He just knew it chewed at him.
Only a short time ago he’d been quite a different man. His hair white, and his skin was as pale as snow, same as always. He was an albino, after all. But beyond that there was remarkably little that was the same.
When he’d lived in Carson’s Point, Colorado he’d stood at least eight inches shorter and he’d been told more than once that he had the face of a woman. True, a few of the folks who’d made that claim had been drunk and desperately lonely, but he knew that his face had been different, as surely as his body had changed.
Slate stood over six and a half feet now, and while he still sported the same hat he’d taken to wearing as the local undertaker — a fine old hat that served him well and looked somber enough for funerals — he could no longer fit in his old suits and had been forced to buy new shirts and new pants as well; rawhide in this case because the damnable cold would have sunk through anything less.
He had always been thin. Now he was gaunt, and his muscles were cords of leather under skin that had long since stopped being supple and soft. No one would ever mistake him for a woman these days. Instead they’d contemplate whether or not someone sharing his old profession should have buried him. He was not dead. He just looked the part.
He had always been soft spoken, but these days his voice was lower and seldom seemed to want to come out as much more than a whisper. The only thing that had not changed was the cultured southern drawl that moved through his words. “I’m intending to find answers, Mister Crowley.”
Crowley nudged his horse closer. Slate looked toward the man and considered the beard he was growing. Jonathan Crowley did not look like a man who should have a beard to him. It didn’t seem to fit his long face. “I am very fond of answers, Mister Slate. But I have to ask, what, exactly, is the question?”
He looked at Crowley. The man was dressed in fine clothes. A cotton shirt, a charcoal, pinstriped suit with a vest, and over that a great duster that kept the cold and wind from touching anything under it. He sported a gambler’s hat on the top of his head, and a heavy wool scarf of a dark, somber red hue.
Slate offered a thin-lipped smile of his own. “I believe the question is the very one you’ve been contemplating since we started riding together. What, exactly, am I becoming?”
Crowley nodded. “That is a question worth answering.”
“Indeed it is, sir.”
You could hardly call it a town, really. More a collection of shops and brothels all shoved together and becoming a town already called Silver Springs, Arizona. The place was an assortment of thieves and whores and criminals, as could be expected in a boomtown. The rumors of silver had driven herds of people into the area and the fortunate few who had struck solid claims guaranteed they’d stay. There were white folk, red folk and black folk, all of them in the same area. Crowley imagined if he looked around he’d even see a few Chinese as well. That seldom happened in places that were properly called civilized. There were too many who considered the other races as enemies for that. Here, where money was more important than opinions, there was less need of being selective.
Crowley rather liked that part of the situation. He’d never much cared for the need to believe one people were better than another. One on one, most of them seemed all right. It was only when you gathered any of them in groups they tended to be stupid.
The ground was as dry as the air, which is to say most of the folks in the area would be getting their water from wells, or from the barrels a few enterprising people were bringing with them. It was a commodity. The Verde River was a few hours ride from the area, and he had already seen a group of men at the edge of town working on figuring the best way to get the water from there to here. What they lacked in equipment they seemed to make up for with enthusiasm.
He could see that Lucas Slate was tense. Slate, who seldom seemed bothered by much of anything since he’d begun changing. Slate, who calmly and methodically followed through with some very grisly work, was currently as taut as a bowstring.
“We have traveled through Indian territories and been shot at several times, Mister Slate. Who do you think is most likely to be of assistance to us in this situation?”
The two of them were still at the edge of the crowded area. Someone, somewhere, had claimed they found silver in the area. A week later the first building seemed old. Now? Now the crowds kept coming and the buildings kept popping up like mushrooms after a rainstorm.
Slate looked slowly over the area and then finally shook his head. “I’m sure I have no idea.”
Crowley smiled. “Look around us, Mister Slate, and tell me what’s different about the people here?”
“Nothing that I can see.” He spoke even as he once more scanned the crowds. “Ah. I see it now.”
“What do you see, Mister Slate?”
“The Indians. They’re more afraid of me than they are of you.”
Crowley chuckled. “Well now, don’t you think that deserves a bit of investigation?”
Slate took off his hat for a moment and ran long, pallid fingers through his long, thin, white hair. “Indeed I do, Mister Crowley. Indeed I do.”
They rode forward at a leisurely pace, two men who scared most people without even trying.
Silver Springs wasn’t old enough to be on any maps. The town had been hastily assembled and that tended to make navigating the structures challenging. There were no rules, really, except the ones people managed to force on each other. Most of the folks who saw the strangers eyed them warily, rather like one might contemplate a substantial rattlesnake that was minding its own affairs but was looking at you with one ophidian eye.
To be fair they struck quite a few notes that qualified them as unusual. The gaunt man rode on a pale grey horse that didn’t seem to breathe. It did not snort, nor did it whinny. The beast seemed oblivious to most of the other animals in the area, though the same was not true in reverse. A good number of dogs made it a point to be elsewhere when the horse got too close, and they made certain to bark their dissatisfaction just as soon as they were far enough away to assure the great horse could not easily get to them.
The man riding with him seemed of particularly good humor, with an eager smile that did not sit well. More than a few of the faithful crossed themselves when they saw his broad, even teeth. When Crowley was not smiling he was hardly remarkable, but there was something inherently wrong with his grin. There was something about the way he moved, the way he looked at folks, that left them a mite worried that he could just possibly take note of them. His horse was only remarkable in that it did not run from the larger grey beast the gaunt man rode.
Both men sported weapons, but that was hardly unusual in this area. The gaunt man had a long rifle draped across his saddle, held in place by the weight of his hands. A shotgun rested near his leg, and a careful eye would make out the two Colt Navy revolvers tucked into saddle holsters. There was a knife hilt at the top of each boot and at least one large blade strapped to his hip. He carried enough weapons to promise mayhem, even if his deathlike face and grim pallor hadn’t already advertised a penchant for destruction.
Crowley slipped off his horse with an unsettling grace. He didn’t bother stretching or adjusting his posture as so many did. Instead, he seemed perfectly relaxed and comfortable. Lucas Slate dropped down with substantially more difficulty and looked around the area with hooded eyes.