Hunt the beast down, p.4
Hunt the Beast Down, page 4
At the stables Ruben leaned on his pitchfork, enjoying the quiet moment. The ships unfurled their sails and the sailors strode past in groups of three or four, whistling, shouting, arms around each other’s shoulders.
“Sir?”
“What?” Ruben spun to find himself facing a tall dark-skinned man with a hooked nose and black eyes.
“Good evening,” Inkada said pleasantly. “I did not intend to disturb your reveries.”
“I don’t think you did—” Ruben scratched his head. “I was just thinkin’.”
“I am inquiring after a friend who may have passed this way,” Inkada said. It was only then that Ruben noticed the huge shadow of the other man. Leaning up against the wall of the livery, the giant nodded.
“A friend?”
“Yes. He arrived in Bear Harbor on ship. He intended to travel ashore. Logically he would have needed a horse.”
“There was a man, a cowboy.”
“His name was Featherskill,” Inkada said. “A blond man wearing black, with a black hat decorated with silver conchoes.”
“Sure. Sure—that’s him all right. Bought an old hammer-head roan from me. You’re his friends?” Ruben asked dubiously, studying Inkada and the giant, Montak.
“Yes, I assure you we are.”
“Reason I ask is, the man took a beating his first night here. I don’t want to set anybody else on his tail.”
“A beating? He knew no one here!” Inkada said sharply. Montak walked forward, his eyes narrowing.
“It was some kind of mistake, I believe. Three men—hell, it was Rafe Jacklin, Billy Pitt, and Smoky. They had him down and bloody.”
“But he’s all right?” Inkada interrupted. The stable hand nodded, lighting a lantern as the sun’s light faded. In that light he saw a knife with a twisted blade and a golden handle at the dark man’s waist.
“He was beat up some. But I think he’s okay.”
“Do you know which way he went?”
“Sure do. But I can’t say he’s still there. Miss Talleyrand, I helped her load this Featherskill into her wagon and she carted him off to her ranch. That’s the Double T. About ten miles south and east,” the man indicated.
“Thank you.” Inkada touched Montak on the shoulder and they turned, disappearing into the night as Ruben stood watching. For a small town, Bear Harbor had its activities, he decided.
“Speak of the devil,” Ruben muttered, putting his pitchfork away as Billy Pitt, his nose still bandaged up from the fight, strode into the stable. The red-headed man scowled deeply.
“What’d you say?”
“Nothin’, Billy. You takin’ to wearin’ guns now?”
“Yes, what of it?” Pitt asked roughly.
“Nothin’ of it. Only a man that wears ’em sometimes has to use ’em,” Ruben shrugged.
“Don’t you worry about it. I come to get my sorrel,” he said.
“I’ll bring him. You riding out?”
“Sam Duggan wants me to ride to Portland. Take a letter over. Portland. It looks like rain to me too,” Pitt complained.
“Looks like.”
Pitt swung into the saddle and was gone. Ruben listened to the hoofbeats retreating for a moment, then he glanced at his watch. It was time to eat.
For a small town they sure enough had their activities.
Inkada tapped gently on the door to the tall black wagon, then entered without awaiting a response. Spectros was awake, though he looked as if he should be sleeping. The old man was as weary as Inkada could remember ever seeing him. Still he smiled warmly and beckoned to Inkada.
“I believe we know where Ray is, sir,” Inkada said, crouching down to speak to the doctor who rested in his black leather chair.
“Oh?” Spectros leaned forward. “The way you say that—I hope there has been no trouble.”
“Unfortunately there has been, sir. Ray was beaten up. Mistakenly—they say. Though how a man can be beaten by mistake, I couldn’t say.”
“But we do know where he is? How he is?”
“At a ranch east of town.” Inkada smiled faintly. “It seems a woman rescued Ray.”
“A woman.” It was always a woman with Ray; it was incredible. “Well then, let’s be on our way, Inkada. Knowing Ray he’ll be up and down the road before he’s even recovered.”
“Sir—they do have a hotel in this town,” Inkada suggested.
