Hard Times For Hoodlum Gulch
The deluge of outcasts pouring into Hoodlum Gulch hardly went without notice. Soulless eyes watched from a distance, smiling with each refugee who showed himself to be more than a man and less than a human. Then, as winter settled over all of Nugget County and the Gulch's tenth year anniversary neared its eve, an old train pulled into station at Whitfield. It was three days from Hoodlum Gulch, but the closest a train could hope to park. Only one passenger disembarked and after he adjusted his top hat, the train departed as though it were dismissed.
This stranger carried a doctor's bag and nothing else for luggage. A navy blue cowl covered his New York style suit of the same color and as he walked, it flit open to trace the wind with its cerise lining. He tread through the one room station without a glance to the ticketer and only a nod for a madame seated within. The stagecoach that waited for him gained his true attention, however, and once he climbed in, its hunched and unpalatable driver whipped the lead stallion with precision on its nose, sending the team of five galloping towards the southeast.
He wasn't expected in Hoodlum Gulch; in fact, no one was anymore. The town had been so fortified against intruders that not even desperate men wandered in that direction without sending ahead a telegraph. One wouldn't tell this by looking at it, however. It appeared just as a normal, stagnate community ruled by a rancher and occupied by wanderers.
"Jesus, it's cold enough t'freeze m'dick to the ground through m'piss!"
"Quit yer bitchin', boy. Yer the one who didn't wanna wear nothin' warm."
Creed and Toynbee still lived there, of course, so that image was always shattered from time to time on a daily basis.
"Well I heats up easy when we gots t'do these runs, you know that," the younger of the two complained. Mortimer was no longer a boy but he never quite grew out of running his mouth often. And Victor never grew tired of putting him in his place, one way or another.
"Y'oughtta be glad Lensherr thinks toads make good pets," the larger of the two rebutted, "or I'da ripped yer spine out yer backside by now. So shaddup and let's hit the trail! I got beer an' four bitches waitin' fer me back at the Raven's Nest, an' I aim t'top 'em all off by sundown."
They howled with laughter then took off on foot--Creed sprinting as though he were chasing a stagecoach, and Toynbee leaping several cowlengths in a single jump. Snow was falling lightly and covering the unused trail leading west into Hoodlum Gulch but these two soon turned from it and made their way to a series of foothills that separated the town from the northern countryside.
At about the same time, a coach being pulled by two horses made its way along the well-worn path cutting an eastern route across the plains. Its driver kept himself bundled and although he was forced to join the horses in the increasing tundra, he created his own warmth with an occasional swig from a pungent canteen. Further down the road his field of vision became curtained by the snowfall as well as his own crapulence, but fortunately for him and his cargo, the mares knew the way to safety and were on their way there without his guidance. A little abstinence might have saved the driver, however, when an extra passenger joined the luggage overtop of the cabin.
Toynbee knocked two smaller suitcases aside when he landed clinging to a large, brass and wooden chest that had been secured to the coach with chains. Sure enough, he was sweating from the distance he'd come and thankful for the winter conditions he'd cursed before. At that moment, though, the only thing that came out of his mouth was his tongue which tied itself fashionably around the driver's neck and pulled him from his bench. He let the man dangle from the left side of the stagecoach and lowered him slowly until his feet were running tip-toe to keep from being dragged along in the dirt. Then Toynbee removed the driver's fleshy necktie and left him to slip underneath the back wheels.
Creed waited a mile ahead, tracking the coach's closeness by the scent and sound of the mares. As they came into seeing range, he stood in the midst of the road and massaged his claws on his rawhide chaps. The horses weren't stopping and Mortimer wasn't about to risk going for the reigns because they had slipped and were dragging dangerously close to the mares' kicking range. Creed first grunted at the inconvenience, then sneered at the opportunity. He cut the sound of wind-whipped snowfall with a roar from his gut and the horses began to falter as they came upon him. One reared up after the other and sought to lash out in self defense--Creed dipped sideways and followed through with an open-palm swipe, catching a mare in its lower jaw and part of the throat. It collided into the other mare as it was forced there by his continued shove and both ended up in an awkward heap, snapping the axle of the hitch in the process. The stagecoach teetered in slow motion on two wheels, then joined the horses in laying on its side. Toynbee rolled off as it collapsed and landed on his heels and elbows in a small bank of snow.
"Goddammit, now what'd you go an' do that for," he said as he took off his Stetson and used it to slap slush from his bluejeans.
"Because yer too damn stupid t'steal the reigns BEFORE ya dump the driver," Creed roared at him, then walked around to the coach's underside. He ripped the door off without thinking about it and gave a quick sniff to the air of the interior. Faint traces of perfume, cologne and body odor satisfied his curiosity.
"Well yer carryin' the damn thing since we gotta walk back with it now," Toynbee said while he busied himself with the chains that kept the wooden chest secure. He used an iron toothpick and a rusty nail to pick the padlock, then braced himself to catch the box when it tilted from its placement. It was surprisingly lightweight. "Hey now," he said as he sat down and set the chest upright, then called to Creed, "what exactly are we out here for again?"
"Sonofabitch, I know ya ain't taken that many licks t'the head," Creed grumbled as he stomped around the stagecoach. "We're here for GOLD, ya idgit! Which'd be right HERE." He knocked roughly on the top of the chest and was given pause by a hollow sound that came from within. They exchanged blank looks. Then Creed stood up while Toynbee worked on the lock.
The chest came open as soon as the lock clicked and released a hiss of dust in three directions. Mortimer used his hat as a fan this time while he coughed to clear his throat and Creed took a brief scent before clearing his nostrils. When the top was tilted open there was nothing for it to conceal. Black velvet lined the chest but no other valuable article was contained within, least of all gold.
"Well I'll be dipped," Toynbee said, then pulled his scarf up past the bridge of his nose. "Think the old man's slippin'?"
"That, or he done sent us on another wild goose chase just t'keep us occupied." Creed narrowed his eyes, then kicked the chest closed. "Bring it," he said as he stepped over it and Mortimer. "We're gonna have a few words with Mister Lensherr 'bout his business practices of late." The young man grumbled, but did as he was told. Despite its width, the chest was carried easily over his arms due to its lack of contents.
Erik Lensherr was expecting his men to bring him a chest at some point in time, but he also expected it to be full of gold and set on the floor, not empty and slammed overtop his open ledger. That much couldn't be helped, though; Toynbee had carried it the entire way and his arms weren't fit for lifting after such a struggle. He collapsed into a wooden chair while Creed stood his ground, glaring down at the high-brow expression the rancher gave in exchange.
"Is there some reason why yer runnin' us ragged fer nothin', old man," Creed said as he threw open the hood of the box. "There weren't nothin' in here. Just like the last one, and the one before that!"
