Hell's Marshal (14 page)

A mass of fur and teeth careened into him before Frank could react, knocking him off his feet and sending his pistol sliding away. He landed with a crunch on the wet, hard ground, his left shoulder separating, firing a burst of pain down his arm and into the fingers.

Yellow eyes glared down at him as the Hellhound landed on top of him, its jaws clamping down with brutal force on his left forearm. The beast shook its head, and Frank cried out as old, long-dead bones snapped, tendons tore, and flesh shredded. The beast picked him up by the arm, shaking him like a piece of meat ripped from a carcass.

An instant later, he flew through the air and landed with a splash on the muddy hillside. Pain roared where his arm had been torn off, leaving a jagged stump of bone below the elbow, blood pulsing from the wound. He waited for his body to fix itself, but nothing happened. Perhaps he’d reached the limits of re-animation, but blood continued to flow, pain burning.

Frank forced himself to his knees. His six-shooter sat a few feet away, so he picked it up with his remaining hand. The Hellhound still shook the chunk of his arm in its jaws, oblivious in its bloodlust to his presence. Frank spun the cylinder open on his pistol and dumped six empty shells onto the ground. His ammo belt held only one more round: his last coated bullet.

He felt eyes on him, and looked up to find the Hellhound stalking closer. It tossed aside the severed stub of his arm, growling and showing bright, dripping, yellow fangs.

Frank held his pistol between his knees and fed the bullet into the cylinder, slapping the gun back into one piece. If he used the bullet on the Hellhound, he’d have nothing but the cuffs with which to handle James, but if he didn’t, he’d die before he could take the bandit back to Hell.

He brought the gun up in his right hand, aiming at the hellhound’s head. The beast stalked closer, jaws snapping, eyes glowing with yellow malice through the drenching rain. Frank pulled back the hammer, braced himself, and—

A dark shape streaked over Frank’s shoulder with a fierce snarl, barreling into the hound and driving it backward. The two tumbled across the ground, splashing through puddles, silhouettes against the flashes of lightning that lit up the night sky.

A second creature growled now, a fierce but earthy sound punctuated with the snapping of teeth. Then came a sickening crunch, a tearing sound, and a long, hissing gurgle. The Hellhound lay still on the grass, fur matted with mud and blood, as a smaller creature stalked toward Frank. Its eyes didn’t glow, and when it dropped the Hellhound’s ripped-out throat at Frank’s feet, he knew it meant him no harm.

Batcho nudged the destroyed chunk of flesh toward Frank, his tongue lolling out to one side as blood dripped from his lips. He yipped.

“I guess you’re useful, after all.”

Batcho growled again, but this time, his eyes focused up the steps.

“What a pleasant surprise that was,” James hissed. “Now, you die together.”

Frank turned, pain throbbing up the remains of his arm and into his shoulder, to find James staring down at him from behind Camille. The killer held his pistol to Camille’s head, and Frank knew he couldn’t shoot the bandit without hitting the hooker.

“See, gunfighter,” James mocked, “to kill me, you have to kill two kinds of people you can’t stand killing: a woman and a child.”

Frank studied the situation, taking in every angle. His consciousness was fading, his vision wavering. Spike lay in a crumpled heap to his right, the extinguished dynamite clutched to his chest. To the left, Mills was nowhere to be seen, and one dress-wearing gang member knelt and lit the dynamite fuse. It sparked and sputtered in the rain.

Camille’s eyes remained blank, but her jaw had clenched, as if she were straining against a great force. Yet, she still stood in front of Jesse James.

James was right—Frank would have to kill Camille and Jeb Fisher to do what he’d been sent to do. And even that might not be enough to send the robber back to Hell. He holstered his gun.

James laughed his serpentine, mocking laugh. “Ha! I knew you couldn’t kill a child! You’ve gone soft, Butcher. You’re as worthless a marshal as you were a father.”

