Blood Trail (5 page)

They went back to the hotel to Talbot's room. Once inside, he put the bag on the bed, opened the flap, and brought out a larger box than he had in the café. He placed the box on the bed and stepped back.

“Open it.”

Clint opened the box, saw the other items in Frederick Talbot's vampire kit. He picked up a vial of liquid and asked, “What's this?”

“Holy water.”

He put it back, picked up one of the wooden stakes inside the box, tested the tip with his thumb, then picked up a hammer. He held the stake in his hand—the proper way, Talbot noticed—and tapped it on the end with the hammer. Then he placed them very carefully back in the box.

“I think I know what this is,” Clint said, “but why don't you tell me?”

“It is my vampire kit.”

“So in your country you hunt . . .”

“Vampires.”

“And you believe the murder to have been committed by a vampire?”

“Possibly.”

“What else could it be?”

“Well . . .”

“Come on, Talbot,” Clint said, “don't stop now. What else did you hunt in your country?”

Talbot hesitated, licked his lips, then said, “Werewolves.”

“I've heard stories about vampires and werewolves,” Clint said. “According to the tracks you saw, which do you believe it to be?”

“According to the tracks,” Talbot said, “a werewolf.”

“The large animal tracks, right?”

“Yes.”

“And the bare footprint?” Clint asked. “The man's before he turned into the wolf?”

“Yes.”

Talbot seemed stunned by Clint's apparent understanding of these creatures.

Clint nodded, looked down at the open vampire kit on the bed.

“What are you thinking?” Talbot asked.

“I'll tell you what I should be thinking,” Clint said. “That you're crazy.”

“But you do not?”

“I won't say that,” Clint said. “But you've obviously hunted something in your country that had committed this same kind of atrocity. And I saw what was done to that body. I'm not sure we have anything in this country that would do that. Not any one creature anyway.”

“What will you tell the sheriff about this?” Talbot asked.

Clint closed the box and said, “Nothing. The sheriff would not have the same open mind that I do. He'd think you were crazy, and he would not let you come with us.”

“But you will let me come.”

“Yes.”

Talbot took the box off the bed and put it back in the bag.

“But when we leave tomorrow,” Clint said, “I want you to have that gun in your belt, not in its box.”

“All right.”

“Can you hit what you aim at with either gun?” Clint asked.

“Yes.”

“Maybe when we get on the trail, we'll have a look,” Clint said.

“That is fine.”

Clint turned for the door, then turned back.

“Don't talk to anyone else about this.”

“I will not.”

Clint believed him. He knew, however, that in this country, everyone would think the man was crazy.

Well, almost everyone.

Back in his own room, Clint thought about the conversation he'd had with Frederick Talbot. And about what he had seen.

A vampire kit. He'd heard of such a thing, but had never seen it. Now that he had, he thought he needed a drink, but decided against leaving his room.

He took off his boots, hung his gun belt on the bedpost, and reclined on the bed, fully dressed.

Vampires?

Werewolves?

Legends, right? But here was a man from a country where such things were thought to exist. And this man had actually hunted them. He knew Ray Bullet would never believe such a thing. They were going to have to be careful never to let the lawman see the kit, or hear them talking about it. If he did, he'd probably turn right around and come back to town, convinced that they were both out of their minds.

He'd seen the tracks himself, now that Talbot had shown them to him. A bare foot in the blood, and a large animal print which could have been a wolf—or a werewolf.

They were going to have to follow the blood trail.

* * *

In the morning Clint got out before Talbot, went to the stable, and saddled both their horses. As he walked them back to the hotel, he saw Sheriff Bullet waiting in front with his own horse.

“I talked to the cook in the hotel dining room,” Bullet told Clint. “He's making breakfast for us, even though they're not really open yet.”

“I'd expect nothing less for a posse,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

They tied off the horses and went into the lobby to wait for Talbot.

“That horse of his gonna keep up?” Bullet asked.

“He says she will,” Clint said.

“What did you fellas talk about last night?” the lawman asked.

“He didn't know much about my background,” Clint said. “I filled him in.”

“And what about his background?”

“He still says he's a hunter,” Clint said. “Not much more.”

“Can we trust him?”

“I think so.”

“How good is he with a gun?”

“I thought we'd find out once we got out on the trail,” Clint said, “but he's already proven himself as far as reading sign.”

“I suppose you're right.”

