfire tales.
Leaving his rooms, Johnny walked down six flights of stairs. The Fifth Avenue Hotel was famous as the first US hotel with steam-powered elevators, known as "the vertical railroad." He had ridden in the elevator twice and was not ashamed to admit that the damn contraption spooked him. Johnny had a vivid mental image of whatever cables supported that cage coming loose and the whole infernal device falling seventy feet to kill him. No, thanks. He didn't mind walking.
Emerging on the west side of Madison Park, the Kid glanced back at the building. He personally had no need for such luxury. Reservations had been made for him by Old Man Singleton by wire. Johnny had spent most of his life either sleeping wrapped in his bedroll under the stars or staying for a night or two in a rented room over some saloon. But there was no point in turning down the hotel suite to prove how rugged he was.
Sunset was not far off. Johnny walked the streets, staying calm despite the immense crowds rushing frantically past him. New Yorkers were in such an all-fired hurry that they seemed nearly hysterical to him. He was getting used to it and found himself walking at a quicker gait.
The crowds also fascinated him with their variety. Out West, towns were populated mostly by white folks, with a good number of black cowboys, as well as some Mexicans and an Indian or two. But here, there were so many different types of faces that he found it hard to concentrate. The voices yelled in German or Italian or Gaelic, and he wasn't used to hearing so much speech he didn't understand.
But he was young and he was adapting. Johnny had studied a map of the city most of that day, getting the streets he needed to know fixed in his head. He started hiking along the crowded sidewalks, heading south. Wagons bearing loads of goods such as piles of clothing or pyramids of coal, went past. Open coaches with passengers trotted by. He was noticing them less and less.
As darkness fell, Johnny took off his derby and held it in one hand. He could feel the Darthan coin starting to grow hot and to call to him. He had no intention of accidentally carrying that token next to his forehead when night came. The last thing he needed was to transform into the Brimstone Kid here and now.
Soon he had left the elegant strollers in their fine clothes behind, as well as the tree-lined avenues and pristine new buildings. The streets had grown mean. Rundown brick buildings touched each other with alleys only three feet wide between them. There was filth and debris on every sidewalk. Dingy laundry was hanging to dry on strung between the buildings.
Lounging in doorways, hardfaced men stared openly at him. Some were obviously sizing him up as a possibly victim. Strangely, this did not bother Johnny. He had been in many outlaw towns where safety was to be found in a hook and a draw. This area reminded him of those towns.
He walked on. The toughs glaring at him made no hostile moves. Something in the confident way this short redheaded stranger carried himself, the even unafraid way he returned their stares, told them that tangling with him would be more trouble than it was worth.
There were also a good number of children both male and female under twelve running about. Ragged and often barefoot, dirty-faced and shaggy-haired, some were hawking newspapers and some were selling bootlaces. A skinny girl not more than ten years old old strolled by holding a crying baby.
On the corner up ahead, a sign indicated ROSE STREET. Johnny swung his bowler thoughtfully and gave his surroundings even more of a suspicious scrutiny. He started down the street and was in time to witness a bizarre procession.
Into an alley so narrow they had to walk sideways, beggars were hobbling in one after another. Some held a crutch or a cane, most had either dark glasses or dirty cloth tied over their eyes. From the way they slid one hand along the building's wall before finding the opening, they were genuinely sightless.
Blind Man's Alley.
III.
After the final beggar vanished into the alley mouth, Johnny came closer. He could not see the faintest spark of light from in there, it was like gazing into a cavern. Tapping his derby against his free hand, the Kid felt the pull of the Darthan coin more strongly as night came on. A faint but persistent tugging creeped into his mind, urging him to place that hat on his head. To feel the bright madness again, to burn with strength and vitality no normal flesh and blood could bear, to launch himself into slaughter... with a shudder, he resisted that siren call and held the bowler out further away from his body.
Even staring into that seeming abyss, the Brimstone Kid remained aware of people passing by. He had survived too many ambushes to ever lose his peripheral guard. A young man in a lilac-blue dress approached him, one hand raised to touch his shoulder, and that was enough to warn Johnny. He swung around as she came within reach.
She had no weapons evident and her posture didn't indicate any possible threat. Johnny saw a girl still under twenty years in age, slim and of medium height in that demure blue dress with the high lace collar and the brocaded shawl around her shoulders. That face was so entirely Irish that he smiled seeing it. Curly black hair falling half way down the girl's back, a round face with brilliant blue eyes and a dusting of freckles over an upturned nose completed the image. But his smile faded as he saw the concern in her expression.
"Oh! Heavens, sir, do not consider entering that alley," she said with a less noticeable lilt than he had expected.
"And why would I not?"
"To face the Eyeless Legion in their very element? In the utter blackness they are accustomed to moving through?" she asked. "They would slay you to sell off your clothing."
"They could try," he answered sternly. "But I thank you kindly for a well-intended warning to a stranger. What is this Eyeless Legion anyway, if not only a ragtag posse of the unfortunate?"
"Your accent is strange to me," she said after a moment. "Are you truly a cowboy?"
"Born and bred in the most beautiful State in the Union," he replied. "And I believe that you are not from these here parts, either."
"No. No, tis a Cork County girl I will ever be. Please, let us step away. Lingering near Blind Man's Alley is not healthy." She tentatively reached up to place a long-fingered hand on his upper sleeve. "Allow me to explain."
"That would suit me down to the ground," he said. "Allow me to present myself. Jonathan Packard from Brimstone, Texas, here in this great metropolis for the first time."
"Oh! I dare say, then you are a gunfighter?"
"Some have called me that," he admitted. "But now you have the advantage of me, miss..?"
"Maeve MacDermott. Please, come away. If it is not being overly bold, I invite you to come dine with us where I can explain what danger you were about to place yourself in." Maeve raised a hand, and a stout black woman her own age drew near from where she had been watching a few feet away. "This is Coral," explained Maeve. "We grew up together and she is as much dear friend and confidante as handmaid."
Since he was holding his hat and could not tip it, Johnny contented himself with inclining his head politely. "How do," he said to the servant, then turned his attention back to Maeve. "I'd be pleased to accept your invitation, miss."
"Our coach is down the street." Those cobalt blue eyes examined the Kid with a cool appraisal. "Best to not linger in this neighborhood after dark."
IV.
Despite the courtesy everyone was extending, Johnny squirmed in discomfort. The elegance of the dining room with its gleaming silverware and fine china plates under the light of a crystal chandelier swamped him. The rich maroon rug underfoot, the heavy draperies and original oil paintings, the servants who silently brought in items and removed them without any signal given he could detect... Johnny felt like he had stepped into a storybook.
But then, as the lamb cutlets and boiled potatoes with parsley were finished, small plates with wedges of warm peach cobbler replaced the main meal. The conversation had been stiff and strained, but as the meal drew to a close, the Kid felt the atmosphere in the room ease up.
Seated at the head of the table, Miles MacDermott dabbed at his lips with a crisp linen napkin. He was a hefty man with a substantial belly pressing up against the table. MacDermott had a more distinctive Irish accent and his face behind the white handlebar mustache and bushy sideburns had grown more flushed as he devoured large servings of everything.
"Normally, Mr Packard," MacDermott said, "This is when I would invite you to retire into my den for a cigar and some brandy. However, my lovely daughter feels there are urgent matters that you must learn."
"I'm a stranger to this town," Johnny replied, "and I'm willin' to have my ear bent."
"First," said Maeve. "That alley where you stood earlier leads to the Benevolent Institution For the Sightless, and easily twenty to thirty indigent blind men stay there. Meager meals are provided and only cots or blankets on the floor for sleeping, but at least they are warm and dry out of the elements."
The father raised a broad hand to interrupt. "This is seemingly a worthy facility, administered by Dr Saul Weissman and his wife on a voluntary basis, yet the police and the public have long suspected the Institution to be the lair of the Eyeless Legion."
"The Eyeless Legion...." said Johnny.
"Yes." Maeve raised her voice sharply and explained, "One might think that the sightless are not a likely threat to public safety, but too many times have there been robberies and murders and worse where the only person known to have been at the scene was a blind beggar. They clearly could not have committed the offenses and so they are invariably released without being charged."
"Pardon me, miss," the Kid ventured. "I reckon this is a mite obvious but these suspected crooks are genuinely blind and not merely play-acting?"
"Oh, there is no doubt in that area," she said. "To qualify for shelter, the City has each blind man examined by Dr Weissman and given a certificate to carry."