The words hit like hammers, knocking Frank to his knees while Jesse James tossed his head back and laughed. In that instant, Camille’s blank stare changed, as if she’d broken James’ control. She blinked hard, looked Frank right in the eye, and nodded.

That gave him hope, and, with hope, came an idea.

A shot rang out to his left. It took him a moment to realize he’d been hit, but when he felt tightness in his chest, he looked down to see blood seeping through a hole in his duster. Pain hit him hard, making him gasp and causing bubbles to sputter in the blood. The shooter fell, a shot from the Sharps reaching Frank a split second later, but Stan was too late.

Frank fell on his face in the dirt. As darkness swirled around him, threatening to drag him into its depths forever, he heard a voice. It sounded distant, across a great sea maybe, but he knew it. It had haunted him for years.

Pa, get up,
it pleaded.
You can’t give up. They need you.

“Ron?” Frank whispered, forcing his eyes to remain open.

Kill him, Pa. It’s what he needs.

Then the voice was gone, echoing through him, urging him to do what needed done, offering something Frank had never expected: forgiveness.

Gathering the last scraps of his strength, Frank vaulted to his feet and sprinted up the hill, angling left, keeping James in sight. The robber turned, keeping Camille between them. Frank needed to be closer, but the fuse burned short. Time was running out.

Finally, when he couldn’t get any closer, Frank threw the cuffs. Camille snatched the steel bracelets out of the air and snapped one on Jeb Fisher’s wrist where he held her throat. The boy’s black eyes widened, but he didn’t loosen his grip, and a moment later, he laughed.

“You still can’t kill her.”

“She’s already dead,” Frank growled.

He drew and fired.

James’ head snapped back as Camille spun to the right. A trickle of blood rolled down his forehead, dripping from his right eyebrow onto his cheek, and smoke rose from a hole just above his right eye. But he didn’t fall.

He wiped the blood on the back of his hand and looked at it. For a heartbeat, Frank thought he’d failed, that the Holy-whiskey hadn’t been enough to kill a creature as strong as James and his rampage through the world of the living would continue.

Then Camille jumped forward, snatched the Bowie from James’ belt, and buried it to the hilt in his throat.

“Go to hell, you sonofabitch!”

James staggered backward, and for a moment, his black eyes turned blue in the light of the doorway. Frank expected Jeb Fisher to look scared, but instead, his features relaxed and he looked…relieved. Then the obsidian returned to his eyes, and the corners of his mouth angled down.

“This ain’t over, Butcher.”

With that, he toppled over, a swirling cloud of green light engulfing him, dragging James’ soul from Jeb Fisher’s body and back to the depths of Hell faster than Frank expected. The body that hit the ground was once again just a boy.

Camille faced Frank and smiled for an instant, but blood streamed down her neck where Frank’s bullet had passed through before hitting James. She gave Frank a helpless look, then collapsed on top of Jeb Fisher.

Frank forced his legs to move toward the dynamite at the north corner of the building, right under the window where Crittenden and Pinkerton met, but he knew he couldn’t do it. He wasn’t fast enough. He collapsed to his knees beside the crumpled form of a man in a dress, a shotgun by his side.

A figure rose from the hillside, and a flash of lightning showed a bowler on its head. Mills grabbed the dynamite, hugged it to his chest, and dove down the hill just as the explosion shook the earth.

Frank bowed his head. In the distance, Stan’s stagecoach barreled toward him, the driver’s blue eyes slicing through the night like beacons. Beside him rode Curtis, and for an instant, Ron’s voice whispered in his mind again.

He needs a father.

The voice reminded Frank why he’d been in Hell in the first place. Ron had died at his hands, a life cut short by one bent on violence.

Frank looked around at the bodies littering the hillside. How many innocent women had he killed? And he’d killed the boy Jeb Fisher, too. Once a killer, always a killer.

Curtis deserved better. If he grew up with Frank as a father figure, he’d end up just like him—a murderer. And now, more than ever, Frank deserved Hell.

