Voodoo Bosch

By Frank Fronash

Spared from death at the edge of the world, a gunslinger follows an ancient amulet across the weird west on the trail of his missing brother, a mad priest-king and an undead army from beyond the stars.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Fronash
• Release date: Oct 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005312459

Frank Fronash

There isn't a whole lot to tell about me. I'm retired now and write full time. Love the Old West and Western films and all that. Love the Weird West too, if you happen to know what that is. If you don't, well, then read one of my books.

Book preview

Chapter 1

THE GAME

Bosch sat in a town at the edge of the desert and waited to go insane. He drank and played cards and paced the saloon floor. He stood outside and stared into the sun to speed up the process. The wind flapped curtains out broken windows and signs swung on chains. The horses tied in front shifted and shook their heads.

Down the street, a door clapped shut and someone threw their leg over a glossy pinto. High above, the clouds were fat-bellied empires, sliding over the too blue sky. Bosch ruled them in his mind and made rash, violent proclamations. The clouds kept on. The horseman galloped up dust goin’ by, his brim pulled low.

There was no more war and the gold was gone out the mountain. The town was dying and tryin’a take him with. He’d lost his last ten at the table and thought about selling his Susies. Good Guns. Smiths.

He had half a bottle left and gulped some, sitting on the saloon porch in his shitty clothes, his only clothes. Shitty jeans and a shitty shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms so long they was glued there. He looked around for his hat and unholstered a gun from his shitty crossed belts. He gripped it tight. Good gun. He twitched, like it might end up in his mouth.

Best be gettin’ then, chief, said a voice and he looked over. The cardplayer, Grant, tugged up the collar of his duster and stomped down the steps, his men close behind. It was Bosch and Asa, now. A couple whores down the street, maybe. The doc had been around earlier.

This it? asked Grant, his hand on a bay mustang tied to the post.

Bosch nodded, thinking of that last hand, throwing in his ten and raising the horse on top, hell yes, the saddle too! He’d pointed out the window, Grant nodding and matching the bet with a few notes. Bosch’s hand was laid out to low groans and embarrassed snorts. He’d pounded the table. There’d been three of a kind, goddammit! Then the pacing, the drinking and staring into the sun.

Grant untied the animal and kept the rein loose, boot in his own stirrup to swing on up.

Thanks, chief.

I ain’t Injun, said Bosch.

The group trotted off, leadin’ Bosch’s mount behind.

Don’t mind it, said Asa, creaking out the batwings. Just addin’ insult to injury.

Well, I ain’t.

He right wasn’t. Dark skin but not Injun. Mex, neither, or Spanish. ‘Gyptian a man told him once but that was a guess.

You bet, Bosch.

Ya let Injuns in yer fuckin’ saloon, Ace?

Asa pulled the rag off his shoulder and wiped the porch post.

I do not.

There it be, then.

I got my wagon comin’ in with Doc’s this afternoon.

Bosch had his back to the other post, leg in the street. He nodded and watched Grant’s crew fade in a swelling billow o’ dust.

Uh huh.

I’ll leave a few things if you stay on.

Obliged.

Or come with one of us.

Bosch shrugged.

Mayor’s gone, Bosch. Don’t need another one.

He watched Asa part the wings and head inside. Shot him twice through the back and stepped in his blood and sacked the place for a cashbox. Bosch propped the body in a chair and sat across over bottle after bottle, recounting that last hand.

Y’hear me?

Asa’s shoes appeared in the space Bosch stared at under the wings, somehow not bursting into flame for the intensity of his lurid thoughts.

"Bosch!"

He blinked and dragged his stare on up.

Yeah, he said, the man’s face spattered with blood. The two exit wounds gaped, big enough to crawl into. Bosch put a palm in his eye.

Y’hear me?

Plate o’ beans, I hear ya.

They’re gettin’ cold.

Bosch shinnied his shoulders up the post and stumbled inside. Slammed his bottle on the bar. He ate the beans and soaked the plate with a heel o’ bread. A glance at Asa, the shelves behind him bare, everything crated in back. In the mirror over the bar, room was empty save a table left out for their game. Other three chairs already dragged away.

He went back outside. Last meal, that was all he needed. Middle of the street he unholstered again, knees sagging. He was breathing heavy through the booze, the sun pounding his back.

A man needed a smoke, though.

He swung his head toward the saloon and jerked a shoulder to twist the rest of him after.

Last meal, last smoke.

Asa stood behind as he sat on the porch some more, the tobacco fluttering down between his boots. He was shaking too much.

I got it, Bosch.

Asa sat down beside and took the curl of paper, the pouch and started rolling. Bosch nearly apologized for killing him. He watched the mountains over the rooftops across.

