Hallowed Ground

Chapter Twenty

The moon had risen bright and nearly full. The streets of Rookwood were empty. Only the light from Silas' saloon, and the eerie, haunting strains of McGraw's piano offered any sign of life. Most folks retired to their own places when the sun failed. That was the story of Rookwood night after night. A few – panhandlers, trappers and drunks – would inevitably make their way to the saloon for one of three things: the conversation, the bourbon, or the chance of Mae's attentions. Money was scarce, conversation terse, and with Mae’s sociability dependent heavily on the almighty dollar, the holy trinity was a washout. Silas spat and polished his pitchers in a perennial foul mood.

Since, The Deacon's folks had started spreading word of the coming revival, business had perked up noticeably. Hell, it was positively booming. When the three strangers entered town on foot, dark hats tipped over their eyes and darker coats floating behind them in the breeze, the whispers spread like wildfire. By the time the three reached the saloon, a boy had been kicked out onto the dusty streets with the express orders to fetch Moonshine Brady. He ran as though his life depended upon it. Both of the saloon's windows filled with curious faces.

The strangers didn't enter the saloon. They stood in the middle of the street and stared first one way and then the other, as though looking for something. The tallest of the three tilted his head back and sniffed the air like a wolf trying to catch a scent. He cocked his head to one side and gazed at the upper story of the saloon. The other two turned, following the direction of his gaze.

Before the three could make their next move, whatever it would have been, Moonshine stepped into the street a block away. His stance was relaxed, but his hand rested on the pearl-lacquered butt of his gun. He flexed his fingers as he stared at the newcomers for moment, and then called out:

"Can I help you gentlemen with something?"

The strangers spun as one and regarded the sheriff with their dark opalescent eyes. They didn't speak. They neither advanced nor retreated. The tallest of the three ignored Moonshine and turned back to the saloon, continuing his scrutiny of the windows on the second floor.

Brady's smile dropped a notch, and he closed his fingers around the grip of his six-shooter.

"I asked you boys a question," he said, starting forward. "The way I see it, it’d be mighty polite if you was to answer. You walked into my town, and that makes you my business; we don't get many visitors here. It's my job to be sure when we do, they don't bring trouble. So, I am gonna ask you this once, you wouldn't be bringing us any trouble, would you?"

The tall stranger turned and met Brady's gaze. The lawman stopped dead in his tracks, and no matter the sudden urge he felt to turn and run, he didn't back down. The two stared in silence for a long moment, and then the stranger spoke. At least, it sounded as though he was trying to speak. The word he uttered was coughed up from somewhere deep inside his craw. It was guttural and deep.

"Crrreeeeeed." The end of the word rose slightly, as though it was a question.

"You lookin' for Provender Creed?" Brady asked.

"Creeeeeed." The stranger repeated. This time he gave a curt nod.

"I ain't seen him since earlier today," Brady said slowly. "You come back tomorrow when the sun's up, you'll likely find him right there in the saloon."

"Creeeeed." The man insisted.

He took a step toward Brady.

Brady's gun was in his hand and aimed directly at the center of the stranger's chest so quickly it seemed to have appeared by magic. The stranger stood his ground and cocked his head to one side again. More and more he was reminding Brady of some kind of animal – a bird?

"I told you," Brady said evenly, "to come back tomorrow. I'm about to the point of tellin' you not to come back at all, if you get my meaning?"

Silas Boone stepped out onto the porch in front of the saloon then. A short-barreled shotgun rested across his arm. The light from the saloon's now open door sliced across the street. All three strangers took a step back to avoid it. Brady's frown deepened.

"Everything okay out here, Sheriff?" Silas asked.

"Seems these boys are looking for Creed," Stick said matter-of-factly. The tension in his body betrayed his nerves. "I told them they'd best come back by daylight. That sound about right to you?"

Silas nodded.

"Just so long as they bring money for a drink," the barman said.