Lensherr put down his quill and responded calmly. "In rebuttal, I was unaware that you were able to be run ragged, Mister Creed. As for the emptiness of this and other cargoes, I am as perplexed about it as you are, if not more so." He admired the velvet interior briefly in a glance, then turned his attention to Toynbee's over exaggerated display of panting. "Whenever it suits you to end your theatrics, Mortimer, I want you to venture into The Nest and send Diego to me. He is the one who told me of this recent find, therefore answers lie with him."
As Toynbee sat up in his seat, Creed's heavy hand fell on his shoulder and kept him down. "Bullshit," he growled. "You ain't got the sense no more t'send someone t'check up on this shit before wastin' our time?"
Erik tiredly massaged his own temples. "Has it been two years already," he mused as he leaned back in his chair. "Are we really due for yet another of your Alpha male-isms, Mister Creed? It seemed only yesterday I had my office re-upholstered and the stench of your defeat steamed from the drapes." His eyebrows set firmly into a look of disdain. "In case you have forgotten, our resources are dripping dangerously below the standard level of support to last an entire one-horse town for the duration of winter. And while I would revel in maintaining my standard practice of suspicion, time is of an essence I cannot seem to capture at the moment. Therefore, I find it more convenient to simply send the two of you to retrieve the suspected bounty. If ever there was a trap, I would expect you to be more than capable of freeing yourselves from it. I do not feel I am wasting your time but if I am, then by all means, do go about your own primitive method of dragging one buffalo at a time to feed the throngs."
"I don't go fer that messiah shit," Creed huffed and worked his claws eagerly. "Let 'em die off–more FOOD fer the ones that wanna survive! Them cowards' ball's ain't never gonna drop 's long as ya keep breast-feedin' 'em!"
"Excluding the presence of Frederick Dukes, I believe you of all the infants I nurse have been sucking my teat the most." Lensherr pointed with, then curled his left index finger and the hood of the wood and iron chest came together with its base. "Go hibernate, Victor, or whatever animalistic ritual you engage in around this time of year. I will be certain not to disturb you for the rest of the season." His rigid glance targeted Mortimer. "Have you also any qualms with errand running that can only be solved through time off?"
The young man shook his head rapidly and sat up even straighter. "Oh no, sir! I'm at yer call night an' noon, you know this!" He would have had more to say, but Creed's claws dug partially into his left shoulderblade.
"Wormy li'l dick-kisser," Creed said as he shoved Toynbee and his chair sideways, then turned and stood in the doorway. "Keep shepherdin' lost sheep, Lensherr. One'ah these days, a wolf's gonna come an' snatch a few of 'em right from under yer cityboy nose." He left the office and underscored his spite by slamming the door.
When Toynbee pulled himself off the floor he found Erik's eyes solely on him. "Send for Miss Darkholme," the rancher instructed, "and put this chest in storage. I will make use if it another day."
"Yes sir. Right away." As always, Mortimer did as he was told.
Whitfield was three days from Hoodlum Gulch but the coach that had pulled from it only hours ago was already nearing the halfway mark. The five stallions that hauled it were moving with ethereal quality--Even their grunts sounded unearthly, like hogs screaming through metal tubes. Their driver lashed eagerly at each one, calling "Hyah!" from behind his high collar. Meanwhile, its sole passenger quietly meditated.
Eventually he opened his eyes and looked through a pair of dark-lense spectacles at the passing terrain. Seeing territory that was familiar to him, he took hold of a bell-shaped receiver attached to a wire tube and spoke through it. "We near Allantown. Steer the stallions in its direction, I must send a telegraph."
The driver whipped the lead horse twice in succession, then it turned west and began to slow its speed. Allantown was a series of dimly lit windows on the night horizon but at the coach's rate of movement, its buildings would close in soon.
Raven Darkholme did not enter Lensherr's office as she was asked. Instead he had to find her, which became a comfortably effortless exercise. The scent of steak and boiling vegetables slipped beneath his office door and urged him downstairs. Then its pull increased as he came to the kitchen, where the scent was accompanied by clouds of steam that concealed the woman while she worked. He stood in the doorway and watched her backside for a few moments, content to let her have the first word.
"I am quite certain that if it were not for me, these fine culinary instruments would go to waste," she said in her lightly rural accent, but didn't bother to turn from the pot she stirred.
"I needn't waste my time with the formalities of food preparation when I am assured of your service by acts such as these," he replied quite frankly, then entered the spacious cooking area. Erik was a gentleman and knew his fair share; he began to take pairs of dishes and utensils from their cabinets to situate on the dining room table.
"You are very much spoiled, Mister Lensherr," Raven said in riposte. Then she fetched a series of serving dishes to begin the placement of food. "I take it by your beck and call that this latest attempt at lucre was not as successful as could have been hoped?"
"Yet another empty parcel," he said as he set aside his load. "I'd take it as a sign to disperse this serendipitous assembly, but then I've never believed that anything celestial were signaling me through cryptics. I was wondering your thoughts on the idea of imposing a ration until things improve."
She turned and settled her currently amber-colored gaze upon him. "And be without my two glasses of white zinfandel each night? Now Erik, you know whatever law you pass you must uphold yourself. So rather than wonder of my thoughts, just ask yourself if you could abide by such a prohibition. Whatever you decide, I will stand firmly behind it. Especially if it is for the good of the cause."
He expected that answer, therefore it neither pleased nor angered him. Lensherr simply took his stack of dishes and made his way thoughtfully to the kitchen's entrance. Two steps into the hall, he stopped just short of colliding with Nahimana, the Sioux Indian girl who worked around his ranch. Knowing she was deaf, he had given her an eagle-shaped buckle of brass to fix to her dress so he could see to it they avoided accidental clashing. Nahimana looked at him directly when she felt her forward movement being hindered, then held a folded slip of parchment out within his reach.
Unfortunately his reach was already occupied by fine china and silverware. Erik stared at the young woman and the paper, then gestured with his chin for them to make an exchange. Once she took the dishes and turned for the dining room, he unfolded and read what was given to him.
Nugget County Telegraph Co.
Allantown.
To Erik Lensherr, proprietor of Streamland Ranch and its neighboring town.
Room and board is requested at your nearest convenience for one who wishes to aid you in your current predicament.
Rest-assured, this meeting will be beneficial for all parties involved.
No response necessary.
The requesting party will arrive at your depot by half-past midnight.
Lensherr studied the telegraph until he was genuinely startled by Miss Darkholme's sudden touch of his right arm. "Someone paying a call," she asked as he discovered she'd been reading over his shoulder that whole time.
"Someone who moves with expedience," he said as he folded the telegraph neatly and secured it within an inside coat pocket. "This derived from Allantown, yet predicts that our guest will arrive by late tonight." He let his own mind wander for a moment, then turned to face her. "I will have Nahimana prepare a room for our coming guest."
