Chapter 2

The Unknown Soldier and the Apache Woman

“Am I dead?” a new soldier asked as he sat down at the bar. Wedged between his shoulder blades was a tomahawk with greased goose feathers dangling from the grip. The hollow stem of a pipe was attached to the end. Presumably, the owner didn’t find occasion to bury the hatchet in the earth and smoke in peace with the fella. The edge of the blade was peeking out from the front of the soldier’s sternum, where chunks of heart muscle had been pushed out. They clung to his shirt like dinner scraps. His arms were red from trying his damnedest to push the blade back out the way it came.

“Yup,” I told him. “You’re as dead as a doornail, but twice as useless.”

“Figured I was done for when they ambushed us.” Judging by the silver strands in his beard and the metals on his tits, he’d been soldiering awhile. “This hell?” he asked matter-of-factly.

“Nah.”

“Then why’s there so many dang Indians outside?”

On account of the wars, more and more of them were coming to Damnation every day. They marched out from the dust with the feathers of their headdresses swaying in the wind. Some came whooping and hollering atop dead-eyed ponies, still rallying the bucks with war cries. Others were shot in the back, likely on the run from larger forces. They built teepees outside of town with scrap wood from old covered wagons. The barren flatlands between the buildings and the dust cloud quickly filled with their camps, and eventually we were surrounded. The tribes might not have gotten along so well when they were alive, but in Damnation the Navajo, Cherokee, and Sioux all banded together. Their ideas about the spirit world were somewhat vague, so when they wound up in a place with tumbleweeds, horses, and a few white men, they figured it was close enough.

“I suppose them Indians wasn’t good enough for heaven,” I told the soldier. “Nor bad enough for hell—like yourself—so they were sent here. Some miner called it ‘hell’s sifter.’ Thought that God was giving us all another look-see to check if any of us might be worth saving from the fire. Another man thought that if you could manage to keep from shooting anyone for a whole year, the gates of heaven’d open up for you. Nobody’s managed it so far. The truth is, I can’t say for sure where we are. Alls we really know is you can stay here and play poker as long as you like. But if you get shot, you don’t get to see your cards.”

An Indian brave on horseback came riding by, shrieking and howling at the window, then threw a rock. It shattered the pane of glass. Wasn’t meant to be an attack or anything. He just wanted to let us know he was out there and didn’t care much for us. The soldier took it as an omen though.

“Should’ve known what we done’d come back to haunt us,” he said uneasily. “Government gave ’em land, but it weren’t near big enough and the soil no good for growing nothing. Meat rations were slim and often spoilt. Lost ten men in my battalion when they finally revolted. Guess I was the eleventh.”

A breeze blew the doors open, bringing with it a mess of dust and rattling the rusty fixtures. Nigel burst in like a twister and stopped in front of a toothless man huddled in the corner. A shiny tin star was fastened to his lapel. As sheriff, Nigel found he could make good on his promise to look after Mabel while still remaining impartial. His wounds from the fight with Luther had healed up good as new, though every passing day without warm blood made him weaker. He was still a far shot stronger and faster than any man or wolf in town. Just not the other vampire. Luther had healed, too, except for his blackened skin and the cheek that had melted away. Nigel might have missed his only chance to take out the big blond in a weakened state.

“This is a child’s toy, sir. Not a derelict’s.” Nigel yanked a wood-carved rattle out of the toothless fella’s hands, then tore out of the saloon as quick as he’d come.

“Who was that?” the soldier asked.

“The sheriff,” I told him.

“How’s he move so quick?”

“He’s a vampire.”

“You got vampires here?”

“Just two and some werewolves,” I added. “But most of them got wiped out when they came after Ms. Parker’s baby.”

“So there’s babies?”

“Just Martin. Only living thing in Damnation.”

“Shh, keep it down,” Sal scolded. “Luther might come in and hear ya.”

“The other vampire don’t know about him,” I explained to the soldier. “We’re afraid he might eat the little bugger. So if you see a tall blond fella missing half his face, pipe down about the kid.”

Ever since Martin was born, the wolves had been afraid to attack because they reckoned Nigel had a steady supply of warm blood to keep him strong. He never had a drop of the kid’s blood though. Some folks reckoned he was just waiting till the child got bigger, fattening him up like a hog. There were also concerns about a vampire being sheriff, so Buddy was made deputy. He took the position with the best of intentions, but when Ms. Parker began spending more time with Nigel, his mood soured. Buddy didn’t bother interfering in quarrels unless one of the rules was broken, and he was a little loose on their interpretation. One hungry man pointed out that rule number one said everybody eats. Buddy lifted his face from his glass, squinted angrily, and said, “It don’t say what though.” Then he shoved a gun barrel in the man’s mouth.

“Got any whores ’round here?” the soldier asked.

“Whores go to heaven,” I told him.

“So there is a heaven then?”

“Wherever they end up must be heaven,” Red added. “At least you can get a reg’lar poke there.”

“Wouldn’t be heaven for the lady suffocatin’ beneath you!” Mabel laughed.

“I can’t stand that damn racket!” Sal complained as he peered out the window to the half-finished building across the road. “The hammering’s driving me crazy.”