Johnny made a dubious sound. "Sounds like a tangled up ball of string to unravel, if I might say so."
The father had watching Johnny carefully since they had met. "Mr Packard, I flatter myself as a good judge of character. In my business dealings, I have had to read men as one reads a map before embarking on a journey. You have the marks of a man of action. You are not easy to daunt and not easy to corrupt. Am I correct in this?"
Johnny smiled. "I can't gainsay you, sir. My life has been a tad more colorful than most men's."
"Seeing you here in the big city, I wonder if Providence has not led you to where you are needed most, to confront the Eyeless Legion and put an end to their threat."
"Sir, I have to say I've come East with a goal in mind," the Kid said. "I'm looking for a badman. The blood of two children is on his hands and I mean to call him out afore I return home."
The servant girl wheeled in a cart that held a steaming hot coffee urn, with china cups and silver spoons as well as crystal containers of cream and sugar. As she began to lay everything out, Maeve said, "Thank you, Coral, we will suit ourselves. You may go about your business if you will."
Coral inclined her head and left the dining room. As MacDermott poured the coffee for everyone, she said, "Are you then a bounty hunter?"
"No, miss. I'm undertaking this as a favor to a man who treated me well when I was injured and helpless. Old Man Singleton has suffered the cruel loss of his granddaughters at the hands of a varmint named Smoky Downing. I aim to have some words with Smoky."
McDermott stirred the cream into his coffee and ventured a sip. "I see. What makes you conclude that this man Downing is here in our city?"
"We found an envelope that fell behind the dresser in the rooms he was a'renting in a boarding house," Johnny explained. "It had been ripped open and they was no letter inside but the address read 'Cherry Street, New York City 36, New York.' A hunter must follow even a faint spoor."
There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment. The Brimstone Kid drained his cup and enjoyed some quality coffee after the indifferent brews he was used to. "I'm right sorry if you was hopin' to set me on these Eyeless Legion folks, but I swore to Singleton that I'd bring justice to the man who killed those little girls and I'm fixin' to do just that."
McDermott visibly sagged with disappointment. "Ah. Well sir, if you have given your word, why then I must respect that. My daughter and I know this town well, we are Manhattan natives and we will offer you information you might need."
"I thank you kindly for that," said the Kid. "And if these Eyeless Legion polecats should cross my path, I calculate I can make them regret it."
"Johnny," said Maeve, using his name for the first time. "Will you stay here tonight? My father is too proud to say his mind, but his brother- my uncle Leo- died under suspicious circumstances not two weeks ago. Shabby blind beggars have been loitering around this house for days. To be frank, I fear the Legion may intend to do us both harm."
The Brimstone Kid had placed his bowler in his lap during the meal. He felt the cursed token in his hatband growing hotter and more imperative. "Miss MacDermott... Mr MacDermott, you can rest easy. If these lowlifes dare enter your home, they will meet someone I guarantee they ain't gonna like."
V.
At three in the morning, the streets had been surrendered to thieves and scavengers, prostitutes walking their circuits and drunkards thrown out of taverns. In the MacDermott mansion, both father and daughter had retired to their bedrooms on the second floor and the servants had all turned in for the night.
In the front hall, the only sound came from the deep steady ticking of the seven-foot high grandfather clock facing the door. The heavy maroon curtains had been drawn over the windows and the fireplaces had been allowed to die down as it was a damp but warm night.
In a window facing the rear alley behind the building, a faint scraping noise could be heard. Then came a pop. A diamond-tipped glass cutter had incised a circle in the window and a sharp tap had forced the section loose to fall silently on the plush carpenting.
A grubby hand stretched through the hole to fumble with the lock and turn it. Slowly, taking great pains, the window was raising and what appeared to be an animate bundle of rags squeezed in from the night. The blind beggar stood up next to an ornate bench and waited while two more of his brethren followed.
Each was wrapped in tatters, wearing shoes that barely held together and dark-lensed glasses that hid their eyes. Two of them leaned on heavy walking sticks that were thick as cudgels. Each of the blind men had long unkempt hair and a straggly beard streaked with grey.
As soon as all three were inside, the leader raised a gloved finger to his lips for silence. But, twenty feet away, a mocking voice drawled from behind the door to a closet, "That's wasted effort, amigo. We is gonna make some ruckus."
Johnny Packard emerged from that closet, placing his derby on a cabinet and unbuttoning his jacket. He cracked his knuckles and grinned in anticipation.
"Kill him," hissed the leader of the beggars. "Quickly! We are three to his one and he is but a runt."
The Brimstone Kid stepped over into the middle of the hall and waited for them. "You fellas ain't never tangled with a Texas boy, have ya?" As they padded forward toward him, Johnny took three quick steps and plunged into their midst. Both hard bony fists smacked in all directions and both booted feet smashed out hard against knees and shins. They all went down in a furious tangle from which the Kid leaped up and slammed rapid punches with murderous accuracy.
In truth, Johnny was half a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter than any of his opponents. It didn't help them. He swerved away from their attempts to strike him, too nimble to stay in place long enough to be caught, and his blows cracked home to leave the beggars gagging from crushed windpipes or dazed by hammer strikes to the jaw.
It was clear at once that the ragged men could see. They swung their walking sticks in whistling arcs and tried to clutch at the smaller man with dirty hands. Johnny could not be caught. One man fell to the floor, gasping and trying to catch his breath. Then the second beggar sagged senselessly down after his face was smashed hard against the side of a cabinet.
The leader of the Eyeless Legion had tugged a common butcher knife from inside his coat and he held it before him with the point up and ready to slice.
Johnny Packard said quietly, "I was gonna let you live, amigo. But when the toothpicks come out, all bets are off." He plunged forward and to one side, seizing the beggar's arm at wrist and elbow. Johnny bent the man's arm inward by sheer force and slid that knife to the hilt in the blindman's own chest.
As the beggar twitched and coughed a few times before dying, the Kid strutted over to retrieve his bowler. He twirled the hat, resisting the imploring summons from the Darthan coin in the band. Once he put that hat on during the hours of darkness, he would be freeing a demon.
Now he had to roust a few of the servants, including the sturdy-looking driver, to help tie this intruders up and get some answers. Waking Mr MacDermott should be easy, Johnny grinned to himself, he doubted that the old man had actually gotten to sleep at all.
So the Eyeless Legion could see. That didn't really surprise him. Even out West, cities had a few beggars faking various disabilities. There were con men everywhere. The Kid tugged down the cuffs on his jacket and straightened the knot on his tie as he gathered his thoughts. Maybe Mr MacDermott and he could dump these varmints in some dark alley away from the mansion...
Muffled noises came from outside. Instantly, snatching up his hat and loosening the Peacemaker stuck in his waistband, the Brimstone Kid darted across the front hall and dove headlong through the open window to roll when he hit the street outside and leaped up to his feet.
There was an open wagon pulled by a single horse, and two more of the Eyeless Legion were loading a bundle into the back. Wrapped in a blanket and tied with cords, that bundle wriggled and made muffled noises of protest. He knew immediately what was in that cylinder.
Folding up a collapsible ladder of wooden slats, the third beggar swung around at the dramatic appearance of this redheaded youth. "Get going!" he hissed to his fellows.
The supposed blindman reached into a trouser pocket and swung up a snub-nosed Bulldog revolver. He was used to intimidating unarmed merchants or weary laborers and thought he was tough. This time, though, he was up against a genuine gunslinger. Before that Bulldog even reached level point, thunder crashed in the alley with a burst of white light and the beggar fell back with a .45 slug in his heart.
Even handicapped by not wearing a proper holster but having his iron jammed in his belt, Johnny had been faster than anything the dying beggar had ever seen. Still holding the Peacemaker, he stepped over the body and kicked the Bulldog away from a lifeless hand. Johnny had a long-established conviction that even an enemy who should be dead could sometimes manage a final shot.
From the window behind him, MacDermott cried out, "Johnny? Maeve's gone! She's not in her room. Who are these men on the floor?"
Seeing that the wagon had gotten away during the brief shooting, the Kid walked over closer to the window. "It's the Eyeless Legion, sir. They've taken Maeve. I calculate they mean to use her as hostage."
"Oh merciful Providence! Pursue them, Johnny! Don't let them hurt my baby."
"Don't you worry none, sir," the Kid replied. "I believe you should send a servant to fetch the police and relate the tale as best you know it."
