The Road to Hellfire Read online

  Uriel pushed the saber back, ignoring the steel digging into his palm. Cane tried to push back, but he knew Uriel was far stronger than him. Uriel would rip the sword from his hand, snap it in half and then tear off Cane’s head. There was only way to beat him – fight dirty.

  As Uriel pushed back the blade, Cane released the sword’s handle. He drew one of his revolvers and opened fire, cracking off six shots into Uriel’s guts. By the time the saber had hit the ground, Uriel had staggered back, bullet holes bleeding in his massive chest. Uriel’s eyes slid half shut and he grunted slowly.

  “Well done, Clayton!” It was Dr. Angell’s voice. “Apparently, my first creation was indeed the best! But I’m afraid this shall be a short-lived victory!” Dr. Angell stood on the railing of his ship, holding some strange mechanism above his head with both hands. It seemed to be a glittering brass ring, dotted with sparking bolts of electricity. Inside the ring — seemingly floating in air — was the chunk of Silver Mesa stone taken from Santiago.

  A bolt of crackling energy ripped through the air, with a noise like a tearing silk sheet. It slammed into the chest of Uriel, sending electric currents shooting through his limbs. Sparks poured out of Uriel’s open mouth and the giant’s eyes slammed open. Dr. Angell’s scheme had worked. The minerals of Silver Mesa would grant unholy strength to his creations.

  This time, Uriel didn’t bother with throwing a punch. He grabbed Cane’s arm and hauled the bounty hunter off his feet, then hurled him through the air. Cane soared into the front of the sheriff’s office, smashing through the plate glass window and crumpling the wooden floor. Bits of jagged glass stuck into his shoulders and arms, digging into his flesh like teeth. Cane struggled to stand – but even getting a breath into his body was an ordeal. Uriel ran towards him again.

  Cane tried to crawl away but felt a grip like iron taking hold of his leg. Uriel yanked him up, hauling him out of the office and throwing him back into the street. Cane’s revolver fell from his hand, landing back in the dust. He landed next to Sheriff Braddock, gasping as the ground knocked the wind out of him. Uriel followed him, stamping closer and closer to Cane. He could have just stepped on Cane’s skull and pushed.

  “Cane…” It was Sheriff Braddock. The sheriff wasn’t quite dead. He glanced up at Cane from where he lay. His eyes were drained of color. “Cane, one of us ain’t gonna survive the day.” The sheriff’s fingers reached out and he grabbed his rifle. He pulled it close. “I need to know that when I’m gone…you will protect my town.” Blood pooled between his lips. “I’ll need you to forget what you are…and protect my town.”

  Sheriff Braddock didn’t wait for a response. With his last bit of strength, he sat up and raised the rifle. He fired — a single shot that whistled up and crashed into the chunk of stone floating above Dr. Angell’s contraption. The stone shattered, the pieces falling away and tumbling down into the dusty street. Dr. Angell stumbled back, shrieking as his invention fell from his hands. Then the sheriff’s rifle fell from his hands. He sank down to the dust and breathed his last.

  He didn’t hear Cane’s response. “I’ll try, Braddock,” Cane said, looking up at Uriel. “I’ll try with all my heart.” Uriel reached out to grab Cane again, but the bounty hunter was faster. Cane rolled away, letting Uriel’s massive fingers grip nothing but air. Then Cane grabbed a fistful of gravel and hurled it up, tossing the dust into Uriel’s eyes. The giant struggled to clear his eyes, buying Cane precious seconds. He scanned the ground.

  There was Uriel’s shotgun, lying discarded in the dust. Cane ran for it. He heard Uriel coming after him, realizing that this was what it must be like to be chased by a freight train. He leapt forward, reaching out for the shotgun. Uriel got to him just as Cane got the gun. Cane turned around, racked the pump and raised it. Uriel was too close to miss.

  The shotgun rumbled in Cane’s hands. Uriel’s scarred face was blasted to red pieces. The giant tumbled down, nearly headless, and fell next to Cane. Even rocks from Silver Mesa wouldn’t help him recover from that. Cane clutched the shotgun and sucked in air, trying to regain as much strength as he could.

