9

Dusk came early as the midsummer storm closed over their heads, lidding off the sky. Inside the purple, bruised fist of the clouds, lightning flickered, and thunder rolled—far away at first, but approaching fast. The horses grew restless, anticipating the rain that the humans saw like a deep blue fog blurring their view of the distance.

The demon’s trail had woven through arroyos and stayed close to the base of cliffs when it could, as if it preferred the darkness and shadows to the sun.

So had the demon-hunters, until now.… But the stretch of broken lands that had offered them all some small relief from the afternoon’s heat had finally come to an end. Up ahead the land opened out into a flat plain filled mostly with cactus and sparse clumps of dry grass—a place that looked to offer no shelter from the storm.

Jake could see it clearly from where he rode now, a self-exiled scout on the crest of a ridge, while the others followed Nat Colorado’s tracking. He figured it was just as well: The storm looked to be a real toad-strangler; they were going to half drown, wherever they were. But if they didn’t get out of these twisting canyons, they’d all end up drowned, period.

Jake stopped his horse, and pulled loose the jacket the horse’s former owner had tied on behind the saddle.

Just as he shrugged it on, pulling up the collar, sheet lightning lit up the entire sky. Pitchfork bolts struck peaks and mesas all around them, the crack of thunder following almost instantaneously. As if the clouds had been ripped open, rain poured down like Heaven’s waterfall: The storm had found them, and within seconds everyone was drenched to the skin in water that felt as cold as the day had been hot.

The desert never did anything halfway. It would kill a man with thirst, or sweep him away in a flash flood, horse and all. The kind of rain that fell during a chubasco like this ran off the rocks and over the bone-hard crust of the earth in torrents that could flood an arroyo or narrow canyon in a matter of minutes. A few minutes more, and a ten-foot wall of water roaring down the dry wash would catch an unwary traveler with no warning at all.

High on the ridge, Jake smelled the reek of ozone and felt his skin prickle with static. Soothing his nervous horse, he counted himself lucky simply to be only half drowning.

He should have been more careful … even the high ground was treacherous, here. But riding too long in the middle of a posse, especially one that included Dolarhyde and Ella, had gotten on his nerves.

In less than five minutes Nat turned to Dolarhyde down below with a fatalistic shrug. Water sluiced from his hat brim as he shook his head, “Rain’s too heavy. Gonna wash the tracks away.”

Dolarhyde’s face turned grim; even knowing it was bound to happen, he glared at the sky as if he took the news as a personal affront.

All the riders began to head up the steep slope as runoff water poured down it, following Jake’s silhouette to higher ground.

Jake watched them make their way up the hill toward him, and understood the rest without explanation. He rode on to the end of the bluff to look for any place at all that might offer them refuge from the storm and the oncoming night.

He shielded his eyes from the rain pouring off his hat and searched the distance. All he could see was the vast swath of blue-gray blurring to green-black that the plain below had become as the rain began to fall. He moved his horse to the very limit of the outcrop, dropping his gaze inward to scan the land closer to the foot of the ridge, not really expecting to find anything better.

But there was something … something—? He stood in his stirrups for a better look. It couldn’t be … but it was. He raised one hand, both a signal and a warning to the others. As they gathered around him, he pointed, waiting for their reactions. He heard sudden gasps; he heard curses and murmurs of disbelief. So he hadn’t completely lost his mind, after all.

There was a paddlewheel steamboat from the Mississippi River lying in the middle of the New Mexico desert. Upside down.

Like it’d been dropped from the sky …

Jake didn’t say anything, wondering why the hell he’d felt so surprised, after everything he’d seen and been through the last couple of days. Nobody else said anything either, just sat staring, as the rain endlessly poured down on them.

Finally Doc said, “Don’t know much about boats, but I’d say that ship’s upside down.”

“And it’s five hundred miles from the nearest river that can hold it,” Dolarhyde observed, as if they were discussing the weather. Or maybe he was— “C’mon, let’s get out of the rain.”

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere near it,” Doc said.

Dolarhyde shrugged. “Suit yourself. Sleep in the rain.”