"But my little girl...!" said MacDermott. "She is in mortal peril."
"No, sir." The Brimstone Kid tugged his derby firmly down on his head, feeling the cursed token burn over his forehead. His voice became hollow and sepulchral. "Them scum are the ones who's in danger..."
VI.
In a warm stuffy room without windows, absolute darkness hung heavy in the air. There were the sounds of chairs scraping on the floor, of cloth rubbing against cloth, of a gulping of a drink and the clunk of the mug being set down. But nothing could be seen.
"Faith, it must be time for our sight to return," growled a voice. "Strike a lucifer, I say."
"No! Don't you men pay attention at all?" This was a deep, cultured voice that spoke with authority. "While the drops wear off, our eyes are vulnerable. A flash of light might damage them permanently. Show some patience for once."
"Arrgh, doctor, tis not that I doubt you," complained a beggar. "These drops of your Erebus serum work well enough. Even the most nosy policeman inspecting us will not doubt we are blind indeed. It's just that I always worry when the drops wear off."
"True that," said a rougher voice from further across the blackened room. "So far our eyesight has always returned. But who knows what harm might be done by prolonged use? We are toying with a sense more precious than any other."
The refined voice held a vague hint of an Eastern European accent as it scoffed. "Do you doubt Dr Saul Weissman? I, who have degrees from Vienna and the Sorbonne? If I did not have faith in my Erebus solution, would I use it myself?"
"True. True. But it's still nerve-wracking, doctor."
At the unseen table where the men sat unseen, a faint click sounded and for a second, the faintest of dim glows could be glimpsed. Then it was shut off again. "Four AM by the radium dial of my watch," said the doctor. "Another half hour and the serum will fade from our systems. Bright light now might leave us truly blind, my friends. Sit tight."
"What a racket!" laughed a voice from the other side of the room. "The loot from suckers and from relieving tourists of what weighs their pockets down. Then on other days, with eyesight sharp as an eagle's, we dress in finer garments and enjoy our spoils. And who suspects us? Who would ever dream that well-trimmed gentleman in the French restaurant was a miserable blind wretch the day before?"
Laughter erupted in that dark room, cries of "That's so!" and "Well said, Lou!" added to the glee. But abruptly the mirth was cut short from every mouth simultaneously.
Facing them at head level, floating seemingly unsupported in the air, a pair of bright crimson spots blazed next to each other.
"Damn my soul, are those EYES?" yelled a beggar.
"Tis a cat, I swear. You've all seen a cat's eyes reflect light like that!" said another.
"You're gonna wish I was a cat," echoed a ghostly voice. The red eyes swung to take over the room that no normal human could have seen anything in. "I count nineteen of you owlhoots, plus yer doctor over there. One or two of yuh might escape but this is good enough."
"What the hayll? What kinda trick is this? And what's that smell?" demanded one of the beggars.
"You smell kerosene," replied the hollow tomblike voice. A thumbnail scratched a wooden match and in the next instant a torch soaked in kerosene flared up into brilliant flame.
The Eyeless Legion screamed and howled at the unexpected agony, pawing at their faces and falling to the dingy floor. Revealed by the torch, the room was shown to be a high-ceiling basement with damp stone walls. Three rough-hewn tables had benches filled with the distressed members. Mugs of coffee and a pitcher of beer were knocked over by their frenzy.
Johnny Packard raised the blazing torch and swung it from side to side. He had changed under the Darthan curse. His face was gaunt with sunken cheeks and bristly eyebrows. In the torchlight, his irises shone red as hot coals. And his voice would have better fit an undead Ghoul as he yelled, "I hope yuh all got a good look, amigos!"
Genuinely blinded now, stricken with dismay, the Eyeless Legion made not the slightest effort to strike back. They were weeping and moaning. Many sank to floor and could not rise.
"All right, you fools, lissen up!" Johnny yelled. "Where's the MacDermott gal? Remember I can beat you all into broken rag dolls and you can't lift a finger to stop me! Where is she?"
"Upstairs!" screamed a beggar, still dabbing in horror at his eyes. "In the doctor's bedroom, tied spread eagle."
At those words, the Kid realized that Dr Weissman was not in the room. Evidently, he had been quick-thinking enough to cover his eyes and flee while Johnny was distracted by the gang's reaction.
The Kid threw the blazing torch to the damp stone floor. "I got no sympathy for you bastards," he announced. "Y'all been robbin' honest citizens, you been molestin' decent women and lately Dr Weissman has been using you to pull murders for him. That's over now, you really ARE the Eyeless Legion."
Johnny ran out of the cellar and up rickety wooden steps. Faint glimmers of dawn outside began to show here and there in a scratches in the black paint over the window. He didn't need it. When he was raging under the full Darthan curse, he could see in the dark better than any owl. The Kid found the wide staircase leading upstairs and he sprang up it two steps at a time.
He hadn't known that light would blind the Legion until they had said so. He had only hoped the torch would dazzle them and serve as an intimidation. But his grim sense of irony was satisfied at their fate. At the landing, flanked by two potted plants, was a solid oak door and he went through it as if it had been built to fly apart under impact.
In Weissman's bedroom, a single gas lamp burned on an end table with its flame turned low. Tied at wrists and ankles by clothesline was the wriggling form of Maeve MacDermott. A handkerchief had been tied into her mouth as a gag. Johnny was relieved to see her bedclothes, including a silk robe sashed at the waist, were intact. At least she seemed to have not been mistreated too badly.
Straightening up by the bed was a solid man with a round paunch that was partly concealed by a well-cut tweed suit. Dr Jacob Weissman had a bland, unimpressive face. Round-lensed glasses sat on a snub nose and the crisp white hair had receded so far back on his forehead that a swatch of bare pink skin was exposed.
Clutched in a soft hand was a pepperbox, a derringer with four rectangular barrels. Weissman made a gurgling noise and extended his arm but froze as he got a good look at the intruder.
Standing over the fragments of the door, Johnny Packard leered at the doctor. In the dimly lit room, the cowboy's eyes shone with their own lambent light. His voice echoed as if from far away, "You make me laugh with that toy. I'll put a hole between your eyebrows and let some air into yer skull afore you can blink."
Weissman reluctantly lowered his hand, "How is any of this your business, son?"
"I'm a-makin it my business," the Brimstone Kid intoned. "You had yer danged fake blindmen kill that woman's uncle 'cause you wanted to get a claim on this building. Now you abducted her so you can pressure her father to sell out to you. Yer low, mister. You ain't got no sense of right and wrong."
Dr Weissman seemed to be getting his wits about him. "You're from the Western states, I believe. That's a Texas twang. What on Earth could have brought you here to Old Gotham?"
For a long ominous moment, Johnny did not answer. "Now that I think of it, maybe you should stay alive a minute longer to answer some questions. I'm trackin' a big old dandy goes by the handle Smoky Downing. He did a deed so low I hate to even name it. Afore I leave this city, I aim to stand over his dead body--"
Even in the gloom, Johnny caught the flicker of Weissman's eyes at something behind him. The Kid wheeled around in a crouch, the heavy .45 Colt swinging up in his grip, just as something big and massive exploded right against the side of his head. Darkness took him in a burst of pain.
VII.
Not for the first time, Johnny Packard struggled back up to consciousness. Sometimes he worried he would wind up like a punch-drunk old bare-knuckler after getting slugged in the head so many times. He was lying face down on the carpeting. Getting his hands under him, the Kid readied to prop himself up but he was pinned down by a brutal weight between his shoulder blades.
"None of that, Packard," said a sour voice with a Western accent like his own. "I heered tell more than enough about you! Refugee from Hell, spook posin' as a cowhand, whatever you might be, I swear I'll empty my iron into the back of your head if you struggle."
A cold sinking feeling washed over Johnny as he realized he had dwindled down to normal Human capabilities. His derby with the Darthan coin had been knocked far out of reach. He was mortal again. Tilting his head up, he could just see Dr Weissman holding the Peacemaker uneasily. So Johnny knew he was disarmed as well.
Despite the setback and the pounding agony in his head, the Kid reacted with anger rather than dismay. The two would not see the dawn, he swore to himself. "Smoky, huh? What the hayll did you hit me with, a telegraph pole?"
"Close enough," laughed the badman. "I used a shillelagh that one of the blind men had lyin' around. Carved from an oak branch thick as yer wrist."