“I’ll rest comfortably here, Inkada,” Spectros said with a smile, appreciating the thoughtfulness. “I have slept in this wagon many nights, as you know.”
“All right. I’ll tell Montak, although he’ll be disappointed, I believe. By sniffing the air he has already located a restaurant.”
Spectros smiled again, more faintly. Inkada stood and stepped quietly from the wagon, closing the door behind him.
After a minute or two the wagon began rolling once more, Montak guiding the bays along the road to the south of town.
How would he continue without them? Spectros wondered.
They were good men, each of them different, all honorable, brave men. Ray, young and dashing, quick with a gun and a smile, always in the company of young ladies, it seemed, finding them in the middle of the raw desert, on mountain peaks. Montak, sober, shy despite his tremendous size, with incredible strength and a plethora of skills from carpentry to blacksmithing. And Inkada—perhaps the strongest in determination, the most logical and disciplined.
The doctor smiled to himself, their association had been long, arduous, rewarding. The wagon interior was dark but for the greenish flame which flickered to the front, undulating slightly, illuminating the brass utensils, the copper tongs and coils, the mortar and pestle, the long rows of glass phials.
Memories. Trophies hung on the walls, and rested on the floor. He let his eyes linger on them, let his thoughts riffle through the memories they represented. A tiger skin, a narwhale’s tusk, a silver tray which had belonged to that sad, desperate sorceress, Duelda.
Beakers, chemicals, test tubes. And not far from Spectros, on the wall opposite, a pair of silver inlaid Colt revolvers hung in holsters which were also decorated with silver, rawhide ties dangling from the bottoms.
Such a life it had been.
There had been good people, strong friends. Yet the shadow hung over all, discoloring reward with bitterness. The one person he had loved, the one true reason for existing had faded from him with each approaching step he took. Kirstina.
Kirstina…
The months had passed in peaceful tranquility, in bliss. They were to be married, this cowboy from a western land and the only daughter of the Yahif, beautiful Kirstina. They had stood together beneath the white Eastern moon, vowing love. In the ponds beyond, white lilies drifted past, golden carp snapped at insects.
“I will go with you, my tall stranger,” Kirstina had promised. “To this land where there are no princes, no nobles. I do not need to be a princess if I have you.”
She turned her face to him, her lips parting, the moon glossing her raven hair, and he kissed her. From the turret where the Yahif’s library of scrolls was kept, her father watched, and he was pleased, remembering his own courtship, his own youth.
At least this stranger was a man. A strong man, bent on building his own life, not seeking the wealth of the Yahif like that cowardly Denjisha. The Yahif watched a moment longer, then discreetly returned to his scrolls.
The morning of the wedding was clear, the sun a brilliant promise in the skies. The roses—yellow and red—on the brass trellises in the garden were in full bloom, as if applauding the union of these two young people.
Kirstina, dressed in her white gown, excitedly paced the room of her mother, finally accepting the emerald ring which her mother slipped onto her finger with a kiss. It was time. The Yahif would give his blessing, and the ring would be exchanged with a duplicate which the cowboy wore.
Smiling, her mother at her side, Kirstina stepped into the garden where the guests in silk and satin waited, turning to watch her approach.
Then there had been a blur of color, a moment frozen in time, a cloth thrown across her face. Denjisha’s crooked face.
The cowboy turned to find Popo standing at the open door.
“Is it time already, Popo?”
“Not time. Not time,” the minister replied shakily. His face was scarred by horrible grief. “She is gone.”
“Gone!” Without meaning to the young man took Popo by the shoulders and shook him. “Gone where? Answer me! How?”
“Taken. Stolen.” He sagged onto a chair, covering his face with his hands. “It was Denjisha. He could not bear the affront.”
“Then we will find Denjisha.”
“It will do no good. He has been found, sir. But not Kirstina. He has sold her, sold our Kirstina to a man from the North. A magician called Blackschuster.”
“Then I’ll find him,” the cowboy swore. He snatched up his hat, still wearing his white silk tunic. Popo grabbed at his hand as he strode to the door.
