The trail ran cold in a lumber town called Coldwater. It sat on the west side of the Black River and Dusty wasn't surprised at all. We had ridden out of Flatbrush like the devil himself was on our trail. We passed through a couple small towns, places so tiny they barely had names. We stopped just long enough during the day to avoid killing our mounts, and for Dusty to check in at the telegraph office to inform the marshals where we were headed and what we were doing.
Rosie wasn't happy with this rough treatment, so I was forced to placate her with an extra rubdown every time we stopped. Luckily Ms. Kary had kept a brush in her saddlebag. Dusty's mount seemed more used to this hard going and rather than waste time showing his displeasure he stood nearly stock still everytime we stopped. A passerby could easily have mistaken Horse for a statue.
Dusty's mount didn't have a name. The ponce just called him horse, so I started to think of it as his name. Horse the horse. Anyway, we had come up on Coldwater a good three weeks after leaving Flatbrush. Those small towns before had given us leads in the right direction, putting us on the outlaw's trail. But when we hitched up in Coldwater, Dusty had looked at me and scoffed. "Dash it all , this will be where the trail dies." He told me flatly, his merry hazel eyes tired, showing our weeks of trailblazing. He asked me to water the horses and to make sure they got stabled correctly. Then he grabbed my shoulder. "Wear your patch." He told me. Then he passed me a wallet containing a whole 30 dollars! And he was just carrying it around! I don't know where the money came from but the man always seemed to have it ready and was quite generous with it.
I did as I was told. I stood on a barrel and fished around in Rosie's saddlebag until I found my eyepatch. It was a crude thing made of a piece of old leather vest and a rawhide drawstring. Dusty had made it for me during one of our short rests. When he handed it to me he told me, "I have watched you closely for three days, lad. It doesn't appear that your eye will change color. It seems that being a thinblood doesn't grant you that gift." When I asked him what he meant, he explained. "Vampires, to maintain the Facade, can change their eye color back to its normal mortal state when not using their bloody talents. It is why you do not hear of red eyed maniacs running around murdering people willy nilly." He pointed at my face. "You do not seem to have that capability. And so, we go with a much less evolved deception." He had given me the eyepatch then.
"Whenever we interact with others, or are spending time in town wear it as if you have worn it all your life, else the slaughter in Flatbrush will become commonplace in our time together." He said those words with the toneless finality of a coffin banging shut. The same dead serious tone he had used before blasting apart townsfolk like shooting bottles.
And so, in Coldwater, I slipped the patch over my eye and gave up half of my sight. It wasn't that big of an inconvenience. My eyes and ears had grown sharper as we rode. I had got my feet better situated on the new trail I happened to be walking through life. The first few days had been rough. I had cried and lamented leaving home. But then one night, I sort of... came to, I guess ya might say. I realized that this was the best result that could have happened. I was alive. I was on the trail of my father's killer and had been given the tools to fight him. I had determined that I wouldn't cry anymore until I had found Sumter Allen and filled him with enough lead to sink the Hunley. That I would take this curse and sharpen it into a weapon I could use to stab him.
Ah... the follies of youth.
So as I trudged through the streets of Coldwater, I enjoyed my newfound senses. I was walking down the middle of the street but I could pick out snatches of conversation from one of the saloons I was passing. Two men were having an argument about cards. Whether one had cheated or not, but it was a subdued argument. More like heated conversation really. Then I tilted my head in the other direction and could hear the clerk of the general store up the road totaling up a man's bill. Three cans of beans, a can of corn, a stick of butter and a set of canned strawberries. The buyer's total was 1.74 cents. I heard the ding of the clerk's cashbox as he completed his sale.
My sense of smell was just as sharp. I picked out a town brothel by the drifting scent of a dozen conflicting perfumes and a strange stench of sweat all creating one mess of a stink. I picked out the livery by the smell of horse dung, the bitter dull smell of the hot iron of a shoe on the forge, the sweet clear scent of cedar shavings. In all honesty, I leaned toward liking the smell of the stable over the whorehouse. I completed my business with the stableman. When he asked how long I needed them lodged for, I gave the answer Dusty had taught me. "Sir, I do not know when my caretaker intends to leave. It is his wish that we may conduct our business on a day by day schedule, forthwith each of us earning and dispensing a proper amount. We are willing to even pay a surcharge if necessary."