  Then Tarantula was grabbing his arm. “Up, Mosaico!” Tarantula cried. “Up, my amigo! We cannot hold this ground any longer! We must fall back – even if there is so little to fall back to!” He helped Cane to his feet. Cane paused to reach out and grab the handle of his fallen saber as he rose. Hellfire’s defenders hurried around them, racing back to the other edge of town, near the path to Silver Mesa.

  The patchwork men were close behind, and the Archangel hovered over all of them. The great airship floated slowly down Main Street. Suddenly, all Cane could think of was the schoolhouse and its occupants. He thought about Emma and Maxwell and Hellfire’s women and children, huddling together and hearing the gunfire outside like some passing storm. He felt frightened, more so than he ever had before in his life. If this was what having friends – people he really cared for – was like, then it was far more difficult than he thought.

  The cannon on the Archangel fired again. Dust rose in a fountain in front of Tarantula and Cane, but they kept walking. Rifles and pistols cracked around them, as some of Hellfire’s men returned fire at the approaching patchwork men. But there were too many of them and too few defenders. Cane knew they could not win. And he resolved that he wouldn’t be shot in the back as he ran.

  He stopped running, shrugging off Tarantula’s arm. “Go on and get Miss Finch and the others to safety!” he roared. “You take care of them, Tarantula! I’ll stay here and I’ll die here if I have to!” He drew out his second revolver, turning around to face Dr. Angell’s army and airship. They were hurrying towards him, their boots pounding across the dirt. Cane leveled his revolver, ready to face down an army with just six bullets in his gun. He waited to die.

  But then a loud whoop echoed through the town, echoed in two score other throats. Arrows whistled through the air, followed by withering, accurate rifle fire. Through the dust, Cane could see another army hurrying into town, some riding ponies and others hurrying along on foot, tomahawks, war clubs and knives at the ready. The Apache had arrived.

  Pablo Rojo was at their head, the old war chief singing his battle song as he fired his revolver into the patchwork army. Next to him, looking quite uncomfortable and out of place, was Barnaby Bennet. The newspaperman still raised his voice in a nervous battle cry. The Apaches poured down Hellfire’s Main Street and crashed into the back of Angell’s remaining infantry. They struck down the patchwork men, smashing their skulls with axe and club, while their archers sent a volley of arrows to sweep the deck of the Archangel and puncture the gasbag.

  Now Angell’s army was caught in the middle and could do nothing but fight and die. Tarantula smiled as he saw the carnage, and then drew his own machete. “Los Indios, Cane!” he shouted. “Your friends the Apache! They have saved us!” He laughed as he drew his machete. “Shall we help them?!”

  Cane raised his saber. “Reckon so,” he agreed. “Men of Hellfire!” He raised his voice. “One final time! To keep our town safe! No need to run – only to charge!” He and Tarantula ran towards the patchwork army and Hellfire’s citizens hurried after them, firing their guns as they ran.

  Their charge crashed into the front ranks of Angell’s infantrymen. The fight was fast and brutal and short. Cane’s sword didn’t slow. He hacked off a patchwork soldier’s head in a shower of blood, and then swung his saber down to gut another. Next to him, Tarantula’s machete hummed through the air as it did its grim work. Soon, both blades were red to the hilt and still hadn’t slowed. Cane looked up at Pablo Rojo and raised his hat in a salute.

  “Pablo Rojo!” he cried. “Many thanks! Consider your debt paid!”

  The Apache war chief looked up from driving a tomahawk into a patchwork soldier’s skull. He raised the bloody axe in salute. “No debts, Mosaico!” he shouted back. “Killing these ugly white men is fine sport!” He swung the tomahawk down again.

  Above them, Cane was aware
of the shadow of the Archangel lifting. He looked up and saw that, sure enough, Dr. Angell was retreating. The airship was steaming backwards, trying to fly away. Dr. Angell knew he had lost – just as Cane knew that he couldn’t let his creator escape. He looked down at Tarantula’s belt and saw a lariat lashed there. He grabbed it and yanked it free.

  “Mosaico?” Tarantula asked, as Cane started to swing the rope. “What are you doing?”

  “Finishing this.” Cane waiting until the lariat had some speed and then let it fly. The hoop snaked through the air and wrapped around the head of the angel on the figurehead, tightening like a noose. Cane gave a running start and jumped off the ground, gripping on the lariat and letting the rope pull him into the air. His boots left the ground and then he was flying free, swinging below the Archangel.