“It can’t be done! Can’t be done. This Blackschuster is powerful. Deadly. A terrible magician.”
“Then I shall become more powerful. I shall become more terrible,” he vowed, his hands clenched, lips trembling.
He walked the bazaars, the busy streets, through dark, deserted alleys peopled by mysterious tattooed men in turbans. He entered brightly striped tents, spoke with peddlers of odd texts until he finally found a man who knew of such things.
“Blackschuster!” the dark, thin man spat. “He is a beast. An absolute monster. Stay off this trail, young man. He will devour you.”
“He has taken my reason for living.”
“And if you persist, he will take your very life.” The man nodded soberly. The tent was filled with the smoke of incense, with brass utensils and bells hung on scarlet cords, with multi-colored glass beads.
“I have heard mention of a man called Sin J’arine,” the cowboy said. “A powerful man. A man in touch with deep powers, with the mystical.”
“Sin J’arine! Yes, there is such a man, but he sees no one. He dwells alone in his mountain retreat.” The dark man puffed at a water pipe thoughtfully. “It is absurd,” he said finally. “No. You are a young man. Your passions will pass. Sin J’arine sees no one.”
“He will see me,” the cowboy insisted. “I will make him see me. Tell me where to find him.”
“Headstrong youth.” The man shook his head and muttered. “Yet,” he said somewhat more brightly, “there is a chance, I suppose. Due to the circumstances. This act of Blackschuster’s has roused anger and disgust. There is a chance.” The man rose and stood facing away, hands behind his back.
Without turning around he said, “Come in the morning. A camel train leaves for the high country with the light of dawn.”
“Thank you.” The cowboy leaped to his feet, shaking the man’s hand wildly. “Thank you, sir.”
“Do not thank me,” he replied soberly. “You cannot know what you ask, what a life such as you seek requires. Years are worn off a man, age induced in the laborious search for powers such as you seek. No, my young man, do not thank me! Only hope that the Master, Sin J’arine, rejects you.”
CHAPTER 6
The fog swept across the ragged cliffs along the coastline. The hulking shadow moved through the forest of pines which grew up to the very brink of the cliffs where the earth suddenly fell away into the sea. Far below the waves lapped gently at the stone. In winter the giant seas rolled over those same rocks, bursting against the cliffs, working at the earth and stone, gnawing away the tall red bluffs.
Now it was silent. Ghostly clouds twisted through the trees. Beyond, the white moon appeared momentarily before vanishing again in the cold skies.
As the moon vanished, all light disappeared. The hulking figure squatted at the edge of the cliffs, eyes searching the distances. Here a line of surf broke, a white line stretching out to the north and south, toward infinity. There a silent nightbird perched in the trees, eyes alert to this savage man-presence.
An idea formed in the mind of this forlorn, giant man-beast. He watched the far seas, the fog drifting slowly past. It was damp, cold. The idea brought warmth with it, and he knew a word with which to give the thought substance. A pleading, gentle word, and he spoke it to the empty, aimless sea.
“Momma.”
It was an idea which had little substance. It was fraught, however, with nuances. Warmth. Comfort. Vague memories and longings. A half-remembered face, a knowledge that the world was safe, that he was protected. Crazy George rose unsteadily and stood before the mocking, changeless black sea. He found that his breath came in catching spasms. He felt a dampness on his cheeks which he did not understand. He stood and he bellowed. He bellowed again, like a wounded animal.
“Momma!”
Crazy George rose and started back into the shelter of the deep forest depths. A sound caught his ear. Then another. Low, rasping sounds, some distance off.
He was both curious and afraid.
Men. He remembered men. Big, they were, bigger than he was. They beat you. They took Momma away. Yet George was tired of being alone, and he often crept as close as possible to men to see what they did, to listen to their voices.
George crept through the deep timber, his bare calloused feet making no sound across the pine needles. He walked slowly, careful to crack no twig beneath his feet. The sound came again, below him, near the beach.
Then he saw them.