"Yeah, I could tell it weren't no kitchen match," the Kid grumbled. "You do know the whole county is out to string you up for what yuh did to the little Singleton girls?"
"Why d'ya think I came East? I had no great desire to dance on the air with the town yokels watching." Smoky Downing pulled a chair over and dropped down heavily into it where he could meet Johnny's cold gaze. "I knew the doc here from when we worked together a few years ago."
Without Smoky's heavy boot holding him down, the Kid got up on his elbows. "Yeah, I recollect somethin' of that sort on yer WANTED Poster. Up in Kansas. You was sellin' snake oil to the gullible and got caught."
"Never you mind that now. The immediate future is your concern, boy." Smoky Downing was a tall skinny man with a dark blond hair that reached his shoulders and a mustache he had waxed into points. Dressed in quiet dark Eastern clothes with a string tie and a soft felt hat pushed back on his head.
In one hand, Smoky gripped a 44 revolver with the hammer already thumbed back. "I gots to say, for someone with yore reputation, you sure are a scrawny lil thing. You sure yer not an imposter posing as the Brimstone Kid?"
"I reckon prudence takes over now," Johnny told them. "I got no personal stake in your affairs. I was just earnin' a fee. Ten thousand dollars from Old Man Strickland."
"And how is this of any interest to me, son?" asked the badman with the first hint of interest in his flat tones.
"We can make a deal. Ten thousand in yore pocket and I'm on the next train back across the Mississippi. No hard feelin' either way."
"We can't trust you--" began Weissman, but he was stopped at a gesture from Smoky's gun.
"Let's see the cash first," the badman said. "I dunno, maybe we can work things out."
"Gimme my hat. I got a ticket to where the money is stashed."
Picking up the bowler from the floor, Smoky Downing squeezed it and satisfied himself no weapons were concealed within it. "Where's this ticket, Packard?"
"Hand it here, I'll show you. There's a hidden seam." Up on one elbow, Johnny Packard reached up to receive the hat and clapped it down on his shaggy red hair. Like molten silver, vitality rushed through his body. His head cleared off all pain and he felt like he could wrestle a mountain lion or outrun a Mustang. Rumbling deep in his chest, the Brimstone Kid heaved up off to the floor to seize Smoky's wrist in a ferocious grip that snapped bones.
Before anyone could react, Johnny had wrestled the .44 out of the nerveless hand and swung it up to blast a bullet directly between Smoky's eyes at point-blank range. The badman's face caved in and a gout of dark blood erupted from the back of his head.
Swiveling away from the corpse as it tumbled off the chair, the Kid saw Dr Weissman raising that derringer again. The revolver barked and bucked in his hand and the doctor fell backwards with both arms waving wildly. His corpse slid down next to the bed.
Johnny went over and spoke to the trembling girl in as normal a voice he could manage while in this state. "Maeve? Maeve, darlin', it's all over. Yore safe. I'm takin' you home and no one is gonna lay a finger on you again." He took a knife from his boot and removed her gag.
"Johnny? Johnny, you sound like you're in a cave? What happened to you?"
"That don't make no never mind right at the moment," he said. Johnny retrieved his Peacemaker and stowed it in his waistband. Then, on impulse, he placed the .44 in Smoky Downing's lifeless hand and folded the fingers around it. Let the police figure it out as they might, he gloated.
Freeing Maeve MacDermott, the Kid left her blindfolded. As he helped her up, he tugged her hands away as she tried to remove the cloth over her eyes. "Trust me now even if you never trust anyone again, you do NOT wanna get a good gander at this room. Come on, let me lead you. We're going down some stairs and then outside."
In the mouth of Blind Man's Alley, Johnny removed her blindfold. Vague grey streaks of light were beginning to show in the sky. Pushcarts piled with old clothes or twenty-pound burlap sacks went squeaking by, pulled by bent old men. Somewhere nearby, bacon was sizzling and spreading its aroma. Two barefoot boys ran headlong down the middle of the street, carrying overcoats that they had evidently stolen.
"I'm takin' back to yer daddy," the Kid told her as they started walking nortrh to the posher neighborhoods. "He must worryin' himself into conniptions over you."
"Is it really over? Those awful men came into my chamber and carried me out of my own bed. They were so dirty and rough! They took liberties with my person. I thought for sure I was heading to meet my Maker tonight..."
Johnny took her arm and stepped up the pace a bit. "That's all over now, Maeve. I swear to you that the Eyeless Legion won't be botherin' you agin."
"Oh, the relief is heavenly. Johnny, my father is comfortably off. I'm sure he will want to reward you handsomely. And I certainly will express my appreciation in any proper way."
"Hah." The Kid snorted. By now, the streets were filling with laborers trudging to the factories and sweatshops, stores were opening their doors to air out before the day began and horse-drawn carts were trundling past. "Mebbe I'll pass this way again, miss. But for my own safety, what with the carnage and mayhem that transpired in the night, I think it's healthier for me to go home."
"Oh, no. I implore you, Johnny, remain with us. With me, if I may be so bold."
As he escorted her up Broadway, the Kid removed his derby and ruffled his sweaty hair in relief. With dawn, the Darthan spell had lifted. He was sore and exhausted. "Yore father can explain better than I can. The PO-leece will be askin' questions I'd rather not answer. As soon as I claim my baggage, it's a third-class bench on the first train outta town for me."
Maeve McDermott stopped where she was and gripped the lapels of his jacket. "Could you... take me with you, Johnny?"
He shook his head. "You don't know the burden I'm livin' under, Maeve. Watch the post for a letter. I swear I'll write when I'm back where I belong."
Leaving her in front of her family home as a servant excitedly opened the door, Johnny disengaged himself and limped off into the crowd. Not looking back took more effort of will than he thought he could ever summon.
2/23/2018
5/27-5/29/1881
I.
The peddler's cart creaked to a halt on Rose Street directly before Blind Man's Alley. Piles of garbage had been sitting in the sun all day, with frequent contributions of urine from street children, and flies were buzzing happily around the stinking heaps. The swaybacked old horse that pulled the wagon full of pots and pans and scissors and cutlery slumped gratefully. A woman's hat adorned the horse's head, with holes cut for the ears that twitched as flies tormented the beast.
"Here ya go, Tony," called out the driver of the wagon. "Home before dark."
Struggling off the seat next to the driver, an old man in tattered rags got himself situated on the sidewalk. He tapped the curb with his cane. Opaque glasses hid his eyes completely, but his unwashed lanky hair was blowing to nearly cover his face in any case. "You have my gratitude," said 'Tony.' "Here, take this fifty-cent piece in recompense..."?
"Nah, nah, that's a-okay," replied the driver. "This was on my route anyway and you are no trouble as company. Maybe I pick you up tomorrow if I pass through here again, eh?"
"I would like that, Gino. Thank you again." The blind man stood listening as the driver tsked his horse and the cart rumbled away. It was in fact getting dark quickly, here almost in the shadow of the Manhattan Bridge. Streetlamps had not been installed in this part of the city.
Tony stood for a moment, sorting out the sounds of children howling at play, of a couple up on the second floor arguing over some trifle, of an untalented hand scratching away on a fiddle. All so familiar. He turned around, tapping his cane to give warning to anyone who might come hurrying along, and stepped between two delapidated tenements. Here was a dead end alley marked at its mouth by a knee high cement pillar used for tying up wagons.
Shuffling into Blind Man's Alley, counting his steps, Tony tucked away his tin begging cup. He stopped at an umarked wooden door and rapped five times with his knuckles. It creaked open a crack.
"What's the haul?" demanded a woman's voice.
"Six dollars and three-five cents," Tony answered. "Plus a turnip and an inker."
"Good enough. Enter and be welcome, brother of the Legion." The door swung outward and a thin elderly woman in a floral brocade dress tugged him inside.
The windows had been painted black. Not a candle was lit, not an electric light burned. It was unrelieved darkness within that large room where he tapped his way. Finding a table with a bench, he dropped down into an unoccupied spot.
All about him, he could hear men moving. Some were ripped off chunks of bread and chewing with their mouths open. Some gurgled beer from mugs. He was so used to these noises that he would have been alarmed if they had been absent.
A refined upper-class voice asked, "You know our rules. The cash you may keep but any tidits you liberated will go into our fund. Hand them over, Tony."
Turning toward the voice, Tony held out a heavy gold pocket watch, disconnected from its chain, and an elegant fountain pen. "I obey the rules as we all must, Dr Bernard."