Mabel had hired a bunch of dead carpenters to build her saloon just opposite the Foggy Dew. She used Lucky’s money to pay them. On account of their thirst, they worked fast, framed up the walls with a balcony and a pitched roof in a couple of weeks. The top floor was already finished. It was going to be larger and grander than Sal’s dingy saloon. They had some brand-new wood for the exterior that came in on a lumber wagon. There weren’t any new nails though, so they had to yank old ones out of the rotted buildings. The rusty round heads stood out from the shiny new cedar, giving it an odd look, like the new was being held together by the old. She was going to call the place the Rusty Nail.

“Why we need another saloon anyway?” Sal grumbled.

“Town’s growing,” Mabel smiled with no apologies. “’Sides, a girl’s gotta keep herself busy somehow.”

“Don’t think about underpricing me,” he warned. “If folks start crossing the road for cheaper whiskey, I ain’t gonna bother feeding ’em for free.”

“Who says I won’t serve food?” Mabel said. “Just ’cause you got a frying pan don’t mean you have claim to every dead pig that wanders out of the dust.”

“The whole system’s going to pot!” Sal huffed, then he counted out ten chips for the soldier. “We’ll all be in hell before the year’s through. Mark my words!”

The tomahawk sticking out from the soldier’s back parted the crowd as he stood. He took his money straight to the poker table, where he lost a few hands. The gray in his hair had long overtaken the brown. He was likely the grandpa of some little tot he’d rather be holding than a straight flush somewhere shy of hell. When he got down to his last chip, he bought a bullet and borrowed a gun. He stuck the barrel in his mouth and squeezed the trigger. As the bullet broke apart the back of his skull, the piano player paused till the body hit the floor. Then he took up the song again right where he left off.

“Imagine that,” Old Moe remarked. “He literally wore his heart on his sleeve!”

“Just another soft army boy who didn’t care much for whiskey or poker,” Sal said. “Get the Chinamen to haul that sad sack away.”

As the day wore on, more dead soldiers arrived with stunned looks in their eyes and loads of fear-shit in their drawers. There’d been a battle in Florida, and for every soldier that came out of the dust four Seminole followed. Their whooping and hollering made the army boys nervous. Some of the same Indians they’d killed were outside with their war paints on, making bows and arrows out of scrap wood.

“I seen that prairie coon before,” a soldier barked angrily. “He followed me here, damn it! How many times I gotta kill that sumabitch?”

“Settle down now, boys,” Sal tried to soothe them. “You may a been winning the battle, but you’re losing the war here. We’re outnumbered! Best you can do is keep your head down and hope they don’t dig up the tomahawk and start a war.”

“What them red bellies want anyway?” an old sodbuster asked.

“So far they just wanna dance around the fire whoopin’ and hollerin’ same as always, but if you stir up trouble they might wanna kick us out of their spirit world.”

“They gonna chase us outta here like we chased them out of Oklahoma?”

“I expect they’d like to,” I said.

The rooming house was packed as tight as a barn during a twister, with hardly a foot of floor not covered by some wretched body. Smelt worse than a slaughter house with all the open wounds festering. I stayed at the saloon as late as I could to avoid it. One evening as the crowd was dwindling down, a squaw in a buckskin dress staggered through the door. She was skinnier than a desert steer, but feisty. Her shawl was torn and muddied from some sort of scuffle. Her hair was tied up in braids, revealing a round pretty face. Rough as she was, her skin was as smooth as any powdered society lady. She didn’t have a single blemish, except the bullet hole in her temple. The flesh around it was singed, probably from a hot barrel pressed against her head while someone had their way with her. It would’ve explained the crazed look in her eyes. Her own kind probably chased her away for causing a ruckus. They didn’t stand for their women getting out of line. She sidled up to the bar and a few of the fellas offered to buy her a drink.

“This is gonna be trouble,” Sal warned.

“Think the Injuns will come looking for her?” Whiny Pete asked worriedly.

Sal shrugged. “Who knows, but if she’s trading her wares for drinks, there’s bound to be a fight over her.”

The soldiers didn’t much care for her kind, and most hadn’t been dead long enough to change their minds. To the rest of the fellas, a woman was a woman no matter what color she was or how many bullet holes she had in her. The squaw accepted a drink from Red. Then one of the loggers put his hand on her thigh.

“Git your own damn woman, you tree humper!” Red hollered. “I done called her first.”

Normally, a fella wouldn’t take insult, but a woman was watching, even if she couldn’t understand what it meant. Some dead pride surged within the chubby logger, and he lunged at Red. Their bellies knocked together as they swatted one another like a couple of walruses. Red got the upper hand and shoved the logger to the ground. As he went down, his foot kicked the poker table, sending stacks of chips to the floor, and everyone started shouting.

“Ain’t you gonna do something about this?” Sal asked Buddy. “You’re the deputy after all.”

Buddy sipped his beer. “They ain’t broke no rules.”

“Rule number five says no killing over dumb shit.”

“There’s only one dang woman in the saloon and thirty men,” Buddy told him. “I’d say that’s a darn good reason for fighting.”

