Merkabah Rider: Once Upon A Time In The Weird West: Merkabah Rider, #4

By Edward M Erdelac

THE CONCLUSION OF THE ACCLAIMED WEIRD WESTERN SERIES.The Hour Of Incursion is here. The Great Old Ones are stirring in their ancient slumber. It is high noon for the entire universe.Seeking to rouse the Old Ones, Adon has gathered together the Creed - an army of fallen Hasidic mystics - and a host of dark allies including skinwalkers, necromancers, an undead master gunslinger, Lilith the Queen of Demons, and the Angel of Death himself.The Rider and Kabede, in a last bid to stop Adon, recruit their own band, including an unstoppable preacher more steam engine than man, an alien entity from the dawn of time, a young witch, and the enigmatic Faustus Montague, an angelic being from another universe.But Lucifer the master of hell watches from his capitol city, ready to commit his legions to the winning side.And he has an agent among the Rider's companions….

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward M. Erdelac
• Release date: Sep 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393655817

Edward M Erdelac

Edward M. Erdelac is the author of ten novels including Andersonville, Monstrumfuhrer, and The Merkabah Rider series. His short fiction has appeared in over twenty anthologies and periodicals. He's also written everything you need to know about boxing in the Star Wars Galaxy. Born in Indiana, educated in Chicago, he lives in the Los Angeles area with his family.  

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Fittingly, it was in the town of Tombstone that The Rider found himself face to face with his Death.

By his Death, he meant his own personal psychopomp. There were numerous angels who served man in that capacity. But his actually happened to be Samael, the Chief Angel of Death.

The blue skinned man’s bullet was in his chest, but he had felt nothing after the initial painful kick that had spread an all-encompassing numbness throughout his body; a numbness that spread up his neck and settled in his head as he slipped from his physical form.

He lay where he had fallen as the angel descended upon him like a vulture.

The Rider had never seen Samael. No man had and returned to tell. But he knew the angel by the tremendous crow black wings that shined as if perpetually wet with rain. Though one of the first among the Fallen, the ages had not bestialized him like the other disgraced angels The Rider had encountered.

This was because Samael had no contact with spirit or mortal until the moment of that mortal’s death. He was the gatekeeper who came and ushered men and women into Sheol, cutting them from the mortal realm with the same blade he had once pledged to Lucifer and wielded against the Heavenly Host. He existed alone among all beings in Creation, separate and unending.

At least, that was the tale Lucifer had told The Rider.

The rest he knew from his own studies. Observation of the terrible, naked figure swooping towards him affirmed what he knew.

He was human in appearance, though handsome in the extreme, being a creature born of the pure intent of Ha-Shem. But the face, framed by the long strands of oil black hair, was sullen and bored looking. Between his legs, he bore only a jagged scar where the archangel Michael had cut from him the instrument by which he had sinned, fathering the first succubi and bastard demons with Lilith, the mortal woman who preceded Eve. For their illicit romance, both had been punished. Samael had been emasculated and locked away in his office of Death, and Lilith, mother of all demons, was immortal, so they could never meet again.

The Rider had met Lilith twice now. Each meeting had left them both with scars. She had thrown her lot in with Adon to bring about the Hour of Incursion, the return of the Great Old Ones, the primordial beings of Chaos. Adon had promised her she and Samael would be reunited.

Samael lit upon the ground and loomed over The Rider like a vandalized sculpture, his glittering sword upraised.

Wait! The Rider croaked, still trying to gather his wits. It was disorienting, being shot dead, not like the gradual, controlled transitions into the spirit realm he had mastered over the years. But this was not entirely the Yenne Velt, for he could not perceive Mrs. Fly, whom he knew had been there during the shooting, or Dick Belden, who had fallen beside him. Of course, Belden might already have died from his own injury.

The Rider felt for his weapons. The knife, the gilded pistol: they were there at his side, but he found he could not draw them. They remained in their scabbards as if glued. He was powerless against the Angel of Death.

Wait, Samael!

The sword stayed in the air, and the dark and terrible angel paused at the sound of its own name.

Slowly the terrible being lowered the sword.

Who are you? Samael demanded, in a cultured, but hollow sounding voice. "One of Adon’s calvariae?"