Raven watched him move to walk away. "Keeping your enemies close," she recited. "That edict is as deadly as it is strategic."
"I am curious as to how this person knows of our current predicament," he said without slowing his walk. "And if there is a solution to be offered, then it may be worth hearing before the proposer is silenced."
"You would be wise to simply send Victor to meet this person as he or she comes," she called as distance grew between them. Erik stopped at the far end of the hall and turned to address her again, but as he took in air for his speech, the front door flew open and its clatter brought both their attention to the foyer. After Miss Darkholme rushed to join Lensherr in his high-brow stare, she swallowed a lot of air as she took in the sight of one of her girls using the doorway as support for her exhaustion. Her chartreuse dress was torn in several places that were trimmed in bloodstains, matching the distressing marks that striped her right arm. She had but one word to say and its utterance solidified a mutual anger between the three of them.
"Creed..."
A thrumming vibration rang through the ranch house wherever there was a piece of metal to express Lensherr's silent outrage. There had always been the danger of something like this occurring--He had known it ever since he put Victor Creed in his service. Yet, the brute's proven exercise in restraint had caused him to offer up what was now proving to be undue expectation. Erik only ever expected Creed to attack him--He was the Alpha male. He was the only person who provided him with any sort of challenge or threat. Apparently, a whole new means of inciting Lensherr was being tested out. It was no white glove, but its sentiment was just as striking.
Miss Darkholme had already taken the girl from the doorway and eased her towards the hall. She directed her charge to the bathroom and planned to join her later, but first stopped and shared a dismal glance with Lensherr. "Perhaps I spoke too highly of Victor a bit too soon," she said with cattiness to her tone.
"Have Nahimana prepare two rooms. One still for my guest, and one now for yours. I will sort this insurrection and return in due time to speak with them both." Lensherr adjusted his coat and took swift strides for the porch of his house and beyond.
Silence overtook the Raven's Nest, which was uncommon during its late business hours. Those that had managed to flee from the chaos of a moment ago were found gawking at its swinging doors, keeping enough distance to provide them with a sufficient head start. Few escaped without marks to prove where they had been--One girl in particular laid in the road, slipping in and out of consciousness while two others applied pressure to her marred throat and empty hip socket. There were a few worse cases which the town physician ran a relay between. When Lensherr arrived, he stood near them for a moment of silent observation.
The Raven's Nest was disheveled beyond its swinging doors. The only table left standing had a body sprawled over it--All others were either overturned, sideways or splintered to ruin. As Erik came beyond the doors, he found he had to step over a man who had crawled as far as he could with his bowels dragging beneath his belt. Blood was everywhere, telling hieroglyphic tales of the men and women who were caught off-guard, fought back or fled. Murmurs and whimpers came from doors attached to the upstairs walkway; however, the sound that sent a crawl from the small of Lensherr's back to his hip came from the left wing of the stage.
Greedy, moist and repetitious. The act of gnawing was being savored--each mouthful bathed in saliva and fondled by the tongue with covetous appreciation. Erik felt it on the hairs of his neck before he entered far enough to see it with his own eyes: Victor Creed knelt over the remains of a showgirl and ate. He had started at the fingers on her left hand and worked his way to the wrist, which he was now a few inches beyond. He didn't cease, though his gaze went to the rancher's slow approach. A growl stopped Lensherr on the bottom two steps, at which point he responded with his own, made by the dimming lights and vibrating support beams.
Creed worked the arm's remains out of his mouth and swallowed whatever was left behind. Then he grinned--His teeth meshed together like a jagged wall. He came to his full height, chuckling quietly at first, but the sound soon became a ruckus that inspired all those who remained outside to hurry on their way.
Words were a courtesy Erik could no longer afford. He opted for furrowed brows, and the sudden cave-in of the swinging doors as a triad of industrial-sized chains came at his unheard call. Each chain dwarfed an anaconda in length and thickness but moved with the same serpentine quality. One after the other they lunged at Creed and while he dodged the first and second, the third speared him into the velvet backdrop concealing props and scenery backstage. It continued its plowing, meaning to crush him under its weight but as it formed a heap, Creed braced his chest and arms to shove it out of formation and used the same momentum to lunge cross the stage.
The lunge and its accompanying roar were cut short by one of the first chains lashing sideways, catching him in the head and neck much like he had the mare earlier. It pinned him to the stage and pressed his indentation into the wood. Lensherr took a walk while all this happened, stopping behind the bar to visit its reserve. He took an unbroken bottle of vodka and served himself in a cracked shotglass. One serving relieved the pressure he felt building in his forehead and afterwards he put his full focus on Creed's effort to unpin himself.
Another chain slapped downward to cross over the first, followed by the third, and their combined force sent Creed into the crawlspace beneath the stage. Then the chains withdrew themselves momentarily while Erik poured himself another shot. One of them lashed out as Creed's left arm raised from the hole and arrested his wrist. It was kind enough to help him to his feet, then another rudely interjected by wrapping half its length around his midsection. They pulled his body in opposite directions--Popping joints were followed by a furious roar in protest. Then, as the third chain took a leg and joined the tug of war, Lensherr propped his elbows on the bar and examined the other man's predicament.
"No observations of wit, Victor," he commented at last. "I must say, this is not your best effort at usurping my agenda, although I will give you due merit for leading me to assume you had a modicum of inhibition." He paused to allow a rebuttal but Creed's roar continued through his moment of silence. And what's more, the beastman seemed more focused on the chains that bound him than the man he knew to control them. Erik became mindful of this, and out of curiosity, urged the chains to loosen their hold. He watched Creed pull himself out of their coils and resume attacking them as though they were the real threat. This went on for several moments, then the triad of chains took hold of his limbs and torso once more, this time canceling all his efforts to move. Lensherr downed another shot of vodka before striding towards the ruined entrance. The three chains moved in conjunction to follow him, dragging their load noisily behind them.
Midnight passed by the time Erik and his ranch hands finished securing Creed out of sight of everyone else. He would have enjoyed turning in for the night, but the telegraph he received earlier stayed firmly on his mind. When he entered his home it was merely to wash up; unfortunately, his personal bathroom was occupied. He knew only Raven would be that bold, so he calmly forced the door unlocked and open, not at all surprised to find her seated on the edge of his bathtub. "You'll be interested to know what kind of an evening I've endured," he said before he noticed her applying a salve to a bruise on her left shoulder. "What happened?"
"It seems I have endured a bit of an interesting night myself," she said as she finished up. Then her dress became a silk robe. "Mortimer jumped me in the hallway and kicked me clear into the kitchen."