‡‡‡

Inside the saloon, Mae hurried toward the back and clattered up the steps to the second floor. She'd heard what Moonshine had said. Mae wasn't all that fond of Creed, but if those no-goods out there were looking for him, she figured it might be worth her while to let him know. Something about the way they carried themselves and the almost preternatural silence that hung on them like a shroud set her skin to crawling. Mae wasn’t usually a worrier, but men like that didn't play games, and she’d bet her bottom dollar they weren't here to talk.

She banged on the door to Creed's room.

There was no sound from within. Mae frowned. She lifted her hand to knock again, but before she could follow through, the door swung wide and Creed stood there. He held his pistol in one hand, pointed at her face.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Creed!" Mae ran the names together like they were one.

She backed out of the doorway and hit the wall behind her painfully.

"What do you want?" Creed asked.

"Oh, just piss off, Creed," she muttered, turning back toward the stairs. "I don’t know why I even bothered. Maybe they’ll kill you and do all of us a favor, eh?"

Creed moved. He wasn't quite as quick as Brady, but he was much quicker than Mae. He grabbed her by the shoulder.

"What the hell are you talking about, Mae?"

Mae shrugged out from under his hand, but she didn't leave.

"There's three strangers in the street with Brady," she said. "Say they’ve come lookin' for you."

Creed frowned.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Hmm, let me think . . . idiot. Why in hell would I come up here to tell you if I wasn't sure?" she said, shaking her head. Now that the initial shock of having a gun drawn on her had passed, Mae's temper threatened to get the better of her. "And just what the hell is wrong with you anyway, answerin’ the door like that? Who did you expect to be shooting?"

"No one with good intentions has any reason to visit," he said coldly. He slipped the six-shooter back into its holster and flipped the snap tight. "Count yourself lucky I didn’t just plug a hole in you through the door instead of opening it."

She sniffed.

"What do they want?"

"Hell if I know," Mae answered. "I think Brady's gonna run them out of town. Silas went out with the shotgun to back him up. You going to talk to them?"

Creed shook his head. "I don’t think so. Ain’t no one with a reason to be hunting me down," he said. "But I want to get a look at them. Do me another favor, seein’ as you’ve already done one. Go down ahead of me and let me know if I can get to the window without being seen."

"One minute you pull a gun on me, and the next you expect me to run your errands?" Mae said. "You’re a bloody strange one, Creed."

Creed reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of coins. He held them out to her. Mae stared at his hand, thinking. It didn’t take more than three seconds – one for each of the strangers – for greed to get the better of her. She snatched the money, turned, and flounced back down the stairs. Listening to the almost petulant slap of her feet on the wooden risers, Creed moved to the landing at the top and waited. She reached the bottom, looked around and then ushered him down. Creed descended slowly and carefully. Three steps down – one for each of the strangers waiting for him – Provender Creed flipped loose the snap on his gun.

‡‡‡

The strangers didn't acknowledge Silas’ presence in any way. For what seemed like forever they simply stared at the blind windows. They didn't speak to Brady again – and for that he was blessedly grateful. The sheriff stood his ground and watched as the three turned, at last, and disappeared down the street just as silently as they'd appeared. He scowled at their backs. There was more than something wrong about that little encounter, and he didn’t feel any better for the fact that they were headed on out of town.

"You think they're leaving?" Silas asked, as though reading his mind.

"Not sure what to think," Brady replied, scratching at the stubble above his top lip. "What I can’t figure is why they came into town without their horses. Either there’s more out there, or a camp we don’t know about."

Silas nodded. "I wondered about that," he said. He coughed and spat a wad of chewed tobacco into the dusty street. "But why? What in hell do they want with Creed?"

"I wish I knew," Brady said. He rubbed at his eyes. He was bone tired all of a sudden. He put it down the sudden release of tension and the relief he hadn’t had to fire his gun – yet. He turned toward the doors of the saloon. "Reckon I'll hang around for a drink, Silas. Something tells me those boys aren't going to be as easy to get shed of no matter what it might look like right now."