The Rider wasn’t entirely sure how to answer that. Calvariae was like the Latin word for skulls. Would it be wise to try and bluff the Angel of Death? The Rider was sure in all the ages, mortal men had tried to dupe Death. As no one had ever described an encounter with Samael, he was certain they had all failed. Perhaps the Lord had given the Chief Angel of Death some power to see through deception. But then, if he knew Adon, and was allied with him because of his love of Lilith, Samael might strike The Rider down immediately once he learned who he really was.

How was Adon communicating his plan with Samael? Part of the Angel of Death’s sentence was that he had no contact with spirit or mortal. He existed somehow outside of Creation. Was it some ability conferred by the Old Ones?

But Samael needed an answer.

Best to avoid outright lies and outright truth altogether for the time being, so long as that sword stayed where it was.

Lilith sends her regard, The Rider said quickly as he rose to his feet.

"You do not look like one of the calvariae, Samael observed. More like a certain kind of Israelite I have seen from time to time."

The Rider said nothing.

What word from Lilith? Samael insisted.

Only love, said The Rider. And Adon asks that you be ready, as the Hour of Incursion is almost at hand.

Why does Adon tell me what I know already?

You’re the most important part of his plan. He wants to be sure you understand your role. If the Hour of Incursion comes, and everything works out as planned, all Creation will break apart.

Samael stared.

"You are not calvariae. The calvariae grovel at my feet and call me ‘Lord.’ You speak like we are equals. We are not."

He lifted the sword again.

Who are you?

The Rider.

Once more the Angel of Death held his stroke.

The Rider. Lilith told me about you. You burned her.

It was a misunderstanding.

And you killed her children.

He shrugged. No point in withholding anything now.

That was deliberate.

You admit it? Samael asked.

I serve the Lord, the same as you once did.

I still serve the Lord. Samael sneered. I have no choice.

You had a choice once. You chose Lilith.

Yes.

You fell for love of a woman. You rebelled.

I did.

Do you know what will happen to Lilith once the Hour of Incursion comes?

Samael rested the shining blade on his powerful shoulder and shrugged.

Does it matter?

The Rider stopped short. He had nothing to say to that.

Do you hope to turn me aside from Adon’s task through love of Lilith? Samael asked. If so, you have failed. What I will do I do for myself, not out of love. Adon tells me I will be reunited with Lilith. Lilith tells me the same. You tell me all of Creation will break apart. Adon tells me the unseen walls of my prison will crumble. Perhaps he lies. Perhaps you do. Perhaps both are true. Perhaps neither. Either way I will be free.

Even if it means Lilith’s destruction? Even if it means your own?

For eons I have ushered men to Sheol. I am compelled. I am blind and deaf and invisible to Creation. I know only to reap and cut. I have been mad so long I have come around into a kind of sanity again. I have hated mankind and been curious about you. I have tortured souls and cradled them. But I have come to realize, as long as there are men and women, as long as they live and die, I will never be free. Michael took my carnal desire. The Lord killed love within me. I go on and on, listening to the terrified prattling of tiny souls, begging me for answers. I have none. I know more of what will become of them than I know of where they came from. But I know that I want an end to this. If that means dying, if there is such a thing for me, so be it.

The Rider chewed his lip. Samael and Adon, they were the same. Adon was mad, yes. He saw the will of the Great Old Ones as irresistible and inevitable. Undying, immaterial, he had decided to aid them just to put an end to the bootlessness of existence as he saw it. Eternally apart from Creation, somehow they had both found the same way out. They wanted oblivion, and the rest of Creation be damned.

Suddenly, the dim world around them rushed by in a dizzying blur, and the charred street of Tombstone was gone. They were standing in a well-furnished room with an open window, looking out on a stretch of grazing land, tall mountains in the distance.

Samael looked as disoriented and surprised as The Rider felt.

What’s happening? the angel asked, as if The Rider knew. "This is...this is new."

The sensation was certainly new to The Rider. Somehow they had traveled a great distance almost instantly. The mountains. He had seen those mountains somewhere, but this room he had never been in. There was a handsome four poster bed, a nightstand with a washbasin, and a red glass lamp. Benign, pastoral portraits on the walls.

Samael turned from him, and seemed to address someone. The Rider could hear the angel speaking, but it was like one half of a conversation.

