A God of Many Tears (Hawker's Drift Book 4) Page 5

  “So…” the Mayor said, twisting the little black bottle back and forth, “what’s it going to be Ash? What’s it going to be…"

  The Deputy

  He stayed in his room.

  Partly because he felt like shit. Whatever voodoo the old nigger had done to him, it took its damn time wearing off. He’d been on the floor for hours staring at the ceiling. Smith had left him in the dark and he’d lain there encompassed by it. That was the second reason he hadn’t left his room.

  He was scared.

  He didn’t like the feeling much and didn’t want to face the world again until he’d strangled it out of himself.

  The dark had been his friend for so long, a cloak he wrapped both himself and his strange desires in. The shadows that hid him, comforted him and granted him refuge. The darkness he snuck through, the darkness he watched from, the darkness he killed in.

  But last night the darkness had scared him. Unable to move, unable to blink, unable to twitch an eye. All he’d been left with were breathing and thinking and being afraid. Afraid like he’d been as a boy when Mother put him in the hole, with the coal and the darkness and things that scurried and crawled.

  He’d tried to push the fear away by thinking about what he’d do to the nigger. How bad he’d cut him, how slow he’d cut him, how much pain he could inflict on the bastard. When that wasn’t enough he thought about what else he could do to hurt him.

  He must care something for Kate after all, so that was another way to hurt him. No more games with Mrs Nigger-Loving Godbold, no fucking siree! He was going to slaughter the bitch and take her head for Smith to see before he did for him too.

  The terms of his employment had changed. He was done with the law. If the Mayor wouldn’t let him have justice, then screw him. He’d fuck the nigger over and hit the road again.

  He thought about Smith’s kids, two ugly little mongrels he’d sired on a couple of the town’s other whores behind their husbands’ backs. The dickless fuckers had been so grateful to have a mewling brat to keep their bitches happy they’d let the matter of being cuckolded by an old nigger go completely by the by.

  Blane thought about doing for the children too, though they were both younger than he cared to kill. Not that he had any sentimentality about brats of course, he just didn’t care for the way they blubbered and screamed and got all snotty nosed. They didn’t make good fucking either, truth be told.

  In the end, he let the idea slide. Smith had never shown an ounce of interest in his children, as if ignoring them enough would make people think some other nigger had snuck into town to fuck Lizzy Liaquat and Belle Weir. It would take time too, and he’d need to act fast and get out of Hawker’s Drift.

  The Mayor would be pissed if he killed someone without permission and he didn’t want to find out what the Mayor was like when he was pissed. Like the once friendly darkness pressing down on his immobile body, he suspected that would scare him too.

  So, he lay and schemed and fought the fear gnawing at him and made his heart beat faster while the rest of him was encased in iron.

  Light had been creeping into the room for over an hour when the pain started. Like needles pushing into his flesh, starting with his fingers and toes and spreading through the rest of him; warm, tingling pinpricks. Like a frozen river in a spring thaw his body began to move again. One inch at a time. Each tiny movement coming with a price as the warm needles became searing knives.

  He managed to close his eyes at last. They’d become encrusted with dried tears and a pitiful mewling noise slithered from between lips that felt like they were going to burst at the agony the simple act caused.

  He wanted to force his body to work, but the pain was excruciating and he had to remain stretched out the floor for another couple of hours until it became bearable and he managed to sit up, albeit in the tiny increments of a crone in her deathbed.

  Climbing to his feet was still impossible, he would simply fall straight back down again. Instead, he crawled to the table and hauled himself up on the chair; sweating and panting like a man who’d just reached the jagged summit of a towering mountain peak.

  When his heartbeat returned to something approaching normal, he started flexing his fingers, rolling his shoulders, turning his neck; all the little everyday gestures he’d never had to think about before. He felt like an invalid; useless and worthless. A sick old man, good for nothing. Smith had robbed him of his strength, his dignity and his power. No force on Earth, not even the Mayor, was going to stop him getting his due.

  The dumb nigger should have killed him when he had the chance.

  But just what had he done to him?

  He curled his hands into fists. It didn’t matter. He’d got some fucked up juju from somewhere. Maybe he’d ask him when he got the chance, or maybe he’d be too busy taking his eyes out with a spoon to care.

  There was a knock at the door; Mrs Thurlsten checking why he hadn’t come down for his breakfast. He tried to tell her to go away, but only a hoarse croak escaped his lips.

  The knock came again and he was still concentrating on getting his goddamn mouth to work when the stupid bitch poked her head into the shadowy room.

  If he’d been capable of it, he would have grabbed her by the hair, dragged her in and kicked her off the walls, and the fact he couldn’t even fucking stand up stoked his rage even further.

  “Deputy?”

  He tried to tell her to fuck off, but he could have been wishing her Merry Christmas for all it sounded like.

  She edged into the room. It was only 8am and she was already dressed like she was ready to be fucked; make-up shovelled on her face and saggy tits hanging out for the world. He could smell the cheap perfume across the room. The one thing he’d been able to do all night without difficulty was breath and now this fat slut was trying to rob him of that too.

  “Are you sick?”

