Angel in the Dust – Chapter 4

by john | Nov 7, 2017 | Angel in the Dust, Serialized Fiction, Writing

Another chapter in the ongoing serial. Sorry I missed posting this yesterday, I had a lot of other stuff going on and it slipped my mind. 

Chapter 4

It was near to sundown when we rode into Carson City, and Graves looked over at me with a grim look on his face. “Keep your tone civil, boy. The Sheriff in these parts don’t take much to the Brotherhood.”

“What does that even mean?” I asked.

“It means that he don’t like nobody questioning his authority, and that goes double for people he thinks is likely to take the law into their own hands.”

“Ain’t we on the same side as the Sheriffs?” I was naive then, no matter how wise I thought I was.

Graves gave a snort that almost sounded like a wheeze. “Boy, ain’t you paid attention to nothing besides shooting and whoring the whole time we been riding together?”

I didn’t answer that. Mostly because shooting and whoring were my two favorite things, and we both knew it. “So the Sheriff don’t like Brothers. I reckon I don’t care. If there’s a good lawman in town, we most likely won’t have to do nothing anyhow.” Brothers were often called in to act like constables in settlements too small to have a Sheriff or a Deputy of their own. Carson City was the biggest place I’d ever seen, so I felt sure there were probably a dozen Deputies. I couldn’t imagine there would be much for us to do.

“You’re right, Way. If there’s a good lawman, we don’t have anything to worry about.” I didn’t notice it at the time, but he never said what we’d do if the lawnman wasn’t good.

We rode along the main thoroughfare, Graves leading on Louise, me following on Mazy. She was excitable around all the people, and between trying to keep my horse under control and whipping my own head around at the bright lights and the paved streets – real, paved streets! I was about useless at paying attention to anything around me, I was so drunk on the sights and the noise of it all.

After a good quarter hor of riding through town, Graves led us down a narrow side street, just barely wide enough for the horses and a person to walk abreast. He slid down off Louise, and I followed suit, keeping tight to him in the sudden crush of people. I stroked Mazy’s neck, whispering calming nonsense words to her as her eyes rolled.

“She don’t like all these tight spaces,” I murmured to Graves’ back.

“Not much further,” was all he said. But, true to his word, he led us another dozen yards or so, then the alley opened up onto a wide courtyard with a big patch of open sky overhead. Mazy settled right down as soon as she had a clear view of the clouds and open air around her, and I felt my own chest loosen. A dirty-faced child of maybe twelve ran up to Graves and took the reins right out of his hands. I snatched Mazy’s lead back when he reached for mine, and the boy looked up at me, his eyes wide. That’s when I realized it wasn’t a boy at all, but a fine-boned hybrid girl, slight of build with round, deep blue pupilless eyes that marked her as part Voltarr.

“I sorry, sir,” she girl said, and her voice was scratchy, like her hybrid voicebox didn’t work quite right. “I take horses to stable. Louise is old friend here. What is new horse name?”

It took me a second to untwist the stunted syntax, then I just said, “Mazy.”

“I take Louise. I take Mazy. To Stable. To Food. To Water. You go to inn with Gravesman.” I handed over the reins without a word, and she stepped right up to Mazy. Even as a yearling, Mazy dwarfed the half-alien girl, but the child showed no fear. She just bumped her forehead right into Mazy’s long nose and snuffled up against her like she was another horse. Whatever she said to the horse in whatever language she said it, Mazy didn’t pull away, just went quietly away with the child.

I shook my head and started off after Graves, who was almost to the door of what I reckoned to be the inn. It had a sign over the door with a pair of crossed bottles, and from the rudimentary reading lessons Graves had inflicted upon me, I knew that it said “COLD BEER INSIDE.” Those were my favorite words at that particular moment, so I hurried across the courtyard into the tavern.

I stepped inside the dim room and blinked, trying to force my eyes to adjust from the bright sun outside. At first glance, it was a typical saloon, the kind every town has a couple of. A wooden bar stretched the length of one wall, with a man behind it moving dust around with a rag that probably held more germs than some hospitals. A pool table sat ignored in a clear space near the back wall, where a pair of doors led to his and hers restrooms. A dozen round tables took up most of the floorspace, with an upright piano abandoned against the wall opposite the bar. I spotted Graves sitting at one of the furthest tables from the door, already set up with a bottle, two glasses, and a vantage point that let him see the entrance and every other table in the place.