Yes, yes! Get on with it! Yes!

The angel looked back at The Rider over the lip of one black wing.

Yes. Yes I have him. He’s here in front of me. Somehow he came along. Don’t tell me my task. I know it well.

What the Angel of Death did next was a kind of pantomime. He whipped his sword down as if striking at something or someone unseen.

Then he turned and held the sword out at arm’s length, pointed toward the wall. The end of the blade disappeared, though he had not apparently stuck it into the wood, for there was no accompanying groan as he began to describe a circle, and no apparent resistance.

But wherever the sword passed, there appeared a ragged red glowing line in the wall.

The Rider heard a cacophonous howling coming from the cut, and the etheric matter swirling about him seemed drawn into the wound.

When Samael had completed the circle, the wall in the middle was drawn inward. Not the wall really, but the ether that composed the image of the wall in the Yenne Velt. And beyond that was Sheol.

Peering into the tear over the angel’s shoulder, The Rider saw the rim of Hell itself. It was the Fall of The Damned, that dizzying, neverending spill of mortal souls cascading down into the great funnel of Hell, individual wails coming together in the cry of a multitude, thousands. Millions. Screaming as they tumbled end over end. The Rider saw the circling tormentors flogging and defiling the naked bodies, plucking them out and carrying them off to their respective torments, which Lucifer had told him the inborn guilt of every mortal devised for themselves. And deep down at the lowest, darkest point, the gleaming city of Pandæmonium, Lucifer’s capitol. He wondered briefly if Nehema were somewhere within.

Then Samael withdrew the sword, and as quickly as the roaring window to Hell had opened, it was gone. The screams and the fiendish laughter and the hurled blasphemies ceased, and they were alone in the quiet bedroom again.

Samael turned to The Rider.

What did you see? Samael asked.

I saw Sheol.

"Did you see the calvaria?"

Singular. The Rider shook his head. He didn’t know what Samael was referring to.

Interesting, Samael remarked.

Then he took two long steps toward The Rider and brought back his sword once more.

Wait! The Rider yelled, throwing up his hands.

But it was too late.

The sword came down. The angel did not aim the blow to cleave his skull or take off his head at the neck. He seemed to target something near the corona of his skull.

The sword stopped as if it struck something, and The Rider felt an unpleasant shudder. All of reality seemed to bend and tremble before his eyes, but like a struck tuning fork, the reverberation gradually ended.

The angel frowned deeply, drew back the sword, and struck again. Again. Again.

Each time The Rider felt a dull impact, saw everything that was tremble before him, but nothing else happened.

Samael backed away, inspecting the edge of his sword in amazement.

That never happened before, he admitted.

The Rider gingerly touched the crown of his head and felt something protruding from the top of his skull, his etheric tether. It made him swoon, and as before, the world seemed to shudder. This was the mysterious lifeline that bound his soul to his body and to Creation. This was the root Adon had spoken of. The root Adon had severed to escape the seraphim when he had perceived the Old Ones from the vantage of the seventh hekhalot.

The sword always cuts, said Samael, bemused. Always.

"Did it work on the calvaria?"

You know it did, the angel snapped.

I didn’t see anyone.

Strange, Samael murmured. I have never been accompanied by a soul on my errands.

You mean, The Rider thought out loud, that change in location we just experienced. You’re drawn to the site of a death.

Yes, but never until I have dispatched the soul at hand. Once, in my crueler days, I sat on the soul of a man for fifty years, and watched him go mad. I thought no other souls would pass on and God would have to intervene, but He never did.

No, that was because there were other angelic ministers who voluntarily carried out the duties of the office, The Rider knew. He had met some. Above them all was Samael, the legendary Chief Angel of Death, feared even by other angels for his strength and for the sword he bore. He was like a dangerous prisoner sequestered from the rest. It struck him that Samael wasn’t aware of that fact. Of course, after his fifty year experiment, he must have guessed the phenomenon of death did not rely entirely on him. What determined when a mortal was visited by the Chief Angel, The Rider couldn’t guess. Apparently these calvariae were qualified for his attentions somehow.

And your sword...you use it...to open a door to Sheol.

Yes.