Two men working by lanternlight. One was large, bulky and wore a cape. The other reminded George of a weasel—this one wore an earring, and the lanternlight showed he had a gold tooth.
They had a boat with them, several large crates. A long ladder stretched up the cliff face to a tiny outcropping. A cave yawned behind this outcropping. George slid cautiously down the bluff, eyes fixed on the rapidly moving men.
Then he was on the beach as well, pressed to the dark cliff. His heart pounded, but something made him move closer, something called him.
He was no more than fifty feet from their boat. The surf slammed against a wedge of rock and filled the air with salt spray.
Where were the men? He could see no one.
Cautiously he went forward, like a curious wild thing, which he was.
A long crate rested on the sand, in the deep shadows beneath an overhang. Crazy George looked around, beads of sweat on his forehead. Then he threw back the cloth covering the crate. Momma! He could not move, his heart drummed so rapidly, filling his brain with surging fire. It was his Momma—and she lived!
He touched the glass box she lay in, peered closely at the woman. Beautiful Momma, her lips moved slightly as he watched, saying his name? Her eyelids fluttered and George looked for a stone to crack the glass. They had his Momma!
He bent over, finding a rock, but his eyes caught a flash of movement. The weasel-like man was coming down the ladder, a coil of rope across his shoulder. George stood, pressed into the shadows and waited.
But the man had not seen him.
In confusion George moved first toward the casket, then back into the shadows. Then he saw the big man as well, and he slunk away, his eyes returning to the casket as he climbed the bluffs, the hot tears streaming down his cheeks.
“I’ll be back, Momma,” he vowed. He stood a moment at the top of the cliffs, feeling the wash of cool air off the sea. Then he drifted into the woods, stumbling with confusion.
“I’ll come back for you.”
“What was that, Wango?” Blackschuster’s eyes swept the bluffs. The dense fog wove among the pines. The sea rolled to the shore, murmuring constantly.
“I heard nothing, sir.”
“There was a voice. Perhaps only the sea.” Blackschuster shook his head and turned to the task at hand. Wango was making a sling to encircle the crystal casket. “Carefully, Wango. Most carefully.”
Wango nodded, tying the knots with practiced hands.
It was half an hour before they lifted her into the cave high on the sea cliffs. Then, as Wango went to sink the stolen boat, Blackschuster lit several candles positioned on the ledge of the cave, and he peeled back the velvet cloth.
She slept. But for how long? The silver was low once again. And without silver the chemicals, the knowledge, the texts could do nothing to maintain her sleep.
Who was more the fool? Spectros who continued his dogged search, or Blackschuster himself whose constant need for silver devoured all of his life?
Spectros was the fool, Blackschuster decided.
“For I have you, my darling Kirstina. Have you the only way I could hope to. But I have you and he has nothing but his futile search.”
Blackschuster put his face against the casket, lovingly letting his eyes caress that profuse black hair his hands would never touch. Her lips trembled once again and Blackschuster drew back with a start. So soon? She was nearly awake already.
“Then what would become of you, Kirstina? Then what? If only I knew. It would kill me to see you fall away to old age, perhaps to dust.” Again he lowered his face and he kissed the casket.
Wango stood silently behind him, saying nothing. The man then turned to Wango, furious not with his henchman, but with fate which had turned his magical virtuosity into an albatross.
“It is done, sir,” Wango said. “The boat will never be found. I loaded it with stone first.”
Blackschuster nodded. He walked to the cave mouth, studying the deep sea. The moon drifted past through a screen of thin cloud.
“Damn the man!” Blackschuster muttered, his hands clenched. “She would have her cowboy; and the cowboy—despite all odds—would have her back.”
Again the thought came into his mind—there had been a sound out there, on the beach. Someone was about. Perhaps a harmless Indian, a hunter. But it was human, he felt sure of that. Whoever it was must die. The idea came to him easily as it always did. He had no compunctions about it—nor did Wango.
Blackschuster turned to see the henchman sharpening his deadly knife by candlelight.
“Keep it sharp, Wango. Keep it quite sharp.”
