The Ghost of Apache Creek

Chapter 21

Sam Pace glanced at the star-scattered sky and wondered if the night would ever end. The thud of his boots sounded loud in the quiet and answering echoes bounced off the buildings he passed, adding thuds of their own.

The moon hung low in the sky and the surrounding mountains caught and held its gauzy light, drawing it over their firm peaks like a woman does her shift.

Pace was tired. His back ached and a headache threatened.

As though reading the younger man’s mind, Lake said, “A while yet until sunup. Maybe we should grab your duds and then catch a few hours’ sleep.”

Pace smiled. “I guess a burying can tucker a man.”

“Depends how deep the hole is,” Lake said.

Like the rest of Requiem’s survivors, the store owners had left in a hurry, leaving most of their stock behind.

Pace had no trouble outfitting himself with new underwear, socks, a pair of denim work pants, a blue shirt, and wide canvas suspenders.

The duds smelled of dust and age, but they fit pretty well.

He tried a new Stetson hat, but reckoned it would take years to break in and shape to his liking, and decided to stick with his old one.

As Lake predicted, Pace’s appearance had improved greatly.

“Crackerjack.” The old man beamed, looking him over from head to toe. “Boy, if’n I didn’t know better, I’d swear you wasn’t even tetched in the head.”

Pace caught up Heap Leggett’s stud near the livery stable and led it inside. He’d ride the horse come morning, but now he stripped off the saddle, pitched the big animal hay, then added a few oats he shook out from the bottom of a sack.

The theft of his Appaloosa rankled him, and its recovery would be part of the reckoning he’d exact on Beau Harcourt when the time came.

And the reckoning would come soon—right after he found Jess Leslie.

Pace stepped out of the livery and stopped.

Lake stood next to him and said, “Time for some shut-eye, Sam.”

It was as though Pace hadn’t heard him.

“Mash, you see anything strange about the graveyard?” he said.

“Not so I noticed. But hell, boy, it’s a place for the dead, not the living, so it’s gonna be strange.”

“The ground was disturbed. In places it looked dug, or churned up from the bottom.”

“I didn’t see that.”

“I had a dream,” Pace said. “At least I think it was a dream.”

“What did you dream about?”

“The folks who died of the cholera rose from their graves and walked in the street. I mean, right here, where we’re at. And . . .”

A few moments passed; then Lake said, “And?’

Pace took a breath. “They were hungry, Mash. As though being three years dead had given them an appetite.”

“You mean they asked you fer food? Is that it?”

“No, but they were coming for me. To eat me. All them dead people.”

Lake thought it through for a few moments, then said, “Sam, you ain’t right in the head. A man who’s tetched can have all kinds of bad dreams. Hell, even them who ain’t crazy can have bad dreams.”

The older man was silent for a while, then turned to look at Pace. He lifted the lantern he’d taken from the general store to see the younger man’s face better.

“The wind lifts the sand and blows it around,” Lake said. “That’s what happened at the graveyard. Just the wind, boy. It was just the wind.”

“But it seemed so real, that dream. Like they were right here, in the street, so close I could smell them.”

“Well, a dream would seem real to a crazy man. It’s the same kind of real that makes you think you’re the marshal of a ghost town.”

“I am the marshal. Nobody in Requiem ever said I wasn’t.”

“Sam,” Lake said, “you just ain’t right. And that’s a pity because you’re a real nice young feller when you ain’t nuts.”

“I didn’t see them, the dead people?”

“No, you didn’t, and that’s the honest truth.”

Lake put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder, his voice taking on a sharp edge. “No more dreams about dead people, boy. Dreams take you nowhere, but a good kick in the ass will take you a long way. Understand?”

Pace smiled. “You mean if I dream about dead people again, you’ll kick me up the ass?”

“Exactly. You’ve got the picture, Sam.”

This time Pace laughed out loud, and it felt good. “Then I promise, Mash. No more bad dreams.”

“Good, because at my age I don’t think I can raise my boot high enough to kick a tall feller like you up the ass.” He smiled. “At least, not as a regular thing.”

Lake had night eyes and as they walked back to the marshal’s office, he saw the two riders before Pace did.

And his old lawman’s gut instinct warned him to treat them for what they were—trouble.

“Riders coming,” he said. He stopped in his tracks and eased the Remington in its cross-draw holster.

“Trouble?” Pace said.

“That’s what it shapes up to be, boy—trouble in pairs.”

Unless a man is cavalry-trained to revolver-fight off the back of a horse, he’ll always dismount to get his work in.

Enoch and Jeptha Santee were no exceptions.

The brothers stepped out of the leather, slapped their horses aside, and walked toward Pace and Lake.

They moved easily, with none of the horseman’s stiff-kneed gait. Both men were smiling, self-assured, confident of their gun skills.

Pace took a single step away from Lake.

“On your left, Mash,” he said.

He smiled. “Howdy, boys, looking for a place to rest up?” He waved a hand. “You got the whole town to choose from.”

“Where the hell is everybody?” Enoch said. He noticed the star on Pace’s shirt and added, “Lawman.”

Lake answered for Pace.

“This here is a ghost town, boys. Nobody here but us two, poor old Mash Lake as ever was, and Marshal Sam Pace, who ain’t right.”

“Ain’t right in the head, you mean?” Enoch said.

“Now, would he think he’s the marshal of a ghost town if’n he wasn’t tetched?”

“He do look tetched, with that shaved head an’ all,” Jeptha said. “Don’t he, Enoch?”

“Shut your trap, Jeptha. I got business to attend to here.”

“Here, hold up a minute,” Lake said. “Enoch and Jeptha. I know them names. Ain’t you young gentlemen good ol’ Deacon Santee’s sons?”

“What’s it to you, old man?” Enoch said.

“Why, ’cause I’m a friend of yore daddy, fine, churchgoin’ feller that he is. Surely you heard him talk about ol’ Mash Lake and what a true-blue friend of his’n I am?”

“Pa ain’t never mentioned you,” Enoch said.

He looked on edge, hard in the mouth, his eyes lost in shadow.

“I’m looking for a girl,” he said.

“None of them in this town,” Pace said. “You want a woman, go someplace else where there are sich.”

“I want one partic’lar woman, crazy man,” Enoch said.

“Well, she ain’t here,” Pace said.

Pace knew he was being pushed and he didn’t like it. A gunfighter’s pride is a touchy thing. It’s like a stick of dynamite. All it takes is a pushing man to light the fuse and it’ll explode.

Enoch Santee was on the prod and he already had a match burning.

“Mister,” Enoch said, “I say you’re a damned liar.”

“Here,” Lake said, “that’s a hard thing to say to a man.”

“You shut up, you old coot,” Enoch said. “I won’t tell you a second time.”

He turned his head slightly, his voice rising.

“Jeptha, search the place, starting with the marshal’s office. The girl is here. I can smell her. These two idiots got her stashed somewhere.”

“Stay out of my office, Jeptha,” Pace said.

His voice held an edge sharp enough to shave with.

“An’ if’n he don’t?” Enoch said.

Pace would be pushed no further.

“If’n he don’t, I’ll kill him,” he said.