So, Samael’s task was to cut that tether and carve open a door to Sheol to let the unbound soul be sucked inside. That was why they had been drawn to this room. Someone had died here. One of these calvariae, apparently, who served Adon. They must bring messages to Samael somehow, relaying them as they died.

But why hadn’t The Rider been able to perceive the other soul? Something to do with the nature of Samael’s prison, perhaps.

But you can’t pass through yourself? The Rider asked.

No, said Samael. The sword is cursed. It prevents me from entering, and I can’t relinquish it.

Samael looked over his shoulder then, as if he had caught some movement in the corner of his eye. He spun around angrily.

Yes? What is it?

The Rider stared. Another calvaria had come, whatever or whoever it was. But barely any time had passed, and they hadn’t moved.

No. Something is different about him, Samael said to the air. I cannot cut him.

Then, as before, Samael sliced down at the unseen presence, slashed open another portal, and presumably watched the soul slip inside. The doorway sealed once more.

He turned back to The Rider, almost eager, as if dispatching that last soul had been a tedious interruption.

Why can I not cut you? Samael asked. No mere magic can protect you from me.

The Rider shrugged, but he suspected something.

Then there was another dizzying rush of etheric wind, and the world blurred and stopped once more.

Samael let out an exasperated sound.

They had moved. Another death somewhere else, then.

This place was familiar to The Rider. Where were they? The Rider studied the straw ceiling. There was a cot, and a doorway covered by a ragged muslin curtain. Beyond was a saloon.  The Rider turned from Samael. He knew this place. He could see the front doorway and the window leading into the saloon. It was night outside. Samael was having another one sided conversation with a newborn ghost.

The Rider was only a little surprised to find he could walk away. He moved intangibly through the curtain, out into the empty bar. He suspected it was not empty, but in this weird realm of Samael’s, he couldn’t perceive living souls. Yes, this place was familiar. Slightly different, but still familiar. He went to the front doors.

There was a roaring behind him. Sheol opening to swallow another soul.

He went outside, passing immaterially through the wood doors. The town street. Stone houses. Gravel road. A windmill over a small cemetery. Desert and mountains all around. A stamp mill.

The name of the saloon.

The No. 2.

He smiled.

Where are you going, Rider? Samael bellowed from the doorway, his magnificent wings enfolded like a cloak around his scarred nakedness.

I’m going to stop you, The Rider said, still not entirely sure he could, but unafraid of Samael now that he knew the angel could not claim him.

You can’t stop us. You’re a dead man.

A wind kicked up, like a desert gust down the empty street. It whirled about The Rider, and he felt his soul quiver with a pleasantly familiar tugging sensation. He smiled and touched the brim of his hat.

No, I’m not. Not yet, anyway.

Samael’s eyes widened again. To have so many surprises so close together in what had been such a static, endless existence. The Rider didn’t fear the Angel of Death anymore.  He pitied him.

CHAPTER TWO

The remembered echo of the .44-40 bullet that had crossed the poker table, the accompanying flat, deafening sound it had made as it left the barrel of the pistol, and the subsequent gurgling of the dying gambler as he sagged back in his chair and clapped his hands to his spurting throat were the only sounds in the ensuing stillness of the El Moderado.

Every breath caught in every powdered bosom, and no amber filled glass dared ring. The cigar smoke seemed to pause in the stale air, fearful that to roil or dissipate might perpetuate further violence. The faint patter as the gambler’s burst artery drained between his fingers at irregular intervals onto the playing cards could just be discerned before the clink of the contested coins, and the rasp of the paper being raked across the felt tabletop supplanted it.

Moon Fugate pushed back his chair with a groan that made the blood spattered Chinese dealer shudder in her stained corset, the cards in her hand bending and quivering. She blinked the dying man’s blood from her left eye and pinched the cards in half with white knuckles, not quite willing to risk raising a hand to brush it away.`

Son of a bitch, the blue skinned man muttered, dropping his still smoking Remington into his holster and stooping to sweep the pot into his coat pocket. Do I gotta kill somebody every time I sit down to play cards?

No one lifted a finger to intercede.

Though Burly Joe Holt, the barman, reached below the counter for the shotgun there, Handy Dan Spector, the proprietor, touched his sleeve and kept his hand there till the tall blue killer had set his pancake hat upon his head and lurched across the room to the bat wing doors.