I walked over to him and sat down, the hair on the back of my neck prickling as I put my back to the door, but there was no help for it. I took a glass and poured myself a slug of whiskey, then almost spit it out all over his face when I knocked it back. The bitter taste of watered-down tea filled my mouth, instead of the cutting burn of even bad whiskey that I’d hoped for.

“What the hell is this shit?” I asked, leaning forward and dropping my voice so as not to be overheard by the other tables. “If you paid for a bottle of liquor, that barkeep swindled your ass, Graves.”

He gave me that little smirk he always used when he knew something and I didn’t, which happened with annoying frequency back then, and said, “Harrison keeps a special bottle for me behind the bar. He won’t sell that to just anyone, and I hardly ever share. Every man in here knows that, so understand what a privilege I’m showing you by letting you drink from my bottle, boy.”

I paused in mid-splutter, trying to be subtle as I looked around. Not a soul in the place was looking at us, which told me that every man in the bar was paying very particular attention to every single thing we did and said. I nodded to Graves, poured myself another drink, and sat back to sip it. “I appreciate your kindness, Mr….?” I stopped, unsure what to call him in this suddenly strange new world of subterfuge. I’d ridden beside this man for half a dozen years or more at this point, but I’d never seen him be the slightest bit cagey in his dealings with anyone, nor the least bit interested in hiding who he was. But since we rode into Carson City, he had almost been a different person entirely. I wasn’t quite sure how to proceed.

“You can call me Graves,” he said. I noticed he didn’t mention the “Brother.” We don’t have badges, and we don’t have a uniform, so a lot of the time if a man doesn’t want you to know he follows The Way, he just won’t tell you. There are a few things that give us away, of course – the stillness most of us have, the way our eyes scan every room when we walk in, the walk of a man who’s always ready to turn on his heel and draw down. But those things are usually only noticed by other Brothers, or people who have been around us for a long time. For some reason, Graves didn’t want it widely known that we were Brothers of the Gun in Carson City, and I was at least smart enough to follow his lead.

We sat, and drank, and Graves watched the door while I got more and more twitchy as time went on. Might have had something to do with all the tea pressing on my bladder, too. I got up and nodded to the back of the room. “I’m going to visit the euphemism. Try not to get too drunk while I’m gone.”

Graves just nodded, and I pushed my chair back from the table with a loud screech. Silence blanketed the room as my boot heels clumped across the floor, then the shrill howl of uncoiled hinges on the bathroom door filled the air. I went inside, locked the door behind me, and took care of business. A faded and tattered poster of an overblown woman falling out of a few triangles of fabric hung over the toilet. I’d never seen anyone dressed like that, but as old as the poster was, I figured it was from Before. She was sexy enough, I figured, if you liked blondes with nothing to hide in the world. I washed my hands and looked at the dingy towel hanging by the sink. I looked from the towel, to my dusty jeans, then back to the towel. Finally I shook my hands through the air a couple of times and ran them under my armpits to dry them off as best I could.

I turned around and unlocked the door, but when I pushed against it to step back out into the bar, it didn’t budge. I pushed harder, and it gave a little before slamming back into the frame, almost catching me on the nose. I reared back and threw a shoulder into the door, and this time when it slammed back, a voice came from the other side. “Keep your shirt on, kid. We got a few words to share with your drinking companion, then we’ll let you out.”

“You’ll let me out of this room now or I’ll start pumping lead through this door,” I growled.

“Do you really think that sounds smart, kid?” The voice replied, a chuckle nestled under his question. “You ain’t got nowhere to take cover in there, and I got a double-barrel scattergun pressed up against the door. You got six bullets, but I got two barrels full of shot that’ll cut you in half before you come close to hitting me. So why don’t you just sit back down in there, spend a few more minutes staring at Farrah’s tits, and as soon as my pal is done conversating with Brother Graves, this door’ll open again.”

I backed away from the door, not because he sat he had a shotgun, but because he knew Graves was a Brother. Everything we had done since we stepped into this saloon was to keep that one fact hidden, and he just tossed it out there like a bad penny. I closed the lid on the toilet and sat down, drawing my Colt. I might have to stay in the bathroom, but eventually they’d let me out. When they did, I’d make them regret locking me up in the first place.