“What do we have in the way of supplies?”

“Bare minimum,” Bullet said. “Coffee and hard tack. Maybe a bottle of whiskey.”

“Maybe?”

“Yeah, okay,” Bullet said. “A bottle of whiskey—for medicinal purposes.”

“Of course.”

At that point Talbot appeared in the stairway and came down to the lobby.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Mornin',” Bullet said.

Talbot looked at Clint, who knew what he was thinking. Had he told Bullet about the night before?

“Ready for breakfast?” Clint asked.

“I did not think we would stop for breakfast. Yes. I am ready.”

“Good. The sheriff arranged for them to cook for us here.”

“Thank you,” Talbot said to Bullet.

The three men went into the empty dining room and had their choice of tables. Clint allowed the sheriff to make the choice.

They all had steak and eggs and coffee. The cook also brought out a basket of warm biscuits.

“You get everything squared away with your daughter?” Bullet asked.

“Yes,” Talbot said, “she will be quite safe while we are gone.”

“That's good.”

They started to eat and Bullet said, “I assume you'll want to start right from the site.”

“Yes,” Talbot said, “we will start to follow the blood trail from there.”

“The blood trail?” Bullet asked.

“The tracks I found were left in blood,” Talbot explained to them.

“Yes, but the killer's feet won't stay wet with blood for long.”

“It is just a phrase,” Talbot said.

“Oh, I see,” Bullet said. “Okay.”

Talbot looked at Clint, who tried to give him a look that said,
Your secret is safe with me.
Ray Bullet's face was buried in his plate, so he didn't notice.

The killer watched from hiding as the wagons started to pack up to roll out.

The members of the train had no idea that he'd been observing them since the day before. They went about their business calmly, readying their wagons for the push west.

The killer's eyes followed Sarah Talbot in particular, since she was the spawn of the killer's sworn enemy.

* * *

“Come on, Sarah,” Carl said. “We're ready to go.”

She was staring off at something in the distance.

“What are you looking at?” Carl asked.

“I just feel . . .”

“What?”

She turned and looked at the young man, her arms folded, holding herself as if she was cold.

“I just feel as if I'm being watched,” she explained to him.

“By who?”

“I don't know.”

“Captain Parker?” he asked. “If he bothers you again, I will—”

“No, no,” she said, “not him.”

“Then who?”

She shook her head.

“Oh, never mind,” she said. “Come on, we'd better get started.”

Exasperated, Carl replied, “That is what I have been saying . . .”

* * *

The killer continued to watch from hiding as the wagons actually started to ride out. He was close enough to smell them, especially the girl.

As the last wagon left the camp, he waited, watching until they were in the distance. Only then did he leave his hiding place and move into the deserted camp.

He still had not decided whether to follow them—follow his hated enemy's female child—or go after the enemy instead. He moved only after careful consideration.

Or perhaps, he would simply allow the enemy and his companions to chase him . . . until they were the ones who were caught.

Clint, Talbot, and the sheriff mounted their horses and rode out of town. Talbot took the lead and led them back to the site of the murder.

Once again Talbot dismounted and walked the ground.

“Didn't he do this already?” Bullet asked.

“He just wants to make sure,” Clint said.

Talbot rejoined them and mounted up.

“It's this way,” he said.

“What are we followin'?” Bullet asked. “The human tracks or the animal tracks?”

“Both,” Talbot said, and rode ahead.

“What?” Bullet said to Clint, who just shrugged.

“We better follow him.”

Along the way, Bullet asked, “So what's in the bag?”

“I still don't know.”

“Didn't you ask him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I haven't asked you what's in your saddlebags, have I?”

“Well, no, but . . .”

“If he wants us to know,” Clint said, “if it's important, he'll tell us sometime.”

“I can't help but wonder,” Bullet said. “It's a weird-lookin' bag.”

Clint didn't comment.

“In fact, that guy is weird.”

“How so?”

“Foreign,” Bullet said. “They're all foreign. Germans, Polish—what do they call them, Poles? Poles. And this fella, he's from . . . where?”

“Romania.”

“Where is that?”

“I don't know,” Clint said. “I haven't looked at a map.”

“And what do they have there that he used to hunt?” Bullet asked. “What kind of animals?”

“I haven't asked him that either.”

“Ain't you friends with him?”

“No,” Clint said, “I'm friends with you, Ray. I just met Talbot, like you did.”