Charlie Lyle nodded, and Dolarhyde led the way down the treacherous slope into the valley below, although even his own men again traded dubious looks as they followed him.

The others headed down the slope after them, one by one. Doc was the last to leave the bluff, but he came, just the same.

The inside of the riverboat was mostly dry; but that was about all anybody could say for it. Ella was the only one carrying matches that would still strike a light. The others groped in the lightning-lit near darkness until they found some splintered furniture, and began to turn chair legs into torches. They moved as a group, cautiously, through an obstacle course of broken wood, upended furniture, and shards of glass, until they arrived in what once must have been the Grand Ballroom.

Its chandelier lay in a glittering pyramid of crystal pendants, in what had been the middle of the hall. A large rattlesnake lay coiled on top of it, having found refuge here before they had.

One of Dolarhyde’s men drew his pistol, and made short work of it. He grinned: fresh meat for dinner.

Jake glanced at the dead rattler, suddenly hungry enough to enjoy eating snake. There hadn’t been any food in the saddlebags on his horse. But he’d starve before he’d beg a crumb from Dolarhyde, or anybody who worked for him. He looked at the rest of Dolarhyde’s crew, watching their mixed reactions. Maybe the preacher’d be decent enough to break bread with an outlaw.

The people from town were trying to ignore the prospect of snake for dinner altogether. They busied themselves prying loose any candles left in the chandelier. Ella passed around lit candles, smiling as she handed one to Emmett and leaned down to pat the wet dog beside him. That dog.…

More light revealed more broken furniture, including upside-down gambling tables and the remains of a long buffet that had been laid out with a feast of elegantly prepared food. The ship hadn’t been here long—although it had been here long enough for the food to turn rotten in the desert heat. Jake was surprised that the smell wasn’t worse. Rats, never picky eaters, frantically scrabbled away from the light, as people began to explore further.

Jake glanced across the room, just as pitchfork lightning erased every inch of shadow. The far wall was all windows—and every single one of them had been smashed in. That explained the fresh air.

He suddenly realized what else it meant: They hadn’t found any people on this ship, alive or dead. Everyone had been taken … by the demons.

His mouth pulled back in a tight line. He didn’t bother to mention the obvious to the others. Either they’d figured it out for themselves, or they hadn’t; but none of them seemed to feel like talking about it any more than he did.

The others began to move on in small groups, searching for places that were more private, where they could dry out and bed down for the night.

Jake prowled the corridors alone, like a cat, unable to settle anywhere in spite of the fact that his body felt like it had been through more in the last two days than it had in his entire missing lifetime … though under the circumstances, he had no idea if that was true or not.

His mind had been through as much … at least as much … more. So much that he couldn’t rest—afraid of thinking too long if he stopped moving, afraid of dreaming if he slept. No rest for the wicked.… At least not while his wide-awake life was enough to make him question his sanity, over and over.

He was aware that Ella had begun following him as he explored, carrying a candle and keeping her distance. She hadn’t seemed like she wanted to talk to him, and he didn’t think she was afraid he’d bolt again if he got the chance, now that he was back of his own free will.

If she’d wanted a bedmate, she had her pick of them: it wasn’t like that, either. What the hell, then? Was she lonely, afraid, feeling in need of protection … or did she think he was the one who needed watching over, like that orphaned boy or that fool dog? Maybe she was trying to figure him out. He wished her luck.

Whatever it was, if she wasn’t talking, he wasn’t about to ask. Let her follow him if she wanted to—at least then he could be sure of what one person here besides him was doing, all the time.…

Navigating by lightning-light, he passed dark halls like tunnels and more empty rooms full of breakage and spillage, until he paused as he reached the end of the main hall. It opened on a larger area, where he saw Doc, actually wearing a gun belt, and trying to fast-draw a revolver—starting the process backwards, which figured.

First you learned to hit your target, every time it counted. Then you worked on a fast draw, or any other move you had the skill for. He watched Doc fumble another draw; watched him try it again, with the same results. Doc took hold of the pistol and attempted to twirl it around his finger; it fell on his foot. Jake winced, not in empathy, and hoped the goddamned thing wasn’t loaded.

