Tintype Dream, Chapter Three
Preacher Lady
It says here… Medicine Man cranks out the Huck Show. Daniel and Connor engage in fisticuffs. Hickey Blue and The Roamers ain’t the name of a band. Preacher Lady quotes scripture but not how you think.
Everybody was coming to watch the huck show, and the fight that Donal’s courier kid had posted around town on handbills. The crowd was already thick. The kid did his job well. The Medicine Wagon eased into the open space in front of the Demon Room. Teamsters, railroad laborers and camp followers were drifting out of tents and saloons. Newspaper stories from the last town were passed around, and the whole Canyon was talking about miraculous cures and the bare knuckles fight coming up. Medicine Man didn’t waste any time. He stepped down from the driver bench, his dusty trail coat replaced by the brilliant flash of his red tux, top hat and tails. The side panels of Traveller began to fold out, wood creaking, massive impossible depth as the stage show unfolded right there and then. Awnings snapped open, tables clicked into place, and a circus smell of sawdust, old parchment and Crimson Elixir wafted into the air of Canyon Diablo. Medicine Man stepped up onto the platform stage that now extended from Traveller’s side. Behind him the fairground letters glowed shiny and sharp under the late sun. He raised his hands and shifted his voice into a powerful and rhythmic, theatrical patter that cut through the dull roar. “Gatha ‘round, folks! Gatha ‘round! Heap Big Medicine Wagon, open for business heah!” He held up a bottle of Crimson Elixir, red glass flashing like a ruby in the dust. “Step right up, citizens of Canyon Diablo! I have crossed the territories to bring you a Sovereign Remedy! A cure for ague, fever, gout, grinding of the bones!” He pointed straight into the crowd. A teamster with a crippled, stiff wrist got pulled onto the stage. Medicine Man applied a few drops of oil, wrapped the forearm and with a swift crackling pop, the man’s fingers snapped wide open. The crowd let out a low, collective gasp. An old camp washerwoman was bent double, but took a long swallow of Crimson Elixir and straightened up, standing with a tearful shout, then running off the steps and down the street. The huck was working flawlessly. The crimson hat hypnotically reflected the sun, now back on the Medicine Man’s head, tipped back as he worked the huck, pulled lower as he stared intensely into the eyes of the audience, bent low at the knees and pointed out people to step up. The silver dollars were clinking steadily into the sales boxes as he looked to the sky, waving his cane.
Med paused dramatically, standing tall. He tumbled his stovepipe hat up and down his arm. Then the canvas flap of the Demon Room flew open wide and Daniel stepped out, pulling his shirt over his long blond hair, tossing his wide hat back into the saloon. His torso was thick with muscle and scarred from campaign skirmishes. His long goatee framed a grin telling the crowd all they wanted to know. He leaped onto the open platform, which suddenly expanded into a wide, sawdust-covered prize ring, raising his fists together over his head. Lynch now knew who his opponent was for the brawl this afternoon. He stepped down from Charger’s saddle as his hat dropped to the ground. He stripped off his new denim shirt, revealing the hard, lean frame of a trench veteran, his purple noose burn standing out starkly. Both men looked across the ring and realized exactly who they faced: citizens of the liminal space surrounding The Veil. Each refused the heavy leather gloves held out. This was a bare-knuckle brawl under old-school rules. They began to dance across the sawdust, limbering up their shoulders, throwing fast snappy combinations into the air. Their footwork was fancy, rhythmic, perfectly synchronized to fire the crowd into a frenzy. Daniel pointed a massive fist over the heads of the crowd, calling out a wealthy rail contractor to double his bet, while Lynch locked eyes with the mercantile owner, who stepped between them with a heavy brass watch to referee the rounds. The circle of teamsters and railroad men pressed tight against the Medicine Wagon’s ring, as the crowd stirred and rumbled on Hell Street. Both men hung their gun belts on nearby hooks at the corners of Traveller, touching fists.