A couple minutes later, the door swung open a hair, and I could tell the pressure on the other side was gone. I sat for a count of a hundred, giving anyone on the other side plenty of time to get bored or get out of the way, then I stood up and walked out of the bathroom. The bar was empty except for Graves and the bartender, who stood in the same spot he’d held when I went into the crapper, his gaze glued to the surface of the bar like it was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.

I walked back over to the table with Graves and sat down. “You want to explain why I just spent five minutes trapped in a saloon shitter because some asshole wanted to have a conversation with you?” I was something of a hothead back in those days, and I felt mighty aggrieved at being trapped in a toilet against my will. Never mind the fact that it was a clean and perfectly comfortable toilet, I just needed something to be annoyed at about once a week when I was a young man.

“I don’t,” Graves said, his voice devoid of any emotion. After riding with the man for night on a dozen years, I knew full well he’d tell me, but I also knew that few things amused him more than seeing me get hot under the collar over stupid things. Especially when the stupid thing was me. This time I told myself I was just going to wait him out. I’d show him that I hadn’t just learned how to shoot and ride, I’d learned how to allow things to unfold in their own due time. I wouldn’t rush him, not even the least little but.

But that didn’t mean I had to sit there and drink his godawful tea while I waited for him to get his head out of his ass and talk to me. I stood up, walked over to the bar, and said, “How much for a bottle of whiskey?”

“You particular about a brand?”

“I’m particular there weren’t too many rats floating in the barrel.”

“Dollar.”

I slapped a quarter round of gold onto the bar top. The man picked it up, bit into it, looked me up and down, and said “This is a dollar and half worth of gold.”

“Then gimme a half dollar’s change.”

“You could leave a tip.”

“I might. But if you don’t give me my half dollar’s change I won’t have a half dollar to leave for a tip.”

He looked befuddled by my logic for a second, but handed me back a couple of silver quarters, along with a pair of glasses and a quart jar of brown liquor. I unscrewed the top of the jar, took a deep sniff, and smiled. This was not sour tea. I slipped the money into a pocket, carried the glasses and bottle back to the table, and sat down.

I held the jar out to Graves, who shook his head. Whatever was coming that made him want to stay clear-headed, it hadn’t happened yet. I poured two fingers of whiskey into my glass, then screwed the top back on the jar. I sipped my whiskey and looked at Graves.

He looked back at me, unwavering in his silence.

I took another sip, didn’t speak.

Graves said nothing.

We went on like that for a good five minutes or more, long enough for me to drain my drink and think better of having another, before Graves leaned forward, put his elbows on the table, and began to speak.

“The Sheriff wants us gone as soon as the sun comes up tomorrow. He says if we’re still in town by noon, he’ll have us both arrested and hang me at sundown.”

“On what charge?” I asked. We hadn’t been in town long enough to break any local laws, and had no warrants outstanding to warrant hanging. There were a few farmers looking for me on account of some dalliances with their daughters, but those were all a week or more by fast horse from Carson City, and none of those fathers had any reason to hunt Graves.

Graves let out a laugh, a dry, reedy thing that sounded like it didn’t get used much. It didn’t to be honest. I’d only heard him laugh half a dozen times in the years we rode together, and they were pretty much always situations just like this – nothing funny at all. “I asked that same question. Sheriff said he had plenty of time between now and noon to come up with something worth hanging me over, and then likened as how he’d probably flog you bloody before he hung me, so I could see you ruined for riding alongside me before I went to see my maker.”

“Good lord, Graves. What the hell did you do to this Sheriff?” I asked, leaning back in my chair.

Graves looked up at me, his grey eyes boring a hole straight through me. “I gunned down his father in the street like the dog he was. Seems the son holds a bit of a grudge for that.”

“What are we going to do?” I could already tell running wasn’t an option. Graves wasn’t a man to retreat, not even if the odds were stacked against him. This time it looked like the whole town was stacked against him, but I knew better than to think that was going to matter.

“Well, come noon I reckon I’m going to walk out into the center of town and shoot the Sheriff right between his damn eyes. Then we’ll see how many Deputies I have to kill to get out of here this time.”