If it hadn't been obvious before, it was now to Lensherr that this was a day for unexpected news. He took Miss Darkholme's report calmly enough; in fact, it served to increase an equation he began to formulate since his recent encounter with Creed. "Go on," he urged as he turned to his wash basin and dipped his hands in the water that was already there.
"There isn't much else to tell," she replied. "The boy had lost his mind and I helped him find it with one of your good pans."
"Is he no longer with us," the rancher asked while he washed his face.
"No, but the thought did chance upon my mind," she made clear with her tone. "Knowing how much you enjoy interrogation, however, I decided he could live long enough for that."
"I believe words may escape Mister Toynbee for the moment." Erik paused to examine his pocket watch. "Did he say anything while he fought?"
"No, he simply laughed like a buffoon." An equation similar to his formed in Raven's mind. "What occurred betwixt yourself and Mister Creed," she asked.
"A rather simplistic submission match," he replied. "The Raven's Nest will have to be refurbished, by the way. But I doubt he was himself when he began his little rampage."
Miss Darkholme added, "Or that Mortimer was himself when he decided to show me what it feels like to be on the other end of his boots? Do you think something came to possess them on their latest adventure?"
"Perhaps, but the time for speculation must be rescheduled," Lensherr said as he straightened his collar. "If you will recall, we have a guest to attend to. Is Mortimer secured someplace?"
Raven's bathrobe once again became a low-neck, auburn evening gown. "I secured him to his bedposts," she said as she stood up and wrapped her arms around one of Erik's. "Now I know you only want that boy for his sense of contraptions, but you could have at least instilled in him some instruction on how to keep a kempt and odorless room."
"So long as his unkemptness and odor remain within his domain, it may grow to whatever degree is most comfortable for him," Lensherr replied, then left with Miss Darkholme firmly in tow.
At exactly half past midnight, the stagecoach drawn by five horses cleared the last stretch of distance between it and Hoodlum Gulch. The stallions that pulled it were foaming at the mouth by the time they stopped and if not for the winter season, their visible breaths might have been mistaken for plumes of steam billowing from their nostrils. The driver jumped from his bench to prepare the coach for its passenger's departure. On the ground, he seemed to stand no taller than a horse's hip but his arms were lanky, like spider legs reaching from his round body. His coat and the suit beneath it had been made to fit his peculiar shape so while he moved awkwardly, it was with the freedom to which he was accustomed. By the time Erik Lensherr and Raven Darkholme arrived at the depot, he had an iron stool set out and the coach's left door open.
The man who exited the coach stood with proud posture to emphasize his height and aristocratic background. His face seemed generically handsome though marked with a pointy, almost crooked nose. His eyes were hidden behind spectacles with dark lenses and no stems for holding them to his ears. Despite them, he seemed to see perfectly in the midnight atmosphere, smiling as his concealed gaze fell on his hosts. "Ah, I greet you in the name of one who is greater than myself," he said, and his soft vocal pattern carried with it a light, foreign accent.
"Then you are an emissary," the rancher wondered aloud, "and not the party to which the telegraph referred?"
"No, no I assure you my business here is of a personal nature, not at the request of a higher authority. But it was requested that I give you his regards, and nothing else."
"To whom do we owe such regards," Miss Darkholme wondered.
"And, nothing else," the stranger emphasized, his smile remaining. "But I have no reason to withhold my own nomenclature. I am Doctor Nathaniel Essex. You may refer to me as Doctor, or Doctor Essex." Behind his lips, the uniformity of his teeth seemed quite unnatural and made his lingering smile all the more haunting.
Miss Darkholme squeezed Lensherr's arm lightly and he responded by shifting his weight. "Very well, Doctor," he said to their guest. "I believe you may already know that I am Erik Lensherr and that this is my associate, Raven Darkholme. As per your request, a room has been prepared for you at my home. If you would join us for a rather late dinner, we could begin discussing your briefly mentioned proposal."
"I do not consume," the doctor admitted, "but I will join you at your table for discussion. But please, do not let my presence prevent you from dining--I do not want to be the cause of anyone's starvation." He turned and looked to his driver. "I will send for you when you are needed. In the meantime, go enjoy yourself in the next town." Then he took a cane with a steel head that was handed up to him, and turned once again to his hosts. "After you, sir. And madame."
Lensherr glanced from Essex to his driver and then to their team of horses. For a moment he was distracted by a feeling that originated from the stallions--The same feeling he registered from every spur, coin or other piece of metal within a hundred yards of himself. Then, remembering his guest, he turned with his associate to walk back to his ranch house.
Nothing was said during the walk from the town to the ranch, although a moment was taken by Dr. Essex to admire what he could see in the way of destruction to the Raven's Nest. Hoodlum Gulch was relatively quiet at night since most of its residents shut themselves in out of the cold. Once at the ranch, Lensherr escorted the doctor to the dining room while Miss Darkholme returned to the kitchen. Her earlier planned meal had to be warm over; in the meantime, she sent Nahimana to serve a tray of coffee.
Essex politely refused the cup he was offered. "No thank you, my dear. As I have told your master, I do not consume."
"A simple gesture of the head will do in her case," Erik noted. "She is deaf. She has been since before I knew her." He took his own cup with a light nod and drank from it without any flavor additions.
"You have a very diverse assortment of adopted cases, Mister Lensherr," the doctor said, still smiling his eerie smile. "I wonder, how many you keep for their usefulness? How many, due to your genuine concern for their well-being?"
"My only associate is Miss Darkholme," the rancher replied. "All others are here by choice and permission."
"Ah, but what about Mortimer Toynbee and Victor Creed?" Essex glanced curiously around himself. "Where are they, this evening, hmm? I was looking forward to becoming acquainted with the latter."
Lensherr's eyes vaguely narrowed with suspicion. "Both are indisposed, I'm afraid."
His guest shrugged casually. "Yes, I suspect they would be at this hour. Pity."
Their conversation paused as Miss Darkholme and Nahimana entered the room, each carrying two serving dishes. First, Raven set and uncovered a dish of smothered steaks and another of boiled and seasoned vegetables. Then while she seated herself, the servant presented bread pudding and a dish of rice. Erik dismissed the girl for the night with an uncomplicated hand gesture, then he and his associate served themselves in plates that were already set.
Essex took in the scent of the meal. "Fair Darkholme, your food has a fine aroma," he declared. "If a palette did exist for me, it would be sorely tempted."
"Flattered," she replied unenthusiastically.
After tasting his food, Lensherr spoke again. "Now, Doctor, your telegraph did mention some things that I must admit aroused a curiosity in me. The first being of how you came to know of our predicament. Or rather, what you think that predicament is."
"Yes, well it is a story of interest," Essex began to say, then took a moment to sit more comfortably in his seat. "I must be honest with you in that my knowledge of Streamland is only recent by about two years. As well, I accomplished it purely by chance. While touring the Mississippi on a riverboat, my table of baccarat became occupied by an intoxicated, one-armed prospector."