Frank picked up the shotgun and put the barrel under his chin. From the speeding stage, Curtis screamed, and Stan reined in, hugging the boy close, shielding his eyes.

Knowing Curtis was in good hands, Frank pulled the trigger.

EPILOGUE

F
rank stood before the judges’ long table in Hell again as the three shadowy figures in dusters marched into the dark room, and stood behind the table. Flames shot higher against the back wall as if angered by their presence.

As always, their eyes glowed: blue on the right, green on the left, and a spiteful red of hate in the middle, where Judge John Webber stood, arms crossed over his chest.

“You did what we asked.” Webber’s voice sounded less than pleased.

“Despite your lies and omissions, yes.”

Pain exploded in his temples, driving him to his knees. When it relented, Webber hissed a laugh.

“Learn your place, Marshal.”

“You should have told me about the prospector.” Frank struggled to his feet. “And that damned Hellhound. How did they know where to find me?”

The judges conferred in their snake-hiss voices.

“We do not know,” they said, as one.

“Kinda what I thought,” Frank muttered. Webber’s eyes narrowed. He was hiding something, Frank knew, not that it mattered now. “I held up my end of the bargain, now—”

The steel-bound double doors behind him boomed open, allowing Camille and Spike to enter. Camille glared at Frank as she passed.

“What’s up your petticoats?” Frank snarled at her. “You told me to take the shot.”

“I thought you’d shoot around me, not through me!” A bullet hole oozed blood in the nape of her throat, and her voice whistled and gurgled. “Now I’m back here again, you jackass.”

“Silence!” Webber bellowed. “Jesse James’ soul has been returned to Hell, true, but not without extensive chaos and death in the world of the living. We had to pull the wool over The Boss’s eyes, which ain’t easy to do. You violated the second part of our agreement.

“However, you did prevent James from advancing his plan, and saved the lives of several innocents, so the court imposes the following sentences. Camille Logan and Stephen ”Spike” Miller, your suffering will be reduced by half.”

Camille looked visibly relieved, and even Spike relaxed, his shoulders slumping and his fists unclenching.

“What about Mills?” Frank asked. “He died doing good.”

The judges conferred a moment before answering.

“Charles Mills faces tests in his own underworld now to determine his eternal fate. Your guide is helping him.”

Frank felt a tinge of pity for the detective. Those would be difficult tests. Painful. And Batcho would be little help.

“Now, Frank Butcher, we will reduce your punishment by a quarter, since you did kill an exceedingly large number of innocent people, and were belligerent before this court.”

Frank pointed at Webber, taking a half-step forward before remembering the explosion of pain the man could cause.

“Way I see it,” he growled, “I killed innocent women and put a slug between the eyes of a fourteen year old boy. I deserve more pain. That was our deal.”

Webber dropped his hands to his side, brushing aside his duster to reveal a six-shooter holstered there, a green glow surrounding it. His threat went unspoken, but Frank heard it clearly, nonetheless.

“Like I said,” Webber replied, his voice dropping as his eyes smoldered, “you failed in half of your assigned tasks and needed us to bail you out of trouble, so the deal is void.”

Rage coursing through him, Frank fought the urge to rush the figure and wrap his fingers around his throat. The green glow of Webber’s gun held his temper in check—if his soul was destroyed, his suffering would end and atonement would halt forever. So he stood, fists clenched, fuming at the judges.

He’d done things just as bad as his original sins, yet somehow, he was destined to suffer less. Fists bunched at his sides, Frank managed to suppress the rage flowing through his body. They’d set him up to fail, manipulated him from the start, and in the end, they still got their way. Frank had inched closer to forgiveness he didn’t deserve.

The judges filed out of the room, but just before he left, Webber stopped and looked Frank in the eye.

“Don’t worry too much, Marshal. You’ll have other chances. The position of Hell’s Marshal is appointed for eternity.”

Webber started to go, but Frank wasn’t done.

“James didn’t know about the Hellhound.”

Webber stopped, his back to Frank. “He must have.”