The Road to Hellfire Read online

  “I’ll tell you.” Cane looked at the corpse of Isaac. He stared into the hollow sockets, but there was no spark there. “When I come running out of the plantation house where I was sewn up, I fell into the swamp and nearly died. Isaac found me. He’d been living as a trapper, selling gator hides for meager pay. Had his own cabin out there, far from civilization. He nursed me back to health. He showed me kindness.” Cane closed his eyes. “And when I found my strength and my skill with blade, pistol and rifle and my role as a killer, he told me it didn’t matter none. He said the War was gonna leave lots of folks with scars and a newfound love of killing – but I could still be a good man, in spite of what I was.”

  “Hmmm.” Swann stared at the corpse. “He was as just as pathetic in life as he was in death. How did he die? Do you know?”

  “I know.” Cane gritted his teeth as he stared at Swann. “A band of deserters come by, a half-dozen or so strong, and found our cabin. They wanted everything we had and when Isaac protested, they shot him dead.” Cane hissed out his words. They seemed to seep from between his closed teeth like steam. “I killed all those deserters. Didn’t use no gun to do it neither.”

  The Live Oak Boys exchanged a frightened glance. Even Colonel Swann seemed to shiver in Cane’s gaze. They were more afraid of Clayton Cane than the dead man standing next to him.

  “Isaac saw me afterwards, standing over the bodies of the men I had killed, with blood coating my knuckles and boots. As he died, he told me that he had been wrong – I was the kind of killer that can’t never find peace. He said that it weren’t my fault – I had been made that way. And then he told me that even though I was a monster, it didn’t mean I couldn’t be a man. With his dying breath, he sent me out into the world to do good. As a bounty hunter and gunslinger, I’ve been trying my best to follow his words, for all these years that followed.” Cane looked up at Isaac’s body. “If there’s anything left in you, old friend, you let it out. I’ll deal with them that wronged you.”

  Isaac’s head snapped back. His lower jaw slid open. Cane suddenly heard a buzzing roar and then a black cloud, thick as smoke, tore out of Isaac’s open mouth and consumed the Live Oak Boys and Colonel Swann. Cane realized was happening, as the buzzing cloud swarmed around him. They were flies. Swann and his men struggled to stand, hiding their eyes and mouths as the flies buzzed around them. Finally, the swarm of insects set off into the sky or hurtled into the swamp, buzzing madly all the while.

  They gave Cane just the distraction he needed. As the flies buzzed away, Cane rammed his elbow into the throat of the nearest Live Oak Boy, then grabbed his shotgun barrel and tore it free. Cane spun the gun around and fired, blasting one barrel into the skull of the gunslinger who had wielded it. Before his body fell to the ground, Cane fired the second barrel, ripping a bloody hole in the chest of another Live Oak Boy.

  Colonel Swann realized what was happening seconds too late. “Kill him!” he roared. “Kill them both!” He fired his pistols at Cane. One of his shots burned past Cane’s shoulder, but there was no stopping El Mosaico now.

  The bounty hunter hurled himself at the remaining two Live Oak Boys. One managed to get a shot off before Cane bashed the butt of the shotgun against his skull, crumpling it in a single bloody blow. He sank down and Cane’s boots did the rest, stomping down on the screaming gunslinger and silencing him. Swann fired again, but he panicked and the shot whistled over Cane’s head. The last of the Live Oak Boys ran towards Cane, a Bowie knife pulled back.

  Cane struck him under the jaw and grabbed his wrist. He slammed the hand back, driving the knife deep into the gunman’s own throat. Blood spurted from the wound as the gurgling Live Oak Boy sank slowly to the ground. Cane wrenched out the blade, holding it loosely at his side. He stared over the four bodies at Colonel Swann, the Bowie knife clutched in his hands.

  “Come on now,” Swann muttered, the revolvers shaking in his hands. “My offer still stands. You can work for me. I can pay you. I’m a rich man, Cane! I can give you all the war you want and more beside!” Cane looked into Swann’s eye and saw the fear there. Colonel Swann was staring at a monster. “In the name of God!” Colonel Swann cried. “He’s just some colored corpse!”

  “He was my friend,” Cane said. “And you murdered his sister.”