Angel in the Dust – Chapter 3

by john | Oct 30, 2017 | Angel in the Dust, Serialized Fiction, Writing

This is the third chapter of an ongoing serialized novel that is currently in progress. 

Chapter 3

A quarter hour later, with their thirst quenched and their canteens filled, they were back on the road, Liza sitting with her arms around Wayland’s chest. “I suppose you’ll be wanting that story now, won’t you?”

“You did give your word, after all. I fear that you would undermine the integrity of your brotherhood were you to lie to me, and that is a mighty heavy burden to lay on a poor memory-starved child out here in the wilds with no recollection of herself.”

“For an amnesiac, you have certainly not lost a single step in knowing how to twist a man’s words against him. But a promise is a promise, and since you have laid the integrity of the entire Brotherhood at my feet, I suppose I have to hold up my end of the bargain now.”

“Indeed you do,” she said, leaning forward and pressing her cheek to his back. Her face felt warm between his shoulder blades, moreso even that the sun beating down on his neck, but he didn’t mind. Something about her felt…comforting. Wayland gave his head a tiny shake, as if to gather his thoughts, then began to speak.

Graves and the Bandit Boy

His name was Graves. No first name, just…Brother Graves. I always teased him about that, once I got to where I could tease him. On account of he said his whole purpose was to preserve life and make it better, but his name was Graves. He didn’t find it funny, but I don’t think he minded much. He found me south of Wichita, in a little town called Arkansas City. I guess caught me would be a better way to tell it, since I was rifling through his saddlebags in the stable where him and Louise had bedded down.

Louise was his horse. She was Mazy’s dam. Graves and Louise were asleep in the stable, a big low building that used to be a firehouse in the time Before. At least I thought they were asleep, but not ten seconds after I reached into the first saddlebag, I heard the click of a revolver and felt a set of horse’s teeth clamp onto my behind. She didn’t bite me, not really. She just kinda latched on and let me know that if I tried anything else stupid, it was going to hurt. So I put my hands in the air and turned around. Standing there in the shadows, his featured masked from the moonlight but the gleam of his Colt shining clear.

“What are you doing, boy?” he asked. I didn’t have a good answer, so I just shrugged.

“You trying to steal my money, or my food?” I thought for a second about how best to answer that, because we were still in Kandaska, and it was perfectly alright to shoot a man for trying to steal from you, no matter what he was trying to take. Since I was just as likely to get perforated for one answer as the other, I decided to tell the truth.”

“I was looking for food, sir.”

“Why didn’t you just walk up while I was eating earlier and ask if I would share?”

“Like anybody’s going to just give me food. I ain’t stupid, and I ain’t looking to trade nothing I got for your dinner.”

“Don’t look to me like you’ve got…oh.” His eyes went a little wide, and he looked me up and down. “How old are you, son?”

“I reckon about eleven or twelve. Ain’t got nobody to tell me true, so I just kinda figured that up against other boys what got mamas to keep track of such things.”

“I’m guessing from your speech that you haven’t had much schooling? No apprenticeships? No training in anything?”

“I know how to do lots of stuff. I can ride, I can shoot, I can get in and out of just about anywhere without anybody hearing me. I’m light-fingered, and quick of foot, and the constable ain’t never laid hand on me. I ain’t bad with my blade, either.” To prove my point, I slipped the small hunting knife from under my shirt and twirled it around my fingers. I managed not to drop it, but Graves didn’t look nearly as impressed as I wanted him to.

“Well, you’re a regular Jesse James, aren’t you?”

“Who’s that?”

“He was an outlaw from Before. Hell, he’s been dead so long I reckon we could say he was from the time Long Ago.”

“Before? Before what?”

He holstered his gun with a sigh. I reckon he decided I was too ignorant to be dangerous. He was right, but I was too ignorant to see it. I saw the gun find leather, and I turned to bolt. I didn’t get far, especially since Louise still had a good grip on my hindquarters. She bit down, and I yelped, trying to reach around behind and swat at her. I took one swing with my blade, thinking to graze her nose and make her let go, but the tall man stepped up and slapped the knife out of my hand.

“Hey!” I yelped, turning to swing at him. He backhanded me across the jaw, and I dropped to one knee. I glared up at him, and he shook his head down at me.