“All right, you fellas take it outside.” Sal grabbed his scattergun from the umbrella stand. “I ain’t having you break apart what’s left of my bar over some dirt-worshipping woman.”

Red and the logger headed out to the road, while the squaw stayed at the bar drinking. Nobody was interested enough in the outcome of the fight to vacate a stool.

“Ain’t you gonna watch?” I asked her.

“No matter who win,” she snarled. “Somebody get shot. Somebody buy me whiskey. All white man same. All filthy dog.” She spat on the floor.

A gunshot sounded outside, and a moment later Red trotted back into the saloon rubbing his hands in satisfaction. “Now that that’s all settled,” he announced, “what do you say to a poke, little lady?”

“How the hell’d you shoot that logger so fast?” Sal asked. “You’re so drunk, you couldn’t shoot a barn if you was standing in it. Wasn’t even out there long enough to count off ten paces. Musta shot him in the back,” he decided.

“You calling me a back shooter?” Red was feeling bold after shooting the logger, and Sal’s scattergun was on the other side of the bar.

“Settle down!” Buddy called out. “Rule number five says no fighting over dumb shit. Now Sal, if you cared so damn much about whether or not it was a fair fight, you shoulda went out and watched it for yourself. It’s over now, and both of you better quit your yapping ’cause it’s giving me a headache.”

The squaw’s eyes wobbled in her half-closed sockets, looking off in different directions at once like a blind man who couldn’t focus on anything in particular. When she noticed all the pale faces around her, she sneered with real hatred. Red was no friend of mine, but it was only fair to warn him. I pulled him aside and told him to watch himself.

“Ah, you’ll get a poke if you wait your turn, pencil pusher.”

“You ain’t listening. She ain’t right in the head,” I said. “Got it in for the white man.”

He brushed me off. “They all got it in for the white man. Makes ’em feisty under the covers.” Red laughed and pinched the lady’s backside. She squirmed away, saying she wanted another drink, so he ordered whiskey. She kept gulping it down like there was a bottomless pit inside her. Probably already put away more than a man twice her size. Might’ve been trying to blot out whatever horrors had been done to her.

The piano player was playing a quick little ditty, and she hopped from foot to foot like a caged rabbit rearing to be free. Red took her for a whirl around the floor. She shook her hips savagely and kicked her dark legs in the air. Soon enough, they caught Buddy’s eye. He wandered over like a cow to hay and cut in on Red. She didn’t seem to care much who her partner was.

“Better get the sheriff,” I told Whiny Pete.

“Hold it there,” Sal interrupted. “When Red and his boys came after Buddy, he shoulda shot him then. I say he’d be in the right to do so now.”

“You’ve certainly changed your tune. Wasn’t so long ago you were trying to have Buddy kilt.”

“I did nothing of the sort, Tom. I’ve always backed the deputy. ’Sides, Red ain’t paid his tab in weeks.”

“We can’t go back to killing each other over grudges,” I argued. “Especially with all these dead soldiers in town. Ain’t like managing a bunch of cow punchers and churn-twisters. They actually know how to shoot—some of ’em anyways. If they start settling old scores, there’s bound to be a war with the Indians.”

Red stood stupidly eating drag dust as Buddy sallied about with the squaw on his arm. “What’s the big idea, Buddy?” he finally blurted out. Buddy ignored him, which made Red angrier. There was nothing else for him to do but draw. He lifted his gun just as Buddy turned his back. Even stinking drunk, Buddy had a sense for these things. He must’ve seen the glint of the metal out of the corner of his eye, because he spun the woman around an extra turn and pulled as well.

“Buddy!” Nigel yelled from the doorway. Both men froze with their fingers on the triggers. “As deputy, you are supposed to maintain order here, not steal other men’s women and provoke them into fighting you.”

“But he drew first. ’Sides, who’s to say I stole her. He don’t have no claim on her just ’cause he bought her a few drinks. You woulda seen so for yourself if you wasn’t playing house with Ms. Parker.”

It was clear that Buddy reckoned all the time Nigel was spending with Ms. Parker was akin to him stealing his girl. Nigel weighed his words before responding. It wouldn’t have been prudent to go against his own deputy. Besides, Nigel wasn’t heeled, and if anybody was fast enough to shoot a vampire it was Buddy. Each day without warm blood made Nigel slower, and Buddy had gotten quicker. He’d taken to shooting bottles on the outskirts of town like Hardin used to.

“We’ve got more pressing problems,” Nigel said. “There’s a hundred Indians outside and only thirty soldiers in here. If a gunfight breaks out, somebody could get caught in the crossfire.” He winked slowly. Buddy looked at him blankly, so Nigel whispered, “Little Martin.”

Buddy shrugged and let the squaw go. After Nigel left, Red didn’t waste any time in leading her upstairs. She swayed drunkenly, nearly falling over the banister, so he threw her over his shoulder and carried her up to the storage room. A few minutes later, her screeches could be heard above the barroom.

“Red’s really givin’ it to her!” Whiny Pete snickered.

A moment later, Red started screaming even louder than the woman.

“Or maybe she’s givin’ it to him!” Jarvis said, and everybody laughed.

Then a gunshot sounded.