Dead of Winter (27 page)

  Ben looked puzzled. "How do you plan to make a ghost talk that don't want to? Ain't like you can smack him across the head or shoot off his fingers."

  "I'll work something out," Cora said. "If nothing else, I'll challenge him to a drinking competition."

  "Can't you be serious about this?" Ben said.

  "Never said I wasn't," Cora said. "We ain't getting nowhere fussing like a pair of old fools. Run along and help the marshal and leave Boots to me."

  Ben looked at her for a long moment, then turned and left. Cora counted the silver bullets in her ammo belt before taking one last look around the room. Everything was as ready as they could make it. If the vampires attacked tonight, they would at least be able to fall back here and fight. If they were singled out, that is. She had no reason to think they would be, but it never hurt to be prepared.

  Cora put the horses to bed in the hotel's stable before walking over to the Pioneer. Overhead, the sun drifted toward the western peaks, lighting the few clouds in the sky aflame. Her fingers curled into fists as she walked, remembering the unearthly chill of the wendigo. The lesser vampires and their leader, the
nosferatu
, were powerful and deadly, but at least they couldn't freeze her limbs like that. They preferred the blood of their victims hot and spurting. That thought brought an uneasy chill of its own, and she pulled her coat close around her.

  The Pioneer was in full swing at this time of night. Every table was crowded with miners and businessmen playing cards for their day's wages as ladies from the Purdy hung on their arms. Through the din of voices, she could hear the plinking of the saloon's piano. A row of miners in denim pants and thick coats stood along the bar, their backs to the door. Serving girls threaded through the clouds of cigarette smoke with trays of whiskey, coffee, and cider.

  Cora stood at the door, her arms folded across her chest. This place would be easy pickings for a pack of vampires, and the Pioneer was only one of dozens of saloons in Leadville. Even if they had all of Duggan's deputies and all of James Townsend's servants-turned-hunters, they couldn't hope to defend everyone in town. If the vampires attacked tonight, people would die. They could only hope to find the bodies and dispose of them before they turned.

  Heaving a sigh, she began sifting through the many faces, searching for the round red one that belonged to the bartender. Having no luck, she tapped on the shoulder of a man standing by the door.

  "You seen Boots?" she asked, raising her voice over the noise.

  "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that," the man said, betraying a crisp Irish accent. His brown hair hung in wavy locks on either side of his face.

  "Boots," she said again. "Have you seen him?"

  "Quite a few pairs in my day," he said, "and all of them dishonest." He smiled at Cora's puzzled look. "You've never met a boot that lies?"

  "Can't say I have," Cora said, looking around for someone a little less drunk to help her. She was about to step away from the odd Irishman when he caught her arm.

  "Men are like boots, miss," he said. "Don't you trust them. If you must trust anything, trust that." He pointed to a sign hanging above the piano, which read
Please do not shoot the pianist. He is trying his best.
"That is the only sensible piece of art criticism I have ever seen," the man said with a chuckle. With that, he let go of her arm and settled back against the wall. She offered him a polite smile before retreating into the crowd.

  As she searched for the bartender, she reflected on the eccentricities of foreigners. James Townsend was bad enough, with his tea and his fancy speaker down in Denver, and even he had never talked about art criticism or dishonest boots. Cora had never had time or money for any sort of art, and her taste in music was limited to whatever instruments the local saloon happened to own. She couldn't imagine anyone bothering to write criticism about either one.

  After a few minutes of searching around the gambling tables, Cora made her way over to the bar and ordered a drink. When the woman set the whiskey down in front of her, Cora spoke over the din. "You seen Boots around?"

  "Boots?" the woman asked. "Yeah, I seen him upstairs a bit ago. Said he was going to get off his feet for a spell."

  "Do you think he'd mind some company?" Cora asked, handing over a silver dollar.

  The woman looked her over. "Maybe so, but not from you. He tends to like his women a bit younger and more ladylike."

  "I ain't looking to take care of his pecker," Cora said. "I just need a few words with him is all."