Lensherr and Miss Darkholme stopped eating.
"Yes, his mouth was lively, in comparison to the rest of himself, that is. He told me, and others present of course, of a town where the people performed inhuman feats. 'Demon Gifts,' I believe he referred to them as." He chuckled briefly. "I think he was trying to warn us away from it, but his tale was so authentic I felt I had to see it for myself." His continued chuckle and the period of silence that followed were ominous. His hosts were still waiting for the answer to the posed question and were staring directly at him, their food barely eaten and growing cold.
"Yes, well, the predicament." Essex cleared his throat. "Winter is upon the plains. A difficult time, I understand, since few things grow and maintaining cattle becomes a hardship. And, being caretaker of a town that is famous for its harboring of the lawless, does ensure isolation from much needed government resources."
"That much goes without saying," Erik replied. "But now that I am certain we are on the same page, tell me. What do you propose in the way of rectifying this situation?"
Essex's smile broadened. "Natural selection." He raised his hand as he saw his host begin to speak. "With a twist. Now please, hear me out before you jump to undue conclusions. You see, as well as a physician, I am a biologist. Or, bio-engineer, I believe they called it at some point." His words broke off into a brief chuckle, then he continued on. "As one, I subscribe fully to the to the theory of survival of the fittest."
"A law that applies purely to animals, not people," Lensherr remarked with a foul look. "We have a little something called compassion to see to it that even our unfit keep one leg in the race of life."
"Yes, I have noticed an increase in this notion, of sorts." Essex's smile diminished momentarily, then resumed its natural width. "At least in some parts of the world. In others, I believe you will find this theory to hold true for humans as well as their beastly counterparts."
"So what are you suggesting, Doctor?" Erik's tone became perturbed. "That I throw food in the midst of my town and let all who live there beat each other senseless for it?"
"No, no, nothing quite so primitive. In fact, you do not have to be engaged at all." Essex took a moment to lift his medical bag from near his chair legs to on the table. "I have already begun the process."
His hosts released their silverware into a coupled clatter with their half-empty plates. "Oh," the rancher said in an elevated tone.
"Yes. Your troubles will be over by morning, I assure you," the doctor said while he reached into his bag. "You see, Natural Selection is not just a theory. It is a name for my most recent experiment. I have been conducting it on this town for well over a year now." A humming sound reverberated through the house, bouncing off of every piece of metal present. "Please, do not over-exert yourself," Essex said without looking up. "Neither you nor Miss Darkholme are well, but I will fix part of that momentarily."
"What have you done?" Erik's tone restrained fury as he rose to his feet.
Dr. Essex gestured with one hand, trying to still his host. "Mister Lensherr, please! Resume your calm. It is in your best interest and mine that you do not speed the process of your illness along."
"What illness," the rancher snapped, then found himself reaching for the arm of his chair. A painful throbbing swept his forehead and forced him back to his seat. Miss Darkholme stood from her own chair to help him sit down, then glared for him at their guest.
Essex sucked his teeth in disappointment. "Unfortunate. I had assumed you were capable of greater self-control." He took a vial of black liquid from his medical bag and held it towards his hosts. "If you would administer this to him, Miss Darkholme?"
Her grip tightened on Lensherr's shoulders. "What kind of a fool do you take me for," she yelled, then looked around as the house began to tremble. Every nail slowly shimmied from their fixtures in the wood--A few even rained down into their dishes.
The doctor continued to offer the vial. "Forgive me, madame," he said. "But if something is not done, this entire estate will come down on you, myself, Mister Lensherr, and anyone else residing within it."
She looked from one to the other. The rancher was gripping the arms of his chair, his head bowed and unable to control his mental projections. The doctor kept his arm extended and his smile pleasant. Then, as the brass chandelier that lit the dining room began dangling by only a screw and a wire, Miss Darkholme reached for the vial and uncorked it. She forced Lensherr's chin upwards and the tip of the vial past his lips. What little that dribbled past the corner of his mouth she collected and forced on him again. Then she cradled his head against her chest until she was certain the concoction had been swallowed.
Essex took a moment to put away his bag and by the time he sat up straight, the house had ceased its trembling. Lensherr still sat with his head bowed but his hands no longer gripped his chair arms so forcefully. "You may take comfort in the fact that I am always truthful, Miss Darkholme," the Doctor said. "I have no reason to lie. In fact, I will say so when I have information I do not wish to share."
"Then tell me what I have just administered to him," she demanded to know.
"A vaccination against Natural Selection," Essex replied, then took a handkerchief from his coat and his spectacles from his face. Rather than eyes, his gaze resided in glowing, red portals behind his eyelids. "It is cheating, I understand," he said as he wiped his lenses clear, "but if I had wanted Mister Lensherr's death, then I would have delivered it the moment I exited the stagecoach." He smiled and replaced his spectacles, then made a shooing motion with his handkerchief. "Now, if you would excuse yourself, madame, Mister Lensherr and I have things to discuss."
"Just who do you think you are," she said in indignant protest, but her words cut short as she felt Erik's right hand grip her left wrist.
"Do as our guest requires, Miss Darkholme," he said as he looked up at her. There was a notion in his gaze that she picked up on immediately--One of them had to see to the town. After nodding, she collected their plates, then disappeared down the hall.
Lensherr sat up straight and adjusted his jacket. "Your treatment is very rapid, Doctor," he said calmly, though his expression showed disdain.
"Yes," Essex replied, "all of my prescriptions are. That is why I had to break Natural Selection into three components and administer them on separate occasions."
"As I suspected." Which the rancher did. After the ease with which he subdued Creed, and learning of Mortimer's assault, he needed little else to solve his mental equation.
"Now to answer your earlier question." The doctor tucked away his handkerchief and brought his hands to rest on the dining room table. "What I have done is infect your other associates, Victor Creed and Mortimer Toynbee, with an airborne and fluid transferrable disease that causes a temporary breakdown of one's nervous system. I believe you know what a nervous system is? Yes, well you will be pleased to know that it is only temporary, meant only to last the night. I am here to see for myself its after effects, to make precise notations."
"Why," Lensherr asked as he pushed his own chair away from the table.
Essex smiled yet again. "To benefit you, of course! Natural Selection is not a particularly killing disease, although it can cause death in a number of ways. The neurological damage can be severe and irreversible, resulting in brain death. Or, the infected individual can incur temporary madness. And, with what the prospector referred to as Demon Gifts, being distributed amongst you and your ilk, the numbers should thin out in rapid succession."
Once again the house trembled, only this time with purpose. Six nails fell from the ceiling of the dining room, rotated in mid-fall, then plunged into Dr. Essex's hands and secured him to the table. He reflected on their sudden intrusion and the blood that followed, but made no other reactions. Erik Lensherr stared at him and collected his own thoughts, then stood with his hands clasped behind himself.
