“All right then,” he moaned. It took only a moment for him to stand.
The sounds of gunfire grew closer, drowning out the cries of the dead pickpocket and the unsettling scream coming from Slate.
Crowley started walking, heading for the two of them.
The first of the Indians came into view and almost immediately reined in their horses. They stared at the thin man and Lucas Slate with expressions of dread that were nearly comical, and grew almost as pale as the two of them.
He had no idea why the Apache were so afraid of the pale men and he did not care. What mattered at that moment was that the whole marauding lot of them watched for all of five seconds, and then their leader let out a command that had them turning tail and leaving the area at high speed.
As Crowley had witnessed, the Indians in the town had been scared of Lucas Slate. Apparently two of his kind in the area was a bit too much for them to stand. Crowley smiled at the notion, even as he looked back to Slate and the thin man.
Slate screamed again and blood spilled from between the fingers clamped over his chest. His eyes were wide and his mouth moved like a trout out of water seeking a gasp of proper breath.
“Move your hands, Mister Slate!” Crowley bellowed the words and the thin man ignored him.
Slate looked at him and managed a puzzled expression. “I am… I can’t. What do you need?”
“I need to see what he’s reaching for inside of you.”
Slate stared at him for a moment and slowly, carefully let his hands fall away. The lump that was revealed was the size of an apple. That Slate’s chest had not exploded was something of a miracle in Crowley’s opinion. Heavy lines of red stained a great deal of his body and in addition to the heavy lump trying to tear free of him, there were other lines, other things moving under his skin. All of them seemed connected and all seemed determined to come out.
Crowley looked away from Slate for only a moment to assess the thin man. He’d been beat down a good bit. Four holes from the bullets Crowley himself fired and more still from a shotgun blast or two. Only one eye remained and it stared only at Slate.
The bastard was smiling.
Crowley hated when other people had a reason to smile. Well, at least when they were enemies of his. He walked closer, scrutinizing the thin man’s face.
One eye was gone. One remained. Centered above them was a small opening in his head, and that at least was something Crowley was familiar with.
He had seen similar stones in Carson’s Point. They had caused him no end of troubles.
Two fast steps had him picking up his pistol. Three more strides and the barrel was one inch from the center of the thin man’s forehead.
As he cocked the hammer back, the bastard finally noticed him and his one remaining eye opened wide. Crowley pulled the trigger and ripped the top of the thin man’s head away with one shot.
The thin man launched backward and slammed his ruined head into the frozen ground. Deep within his skull a collection of grey things wriggled. They all seemed to be seeking something that was no longer there.
Crowley looked at the body for a moment and then checked the remaining portion of the skull. The bullet had managed to destroy that damned stone, whatever it might be, and though he couldn’t be sure, he suspected that was a mighty fine thing, indeed.
Slate fell forward and caught himself on his hands again, whimpering.
The sounds of combat were gone. The noise of people screaming had died as well, though in the distance a dead boy wept with less fervor, perhaps one step closer to accepting his fate.
Crowley put his weapon away and helped Lucas Slate to his feet.
“Are you well, Mister Slate?”
“I am not, sir. But I am alive and I thank you for that.” His voice was fainter than usual.
“You’ll have to be well enough.” Crowley squinted as he looked around. “You take the Indians and I’ll handle the soldiers.”
“What do you mean?”
“I intend to stop this damned fighting before one or both of us is killed.”
Lucas Slate nodded, hefted his shotgun and looked toward the direction the Indians had gone, the direction of most of the fighting.
As he walked, he murmured under his breath, words to a song that no one else in the vicinity could hear or understand. The furious red marks on his torso rapidly faded, first to pink and then to the same color as the rest of his flesh.
He was learning. The song had many, many notes and Slate suspected he would not know them all for years, but for now he learned how to heal himself with the song and it was a start.
Crowley found Sergeant Fowler and his men gathered near the far side of town, following orders. They were there to make sure the Indians didn’t storm in from the other side of the area, and likely to clear a path should it become necessary to flee Silver Springs.
Crowley walked directly up to the sergeant while the man watched warily.
“Sergeant?”
The man nodded and came toward him with caution. There was no telling where a man might stand on the Indians. Most agreed they should be sent away, but wise soldiers didn’t take that for granted.
The spell was simple, and one of the very first he’d learned ages ago. Crowley didn’t like using sorcery on human beings, but if he had to, he made exceptions.
“Sergeant, I’m sorry to inform you that your captain and most of the rest of your soldiers are dead. They were killed by the Indians, who are fleeing even as we speak. You’ve won the battle, but the cost was high.”
There was truth to his words, but only as much as he needed. He could have told the man that it was the heart of summer and he’d have agreed. That was how sorcery worked.
“I’m sure they fought bravely.” The sergeant’s voice was slightly slurred.
“Of course they did. They fought valiantly and they won. But wouldn’t it be best if you returned to your base camp and reported in? If more Indians should come back they might see your presence as a challenge and you can’t do your duty if you’re all dead.”
The sergeant looked around uncertainly. There were seven men with him. The rest were elsewhere or dead.
“Yes, of course. We’ll head for home.”
“An excellent idea, Sergeant. You have to make sure your men are safe, after all.”
He finished the incantation. The sergeant would forget having seen his face. The men around him would remember only that the sergeant had been informed of their pyrrhic victory and nothing else.
A short walk had him reuniting with Slate and with the man who stood near him. Stinky Napier was clean and sober, his eyes haunted by the sights that Crowley didn’t need to see to understand. There were dead men up ahead and likely a lot of them if the sounds from earlier were anything to be judged by.
Crowley smiled broadly for him. Napier flinched a bit but stood his ground.
“And is the town still alive, Mister Napier? Or are we the only survivors?”
“Oh, there are more, Mister Crowley. The Indians only wanted the soldiers. They were good about not shooting anyone else.” He frowned a moment. “Can’t say the same for all the soldiers. Some of those boys shot anything that moved.”
“Still think the red men are all heathens?”
“Absolutely. Doesn’t mean I have to hate them. I just know they do not properly worship Jesus Christ.”
Crowley shook his head and said nothing. That was a story he was wise enough not to touch on.
“Your friend is very persuasive.” Napier’s voice caught him off guard.
“How so?”
Slate chuckled to himself. He was looking remarkably healthy for a man whose chest had been nearly broken open twenty minutes earlier.