Blood of Mystery (16 page)

While people tended to clear away from the bar when Ezekial Frost approached, Travis always smiled and poured a glass of Taos Lightning.

“Did I tell you about the feller who ate two squaws, an Indian guide, and a Frenchman?” he said one afternoon as Travis poured him his drink.

Frost had a habit of telling bizarre tales, which was one of the reasons Travis liked him. He claimed to have been born in New York in 1811 before heading out West in his twenties— and given his long white beard and a frame as knobby as a wind-twisted pine, that was one story Travis didn’t doubt.

“No, I haven’t heard that one yet,” Travis said, refilling Frost’s glass.

“It was back in the fifties, long before this town was even here,” Frost said in his rusty voice. “Now, how this feller first got a taste for man meat, I cain’t say. But once a feller has that taste in him, he can’t be rid of it. Anyways, so he’s on his way to Fort Laramie, carrying messages for the general out of Fort Craig, and he and his Arapaho guide get caught in a blizzard, and they sit in a hole in the snow for day after day as their provisions run out. Well, finally the snow lets up, and a while later the feller walks on into Fort Laramie. ‘Where’s your Indian guide?’ the lieutenant at the fort asks him. And the feller reaches into his saddlebag, pulls out a shriveled foot, and tosses it at the soldier. ‘Here’s what’s left of him. You can have it if you want, as I’m shore tired of eatin’ him.’ ”

“That’s a most intriguing tale, Mr. Frost,” Niles Barrett said, taking a draw on a thin cigar. “But forgive me—it’s simply the journalist in me that causes me to call some of your details into question.”

Ezekial Frost squinted at the tall, well-dressed man standing at the bar next to him.

People about town whispered that Niles Barrett was the youngest son of a British lord, and that—as a result of some scandal or impropriety—he had been banished by his family to America. Travis couldn’t vouch for these facts, but Barrett did speak with an English accent, and he certainly seemed to have enough money to buy fine clothes, brandy, and cigars, and to stay at the Silver Palace Hotel on a permanent basis, all without having any obvious source of income.

Barrett wasn’t a handsome man—his face was too long, and his features too irregular—but his impressive attire and cultured manner of speech lent him an attractive air. Travis liked listening to Barrett talk about anything—although the Englishman’s favorite topic was the weekly newspaper he hoped to start soon, which he intended to call the
Castle
County Reporter
, and which only awaited a printing press on order from Philadelphia.

“Are you calling me a liar?” Frost said with a snort. “I’ve traipsed around these mountains for longer than you’ve been alive, mister, and I’ve seen things that would make your pretty long hair turn white and fall off your head, I have.”

“I have no doubt of it,” Barrett said. “However, while some newspapers in this town might print anything they hear without being sure of the facts, that is not how the
Castle County
Reporter
will work. If I am to use this tale in my newspaper, I must ask one thing: If this man you spoke of displayed the grisly evidence of his cannibalism—the aforementioned foot— why did the lieutenant at Fort Laramie not arrest him? After all, Mr. Packer was sentenced to jail for eating his companions outside of Lake City some years back.”

Frost set down his empty glass and fixed his disconcerting gaze on Barrett. “I’ll tell you what, mister. Come on up to my teepee on Signal Ridge, and I’ll tell you the reason. Just make sure to fatten yourself up a bit before you do.” The old mountain man smacked his lips and rubbed his stomach, then headed out the saloon door.

Barrett cast Travis a startled look. “He isn’t serious, is he? He wasn’t the man he was telling the story about, the one who ate his Indian guide?”

“Don’t forget the two squaws and the Frenchman,” Travis said, grinning as he poured another drink.

“Perhaps he wishes to add Englishmen to that list,” Barrett said and drained his brandy.

18.

The Fourth of July came to Castle City with a great deal of fanfare and no sign of Jack Graystone.

It was midday when Durge stepped through the doors of the Mine Shaft. The saloon’s patrons glanced up, eyes lighting upon the silver badge he wore on his chest, then returned their gazes to their drinks. Durge approached the bar as Travis pushed a glass of whiskey toward a hard-faced miner.

“Travis, there is dark sorcery at work in this town,” the knight said in a grim voice.

The miner gave Durge a curious look, and Travis hastily reached across the bar, grabbed the knight’s arm, and led him several feet down the length of polished wood. “What are you talking about, Durge?”

The knight’s mustache twitched. “It has been going on since dawn. There are foul magics at play in Castle City.”

“What do you mean? What’s been going on?”

“Smoke that appears with no visible source of fire. Explosions like those at the mines, but here in the midst of town. And lines of flame that streak screaming into the sky. But it’s worse than that, for on my way here I saw a small girl touch a match to a rolled up piece of parchment—a spell of some sort, I presume. She tossed it into the street, and it exploded in such a cascade of sparks that horses reared in terror and a man cried out in agony. And the girl laughed.” Durge gripped Travis’s arm. “Children, Travis. These sorcerers have corrupted children into doing their dark work. We have to stop them!”