"For the best," said the mellow voice. "Fellows of the Eyeless Legion, my wife is concocting one of her famous stews for tonight, with several hambones to add savor. It will be doled out shortly. But first, I must remind you all of the danger we are in."
In the unlit room, where not a glimmer of light showed under a door or through a window crack, Dr Bernard's voice went on, "Our late landlord is sorely missed. The new owners of this property, the MacDermott brothers, continue to speak of demolishing this building and turning us all out. They want to erect a clothing store-- fine suits and hats for gentlemen."
The angry muttering that met this statement was unanimous. Bernard paused and then added in a ringing tone, "So they think. They have not reckoned with the Eyeless Legion!"
From out of utter blackness, wild laughter rang out and grew louder. Blind men laughing in the dark.
II.
On his second day in New York City, Johnny Packard felt he was finally getting his bearings. The four day train ride from Santa Fe had been disorienting enough in itself. He was not used to traveling at such speed through countryside that seemed to rush past the windows, and the frequent stops at stations for meals from vendors had only driven in how unusual rail travel was. But he had arrived safely with his carpetbag and his suitcase in hand, walking through Grand Central and making his way through a crowd larger than any he had ever imagined.
Before leaving Texas, Johnny had purchased new clothes. The black Stetson had been replaced by a bowler with a curved brim, the denim jeans and flannel work shirt by a dark suit complete with a necktie and vest. His new boots had much shorter heels and a lower arch than the riding boots he had grown up in.
Locked in his suitcase, his gunbelt with its twin holsters was folded up. That left him feeling naked and vulnerable as a wildcat with its claws pulled. But he had been told he simply couldn't walk around Manhattan armed like that. Johnny kept one of the big .45 Peacemakers stuck in his belt where his suit jacket concealed it. He would not go unarmed seeking a killer if he had anything to say about it.
And, more crucial than anything else in his life, the ancient coin of hot copper-colored metal had been transferred from his Stetson into the silk band of his derby. That cursed token was what made him the Brimstone Kid in reality as well as name.
Slumping in a deeply-cushioned easy chair by a window, Johnny closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. Too much novelty in too short a time. He had to force himself to remember why he had come East, why Old Man Singleton had telegraphed ahead to reserve rooms for him at this ritzy hotel and paid for his fare. The grizzled Singleton patriarch had given Johnny a mission. He was tracking a man heartless enough to kidnap two children and murder them when they were inconvenient.
It was past time to get going. Rising and stretching, Johnny Packard stood only five feet four inches and barely one hundred and forty pounds but it was all lean muscle, tough as rawhide from an active life. The shaggy head of dark red hair and green eyes in a narrow face added to a distinctive look that identified him all over the Southwest. There were no wanted posters for the Brimstone Kid, but he was the star of many campfire tales.
Leaving his rooms, Johnny walked down six flights of stairs. The Fifth Avenue Hotel was famous as the first US hotel with steam-powered elevators, known as "the vertical railroad." He had ridden in the elevator twice and was not ashamed to admit that the damn contraption spooked him. Johnny had a vivid mental image of whatever cables supported that cage coming loose and the whole infernal device falling seventy feet to kill him. No, thanks. He didn't mind walking.
Emerging on the west side of Madison Park, the Kid glanced back at the building. He personally had no need for such luxury. Reservations had been made for him by Old Man Singleton by wire. Johnny had spent most of his life either sleeping wrapped in his bedroll under the stars or staying for a night or two in a rented room over some saloon. But there was no point in turning down the hotel suite to prove how rugged he was.
Sunset was not far off. Johnny walked the streets, staying calm despite the immense crowds rushing frantically past him. New Yorkers were in such an all-fired hurry that they seemed nearly hysterical to him. He was getting used to it and found himself walking at a quicker gait.
The crowds also fascinated him with their variety. Out West, towns were populated mostly by white folks, with a good number of black cowboys, as well as some Mexicans and an Indian or two. But here, there were so many different types of faces that he found it hard to concentrate. The voices yelled in German or Italian or Gaelic, and he wasn't used to hearing so much speech he didn't understand.
But he was young and he was adapting. Johnny had studied a map of the city most of that day, getting the streets he needed to know fixed in his head. He started hiking along the crowded sidewalks, heading south. Wagons bearing loads of goods such as piles of clothing or pyramids of coal, went past. Open coaches with passengers trotted by. He was noticing them less and less.
As darkness fell, Johnny took off his derby and held it in one hand. He could feel the Darthan coin starting to grow hot and to call to him. He had no intention of accidentally carrying that token next to his forehead when night came. The last thing he needed was to transform into the Brimstone Kid here and now.
Soon he had left the elegant strollers in their fine clothes behind, as well as the tree-lined avenues and pristine new buildings. The streets had grown mean. Rundown brick buildings touched each other with alleys only three feet wide between them. There was filth and debris on every sidewalk. Dingy laundry was hanging to dry on strung between the buildings.
Lounging in doorways, hardfaced men stared openly at him. Some were obviously sizing him up as a possibly victim. Strangely, this did not bother Johnny. He had been in many outlaw towns where safety was to be found in a hook and a draw. This area reminded him of those towns.
He walked on. The toughs glaring at him made no hostile moves. Something in the confident way this short redheaded stranger carried himself, the even unafraid way he returned their stares, told them that tangling with him would be more trouble than it was worth.
There were also a good number of children both male and female under twelve running about. Ragged and often barefoot, dirty-faced and shaggy-haired, some were hawking newspapers and some were selling bootlaces. A skinny girl not more than ten years old old strolled by holding a crying baby.
On the corner up ahead, a sign indicated ROSE STREET. Johnny swung his bowler thoughtfully and gave his surroundings even more of a suspicious scrutiny. He started down the street and was in time to witness a bizarre procession.
Into an alley so narrow they had to walk sideways, beggars were hobbling in one after another. Some held a crutch or a cane, most had either dark glasses or dirty cloth tied over their eyes. From the way they slid one hand along the building's wall before finding the opening, they were genuinely sightless.
Blind Man's Alley.
III.
After the final beggar vanished into the alley mouth, Johnny came closer. He could not see the faintest spark of light from in there, it was like gazing into a cavern. Tapping his derby against his free hand, the Kid felt the pull of the Darthan coin more strongly as night came on. A faint but persistent tugging creeped into his mind, urging him to place that hat on his head. To feel the bright madness again, to burn with strength and vitality no normal flesh and blood could bear, to launch himself into slaughter... with a shudder, he resisted that siren call and held the bowler out further away from his body.
Even staring into that seeming abyss, the Brimstone Kid remained aware of people passing by. He had survived too many ambushes to ever lose his peripheral guard. A young man in a lilac-blue dress approached him, one hand raised to touch his shoulder, and that was enough to warn Johnny. He swung around as she came within reach.
She had no weapons evident and her posture didn't indicate any possible threat. Johnny saw a girl still under twenty years in age, slim and of medium height in that demure blue dress with the high lace collar and the brocaded shawl around her shoulders. That face was so entirely Irish that he smiled seeing it. Curly black hair falling half way down the girl's back, a round face with brilliant blue eyes and a dusting of freckles over an upturned nose completed the image. But his smile faded as he saw the concern in her expression.
"Oh! Heavens, sir, do not consider entering that alley," she said with a less noticeable lilt than he had expected.
"And why would I not?"
"To face the Eyeless Legion in their very element? In the utter blackness they are accustomed to moving through?" she asked. "They would slay you to sell off your clothing."
"They could try," he answered sternly. "But I thank you kindly for a well-intended warning to a stranger. What is this Eyeless Legion anyway, if not only a ragtag posse of the unfortunate?"
"Your accent is strange to me," she said after a moment. "Are you truly a cowboy?"
"Born and bred in the most beautiful State in the Union," he replied. "And I believe that you are not from these here parts, either."
"No. No, tis a Cork County girl I will ever be. Please, let us step away. Lingering near Blind Man's Alley is not healthy." She tentatively reached up to place a long-fingered hand on his upper sleeve. "Allow me to explain."
"That would suit me down to the ground," he said. "Allow me to present myself. Jonathan Packard from Brimstone, Texas, here in this great metropolis for the first time."
"Oh! I dare say, then you are a gunfighter?"
"Some have called me that," he admitted. "But now you have the advantage of me, miss..?"