"I have had a very riveting day which has yet to reach its eve, Doctor Essex," he recited as he paced slowly around to the unoccupied length of the dining room table. "This, of course, is not a formal complaint. Such days are in abundance and usually the result of my own prerogative." He stood between two chairs and leaned over the table, bringing his own hands to rest on it while he glared at the doctor's smile. "But. I become violently displeased on those days engendered by other persons." He stood back and the table propelled itself against Essex, forcing the doctor and his chair into a heap at the base of a wall. Strips of steel had been bolted to the table's underside for easy repositioning and they were going to good use. The doctor remained pinned against the wall with the table threatening to push him through it, but he never flinched or showed even the slightest discomfort. His bones weren't even breaking under the strain.
"Yes, well this is all therapeutic for you, of this I am sure," he said without the sound of stress or struggled breathing in his tone. "However, it truly serves no greater purpose. Beneath this table I remain unharmed."
Lensherr could not be convinced on words alone. He let the table continue applying pressure for several moments before calling it back to its original position. Essex was dragged with it since his hands were nailed to its surface, but what little bleeding he had done remained brief trickles along the back of his hands. Then the blood trails retracted to their origins, expelling the nails and sealing the holes in the process.
The doctor lifted his hands and turned them back and forth to examine them. "Forgive me for the deceptive display of blood loss," he said, "but it was more of an experiment for myself than for you. I actually don't bleed at all. But, thank you for the opportunity to discover my ability to fabricate it."
Lensherr stared him down quietly, maintaining his cold glare, though internally he was perplexed over the nature of his guest. Of all the people he had come across who seemed to possess unique abilities, Dr. Essex was by far the least human. Whether or not he could be killed was still open for experimentation.
"What do you want of me, Doctor," the rancher asked.
"Cooperation," Essex replied. "But, it is not required. In a way, I would be going against the natural order if I demanded it of you. Then again, I already am in being here. But my only request is to observe. And have certain curiosities satisfied?"
"Such as?"
The doctor stooped to retrieve his medical bag and cane, then spoke once he stood upright. "Forgive my further disruption of your sleep cycle, but I would like you to escort me during a round of examination of your townspeople. It will be purely visual, I assure you, as I am certain you will be able to answer any questions I will pose."
"Very well," Lensherr said in brooding resolve. "Where do you wish to begin?"
"With Victor Creed. You have him sequestered somewhere, I assume?"
"That I do," he sighed and motioned for the hallway. Essex followed his lead, tapping the floor occasionally with his cane as they moved for the foyer.
Hoodlum Gulch could be seen from most vantage points on the plateau, though at night it blended well with the darkness of the rest of the plains. This night, it was brightly lit by flames that engulfed three of its buildings and gradually spread towards others. The glow of the fire reflected in Lensherr's eyes as he looked from his porch but aside from clenching his fists, he made no noticeable reaction. He could hear coherent shouts of people trying to save themselves and others, as well as crazed shouts from the ones fully under the influence of Essex's fabricated disease. The sounds cut through him like jagged blades but he restrained his reactions. He strode quickly to the fenced portion of his ranch and along a path that led to a barn no longer used to house livestock.
Inside, the barn was lit by electric lanterns that hung from the underside of the hay loft. They cast shadows in all directions of Victor Creed and the contraption that held him: six steel beams imbedded deeper in the ground than the ten feet of height that showed above. A network of iron chains ran through holes made in the beams and were linked to shackles on his wrists, ankles, neck and waistline. He was suspended face-down horizontally and five feet off the ground. Any attempt to move one shackle caused the others to pull his limbs in directions they weren't meant to go.
Creed lifted his head and growled when the rancher entered the barn, but fell silent when he saw Dr. Essex. Erik could see that a gloss of sentience had returned to Creed's eyes and it sparked an idea in him. When their glares matched, they gained an understanding that couldn't be voiced under the circumstances. Then Creed resumed his guttural threat while the doctor boldly approached his restraints.
Essex toured the barn, keeping his own gaze locked on Creed. "Ah, he is as I imagined," the doctor exclaimed. "I am envious of you, Mister Lensherr, and your talent for attracting such variety."
"I wouldn't call it a talent so much as I would a pyre's penchant for attracting moths." The rancher remained near the partially-opened barn doors with his hands clasped behind him. Sounds of Hoodlum Gulch's ruin went ignored, but not forgotten. "And although Victor was the first to fall victim to your clever disease," he commented, "to his credit, he displayed a sixth sense towards the facade of the shipment runs."
Essex walked a full circle around Creed and quietly examined him. A few times he used his cane to probe the tension in the chains, but made no motion to touch the restrained man. "Yes, animals do possess such precognitions," the doctor said as his tour concluded in front of Creed. He leaned forward to closely examine his eyes--The shackle holding Creed's right wrist came lax and his hand immediately went for Essex's throat.
Lensherr observed with visible complacency as the irons loosened around Creed's ankles and waistline. The brute dropped to his feet, then stood at his full height and lifted Essex in the process. "This the son of a bitch what made me ruin my favorite whores," he growled right into the doctor's face.
"In a manner of speaking," Erik replied in a pressing tone.
Essex maintained his smile though it had diminished to being close-mouthed. Creed squeezed his throat until he felt it was sufficiently crushed, then pitched him so his body landed right at the rancher's feet. Erik would have smiled, but as soon as he looked down he saw the disfigurement of the Doctor's jaw and neck reconfiguring itself to generic perfection. Creed could read his expression from across the barn and understood it fully when he saw Essex sit up and use his cane to help himself stand.
"Such strength," the doctor happily commented while he brushed hay dust off his cowl.
Lensherr glared at Creed who then came forward to try again. Essex met him halfway and stood perfectly still as claw-tipped fingers raked flesh from his left temple, all the way to his lower ribs. This act was more out of curiosity from Creed than an attempt to actually kill the doctor, and when he examined the damage he had done, he was only half-surprised at what he saw. The clawmarks pulsated with grey matter that wasn't flesh at all. It was fluid, like molten lead, but the fact that Erik hadn't taken advantage of it let Creed know that Essex had to be made out of something organic. Or just plain unearthly--Demons were believable to the residents of Hoodlum Gulch.
As his body fashioned itself back to its original state, Essex rotated his cane upside-down until the tip pointed directly at the underside of Creed's chin. "Reflexes," he declared, then by twisting the handle, conjured a blade of steel from the cane that went straight through Creed's skull.
Lensherr's jaw grinded behind his lips as he watched Creed fall backwards once the blade was retracted. Then the doctor turned to join him at the doors, commenting, "Yes, well I expected him to recover from the affliction quicker than others. Yet in other areas, he fails to meet expectation."