He leaned on them for a moment, then looked over his shoulder.

Nobody better touch that bastard till I get back.

With a shove, he went outside, leaving the doors clacking behind him.

After a moment in which the entire room listened to the scuff of the blue man’s high heeled boots on the boardwalk while he walked to the edge of the street and stopped, Dan came from around the bar. He was the first to the table, though several others had risen to crane their necks at the bleeding gambler.

Dan watched the gambler expire, his hands slackening around his own throat and then falling away, the bloody fingertips painting the floorboards briefly as the arms swung once, twice, the eyes bugging wildly, and then assuming the disinterested stare of the dead.

Anybody know him? Dan asked the other players.

No one said a word.

He gestured across the room to Burly. As the big barman came over, Dan turned and saw China still clenching the cards, bending them in half. He reached out and took them from her, tried to smooth out the creases, and frowned at her blood freckled face and chest. She stared at the table, her lips slightly parted. Waste of a good deck of cards.

Pick up these cards and go and get cleaned up, Dan said to her. Fetch that boy with the mop while you’re back there.

He waited for her to move. When her eyes turned up to look at him, he raised his eyebrows expectantly.

She moved.

So, Burly said after she had shuffled past. What do we do with him? I mean, we ain’t just gonna leave him here?

Mr. Fugate indicated no one was to touch him, Dan muttered, smoothing his carefully trimmed moustache with the nail of his pinky finger.

You mean, we’re just gonna leave him sittin’ here?

I mean fetch a sheet, Dan said, shrugging.

Shouldn’t we call the marshal?

I expect the shot will bring him, said Dan. Then, to the rest of the room he announced, Let’s put this unpleasantness behind us, folks. Round of drinks on the house.

There was an appreciative, positive ripple through the wary customers. They had all heard the blue man’s pronouncement and had wondered what Handy Dan Spector would do in the face of such an order. Satisfied he intended to capitulate for the time being, they turned from the dead man slumped in the chair and retook their seats, ready to obscure the acrid scent of the gunplay with their cigars once more and drown out the presence of the corpse in the only truly free spirits.

Dan tugged Burly’s vest when he returned with the sheet.

One round only, Burly.

Burly nodded and returned to the bar.

Dan threw the gray sheet over the corpse and frowned at the immediate red blot which began to spread near the neck. What he needed was a Mexican blanket. He had barely adjusted the edges of the sheet to obscure the dead gambler’s dangling hands when Sidesaddle Sal, his sometime mistress and nominal business partner, emerged from the back, pistol in hand.

Dan walked toward her, hands raised, placating.

She was a broad, full bodied Negro woman with a pile of curly black hair not entirely her own. Her voluminous red velvet Parisian dress rustled as she cut across the crowd headed for the bar. She scowled after the blue man standing out on the boardwalk, almost plowing right over Dan as he moved to intercept her.

Hang on, Sal.

Hang on, yourself! That’s the second time that big blue dandy’s left one of my girl’s bloody. Now if you ain’t goin’ curl him up, and Marshal Shivers ain’t goin’ do it, then I’m goin’ do it!

Dan grabbed her wrist with the gun and squeezed hard enough to make her drop it in his hand. She was about to slap at his face when she saw the sheeted figure seated over his shoulder.

What in the hell is that?

Never mind about that.

Oh no! Hell no! This is too much, Handy!

Dan pulled her close and whispered into her ear.

You know the blue fella’s trouble. He’s a notorious killer, and on top of that, he’s a guest of Magwood. Marshal Shivers can’t cross Magwood. I can’t cross Magwood, and you sure as hell can’t cross Magwood. Now you just go and tend to that Chinee. Clean her up, give her a stiff dose of laudanum or whatever you do, and get her back dealin’ cards.

He spun her around and sent her off with a crack on her prodigious backside from the back of his hand.

She went a couple feet and wheeled, glaring, rubbing her wrist.

Fine! But when he gets to ripenin’ up, what you goin’ do then, Handy? she warned, before going off in back. Nobody’s goin’ come near this place!

We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, pigeon, Dan said, slipping her pistol into the waist of his pants. But when he turned to regard the covered dead man, he frowned.

She had a good point.

