The Dead Spend No Gold Page 22

  These battered few were the last seven survivors of the once strong and vibrant group of men who had volunteered to help find Frank’s missing brother. Seeing how few of them were sitting there made it all come home to Frank, who was overcome with a strong sense of sorrow.

  “Why is Bidwell being so nice?” Virginia asked, interrupting Frank’s reverie. “Why is he giving us free drinks? He doesn’t strike me as a generous soul.”

  “Just showing off his power,” Partridge said. “The son of a bitch is a bully. The man has ruined this town.”

  “But he doesn’t need to off show his power,” Virginia pointed out. “He already owns the town, top to bottom.”

  “Hell,” Persimmons said, “who cares, as long as he keeps giving us drinks?”

  “Don’t seem right, though,” Hawkins said. “Most of our friends are dead, and we just sit here getting drunk.”

  “Getting numb,” Persimmons corrected him. “I don’t mind admitting I want to forget some of the things I saw.” He lifted another drink to his lips before adding, “And some of the things I did.”

  “Yeah, well I’ve had enough,” Partridge said, getting up. “I’m going to bed.” His chair made a loud scraping noise, and it seemed as though everyone in the room looked over at them.

  Bidwell came over, a bottle in his hand, and put his arm on Partridge’s shoulder, applying downward pressure. Partridge’s legs gave out on him, and he sprawled awkwardly back into his chair.

  “Sit down, my friend,” Bidwell said. “Drink up. This entire celebration is in honor of you and your friends. Seems kind of ungrateful to up and leave.”

  Partridge flushed and looked ready to object, but there was something in Bidwell’s eyes that made him look away. He took the proffered drink and drank it down, shakily.

  Virginia examined the room as Bidwell walked away. Then she leaned over to Frank. “I don’t like it,” she said quietly. “Something’s going on.”

  “You think they mean us harm?”

  “Bidwell’s been encouraging some of the crowd to leave and discouraging others. Most of those who remain, besides us, have a strange aura about them. Unless I’m mistaken, they are all Skinwalkers, the whole lot of them.”

  It was as if Frank suddenly saw the room with Virginia’s eyes. The celebration looked false, a sham. The glittering eyes of the revelers kept sneaking glances at the subdued survivors of the rescue party as though waiting for something.

  As a final group of men and women left, Frank noticed Bidwell walk from behind the bar to shoo them the final few feet. “See you tomorrow night!” he cried heartily. He closed the barroom doors and locked them. Turning, he looked Frank in the eye. The smile was gone.

  That was the signal.

  A dozen men were suddenly removing their clothing.

  “Wha’ th’ hell?” Preacher MacLeod’s words were slurred. He tried to stand up, but fell back into his chair.

  “Where are your guns?” Virginia asked Partridge desperately.

  “Bidwell took them away,” Persimmons answered instead. “Said he preferred not to have firearms around when the drinking got heavy.”

  “Do you have knives?” Virginia demanded. She reached behind her and pulled a bowie knife from its belt sheath at the small of her back.

  “What the hell do we need knives for? I don’t see any reason…” Hawkins began. He’d had his back to the room, and as he turned around, his voice trailed off and he reached for the small of his back, too, and drew the biggest knife that Frank had ever seen. “Got this in St. Louis, a genuine blade made by Bowie himself!”

  Aw, hell, Frank thought as he pulled out his pocketknife with a grimace. Not enough.

  He picked up the nearest chair and slammed it against the table, breaking it apart. He grabbed one of the legs and swung it. It had a solid heft. As he turned to face the Skinwalkers, there were crashing and splintering noises behind him as several other men broke up chairs.

  The small group of survivors turned as one to see men transforming into beasts of nightmare before their disbelieving eyes.

  “What now?” Partridge asked. A few moments before, he had sounded resigned. Now his voice had an edge of panic.

  “What’s going on?” Hawkins shouted at the sight. The big knife he’d been so proud of moments before dropped onto the floor.

