A RED WINTER IN THE WEST - Prologue
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And we, who marked the scene sublime,
Beheld a shining band
Press upward to the mountain top,
As to a Promised Land;
Their faces kindling with the light
That played about its crest—
And two, more glorious, led the way,
In spotless garments dressed;
Some wearied on the way, and these
The stronger lifted up,
And held unto their parching lips
Love's overflowing cup--
And thus refreshed, they buoyantly
Pressed forward in the van,
And leaped and danced for gladness, where
The purpling river ran.
— M.H. Cobb, The Mountain In The West
Prologue
Prescott, Arizona
Wesley Burrows sat at the table rubbing the raised skin on his cheek where, only a few years ago, a wayward bullet had left a pink puckered star. He looked at the cards in his hand. Three jacks and a pair of sixes looked back at him. He let a look of feigned disappointment mask his face. He sighed with a deep melancholy even though the cards were good. They were very good.
Were they good enough to beat the dentist? Time would tell.
The blue evening moon lifted its tired head up from the stony Arizona horizon. Cool beams slanted through the saloon’s wooden blinds, emblazoning stripes across the dentist’s dark suit.
They were the only two left at the table now.
Wesley “Six Scars” Burrows with his full house and a dentist. A goddamn dentist wearing a calm, smooth smile. Black suit and gossamer moonlight gave the man a panther’s sheen.
The piano player, his bowler hat drunkenly tilted on his bald head, was playing a sad, lonely song. The meager crowd, huddled around sagging wood tables grumbled with tired conversations. They were mostly Arizona cowboys smoothing their wrinkled cares away with whiskey and a few misty-eyed working girls and fellas. Every one of them was mumbling either to themselves or someone else. All of them either seducing potential customers or pouring the guts of their own sad confessions into their foam-rimmed mugs.
Wesley was playing cards...and still laying low.
The cards, he thought. The cards and the game calmed his mind, soothed his worries. Wesley’s mind relaxed, lulled down into memories. Memories of all the things that had brought him here. He wished now, more than anything, that he'd never fallen in with the Culliver gang. Wished he'd never held up that wagon train with all those women and children.
He’d never forgive Cy Culliver, that black-bearded son of a bitch. Never.
They never should have done what they did, and it was Cy that had made them do it. It was Cy’s fault that the Marshal’s posse discovered the gang’s hideout, and it was Cy’s goddamn fault that Jenny and Mark and Toby had been shot to hell in a muddy gulch.
Cy had probably survived. That’s what he did. Time after time, Cy lived to see another day.
Wesley had run. That’s what he did. He ran, wishing he had a chance to find Cy. If only fate would afford him the opportunity to walk right up behind Cy Culliver, put his pistol to the back of his head, and say…
Wesley didn’t know what he’d say. The gun, Wesley thought, would do all the talking. He wished for that chance. Wished for it badly.
But that was behind him, he told himself. There were only the cards, the dentist, and the chips on the table. Tonight, the here and the now, was the table game. Tomorrow, when the red dawn rose, there would be the trail.
The long journey to Colorado.
If he couldn’t kill Cy, he would settle for reaching Colorado where Richard his brother lived. Wesley would lean on him. Take his hospitality. When your only sibling comes riding in, looking to make a fresh start in a fresh place, well, family couldn't turn away family. If their father had taught them anything with the discipline of a razor strop, it was that in this life, the only people you can rely on were your kin.
It was an immutable truth of the ever-changing world.
Wesley would ride north to Mormon country in Utah, then cut east through Grand Junction. It was dangerous country, filled with Natives and cutthroats, but it was too risky to ride up the more comfortable, populous path through Santa Fe.
A train was out of the question as well. Though that way would certainly be easier, Wesley couldn't chance his picture being posted at one of the ticket stations where rangers loved to lay in wait for the more dim-witted outlaws who’d thought shaving their beard and hair would disguise them enough. Fellas like that swung from a noose every day.
His best chance was on horseback, off the beaten path, heading north.
Wesley looked at the stack of chips, now diminished. Only an hour ago they had stood like indomitable pillars. A little fortune big enough to get him out of Prescott and all the way to Colorado Springs.
“Five hundred to call?” asked Wesley, letting his voice shake a bit at the end. The tremor was a ruse. All part of the show.
The dentist's eyes sparkled, widening at Wesley as he took a deep pull from his cigarette. Big, green, and luminous, they were eyes less fit for a man than a predator. A cougar’s eyes.
“The same five hundred as it was two minutes ago, my young friend,” said the dentist. There was a slow, easy way about the man, the languidness of a big, bloody-muzzled cat, sunning itself after a fresh kill in the afternoon. The dentist was relaxed, glutted on the chips he effortlessly took from Wesley Burrows.