  "He looked a sight testy when I saw him," the woman said, "so you might want to buy him a drink to lighten his mood."

  "I'll be damned the day I buy a bartender a drink from his own bar," Cora said. She tossed back the whiskey and handed the glass to the woman. "Thanks for the drink."

  "Anytime, honey," the woman replied, moving down the bar to refill glasses from the bottle in her hand. Cora headed for the big staircase that ran along the bar's wall. A breath of cold air blew over her as she passed by the front door. She noticed that the Irishman had vanished, probably in search of a saloon with a better pianist. Shaking her head, she made her way up the stairs. At the top, she turned the corner into the hallway and almost collided with the bartender. Cora took a step backward, startled, but Boots didn't seem alarmed.

  "Ah, Cora Oglesby," he said, offering her a thin smile. "What can I do for you on this fine evening?"

  Cora grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down the hallway. He went along, the smile never leaving his face. When they were out of sight of the saloon, she pushed him against the wall and shoved the barrel of her Colt into his belly.

  "I want some answers, spook," she said, her voice low.

  "My, my, such hostility," Boots said. "Whatever have I done to deserve this treatment?"

  "Hush your mouth," Cora said, twisting the gun. "You can't fool me. I know you ain't the real Boots because I done put a silver bullet in his brain just this morning."

  "Did you, now?" the bartender said. "Well, isn't that a disappointment. And here I was, planning my entire strategy around that bloated corpse. It looks as though you have foiled me again, Cora Oglesby. If you'll excuse me, I must see to the licking of my wounds."

  He placed a palm on her chest and shoved. Cora slammed into the wall behind her and slid to the floor. Sucking in a breath, she raised her pistol and fired at the bartender's grinning face. The gunshot clapped her ears as she pulled back the hammer and waited for the smoke to clear.

  Boots remained on his feet. Cora's bullet had punched a hole just above his right eye, carving a gouge in the wallpaper behind him. As she watched, the wound closed in on itself as if it never had been there. She tried to fire again, but the bartender was too quick for her. His fingers wrapped around the Colt's barrel and wrenched it from her hand. He tossed the revolver aside and clamped his other hand around her throat.

  "No more hostility," he said. "If you don't calm down, I will knock you out and deny you the honor of looking into my face when I kill you."

  Cora struggled against his grip, but she couldn't hope to overpower him. After a few moments, she let her hands fall away from his fingers. Boots rewarded her with a sneer.

  She spat in his face.

  A look of surprise flickered there for a moment before the sneer reclaimed control. "Really, Cora, I would have expected such behavior from a common cur, but not from a lady such as yourself."

  "Sorry to let you down," she said, curling her lips to spit again.

  Boots clamped a hand on her mouth. "I would advise you not to test the limits of my courtesy, even if you are an old friend." Her eyes reflected her unspoken question. "You don't remember? I suppose it is only natural, what with my wearing this face. In my vanity, I assumed I had left such an impression when last we met that you would discern my poise and wit even through this mask."

  Cora rolled her eyes at him. He hauled her to her feet, pulled her saber from its scabbard, and tossed it aside, then started pushing her down the hallway. As they walked, Cora suddenly noticed that Boots had no smell. This close to the man, she should have been overwhelmed by his usual aroma of sweat, smoke, and alcohol, but all she could smell was the faint scent of the pine floorboards.

  Boots opened a door at the end of the hall and shoved her inside. A whiff of rotting flesh greeted her as she stumbled and fell in the semi-darkness. Behind her, the door slammed shut. She picked herself up and turned to face her captor.

  "I would apologize for the smell, but I rather like it," Boots said, his face invisible in the darkness. "I have faith that you come to love it as well, given enough time."

  "I reckon I'll love it just fine when it's coming from your bloated corpse," Cora said. She tried to take stock of her surroundings. Her nose told her that something nearby had died recently, but she could only see gray shadows. The afternoon sun glowed around the boards covering the windows, but no beams of light cut through the darkness. Despite the stench, she took a deep breath to calm herself. She'd been cornered before and managed to work her way out of it. She could do it again. Besides, Ben would come looking for her once he'd told Mart Duggan about the vampires. All she had to do was sit tight until he showed up or Boots let his guard down.