Silas let the shotgun's barrel dip at his side, and he removed his finger from the trigger. He held the door open wide to let the sheriff through to the taproom. The patrons who'd been gathered at the windows turned quickly. It was wryly amusing that they tried to make it look as though they had no interest in what had just gone down. Moonshine was an old hand at the ‘Blind Eye’ they tried to foist off as disinterest. He wasn't fooled.

"They're gone," he said. "For now. I don't know a damn thing about them or what they wanted, so do me a favor and don't go asking, okay?"

As he stepped up to the bar, Creed melted from the shadows and joined him, leaning against the wooden bar. Brady stiffened, his hand moving instinctively toward the shooter at his hip, but then he relaxed when he saw it was Creed. The sheriff took in Creed's expression and noted the unclipped six-gun.

"Expecting visitors?" Brady raised an eyebrow.

Creed bellied up to the bar so Brady stood between him, the front door, and the windows.

"Nope," Creed said. "Far as I know, everyone who knows I exist lives within fifty miles of here."

"Some fellas out front seemed mighty anxious to make your acquaintance, and I ain’t so sure they were being neighborly, if you take my meaning?" Brady said. "Not very long-winded boys. Said 'Creed' a couple of times, then turned and hightailed it when Silas stepped out with the shotgun. Downright creepy sons of bitches, if you ask me. You want to tell me what that was all about?"

Creed shook his head. "Your guess is as good as mine, Moonshine."

Brady sniffed.

"I was you," he said, thinking about what he was about to say next, "I'd stay close for a day or two. I trust my gut, and my gut says your new friends were a bellyful of trouble. They left on foot." He let that hang between them for a moment, trying to judge Creed’s expression. "Me and Silas, we was thinking they might not have gone too far."

Silas slid two glasses of whiskey in front of them.

"He's right, Creed," Silas said. "Those boys were bad news. I’m thinking they’re not the sort you want to be messing with, wherever they came from. They come around again, we'll tell 'em you’ve moved on, but best you keep your head down for a while."

Creed sipped his whiskey and kept one eye on the door. There were a couple of folks back east who wouldn't mind aerating his hide, but he hadn't seen them or heard from them in years and there was no way on God’s earth they’d tracked him out into the middle of nowhere. He thought about the trappers’ camp, and what he'd seen out by The Deacon's tent. Whoever had come looking for him, it wasn't because of anything he'd done in the past. It was all about what was happening right now.

"I'll do that," he said at last. "You'll let me know if you see them again?"

Silas nodded. Brady knocked back the rest of his whiskey.

"I keep a pretty good eye on things," he said. There was no arrogance in his tone – it was matter-of-fact and hard as steel. He was the kind of man Creed would choose to watch his back any day of the week. "I don't much like strangers hanging around town stirring things up, so I'll keep an eye out. If I see those boys again, I'll send word."

"Thanks, Moonshine," Creed said. "I appreciate it."

"Not a problem."

He finished his drink and turned back to the stairs. He wanted another look at the contents of the woman's pack. More importantly, he wanted to think. He climbed the stairs slowly, listening for any change in the level of noise below. Too quiet most likely meant the strangers had walked in, too loud most likely meant trouble as well. When he reached the upper hallway, he stopped and stood very still, straining to listen.

Something thumped. The suddenness of the sound nearly made his bones jump out of his skin. It came from the direction of his room. He glanced both ways down the short stretch of carpeted floor. None of the other doors were open. Unless there’d been a rush while he’d been asleep, Mae and Silas were the only other people occupying rooms, and both of them were down in the bar.

He heard the sound again. There was no mistaking where it was coming from now. He pulled his gun and pressed his back to the wall, then started slowly and quietly down the hall. When he reached his door, he clearly heard the shuffle of movement inside. Things were being moved, and not gently.