"Maeve MacDermott. Please, come away. If it is not being overly bold, I invite you to come dine with us where I can explain what danger you were about to place yourself in." Maeve raised a hand, and a stout black woman her own age drew near from where she had been watching a few feet away. "This is Coral," explained Maeve. "We grew up together and she is as much dear friend and confidante as handmaid."
Since he was holding his hat and could not tip it, Johnny contented himself with inclining his head politely. "How do," he said to the servant, then turned his attention back to Maeve. "I'd be pleased to accept your invitation, miss."
"Our coach is down the street." Those cobalt blue eyes examined the Kid with a cool appraisal. "Best to not linger in this neighborhood after dark."
IV.
Despite the courtesy everyone was extending, Johnny squirmed in discomfort. The elegance of the dining room with its gleaming silverware and fine china plates under the light of a crystal chandelier swamped him. The rich maroon rug underfoot, the heavy draperies and original oil paintings, the servants who silently brought in items and removed them without any signal given he could detect... Johnny felt like he had stepped into a storybook.
But then, as the lamb cutlets and boiled potatoes with parsley were finished, small plates with wedges of warm peach cobbler replaced the main meal. The conversation had been stiff and strained, but as the meal drew to a close, the Kid felt the atmosphere in the room ease up.
Seated at the head of the table, Miles MacDermott dabbed at his lips with a crisp linen napkin. He was a hefty man with a substantial belly pressing up against the table. MacDermott had a more distinctive Irish accent and his face behind the white handlebar mustache and bushy sideburns had grown more flushed as he devoured large servings of everything.
"Normally, Mr Packard," MacDermott said, "This is when I would invite you to retire into my den for a cigar and some brandy. However, my lovely daughter feels there are urgent matters that you must learn."
"I'm a stranger to this town," Johnny replied, "and I'm willin' to have my ear bent."
"First," said Maeve. "That alley where you stood earlier leads to the Benevolent Institution For the Sightless, and easily twenty to thirty indigent blind men stay there. Meager meals are provided and only cots or blankets on the floor for sleeping, but at least they are warm and dry out of the elements."
The father raised a broad hand to interrupt. "This is seemingly a worthy facility, administered by Dr Saul Weissman and his wife on a voluntary basis, yet the police and the public have long suspected the Institution to be the lair of the Eyeless Legion."
"The Eyeless Legion...." said Johnny.
"Yes." Maeve raised her voice sharply and explained, "One might think that the sightless are not a likely threat to public safety, but too many times have there been robberies and murders and worse where the only person known to have been at the scene was a blind beggar. They clearly could not have committed the offenses and so they are invariably released without being charged."
"Pardon me, miss," the Kid ventured. "I reckon this is a mite obvious but these suspected crooks are genuinely blind and not merely play-acting?"
"Oh, there is no doubt in that area," she said. "To qualify for shelter, the City has each blind man examined by Dr Weissman and given a certificate to carry."
Johnny made a dubious sound. "Sounds like a tangled up ball of string to unravel, if I might say so."
The father had watching Johnny carefully since they had met. "Mr Packard, I flatter myself as a good judge of character. In my business dealings, I have had to read men as one reads a map before embarking on a journey. You have the marks of a man of action. You are not easy to daunt and not easy to corrupt. Am I correct in this?"
Johnny smiled. "I can't gainsay you, sir. My life has been a tad more colorful than most men's."
"Seeing you here in the big city, I wonder if Providence has not led you to where you are needed most, to confront the Eyeless Legion and put an end to their threat."
"Sir, I have to say I've come East with a goal in mind," the Kid said. "I'm looking for a badman. The blood of two children is on his hands and I mean to call him out afore I return home."
The servant girl wheeled in a cart that held a steaming hot coffee urn, with china cups and silver spoons as well as crystal containers of cream and sugar. As she began to lay everything out, Maeve said, "Thank you, Coral, we will suit ourselves. You may go about your business if you will."
Coral inclined her head and left the dining room. As MacDermott poured the coffee for everyone, she said, "Are you then a bounty hunter?"
"No, miss. I'm undertaking this as a favor to a man who treated me well when I was injured and helpless. Old Man Singleton has suffered the cruel loss of his granddaughters at the hands of a varmint named Smoky Downing. I aim to have some words with Smoky."
McDermott stirred the cream into his coffee and ventured a sip. "I see. What makes you conclude that this man Downing is here in our city?"
"We found an envelope that fell behind the dresser in the rooms he was a'renting in a boarding house," Johnny explained. "It had been ripped open and they was no letter inside but the address read 'Cherry Street, New York City 36, New York.' A hunter must follow even a faint spoor."
There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment. The Brimstone Kid drained his cup and enjoyed some quality coffee after the indifferent brews he was used to. "I'm right sorry if you was hopin' to set me on these Eyeless Legion folks, but I swore to Singleton that I'd bring justice to the man who killed those little girls and I'm fixin' to do just that."
McDermott visibly sagged with disappointment. "Ah. Well sir, if you have given your word, why then I must respect that. My daughter and I know this town well, we are Manhattan natives and we will offer you information you might need."
"I thank you kindly for that," said the Kid. "And if these Eyeless Legion polecats should cross my path, I calculate I can make them regret it."
"Johnny," said Maeve, using his name for the first time. "Will you stay here tonight? My father is too proud to say his mind, but his brother- my uncle Leo- died under suspicious circumstances not two weeks ago. Shabby blind beggars have been loitering around this house for days. To be frank, I fear the Legion may intend to do us both harm."
The Brimstone Kid had placed his bowler in his lap during the meal. He felt the cursed token in his hatband growing hotter and more imperative. "Miss MacDermott... Mr MacDermott, you can rest easy. If these lowlifes dare enter your home, they will meet someone I guarantee they ain't gonna like."
V.
At three in the morning, the streets had been surrendered to thieves and scavengers, prostitutes walking their circuits and drunkards thrown out of taverns. In the MacDermott mansion, both father and daughter had retired to their bedrooms on the second floor and the servants had all turned in for the night.
In the front hall, the only sound came from the deep steady ticking of the seven-foot high grandfather clock facing the door. The heavy maroon curtains had been drawn over the windows and the fireplaces had been allowed to die down as it was a damp but warm night.
In a window facing the rear alley behind the building, a faint scraping noise could be heard. Then came a pop. A diamond-tipped glass cutter had incised a circle in the window and a sharp tap had forced the section loose to fall silently on the plush carpenting.
A grubby hand stretched through the hole to fumble with the lock and turn it. Slowly, taking great pains, the window was raising and what appeared to be an animate bundle of rags squeezed in from the night. The blind beggar stood up next to an ornate bench and waited while two more of his brethren followed.
Each was wrapped in tatters, wearing shoes that barely held together and dark-lensed glasses that hid their eyes. Two of them leaned on heavy walking sticks that were thick as cudgels. Each of the blind men had long unkempt hair and a straggly beard streaked with grey.
As soon as all three were inside, the leader raised a gloved finger to his lips for silence. But, twenty feet away, a mocking voice drawled from behind the door to a closet, "That's wasted effort, amigo. We is gonna make some ruckus."
Johnny Packard emerged from that closet, placing his derby on a cabinet and unbuttoning his jacket. He cracked his knuckles and grinned in anticipation.
"Kill him," hissed the leader of the beggars. "Quickly! We are three to his one and he is but a runt."
The Brimstone Kid stepped over into the middle of the hall and waited for them. "You fellas ain't never tangled with a Texas boy, have ya?" As they padded forward toward him, Johnny took three quick steps and plunged into their midst. Both hard bony fists smacked in all directions and both booted feet smashed out hard against knees and shins. They all went down in a furious tangle from which the Kid leaped up and slammed rapid punches with murderous accuracy.
In truth, Johnny was half a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter than any of his opponents. It didn't help them. He swerved away from their attempts to strike him, too nimble to stay in place long enough to be caught, and his blows cracked home to leave the beggars gagging from crushed windpipes or dazed by hammer strikes to the jaw.
It was clear at once that the ragged men could see. They swung their walking sticks in whistling arcs and tried to clutch at the smaller man with dirty hands. Johnny could not be caught. One man fell to the floor, gasping and trying to catch his breath. Then the second beggar sagged senselessly down after his face was smashed hard against the side of a cabinet.
The leader of the Eyeless Legion had tugged a common butcher knife from inside his coat and he held it before him with the point up and ready to slice.
