Magnificent Guns of Seneca 6 Page 9

  “It ain't no trick," the preacher said. “And not only do I have no guns, I have no way of firing one. At least not accurately.” The preacher yanked off his leather gloves and pressed both his hands against the window. Both were missing their trigger fingers. "See that? You have nothing to fear from me, son. I just want to talk to you. Trade the baby for a preacher and I’ll help you get what you need.”

  There was only silence in response, until footfalls louder than rifles in the old man’s ears came across the store’s wooden floor. He listened to the locks on the door clicking open and sighed with relief. Bill Doolin popped the door open and glared out from behind it. His eyes were wide and panicked. “I’m telling you. First thing you do funny this kid’s mother won’t recognize it as human anymore.”

  The preacher inched around the front of the door, keeping both his hands in front of him. "See? No tricks,” he said.

  Doolin slammed the door shut behind him and locked it again. His hands were shaking so badly that the knife in his hands was as much a threat to him as it was the baby.

  “Did you cut her?”

  “No. I just pinched her thigh enough to get her to bawl. But I will if I have to. I swear to God I will.”

  “I know, son,” the preacher said. “It's all right. We're just talking here. What’s your name?”

  “Bill Doolin. What’s yours?”

  “Father Charles Buchinsky.”

  “You a priest?”

  “Just a preacher.”

  “What happened to your fingers?”

  “I use to be a werja tamer in the circus. One night, my final trick didn’t go quite right.”

  Bill looked at him for a moment. “You serious?”

  “No. I cut both of them off.”

  “Why the hell did you do that?”

  "Well, it's funny you should say that, because hell is precisely why I did it, Bill."

  "I don't follow."

  “You ever read the Bible?”

  “Not since I was a kid.”

  Father Charles held up his hands and wiggled the stumps of the knuckles on his trigger fingers, “There's a part in there that says if there's a part of your body that's done wrong, you should cut it off and cast it into the fire rather than condemn your immortal soul. So that’s what I did.”

  Bill’s face twisted in disgust. “Are you serious? That’s sick.”

  Charles shrugged and said, “It made sense at the time. Now I just have to live with it.” He inched closer to Bill, keeping his hands in front and on display. “There's only one thing I regret, though."

  "What's that?"

  "Being sober when I did it."

  Bill looked down at the gnarled and scarred stumps and said, “The Bible told you to do that?”

  Charles smiled thinly, continuing to close the distance between them, “The bible says to do a whole lot of things, son."

  ***

  First, the infant cried out. Loud and piercing, like only a baby can.

  Then, another kind of scream. Loud and shrieking. A man's voice turned high-pitched and full of misery.

  Jem kicked the store's door in and raced through the threshold, gun ready to fire. There was the preacher, holding the little girl unharmed, while Bill Doolin writhed on the ground clutching his face. “My eye! That son of a bitch stabbed me in the eye!”

  Jem looked down at Bill Doolin and then back at the preacher. "What the hell happened?"

  “He fell.”

  “He fell? On his own knife? Into his eye?” Jem said.

  The preacher shrugged and carried the baby outside toward her mother. She dropped to her knees and thrust her arms up into the air to thank him and the Lord.

  Chapter 11: The Passing of Betsy Clayton

  Royce Halladay stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked narrowly at the boy playing on front porch above him. "Good morning, Jem. You have already eaten, I presume."

  Jem looked up at him and said, "Yes, sir. Why?"

  "So you are not hungry?"

  "No."

  Halladay nodded and started up the steps. "Good, then if you bite me this time, I shall assume it is not because your parents are starving you, but rather because you are a vexing, evil child."

  "No, I ain't," Jem said.

  "This scar on the tip of my left ring finger demonstrates otherwise."

  "I already said I was sorry, Doc. Plus, my dad made me sweep out your ratty old barn. We're square and that's that."

  Halladay cocked his eyebrow, "We are?"

  Jem nodded firmly, "That's how I see it."

  Halladay pressed his knuckles against his chin in an exaggerated gesture of thought. "Do you think perhaps we should become friends, then?"

  Jem shrugged, "I guess so. You going to try and stick anymore needles in me?"

  "Not today." Halladay thrust his hand forward and said, "Let it be known from this day forward that I offer you my hand in eternal friendship. The houses of Clayton and Halladay are forever united in the bonds of chivalry and shall stand together to defend one another, even unto the very death!"

  Jem took the doctor's hand in his and shook it. Halladay did not let go. "And henceforth," he said, "if evil should befall one of us it is the other's solemn duty to correct it, soothe it, or avenge it if need be."

  Jem nodded and tried to pull his hand away but Halladay continued shaking. "We must make our declarations, Jem Clayton," Halladay said.

  "What's a declaration?"

  "I declare that if you are abducted by a hostile alien species I will not only commandeer a spacecraft and learn to fly it, but also assemble a galactic fleet of mercenaries who will assist me in taking you back by force." Halladay lowered his voice, "Now it's your turn to make a vow."