"You'll find little argument on my end," the rancher said quietly, then turned to step outside.
As they left the barn, a length of chain came loose from the contraption that had bound Creed. It followed them quietly through the barn doors, then lept up to constrict Dr. Essex. He was successfully bound and jarred, barely managing to keep from falling forward as his cane and medical bag were squeezed from his hands.
Erik stood still while all this went on and watched the fire that consumed half his town and all of his soul. Then he turned to face the doctor and slowly, methodically approached him.
Essex's smile grew as he asked, "The meaning of this, Mister Lensherr?"
"Obviously I cannot send you back to the hell that you crawled out of, therefore I will have to place you in a new one." The rancher's tone was calm yet filled with suppressed anger.
"Ah, I see! Excellent, I was wondering when you would--" A hatchet blade flew out from the darkness and imbedded itself halfway through Essex's face at the precise angle to keep his mouth from moving.
Lensherr declared furiously, "This experiment is over, Doctor Essex," and for once, had nothing more to say. In the distance, a few of his townspeople were still crying for help--Haunting him with similar cries he had been witness to before he had ever known the plains. This time he had to respond; but first, every metal instrument within his range that wasn't fixed firmly to the ground became at his disposal. Spades, spurs, pickaxes, lost coins, pipe segments and anything else that could be conjured was sent to impale or overlay Essex's body. As each instrument joined the congregation, their parts bent and connected to form a jagged cocoon that left nothing visible; not even the smile that seemed permanent.
An explosion took his attention to the ranch house. Somewhere in the back--near the kitchen, he decided--debris and smoke flew out from where a hole had been blasted from the inside. With a grunt, Lensherr sent the cocoon rolling sideways to the edge of the plateau and beyond, then ran for the porch. By the time he reached the door, another unseen eruption shook the house and began a chain reaction he could see as soon as the door came open: The first floor ceiling bowed down on the back end and a few of the inner walls were about to cave in.
He charged into his house with a knit brow and visible aura that deflected remnants of ceiling falling all around him. All of his ranch hands lived in town and he expected Miss Darkholme to have left long ago. But he had Nahimana to look out for and he found her amidst the ruins of what used to be the kitchen. As he walked, his aura extended to include the entire lower hallway so his path remained as clear as it could with the collapse that had already occurred. He also used a smaller aura to surround debris covering the girl and gently remove it while he made his way to her. Nahimana barely moved when he slid her from the wreckage with his hands, but every part of the house did and threatened to come down around them. Instinctively, his head ducked as the roof caved inward, forcing the rest of the second floor to meet the first.
Snowfall gradually intensified that was barely noticeable moments before. It was as if heaven meant to give Streamland a proper burial, washing its wood ruins in white and isolating the flames that gradually ran out of things to burn. Nothing stood undamaged in town--No one moved or came out of hiding. Likewise, only empty stables, an unused barn and open corral stood to remind the plains that a ranch once thrived on the overlooking plateau.
Life would defy heaven's call, however. As the snow did its best to conceal what was left of the ranch house, a section of the ruins pulsated twice, then erupted into a spray of wreckage. Erik Lensherr lifted his head slowly but remained kneeling in the divot he had created. He clutched Nahimana close to his own body; neither one was dressed for winter weather but the rancher took the chill as a grateful indicator that he was still alive. His suit was disheveled and her night grown frayed. Splinters fixed in his hair and bruises marked her face. His eyes were open but hers were shut tight as perspiration beaded her brow. Erik squeezed Nahimana's shoulder to stir her into a reaction, but before one was given, the sound of slow footsteps took his attention to what used to be the house's front porch.
"You are a magnificent specimen, Mister Lensherr." Dr. Essex's voice rang in the rancher's ears just as the glow of his eyes pierced the snowstorm. Erik held Nahimana tighter while the doctor took careful steps amongst the wreckage, gradually parting the snowfall with his form. His top hat had been lost, leaving strands of his oil black hair to be part of the winds' tug-of-war. However, the rest of his outfit remained in tact despite having instruments imbedded in him earlier. His most noticeable change was in the color of his skin, which was now as white as the snow that clung to his cowl.
"I suspect you had hoped I would remain arrested, yes," Essex said as he stood where there used to be a hallway. He tapped a plank of wood with his cane and lightly swung his medical bag in and out of hiding beneath his cape. "Yes, well as I said, I wished to witness the end result of my experiment. Shall I give aid to your young servant, then? Or perhaps not. She looks to still be undergoing the ravages of Natural Selection, and I would rather it run its course."
Lensherr began to speak but paused when he felt Nahimana's chest rise against his own. He saw her lips begin to part and suddenly his concern was no longer for the presence of Nathaniel Essex. There was something about this girl that only the rancher knew to watch out for, and as she began to inhale, he gripped her chin and forced her head to turn outward. She coughed hard but instead of projecting wind, a rippling circle of atmosphere passed through her lips and expanded as it traveled forward.
The ripple carved a smooth tunnel through the billowing snow wind at a concussive speed. Essex observed its effects but concluded its danger too late to fully dodge the expanding circle--It passed through his right shoulder and his arm immediately fell from his body as his flesh and bone evaporated.
Erik's smile could not be contained. It beared revelation, relief, pride and a thank-you to the Sioux tribe who wouldn't take no for an answer years ago when they gave him Nahimana as a gift. While the doctor stooped to collect his appendage, the rancher helped the girl to sit up and face forward. As expected, the effort of repositioning set her into a round of coughing purposely aimed for where Essex stood.
The doctor's own cry came out beastly and metallic, but cut short as a ripple evaporated his torso and the top half of his legs. His head landed in a nest comprised of his leather boots and a brief section of his cowl, and his expression contorted into a conceding scowl that said all he was unable to. By no means was Erik satisfied; in fact, he gingerly stroked the back of Nahimana's neck in hopes of causing her to cough again. Instead, she cleared her throat with her lips closed and drifted back to unconsciousness. He would have to settle for exchanging glares with the doctor's remains, but even that was to be short-lived. Wingbeats cut the sound of billowing wind as a bird not native to the eastern plains swooped down over the wreckage. A man-sized condor landed next to Essex's head and looked between it and Lensherr. It hissed in warning, and after his initial surprise, the rancher responded with a frown and a doorknob rising from the wreckage to strike the condor in the breast. It jumped angrily, then latched onto Essex's head with one set of talons. The other set took hold of the handle of the medical bag and once it was secured, the condor spread its wings and let the wind carry it high into the air.
Heavier footsteps crunched through the lightly packed snow but gave Erik no cause for alarm. He saw soon enough that it was Creed following his sense of smell to where he sat in what was left of his home. "Must have been some real quiet huffin' an' puffin' fer me t'sleep through this place gettin' blown down," Creed rumbled over the sound of the wind. "What'd I miss?"
