Apr 2

Apr 2 He Who Comes

He Who Comes - book excerpt

Chapter 1

Reuben heard the noise that woke him in the night and thought it must be the wind taking hold of the broken yard door, which never could shut properly, causing it to bang repeatedly. Turning over, he tried to ignore it but when the noise came again, he sat bolt upright, senses straining, the dark pressing in on him like a living thing. As he waited, body coiled like a spring, he realized one very important detail: there was no wind that night. Not so much as a breath.

He sat rock still for some considerable time, mouth slightly open, heart pounding in his ears. The large, sprawling house, built by his father some fifty or so years ago when people called this piece of dirt The Wild West, seemed suddenly an unfriendly, alien place. Someone had broken in, violated his privacy. But who could it be, he wondered. This was Nineteen-hundred and five. The outlaws were all gone now. Dead, buried or forgotten. The telegraph wires hummed, cattle wandered across the plain without fear of marauding savages and he had even heard it say people had seen a horseless carriage trundling through Main Street. A German invention somebody said. Reuben Cole was not quite sure where Germany was. The modern world was as much a mystery to him.

He swung his legs out from under the blankets and waited legs bare from the knees down, his nightgown thin, shivering. Nights were cold out here. Cold and friendless. Reuben did not have many friends. He was a loner, not lonely, as he was ever quick to tell anyone interested – of which there were few – but the path he had chosen kept him apart from company and he liked it that way. Nobody with whom to answer. Get up when he liked, go to bed when he liked, farted and—

There it was again. A footfall, without any mistake.

Reuben remained alert, struggling to keep his mind from freezing over. He had killed men, but that was a long time ago, out there in the open world where the questions and answers were cleaner and simpler, unlike in here, alone in the hideaway he had made for himself.

He knew he would have to go and confront whoever it was. A thief, an opportunist. Reuben had little idea how much anything in the house was worth, other than … He squeezed his eyes closed. The old painting his daddy had bought from that strange old coot over in Paris, France. The artist had died years before and his paintings, especially that large Water-Lillie one, had fetched a pretty sum. The one hanging on the dining room wall was probably worth more than the entire house.

He eased the drawer of his bedside cabinet open, careful not to make a sound, and reached inside. His hand curled around the familiar, maple wood butt of his Colt Cavalry. He took it out, gently checked the load and stood up.

He gathered himself, breathing through his mouth, eyes clamped on his bedroom door. Dawn’s grey light was just beginning to find its way through the night but even so, Reuben’s eyes were now well accustomed to the dark.

He took a step toward the door.

There followed an almighty crash from downstairs, so loud he almost jumped into the air. Damn it, what could that be?

Footsteps crushing shattered glass.

He knew what it was. That old Chinese thing Daddy had brought back with him from one of his many trips abroad. Ting or Ying or something. Old anyways. So big, you could plant a Love Oak inside it and still have room for an Elm.

Someone was hopping around down there, the sound unmistakable. Whoever it was must have bashed their knee against the side table holding the vase and Reuben imagined the intruder gripping his offended knee with both hands, swallowing down his curses.

The accident decided everything for him.

He tore open the door, all thoughts of maintaining silence gone. Taking the steps two at a time, he careered into the wide-open foyer and saw two men, one disappearing out the rear entrance, the other bent over, clutching his knee. He turned as Cole came in. His face turned white as ash, a soundless scream developing in his open mouth. Cole hit the man across the side of his head with the Colt, harder than he meant to, and he winced at the sound of breaking bone sounding off like a gunshot.

‘Peebie? You all right in there?’

The owner of the voice came in from the dining room. Big bellied, small headed. In his hand was something that looked like a machete. Reuben shot him high up on the left shoulder, spinning him round in as fine a movement as any ballet dancer ever could complete. ‘Oh, no, help,’ he managed to squawk, ‘he’s killed Peebie!’

The big guy retreated before the shock of the gunshot struck home. Once he became aware he was hit, his body would shut down and he’d be as petrified as one of those fossilized trees up in Arizona Cole had read about. Blundering back into the dining room, crashing through the door, hitting the floor hard, the wounded man nevertheless managed to scramble to his feet. Reuben went after him but had not taken a single step before a grip as strong as a vice closed around his ankle. He looked down.

The dawn light, slowly but inexorably conquering the dark, bathed the original intruder in an eerie, unnatural light. Mouth open, his white teeth gnashed amongst the ruin of his cheekbone, and he gurgled, ‘I’ll see you in hell…’

Trying to shake him off proved useless, so Reuben put a bullet through that grinning skull and ran into the dining room in pursuit of the other one.

Something as hard and as heavy as a blacksmith’s anvil hit him across the back of his head, catapulting him forward into a huge, gaping hole of blackness.

He was out cold before he hit the parquet-laminated floor.

Chapter 2

Kicking off his boots, Sterling Roose stomped into his sparsely furnished office and, ignoring anything around him, went directly to the coffee pot and peered inside.

‘Not the most observant of folk are you.’