Creed reached out and gripped the doorknob tightly. It was icy cold in his hand.

He took a deep breath, cocked the hammer on his revolver, and turned the knob.

Two tall men stood inside. They were hunched over his bed but whirled instantly at his intrusion.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?" Creed barked.

One of them held the pack he'd taken from the trappers’ camp. It was open. He saw the contents spilled out across his bed.

"Creeeeeed."

The intruder closest to the window turned and lunged. Creed shot from the hip. The bullet ripped through the man's shoulder and slammed into the wall behind. The impact spun the stranger half-around, but he didn't go down. He screamed in pain, and the sound of that scream chilled Creed's blood. He fired again. This time his shot caught the taller man directly between the eyes.

Creed dove to the side.

The second stranger scrambled to stuff the contents of the leather pack back inside. Creed fired at his hand, hoping to dislodge the bag. The bullet went wide. Behind him, he heard shouting voices and pounding feet. The sheriff would be there in moments. The man he'd shot in the face moved toward him with odd, stuttering steps. Everything about the intruder’s gait was jerky and uncertain – and it bloody well ought to be, he’d taken a slug in the middle of his face. He should have been laid out and ready to push up daises.

"Creed!" Brady's voice called out from the hall.

"Careful," Creed called out. "There's two of them. And the bastards won’t die!"

At the sound of the sheriff's voice, the intruder with the bag made a lunge for the window. Creed emptied his gun, firing off three quick shots at the man’s back. He couldn’t tell if they hit home, but if they did they did nothing to slow him down. The man launched himself full-length through the open window, arms outstretched as though he thought he could somehow fly out of there. The bag trailed behind him.

Creed pulled his second gun with his left hand and fired. This time the bullet caught the diving man in the hand cleanly, punching clean through. The sound that followed wasn’t a scream; it was another horrible screech that tore from his odd, motionless lips like the steam whistle on a train. The bag’s worn-through strap gave way. It spun out of the stranger's grip, the flap flying open. The journal spilled out, landing on the floor. The silk dress trailed after the fleeing man in a flutter of dark blue.

Moonshine stepped through the doorway. It took a split second to size up the situation. He saw the oddly gaited stranger tottering toward Creed, and saw Creed’s back as he stared out through the window. Brady fired three quick shots. All of them struck the stranger square in middle of his pig ugly face. Each successive bullet drove the thing back a step. The screams died away – all that remained was the gurgling, phlegmy sound of sucking air.

The stranger staggered back, hit the windowsill and toppled out into the night.

Creed threw himself forward, reaching out for the man’s arm. He wasn’t about to let the son of a bitch get away, but as his hand closed around what should have been a wrist, he came up empty, clutching at air. He pulled back his hand and staggered away from the window. Brady rushed forward and leaned out, staring down into the darkened street, his six-shooter aimed at the night. Silas appeared in the doorway with the shotgun.

"Bastards," Brady grunted. He leaned a little further out the window, craning his neck to see up and down the length of the street.

"What is it?" Creed asked.

Brady pushed himself away from the window and turned to the door, already moving.

"They're gone," he cursed.

Creed stared at him. It was impossible. They couldn’t be gone. He looked down at his hand. He released his grip and stepped back with a cry. He clutched a handful of oily black feathers.

Silas stepped aside quickly to avoid being run over by Brady, then stared at Creed.

"What in the hell…" he said.

Creed ran past him without a word.

Silas walked to the window and glanced down. Then, without really knowing why, he looked up toward the face of the moon. Two black shapes rose into the sky and wheeled off over the desert. Silas blinked, and then glanced down. He saw Brady and Creed, guns drawn, watching the street. Somehow, he didn't think they were going to find anything.

Shaking his head, he lowered the barrel of his shotgun for the second time that night and closed Creed's door behind him. He headed for the bar. He needed a stiff drink. There was going to be a lot off whiskey drank that night. He aimed to get a shot or two down his throat first before the bottle ran dry.