  He started to climb. Cane’s arms ached – along with every other bit of him. He was bruised, bleeding and maybe a few steps from the grave, but he still found strength in his arms to haul himself up. After only a minute or so of climbing, Cane reached the figurehead and grabbed the angel’s head for support. He pulled himself up the railing and rolled over, landing on the deck.

  The wood of the deck felt rough against his hands. Cane came to his feet, drawing out his second revolver. The patchwork men around the cannon looked up at him. It was a four-man crew, plus a single patchwork man standing guard with a rifle. Dr. Angell was behind them and for a single second they just stared at each other in perfect silence.

  “Kill him, you simpletons!” Dr. Angell roared. “Forget the cannon and kill Clayton Cane!”

  But Cane’s revolver had already cleared holster. He fanned off the gun, firing five shots into five bodies. The patchwork men died around their cannon, their bodies striking the deck hard. Cane then turned his gun towards Dr. Angell. He took a step closer to his creator as he used his free hand to reach down and grab the stick of dynamite in his boot.

  Dr. Angell sank down to his knees. “Please,” he said. The Archangel floated down Hellfire’s Main Street, flying swiftly out of the city. It was sinking rapidly from the punctures in the gasbag. “No son should kill his father.”

  Cane shot Dr. Angell’s chest and knocked him onto the deck. “You ain’t my father – and you sent your sons to die in the war.” Cane holstered his revolver as Angell crumpled. The doctor was bleeding, but he wasn’t dead yet. “And when they died, you figured the good was gone from the world. You gave in to your killer’s nature and decided to make things as bad as you felt.” Cane drew out a match and struck it on his boot heel. He lit the stick of dynamite.

  “Please…” Dr. Angell whispered. He began to crawl towards Cane, blood staining the deck behind him.

  “So you made me – and when circumstance forced me away, you made your army.” Cane kicked Dr. Angell, rolling his body over, then set the dynamite down into the boxes of gunpowder and cases of canister and shot near the cannon. “But those circumstances have changed me as well. They taught me that even for a killer, there’s more to this life than death.” He looked down at Angell. “You’ll never know that.”

  The fuse on the dynamite was burning down. “See you in Hell,” Dr. Angell wheezed.

  “Yeah.” Cane walked to the railing and gauged the distance. “But before I get there, I aim to do some good. I figure killing you is a start.” He jumped off the railing, his hands outstretched as he plummeted down. Behind him, the dynamite went off, setting the gunpowder with it and blasting a crack in the hull of the Archangel. The airship ripped in two.

  A second sun seemed to blossom to life behind Cane. He felt the wind whipping at his skin, tearing into his scarred face and searing heat behind him. It wasn’t too big a fall and the earth seemed to rush up towards Cane far too fast. He closed his eyes and let the blackness take him.

  When life slipped back into him, he knew that while Dr. Angell had many faults, he had at least built Clayton Cane to last. Cane felt something soft under his back and head. After forcing his eyes open a crack, he realized was lying on a bed, staring up at a ceiling. It was dark outside, and an oil lamp lent flickering light to the room. Cane tried to move and his felt his arm ache. It had been bandaged and it wasn’t the only part of his body that had been seen to. His back, forehead and shoulders were covered in strips of gauze.

  “Mr. Cane!” It was Maxwell’s voice, bright and cheerful. “He’s awake! Everyone, Mr. Cane is awake!” The boy stood by Cane’s bedside and quickly handed the bounty hunter a canteen. Cane took it with his good hand and sipped back the cold water as more people hurried into the room to stand around his bed.

  They were all there – Orestes Coyle, standing next to his nephew, Tarantula with his gold tooth gleaming in the lamp’s light, Barnaby Bennet, holding something in his hands and Emma Finch, who reached down and touched Cane’s hand. She gave it a quick squeeze and Cane returned it.

  “You should heal up well,” Coyle explained. “You are a remarkably resilient man, you know.”

  “I’ve noticed that.” Cane looked up at Bennet. “What’s that you got there, Bennet?”