Johnny Packard said quietly, "I was gonna let you live, amigo. But when the toothpicks come out, all bets are off." He plunged forward and to one side, seizing the beggar's arm at wrist and elbow. Johnny bent the man's arm inward by sheer force and slid that knife to the hilt in the blindman's own chest.
As the beggar twitched and coughed a few times before dying, the Kid strutted over to retrieve his bowler. He twirled the hat, resisting the imploring summons from the Darthan coin in the band. Once he put that hat on during the hours of darkness, he would be freeing a demon.
Now he had to roust a few of the servants, including the sturdy-looking driver, to help tie this intruders up and get some answers. Waking Mr MacDermott should be easy, Johnny grinned to himself, he doubted that the old man had actually gotten to sleep at all.
So the Eyeless Legion could see. That didn't really surprise him. Even out West, cities had a few beggars faking various disabilities. There were con men everywhere. The Kid tugged down the cuffs on his jacket and straightened the knot on his tie as he gathered his thoughts. Maybe Mr MacDermott and he could dump these varmints in some dark alley away from the mansion...
Muffled noises came from outside. Instantly, snatching up his hat and loosening the Peacemaker stuck in his waistband, the Brimstone Kid darted across the front hall and dove headlong through the open window to roll when he hit the street outside and leaped up to his feet.
There was an open wagon pulled by a single horse, and two more of the Eyeless Legion were loading a bundle into the back. Wrapped in a blanket and tied with cords, that bundle wriggled and made muffled noises of protest. He knew immediately what was in that cylinder.
Folding up a collapsible ladder of wooden slats, the third beggar swung around at the dramatic appearance of this redheaded youth. "Get going!" he hissed to his fellows.
The supposed blindman reached into a trouser pocket and swung up a snub-nosed Bulldog revolver. He was used to intimidating unarmed merchants or weary laborers and thought he was tough. This time, though, he was up against a genuine gunslinger. Before that Bulldog even reached level point, thunder crashed in the alley with a burst of white light and the beggar fell back with a .45 slug in his heart.
Even handicapped by not wearing a proper holster but having his iron jammed in his belt, Johnny had been faster than anything the dying beggar had ever seen. Still holding the Peacemaker, he stepped over the body and kicked the Bulldog away from a lifeless hand. Johnny had a long-established conviction that even an enemy who should be dead could sometimes manage a final shot.
From the window behind him, MacDermott cried out, "Johnny? Maeve's gone! She's not in her room. Who are these men on the floor?"
Seeing that the wagon had gotten away during the brief shooting, the Kid walked over closer to the window. "It's the Eyeless Legion, sir. They've taken Maeve. I calculate they mean to use her as hostage."
"Oh merciful Providence! Pursue them, Johnny! Don't let them hurt my baby."
"Don't you worry none, sir," the Kid replied. "I believe you should send a servant to fetch the police and relate the tale as best you know it."
"But my little girl...!" said MacDermott. "She is in mortal peril."
"No, sir." The Brimstone Kid tugged his derby firmly down on his head, feeling the cursed token burn over his forehead. His voice became hollow and sepulchral. "Them scum are the ones who's in danger..."
VI.
In a warm stuffy room without windows, absolute darkness hung heavy in the air. There were the sounds of chairs scraping on the floor, of cloth rubbing against cloth, of a gulping of a drink and the clunk of the mug being set down. But nothing could be seen.
"Faith, it must be time for our sight to return," growled a voice. "Strike a lucifer, I say."
"No! Don't you men pay attention at all?" This was a deep, cultured voice that spoke with authority. "While the drops wear off, our eyes are vulnerable. A flash of light might damage them permanently. Show some patience for once."
"Arrgh, doctor, tis not that I doubt you," complained a beggar. "These drops of your Erebus serum work well enough. Even the most nosy policeman inspecting us will not doubt we are blind indeed. It's just that I always worry when the drops wear off."
"True that," said a rougher voice from further across the blackened room. "So far our eyesight has always returned. But who knows what harm might be done by prolonged use? We are toying with a sense more precious than any other."
The refined voice held a vague hint of an Eastern European accent as it scoffed. "Do you doubt Dr Saul Weissman? I, who have degrees from Vienna and the Sorbonne? If I did not have faith in my Erebus solution, would I use it myself?"
"True. True. But it's still nerve-wracking, doctor."
At the unseen table where the men sat unseen, a faint click sounded and for a second, the faintest of dim glows could be glimpsed. Then it was shut off again. "Four AM by the radium dial of my watch," said the doctor. "Another half hour and the serum will fade from our systems. Bright light now might leave us truly blind, my friends. Sit tight."
"What a racket!" laughed a voice from the other side of the room. "The loot from suckers and from relieving tourists of what weighs their pockets down. Then on other days, with eyesight sharp as an eagle's, we dress in finer garments and enjoy our spoils. And who suspects us? Who would ever dream that well-trimmed gentleman in the French restaurant was a miserable blind wretch the day before?"
Laughter erupted in that dark room, cries of "That's so!" and "Well said, Lou!" added to the glee. But abruptly the mirth was cut short from every mouth simultaneously.
Facing them at head level, floating seemingly unsupported in the air, a pair of bright crimson spots blazed next to each other.
"Damn my soul, are those EYES?" yelled a beggar.
"Tis a cat, I swear. You've all seen a cat's eyes reflect light like that!" said another.
"You're gonna wish I was a cat," echoed a ghostly voice. The red eyes swung to take over the room that no normal human could have seen anything in. "I count nineteen of you owlhoots, plus yer doctor over there. One or two of yuh might escape but this is good enough."
"What the hayll? What kinda trick is this? And what's that smell?" demanded one of the beggars.
"You smell kerosene," replied the hollow tomblike voice. A thumbnail scratched a wooden match and in the next instant a torch soaked in kerosene flared up into brilliant flame.
The Eyeless Legion screamed and howled at the unexpected agony, pawing at their faces and falling to the dingy floor. Revealed by the torch, the room was shown to be a high-ceiling basement with damp stone walls. Three rough-hewn tables had benches filled with the distressed members. Mugs of coffee and a pitcher of beer were knocked over by their frenzy.
Johnny Packard raised the blazing torch and swung it from side to side. He had changed under the Darthan curse. His face was gaunt with sunken cheeks and bristly eyebrows. In the torchlight, his irises shone red as hot coals. And his voice would have better fit an undead Ghoul as he yelled, "I hope yuh all got a good look, amigos!"
Genuinely blinded now, stricken with dismay, the Eyeless Legion made not the slightest effort to strike back. They were weeping and moaning. Many sank to floor and could not rise.
"All right, you fools, lissen up!" Johnny yelled. "Where's the MacDermott gal? Remember I can beat you all into broken rag dolls and you can't lift a finger to stop me! Where is she?"
"Upstairs!" screamed a beggar, still dabbing in horror at his eyes. "In the doctor's bedroom, tied spread eagle."
At those words, the Kid realized that Dr Weissman was not in the room. Evidently, he had been quick-thinking enough to cover his eyes and flee while Johnny was distracted by the gang's reaction.
The Kid threw the blazing torch to the damp stone floor. "I got no sympathy for you bastards," he announced. "Y'all been robbin' honest citizens, you been molestin' decent women and lately Dr Weissman has been using you to pull murders for him. That's over now, you really ARE the Eyeless Legion."
Johnny ran out of the cellar and up rickety wooden steps. Faint glimmers of dawn outside began to show here and there in a scratches in the black paint over the window. He didn't need it. When he was raging under the full Darthan curse, he could see in the dark better than any owl. The Kid found the wide staircase leading upstairs and he sprang up it two steps at a time.
He hadn't known that light would blind the Legion until they had said so. He had only hoped the torch would dazzle them and serve as an intimidation. But his grim sense of irony was satisfied at their fate. At the landing, flanked by two potted plants, was a solid oak door and he went through it as if it had been built to fly apart under impact.
In Weissman's bedroom, a single gas lamp burned on an end table with its flame turned low. Tied at wrists and ankles by clothesline was the wriggling form of Maeve MacDermott. A handkerchief had been tied into her mouth as a gag. Johnny was relieved to see her bedclothes, including a silk robe sashed at the waist, were intact. At least she seemed to have not been mistreated too badly.
Straightening up by the bed was a solid man with a round paunch that was partly concealed by a well-cut tweed suit. Dr Jacob Weissman had a bland, unimpressive face. Round-lensed glasses sat on a snub nose and the crisp white hair had receded so far back on his forehead that a swatch of bare pink skin was exposed.