Which o’ them’s left? he asked.

Asa licked it shut and put the quirly between Bosch’s lips. A match snapped off the edge of the step.

Who?

Bosch turned to let him light the end, nodded. He exhaled a gust through his nose. Jerked his head up the street, hand cupped to his chest over an invisible tit.

Marlene, I think, said Asa. Ellen or Sadie with ‘er. Headin’ south.

They were only a half day from the border. South sounded just fine to Bosch. He could kill himself in Mexico just fine. He got up.

The girls? Hell, three-four hours now, said the doc, sitting at his desk back of the cathouse. Bosch kept his forearm braced on the doorframe. He swayed. The lantern on the blotter hissed.

You aren’t in shape for a throw anyway, Bosch.

Was gonna leave with ‘em.

I see, Doc kept writing in his ledger. Ride with me, if you want. Room in the wagon.

Where?

It matter?

Bosch didn’t answer. Doc had his head back, staring at the ceiling. His throat was cut, blood like a bib on his chest. Snakes writhed over the desk, rain slashed the windows.

Does it?

Doc clapped the ledger shut and put it in his split-handle bag. He stood and checked the watch in his vest.

Wagon’s comin’ before three, they said. Find me at home.

He brushed past and Bosch followed him a few feet across the empty front parlor. He stumbled and held a hand out for the counter where Marlene would sit, taking money for the cashbox. Bosch weaved behind it, bending down to look.

He kept falling.

Chapter 2

THE RIDER

Bosch snorted awake on the floor. He put a hand out for a shelf behind the counter and got to his knees. Barely enough light to see by.

He walked out to sunset, a slow detonation of pink and orange behind the mountains, the sky fading black above it. He took a piss off the porch and half fell into the street. There were hands to the side of his head, pushing. His neck ached from the floor.

Doc! he shouted and turned to face the cathouse.

No lights, none up or down the street.

He squinted. Except the saloon. Lantern in the window.

Moving that way, he thought he saw some dust a ways off, a shape within it. He ran, scuffed to a stop outside the saloon, coughing, hands on his thighs. He spit.

Hey!

The wagon bounced over a rut out there and got smaller and smaller. He stomped up the front steps and flung the wings apart.

Asa!

Table, chair. Bottle on it with his smoke pouch, brought in from the porch. Bottle held down a note and five dollars. He went to the window for the lantern. It took some squints and sounding it out but he got the gist.

Bosch,

Looked everywhere, waited longer than I should have.

Good luck,

A. G. Fulbright.

Pot of beans on the counter. Bosch pulled the big spoon out, stuck it back in. He looked into the mirror but it was gone, a brighter wood rectangle where it hung.

Outside, the sun finished up and he turned a circle in the street, chafing his heel in frustration. He screamed, arms out, mouth open to swallow the sky. There was a rumble of thunder in reply. He screamed again. Another rumble.

Fine by him, then.

He drew down and put it to his temple, looking out on Asa’s trail. He turned to the mountains instead, wishing no ill on Asa. The mountains though, that was about perfect. Mountain’s fuckin’ fault for everything. Bosch wondered about Morgan, why the hell he didn’t leave with him.

Well, he was leaving, wasn’t he. Gettin’ out, anyway.

Bosch put the barrel in his mouth. Too far and he gagged. Bent over, eyes bulged and watering, waitin’a puke. He dropped the gun.

It passed. He turned to look for the thing and hit it with his boot. He chased it, bent down again. Wiped it on the hem of his shirt and faced the other end o’ town, toward the cathouse. Nothing that way but south. Moon was out enough, he could take the beans and bottle and walk to the border. Half a day.

Click went the hammer, back to his temple. No. The world wanted him dead, it’d said so. His shitty claim on the mountain said so, the cards said so, Asa said so. And not a thing out there in the darkness would tell him different.

Then the flash. Over the horizon, a green blur.

Bosch lowered the gun and scraped a few steps forward. It was comin’ fast, gettin’ larger. Ten miles, five miles, nothing moved that fast. A mile off it became a horse and rider, sheathed in emerald fire. Flecks of that phantom light followed it, like a cloak o’ gnats.

The thing crossed into town and on up the street. Bosch raised his iron. The rider had gashes in his chest and legs, pieces of him gone and showing bone and insides. The horse was skinned to its neck, red stars for eyes in that bare skull.

More hunks come loose as the pair collapsed a few yards off. Bosch jumped back for the horse’s shatter of bones and glowing meat. Its rider slammed face first, an arm snapped loose and sliding away. The green light dimmed.

Skitch, the rider said, tryin’a rise on the one arm left.

Skitch. For the sound the matches made Bosch