The bright sound of firecrackers drifted through the doors of the saloon. Durge whirled around. “There it is again. She must be following me!”

“Calm down, Durge.” Travis gripped his shoulder. “It’s not dark sorcery at work. It’s just fireworks.”

“Fireworks?”

Travis poured a few more drinks, then spent several minutes telling Durge everything he knew about fireworks while the knight sipped a sarsaparilla. When Travis finished, Durge stroked his mustaches, now looking more intrigued than alarmed. “So these fireworks are created by means of the same alchemy used to fashion bullets and the blasting explosions in the mines?”

“That’s right,” Travis said. “It’s called gunpowder.”

“And these fireworks were brought here by the men from the Dominion you call China?”

“Most likely. They’ve been making fireworks there for centuries.”

“And folk set them off as a way to celebrate the founding day of the Dominion we now dwell in. It’s called
Yewessay
. I know that, as Sir Tanner made me place my hand on a book and swear to uphold the laws of
Yewessay
.”

Travis grinned. “That’s the United States of America. It’s the Fourth of July—the day we declared our independence from England. People always set off fireworks.”

Durge frowned. “Causing objects to explode seems a peculiar way to celebrate the winning of one’s sovereignty.”

Lirith approached the bar, jade taffeta swishing.

“Taking a break?” Travis said. Both he and Lirith had come to work early that day because of the holiday. The gambling tables were already alive with action.

The witch nodded. “The house was having an unusually good streak of luck, so I thought it best to let them lick their wounds for a while.”

“And you weren’t aiding luck, were you, my lady?” Durge said, twitching his fingers.

Lirith looked scandalized. “Durge!”

Travis grinned. “Never mind him. He’s got dark magic on the brain today.”

Durge crossed his arms, looking sullen. “I still say there is something wicked going on in this town.”

“You’re not wrong there, my good deputy,” said a rich, British voice. “There is indeed evil afoot in this city.”

They looked up to see Niles Barrett approach the bar. His usually elegant suit was slightly disheveled, and a black streak marred his crimson vest. Travis poured a glass of the house’s best brandy and pushed it across the bar to him. Barrett took a drink and sighed.

“Bloody poor excuse for a holiday in my opinion,” the Englishman said. “Don’t these people know the war ended more than a hundred years ago? For God’s sake, Queen Victoria and President Arthur just had tea together. Our nations are at peace. But you would hardly know it, given the rowdyism out there. A girl just threw a firecracker at me, and it nearly singed right through to my smallclothes.”

Travis refilled Barrett’s glass. “So we heard.”

Barrett raised a questioning eyebrow.

Travis nodded at Durge. “A report from the deputy here. He’s carefully monitoring the nefarious activities of all small girls in town. But don’t worry about the firecracker. I doubt there was any malevolent intent behind it.”

“Unlike the other violence going on in this town, you mean?” Barrett said, lighting a cigar.

Lirith laid a hand on the bar, her eyes intent. “Is that what you meant before, when you said there was evil at work in Castle City?”

“That I did, Miss Lily.” Barrett puffed on his cigar.

Durge glowered at the Englishman. “If you know something about lawbreakers in this village, Lord Barrett, you must tell me at once.”

Barrett set down his cigar in a dish. “I’ll tell you this, Mr. Dirk. For long months I have awaited the delivery of my new printing press from Philadelphia, for which I paid a handsome sum, and with which I intended to publish my own newspaper, the
Castle County Reporter
, as a weekly tonic of truth to counter the poisonous concoction of lies served up by this city’s existing daily publication. At last my new press was set to arrive on today’s train from Denver. Only I reached the depot to discover my press was not on the train after all.”

“Perhaps it will arrive tomorrow,” Lirith said.

Barrett gave her a bitter smile. “No, Miss Lily. I learned from the conductor that my press had indeed been on board. However, some miles outside of Castle City, it was thrown from the train into a deep canyon, where it was shattered to bits.”

Durge’s expression was one of outrage. “Who did this thing? Did the conductor see these men?”

“He claimed he saw only their backs.” Barrett picked up his cigar again and stared at the glowing tip. “And even if that’s not the case, I can’t blame him for saying it. For I have a good idea who the perpetrators were. There are men in this town who fear the truth even as a creature of the night fears the light of dawn. For surely it would strike them down just as terribly.”

“Who are these men you speak of?” Durge rumbled. “We must tell Sheriff Tanner of them at once.”

Barrett glanced over his shoulder—just as Travis had seen other men in the saloon do from time to time—then leaned close and spoke in a low voice.

“Sheriff Tanner is a good man, Mr. Dirk, I know that as well as you do. But there is nothing he can do about these men.” He pulled a copy of the
Castle City Clarion
out of his coat pocket and tossed it on the bar. “As long as they have the support of the town’s most powerful society leaders and institutions, it is they who run Castle City, not Tanner.”