* * * *

Blue Moon Fugate (though pity the man who called him that in earshot) stepped out into the Arizona day. It was bright today, and the sun reinforced the uniqueness of his peculiar epidermal condition. His skin matched the hue of the clear sky. The nails on his fingers were purple, though not with paint or dye, of any sort.

He fished his bottle of colloidal bitters from his jacket pocket and took a swig of the foul tasting stuff as the sack bellied deputy marshal with the quirt looped around his wrist came huffing up the street with his hand on the butt of his gun. Fugate watched the man reach the bottom porch step and pause to squint at him.

Hey Mr. Fugate, said the deputy. Heintz, his name was. Dutchy Heintz. Some sorta trouble?

Not any more, said Fugate, putting away his bottle of silver water and taking out his makings.

Uh...were you involved?

What business is that of yours? Fugate growled, rolling a cigarette and smiling inwardly at the deputy’s discomfort. If I was involved, do you intend to throw me in your dungeon?

Is anybody dead?

Nobody worth mentioning, Fugate said. You’re one of Magwood’s boys aren’t you?

Heintz came up the stair a few steps and doffed his hat, speaking low. What strands of blonde hair still progressed across his white, balding pate were wet with perspiration.

Mr. Fugate, I wish you’d keep that between us.

Fugate grinned and lit his match on the porch rail and sucked tobacco smoke.

Well, seein’ as you are, I expect you don’t mean to detain me further. You’ll find a body inside that needs burying, but it will remain unburied until such time as I see fit.

Heintz sighed and wiped his sweating forehead.

Fugate was enjoying this. By reputation, he often found himself a guest in the towns he visited, but never had they rolled out the red carpet quite as they had here. He didn’t know the mayor of Delirium Tremens, but he knew the owner of the Bent Bar M Ranch, and that seemed to open every door for him.

This was a nice town. Booming. New buildings going up every day, new folks coming in sniffing gold and copper, lots of money to be made. He wondered how long before he wore out his welcome with Magwood. Probably about the same amount of time it would take the marshal to crack down on his crooked deputy, or for the gambler he’d killed to ooze out of that chair.

He had given a Mexican whore a good thrashing on his first night here, for no reason other than it pleased him to do so, and he had smiled to see the staff carry her out of his room without a word. Magwood’s name certainly carried a good deal of weight at the El Moderado, though the proprietor’s colored woman had unleashed her harridan tongue in his direction in such a manner that would have warranted her death had her pimp not dragged her bodily away, biting like a bitch dog into the edge of his stifling hand.

That woman vexed him.

Though he hollered ‘cheat’ when he threw down on the nameless gambler, he’d really had nothing more than a sneaking suspicion the man had been cheating, a suspicion bolstered by his own lack of luck. Really, he had hoped to inspire that temperamental Negress to appear again so he could correct her. He had long ago ceased to abide verbal abuse directed against his person, and found early on that swiftly ending a wagging tongue provided as much bliss as letting one go did nagging regret.

Mr. Fugate, I didn’t come here on account of no shooting, Heintz said.

I thought you appeared sorta fast, Fugate allowed.

Mr. Magwood sends word that he would like to meet with you at his ranch house, if this is a convenient time.

I suppose it is, Fugate said, smoking. I am done playing cards today.

After reclaiming his horse from the stableyard and riding out to the Bent Bar M, Fugate was rewarded with hard, mistrustful stares from the few saddle bum ranch hands about the place. He ignored them. The only looks that vexed him were ones of curious amusement. He had dealt with such stares since boyhood and hated them. Mistrust, awe, dislike: these things he couldn’t care less about.

But should a man or a woman stare too long, or God help them, smirk!

He had been born with his curious pigment, as had several of his family members in Viper, Kentucky. Most of the other mountain clans had respected his affliction, but it was after he’d run off from home at the age of nine and started crossing paths with Yankees and other bastards that he’d first been subjected to ridicule. The first son of a bitch he ever killed had caught him and put him in a cage and charged other sons of bitches to look at him. He’d starved himself for a week and a half just so he could slip through the bars and stick him with a knife while he slept. That had been at age ten, and he hadn’t suffered a fool since.

The girl who answered his knock at the big house door was a beauty. She seemed to expect him to doff his hat, so he did not.