He wondered why Doc was even trying to handle a revolver, when it was obvious that he was terrified of guns.

And then he saw Meacham watching Doc’s futile practice session, with Charlie Lyle observing beside him. Lyle’s expression barely hid his dismay.

But Meacham flashed his good-natured grin at Doc, and said, “Occurred to me—you might do better with two hands.…” He held out his rifle.

The frustration and self-disgust on Doc’s face eased. He holstered the pistol and gratefully took the rifle from Meacham.

Jake backed further into the shadows before he let the faintest trace of smile show on his face. Meacham was a good man, and a sharp one, when it came to figuring out what people needed. But it was clear he hadn’t been a preacher forever, or even most of his life. Good or evil … it’s up to you, from now on. Maybe that was the truth he’d found, when he found his vision of the Lord. Jake would’ve liked to swap stories with the man, if he’d had any stories that he could remember.

Ella had stopped when he did, and followed him down the next darkened corridor he chose. Up ahead he could see flame-shadows on the walls; somebody had built a small fire out of broken furniture.

He stopped at a point just before the firelight reached into the hallway, to see who it was. Dolarhyde and Nat were sitting across the fire from each other, both of them as silent as if they were all alone. The two men weren’t camped out with the rest of Dolarhyde’s crew; Dolarhyde sat, lost inside his own thoughts, as if even Nat wasn’t present.

Dolarhyde was peeling an apple with his Bowie knife as he stared into the fire. He peeled the whole apple with one perfect spiral motion; his hands were so skillful he could’ve cut a man’s heart out blindfolded.

Jake watched, equally silent, completely fascinated.

At last he turned around and headed back down the corridor. He nodded to Ella as he passed her, as if they were two restless spirits passing in the halls of a haunted house, and kept on walking. She said nothing, only turned to follow him again, still keeping her distance.

*   *   *

DOLARHYDE GLANCED UP as he felt something disturb his concentration. He watched Nat feed another stick of broken wood to the fire, studying his expression. “You fixin’ to say something?”

Nat hesitated, glancing away into the shadows, before he was able to look back again and meet Dolarhyde’s eyes. “I dunno, boss. What do you think—is there enough of us here?”

It was Dolarhyde’s turn to hesitate, knowing the truth—knowing that Nat recognized it too, or he wouldn’t have asked the question. He said quietly, “What else am I gonna do?”

Nat took a deep breath. “Maybe we should … notify the army. Get the cavalry involved.”

Dolarhyde looked up as if he’d been spat on. “We’re not turning this over to some West Pointer—” he said, his voice as bitter as alkali, “wait for ‘em to get on the telegraph and ask Washington which hand to wipe with. I waited around for ‘em at Antietam to tell me what to do.…”

He looked into the darkness that lay inside the flames, seeing the past that would never die … not like his men had died. They’d died, and died, in meaningless sacrifice, in the bloodiest attack on the bloodiest day of the bloodiest battle in all the history of the United States. They’d keep on dying, forever, in his memory.… “Lost four hundred and twenty-eight men. Over a goddamn cornfield.”

He stared at the fire. It had been nearly thirteen years … but nothing, no amount of time, would ever burn away the memory of that terrible day, deafen him to the screams of the dying … ease the agony of the wounded, or the agony in his own soul, as his grief and self-loathing forced him to live through it again and again.

The law, the orders, the chains of command that had held him prisoner … his inability to disobey them, then, had forced him to commit the sin of cowardice: moral cowardice, in the face of all that was wrong; the worst sin he could imagine. He had let over four hundred good men die, men who had trusted him, who would have followed him into Hell itself. Who had.

“Might sound foolish…” Nat murmured, so softly Dolarhyde could barely make out the words. Looking back into his own memories, he smiled. “I always liked it when you used to tell those stories.”

Dolarhyde blinked the darkness out of his eyes and looked at Nat. There was a look on Nat’s face now that he’d never seen before. He frowned slightly. “I don’t remember telling you those stories.”