  "I vow…to always be your friend?"

  "Bah, too simple," Halladay said. "Be creative, my dear boy. This world is a dreary place and language is one of the finest ways to fill it with color. So, once more, what is your vow to me, Jem Clayton?"

  "I vow to never bite you again," Jem said. "Unless you try to stick me with a needle."

  Halladay pumped Jem's hand vigorously and said, "Well spoken, sir. It is a deal."

  ***

  Betsy Clayton peeked through the living room window and said, "What is that crazy coot doing with our son?"

  "He's just having some fun with him. The last time they saw each other it didn't go so well," Sam said. He stopped bouncing Claire on his knee and ran his fingers along her lower gum. "Speaking of biting, those chompers are coming in mighty fine, little lady. Yes they are. Pretty soon, you'll be the one giving Doc fits, won't you?"

  "It won't be Doctor Halladay catching fits. It'll be you when the first boy shows up asking if he can take her out on a date."

  Sam's eyes widened in mock surprise, "Those nasty mud grubbers better be able to outrun a dozen of Daddy's bullets if they try," he said. Claire giggled as he stuck his fingers under her armpits and tickled her ribs. "You know, there's a nunnery on Wolfe One."

  "Don't even think about it, Sam Clayton."

  "I'm just saying."

  Royce Halladay knocked lightly on the door before he opened it. "Good morning, Betsy. Hello, Sam."

  "Doc," Sam said. He held up Claire's hand and waved at Halladay.

  "You hungry, Doc? I can put something on," Betsy said.

  "No thank you, darling," Halladay said. He took his hat off and held it against his waist with both hands, tapping its brim nervously. "I came to speak to you both, about a professional matter."

  Sam set Claire on the ground near a stack of wooden blocks and looked up at his friend with concern, "Your profession or mine?"

  Halladay looked at Betsy and said, "Would you mind sitting down, dear?"

  Betsy walked stiffly over to the couch and sat down next to her husband. She folded her hands on her lap and whispered, "It's one of the kids, ain't it. What is it, Royce? Spit it out."

  "No, no, no," Halladay said. He looked at Sam and then back at her, "It's you, Betsy."
Sam's whole body contorted but Betsy's face stayed harder than granite. "I drew some blood from you after that little incident and sent it off to the laboratory for basic tests. They found something."

  Sam's hand wrapped around his wife's. It took him a minute to find his voice. "What did you find?"

  "You're in the early stages of blood fever," Halladay said.

  "Oh my God," Sam whispered.

  "Because we caught it so early, there's no telling how long it will take to develop. It might be years from now."

  "How many?" Sam said.

  "I do not know," Halladay said.

  Betsy took a deep breath and nodded slowly. She gave Halladay a light smile and said, "Well, thank you for letting me know, Royce."

  "What can we do?" Sam said. "Some kind of treatment, some kind of clinic out there. What are our options?"

  Halladay shook his head sadly, "There is pain medicine for when it begins to feel…uncomfortable."

  "Pain medicine? What about a cure?"

  "There is none."

  "Bullshit!" Sam shouted. "Who are you to say that? Some country bumpkin who can hardly manage giving a child a needle? How dare you walk in here, drop that on us, and tell us there's no goddamn cure?"

  "Because it is the truth, Sam," Betsy said.

  "Get the hell out of my house, you son of a bitch," Sam said.

  Halladay lowered his head and said, "All right, Sam. Of course." He let himself out the front door and closed it softly behind him. Jem was looking up at him as he stood there.

  "He yells when he gets upset, Doc," the boy said. "That's all."

  "It is quiet all right, Jem. I understand perfectly."

  Sam threw the door open and said, "Jem, get your ass inside right now."

  "Okay, pa." Jem shot to his feet and waved to the doctor as he ran in the door.

  Sam slammed the door shut so hard the windows rattled. He looked at his wife and said, "Don't you listen to him. He don't know what they're working on out there in the galaxy. Hell, they got spaceships bigger than this whole planet that can break light speed and you mean to tell me there ain't nobody who can cure a little bit of blood fever? Wrong! Wrong, I say. I don't care if we got to spend every minute of the next ten years looking all over hell and creation, we are gonna find someone who can tell us more than that imbecile."

  Betsy straightened out her skirt and stood up. She looked at Sam and simply said, "No, we aren't."

  "What do you mean?"

  She walked into the kitchen and grabbed a dirty plate off of the counter and started to scrub it. Sam came up behind her and said, "What are you, just going to give up?"

  "No," she said. "I'm going to live my life like I intend to."

  "But that doesn't make any sense! If you're sick, we need to fix it."

  "Says who? If Whiskey Pete had never shown up here, we'd have never known any of this. I'd have kept on being the kids' mother and your wife and enjoying my life however long it might last. The same as you, Sam. Every time you walk out that door it might be your last. Do you ever think about that?"