This was Magwood’s daughter, Antigone. She was a waifish girl, with frank, big eyes and a long, slender neck, but all the requisite womanly proportions to inspire distraction in the working hands about the Bent Bar M, who put hand to hat brim whenever she appeared, even to the risk of their safety. She had a cascade of fine auburn hair and her lips always seemed to exhibit a wry, knowing smile, which Fugate would have backhanded off her face upon their first meeting had she not been introduced as the offspring of the man who’d paid him five thousand dollars for delivering the valuable bit of rolled up paper he’d taken off the sheeny he’d gunned down in Tombstone.

She turned those painted-on eyes at him and batted her black lashes with that damned grin on her full lips. If he but knew she was eyeing him with mockery in her heart, if she but gave voice to it, he would throw her down and learn her a lesson right on this threshold, five thousand dollars and a bunch of chivalrous cowpokes be damned.

But she only said, Hello, Mr. Fugate. Is my father expecting you?

That is what I have been told.

She stepped aside, showing him in.

He still did not remove his hat. He would be goddamned if he paid her any abasement.

You know the way to his study, I believe, she said over her shoulder as she turned to close the door in a rustle of petticoats. It was a statement, and he nodded and went off down the adobe hallway, paying her no more thought.

He found Heracles Magwood seated at the big polished desk in the high backed, horn festooned chair, an ostentatious thing more suited to an emperor than a cattleman, though he had known plenty who saw no difference between the two.

He was a handsome devil, with curly blonde hair, only a hint of gray over the ears, and the sort of face that grew more striking the older it got. Always in an expensive, good suit, this one, a man who enjoyed his fortune to the fullest.

He was in consultation with a pair of pale men, one about the same age as him, the other younger. They were both in black garments, the elder in a dour suit, the younger in a kind of mantle such as a Catholic monk might sport. Magwood would have taken the elder for the same creed as the so-called Killer-Jew of Varruga Tanks were he not entirely devoid of hair of any kind and trying to hide the fact with a ridiculously curly black hairpiece. The younger man seemed malnourished and sickly. His dirty blonde hair hung in disordered strings from his scalp.

Mr. Fugate, said Magwood, smiling. Thank you for attending to my summons with such expedience. I trust you’re enjoying a comfortable stay in Delirium Tremens?

Nothing about the beating of the whore, which he was sure Magwood’s pet deputy had related to him by now, and nothing about the killing of the gambler, which it was possible he didn’t know of yet. Good. He was not inclined to be chastised, even for what he admittedly knew to be excess.

Fairly well.

Good, good.

Magwood folded his hands and regarded him for a moment. A hint of curiosity there, but Fugate was used to it. It only made him simmer a bit.

Would you like to sit?

I’ll stand, said Fugate.

I have something I would like to discuss with you in regards to the man you shot in Tombstone.

The man I killed, Fugate corrected. He never shot anybody without intending to kill them. Wounded men sought recompense.

That’s just it, Mr. Fugate. I’m afraid it’s come to my attention that you didn’t kill him.

Fugate stiffened.

If he ain’t dead, he’s dying.

Fugate had hit the man dead center in the chest. It should have killed him outright, but he had not hung about to watch him expire. There was a strict no-firearms ordinance in Tombstone, but following the outbreak of a citywide fire, he and most of the other armed men in town had managed to circumvent it by demanding their hardware from Sheriff Behan in the face of the flames. He had ridden straight out to find his quarry and happened upon him, and another man, standing outside the remains of a photography studio with a woman. Recognizing the map case on the man’s back and correctly deducing the valuable scroll mentioned on the wanted posters was inside, he had shot them down with only a little warning, and then made off for Delirium Tremens to collect the fifty-five hundred dollar reward (five thousand for the piece of paper and five hundred for the dead man).

I’ve received word he’s still in this world, Magwood reiterated, wisely, without a trace of reproach. That being said, I have every reason to believe he’ll be coming to pay me a visit along with his associates before too long. I’m just a cattleman, Mr. Fugate, and my men are just simple drovers. I’m short-handed in terms of hired guns. I’d like to put you on retainer for a while. Not indefinitely. Just until oh, I think September, at the very latest. You’d have to move into the ranch house here, of course, but your every need would be provided for, in addition to a generous stipend.