“Yeah, but you make friends fast.”

* * *

They camped at dusk, and Clint decided to have Talbot shoot before it got dark. The man claimed to be able to hit what he aimed at, but Clint would feel better if he could see it for himself.

“Just for my peace of mind,” he explained, “I need to see that you really can hit what you aim at.”

“What would you like me to shoot?” Talbot asked while Bullet built a fire.

Clint looked around, then picked out a likely target, something pretty simple.

“That cottonwood tree.”

“Which branch?”

“Just hit the tree,” Clint said. “I don't want you to be a sharpshooter, I just want you to be able to hit it.”

Talbot raised the rifle and fired, stuck the trunk of the tree dead center.

Clint leaned over to look past Talbot at Bullet and asked, “Good enough?”

“Have him do it one more time,” Bullet said, putting on a pot of coffee. “Just in case it was a fluke.”

Talbot fired the rifle again with the same results.

“Good enough?” Clint asked the lawman.

“Good enough,” Sheriff Bullet said. “Come and have your hardtack dinner.”

They sat around the fire, washing down beef jerky with coffee.

“The coffee is very good,” Talbot said.

“It's the way he likes it,” Bullet said. “Strong enough to clean your gun with.”

“Don't let him fool you,” Clint said. “He likes my trail coffee, too.”

“I would like some more,” Talbot admitted.

Clint filled his tin cup.

“How does the trail look, Talbot?” Bullet asked.

“It is faint.”

“But you can see it?”

“Of course.”

Bullet looked at Clint.

“We'll have to take his word for it,” Clint said. “I can't see it myself.”

“It is there,” Talbot assured them. “Do not worry.”

“Worryin' is my job,” Bullet said.

“Well, then . . .” Talbot said.

“Well, then . . . what?”

“We have been circling.”

“What? Goin' in circles?”

“Not in circles,” Talbot said. “Circling.”

“What's it mean, Talbot?” Clint asked.

“The killer is not sure where to go,” Talbot said.

“When will he figure it out?” Bullet asked.

“I expect his trail to take a definite direction tomorrow.”

“If he circles back to town . . .” Bullet said.

“He will not.”

“What makes you think so?” Bullet asked.

“There is no one in town it wants to kill.”

“The killer wants to kill somebody?” Bullet asked. “You don't think the murder was random?”

“No.”

“Then why did he kill that man?”

“I am not sure, but . . .”

“But . . .” Bullet looked at Clint. “How much do you think this man is holdin' out on us?”

“I am not . . . holding out,” Talbot said. “I am just thinking.”

“And what has your thinking come up with?”

“The clothes the dead man was wearing.”

“Yes?”

“They were European.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because they were like what I wear,” Talbot said. “My clothes are sewn, and sewn again when they need it. I never have new clothes. Neither did the dead man.”

“So he's from your country?”

“That I don't know,” Talbot said. “He could have been German, or Russian—”

“Russian? Why bring them into it?” Bullet asked.

“Very well,” Talbot said. “German, or Polish, or . . . Romanian.”

“What are Romanians called?” Clint asked.

“Roma,” Talbot said, “or Romanies. The Romanies are Gypsies. That is what I am.”

“Gypsies,” Bullet repeated. “Aren't they thieves?”

“Ray!” Clint said.

“It is all right,” Talbot said. “Some Gypsies are thieves, just as some Americans are.”

“You're sayin' Americans and Gypsies are the same?” Bullet asked.

“I am saying we are all the same,” Talbot said. “Most of us.”

* * *

They set a three-man watch, although Bullet still didn't trust Talbot completely.

“I'll sleep with one eye open during his watch,” he told Clint.

“That'll make two of us.”

Bullet turned and looked over his shoulder at Talbot, who was already sprawled out, asleep on the ground.

“You don't trust him either?”

“Let's just say I'm careful,” Clint said.

“You and me, we gotta watch each other's back,” the lawman said.

“Agreed.”

“You think he's tellin' the truth? About the killer circlin'?”

“Why would he lie?”

“I don't know.” He slapped Clint on the back. “I'm just bein' careful. Wake me in three.”

“See you later, Ray,” Clint said.

Sheriff Bullet waved and rolled himself up in his own bedroll.

Clint poured himself another cup of coffee, looked over at Talbot, who seemed to be sleeping comfortably.

Frederick Talbot slept with one eye open. He always did.