When the man looked at me with nothing but absolute bewilderment in his face I simplified. I didn't blame him. Hell's bells, I'd had to get Dusty to explain it to me 3 times before I understood what the heck he was saying. "I don't rightly know how long the fella what takes care of me wants to stay in town." I clarified, "Can we pay ya each mornin? He said it's alright if ya gotta charge extra on account of the bother with your books." The old horse-man nodded in response.
"Sure thing, sonny. Why the hell didn't ya just say that in the first place?" He pulled an old ledger book from the pocket of his smithing a pron. The cracked leather cover was obviously well loved and well used. The kind of journal that suited an old ferrier right down to the ground. He went through mine and Dusty's saddle bags and the assortment of strange concoctions, religious bric-a-brac, and knives stored in the saddle made the old man use 3 lines and he gave me a funny look. "Your daddy some sort of travelin magician or some such, boy? Also, I'll need you and your pa's names to go long side these animals."
I gave him our names, including Dusty's title. I didn't bother to correct him about Dusty not being the man who raised me. I had learned it just caused problems and confusion. But apparently something I said caused his deeply tanned skin to go white as a ghost (which I had just recently learned were real) and to raise his eyebrows in fright. I heard his heart quicken in his chest and his breathing changed. "What is it? You look like you seen a haint, mister."
He licked his lips, and stammered out, "Did you say Marshal? As in lawman?" I nodded and he quivered. "Oh, no. You and your pa gotta get outta town." I told him flatly that we were on the trail of a criminal and couldn't leave. He reached down and shook me. "You don't understand boy, Calico Tom Arden is here. And he'll gun your pa down like a dog if he goes to flashin that badge around. Now go find him and tell him! I'll brush your horses if they need it and get em ready, no charge but you got to go!" He pushed me toward the edge of his property. "Now, go on boy."
There it was again! Boy, Every body between here and California it seemed was determined just to call me boy. I had literally just given him my name! He'd written it down for Pete's sake! I growled in frustration. It wasn't a human sound but the old hostler didn't seem to notice the animal quality to it. I spun on him. "Look here, Mr. Edgars! My name is Dodger! Dodger Williams and you'd best remember it." I told him. He quickly cuffed me on the ear. I could have ducked it. But a little kid with that kind of forethought and reaction time would have been a bit suspicious so I let it pass.
"Don't sass me, boy!" He barked, "Run on and get yer pa!"
I turned and stomped out of the yard. I pulled my flat-bill driver's cap down on my head, flipping the bill up and down in frustration. I hated that hat and abused it every chance I got. It was too big and looked like a city boy's hat to me. But Dusty had lent it to me because, sure enough, having the sun just beaming in my eyes gave me a crippling headache. I had to have something to shade them. So he pulled the smallest of his spare hats out and let me use it till I could get a new one at the first town where I one could be got.
Anyway, I ran from the livery, dashing toward the post office. I ran on the crowded wooden sidewalk, dodging drift ranch hands and lumberworkers. I even had to stop once to beg the pardon of a lady that I happened to collide with. I had bumped off of one of her not-too-well-concealed hips. I suspected she might have been what Dusty called a "soiled dove", but my daddy had always taught me to be polite to a lady, regardless of her profession. I skidded to a halt when I saw Dusty walking out of the local general store. He carried a crate full of different odds and ends. When he saw me, he pushed the front of his bowler up and sat the box down. "Dodger? For God's sake. Why are you running about like a rabid dog?" I quickly explained to him about the bandit and he nodded. "I see. Well, I thought there might be. Coldwater is not the kind of place that is supposed to be this calm or this careful. Watch your step as we go forward." He bumped the crate with his foot. "And to be quite frank I could taste their tension in the air. Carry that."