“We're friends now, huh?” Wesley arched an eyebrow at him.
“You've been so generous to me over the last, what? The last seven hands? Hospitality like that, I don't see how we could be anything else.” He winked at Wesley.
Wesley smiled, charmed. “It ain't generosity, so much as it is my hatred of money. As you can see”—he gestured at the few remaining chips in front of him—“I just can't stand the stuff.”
The dentist smiled back. “Your hatred of currency notwithstanding, it’s still five hundred to call.”
“You're awful eager to see the game done.”
“I have business elsewhere this evening. But don't feel rushed on my account. By all means, take your time. Consider the cost while you still remain in the game.”
“Business? At this hour?”
“At the current rate of this hand, I'm starting to wonder myself if I’ll make that appointment or any other this week.”
“Well, I wouldn't want you to be late.” Wesley gave the man a hard, cruel smile and slid the short stack of chips to the center of the table. They fell over, splashing into the pot. “I'm all in. That's eight hundred to you.”
The dentist looked away from the pot, a dash of amusement on his lips. He took a sip of whiskey from a small, sterling cup. “All in. Now, I thought you said—”
The doors of the saloon clattered against the wall. Wesley did not turn to look but kept his eyes on the dentist.
The dentist did look away, though, his glassy stare scanning the door, his placid demeanor uninterrupted.
“Friends of yours?” asked Wesley.
“They don't look charitable enough.”
“Law?”
“Two tin stars joining our little cosmos.” The dentist's eyes went back to his cards. “Arizona rangers most likely.”
Slowly, as if with no care in the world, Wesley leaned his elbow against the arm of the chair and cupped the starry scar on his cheek in his palm, hiding it from sight.
The sound of boots thunked over to the bar, where a low conversation began. This one between one of the rangers and the bartender.
“Why, Wesley,” the dentist remarked quietly. “What is this new trepidation I see? You lose chips without a care in the world but when the law arrives...”
Wesley slanted an unhappy smile at the dentist.
“Well,” said the dentist, “I suspect one of us will be leaving soon. So, in the interest of brevity, I guess I'm just going to have to call.”
“Knock that playing off, pianoer!” A heavy voice called from behind Wesley, confident, carrying the unmistakable authority of a lawman.
The piano's sad tune died.
“It’s pianist,” said the little man, turning back in his seat to level his beady eyes at the lawman . “Pianoer ain’t even a word. I’m a pianist.”
“No one gives a shit, peckerhead,” said the lawman. He addressed the room: “Listen, I’m a warranted officer by the Arizona Territory here on official business.”
Here it comes, Wesley thought.
“We're looking for a man. Young fella, got a big pucker of a scar on his right cheek. Name's Wesley “Six Scars” Burrows. Wanted for horse theft, robbery, murder, and worse.”
The dentist raised an eyebrow at Wesley. “Looks like they're your friends.” His voice was low.
The lawman boomed again. “Anyone here seen a man like that?”
Out of the corner of his vision, Wesley saw a table of cowboys look over at him. One of them, a sun-cracked crow of a man without any sort of brotherly affection for what, as far as that son of a bitch knew, was a wrongly accused man, pointed at the table where Wesley was playing.
Goddamn you.
Boots thunked their way toward Wesley.
He felt the gravity of their presence directly behind him. A rough hand shoved him, shocking his head forward. His hat pitched onto the mess of chips at the center of the table.
“You, gambler. Stand up. Keep those hands holding them cards while you do it.”
The dentist gave Wesley an apologetic look, setting his own cards face-down on the table.
Wesley sagged in woeful resignation. He should have cut his losses and run when he had the chance. But, once again, he was undone by an absolute curse of bad timing. Three hours ago, he had had all the money he needed. He could have walked away. Almost did twice. But then the dentist showed up, announced himself as a high roller, and started bleeding the kid’s chips. And now, just as Wesley was close to winning it back, the law had caught up with him.
The prospect of winning it all would cost him everything.
The dentist surprised Wesley—hell, surprised everyone—when he spoke up: “Gentlemen, if you don't mind, we're just finishing up here.”
“Game's over,” the man barked. “I said stand up, boy.”
The saloon hummed to life with the mumblings of the patrons urging Wesley to obey, the bartender going so far as to say, “Go on now, boy. This here is a law-abiding business!”
It was with a delicate gesture that the dentist quieted the room. His eyes, almost glowing, seemed to reach out in a way that Wesley could not understand, but could feel. It was an invisible pressure, an eerie weight.