Roose whirled, hand reaching for his revolver, and froze before he managed to clear the holster primarily due to it being a Remington New Model Police revolver with a five and a half inch barrel. This detail had never much bothered Roose up until now. The last time he had drawn his gun in anger had been almost twenty years earlier on that unforgettable evening when he and Reuben Cole laid out five Mexican bandits in the main drag. This, however, was not that warm, dry evening. This was a warm, dry morning and he was older, slower. Furthermore, the man sitting at his desk had a big calibre Smith and Wesson trained unerringly towards his midriff. He let his breath rattle out in a long, slow stream and straightened up. ‘All right. You’ve made your point, stranger, now do you mind telling me what you’re doing in my office?’

‘The door was open.’

‘That’s no answer.’

‘True.’ The man smiled and Roose took the opportunity to study him. Clearly, he had been on the range for a prolonged period, his face swarthy with the sun, a three or four-day growth of beard not totally disguising his solid jaw, the thin mouth. Ice blue eyes twinkled from under heavy brows, and he was not young. Deep lines cut through his cheeks and around his eyes. He appeared a hardened individual, one well versed in using the gun in his hand, a hand encased in worn, kid gloves smeared, like the rest of his clothing, in the dust which invaded everything in that town. ‘I’m here to talk to you about Maddie.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes … oh. Now, unbuckle that gun belt and sit down real slow. I have some things on my mind that you need to hear.’

‘I don’t even know who you are.’

‘Well, that’s one of the things we can discuss, now ain’t it.’ He waved the gun slightly. ‘The gunbelt … real slow.’

Things all seemed to tumble into a mess of confusion from that moment. The door burst open violently, the force almost tearing it from its hinges and Mathias Thurst, Roose’s young deputy, bounded in. Wearing nothing but his sweat-stained long-johns, Thurst, like his boss, did not at first see the angular figure of the stranger sitting behind the sheriff’s desk. With his arms flapping around like those of a broken windmill, he strode in, gunbelt draped over one shoulder, hat hanging by its neck cord around his throat. He wore one boot, the left one held in his left hand.

‘Sheriff, oh please, you gotta come quick,’ he began, his words gushing out as if from an untapped oil strike, ‘It’s Mrs. Samuels, she came riding in like a crazy thing on that little buggy of hers and she is telling everyone she has …’ His voice trailed away as his eyes lighted on the stranger and, in particular, the big-barreled Smith and Wesson which was now turned on him

Roose took the opportunity, swept up the small cast-iron coal shovel with which he used to keep the pot-belly stove stoked up with fuel, and with all the power he could muster, smacked it, with a good deal of satisfaction, across the stranger’s jaw.

Shrieking, the stranger clutched at his right cheek and fell over the chair. Crashing to the ground, the gun skating over towards Thurst, he writhed and moaned loudly. Thurst meanwhile stooped and picked the big Smith and Wesson up. ‘’T’ain't even loaded, Sheriff.’

Not listening, Roose nimbly darted behind his desk and cracked the shovel two or three more times across the stranger’s skull. ‘Swine,’ he hissed. Satisfied the stranger would not be causing any more trouble, he stood up, breathing hard and glared at his young deputy. ‘What was you hollerin’ about, Thurst?’

It took a moment for Thurst to answer, eyes on stalks, studying the bloody and inert body of the stranger.

‘Thurst, open your ears!’

‘I … Darn it, Sheriff, you think you might have killed him?’

‘I don’t care if I have,’ said Roose, face flushed, sweat sprouting across his forehead. He threw the small shovel away and hoisted up his trousers. ‘He was already here when I came in this morning. Had that gun on me. Don’t know who he is.’

By now Thurst was next to the body, fingers pressed under the man’s broken jaw. ‘I don’t get no pulse.’

‘Thurst, can you leave it and tell me why you came in as if all the hounds of Hell were snapping at your heels.’

Thurst stood up again, shaking his head. ‘Darndest thing I ever did see.’ He turned to fix his gaze upon his boss. ‘Mrs. Samuels, you know the one, she cleans a number of the big properties around here? Well, she went over to Reuben Cole’s place and found him all beat up, just lying there in his own dining room she said.’ He looked down at the body and shook his head again. ‘Just like him, I guess.’

‘Reuben Cole? Beat up? You sure that is what she said?’

‘That’s it. She’s over in Drey Brewer’s coffee house being comforted by them Spyrow sisters. I was on my porch when she came flying by in her buggy, pulled up real sharp and started squawking at me, almost demanding I come and get you. Hence my unkempt appearance, boss. I do apologize for that.’

‘Don’t you go fretting about any dress code, son.’ He pointed at the crumpled body next to the desk. ‘You, er, tidy up in here after we’ve put that idiot in a cell. Put his gun on my desk.’

‘It’s not loaded.’

‘I heard you, but I wasn’t to know that was I?’

‘No, I guess not.’

‘Well then,’ Roose tugged off his jacket and flung it over the back of his chair, ‘let’s get him inside the jail, then I’ll call on Doc Evans to fix him up.’

‘He don’t need no doctor, Sheriff. He needs a preacher.’ Another shake of his head. ‘Or Jesus, to raise him.’