Nat glanced up, looking almost guilty. “I’d listen when you’d tell ‘em to Percy.”

Dolarhyde stared at Nat for a long moment, seeing a different person sitting across from him than he had ever allowed himself to see before. For a moment the pain of the past receded, as the full implication of the younger man’s words sank in, and he felt something stir inside him that he thought had died long ago.

But then he looked away, at the darkness surrounding them. “There was nothing I ever did worth liking.”

“All the same…” Nat said, the smile grown quiet on his face, “I liked the stories.”

Dolarhyde looked back into the fire, letting it immolate all traces of an emotion he didn’t deserve, and never wanted to feel again. He said irritably, “They weren’t for you, they were for my son.”

Hearing it come out of his mouth, he looked down abruptly, so that he didn’t have to see Nat’s face. “Wish he’d listened…” he muttered. Wishing to himself that the son he’d likely die for had turned out to be half the man that Nat Colorado was. “Now go check on the horses.”

Nat got up without a word and left the fire, seeming as glad to put an end to their conversation as Dolarhyde was.

Dolarhyde picked up his knife. He cut a slice from the apple, chewed it without tasting anything as he stared at the flames again.

He heard stirring just beyond the firelight. He looked up with faint surprise to see Emmett, John Taggart’s grandson. He had forgotten the boy had been there at all.

He studied Emmett’s face, seeing the admiration in the boy’s eyes as he gazed at the Bowie knife, along with plain hunger when he looked at the apple.

Dolarhyde cut a piece from the apple, keeping his eyes on the boy as he did it. He held the piece of apple out. “Here.”

Emmett came forward and accepted it with a sudden smile. He sat down cross-legged beside the fire and began to eat, as Dolarhyde cut another slice for himself. Dolarhyde wasn’t sure how he’d managed to invite the kid to dinner; but there wasn’t much he could do about it now that he had. He handed Emmett another piece of apple. Emmett watched each time he cut a slice, with a fascination that was almost awe.

It occurred to Dolarhyde that the boy was the only one here without some kind of weapon. It made him think about what the boy was even doing here— then he remembered that Taggart had been taken by the demons, just like Percy.

Taggart had been a smart, fair man, Dolarhyde knew, and a good sheriff: The fact that Taggart hated everything he stood for—his total disregard for the law Taggart was sworn to uphold—and wasn’t afraid to show it, only proved the man’s integrity. He was tough enough to do dirty work when he had to, but still human enough to miss his only child, and try to keep his only grandchild shielded from the real ugliness of the world they lived in for as long as he could … whether that was a smart thing to do or not.

Dolarhyde looked at Emmett again: all alone, but as determined as any man to save the last of his family. Even if he had to fight demons with his bare hands … The boy suddenly reminded him of someone else, but he couldn’t think who.

When they had finished the apple, Dolarhyde held up the knife. “You lookin’ at this knife?” he asked Emmett. “You like this knife?”

Emmett nodded, his wide brown eyes as serious as they were surprised.

Dolarhyde flipped the knife and caught it by the blade, He held it out to the boy. Emmett took the knife from him, speechless.

“You look after that,” Dolarhyde said, his voice stern. Emmett nodded, his eyes going even wider. Dolarhyde took the knife sheath from his belt and tossed it after the knife. Emmett held the knife, staring at it in wonder. He picked up the sheath and put the blade into it, very carefully, and fastened it to his belt. Then, still silent, but with amazement reflecting like firelight in his eyes, he got up again and moved off into the shadows beyond the pool of light.

Dolarhyde took a deep breath, relieved to have his solitude back. This time, at least, he hadn’t been left feeling ashamed by the results of what he had done. Instead, he felt oddly satisfied. Remembering the way the boy’s eyes had shone as he accepted the knife, Dolarhyde suddenly realized who it was that Emmett had reminded him of: another boy, named Nat Colorado—orphaned, unwanted, and all alone—when Dolarhyde had first brought him home.

