Resurrected. George “Haw Shot” Hawley hadn’t expected such a thing. Testing his body, he rolled his shoulders and shook each limb. They all worked, except his head. If he moved it too much, it fell off. Yet his senses worked, and he could speak. So he didn’t have much to grumble about, except for the strange thoughts sometimes invading his mind. No problem. He’d get rid of the birdman’s influence soon enough. It had no strength, annoying him like a case of the hiccups.
“Haw, haw!” Anyone in George’s way would be sorry. He hadn’t changed at all, except for the empty holsters. Hell on hot sand, he wanted a gun.
The birdman tasted strange, like fresh peas and sour beer. It tried to tell George what to do. Grab the man watching us.
Haw Shot hated being told what to do, but he hated being spied on more. “Haw, haw.” His first couple of steps stumbled. The nippy air pressed into his muffled senses, which worked slow. Everything about him worked slow, except for his hate and the pretty vows the birdman whispered in his mind. Kill. Revenge. Blood. Bart lives, but not for long. Not if you swear to listen to me.
Revenge had a ring to it. Maybe the thing in his head was his guardian angel. What else could have resurrected him from the grave?
The man on the rocks is Bart.
A temptation Haw Shot couldn’t say no to. “My guardian angel promises me a kill.” He howled his words, enjoying his new job as a spook. “You’re going to die, Bart. Outlaws shooting it out. It’s our destiny.”
Haw Shot had only met Black Bart once, well not so much met as spied on him. From thick brush, he had watched Bart perform the perfect heist, getting away clean with the Wells Fargo box and the mail pouches, earning more script with less effort than soldiering ever paid.
The following day, Haw Shot had polished his guns and loaded them with his best bullets. From town he procured a flour sack and cut two eye holes in it. Returning to the same spot Bart had profited from, Haw Shot had hid, waiting on the next stagecoach. Wheels crunched up the road, and the horses’ harnesses jangled. When he heard the driver’s whistles, Haw Shot jumped out, firing. “Haw, haw.”
A pretty young lady with golden curls had wept, bleeding from her stomach, hit by one of his bullets. Men and women in the coach had wailed like sunrise would never happen again.
Worse, the stagecoach had a shotgun rider and a second as a passenger. Crack shots, they had aimed at George and pulled their triggers. A fiery kick roared through his shoulder and another in his gut.
That had been the last thing Haw Shot saw until he found himself sitting on a horse under a tree with rope around his neck. The pretty young lady, dead because of him, had a lot of friends. The mother kicked the horse out from under him, wishing him an eternity in hell. As if the angels granted her wish, the rope had snapped off George’s head.
Entrenched in chaos and death, the heist had caused more raucous than any of Bart’s, yet no one knew Haw Shot’s name. His life, or lack of, was all Bart’s fault, and it was all Bart’s fault no one had ever heard of the notorious Haw Shot. “It’s not fair. Everyone knows who you are, Bart, and you never killed anybody. You never stole a huge amount of gold. You still got your head. That isn’t right.”
Stumbling down the trail, Haw Shot smelled cedar, sage, and juniper mixed in with the pines. Hot on a desert rock, it was nice to smell again. Crispness from snowy mountain peaks tingled his deadened skin. “This ain’t Nevada County.”
“No, it isn’t.” Bart came down from his perch to stand before Haw Shot, fresh and full of vigor. Life danced in those cold blue eyes. Not for much longer.
Vengeance would go down better than three thick steaks. Haw Shot licked his lips. “Last time I saw you, you was gray and wrinkled. How’d you get younger?” It irked him to distraction his holsters were empty. Bart’s were too. It’d be a fair fight then.
“I don’t recall ever meeting you, but I’ll be straight as the wind is true. The truth is awful. You sure you want to know it? We’re being used for nefarious purposes by things from another world.”
“Nefurious. You made that up. Haw, haw.” Bart was full of it, like his method of robbing stagecoaches. “You done this to me, you piece of shit. You’re a goblin or something, bewitching stagecoach drivers. Nothing else explains why you wasn’t shot and hanged.”
“I see. You had known of me.”
Haw Shot growled. “Where’s your diamond pins and fancy rings?”
Take them from him. Attack. George’s angel had some good advice.
Haw Shot lunged. His angel rewarded him, sending surges of great power into his veins. He felt alive, so deliciously alive. Green spindles of energy arced from his fingers, wrapping around Bart, squeezing, jolting, until Bart fell limp to the ground.
The more you listen, the more power I’ll grant you. You’ll rule this desert.
“King George. Haw, haw.”
Take Bart with you. Vengeance is coming. He will hang.
Yee haw for revenge. A path led out of the clearing. Haw Shot lumbered down it to a dirt road, dragging Bart by the leg. When the dirt met up with a paved track, Haw Shot stomped his feet on it. He liked the smoothness of it. “Must be an enchanted road.” What else could it be? He veered toward a blinking light. It called him like a beacon. He could travel forever and drag Bart to the moon. Being a spook was all right. He didn’t tire or feel pain.
The light blazed brighter with a profound message. Vacancy blazed under a dancing cowboy heralding Leeds Motel.
“Saloon girls.” It had been too long since Haw Shot had the companionship of the fairer sex. “Haw, haw.” Lights snapped on and three faces peered out of windows. “Haw, haw.”
In the middle of the long building of doors, a larger section had brighter lights. Open, it said in red neon. Haw Shot shuffled toward it. A slight woman with long black hair fumbled with the glass doors and a set of keys, frowning at him with wide eyes. Her voice trembled through the glass. “Go away. I’m calling the police.” She held something to her ear, her foot tapping.
Her heartbeat echoed in Haw Shot’s chest. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Delicious. He pressed Bart’s face to the glass. “Meet your doom.”
Bart’s fist pounded on the pane. “Susan, run. Run!”
The drumming of Bart’s rapid breaths filled Haw Shot’s lungs, and he squeezed Bart’s throat until it stopped, a limp Bart doll to do with as Haw Shot pleased. “Haw, haw.”
“Deputy Banks? This is Susan Leeds at the Leeds Motel. You need to get out here. I’ve an intruder. Earl Blacke…”
She didn’t need to say anything more. Haw Shot reached through the glass, putting his arm through it as if the glass didn’t exist, and clutched onto her neck. The object in her hand dropped to the floor. It squawked like an angel, “Miss Leeds? You there? Miss Leeds? Mr. Blacke?”
Haw Shot stepped all the way into the motel office, this time shattering the glass into shards. He liked the effect, the way the pieces sparkled as if they knew they contributed to the deeds of a great name. Haw Shot would be known. “Haw, haw.”
Teasing power churned up in Haw Shot’s gut. You feel it? his angel said. It’s yours if you get her head.
“Keep that coming, and I’ll do whatever you say.” Haw Shot slipped his hands into Bart’s, and placed Bart’s fingers around the blubbering lady’s neck. Using Earl as his puppet had a lot of appeal, especially if it resulted in power and revenge. Earl would hang for killing the lady. Fantastic. “Haw haw.”
“Earl,” she wailed. “Earl, don’t.” Her screams filled Haw Shot as sweetly as kisses.
The object on the floor talked again, yelling. “Susan? Earl?”
Not letting go of Bart’s hands, keeping them on the woman’s neck, Haw Shot twisted Susan Leed’s head until it popped off. Her gurgles and shrieks serenaded him like the clink of bullets in his pocket. Finally, he let go of Black Bart, depositing him on the floor beside the headless woman. “Payment begins, old friend.”
Placing the new head on his shoulder, she had such pretty hair, Haw Shot felt as good as if he had unloaded three guns. “Haw, haw.”
hapter 