“Officers,” the dentist said, smiling. “With all due respect, allow us the small courtesy of finishing our business.”
A floorboard groaned under the shifting weight of one of the law men, cutting through the tense silence in the room. “This boy's got a debt with the law, mister.”
“He that dies pays all debts,” said the dentist. He turned to look at Wesley. “That's Shakespeare, Wesley.”
“I know,” said Wesley. “The Tempest.”
The dentist nodded approvingly, his smile shone bright. The invisible pressure lifted momentarily. “An educated man. Well.” Then, he looked again to the officers. His eyes widened, and the weight returned, heavier than before.
“It's a crime to impede an appointed officer of the La—”
The dentist lifted a single finger and gently pressed it against his lips. He shushed the lawman like a mother soothing a squalling child. “Now, Wesley,” he said. “You're all in, and I've called.”
Wesley's mouth was dry. His heart hammered in his chest. He wasn't sure he wanted to win anymore. But what Wesley Burrows wanted didn’t seem to matter much at the moment; he was compelled to do what the man required. The dentist’s voice and eyes penetrated Wesley’s will.
Wesley thumbed his trio of jacks and pair of sixes down onto the table, face-up. “F-Full house.”
“Now,” said the dentist as he glanced at his own cards with a solemn nod. “If you would be so kind...”
Wesley reached over and flipped over the dentist's hand.
It was a flush.
A straight goddamn flush.
“L-Looks like you win, mister,” said Wesley.
“All right, game's over,” the lawman said. “Get up, kid.” There was a tremor in the lawman's voice. He reached for Wesley all the same.
The dentist spoke, a killer's confidence in his voice, his big cat-like eyes pinned on the lawmen. “Stay right there, Wesley.”
Wesley obeyed the dentist.
All fed up with the dentist’s impudence, the lawman closest to Wesley went to skin his gun from his leather. “I said get up, you skinny son of a—”
What happened next seemed to happen slowly, slow as a noonday dream. The liquid of time thickened.
A group of cowboys sitting at a table across the room scrambled from their seats, sending the cardtable clattering to the floor before the oncoming gunfight. A spray of poker chips, red and blue and white, filled the space between three flipping beer mugs spilling their foamy yellow innards into the open air.
He heard the swift click-click-click of the lawman's hammer draw back, priming to fall and unleash killing thunder. Wesley squished his eyes shut and lifted his hands to cover his ears.
“Be still,” said the dentist.
The world obeyed.
A trio of mugs shattered on the wooden floor. The poker chips splattered in the river of glass and beer. The sound broke Wesley's nerves, and he let out a whimpering yelp. But there was no gunfire.
The room was silent.
After a moment, Wesley opened one eye. The world blurred back into view. He turned to the lawman behind him. The man was completely motionless, still as a statue. Except for his eyes. The man’s irises were wide, ballooned into black pools, frantically shifting back and forth. Left and right, maddened with panic.
The other lawman, unmoving save for his fingers twitching just an inch above his revolver, let out a low, strained groan. The veins in his weathered hand bulged from the struggle taking place between his mind and his body. The bartender, the cowboys across the room, even the working girls and boys, all of them were frozen.
Everyone except the dentist.
He leaned back in his chair, a look of annoyed consideration on his face. He picked up a silver dollar from the mess of chips, and when he did, the most peculiar thing began to happen. Where the man's flesh touched the metal coin, tiny drifts of smoke began to rise. It gave off an acrid smell—the sickly sweet aroma of cooking meat.
He sighed.
“What to do, Wesley,” he said, displeased. “What. To. Do.”
“Wh-what did you do to them? Why are they...why are they like that?”
The man waved away the question. “How old are you, Wesley Burrows?”
Wesley's face twisted at the question. “Huh?”
“How old,” each word was slowly paced out, “are you?”
“I...I dunno. No one ever told me.”
The dentist clicked his tongue. “What a shame,” he said. “People say that age is just a number. They've said it as long as I can remember. It's said plainly enough in English, rudely in Greek, more eloquently in French. It’s said in other languages too, ones you've never even heard of.” The man leaned forward, moonlight slanted against his eyes. “They're wrong. Age is more than that. I know that as a truth, Wesley. You see, I am very, very old. Old enough to know just how young you are. So young and so afraid. So young you don't even realize the depth of your current peril.”
A thought clutched Wesley's mind, the choking grip of fear. A dark epiphany that sent a rail of ice down his spine. “You’re the Devil,” he said.
The dentist had a laugh at that, a slender, joyless sound.