  There was no escape. The only two windows were on either side of the double doors, and between the windows and the ranchers were a dozen snarling beasts.

  “You might want to pick up your weapon,” Virginia said to Hawkins, who gulped and snatched up the blade. “These creatures can be killed. Even with only a knife. I’ve done it.”

  Bidwell came out from behind the bar and removed his apron, then his clothes. He stood naked in front of them, raised his arms, and grunted. His arms and then his legs extended with a crackling sound. Bidwell fell to his hands and knees, which weren’t hands and knees anymore. His muzzle protruded from his lower face with another cracking sound, accompanied by the slithering of moist skin.

  Frank looked away. The light of the fire sent eerie shadows across the bar and up the walls, revealing the evil within the saloon. Jerking and snarling, the beasts pushed against each other, as if reveling in their transformation and the feast they expected.

  * * *

  Virginia wished she was alone. It complicated her task, worrying about Frank and the others. They were outnumbered. If they’d had guns, it might have made a difference, but hers were in her saddlebags, and Bidwell had taken away the men’s weapons.

  There was still one way that they could win. If she could kill Bidwell, the others would flee, she was sure of it.

  She ignored her instinct to plant herself at Frank’s side. He and the others would have to survive long enough on their own for her to get the job done.

  With Bidwell in the center, the werewolf pack was Turning.

  Virginia didn’t wait. She rushed them while the Skinwalkers were still glistening with gristle and raw muscle. Her knife plunged straight down into the skull of a wolf in mid-Change. The malformed creature thudded to the floor. It had the body of a man and the head of wolf.

  Frank realized what she was doing. “Attack before they shift all the way!” he shouted, rushing forward.

  The nearest wolf lunged toward him, attacking with half-formed jaws. Virginia fought the impulse to turn aside to help Frank. He jumped on the werewolf’s slick back, grabbing it by the neck and sawing at its throat with his tiny blade. Luckily the knife was sharp and struck the jugular, turning the creature’s howls to a gurgling sound. It stumbled, then its front legs collapsed and it rolled onto its side, whining like an injured dog.

  Another wolf lunged toward him. He batted it away with his club. It grunted and rolled, but got right back up.

  None of the other men followed Frank and Virginia into the fray. They were either too frightened or still frozen in disbelief. Instead, they watched as the ten remaining wolves retreated and continued to Turn.

  Virginia was able to get close to another half-Changed werewolf, striking with quick stabbing blows into its chest. The wolf-man quivered, jumping a yard into the air. Its legs collapsed under it. Still twitching, its back legs pushed it sideways across the floor.

  But now the biggest wolf transposed himself between Virginia and the other wolves, his transformation much swifter than the others. She stepped back and they eyed each other. Bidwell’s fur was red and thick, and he was wide across the chest. Unlike the body he wore as a man, there was no fat on this creature, only muscles swelling at the shoulders and thighs.

  He snarled, and it seemed to Virginia that the building shook from the vibration.

  * * *

  Virginia looked tiny beside the giant red wolf.

  Frank leapt to her side without faltering.

  She glanced at him, and there was a welcoming gratitude in her face that made his heart swell and fill with courage. But as she turned away, he saw the hopelessness that passed for a moment o
ver her features, and he quailed.

  If this brave girl despairs, he thought, we have no chance.

  Someone was behind him, and Frank whirled. It was Preacher MacLeod, brandishing a knife of his own.

  “They’re going to kill us anyway,” MacLeod said grimly. “Heaven awaits those who fight the Beast.”

  The other survivors hung back. Frank couldn’t blame them. If not for Virginia, he thought, I would be hiding under the table.

  The wolves separated again, and Frank found himself surrounded. Something snapped at his legs, barely missing. He couldn’t move forward or back.

  He assumed something similar was happening to Virginia. He was wrong.

  Virginia had ignored the other wolves and was charging Bidwell.