  Cane charged. Colonel Swann fired as fast as he could, but then Cane tackled him and forced him to the ground. The Bowie knife lashed out, drawing ribbons of blood into the grass. The revolvers fell from the colonel’s hands. Cane grabbed Swann’s waist and hoisted him up. In a single motion, Cane hurled Colonel Swann over the banks of the river and into the dark pool.

  The gators were on him in seconds. Swann screamed as the water went white with thrashing tails and teeth – and then dark crimson. Cane watched it all, even as Swann’s form sunk below the surface. His grasping hands were the last to go.

  Slowly, Cane walked across the grassy bank and grabbed his revolvers. He was bleeding freely from the shoulder, but he didn’t feel it. He stared up at Isaac. “I did it again,” he said. “I proved I ain’t more than a monster that can’t get its fill of bloodshed.” Isaac’s dead face remained impassive. “But you taught me that I could do some good as well. I’ll do some good for you, Isaac. I’ll let you rest.”

  In the blink of an eye, Cane raised his revolver and fired, blasting a bullet neatly between Isaac’s empty eyes. The zombie fell lifeless to the ground. There was nothing to keep the shredded spirit there any longer. Isaac could rest once again.

  Cane reached down and picked up his dead friend. He ignored the smell and the rot under his hands as he hoisted Isaac onto his shoulder. He’d bear any indignity for the sake of his friend. Cane started walking back down the bank. It would take a while to return Isaac to his grave.

  Around midnight, Cane finally reached the old cabin, lost in the swamp. He had purchased a raft at some watery backwater outpost, ignoring the strange looks he and Isaac’s corpse received while he paid the swamp folk their money. Then he simply plopped Isaac’s body down on the raft and paddled, going down dark corridors between trees and muddy islands, to the place he remembered well.

  It was strange to go back to his place where he had spent his first moments, and Cane did not like the sudden familiarity of the rickety wooden cabin on the dark patch of dirt, lost in the swamp. But he still found Isaac’s grave and set him down, then went back into the cabin and found a shovel. It was quiet there, with only the gentle lapping of the swamp water. The moon was high above them, bathing the place in silver light. Cane returned with the shovel leaning on his shoulder and got to work.

  He shoveled in the dirt, grunting with fatigue as the pile grew. His shoulders ached with a sharp burning, but Cane ignored it. He didn’t stop until the grave was full and his friend was under the earth once more.

  “Mr. Cane.” Cane turned around, raising the shovel like it was a club. He saw Madam Glow standing on the edge of the little island, like she had emerged from the swamp. Randolph stood next to her, along with a small army of zombies. Their lips were sewn shut and they carried their own weapons in their dead hands.

  “You didn’t let Isaac get his revenge, for himself,” Madam Glow said.

  “He was a peaceful man, ma’am.” Cane removed his hat and looked back at the grave. “So I got vengeance on his behalf. I suppose it all worked out nice and easy for you. Colonel Swann’s filling the bellies of a dozen gators and his gang is shattered. Ain’t no one to stop you from running your saloons and dance halls now, as well as being Voodoo Queen of New Orleans.”

  Madam Glow shrugged. “I make use of what tools I can – living or dead.”

  “It was wrong to bring him back.” Cane stared back at the grave. “At coffin’s close, a man’s troubles should vanish. But ain’t a coffin built gonna hold me, and my troubles won’t never end. Still, nothing’s stopping me from helping to ease the pain of another.”

  He tossed the shovel aside, and let the moonlight fall on the freshly filled grave of
his only friend.

  The road to Leadville, through the harsh mountains of Blood Pass, was dangerous at the best of times. But when the snowstorms howled like angry beasts and scoured the mountain trail, that road through Blood Pass was pure hell – and lately it had grown even worse. Three separate caravans had tried to make it through Blood Pass and no one had heard of them again. The prospectors and mountain men whispered legends about the flesh-hungry monsters that had taken up residence in Blood Pass, which were far too horrible to be true.

  But now a fourth convoy of buckboard, Conestoga and covered wagons crawled along the serpentine, gravel road to Blood Pass, even as the snow pelted down around them. They were a strange mix of sourdough miners and tenderfoot immigrant families, all daring the dangers of falling snow and Blood Pass for a chance at a better life. They rolled along, clumped up and shivering in the pelting snow, under the watchful eyes of the man the trail master had hired to guard them.