Now, coming from Flatbrush, a town of about 200 people, I wasn't used to such a big town or the habits of the folk in it. That being the case, I wasn't sure of the way folks oughta act in this big of a city. Just to make things clear, Coldwater is not a big city. Just a decent sized town, but I didn't know any better. So, as I picked up the crate, I asked. "What's so bad about it being peaceable, marshal?"
"Look around, my lad. Look closely at this street and the people on it." He said, pointing his cane at all the passersby on the street as he spoke. "That man, his shoulders are hunched as he leans against that doorframe. His hand keeps touching his pistol, just to make sure it is there." His cane indicated an older fellow in his long underwear and overalls, who was just casually touching his gun. "The lady in the corset and bloomers?" He pointed behind us at the woman I had bumped into earlier. "She keeps her eyes on us, but has not propositioned us yet. Very strange." He walked down the sidewalk as he talked, spinning his cane lightly in his left hand. Not a care in the world.
"This is a trading town, Dodger. Albeit a minor one. People come through hauling furs, lumber or even driving the odd cattle train... they should not be worried about strangers. And yet, they have been watching us since we got into town." He rolled a cigarette as he walked toward the nicer of the towns 2 hotels. "They are frightened." He paused twirling his cane just long enough to fish a little silver cigarette case from the breast of his fine gray vest and place the freshly rolled coffin nail in it. All the while he kept talking. " At first I assumed it was because Allen and his circus of the damned had ridden through."
He thumped his cane on the ground and stopped. He once more reached into his vest and he pulled out his bright silver marshal's badge, pinning it to the breast of his navy blue coat. His custom black one had been lost in the scuffle with the Enenra. God above how he had moaned and whined about that. Anyroad, he pinned his badge on and stepped through the doors of the hotel. Inside was nicer than Ms. Kary's place. I felt guilty thinking that way but it was just the God's honest truth.
The floors were a dark brown that was well-oiled. The tables were of a lighter wood and were surrounded by simple but well made high-back chairs. The bar itself was a long thing, it's surface a black wood that I had never seen before and the body of it was shellacked in an eye-catching burgundy. It had a massive mirror behind the bar that ran the length of the thing. Men and a few women sat around the place, most having a late lunch and some just sitting there nursing a drink. But the strangest thing, now that Dusty had pointed it out, was the relative quiet.
Most hotel dining rooms were loud noisy affairs even during the day. But the dining room of the Lock and Lantern seemed... subdued somehow. People still chatted over their meals or laughed at jokes told by their friends. But they weren't any yelling. The men at the poker table joshed each other but there weren't the loud curses of somebody losing a hand. Dusty walked up to the bar and then suddenly shoved the back of my head down and forced me to look at the bar, the pressure on the back of my neck painful. "Keep your head down, whatever you do."
"Ow! What! Why?! This hurts, marshal.
He leaned close and whispered in a hiss. "You are not showing a reflection! Keep your bloody head down." I couldn't believe it, so as any kid would when told not to do something I couldn't resist a peak up. He was right! My hat, my worn vest and my old homespun shirt floated on nothing! It was a goosebumpy feeling, lookin at that image. "How'd that happen? It wasn't like that yesterday!" I blurted out.
"Quiet!" The marshal hissed. "Do not draw attention. Let us conduct our business then when we get upstairs." Dusty forced my head down again. "Just keep looking down." Then he waved his hand tp get the attention of the bar-man. The barman was a fat fellow with a jolly face thick beard and a balding head. He walked to Dusty with a very cheery greeting and a clear smile.
"Howdy, fella! What can I do ya for?"
Dusty returned his smile. "I would like a room for myself and the boy." He said laying his hand on my shoulder and giving me a little shake. I kept my eyes on the floor trying to figure out why my reflection had just decided to get out of Dodge.
"Oh, sure thing! Ya know bout how long you'll be stayin?"
"About a week." Dusty told him.
My head snapped up. "But marshal, what about..."