“This is not how you want to do things, son.”

“I ain’t your son,” I snarled, and sprang at him. At least, in the movie in my head I sprang at him. In the real world, I stood up and found his foot in my chest. Then I fell right back down onto my butt in the straw.

“Calm down, boy. Nobody’s going to hurt you, but I might put you to work if you’re willing to earn your food instead of stealing it.”

“I don’t do that,” I said. I was young, but I’d already long been exposed to men who have ways for young boys to earn things from them.

“I don’t either,” the man said, then crouched down in front of me. “Look at yourself, boy. Then look at me. Do you think for a second that you could stop me from doing anything I want to you? I’m bigger, faster, and I’m the one with the gun. You’re a scrawny little alley rat who learned just enough to stay alive in Arkansas City, but not forever. You keep on this path and you’ll be dead before you see sixteen. You’ll either starve, get shot in the back running away from some heist, or some girl’s daddy will string you up for defiling his daughter, no matter how willing she is to succumb to your charms.”

“You ain’t gonna get me killed?” I asked. “And you don’t want a piece of my ass?”

“I have absolutely no interest in your ass, but I can’t promise that riding with me will lead to a long life. I am Brother Graves, a Brother of the Gun. We do not often live to see old age, but we try to do some good before we leave this world.”

“That ain’t a real appealing offer, Brother Graveyard,” I said. “I think I’d about rather get shot here where I know everybody than ride around with some troublemaker Brother and get shot in some strange place.”

“I will feed you. I have biscuits and fatback left over from my supper that you are welcome to. You will not eat like a king, but you will not go hungry riding by my side. Who knows, maybe you’ll take an interest and strap on a Colt of your own some day.”

“Don’t hold your breath for that, Brother Corpse. But if you’ll give me a couple square meals a day, I reckon I’ll ride with you until I get a better offer.” I said it with all the worldliness a preteen could muster, which is to say not very much. I had no idea how the world worked, but I thought I understood everything. The next few years would prove very enlightening.

We chased the sunrise out of Arkansas City the next morning with me riding pillion on Louise, much as you did on Mazy today. Brother Graves was good to his word; I never went hungry the time I rode with him, and I never lacked for at least the same meager shelter he lived under. We rode together for a many years, long after he got tired of me crowding him in the saddle and got me a scrawny little horse to care for. Then along came Mazy, and I raised her from a foal into the cantankerous old lady who sits under us now.

I thought I knew how to shoot, but Graves taught me what it meant to hold a gun, to carry death on my hip. A rifle can be used for hunting, for protection from wild animals, yes, even to kill a man. But it has other uses. A Colt…well, a Colt was made for one purpose, and one purpose only. A Colt is a gun meant to kill men, and that oughta be a burden that weighs on a man like a heavy mantle. Graves taught me how to shoot, but he also taught me how not to shoot, and that’s more important a lot of days. I carried his shotgun for years before I strapped on a Colt. I kept an eye out for rattlers, for poison lizards, coyotes, even Wolves. Two barrels full of silver shot might not kill a Wolf, but it’ll hurt it bad enough it leaves you alone until the moon ain’t full no more.

After carrying his scattergun for a year or two, he bought me a Winchester. A fine gun, and I still keep it slung beside my saddle to this day. A rifle is the working man’s gun – it can take down a deer, even a bison if you can find a scope with the glass still in it that doesn’t cost you an organ. A rifle can kill predators before they get close enough to kill you, and it’s a lot more accurate in a fight than a Colt. But it’s slow, and it’s hard to turn with, and there’s no surprise when you put a rifle on a man – he knows where that conversation is going, sure enough.

I reckon I rode with Graves for ten years before he gave me my first Colt. We were in Phoenix, at the Brotherhood enclave there, and there was a whole ceremony. I took a test, to show I could handle a shotgun, then a rifle, then a pistol. I shot clay disks out of the air, and straw men, and glass bottles that a Younger Brother tossed up in the air end-over-end. I drew on Graves, and the Younger Brother, and several full Brothers – unloaded draws just to test for speed. After a full day of shooting, the Eldest Brother of the enclave came out with a battered old Colt laying on a black velvet pillow and held it out to me.