  He sat on the back of a stout roan stallion, impassive to the cold. He was a broad-shouldered gunslinger, his thick limbs draped in a tattered duster. A broad-brimmed hat kept his face in shadow – but it still could not hide the scars. They crisscrossed his face in seemingly a thousand different ways, surrounding two cold eyes of different colors. A pair of heavy revolvers rested on his belt and his carriage showed that he was well used to the weight. A rifle in a saddle sheath and an old Confederate cavalry saber in his bedroll, along with a single stick of dynamite in his boot, completed the arsenal. His name was Clayton Cane, a bounty hunter, mercenary and gun for hire. His scarred face had given him a title in the bloody border country where he plied his grim trade. He was called El Mosaico.

  Cane hunched forward, staring ahead at the line of coaches. He saw their wheels had stopped moving, the caravan coming to a halt. Cane narrowed his eyes and let out a low, annoyed grunt. He put some spur to his horse and galloped ahead, snow flying from his mount’s hooves like water before a ship. He reached the front of the convoy and overlooked the covered wagon. Its driver, a pot-bellied Swede, knelt down by his fallen horse.

  The Swedish fellow stared up at Cane and scratched his thick blonde beard. “Threw its shoe,” he said. “We can repair it, but it will take a while. Maybe until dark.” The driver looked up the mountain slope in the distance, looming over them like a hungry predator about to pounce. He shivered a little as he spoke and not from the cold.

  So they wouldn’t reach Blood Pass until dark. Cane gripped the reins and turned his horse around, gritting his teeth. He looked up and saw Cyrus Porter, the trail master and leader of the caravan. Cane slowed his horse, waiting until Porter drew closer.

  “We’ve slowed, Mr. Cane!” Porter called, doffing his plug hat. “And I figure you’ve already ascertained the reason why.” Porter was a short man, with an upturned moustache and bristly hair above a thick collar and scarf. It gave him the appearance of a gopher poking out from its burrow. “I’m afraid we’ll have to stop until a new steed can be fitted, before we’ll proceed to Blood Pass.” He cocked his head. “You don’t like this turn of events, I take it?” His voice was gruff and he spoke quickly.

  “No.” Cane looked back at Blood Pass. “We ought to stay here instead of going on. Camp out and make a go in the morning.”

  “And why is that, sir?” Porter wondered.

  “Don’t want to go through Blood Pass at night.”

  “You’ve heard the legends, then?” Porter smiled a little as he tugged on the reins of his horse. “About blood-hungry monsters dwelling in the peaks? Well, there could be some truth to those wild stories. Perhaps some damn brutal outlaw band or a rogue tribe of Indians.”

  Cane reclined in his saddle. “Weren’t Indians that destroyed them other wagon trains, Porter,” he said. “And monsters or not, going through some difficult mountain pass on a night like this – where even the moon seems to hide away – ain’t no smart decision. We go on in there now and I reckon there’ll be danger.”

  “Perhaps there will,” Porter replied. “But why do you think I hired you, Mr. Cane? It certainly wasn’t for your appealing features.” He touched the brim of his hat. “You’re a legend of the Old West yourself, however hideous you may be. I trust you to keep us safe. Now, I’ll see to whatever the confounded hold-up is so we can soon proceed along the trail.” He cracked his heels against the side of his horse and set off down the stalled caravan, leaving Cane behind.

  Night’s darkness was already approaching. Cane wrapped his coat around him and looked over the length of the wagon train. Their drivers and passengers all turned away, afraid to meet his gaze. It was nothing new to Clayton Cane. Everywhere the bounty hunter ventured, his appearance and reputation marked him as not just an outsider, but an object of fear. It was the same for the men, women and children of this caravan – all except two.

  “Mr. Cane!” A gaudily painted buckboard wagon rolled closer to Cane, pulled by two stolid mules. It was decorated in swirls of red and green paint and brass filigree, with the label ‘Orestes Coyle’s Miraculous Healing Oils’ etched on both sides. “What a wonderful coincidence to find that you are riding alongside us!” The driver of the wagon, Orestes Coyle himself, was a sprightly fellow in a crimson frock coat, his dark hair neatly parted down the middle. He stroked his moustache, the points sharp as the tip of fencer’s swords, and smiled at Cane. “And yet, it is funny that we only saw you now. Why, it’s as if you’ve been avoiding our company!”

  “Yeah,” Cane muttered.

