The Six-Gun Tarot (42 page)

“Speak for yourself.” Mutt smiled.

“The Sword of Laban will fell any creature, mortal or otherwise,” Bick said.

“He’s right, Jon,” Harry said. “This thing’s kept me alive all night long.”

“And,” Bick said, sliding the wooden case over to Highfather, “this is for you.”

The sheriff snapped open the small brass clasps on the case and opened it. It was lined with white silk and held a beautiful cavalry saber. The blade was inlaid with golden patterns reminiscent of flames along its length.

“She’s a beauty,” Highfather said.

“It was mine, from back in the war,” Bick said wistfully. “Take it.”

Highfather grasped the blade; it was light, almost weightless. It slid easily out of the case. As he lifted it, its blade seemed to drink in the light from the lamp, amplify it, refine it, send it cascading along the polished, golden surface. The room seemed to get warmer, brighter. An odd combination of awe and sadness crossed Bick’s face. He nodded, slightly.

“What magnificent creatures,” he muttered.

Mutt narrowed his eyes as Highfather raised the blade to examine it, and then the deputy’s eyes widened in surprise and confusion. He snapped a glance at Bick and then shook his head.

“She’s a fine blade,” Bick said. “ She will see you through this, Sheriff.”

“Not that I’m not obliged, but why aren’t you carrying it?”

“Because I can’t go with you,” Bick said.

“Never took you for a coward, “ Highfather said. “What is it, then?”

“Like I said, we all have roles to play in this. I … I’m … not allowed. There are rules.… It’s complicated. I can’t, I wish I could, but I can’t. It has to be up to you … four.”

Highfather stood, sword in hand, and stared at Bick.

“Someday, I will get the whole story out of you, Malachi.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“Let’s go,” Highfather said to the others. “We’re burning starlight.”

“Wait,” Jim said. “What about Mutt? He ain’t got no fancy sword to protect him!”

The deputy smiled and slapped him on the back. “Don’t worry, kid, I think I got something better. I just recollected something my old man told me not too long ago.”

Bick rose as they pushed open the doors to the street. He opened his mouth, tried to think of words to say, to express his insides. He failed. He nodded to them. Highfather nodded back, and then they were gone into the night.

“You can come out now,” Bick said, pouring whiskey into the empty sixth glass. “Please join me for a drink.”

A shadow detached itself from its brethren on the second floor of the Paradise Falls. The figure moved down the stairs to the bar’s main floor. The stairs did not creak. A woman, dressed in black, wearing pants and boots best suited to a man, approached Bick. Her graying brown hair was held in a tight bun; her mouth and nose were hidden behind a blood-spattered neckerchief. She had a heavy canvas bag with the strap slung over her shoulder and across her chest.

She stood, her gold-brown eyes boring into the saloon owner. She took the glass from his hand and pulled down the neckerchief-mask.

“Mrs. Stapleton,” Bick said. “I never had the chance to offer you condolences for Arthur’s death. I am sorry for you and your daughter. He was a good and faithful employee for many years.”

“I came here to torture you,” Maude said. She paused to toss back the shot of whiskey, then placed the empty glass on the red-felt table with a hollow click. “Find out what I could about Arthur’s death and how it’s tied to what’s happening to the town now, how you are connected to this new misery, and then I planned to kill you, Mr. Bick, because of what this madness that you have set in motion has done to my family.”

“What has happened?” Bick said. “Where is your child?”

“She is one of those … things now,” Maude said.

“I’m sorry,” Bick said.

“I heard what you said while the others were here,” Maude said. “Is there a way, any way, to bring her back?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Bick said. “The sheriff had your husband’s body examined, and he was apparently poisoned by the same black substance. It appears to share certain qualities with venom and blood. At least that was what I was able to ascertain before this night fell and my sources grew quiet.”

“Blood and poison…,” Maude said, nodding. “I may have something that can help with that.”

“Yes,” Bick said. “You just might. You are a Daughter of Lilith, aren’t you?”

She paused, frowned and poured herself a second drink, then thought better of it and set it down. “Yes, I am. How do you know about that?”

“My … family has had a long awareness, and sometimes an association, with those who carry Lilith’s Load. I assure you, the world is in danger tonight and your talents and insights can turn the tide.”

