them for a moment, trying to judge Creed’s expression. 'Me and Silas, we was thinking they might not have gone too far.'
Silas slid two glasses of whiskey in front of them.
'He's right, Creed,' Silas said. 'Those boys were bad news. I’m thinking they’re not the sort you want to be messing with, wherever they came from. They come around again, we'll tell 'em you’ve moved on, but best you keep your head down for a while.'
Creed sipped his whiskey and kept one eye on the door. There were a couple of folks back east who wouldn't mind aerating his hide, but he hadn't seen them or heard from them in years and there was no way on God’s earth they’d tracked him out into the middle of nowhere. He thought about the trappers’ camp, and what he'd seen out by The Deacon's tent. Whoever had come looking for him, it wasn't because of anything he'd done in the past. It was all about what was happening right now.
'I'll do that,' he said at last. 'You'll let me know if you see them again?'
Silas nodded. Brady knocked back the rest of his whiskey.
'I keep a pretty good eye on things,' he said. There was no arrogance in his tone – it was matter-of-fact and hard as steel. He was the kind of man Creed would choose to watch his back any day of the week. 'I don't much like strangers hanging around town stirring things up, so I'll keep an eye out. If I see those boys again, I'll send word.'
'Thanks, Moonshine,' Creed said. 'I appreciate it.'
'Not a problem.'
He finished his drink and turned back to the stairs. He wanted another look at the contents of the woman's pack. More importantly, he wanted to think. He climbed the stairs slowly, listening for any change in the level of noise below. Too quiet most likely meant the strangers had walked in, too loud most likely meant trouble as well. When he reached the upper hallway, he stopped and stood very still, straining to listen.
Something thumped. The suddenness of the sound nearly made his bones jump out of his skin. It came from the direction of his room. He glanced both ways down the short stretch of carpeted floor. None of the other doors were open. Unless there’d been a rush while he’d been asleep, Mae and Silas were the only other people occupying rooms, and both of them were down in the bar.
He heard the sound again. There was no mistaking where it was coming from now. He pulled his gun and pressed his back to the wall, then started slowly and quietly down the hall. When he reached his door, he clearly heard the shuffle of movement inside. Things were being moved, and not gently.
Creed reached out and gripped the doorknob tightly. It was icy cold in his hand.
He took a deep breath, cocked the hammer on his revolver, and turned the knob.
Two tall men stood inside. They were hunched over his bed but whirled instantly at his intrusion.
'What the hell do you think you’re doing?' Creed barked.
One of them held the pack he'd taken from the trappers’ camp. It was open. He saw the contents spilled out across his bed.
'Creeeeeed.'
The intruder closest to the window turned and lunged. Creed shot from the hip. The bullet ripped through the man's shoulder and slammed into the wall behind. The impact spun the stranger half-around, but he didn't go down. He screamed in pain, and the sound of that scream chilled Creed's blood. He fired again. This time his shot caught the taller man directly between the eyes.
Creed dove to the side.
The second stranger scrambled to stuff the contents of the leather pack back inside. Creed fired at his hand, hoping to dislodge the bag. The bullet went wide. Behind him, he heard shouting voices and pounding feet. The sheriff would be there in moments. The man he'd shot in the face moved toward him with odd, stuttering steps. Everything about the intruder’s gait was jerky and uncertain – and it bloody well ought to be, he’d taken a slug in the middle of his face. He should have been laid out and ready to push up daises.
'Creed!' Brady's voice called out from the hall.
'Careful,' Creed called out. 'There's two of them. And the bastards won’t die!'
At the sound of the sheriff's voice, the intruder with the bag made a lunge for the window. Creed emptied his gun, firing off three quick shots at the man’s back. He couldn’t tell if they hit home, but if they did they did nothing to slow him down. The man launched himself full-length through the open window, arms outstretched as though he thought he could somehow fly out of there. The bag trailed behind him.
Creed pulled his second gun with his left hand and fired. This time the bullet caught the diving man in the hand cleanly, punching clean through. The sound that followed wasn’t a scream; it was another horrible screech that tore from his odd, motionless lips like the steam whistle on a train. The bag’s worn-through strap gave way. It spun out of the stranger's grip, the flap flying open. The journal spilled out, landing on the floor. The silk dress trailed after the fleeing man in a flutter of dark blue.
Moonshine stepped through the doorway. It took a split second to size up the situation. He saw the oddly gaited stranger tottering toward Creed, and saw Creed’s back as he stared out through the window. Brady fired three quick shots. All of them struck the stranger square in middle of his pig ugly face. Each successive bullet drove the thing back a step. The screams died away – all that remained was the gurgling, phlegmy sound of sucking air.
The stranger staggered back, hit the windowsill and toppled out into the night.
Creed threw himself forward, reaching out for the man’s arm. He wasn’t about to let the son of a bitch get away, but as his hand closed around what should have been a wrist, he came up empty, clutching at air. He pulled back his hand and staggered away from the window. Brady rushed forward and leaned out, staring down into the darkened street, his six-shooter aimed at the night. Silas appeared in the doorway with the shotgun.
'Bastards,' Brady grunted. He leaned a little further out the window, craning his neck to see up and down the length of the street.
'What is it?' Creed asked.
Brady pushed himself away from the window and turned to the door, already moving.
'They're gone,' he cursed.
Creed stared at him. It was impossible. They couldn’t be gone. He looked down at his hand. He released his grip and stepped back with a cry. He clutched a handful of oily black feathers.
Silas stepped aside quickly to avoid being run over by Brady, then stared at Creed.
'What in the hell…' he said.
Creed ran past him without a word.
Silas walked to the window and glanced down. Then, without really knowing why, he looked up toward the face of the moon. Two black shapes rose into the sky and wheeled off over the desert. Silas blinked, and then glanced down. He saw Brady and Creed, guns drawn, watching the street. Somehow, he didn't think they were going to find anything.
Shaking his head, he lowered the barrel of his shotgun for the second time that night and closed Creed's door behind him. He headed for the bar. He needed a stiff drink. There was going to be a lot off whiskey drank that night. He aimed to get a shot or two down his throat first before the bottle ran dry.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Deacon sat at his desk, drumming his fingers on the leather surface. He was impatient. He leaned back in the chair and put his hands together to make shadow-birds on the wagon’s canvas wall. The birds transformed into the gnarled silhouette of a hag’s face and again into rabbit ears. He sighed. He heard the creak of a wagon. Sanchez finally returned with the four large earthenware bowls he'd been sent for. Colleen sat on the hard sleeping boards that had been laid out at the rear of the wagon. The child rested quietly against her shoulder. She rocked him gently, glaring at Sanchez over the Deacon's shoulder. There was no love lost between the two, the