Then the mercantile proprietor stepped into the center, face turning hard, stern as a hanging judge. He extended both his palms turned up flat, and waited. No words were needed. Both men sheepishly handed over an assortment of wicked knives. The crowd let out long, low whistles and appreciative murmurs as the iron came out. Daniel grinned and pulled out a huge, heavy stag-handled Bowie knife, with a crossguard thick enough to stop a cavalry sabre. He laid it onto the merchant’s right hand. Then he produced a small, double-edged boot dagger from his trousers. A long, narrow dagger with a wavy blade came out of his right moccasin. A sharpened rail spike from the left. A folding straight razor appeared from a pouch at his neck, under his hair. He held his hands high, nodding to the crowd with a smile. The referee reached over and pulled a large nail out of one belt loop and a knitting needle from the other. Lynch didn’t blink. He reached behind his back and slid out a wicked, foot long Arkansas Toothpick from his waistband. The referee pointed at his boot. An eight inch stiletto slid from the right one. With a grin from Lynch, a folding saw appeared from the left, Daniel raising an eyebrow and nodding in approval. He reached behind his neck, and three throwing knives came out of his hair. The referee frowned, and two more slid into his hand, drawing applause from both Daniel and the crowd. Then, from the inner pocket of his discarded vest, he pulled out a thin, bone-handled folding steel spike, the kind used by the Irish Brigade for close-quarters trench clearing. He laid these across the merchant’s left palm. The merchant weighed the iron for a second, gave both men a final, stern warning look and stepped back through the ropes. He displayed the collection of blades high over his head so the teamsters and rail workers could easily see the rules were fists and boots.
The two fighters turned back to the center. They approached the line, Daniel’s now-bare feet gripping the fresh sawdust on the wagon’s platform. They touched knuckles again and stepped back. Daniel’s long blond hair swung like a curtain as he bobbled his weight, shoulders rolling while Lynch planted his dogger-heeled boots wide, eyes locked onto the other big man’s chin. The merchant dropped his arm. The brass watch clicked. They each struck suddenly, big left hands. Both connected. Eyes went wide, they shook their heads, and both went with a huge right. Both connected, each staggering. They rubbed their jaws, circling with big grins. Again both men went to stunning left uppercuts. Daniel’s jaw took the full force of the Irishman’s knuckles. His long goatee flew back over his shoulder. The violent impact snapped Lynch's head sideways, rattling the raw, purple rope burn on his neck. For one heartbeat, the shouting from the teamsters and the railroad labor died flat in the red mud of Hell Street, Canyon Diablo’s main drag. Suddenly the entire town went absolutely feral, running to the counter, arms raised while hard dollars slammed onto sales counters. People thundered and bellowed as the betting odds shattered. Lynch straightened up, away from the woodwork, rubbing his jaw. He tasted fresh blood where a tooth cut the inside of his lip. Across the sawdust, Daniel was doing the same thing. He wiped dust and blood from his handlebar moustache with a thick thumb. They began to circle again, feet whispering through the sawdust, guards back up, waiting for the next collision. Daniel approached wary, fists high in the 1877 Modern Style, in a wide stance. Lynch crouched forward slightly, fists guarding his face, maybe a little more 1867. Suddenly Daniel sat fast, extending both legs between Lynch’s ankles, rolling to one side, and dropped Lynch onto his back. Both sat up facing each other and Lynch caught a handful of Daniel’s beard with his right hand. He leaned back and gave out two quick jabs with his left. Daniel grabbed a double handful of Lynch’s face, trying to gouge an eye. Lynch grabbed Daniel’s long hair and yanked his head back. Then the crack of a gunshot shattered the crowd noise, as a bullet bit deep into the thick crimson paneling of Traveller, to the sound of splintering wood.
Both men instantly rolled apart and dived for their guns. Lynch’s fingers closed around the heavy leather of his gun rig, ripping the Army .44 free of its grease-blackened leather. Across the ring, Daniel’s hand was already wrapped around his own iron, hammer clicked back, a sound that carried over the moving crowd. Teamsters and railroad labor crawled in the red mud of Hell Street, scrambled behind wagons and buckboard wheels to clear the line of fire. Lynch dropped into a low combat crouch behind the wooden rail of the ring, eyes scanning rooftops and gaps between pine-plank saloons. Daniel was right beside him, shoulder to shoulder. “Where’d it come from, Irish?” Daniel grunted, eyes tracking the smoke floating near O’Donall Vice. Lynch didn’t answer. Just cocked the Army .44 and pointed its long barrel toward the roof of the hardware store, where a silhouette moved behind a stack of green lumber.