  Orestes continued. “And look who rides with me – a deep personal admirer of yours – my dear young nephew, Maxwell.” He slapped his hand on the shoulder of the boy sitting next to him. Maxwell Coyle was around nine years of age, a slight boy with his uncle’s straight dark hair framing his pale face. He wore a dark suit, and bowed his head before Cane, trying unsuccessfully to hide his smile.

  The Coyles – or Kleins to use their real name – were snake oil salesmen, offering their own medicines of dubious quality. Cane had a few run-ins with Orestes Coyle and couldn’t say he cared much for him. He seemed to talk like he was afraid his jaws would fall off if they stopped being used – and he was always trying to sell something. The boy, Maxwell, was something else. He was an immigrant, having recently arrived in America from Eastern Europe, and worked as an apprentice for his uncle. He read too many dime novels and seemed to mistake them for truth.

  Now, Maxwell looked up at Cane and beamed. “It’s very good to see you, sir,” he explained. “I was a little scared about going through Blood Pass, but I’m not anymore. You’re with us, Mr. Cane, and I’m certain that you’ll keep us safe.”

  Orestes Coyle ruffled his nephew’s dark hair. “And rest assured, this is a journey that must be taken!” He reached into his breast pocket and removed a small vial. The glass tube was full of a gleaming gray liquid, which shone even in the fading sunlight. “Liquid silver, Mr. Cane!” Coyle spun the little vial around. “The curative properties of such a liquid truly astound even the most fertile imagination. Everything from dropsy to the pox can be cured by a dash or two of this slippery miracle.” He glanced back at Cane. “Perhaps it could even heal your scars. Picture it, Mr. Cane – a new handsome visage for you, perhaps leading to a happy marriage with some petite and loyal wife?”

  “We are going to sell it in Leadville,” Maxwell exclaimed. “Perhaps we can meet you there?”

  “Shut up,” Cane grumbled. He gripped the reins of his horse. “You’d best forget Leadville. Pull out of this wagon train and head back down that trail. Don’t go to yonder mountains.” He started cantering back to the head of the train. “Don’t go to Blood Pass.” He rode past them, without giving Maxwell or Orestes time to say their goodbyes. Cane wasn’t sure why he’d bothered to warn them. He knew they would take his advice, but he didn’t like them anyway. Orestes was annoying as a chigger in the backside and Maxwell was worse.

  So why was Cane concerned about them? He never cared much for any soul but his own – but he cared a
bout the Coyles, even if he didn’t like them. And he didn’t like the idea of them going to Blood Pass.

  Just as Clayton Cane predicted, they reached the mountain pass just as the sun sank down in the distance. The snow had ceased falling and lay still and slick on the ground. Blood Pass had been bathed red in the setting sun, but the red light was already fading before evening’s darkness. Cane looked at the sheer cliffs, black as obsidian below the white snow, on both sides of the narrow, rocky trail. He’d lived and fought in Apache country and recognized Blood Pass for what it was – the perfect spot for an ambush.

  But still, the wagon train proceeded down the path and Cane listened to the crunch of hooves and the rolling wagon wheels over the fallen snow. He hung back, keeping to the rear of the convoy and watching everything. One of his hands drifted to a revolver at his waist without him realizing it. He looked out at the narrow canyons, crevices and caves that sprawled away from Blood Pass, like tributaries of a great river. There were a thousand places for an enemy to hide.

  A harsh scream, a sound of pure terror reached Cane’s ears, shocking him from his thoughts. He urged his horse along, galloping straight down the length of the convoy. Cane slipped the rifle from it sheath, swinging it up into his arms as he rode along. More screams echoed across the stalled wagon train and Cane doubled his pace.

  He rode by the Coyles’ wagon. Young Maxwell stood up in his seat, steadied by Orestes’ arm. “Mr. Cane!” Maxwell asked, a note of panic adding a tremor to his voice. “W-what’s going on? Why have we stopped?” Cane didn’t answer the boy and just galloped straight ahead.

  Then he came to the front of the wagon train, Cyrus Porter riding up to join him, and they both saw what stopped the convoy’s progress – and caused the screams. The trail had been blocked by a high wall of bleached human bones, which stood in sodden piles in the snow and gravel. Cane looked at the hollow eyes of skulls and empty ribcages, wondering how many men had died to make that terrible wall. It stood a head taller than him, and was wide enough to block the entirety of the road. But even as Cane considered how many bodies were there, he realized that what had made them must be lurking nearby.