  With growls that nearly froze Frank in place, the rest of the wolves abandoned their attack to rush to their leader’s side. It was as if a signal had been passed among the pack, and now that Virginia had committed herself, isolated herself, they were focusing on her.

  Frank rushed forward to strike at the wolves surrounding Virginia, and he saw MacLeod leap forward at his side as both groups rallied to the defense of their leaders.

  MacLeod slashed one of the wolves, which turned and leaped for his throat. Frank was unable to help; he was struggling to defend Virginia from the wolf pack. He stabbed his knife into a wolf’s hindquarters and swung his club at another.

  He couldn’t get to her.

  “Hey, come get me!” Frank shouted at the wolves, brandishing his pocketknife. One of them broke away, snarling, but the other three kept heading for Virginia.

  “Behind you, Virginia!” he cried in warning as the wolf leapt for him. He tumbled to the ground, the heavy weight of the creature on him, its foul breath in Frank’s face as it lunged for his neck…but the wolf missed, snapping its jaws shut mere inches from his throat.

  Partridge had entered the fray. The old man had the monster around the throat. The wolf reared up, dislodging him. Then the werewolf squirmed around and its jaws closed on the rancher’s throat. There was the snap of bone breaking, and Partridge fell and went still.

  Frank spun to cover Virginia’s back, but there were too many wolves between them, and he cried out in frustration. The wolves stopped, forming a half circle with Virginia at the center and Frank on the outside.

  Virginia didn’t take her eyes off Bidwell, despite the threats surrounding her. Knife in hand, she stared him down.

  The challenge was obvious. The giant wolf gave a low growl, and his packmates slunk away.

  Frank slashed wildly. The wolves jumped away, easily evading his blade, and circled him.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Virginia and the big wolf moving toward each other in a blur. They seemed to merge, and then both fell back as if pushed. Both of them were injured, but soon they were moving toward each other again, faster than before.

  Then Frank was surrounded and fighting for his life. He whirled around as first one wolf and then another snapped at the tendons of his ankles. He wasn’t going to be able to keep it up much longer. He was a little slower with each second that passed, and the scent of blood made the wolves faster and more frenzied.

  Virginia fell.

  Frank heard her cry out and, ignoring the wolves at his heels, ran toward her. There was a ripping sound as the fabric of his shirt was torn. Virginia was lying on her back, and the giant wolf was crouching to spring.

  Virginia started to get up, but she would be too late. Frank felt as if he was moving in slow motion.

  Bidwell’s massive body jerked slightly, and a second later there was a loud bang. He dropped to the ground and rolled away. Then the red wolf was running for long bar at the side of the room, the wolf pack at his heels. Another shot rang out as the monster disappeared around the massive bar, and a section of it splintered where the bullet struck it.

  Frank turned to see the stocky form of Henry Newton facing the bar, a smoking pistol in each hand.

  * * *

  It was the werewolves that finally shook Newton from his lethargy.

  Oliver was dead. Newton couldn’t remember when he’d realized that fact; it hadn’t been a single revelation, just a slowly dawning awareness that there was no other possibility. One by one, his men died under the onslaught of an impossible monster, but Newton didn’t care. All his hopes, all his careful plans: it had all been for Oliver and future generations of Newtons.

  All gone; and none of it mattered. Nothing mattered. Henry Newton hated everyone equally now, Indian or white man. He despised them all.

  He rose from his chair as the fight became desperate. He had half a mind to shoot Frank Whitcomb, or that interfering girl, Virginia Reed.

  Hell, he just wanted to kill someone…or something. He still had his own gun, and he hadn’t given up his son’s blood-smeared pistol, either.

  He pointed Oliver’s pistol at the giant wolf and fired. He could swear he hit the beast, but the creature fled. Newton took careful aim, but the next shot only succeeded in splintering the end of the bar.

  “I don’t give up my weapons for no one,” he growled.

  He paused to reload.