"One of those wolves you spoke of earlier," Lensherr called to him. "Victor, I want you search this area for what may remain of Mortimer and a girl from Raven's saloon." He glanced at the surrounding snowfall, then motioned to his right. "I believe that used to be the guest quarters. Start there." Then he stood up, and shifted Nahimana's body so her chin rested over his left shoulder. "Whatever you find, bring it to me in town," he added, then worked his way to the front porch and beyond.
Hoodlum Gulch had become a ghost town in the course of a night; ten years time to build it and only one careless moment to knock it down. For Lensherr it was a repeat performance that dwindled more of the rationale from his way of thinking. The sun had barely made its presence known to the east but the snow-packed earth spread its light well enough for what was left of the town to be seen. He forced himself to bear witness--First, to what was left of the grocery store through its broken windows. Through the debris of the collapsed ceiling, the owner's body lay impaled to the counter by a splintered beam, still reaching for what looked like the hand of the boy who worked for him. The hand was the only part of the child sticking out from a pile of broken jars and toppled shelves.
The rest of the town was an equally grim showcase. The Raven's nest had a gaping hole in the front that took on a human shape, but while Erik stood guessing whose shape it was, the fire-gutted remains of the Nest finally gave in to the added weight of snowfall. Dust-heavy wind that expelled from the collapse reminded him of the weather and he turned to look for signs that shelter could be found somewhere. Near the damaged sidewalk, recent footsteps caught his attention. They went towards the slow-rising sun and beyond the town's edge, to the mill whose wheel still turned with the river's slow encouragement. Once again he adjusted his hold on Nahimana, then followed the trail.
The mill stood apart from the town and went undisturbed for the most part; however, there were a few bodies laying outside of it. Two men and one woman had each been put down by several gunshots to their torsos. Looking up the rancher could see that at the mill's third and highest level, the window facing front had its shutters wide open. The tips of a double-barrel shotgun stretched out into the dimness of daybreak, and after lingering, they then lowered and their wielder revealed herself: The girl who had first alerted him and her mistress to Creed's insanity.
"Mister Lensherr, are you in your right mind," she called down to him. Her right arm was in a sling which also supported the gun whose trigger she kept a finger to.
Rather than answer the question, Erik gave one of his own. "Where is Miss Darkholme?" He suspected it would be sufficient proof of his sentient frame of mind.
"Clear the way for Mister Lensherr," the woman called down to the mill's first level. Moments later, the door opened and the rancher went in. He was met by a warm burst of air, along with the town barber and a saloon girl--The only two awake of several townspeople within the mill. A few dozen were laying amidst the empty sacks and barrels, all sleeping, most tied down and some with precise headwounds that had been bandaged. Immediately the barber went about the task of restoring a barricade of furniture and sacks of grain that previously blocked the door. Meanwhile, the saloon girl approached Lensherr with a blanket and reached with it to take Nahimana.
"Gently but firmly secure her jaw to the roof of her mouth," he instructed. "If she coughs, this entire mill will come down on us all." Then he took to the stairwell and made his way up to the third level. On his way, he took a glance into the second and saw that several more townspeople were laying in the same fashion as the ones on the first. His steps became a bit lighter as he continued on and when he reached the third floor, some of the tension went from his shoulders. Raven Darkholme was laying on a cot, free of ropes or headwounds, but in such a deep state of slumber that one of her girls had to tap her face repeatedly in order to stir her. As Erik approached her, he observed a half-empty glass of water and open pill bottle sitting together on a small table.
Miss Darkholme sat up with Lensherr's help and they shared the space on the cot. "As always, I appreciate your efficiency, Raven," he said as he leaned back until his head touched a wall.
"I am afraid that under the circumstances, my efficiency was not up to par," she muttered tiredly as she leaned forward. "Many of them are injured. Gravely, and in more ways than the headwound which I inflicted upon those I could not administer sleeping pills to."
He closed his eyes and massaged his own temples. "And the physician?"
"Dead. In her advanced state of derangement, she committed suicide before I could reach her."
Erik opened his eyes and looked to the rafters as if reason could be found amongst their planks. When none was forthcoming, he then directed his gaze to his hands which sat empty in his lap. "And, what of Mortimer?"
A gunshot, immediately followed by a familiar roar, took their attention to the window where the saloon girl with her arm in a sling stood hurriedly filling her firearm with more bullets. Lensherr rose quickly and stepped forward to see who she was firing at: Creed stood amongst the bodies near the front of the mill, growling fiercely as a bloody hole in his chest knit itself back together rapidly. As the woman raised her gun to fire again, the rancher mentally disarmed her. "That's enough of that," he said to her, then called down, "Open the door for Mister Creed!"
"Best keep that door barred," Creed called up, "'r I might jest storm upstairs an' WRAP a certain firearm 'round a certain bitch's NECK!"
"Do you have Mortimer," Erik called in a curt change of subject. Creed responded by throwing down what he'd been carrying over his left shoulder. Dark bruises marked the visible portions of Toynbee's body and blood seeped past his lips as well as beyond his nostrils. His eyelids were shut tight and swollen over, and his breathing was barely noticeable.
"First time the bastard's got somethin' t'bitch about an' he ain't even up t'bitch about it," Creed called up and cackled, alone in his brand of humor. "Nothin' the doc can't handle, though, right?"
Lensherr took a deep breath. "If you truly have restraint, Mister Creed, carry him inside more gently than you have been."
Creed's grin diminished. "That ain't the answer I'm lookin' fer."
"Now, Victor," the rancher yelled, then turned and once again joined Miss Darkholme on the cot. Both sat with their heads in their hands, seemingly staring at their shoes. "We cannot stay here," he muttered to her. "Yet, we cannot move them all."
"Are you suggesting that we put them out of their misery, so to speak," she muttered back.
"Not all of them. Only those that truly need it. The rest, I will let decide whether or not they would prefer my continued leadership." He let off a brief, dry chuckle. "A world of good it has done them thus far."
"Stop it," she hissed, then whispered, "You are not to blame for any of this. It was that man, that Essex character." Her eyes narrowed. "A demon if I have ever laid eyes on one. What became of him?"
"I suspect he is recuperating somewhere. He appeared to be indestructible; all the more reason for a migration." Lensherr sat up and raised his voice to a normal volume. "Should he return, I want him to find nothing here. No trace of us, or our exodus."
Miss Darkholme raised her voice as well but stood up to offer him the use of the cot. "We will discuss this further once you have had a proper rest. I can tell quite frankly that you are in need of it."
They stared each other down until he conceded, but instead of laying down, he simply leaned against the wall once again. "See to Mortimer," he said. "Do what you can for him. We may need him, in the coming days."
"I will see what I can do," she replied, then turned for the stairwell.