“All I want is to find my daughter,” Maude said. “And I am going to do that and try to heal her of this madness you have brought down on us.”

“I believe the course of action you are thinking about is sound,” Bick said. “ It may save her. It may save us all.”

“What are you talking about?” she said. “I haven’t even decided— Never mind.”

“Do you still intend to kill me?” Bick asked. He wasn’t afraid. Maude was troubled by how hard it was to read his body language, his facial cues. They were all there but subtle, so faint as to almost be nonexistent. It was like trying to predict a moving dead man. Perhaps he was.

“No,” she said. “There’s been enough death tonight, and more to come, I’m afraid. But how much of that death is on your hands, Mr. Bick?”

“A fair portion, madame,” he said, reaching for her abandoned drink and cradling the shot glass in his palm, regarding it. “A fair portion.”

He drained the glass. When he looked up, Maude Stapleton was gone. Bick rose from his chair; a scar of a smile crossed his face.
Good.
There was another tiny spark of hope out in the darkness now.

The scar faded. His eyes grew wide and dark as it settled over him. She was right. A lot of good people were dead, because of his actions, his pride. It felt like acid hissing in him, burning.

Bick sat down; he stood up again. He picked up the whiskey bottle and began to put it to his lips; then he hurled it in rage. It exploded against the wall and he collapsed again into his chair. He rubbed his eyes and felt the heat of the tears well up behind them. He looked at the empty case that had held his blade, his badge of office, and his battered and torn body was wracked by sobs.

Left powerless in two worlds, helpless to act, forbidden to act. He did something he had often mocked mortals for, in his darkest hours. He began to pray.

The Ace of Wands

Outside the Paradise Falls, Mutt pulled Jim aside. “Don’t turn your back on that old Chinese bastard. He’s an odd one. Never smelled right to me.”

“I’ll be fine; don’t start fretting like an old lady!”

“Shut your mouth, boy! You be careful, or I will personally kick your ass.”

“Yessir.”

Highfather and Harry returned from scouting the street for any signs of the Stained.

“Coast is clear, fellas. Jim, you run all the way there, you hear me? Don’t stop for nothing.”

“Yessir, Sheriff,” Jim said.

“Okay, go!” Highfather said.

They headed off in opposite directions; Highfather, Mutt and Harry cut behind Main toward the stand of trees called Lover’s Grove and the town well. Past that was a goat path, which would bring them up Argent Mountain to the old ruins near the entrance to the mine.

Jim sprinted down Main in the direction of Prosperity Street. From there, it was a quick left, then a right onto Bick Street and the narrow maze of Johnny Town. The rifle felt heavy in his hands and he wondered if they were okay, back home. He imagined Ma, holding Lottie, singing one of the Psalms, softly, as the stars burned away, one by one.

He pushed the image away; it filled him with a panic, like a horse in a burning barn. It served no good. He wasn’t there, he was here, and here he could do something about it; he could save them, save home, even if he could never see it again.

He turned the corner and paused to catch his breath. Three hatchets festooned with emerald ribbons seemed to materialize in the wooden wall beside him. Jim froze. A Chinaman, dressed in black, stepped from the darkness, lowering his throwing arm.

“What are you doing here, boy?” the man asked with a calm menace. Two more Green Ribbon hatchet men appeared where Jim had sworn there was nothing but air and shadow.

“Ch’eng Huang,” Jim said as calmly as he could. “Tell him I’m here for the answers he promised me.”

The tong soldiers brought him to the Celestial Palace, the bar he had tried to get into a few nights ago. The tattooed man, Kada, who had chased him that night stood guard as he had then, but now Kada had a rifle in his hands and an ammo belt slung over his shoulder. The smaller man, the one who spoke such good English, smiled as he saw Jim and his escorts approach.

“Welcome back, little white eyes. The venerable one awaits you. The guns will stay out here, of course.”

“You try to take my pa’s eye and you and I will—”

“I assure you, my orders are only to disarm you, nothing more.”

Jim heard a piano playing inside. He handed the rifle and then the pistol out of his pocket to the small man.

“Enter,” the small man said.

Though it didn’t look it on the outside, the Celestial Palace was as fancy as the Paradise Falls on the inside. It looked like a real palace from one of those one thousand Arabian Nights stories he had read in the dime novels. There were silk curtains and dragon statues of jade, vases and urns delicately painted with cherry blossoms and wide columns of blue and gold.