A rifle shot rang out in the quiet, echoing through the ship, making him start and look up. But it wasn’t followed by further noise, no shouting or screams. He sighed, and tossed another chair leg on the fire. That damn fool Sorenson, he thought. Nothing but dead weight.

*   *   *

DOC SORENSON LOWERED the rifle, his face tight with frustration as he looked at the bottle he’d been trying to hit, still sitting unscathed on the table. He ran his hands through his dirty hair, further disheveling what had, until last night, always been a carefully groomed and tonsored look.

“Treat her like a woman,” Meacham said, adjusting the rifle in his grip. “Talk to her like one: ‘You look beautiful, darlin’, you’re the most beautiful gun I ever seen’.”

Doc raised the rifle to his shoulder again, not sure whether hearing a gun compared to a beautiful woman, or hearing the comparison come from the mouth of a preacher, was more disconcerting.

He hated killing, hated the kind of men who enjoyed it. His hands and eyes were trained to use a scalpel, to heal the injuries men like that inflicted, and his memory was filled with the names of medical terms, not the caliber numbers of bullets, or who made the best rifles. But if it meant saving his wife he’d learn to be a killer—even if it killed him.

“Align your sights now,” Meacham repeated, going over the checklist again with saintly patience. “Don’t pull the trigger, you squeeze it … gently.”

Doc fired the rifle again; the sound deafened him, the gun kicked him in the shoulder, hard. He looked toward the table: the bottle was still intact. “Dammit,” he muttered.

“Keep your hands steady,” Meacham said, sounding like one of his instructors from medical school, now. “You can do it.”

Doc cracked open the rifle’s breech and reloaded it, fumbling with the bullets in his anger and frustration. “Maria was right … I ain’t no gunfighter … ain’t no saloon owner.…” He was a doctor. But here in the territories where he’d grown up, a genuine doctor was still as much of a freak as he’d been to his own family: a small, sickly boy growing up with a father and brothers who believed in an Old Testament God, and that what defined a man was his ability to beat down or shoot anyone who didn’t believe the same.

They’d called him “Mama’s Boy,” because his mother had tried to protect him, along with herself … until finally the misery of her life had driven her to alcohol, and he’d lost her to sorrow and drink.

When she’d taken to spending more time at the cantina that Maria’s family ran than at home, he’d taken a job there, to pay for her tequila; it had been the only thing he seemed able to do for her, by then, in return for a mother’s love. Maria’s family had become his real family, and Maria … Maria.…

“That woman’s the only one who ever believed in me,” he said, looking back at Meacham. After his mother died, he’d learned she had family—rich family—back east. They’d granted his mother’s final wish and sent him to medical school, when they learned what had become of her. And Maria had waited for him, until he came home.…

But he’d come home only to discover that he couldn’t make a living out here as a doctor. He couldn’t take Maria back east, away from her family and everything she knew—he’d had a hard enough time with that himself. The way he talked and acted had made him stick out like a sore thumb. He wouldn’t expose her gentle heart to the stares, the remarks—all the hard feelings left after the War, after too many wars—which even a Mexican wife would have attracted.

Maybe they should’ve gone to Santa Fe … but they hadn’t had the money to start a new life together there. His memories of the cantina were good ones: a place where not just drunk cowhands, but actual families, had come to enjoy life and celebrate. He’d wanted to run a place like that—but the only place available was the Gold Leaf Saloon, in Absolution.… “All I wanted was to put her in some silk, y’know?” he said. “Give her a little buttermilk. Show her I could provide a better life…”

But he’d failed at that like he’d failed at everything else. “It’s my fault she got took. If I hadn’t brought her to that damn town…” He felt his voice beginning to shake. He struggled to keep control, to hold onto his belief in any future at all; barely holding it together, afraid that in another minute he’d—

“You’re gonna get her back,” Meacham said firmly. “Y’hear? You’re settin’ things right.”

Doc looked up, needing to see something in the man’s face that could make him believe. “So you … think she’s still alive?”

Meacham grinned, his face brightening with belief. “Wouldn’t be here, if I didn’t have faith.”