  "No. Because I know what I've got to come home to," he said. "I would fight anyone and anything to get back here. Why won't you fight?"

  "To me, racing around the galaxy dragging the kids to every godforsaken colony looking for something that don't exist isn't fighting, Sam. It's running. And if this illness is going to come for me, I'd rather be here at home, on my own terms."

  "I don't understand," Sam said. His voice cracked and the next thing he said was like a low, guttural moan.

  Betsy turned and put her hand against his face, "If you think I'm gonna let a little bit of blood fever keep me from raising those two babies, you don't know me very well."

  It took two years.

  Sam would lay in bed next to her feeling her body get hotter and hotter. He'd run cool, damp washcloths over her bare skin and fan her. He'd draw her cold baths three times a day. Toward the end, Katey Halladay showed up every day first thing in the morning to help with the children. It was a practice Katey continued after Betsy passed on, right up until she was murdered by Tilt Junger on the night of the Beothuk raid.

  On the day Betsy Clayton died, the whole settlement of Seneca 6 showed up at their front door. There were enough flowers to stock a hothouse.

  Old Man Willow filled up the inside of his funeral cart with the flowers so that they surrounded her body when they laid her inside of it. That evening, as the sun set over Coramide Canyon and the valley was lit like it was burning, they lowered her into the ground at the rear of the property.

  Jem Clayton squeezed his father's hand and looked up at him. It was the only time he ever saw the man cry.

  Chapter 12: Gone Again

  Bart Masters still had to work his day job at the mining company. He didn't take a salary for being mayor except to cover the expenses of keeping his office open and staffed with a secretary during the day. He found that if people didn't have a place to leave him messages, they'd come find him at the mine and nearly get blown up in the process.

  When Billy Jack Elliot was mayor, he ate imported seafood every night and slept on the finest silk sheets. He taxed the people who lived on the settlement on one end, and gave out high-interest loans on the other. It was quite a scandal, Bart thought. The way Elliot and Walt Junger raped this town, it's no wonder people hailed him and Jem as conquering heroes when they took over. Bart rode into the town square and looked at the bodies of the Dunn brothers and the dead destrier on the street, then at the crowd of people forming a ring around his sheriff. What changed?

  As soon as people saw the mayor, they turned their attention from Jem and started shouting at him. Bart dismounted from his destrier and walked over to the department store's front steps. He stepped up on the top two to look out over the whole crowd and held up his hands to quiet them, "I can't hear everybody at once. I just got here, and it's gonna take me a minute to sort out what happened."

  "What happened is our so-called Sheriff shot an unarmed man and nearly got Emmy Sue's baby daughter killed!" Phil Wallows shouted.

  Bart Masters shot a glance at Jem, who grimaced and shook his head no. More people began to shout and Bart yelled out, "All right! All right. That's enough!"

  Nell Baker aimed a stubby finger at Jem and said, "We don't want his kind here! He's a killer, he ain't no lawman. We're good, decent, respectable people and we deserve better than this!"

  A woman's voice rose over the others like a roar, "You shut your fat mouth, Nell Baker, or I'll shut it for you!" Claire Miller shoved her way through the crowd with eyes that blazed hellfire. "The next one of you who says another damn word is going to get my boot directly up their ass." Claire scanned the crowd menacingly, daring someone to speak. She looked back at the Mayor and said, "What the hell, Bart? You going to leave those men laying in the street for the animals and birds?"

  Bart sighed and said, "I just got here, Claire. Give me a minute." He pointed at two of the men standing closest to him and said, "Load them up into a wagon and get them over to the funeral home. Now, did anyone see what happened?"

  Phil Wallows raised his hand, "I saw the whole dang thing. Them two boys were trying to surrender and Jem shot them down like dogs."

  Bart frowned and said, "How do you know they were trying to surrender? Did they say that?"

  "No."

  "Did they hold up their hands and get down on their knees? Did they throw down their guns?"

  "Well, no, but, they sure looked like they would have."

  Claire went around to stand at her brother's side and said, "We gonna pass judgment based on what it looked like to this clown?"

  "Who you calling a clown, girl?" Wallows growled.

  "It wasn't clear I was talking about you the first time?" Claire said.

  "That's enough," Bart shouted. "Anyone else?"

  Father Charles Buchinsky wound his way toward the front and said, "I did. I watched the Sheriff disable a charging wagon without flinching. Then I saw him
confront two men, one of whom was armed, as they tried to escape."

  "Murder them, you mean," Wallows said.

  The preacher turned on Wallows, his thin, slit-like eyes nearly black under the brim of his hat. "How many times have you had a gun in your face, sir? How many times have you had to decide whether or not to use yours? Ever?"

  "Well, I…once, there was a time when…" Wallows voice faded and the preacher smiled.