Dawn in Damnation. Clark Casey

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СКАЧАТЬ hell that they got a little cocky. Reckoned there wasn’t much else to be afraid of. “Don’t seem like such a bad place,” he said.

      “You just gotta watch what you say ’round here,” I warned him. “Folks draw real fast. They get sick of being here. Puts ’em in bad spirits, and they’ll draw if you so much as brush against a fella’s sleeve.”

      “Like Dodge City.”

      “Worse than that. You risk getting sent to hell every time you leave the rooming house. But it gets more boring than church if you don’t stretch your legs once in a while.”

      “Let me get this straight. If you get shot, you go to hell forever. But if you don’t, you can hang out here long as you like, play cards, and maybe have a go at them old churchgoing ladies.”

      “That’s about the size of it,” I told him.

      “Sounds like you need a sheriff,” he said.

      “Keep your voice down!” Sal hollered. “Somebody set this boy straight before Jack hears him and shoots up the whole bar!”

      “What’d I say?” the newbie blathered.

      “Pipe down!” Sal ordered. “No more of your lollygagging—that is if you’re hoping to last the night.” He stormed off, leaving the kid moping over an empty glass.

      “Jack don’t like to hear no talk of… ahem, law enforcement,” I explained

      “Who’s Jack?”

      “Member that short fella in the Stetson who kilt the preacher?”

      * * * *

      When he had first come to town some ten years earlier, Jack Finney was the measliest pipsqueak who’d ever darkened the doorstep of the Foggy Dew saloon. He needed a boost to get on a barstool. Hadn’t made it all but two steps into the room before the betting began on how long he’d last—and nobody wagered a dime past suppertime.

      Back then, the quickest gun in town was a sheriff from Lexington, Kentucky, named Jeremiah. He was a good old boy with a righteous streak. He might’ve taken a few bribes when he was alive, but he kept the peace and went to church every Sunday. He’d been the sort to give everyone a fair shake till they crossed the line, but the way he had met his end changed all that. He was scouting for rustlers, and a couple of two-bit thieves dressed as priests got the drop on him. They gut-shot him and stole his horse and guns, leaving him to die in the woods. It wasn’t the bullet wound that did him in, though. They only shot him with a .22, but the pain kept him from walking. Couldn’t even crawl to a creek for water. He went four days without anything to eat or drink. He was so parched his tongue blew up as big as a bullfrog’s, and he began seeing things that weren’t there. Reckoned it best to end his suffering while he could still think clearly. Didn’t have no knife, so he widened his wound with his fingertips, trying to bleed out faster. Eventually his heart gave out. After he arrived in Damnation, the stretched-out bullet hole in his belly didn’t mend properly, so bits of food and whiskey sometimes leaked out when he laughed. He claimed the spillage was the reason why he was always so damn hungry and thirsty.

      Jeremiah wasn’t officially appointed sheriff of Damnation. He just happened to be wearing a star when he died. Then he shot a mess of people right away, so folks quickly deferred to him. His suspicious nature wasn’t helped any by having been gunned down by phony clergymen. He didn’t like to go at anyone head-on who hadn’t been tested. He preferred to see them show their stuff against someone else first.

      Even someone as scrawny as Jack needed to be tested, and Jeremiah watched him closely as the boys bullied him. It gave them no small joy to hear the kid squeal. Just a few hours after he arrived, a Comanchero who had only been in town a couple of weeks stepped to Jack. He was a half-Mexican bandito who had made his living by stealing goods and livestock from gringos and trading them with Indians. His occupation had cost him an eye at some point, and he wore a black patch over the empty socket. The crosshatch scars on his cheeks and forearms attested to the many knife fights he’d managed to survive. He still had a sneaky way about him, always lurking in the shadows, ready to slit a throat. Now, he stared Jack down with the one good eye.

      “My boots could use a shine, boy,” he announced. Jack looked around the room, hoping someone’d laugh to let him know it was just a joke, but nobody said a word. “Well, don’t just stand there,” the Comanchero yelled. “Get down and give ’em a shine!” Jack slowly bent before the dirty boots. They were covered in blood and shit and dribbles of piss, then caked in so much dust you couldn’t tell what color they were.

      “Give ’em a spit shine!” the Comanchero ordered. Jack’s eyes grew tearful. He puckered his mouth to offer a gob of spit, and sure enough the boot crashed into his face. The whole room erupted in laughter. Jack rolled over on the floor, moaning and wishing he’d never died. A ribbon of blood leaked from his lip over his chin.

      Jeremiah had been keeping a keen eye on the Comanchero ever since he’d arrived. Didn’t trust a man who traded with Indians. The one-eyed bandito had already knifed a couple of fellas over card games. Nobody’d seen him shoot yet though, so there was no way of knowing how fast he was. He carried a greased Schofield revolver, which split in the middle so you could load all six chambers at once instead of one at a time, like the older Colts. It was a soldier’s weapon, good for extended battle, but he seemed to prefer slashing throats by surprise. Jeremiah reckoned this would be a good chance to find out if his pistol work was as worrisome as his knife play.

      “You don’t gotta take no more ribbing today,” Jeremiah told the boy as he tended to his lip. “Long as you outdraw somebody. And since Cyclops here is so keen on you, might as well be him. Winner gets free drinks and grub for the rest of the day.”

      The Comanchero glared at Jeremiah, but it was difficult for him to express himself properly with just the one eye. “In the land of the blind,” he said solemnly, “the one-eyed man is king.” Then he turned and headed outside.

      “Well, shit… Good thing we ain’t all blind!” Jeremiah laughed and shoved Jack toward the door.

      Mostly out of boredom, ten or fifteen men wandered out in front of the saloon. The sky was always an ashen yellow, no brighter than dusk. The clouds never lifted but streaks of orange and violet broke through in spots. It was pretty, only it never changed. I reckoned the living were so keen on sunsets because they didn’t last. Even the prettiest lady in the world would get tiresome if you were stuck staring at her for eternity—especially if there was no chance of giving her a poke.

      Most of the fellas didn’t consider the gunfight worth vacating a stool, particularly if you had a good one near the fire. Most newbies didn’t last their first week, and a skinny teenager like Jack didn’t inspire any wagering. As a matter of duty, I went out to document his getting sent to hell. They stood in the center of the road as we lined the rotted-out boardwalk. Sal handed Jack an old Colt and a single bullet. The weight of the gun nearly caused him to drop it.

      “Is that all I get?” Jack’s voice cracked in disbelief. “Just one bullet!”

      “Jeremiah don’t want you gettin’ no ideas. This way, if you take a shot at him, one of his men’ll get you for sure.”

      “But what if I miss?” It was a fair question. The scared hand of the newbie could easily empty a six-shooter before hitting his target.

      “Then I suppose the half-breed can take his sweet time returning fire,” Sal answered.

      They СКАЧАТЬ