Daniel suddenly bellowed, “Hickey Blue you scurvy rascal!” Dropping his Colt next to Lynch, he leaped the ropes and picked up Lynch’s huge Arkansas toothpick as he flashed a wild, wicked grin. His bare feet slammed against the rough-sawn pine planks of the boardwalk, long blond hair flying back over his shoulders. “I had about enough of your horse feathers, Hickey boy!” Daniel roared, voice carrying loud over the hiss of the locomotive at the siding. He wasn’t taking cover. He brandished the massive blade high in the desert sun. His goatee twitched with fury as he headed for the timber stacks on the roof. Lynch didn’t waste any time. He dropped over the wagon rail and kept his pistol leveled at the hardware roof to cover the big man’s advance, as the whole of Canyon Diablo held its breath, watching for the collision. Lynch spotted a line of men coming up the street before the crowd did. “Take cover!” he yelled, “got men comin’ in!” a hoarse, ragged noise like ripping canvas tore from his damaged throat. He grabbed Daniel’s Peacemaker .45 off the platform and walked down the middle of the street, one gun held to each side, barrels facing up, making himself visible. The crowd dispersed, instantly vanishing as Lynch strode down the street towards the four men, who approached with hands above their pistols, in a ragged rank across the street. As the men passed in front of the hardware store a wild and terrifying scream split the sky. A bellowing war cry. “Got ‘em outnumbered!” Daniel, running at full speed, swan-dived off the roof with a rifle in one hand and Lynch’s huge knife in the other. He bowled over the two men on his side of the street, stabbed one through the eye, shot him in the chest and worked the rifle’s lever action as he rose, shooting the second. The other two went for their guns. Lynch emptied both revolvers into ‘em, as they jigged and jerked, finally straightening up, falling straight to their backs, spread eagled in the street. The silence hit Main Street heavy. Black powder and the smells of hot grease and bloodshed drifted on the smoke. Daniel stood over the two bleeding heaps on his side, bare chest splattered with red as he wiped the Arkansas toothpick on a dead man’s shoulder. He looked back up the street through his long blond hair, handlebar moustache twisted in a wide, dangerous grin. “Told ya!” Daniel yelled, spitting a glob of blood into the dirt. “Hickey’s boys don’t know how to count.” As they shook hands, Medicine Man stepped down, sayin’ loud to the street, “Hickey Blue’s men was outnumbered this time.” He turned in a circle, yelling, “Come on out y’all! It’s okay now!” No response. Dead quiet on Hell Street.
Preacher Lady stepped out close by the Medicine Wagon calling out, “Don’t be too sure ‘bout that, Medicine Man! Lord’s work ain’t done yet!” A murmur rose as she started down the street, brandishing a Bible and a machete. Lynch and Daniel’s eyes got big, as they looked slowly at each other, then turned around. The four men in the street began to rise limply, as if pulled up by their collars. Hickey Blue rolled off the roof, landing in a heap, head nearly severed from a huge gaping neck wound. Then he was dragged to his feet the same way, like puppet strings, head lolling at an unnatural angle. Slowly a dust devil wandered through town, crossed the line of jerking corpses making their way up the street, then faded away as the dirt blew off ‘em, revealing the truth. “Zombie Raiders!” yelled Medicine Man. “Doomed Rebs who killed the innocent!” The murmur grew louder. Residents began crawling out from under the stairs, under boardwalks, out of alleys and businesses, brandishing cutlasses, cleavers, machetes, sharpened hoes and joined Preacher Lady’s resistance. An Army of Righteousness, marching shoulder to shoulder down the middle of Main Street to put the dead back in the dirt. Lynch and Daniel stood in the center of the road, eyes wide but their grips tightening on their weapons. Lynch’s damaged throat let out a low, dangerous growl as he readied the heavy .44, heels digging into the mud, alongside Daniel with his Colt. The circus show was over. The War for Canyon Diablo had begun.