  “Oh?” He held up the sheriff’s star. “It’s from Mortimer Braddock. W-we found him dead, Mr. Cane. He was a good man and my friend.” Bennet sighed. “We lost so much today and I have bid goodbye to a great many friends. But even so, there is hope. Miss Finch has informed me that she will be the new schoolteacher. Mr. Coyle and his nephew have agreed to stay as well, to see to the wounded and perhaps take up the post of town doctor at some future time.”

  Coyle stroked his moustache. “I see no reason why Hellfire should not receive the benefits of my marvelous concoctions. And my nephew can attend school with children his own age, which I find he might enjoy.”

  “Miss Finch will teach me, Mr. Cane – and I’m certain she’ll be an excellent teacher,” Maxwell added.

  “Yeah,” Cane agreed. “I reckon she will.” He looked up at Bennet and the gold star. “You can add my name to the list – as the new sheriff. Go on and pin that star on me. Unless there’s someone else willing to serve as lawman in a town with a goddamn monstrous cursed mountain of supernatural metal that’s a magnet for trouble.”

  Bennet set the star carefully down on the nightstand. “I can think of no one more worthy,” he said. “I know that Sheriff Braddock, looking down from Heaven, would smile to see you take up the badge and know that his town is in your capable hands.”

  Cane didn’t know if Sheriff Braddock had gone to Hell or Heaven. He didn’t know where he’d go, once his life slid away from him. He didn’t know if he could ever be more than the killer that Dr. Angell made. But Cane looked at the faces of his friends, who believed that he could be something more than a gunslinger, and he reasoned that it didn’t matter what Dr. Angell had in mind when he made his creation. Cane would try with all his heart to be something different and he had a feeling that he would succeed.

  Now that you have completed this book, we hope you will leave a review so that other readers may benefit from your perspective. Authors like Michael Panush live and die by your reviews, after all!

  Please visit http://curiosityquills.com/reader-survey/ to share your reading experience with the author of this book!

  Twenty-Three years old, Michael Panush has distinguished himself as one of Sacramento’s most promising young writers. Michael has published numerous short stories in a variety of e-zines including: AuroraWolf, Demon Minds, Fantastic Horror, Dark Fire Fiction, Aphelion, Horrorbound, Fantasy Gazetteer, Demonic Tome, Tiny Globule, and Defenestration.

  Michael began telling stories when he was only nine years old. He won first place in the Sacramento Storyteller’s Guild “Liar’s Contest” in 2002 and was a finalist in the National Youth Storytelling Olympics in in 2003. In 2005, Michael’s short story entitled, Adventures in Algebra, won first place in the annual MISFITS Writing Contest.

  In 2007, Michael was selected as a California Art’s Scholar and attended the Innerspark Summer Writing Program at the CalArts Institute. He gra
duated from John F. Kennedy High School in 2008 and has recently graduated from UC Santa Cruz.

  The church song reached into Clayton Cane’s ears like a worm, sliding all the way to his brain and making his eyes dart open with a jolt. He recognized the tune as some popular hymn, now blared out like a battle cry down the streets of Hellfire, Texas. Cane sat up in his bed, a makeshift cot in the corner of the sheriff’s office and cursed as the song grew in volume. It was his first month as sheriff of Hellfire, a thankless and difficult career. Sleep was a welcome break from it and now the loud hymn had ruined that.

  “Shall we gather by the river!” The hymn drew closer and Cane rolled out of bed, realizing that it was his job to see what the singing was about and put a stop to it. “The beautiful, beautiful river!” Cane slipped into his trousers and shirt, quickly buttoning his black vest and knotting his tie while keeping an eye to the windows. He saw a small column of Hellfire’s most respectable women file past, with all the discipline of an invading army. “Shall we gather at the river – that flows by the throne of god!” They were leaving the civilized section of Hellfire for the other half, crossing the border marked by the sheriff’s office into the bad part of town where the saloons and gambling halls flourished.

  Cane finished dressing by the time the marchers filed past. His broadcloth suit, complete with a long frock coat and matching Stetson, seemed uneasy on his bulky form. Cane was a big man, with broad shoulders and thick, muscular limbs. His face was a mass of crisscrossing scars surrounding two eyes of different colors. It was a testimony to the fact that he was a patchwork man, created from the sewn-up remains of dead bodies by an insane scientist during the Civil War. After the war’s end, Cane had traveled the West as a bounty hunter – but circumstances had led him to leave that life behind and settle in Hellfire.