  The curtains were still drawn – gee, he hadn’t gotten around to opening them for some fucking reason – but the light outside was blinding, and probably would be for him if she was dumb enough to pull them back. There was enough snicking into the room for her to see him hunched over the table, pain etched into his face, slick with sweat and bloodless pale to boot.

  “Of course I’m fucking sick!” he managed to puke up the words from somewhere in thick, wet globs, but at least the fury had gotten his vocal chords working again.

  She edged further into the room like a wary rodent, albeit a wary rodent dressed for the whorehouse.

  “Can I-”

  “Get the fuck out, you stupid cunt!” he screamed at her, he felt his mouth gape and his eyes bulge. The cords of his neck standing out as spittle sprayed from his trembling lips.

  She recoiled and scampered out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  His body might slowly be coming back to life, but the muscles that kept his mask in place weren’t. She hadn’t seen what laid beneath him before. Maybe she guessed, maybe she’d had glimpses as he’d played his games on her quivering, saggy body, but no more than shadows and suggestions. Now she’d seen the real Blane, however fleetingly.

  No matter. He straightened his face and buried the rage. He wouldn’t need the Mayor’s fucking scraps anymore. He was nobody’s pet.

  He’d just kill the bitch before he left town as well.

  So Arthur Blane stayed in his room with the curtains drawn and made his plans.

  The Farmer

  It sure was a great day to be alive!

  He’d sprung out of bed that morning, eager to get to his chores. He loved the early mornings this time of year. The warm summer sun, the swaying grass, his happy, beautiful cows bellowing out in the fields. God, he was so lucky to be alive and living in such a wonderful place.

  No doubt some people would find the work repetitive and dull, not to mention the isolation of being on their little farm cut off from the rest of humanity for most of the time. Not Sye Hallows though.

  He guessed it was in his blood. This
was his land and his life and he was happy as happy could be.

  He was worried about his Ma though.

  She’d been acting peculiar for days. She’d hadn’t spoken to him for a good long while, which she only ever did when she was seething about something.

  When she’d finally spat out what was bothering her, she’d babbled on about John Smith and Ash Godbold. He hadn’t understood any of it. He barely knew the two men, so why Ma thought they were mad at him he couldn’t imagine, especially as it was supposed to be about the singer they had in Jack’s.

  He’d seen her a couple of times and she sure could sing, pretty too, though not really his type.

  When he’d kept insisting he didn’t know what she was going on about Ma had looked at him like he was going mad. He wondered if he should have a word with Doc Rudi next time he was in town. His Ma was just about the last person in the world he could imagine losing their marbles, but he supposed she was getting old and all kinds of strange things happened to people when they got old.

  He thought about being stuck out in an isolated little farm with an old woman who was losing her marbles and babbling about things that hadn’t happened.

  He really did need to get himself a wife.

  *

  The cows didn’t need much in the way of persuading to get into the milking shed. Cows were stupid, but they knew the routine well enough. They didn’t have much going on in their lives after all, so getting their teats tugged no doubt qualified as a highlight.

  Once he was done, he ushered them back outside and hauled the urns down into the cold cellar beneath the house. Ma would be using this batch to make cheese which was their main source of income.

  He could hear her banging around inside, but, given her strange behaviour lately, he decided to head straight out to the West Field where a couple of fence posts needed work. He’d been putting off doing them for a while, but it was such a lovely day to be outside he’d get them done now. It would also keep him away from the house - and Ma’s new-found peculiarity - for a good few hours too.

  He picked up his tools and threw a couple of staves over his shoulder. Whistling a tune he couldn’t name, he ambled across the grass.

  By the time he’d finished pulling out the rotten old posts and hammering in new ones he’d built up a fair sweat and a thirst to go with it. He hoped Ma’s current strangeness hadn’t stretched to getting forgetful about lunch.

  Wiping his sleeve across his face, he stood back and admired his handiwork.

  He frowned, seeing the columns of smoke on the horizon beyond the house for the first time.

  There were several, some hazy in the distance, some much closer. Had they been there this morning?

  He picked up his tools, leaving the old posts laying in the grass, and headed back to the farm, his pace much faster than when he’d strolled across earlier.

  When he heard the first gunshot he broke into a run.

  *

  Sye didn’t see the strangers until he came hurtling around the corner of the farmhouse.

  There were a dozen of them milling about, but it was the crumpled heap at the feet of three grubby-faced men laughing and lounging in the doorway to his home that snared his attention.

  It took a couple more breathless strides before he realised the heap was his Ma, sprawled in a pool of blood, ancient shotgun still in her hands.

  He didn’t realise he was running at the three men till one of them shouted and went for his gun. The one closest to Sye had his back towards him. He got a brief impression of a hard weather-washed face, eyes widening as he twisted around, before his hammer connected with the man’s head and he went sprawling to the ground.

  He spun screaming towards the next man, but before he could split another skull blinding pain exploded across his face and he hit the ground, hammer spinning from his hand.

  He tried to regain his feet even though the world was rolling like a storm-tossed ship, but something cold and metallic was pushed hard against his forehead.