Fugate’s face had curled into a grimace throughout Magwood’s speech. He didn’t like being tied down, didn’t like the thought of getting tangled up in some protracted business. He had learned not to involve himself in such things during the war. It had been a costly lesson.

Magwood’s assertion that he was ‘just a cattleman’ made him want to laugh, but fifty-five hundred dollars bought a great deal of self-control. No, it would feel too much like settling down into some dog job.

I don’t believe I’d care to take you up on that, Mr. Magwood. Meanin’ no offense.

No? Magwood said, disappointed. Is it money? I’m quite willing to pay any ridiculous amount for your considerable services. Gonzago, show him the chest.

The youth in the black mantle moved to a corner of the room and Magwood rose from his chair and came around the desk.

I believe I’m quite settled for the time being in the money department, Fugate said.

Magwood opened a brass box on the desk and took out a pair of cigars. Smoke?

Fugate nodded and took one of the proffered smokes. He leaned forward with it between his teeth and Magwood snipped the end with a fancy cutter shaped like some kind of beast’s face, looked like it was biting the cigar. He turned it over and used the tinderbox on the other end to spark Fugate first, then himself.

The youth had dragged a heavy strongbox from the corner of the room, and now he set it at their feet.

Thank you, Gonzago, said Magwood to the young monk. I think it’s time you retired to the other room and took care of that matter we discussed.

Gonzago nodded his compliance and went to a door in the back of the study. He knocked once, opened it, went inside, and closed the door behind him.

The man in the dark suit and ridiculous wig unfolded a pair of red tinted spectacles and set them on his nose. He regarded Fugate intently, but when Fugate looked up, the man turned toward the window.

Are you a Christian man, Mr. Fugate? Magwood asked.

I am not.

A believer in destiny?

No.

Science?

Not in particular.

What about that medicine bottle I see you drink from, if you don’t mind me asking?

I had health issues as a boy, and a man said silver bitters would help alleviate the symptoms.

Did it work?

No. I do it still out of habit.

I see. You play a good deal of cards. Do you believe in luck, then?

I believe in randomness.

Tell me about it.

Fugate sighed.

Well, men are born, they make and unmake other men as opportunity and their inclination provides. The sun rises and sets on ‘em all. It’ll all go on or it won’t. As to what set it all in motion, it makes no difference to me. I enjoy myself whenever I can, and I suffer no enjoyment at my expense.

Well, sir, that is a very practical philosophy.

It has kept me free from stomach ills.

Magwood swapped an amused glance with his wigged companion.

We’re of a similar mind, Mr. Fugate, he said. I could use a friend. Like you, I have an abundance of enemies.

I don’t have an abundance of enemies, actually, Fugate said evenly.

No? Magwood smiled. No, I guess you don’t.

He kicked open the lid of the strongbox on the floor. It looked like a bricklayer’s baggage, but the bricks were of gleaming, untarnished gold, as orderly and fine as an ancient South American ziggurat in miniature.

Fugate stared at the pile of riches. He could not keep his eyes from widening, and he ran the back of his hand across his lips, almost to stem a tide of saliva. He could live the rest of his life in a house like this one with what lay in that strongbox. Ridiculous amount, indeed.

He stooped down and hefted one of the bricks in his hand. He had known gold his whole life. This was real. His blood stirred at the touch, as if there were a kinship. Well there might be. How many times had he bled for gold and made others die for it? He bowed to no precept and honored no creed, but many times he had thrilled to the luster of a god cast in gold even when the subject of the artist’s adoration was meaningless to him.

He replaced the bar in the stack, almost reverently. He moved it to fit, and was satisfied when it clacked back into place with the others.

Mr. Magwood, for that much gold, I’d build you a graveyard and fill it with your enemies.

* * * *

When the blue man left to gather his belongings from his hotel room in town, the traitor of the Livorno Enclave took off his red mystically embossed spectacles and turned to Adon, his lord and master. He cleared his throat.

Master, isn’t The Bone supposed to be out mustering up protection?

He is, Adon allowed, but it’s been some time since we’ve heard from our Mr. DeKorte. Roaming all across the countryside in his wagon of bones...I think he’s more interested in his grand experiment than our timetable.

The experiment, yes. His Dutch colleague had gathered the papyrus scraps of the Scroll of Thoth that had been left over after the relevant components of the Infernalius had been removed.