The gun itself didn’t look like much. It wasn’t all that clean, it didn’t have fancy pearl handles, and if there had ever been any kind of pretty scrollwork engraved into the cylinder or barrel, that was long gone. This was not a gun made to impress gunslingers and trick shooters. This was not a gun that made a saloon girl sit up and take notice of the handsome stranger that just walked through the doors. No, this was a gun meant to kill men, and I could almost feel the chill of death run up my arm as I picked it up.

Graves stepped up behind me and reached around my middle, fastening the gunbelt on me. I held the Colt in my right hand as the Eldest Brother handed me six bullets, one at a time.

The first one he dipped in a basin of water, then handed it to me. “This bullet is tipped with Holy Water, and it is the shield of God, protecting those who need your aid.” I flicked the cylinder open with a snap of my wrist and put the bullet in the gun.

He handed me another bullet, this one painted red around the cartridge. “This bullet has been passed through Fire, and it is the flame of a vengeful God, meting out justice and striking down those who would hurt the innocent.” He passed me the bullet, which looked just like the first one, and I put it into the chamber.

The next bullet was tipped with what looked like gold, but I knew it wouldn’t be. Gold was much too soft to use in a bullet. “This bullet is cast from the golden treasures of the Brotherhood, and it is the bulwark against those who would steal from the smaller and weaker.” I slid it into the chamber.

The fourth bullet had a cross cut into the tip. “This bullet is God’s mercy, and it is the sword of peace that you may someday grant to another.” My fingers trembled a little as I took it. I wasn’t afraid to grant peace to somebody who came back Wrong, but the thought of killing somebody before they Returned wasn’t pretty. The bullet clicked against the side of the cylinder as I slid it home.

The fifth bullet had a reddish glow about the tip, and I knew it for what it was immediately. Vanadium. The most precious element in the world, and the whole reason the world was the way it was. The thing that brought the Voltarr here more than a century ago. “This bullet is of the Earth. It is for the Earth, which you are pledged to defend from those who would harm her, be they native or alien.” I had always heard rumors that the Brotherhood hated the Voltarr, but everybody hated the Voltarr, so that came as no surprise. What did surprise me a little was the Eldest pretty much coming right out and saying “shoot the damn Blue-Eyes.” He held my gaze for a long time before he gave me that bullet. I slammed it home without even looking down. He nodded, and picked up the last round.

This final bullet was painted jet black, and I could see some tiny writing on it, but I couldn’t make it out until he handed it to me. “This bullet is the one we all know is out there. This is the bullet with your name on it. Some day, Brother Wayland, you will fall. You will fall with your gun in your hand, and with a bullet in your body. You will likely fall in defense of another, and hopefully you will fall with honor. But nonetheless, you will fall. This bullet represents the one that will kill you.”

I took it, and my fingers trembled as I did. It was cold, and felt strange to the touch. I held my death in my hand, and stared at it. I slid it into the last open spot in my Colt, and snapped the cylinder closed. I nodded at the Eldest, and he nodded back at me, casting an appraising eye over me under his bushy white eyebrows. “Brother Wayland, you are now a Brother of the Gun. Protect the weak, defend the innocent, avenge the wronged. This is your charge.”

“Protect, defend, avenge,” I repeated. I holstered my Colt, and it hung heavy on my right hip. The words the Brother spoke over every bullet echoed around in my head, and gave a new weight to the iron on my belt.

“Now, you are welcome as a Brother,” The Eldest clasped my hand, then pulled me into a rough hug. It had been a long time since I’d been hugged by anybody, and the warmth of that kind man’s arms around me put a crack in something deep inside me, like a dam starting to succumb to the force behind it.

“Now, we drink,” Graves said behind me, clapping his hand on my shoulder. And drink we did, until the sun crawled over the horizon and send us scurrying to our beds.

We rode along good for several years after that. Two full Brothers, riding together, looking after those weaker than ourselves and holding the world to a higher standard of justice than the Sheriffs could or would provide. We helped farmers hunt down Wolfpacks, helped towns defend against roving hordes of the Wrong, destroyed the occasional nest of Nightwalkers, and put the fear of the Gun and God into more than one small-town bullyboy who thought to set himself up a little fiefdom.

Then we rode into Carson City on the wrong day, and everything went to shit.