  "Still so unrefined, especially for a woman from the American South," Boots said. "Although, if you relish the scent of an enemy's death, this aroma should be to your liking. The corpse rotting in this room once belonged to a Mr Washington Jones, who I believe made your acquaintance recently."

  "Wash Jones?" Cora asked. "You mean that upstart card player?"

  "I can't speak for his gambling habits, but he certainly seemed to bear a grudge against you. One strong enough to encourage the sacrifice of his humanity to see it avenged."

  "Seems you did the world a favor, then," Cora said. "That boy was fixing to be a bandit, so you just saved some lawman a lot of work by culling him early."

  "I doubt the world of humanity has much to thank me for," Boots replied, "and the murder of Washington Jones certainly isn't in their interest."

  "Then why'd you kill him for?" Cora asked.

  "To turn him, of course." Footsteps echoed in the darkness. "Replacing fallen soldiers is always a difficult task for a general. Not that you would understand such harsh realities yourself. Life is simpler when you are alone."

  A cold wave of dread washed over Cora as she put the pieces together. "You're the big bad that James was going on about."

  "The word is
nosferatu
," Boots said, "and you are correct. Frankly, I'm disappointed it took you so long to realize it. Perhaps I've been too subtle."

  "Or maybe you just ain't no good at being evil," Cora said. "Me and Ben already wiped out a full half-dozen of your boys without breaking a sweat, and I don't see no reason why we won't do the same to you."

  "You and Ben, you say?" The bartender's voice took on an amused tone. "He has been of some use to you these past ten years, then?"

  Cora blinked. "Why, sure. We've been riding together hunting the likes of you for a good long while now. Fine work for a man and wife, if you ask me, though some may find it unusual."

  "Unusual indeed," Boots said. "Tell me, when was the last time you saw your husband?"

  "Not thirty minutes ago, fresh from killing your vampires."

  "Is that so?" There was a bright flash as Boots struck a match. The tiny flame sputtered in his hand as he reached over and lit a lantern. A warm glow filled the room, illuminating large crates covered with dust. Strange shadows danced across his round head as he approached her.

  "You inquired earlier as to how I am able to wear the body of the former proprietor of this saloon, whom you so decisively killed." Boots stepped closer, and Cora backed away. "I don't suppose your illustrious scholar could enlighten you?" Cora shook her head. "I thought not. Such men pride themselves on their knowledge, but they are only grasping at shadows. Shadows that will one day devour them." His grin deepened at the thought. "I shall relish the taste of his blood, and I imagine he will prove himself a useful servant, just as this portly bartender has."

  "Till we came along, anyhow," Cora said. "Boots ain't no servant of yours no more."

  "You destroyed his body, yes, but men are more than mere flesh and bone." The bartender's eyes sparkled in the light. "Sometimes, their true usefulness lies in their other natures."

  "Your usefulness sure ain't in getting to the point," Cora said. "I didn't figure you'd try to kill me with talk when you dragged me in here, or I would have ate my own gun to spare myself the misery."

  "Such spirit in you," Boots said. "It will make the breaking of it so much the sweeter."

  "I reckon I'll have a better time breaking your neck."

  A single laugh shook the bartender's shoulders. "Such unpleasantness as well. Still, if you would only stop interrupting, I might get to the point you are so eager to hear."

  Cora opened her mouth to reply, then shut it. If she could keep this creature talking, it would give her more time to think of a way out. Ben could come crashing through the door at any minute, too, which would solve things nicely.

  "That's better," Boots said. He raised the lantern and walked behind a set of crates. "Come over here."

  Cora stepped around the crates and looked down. The dead eyes of Wash Jones stared up into the darkness between them. His jaw hung open as if in shock, and his arms and legs were crumpled beneath him.

  "Look well, Cora Oglesby," Boots said. "Look at the early stages of vampiric metamorphosis. When the sun sets tonight, Mr Jones will arise anew, a soldier in an unholy army."