Durge shook his head. “I don’t understand you.”

“Then I’ll tell you a story, Mr. Dirk. Some years back, lawlessness ran wild in one of the gold towns down south, past Leadville. The ruffians were too much for the sheriff to control. So a group of the town’s men decided to take matters into their own hands, and they started up a vigilance committee.”

“A vigilance committee?” Lirith said.

Barrett flicked ash from his cigar. “That’s right, Miss Lily. The vigilance committee worked under the cover of dark. They went after the town’s thieves and murderers and caught them. But they didn’t wait for the circuit court judge to arrive to hold a trial and mete out justice. Instead, the committee acted as judge, jury, and executioner, and any man they caught was hanged before the sun rose.”

“It is unpleasant, to be sure,” Durge said. “But sometimes harsh measures are required in order to keep the peace, especially in the frontier. And it does not sound as if the men who were executed were innocent.”

“No, Mr. Dirk, they weren’t. Not at first. For a time the citizens of the town knew peace. But after a while, it wasn’t just the thieves and murderers that were found hanging in the morning. It was a miner who had bested one of the town’s leading men in a fair hand of poker. Or a hurdy-gurdy girl who had let slip that another of the town’s upstanding men was her best customer. Or a preacher who gave a sermon decrying the violence. Soon the people trembled in their houses at night, fearing the sound of guns and horses outside their doors. And when a circuit court judge did arrive to put an end to it all, he was found shot through head, his brains on the floor of his hotel room.”

Travis’s gaze fell upon the crumpled copy of the
Castle City
Clarion
. Wasn’t that the pattern he had seen when he went through the stack of papers? Violence decreased for a time, only to return darker and stronger than before.

Durge clenched his hands into fists. “What you describe is wrong. The law must always be respected. They were evil men.”

“And yet they acted under the guise of righteousness, Mr. Dirk.” Barrett smashed out his cigar in the dish. “But then, perhaps those are the most evil men of all. For how can a man speak out against them without being branded unrighteous?”

Durge crossed his arms. “The three men whom we’ve found dead these last weeks—the brigands whom Sir Tanner ordered to leave Castle City—it is this vigilance committee who murdered them, is it not?”

“I told you, Mr. Dirk. They take justice into their own hands.”

Lirith touched his arm. “You know who these men are, don’t you, Lord Barrett?”

“Only a few of them, Miss Lily. And I believe you know who they are as well as I do.”

Travis spoke the name without thinking. “Gentry.”

“That’s right, Mr. Wilder,” Barrett said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Lionel Gentry and his cronies, Eugene Ellis and Calvin Murray.”

Durge started to pull away from the bar. “I must go tell Sheriff Tanner at once. We must put these men in jail.”

“Don’t waste your time, Mr. Dirk,” Barrett said. “Gentry and his boys are in the pay of the vigilance committee, that much I’m sure of. But they’re henchmen, that’s all. If you put them in jail, some unknown benefactor would simply post their bail, and they’d be out free. You see, the real members of the vigilance committee are among the town’s powerful and wealthy men.”

“But who are these powerful men?” Durge said.

Barrett shrugged. “I don’t know, Mr. Dirk. I only know that, whoever they are, they’ll be among the leading men of this town. Any one of them could be on the vigilance committee.”

The knight’s voice rumbled with quiet anger. “Where I come from, it is true that lords and men of power can often do as they wish to men beneath them in standing. But Sir Tanner described the laws of this place to me, and they state clearly that all men are equal in the eyes of justice. It does not matter if these men you speak of are wealthy or important. They must be punished all the same.”

Until then, Barrett’s voice had been soft and weary. Now a sharpness entered it. “I like you, Mr. Dirk. You’re a refreshingly honest man. So I’m going to be honest with you in turn. There’s nothing you or Sheriff Tanner can do. A star on your chest doesn’t give you power over these men. In fact, being on the sheriff’s side can only impede you in your efforts. You see, you have to follow to the law; these men don’t. The only one who could help us now would be a civilizer like Tyler Caine. And I fear there’s not much hope of that.”

Travis felt a pain in his chest, but whether it was a pang of fear or a thrill of excitement he didn’t know. He glanced at the back of the saloon. The edge of the Wanted poster was just visible, peeking out from behind a column.

“Why do you say that?” Travis licked his lips. “How could Tyler Caine help us?”

Barrett drew a match from the pocket of his vest and lit it with a quick flick of his thumb. “They say one must fight fire with fire, Mr. Wilder. Only a man outside the law can stop those who’ve taken the law into their own hands. But it’s pointless to hope. Tyler Caine was the last great civilizer to walk this part of the West. And all the stories say he’s dead.” He snuffed out the match between finger and thumb.