The place smelled funny, sweet, cloying but harsh, choking. Underneath it was a rotted, futile death smell, kind of like what he had caught off of Mrs. Pratt when she had tried to kill Harry at the social. It made Jim feel like someone was slowly smothering him with a silk pillow soaked in perfume and ether.

The tables were low to the ground and there were large cushions instead of chairs. Large hookahs with individual pipes running off of them squatted at the centers of the tables, like spiders made of glass and brass.

The Palace also had the same odd quality Jim had experienced in the alleyways of Johnny Town—it seemed to be larger, more complex, than the space it occupied would permit.

“Wait please,” the hatchet man said, and then hurried off quietly.

The piano player was in the corner, partially hidden by a column and a paper screen. Jim walked over to him while he played. He was thin, muscular man with long red-brown hair, like a woman or an Indian. He looked up from the keys his hands moved across, to Jim. He smiled.

“Evening,” the man said. “Awful young to be out on a night like this. Your parents know you’re here, son?”

Jim turned, so the man could see the star pinned to his coat.

The piano player smiled and nodded. “Mighty young to be a deputy, aren’t you?”

“Place is pretty slow tonight,” Jim said, looking around. The bar was empty except for a handful of Green Ribbon soldiers, who stood at the bar, loading guns and sharpening wicked-looking swords.

“Yep, end of the world tends to do that to business,” the player said. “Handle’s Ringo. Nice to meet you.…”

“Jim, I’m Jim.”

Ringo continued to play with one hand while shaking Jim’s with the other, then went back to playing with both hands, with no break in the music.

“Nice to meet you, Deputy Jim. Aren’t your folks worried about you being out here with everything that’s happening tonight? I mean, the moon and stars disappearing, people turning into monsters—figure you’d want your son at home.”

“Can’t go home,” Jim said softly. “Can’t never go home again.”

“Never is a damn long time,” Ringo said. “Why can’t you?”

Jim took a chair from the wall and sat down next to Ringo and his piano. The thoughts of Ma, of Lottie, of Pa all swelled up in him again. He was so tired—he hadn’t realized it until just now. He felt the tension of the last year suddenly smash into him like a train. The piano whispered to him softly, like the rain, or his mother’s voice. He sighed and slid back into the chair.

“I’m fifteen and I killed a mess of people tonight. I tried to not think of them as people, as creatures, monsters, but I recognized a few of them as folks who tipped their hats or said hello to me a few days ago. I killed folks back home too. I’ve had more blood on my hands in the last year than a lot of men who were in the war, than Pa.…”

He felt like crying, felt the empty sky over him, vacant of hope, of the sun or moon, of God in His Heaven. He felt completely and totally alone in the vast cold.

“I’ve been trying since I got here. Trying to live up to the fine men I’ve made the acquaintance of, live up to what they expect of me. But I’m no hero. I’m scared, Mr. Ringo. I’m scared and tired of running and lying. I miss my home; I miss my bed. I miss my family, and now, at the end of things, I want to be with them more than anything in this world. I’ve wanted to tell someone since I got here, but everyone I’ve met has been so damned noble, so good, I just couldn’t see that light die in their eyes when they knew what I really am. Even the man who saved me, who brought me here. He can’t know all of it. But you can. You don’t know me and I don’t know you and there’s a damn good chance that we’re all going to die pretty soon anyway, so please, listen.”

And Jim told Ringo all of it, even the part that made him weep at night and claw at his face and pray to die, pray to take it back, to change it and make it right. To the strains of “Listen to the Mockingbird,” Jim Negrey gave his confession.

The wagon ride back to the Negrey homestead from his father’s unmarked grave outside of Albright seemed like a waking dream. Jim’s mind wrestled with what he had done, what he had seen. The rage was nestled cold and hard in his chest and he knew, even as part of him was horrified by how he had cut the Professor down in cold blood, that he was going to kill Charlie just the same. He felt all the possibilities of his life, all the dreams, all the fantasies; they all narrowed into a single, desolate road that led to damnation and tragedy. His life had ended the moment he had pulled that trigger back in the bar. Now it was time to finish it, to follow that road to its inevitable end.