“Do NOT shoot them!” thundered the Preacher Lady. “The sulfur of gunpowder feeds their evil souls! Only sanctified steel can return them whence they came! REPEL THEM!” She shrieked. The crowd charged, screaming hymns, scripture, the gospel chants of the rail crews at the darkening sky, a guttural roar filling the town. Lynch and Daniel pivoted on their heels and sprinted hard through the oncoming wave of machetes, sharpened hoes and raised bibles, heading straight back to Traveller. Their blades! They needed their blades! When they reached the Medicine Wagon, the local Catholic priest was sprinkling the pile of knives with holy water, uttering an invocation. The two hard men skidded to a stop, Lynch placing the Arkansas toothpick on the pile. Their heads bowed, bare chests heaving from the sprint, hands clasped at their waists in reverent silence, they waited while the priest shook the silver hyssop. The holy water hissed against the cold iron blades like sausage fat in a hot iron skillet.
The guttural roar of the town’s righteous army droned with the thud-thud of the railroad hammers on the bridge, creating a driving cadence that filled the Canyon. The red-orange sky over Canyon Diablo bruised into a deep, storm-dark purple, wind howling through the spokes of the Medicine Wagon as the invocation finished. The steel was sanctified. The tools were ready. Lynch and Daniel turned just in time to see the corpses disappear howling, into the boiling crowd, the still-shrieking Preacher Lady wildly hacking in a frenzy. She stood on the mob’s shoulders and flung the head of Hickey Blue out over Canyon Diablo as it burst into flames falling, falling into the void. A railroad lineman turned from high atop the skeletal framework of the piledriver gantry, a silhouette in the sky as he tracked the falling fire with an extended arm and heaved his pike. It arced with the perfect, heavy trajectory of an iron harpoon and plunged through the flaming head of Hickey Blue from temple to temple, driving it deep into the Canyon beneath the uncompleted tracks.
Lynch and Daniel stood by Traveller with fresh-blessed blades heavy and cold in their fists. They’d never struck a blow. The Army of Righteousness slaughtered the Raiders, nothing remaining but the smell of sulfur and burnt hair. Out at the end of the line, the ox-driven crane let out a long screech as it reset its stabilizers on the wooden braces. The dead were back in the ditch and the railroad still had to cross the canyon.
Daniel fired his Peacemaker into the air, screaming “Drinks at the Demon Y’all! Free rounds for the town!” To which Medicine Man added, “Heap Big Medicine FREE till sundown!” The Preacher Lady said, “make mine tequila, Dan!” laying a long, passionate kiss on him before heading into the saloon. Med’s call for free Elixir had the remaining teamsters and workers lined up at the Medicine Wagon clamoring for the remedy before the sun hit the canyon horizon. Preacher Lady led her Army into the saloon, clutching her machete and her Bible, ready for that tequila. Lynch sat with Daniel, feeling easy, enjoying Donal’s tequila while Preacher Lady sat on Daniel’s lap, occasionally dancing on the bar while she quoted scripture, whenever a good strong verse occurred to her. She returned to Daniel’s lap with an enthusiastic kiss, “We gonna save your soul yet, you beautiful man, my wild Ishmael you are!”
Lynch excused himself, going outside for some air in the sunset. He admired the deepening colors of the Painted Desert, relaxing with a smoke. A serious looking man with a gambler Stetson and Texas brim suddenly stood before him, two pearl handled Colts at his waist. “Howdy, friend. I know you ain’t here to be a problem. I know you helped this town and the Preacher Woman. And I want you gone by mornin. Sorry, mister. You smell like trouble. Ride out after coffee and keep on.” Lynch dropped his smoke and ground it out. “Which way’s good, Sheriff?” “Concho Valley down south through Chevelon Canyon, head east at Snowflake, you’ll find it. ‘Bout fifty miles. Take care, friend. O’Donall’s got a cafe there.” The Sheriff strolled on, checking doorknobs to make sure stores were locked.
Out in the street, Jeb flicked his ears back, spirit face catching the last red gleam of the sun. The huge iron hammer over the gorge at last fell silent, the town closing doors for the night. Traveller sat steady in the dark, the massive timber coach anchored into the Arizona soil. Jericho and Nineveh slept in the traces, massive grey shapes like carved granite in the moonlight. Lynch led Jeb to the side hitch, gave the big Tobiano roan a final pat on his spirit face, and climbed up the steps into the wagon. He had a fresh mount, a full cartridge box, a bottle of Donal’s tequila and a clear map south to Concho Valley. He fell into bed, giving himself over to the tintype dreams of a mystery woman.
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