Dusty didn't look up but instead pushed the brim of my hat down over my eyes, exerting more force than needed for the job. It pushed my head down. "Do not worry lad, you'll get to meet her. I promise." He looked up at the barman and gave him a smile. "Dodger here has a little lady pen pal out in Blackrock. We are on our way to meet her and is just a bit anxious to be on the road. It is quite charming." This brought a chuckle out of the barman.
"Well, son. Don't be worried a good girl will wait." He let out another chuckle and went back to talking to Dusty. "That'll be 3 dollars a day. Will the boy need a cot?"
Dusty and him fell into talk but I was simply caught in confusion. Why were we staying for a week?! Sumter already had a head start. It was ridiculous! I fumed for several minutes as they talked and I was about to say something when Dusty spoke to the barkeep again and it caught my ear. I felt like a dunce. Again, I had underestimated the blonde dandy's way with people. The small talk had been his way of getting the barman to not be so averse to answering hard questions. "Also, have you seen a tall lanky fellow come through here. Gray eyes, short white hair. Pale as a ghost. He would have been kind of odd, slept all day then come out and paint the town red after dark. He carries a beautiful pair of Colt's Dragoon revolvers. Would have had a strange entourage with him. Big black fellow, short loud Irishman, quiet oriental man and a pair of beautiful twin sisters. Certainly an odd looking lot."
The barman nodded. "Aye, they came through about three weeks ago. Stayed here in my hotel. Good folk, but very reserved, unlike what ya said. Seemed to stick to themselves. That's about all I can remember. " The fat little man reached over, grabbed a glasd and began to polish it. "Iffen ya don't mind my askin, marshal. What did they do to have a lawman on their trail. Seemed like good people, even they was a bit unsociable-like."
Dusty tapped the bar and the man poured him a rye whiskey. "Oh, dear man. You avoided a terrible fate." Dusty swallowed the drink and nodded his appreciation. "That was the real Sumter Allen and his Band of Highwaymen."
The barman blinked. "You're kidding!"
"No sir, I'm a U.S. Marshal. I've been on his trail for about a month now." Dusty responded. About then a man jumprd up and darted out the door, shouting something down the street. "Oh dear... that might be a bother."
"Well," the fat man sighed, grabbing another glass and starting to shine it. "I wish I could help. But we've been havin our own troubles here lately and when people don't make a fuss well.... they just fall outta ya mind."
Dusty asked the man, "Oh? What troubles you?"
"Ya see, Marshal. A group of bad folk been plaguin this town somethin fierce. Been here about two weeks. They pester every good body in town, done some terrible things to the girls over at the Ms. Jenae's cathouse. And they've been pressing everyone for money...."
I heard the door to the dining room open, too hard, too fast and the clap of hard-soled boots slamming along the floor. This was the stride of an angry man. The barkeep cut his sentence short with a gagging sound.
"Hey!" Shouted a shrill reedy voice. From my position of staring at the floor I saw boots that looked brand new but that had been sorely abused. The boots of a man who wore a pair he hadn't paid for. Those boots stomped towards the bar & stopped. "Bill, you fat fuck! Shut yer yap and don't do no business with this damn law dog."
"But Mr. Jones, I wasn't doin nothin. Just rentin 'im a room for a bit." The barman, whose name apparently happened to be Bill, whined in protest. There was a smack of skin on skin and Bill cried out. "I didn't mean nothing by it Mr. Jones..."
I couldn't stand it anymore. I had to see this. I looked up. Standing there was the man who had been standing on the street in his long underwear, pants and suspenders. He was a wiry fella. He had a face that was flat as a coal shovel and had the sort of beard worn by men who can't grow a good one. And God above was he a gorgon! That flat face, splotchy beard, a nose bulbed out like an overripe apple, and huge pimple right on his ear and forehead. Jesus, the man looked like a cross between rotted bacon and wormy flour. Ugliest fella I've seen before or since.
Dusty sighed and shook his head. "That was quite rude, Mr... Jones. Did I get your name right?"