“Oh my God,” said Wesley. “You are. You're the Devil and you’ve come to take me to Hell.” He began to breathe rapidly, each inhalation a stuttering wheeze. “I don't want to be in Hell! I want to—”
“Shh, Wesley. Calm yourself. You do not need to fear the Devil. I have lived lifetime upon lifetime, and never once have I spied Satan's form or anything that might be considered his work. I don't think he even exists.”
Wesley's lips began to tremble. “Then who—who are you?”
The man tossed the smoldering coin back into the mess of chips. The flesh of his fingers was charred black, still smoking, but he took no notice. He tilted his head. “My name is Sigurd, Wesley. Sigurd of Antioch. When I was like you...” He paused. “Well, to tell you the truth, I have never been like you, but I was once a man, such as you hope to be. A king at thirteen, I ruled a battle-hardened people with my brother kings, and we made such war together. Cutting a red line through our enemies, I was a terror such as the world had never seen. Until one day, while in a far-off city now lost to time, I met a truer king than I. A king who ruled over not just a kingdom, but over life itself. I have witnessed the rise and fall of countless empires as the most able soldier in an endless army. A force irrepressible that reaved and conquered. I loved only ever one woman—a timeless beauty. Her name was Abella. Three years ago, she was taken from me.”
Sigurd's perfect teeth clenched, and he spoke through them with an old anger. “Three years is less than a yesterday to me, Wesley. So you must understand that my heart is still freshly wounded. The passing of time, to the timeless, offers no comfort to grief.”
The man's eyes were everything now, glowing like emeralds set in a porcelain bust. There was a weight to them, a gravity pulling Wesley closer and closer.
Wesley swallowed. He tried to think of some response, something he might say to get out of the shadow of the manlike creature before him.
“Are you guilty of the crimes these men announced, Wesley? Do not lie to me. I will know if you do.”
Though the room was silent and still, inside Wesley's mind a bell of alarm was clanging. Over and over, red and loud and furious. He could move...perhaps he was quick enough to go for his gun. He didn't do that, however; for some unknown reason, he was compelled to answer. “I am.”
“You are,” Sigurd said. “When I walked into this saloon tonight, I saw you and I knew you were a guilty man. But I believe in mercy. I believe that all guilty men should have a chance at redemption. A chance to rise above their station and cling to a higher purpose. I have a choice to make, Wesley, and it can only be made after you make a choice of your own.”
Sigurd winked.
From out of the quiet stillness, the pianist suddenly brought the instrument back to life. He played a slow, melancholy tune.
“I could let these innocent lawmen do their duty. Allow them to take you in and give human justice to those you wronged. And that justice would see you hang at the end of a rope. Your suffering would be their reward.”
“I don't want to die,” said Wesley.
“He who dies—” Sigurd said, one finger lifted into the air.
“Pays all debts,” Wesley finished.
“I can save you from this debt, Wesley. All mortal debts. If you will choose to come with me.”
“I don't understand.” His voice felt so far away, a distant sound.
“None of you do. And due to that ignorance, many of us hold a deep swell of pity for you.”
“Who—?” He was unable to finish the whole question.
“The people of the kingdom.” Sigurd rose. He was so tall that it seemed to Wesley as if he were unfurling out of the chair. “Be my friend, Wesley. Come with me to Abilene. There we will confront those who killed the woman I loved—the people who tried to kill me when I demanded justice of my own.”
Wesley was drowning in the deep ocean of Sigurd's eyes.
“I—”
“You,” said Sigurd.
Wesley felt only one sensation in Sigurd's embrace. “I'm afraid.”
His eyes felt so heavy.
Sigurd approached. “Naturally.” His pale lips brushed Wesley's ear. “The best safety lies in fear.” From behind his great form came a billowing curtain of fog swirling into reality. Sigurd’s skin grew paler, brighter than before.
“Embrace me,” said Sigurd. “Leave these mortal woes behind, at only the small price of a life already forfeit to these...these cattle.”
Wesley looked at the frantic, terrified eyes of the lawman, still frozen. He turned back to Sigurd, who stood like a creature of myth, now fully revealed in his dark glory.
Wesley stepped into the cold comfort of Sigurd's shadow. “Are you going to hurt me?” His voice was small, almost child-like.
“Yes,” Sigurd said, curling a pale, graceful hand over Wesley's shoulder.
“Will I die?”
“Only once and never again. Will you come with me, Wesley? Will you be a friend to me?”
There was only one answer, no choice.
Wesley spoke a word.
Sigurd became a blur.
Pain like nothing Wesley had ever known before swallowed the light of the saloon.
The world dimmed.
Wesley fell into darkness.