  * * *

  Partridge lay on the floor, unmoving. MacLeod was on his side, crawling toward the back, trailing blood. Hawkins stood beside him, his giant bowie knife dripping crimson. Persimmons was still alive, but bleeding from bites on his head and shoulders.

  How long does it take to Turn? Frank wondered. How long before Persimmons becomes one of them?

  The old ranch hand sounded completely human when he said, “Mr. Newton, I never much liked you, but if you got bullets for that thing, how about you load it up and fire at will?”

  A naked Bidwell emerged from behind the counter, seeming untouched, with a revolver in either hand. The rest of his pack swirled around him.

  “Here I was, fighting fair,” the barkeep said. “Using a gun ain’t fair. But if that’s the way it has to be…”

  Newton fumbled with the gun, trying desperately to reload, and all the while, Bidwell and his wolf pack came closer. He finally threw the useless weapon at Bidwell, his face contorting with hate.

  “Be damned, foul creature!” he cried. “My son is gone. What do I care…” and then half of his face simply disappeared and a red cloud floated over the remains of his body. He fell forward, and his huge torso slammed into the floor.

  Bidwell dropped the empty guns onto the floor and said, “Now, where were we?”

  He Turned again, quickly, almost casually.

  Virginia was hunched over, breathing deeply, claw marks on her arms and face. The knife hung at her side, as if she didn’t have the strength to lift it.

  Frank wanted to fall to his knees in exhaustion, but Virginia straightened, staring her enemy defiantly in the face, as if the odds hadn’t changed, as if they weren’t outnumbered and overwhelmed.

  Frank swayed but managed to stay upright. The wolves lowered their heads, slinking forward as a pack this time. This time, there would be no individual skirmishes. This was to be a coordinated action by a pack that hunted together, in which each wolf could anticipate the reactions of his packmates. They would begin by separating out the weakest of their prey.

  It took Frank a few moments to realize the weak link was him.

  The wolves may have sensed Virginia would fight to protect him, making her a defender, not an attacker. Frank wanted to yell to her to forget about him, but he knew it was useless. It was all useless. There were too many of them.

  The wolves circled him, crouching to spring, their eyes never leaving him as he stood stock still, uncertain which way to move. As he’d feared she would, Virginia jumped in front of him, but she could only engage the first wolf while knocking the second wolf to one side. Seven other wolves flowed around her fight, fixating on Frank. He raised his club desperately, realizing that he might at best get in a single blow before they were upon him.

  This is it, Frank thought desperately.

 
* * *

  Virginia heard a crashing sound from the front of the saloon, but for several moments, she was so intent on the battle that it barely registered. Then the left front window shattered.

  Everyone, wolf and human alike, stared around the room in confusion, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

  A slim young Indian girl was climbing through the broken window.

  “Feather?” Virginia cried out.

  A few moments later, a gray wolf jumped in after her.

  Their sudden appearance was so startling that Bidwell hesitated in his attack, and then retreated to the bar again, as if to try to make sense of the newcomers. Again, the wolves retreated with him, surrounding the big red wolf.

  In wolf form, Jean Baptiste raced to Frank and Virginia’s side, where he turned and growled menacingly at the wolves by the bar. Litonya also ran toward them, and despite the desperation of that moment, Virginia couldn’t help but smile at her.

  Johnny Hawkins came up beside them with his big bowie knife.

  “Persimmons?” Virginia asked.

  The young man shook his head.

  The five survivors turned to face the wolf pack, still outnumbered, but everyone sensing, both wolves and humans, that the odds had somehow changed.

  CHAPTER 20

  James’s Journal, Day 10

  Grendel’s heavy tread, so unlike his usual stealthy animal movement, woke me. The branches covering the cave exploded inward, and the huge beast nearly toppled in, but he regained his footing at the last minute. He breathed heavily and groaned; then, as if realizing he was home, he howled, a strangled, wounded cry I had never before heard from him.

  “Skoooo coooom! Skoooo coooom!” The cave seemed to reverberate and echo like the inside of a bell.