  “Don’t,” a voice beyond the flashing lights that had consumed the day hissed and he slumped back down, not so much complying with the order as that his limbs were no longer complying with him.

  Everything went black for a while, though he could still distantly hear voices. Most of the voices were distorted and incomprehensible, though one, a woman’s, was clearer.

  What… have you done to me?

  He forced his eyes open. For a moment the face of the singer, Cece Jones, hovered over him. He didn’t know why she would be here with these men.

  What… have you done to me?

  Black tears rolled down her cheeks while bubbles of dark drool boiled between her lips.

  He tried to tell her he was sorry, but before he could get his mouth to somehow fit around the words, Cece’s face dissolved into that of a man with blazing eyes and blackened teeth who had grabbed fistfuls of his shirt.

  “Wake up pup,” he sneered, “I got some hurt to put on you!”

  Men were standing around him, all wearing a black sash and all of them as mean and wild-eyed as rabid dogs.

  “Cut the fucker open!” a chubby-faced man, wearing a battered old sombrero sporting what looked like a blood-stained bullet hole in it, screamed. Then he leant over to spit in Sye’s face.

  The man with the black teeth pulled a knife.

  “What shall I do with this piece of shit, boys?”

  “Nail him to the wall and flay him,” someone shouted. Mutters of approval rippled through the onlookers.

  More hands yanked him to his feet.

  “Go find some nails, we already got a fucking hammer.”

  He was thrown against the wall of his farmstead and barely had a chance to snatch a breath before Black-Teeth’s hand was clamped around his throat.

  “You gonna die hard boy,” he spat through a sneering smile.

  They ripped his shirt off. His arms were spread and pinned against the wall. Beyond the men clustered around him he could make out his Ma’s body alongside the man he’d killed with the hammer.

  “Ma…” he called, but little more than a gurgle escaped the choking hold on his throat.

  Above the stink of unwashed skin and rotten breath came the smell of wood smoke.

  He closed his eyes. He’d been so happy this morning and now he was going to die. They’d killed his Ma, they were burning his home, stealing and destroying everything his family had worked for. He slumped against the men holding him, head lolling forward and the grip on his throat loosened.

  Through half-closed lids he watched Black-Teeth turn and shout something at his murdering companions. Something about finding those nails quick.

  They killed Ma... They killed Ma...

  The words were still carouseling around his head when one of the killers came running back towards the house holding up a handful of nails. He was welcomed with ragged cheers.

  The men restraining him were distracted enough to loosen their grips on his arms a little. Black-Teeth was grinning from ear to ear as he turned back and the words singing in Sye’s mind made him drive his forehead into the man’s laughing face as hard as he could. There was a sharp crunching noise to go with the lights and pain that flashed through his brain. Head-butting someone after getting a rifle butt in the face wasn’t recommended.

  Still, he took some pleasure from Black-Teeth staggering backwards, blood pouring through the fingers he was holding his face with.

  It was probably the last moment of pleasure life was going to give him, and it wasn’t one he would have chosen given a free choice, but he didn’t have many choices left.

  Wish I could have kissed Cece one more time…

  All these blows to the head were clearly having an effect, given he’d never even spoken to the girl from Jack’s let alone kissed her.

  Someone punched him in his guts and he would have fallen to his knees if the hands hadn’t tightened their grip on him and hauled him back hard against the wall.

  “Bas
tard!” Black-Teeth screamed, pushing towards him, knife raised.

  At least he’ll kill me quicker now…

  The Gunslinger

  A huge table dominated the kitchen, the history of the Colls recorded in the scratches, scuffs and stains scaring its surface.

  In times gone by they would have gathered around it; eating, laughing, crying, arguing like families do. There was only two of them now. And soon there would be only one.

  He’d laid out everything of worth or use he’d stripped from the raiders and their saddlebags onto the table. Weapons, ammo, rations, water skins and canteens, money, a couple of pocket watches that might have been silver, a neck chain that might have been gold and a flask of whiskey. Some of the men had been wearing decent boots, but he hadn’t had the time or inclination to pull them off the corpses. Along with the horses and riding tackle there was more than enough here to pay off Molly’s debts.

  Getting it all back to Hawker’s Drift would be the problem.

  No amount of money would do Molly any good if he got himself killed before getting it back to town, and leading ten horses would both slow him down and attract attention from other Scourge raiding parties.

  Instead, Amos collected up the ammo, a good rifle, a couple of the better balanced handguns, some beef jerky and oats for the horses. Plus half the money. He guessed the Colls were owed the rest. He put them in a saddle bag along with some of the less bloody black sashes he’d taken off the corpses. They might prove useful if he couldn’t dodge around the Scourge.

  Once he had everything he wanted, he grabbed the whiskey flask and headed upstairs.

  He’d nearly reached the top when Dorry shouted, “No, I’m not!”

  She cannoned out of the room and stormed down the stairs trailing streamers of black rage.

  The old man didn’t look good.

  He was propped up on pillows, staring glassy-eyed at the door. He was the colour of a burnt-out hearth and the bandages around his shoulder were already stained dark. He needed to get the bullet out and seal the wound properly, stitching it would be better, cauterizing it quicker.