The man stepped up into Dusty's face and the marshal leaned his head back with a grimace. The ugly man breathed into his face, "What's it to you, lawman? You piece of shit. We're gonna do you like we did the Sherriff, if you don't get your sorry ass out of town." Then he cast a look at me. "I think Calico would take a fancy to your boy."
Dusty stepped back. "Do you mean to tell me you ride with Tom Arden?"
Jones puffed out his sallow chest. "Damn right I do! And if you know anything about him, you know he hates lawdogs."
"That is quite interesting." Dusty said and pointed at the man's face. "I was not aware that Arden had opened a sideshow." He said this in his most pitying tone. He began to roll up his sleeves as he spoke."When does your freakshow open? I would love to watch you balance a ball on that hideous nose. At the very least it would hide part of that ghastly face. What is the price of admission?"
The outlaw's face went from an ugly white to a sick red. "You bastard!"He screamed and reached for the iron, holstered on his hip. Too slow. Dusty's cane lashed out like a snake. He slapped the man right in his soft bits. Jones let out a howl and grabbed himself falling to his knees and retching. Then Dusty started into him. Over and over again he brought that hardwood cane down. Everytime it struck Jones tried to cover up but Dusty would just switch to a new area.
He began yelling as he beat him. "How dare you strike innocent folk, you wretched cretin! You are not fit to eat a beggars shit and yet you think to take pride in robbing and killing and threatening innocent children! How many lives have you taken you coward?! Tell me!"
The blood had started to run from Jone's ruined mouth, smashed fingers and a few cuts where the edge of Dusty's cane had caught skin. To me the smell of the blood became sweet and aromatic and I groaned low in my throat. My mouth began to ache as my fangs began to extend and my throat began to grow dry. Through his broken teeth Jones spat out, "Don't kill me marshal! Please don't kill me!" Dusty continued to beat him and I started to walk forward. I wanted this man's life. I could feel my fangs biting into his neck and drinking my fill, the gush of delicious crimson slaking my thirst. Death called to me. Dusty stopped me by holding out his cane to me, thumping it into my ribs. He meant for me to take it.
I did and Dusty pulled his pistol levering a round into the chamber. He knelt beside the weeping man. "I am going to let you live, for now you cur. I want you to take a message to Arden for me." Dusty's voice dripped ice. I shivered as if the coldness there was a physical thing.
The man on the ground spit blood and nodded "Anything you want, mister! Just please don't kill me!"
Dusty snarled. It was a sound like a mountain cat. He rammed the barrel of the pistol in the man's mouth and I flinched when I heard the man's tooth shatter. "Do not speak. I do not want to dirty my ears with your voice." He shoved the pistol in further and Jones whimpered in pain. It scared me. I hadn't seen this side of Dusty. This anger. He spoke again.
"You tell Arden, that Dusty Holmes and his deputy are coming for him. That we will find him. That we will hunt him to the ends of God's creation if necessary. And when I catch him, if he gives me the slightest excuse I will take the greatest pleasure in hearing him scream in agony. Make sure he understand that if this comes to pass, even if he pleads for his life, he will only find judgement behind this badge. Let him know that this judgement that will be rendered with all of the mercy he has shown to the men, women and children he has robbed, raped, and tortured."
He pushed the pistol in again and Jones began choking on the steel. "This also goes for any of his lackeys that stand and fight with him. Their heads are worth twenty-five dollars apiece, alive. Twelve dollars dead. So I get my money either way." He removed the pistol and stepped aside. "Now, go on. Get out of my sight." With a gurgle the man scrambled to his hands and knees then crawled away until his scramble got his feet under him and he limped away as hard as he could lick it.
Dusty sighed and straightened his bowler. He turned a sunny grin on the people who were just staring now. "Don't worry, good people." He told them. "I'll take care of it." With that some people cheered. Cheered for the cold fury of the law and for the violent method of its resurgence. And of course, they cheered Dusty, their dandy avenger. What they didn't know was that Dusty had bought he and myself a whole mess of trouble.