Clutched in a soft hand was a pepperbox, a derringer with four rectangular barrels. Weissman made a gurgling noise and extended his arm but froze as he got a good look at the intruder.
Standing over the fragments of the door, Johnny Packard leered at the doctor. In the dimly lit room, the cowboy's eyes shone with their own lambent light. His voice echoed as if from far away, "You make me laugh with that toy. I'll put a hole between your eyebrows and let some air into yer skull afore you can blink."
Weissman reluctantly lowered his hand, "How is any of this your business, son?"
"I'm a-makin it my business," the Brimstone Kid intoned. "You had yer danged fake blindmen kill that woman's uncle 'cause you wanted to get a claim on this building. Now you abducted her so you can pressure her father to sell out to you. Yer low, mister. You ain't got no sense of right and wrong."
Dr Weissman seemed to be getting his wits about him. "You're from the Western states, I believe. That's a Texas twang. What on Earth could have brought you here to Old Gotham?"
For a long ominous moment, Johnny did not answer. "Now that I think of it, maybe you should stay alive a minute longer to answer some questions. I'm trackin' a big old dandy goes by the handle Smoky Downing. He did a deed so low I hate to even name it. Afore I leave this city, I aim to stand over his dead body--"
Even in the gloom, Johnny caught the flicker of Weissman's eyes at something behind him. The Kid wheeled around in a crouch, the heavy .45 Colt swinging up in his grip, just as something big and massive exploded right against the side of his head. Darkness took him in a burst of pain.
VII.
Not for the first time, Johnny Packard struggled back up to consciousness. Sometimes he worried he would wind up like a punch-drunk old bare-knuckler after getting slugged in the head so many times. He was lying face down on the carpeting. Getting his hands under him, the Kid readied to prop himself up but he was pinned down by a brutal weight between his shoulder blades.
"None of that, Packard," said a sour voice with a Western accent like his own. "I heered tell more than enough about you! Refugee from Hell, spook posin' as a cowhand, whatever you might be, I swear I'll empty my iron into the back of your head if you struggle."
A cold sinking feeling washed over Johnny as he realized he had dwindled down to normal Human capabilities. His derby with the Darthan coin had been knocked far out of reach. He was mortal again. Tilting his head up, he could just see Dr Weissman holding the Peacemaker uneasily. So Johnny knew he was disarmed as well.
Despite the setback and the pounding agony in his head, the Kid reacted with anger rather than dismay. The two would not see the dawn, he swore to himself. "Smoky, huh? What the hayll did you hit me with, a telegraph pole?"
"Close enough," laughed the badman. "I used a shillelagh that one of the blind men had lyin' around. Carved from an oak branch thick as yer wrist."
"Yeah, I could tell it weren't no kitchen match," the Kid grumbled. "You do know the whole county is out to string you up for what yuh did to the little Singleton girls?"
"Why d'ya think I came East? I had no great desire to dance on the air with the town yokels watching." Smoky Downing pulled a chair over and dropped down heavily into it where he could meet Johnny's cold gaze. "I knew the doc here from when we worked together a few years ago."
Without Smoky's heavy boot holding him down, the Kid got up on his elbows. "Yeah, I recollect somethin' of that sort on yer WANTED Poster. Up in Kansas. You was sellin' snake oil to the gullible and got caught."
"Never you mind that now. The immediate future is your concern, boy." Smoky Downing was a tall skinny man with a dark blond hair that reached his shoulders and a mustache he had waxed into points. Dressed in quiet dark Eastern clothes with a string tie and a soft felt hat pushed back on his head.
In one hand, Smoky gripped a 44 revolver with the hammer already thumbed back. "I gots to say, for someone with yore reputation, you sure are a scrawny lil thing. You sure yer not an imposter posing as the Brimstone Kid?"
"I reckon prudence takes over now," Johnny told them. "I got no personal stake in your affairs. I was just earnin' a fee. Ten thousand dollars from Old Man Strickland."
"And how is this of any interest to me, son?" asked the badman with the first hint of interest in his flat tones.
"We can make a deal. Ten thousand in yore pocket and I'm on the next train back across the Mississippi. No hard feelin' either way."
"We can't trust you--" began Weissman, but he was stopped at a gesture from Smoky's gun.
"Let's see the cash first," the badman said. "I dunno, maybe we can work things out."
"Gimme my hat. I got a ticket to where the money is stashed."
Picking up the bowler from the floor, Smoky Downing squeezed it and satisfied himself no weapons were concealed within it. "Where's this ticket, Packard?"
"Hand it here, I'll show you. There's a hidden seam." Up on one elbow, Johnny Packard reached up to receive the hat and clapped it down on his shaggy red hair. Like molten silver, vitality rushed through his body. His head cleared off all pain and he felt like he could wrestle a mountain lion or outrun a Mustang. Rumbling deep in his chest, the Brimstone Kid heaved up off to the floor to seize Smoky's wrist in a ferocious grip that snapped bones.
Before anyone could react, Johnny had wrestled the .44 out of the nerveless hand and swung it up to blast a bullet directly between Smoky's eyes at point-blank range. The badman's face caved in and a gout of dark blood erupted from the back of his head.
Swiveling away from the corpse as it tumbled off the chair, the Kid saw Dr Weissman raising that derringer again. The revolver barked and bucked in his hand and the doctor fell backwards with both arms waving wildly. His corpse slid down next to the bed.
Johnny went over and spoke to the trembling girl in as normal a voice he could manage while in this state. "Maeve? Maeve, darlin', it's all over. Yore safe. I'm takin' you home and no one is gonna lay a finger on you again." He took a knife from his boot and removed her gag.
"Johnny? Johnny, you sound like you're in a cave? What happened to you?"
"That don't make no never mind right at the moment," he said. Johnny retrieved his Peacemaker and stowed it in his waistband. Then, on impulse, he placed the .44 in Smoky Downing's lifeless hand and folded the fingers around it. Let the police figure it out as they might, he gloated.
Freeing Maeve MacDermott, the Kid left her blindfolded. As he helped her up, he tugged her hands away as she tried to remove the cloth over her eyes. "Trust me now even if you never trust anyone again, you do NOT wanna get a good gander at this room. Come on, let me lead you. We're going down some stairs and then outside."
In the mouth of Blind Man's Alley, Johnny removed her blindfold. Vague grey streaks of light were beginning to show in the sky. Pushcarts piled with old clothes or twenty-pound burlap sacks went squeaking by, pulled by bent old men. Somewhere nearby, bacon was sizzling and spreading its aroma. Two barefoot boys ran headlong down the middle of the street, carrying overcoats that they had evidently stolen.
"I'm takin' back to yer daddy," the Kid told her as they started walking nortrh to the posher neighborhoods. "He must worryin' himself into conniptions over you."
"Is it really over? Those awful men came into my chamber and carried me out of my own bed. They were so dirty and rough! They took liberties with my person. I thought for sure I was heading to meet my Maker tonight..."
Johnny took her arm and stepped up the pace a bit. "That's all over now, Maeve. I swear to you that the Eyeless Legion won't be botherin' you agin."
"Oh, the relief is heavenly. Johnny, my father is comfortably off. I'm sure he will want to reward you handsomely. And I certainly will express my appreciation in any proper way."
"Hah." The Kid snorted. By now, the streets were filling with laborers trudging to the factories and sweatshops, stores were opening their doors to air out before the day began and horse-drawn carts were trundling past. "Mebbe I'll pass this way again, miss. But for my own safety, what with the carnage and mayhem that transpired in the night, I think it's healthier for me to go home."
"Oh, no. I implore you, Johnny, remain with us. With me, if I may be so bold."
As he escorted her up Broadway, the Kid removed his derby and ruffled his sweaty hair in relief. With dawn, the Darthan spell had lifted. He was sore and exhausted. "Yore father can explain better than I can. The PO-leece will be askin' questions I'd rather not answer. As soon as I claim my baggage, it's a third-class bench on the first train outta town for me."
Maeve McDermott stopped where she was and gripped the lapels of his jacket. "Could you... take me with you, Johnny?"
He shook his head. "You don't know the burden I'm livin' under, Maeve. Watch the post for a letter. I swear I'll write when I'm back where I belong."
Leaving her in front of her family home as a servant excitedly opened the door, Johnny disengaged himself and limped off into the crowd. Not looking back took more effort of will than he thought he could ever summon.
2/23/2018
