Tintype Dream, Chapter Seven
Witch Well
On the train to Burnham… Medicine Man tells a haunting, creepy story. The Widow in Black gets a little bold. Marilee sings “Old Chisholm Trail.”
With the train underway north, everybody settled in, the four ladies at the table playing Hearts, laughing with a sharp-tongued back and forth, getting loud when a trick was won or lost, drinking, occasionally singing. The men sat in a salon, easy chairs and bookshelves in front of a large woodstove, now cooling in the late fall morning, still warm enough to take the chill off. While the ladies drank sherry cobbler and gin fizz, the men sipped blended Irish whiskey, tequila and beer. Lynch settled back in his chair, and realized he recognized every piece of terrain outside, crawling past the climbing train. Yet he remembered none of it. “Don’t you DARE, Maddie Covington!” gasped Marilee, as she realized she was going to be left with a high scoring trick this time, while Maddie rid herself of a Ten of Hearts. “Oooh you! We’re supposed to be ALLIES!” Dolores held up the scorepad, showing off the fact that she and Mildred were uncatchable. “You’re just not up to it, sugar. Mildred and I have the numbers. You’re going to be feeding my horses. And you ARE allies, Maddie, honey. Your competitive streak is going to have you in the stable, too. Learn some teamwork, dear.” She finished her gin fizz and burped, giggling quietly, barely able not to laugh as she covered her smile, looking demurely at Lynch. Marilee smiled at Dolores, glancing meaningfully to Lynch and back. She whispered low. “Why not be the merry widow, Dolores? You’ve searched for your husband for months.” “MARILEE! Be decent! Dolores is a respectable woman. She can’t just dally at will, like SOME of us,” hissed Mildred, pointedly glaring at Maddie. “What? I am both single and modern, madam.” Maddie swirled her whiskey sour. This exchange was loud enough to interrupt the men, who all looked to the ladies’ table, where they were met with overly innocent stares, Maddie’s grin hidden behind her card hand. When Connor’s eyes met the look from Dolores, a surprising electric thrill ran straight through him. Her giggle had rung a bell in his memory, but he couldn’t place it. Red hair, blue eyes. Striking. With a start, he realized the Crimson Lady on the Medicine Wagon was a dead ringer for the Widow in Black. And that he and Dolores were still deeply gazing at each other. Dolores abruptly stood, cheeks coloring, and went out to the rear balcony. Glancing around the men, Lynch saw that Donal, Med and Herbert were animatedly discussing the Territorial Legislature. He stepped outside with Dolores. The iron door clanged shut behind them, cutting off the warmth of the cabin. Out here, the high country rain beat a steady, rhythmic tattoo against the dark iron roof, as the train crept up the long, steep grade. The slow wind smelled of juniper, wet dust, blooming beeflower, and coal smoke. Dolores stood against the brass guard rail. She’d pinned her black lace veil back, to catch the cold mist against her skin. Her hair was a violent slash of copper against a lavender Arizona sky. Lynch had stepped out to “check the handbrake.” He never even looked at it. He watched her instead, absorbing her presence. “You—shouldn’t be out here, Ma’am,” Connor huffed. His voice was a dry lazy rumble, sounding like… too many nights on the ground, too many mornings of smoke, black coffee, ridin’ trails. Dolores didn’t flinch. She turned her head slowly, looked him up and down, blue eyes flashing dangerous, smoldering confidence. “I’ve survived worse than a little water, mister,” she said, voice dropping to a velvety, deliberate purr that could stop a poker game at thirty paces. “I wanted to see if you’re as quiet out here as you are at the stove.” Connor leaned against the mahogany doorframe, tilting his hat back with a slow flick. He gave an ironic, half-mocking smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “A man keeps his mouth shut when he’s holdin’ a bad hand. Keeps the other fellas from… seein’ how bad he’s bleedin.” He looked away, then back. Eyes only. “And? Are you bleeding, sir?” “People call me Lynch. Because…” He pointed quietly to the scar. “So. You have felt the noose, then.” “I was… born from it. Where I ended and began. I don’t remember before The Veil, mostly.” Her direct gaze hit him like a physical blow. A phantom bell tolled, deep in his shattered psyche. Ancient, aching taste of absinthe and old roses. The long view, red rocks of Burnt Water Mesa of endless forest, simply dissolved. Clacking tracks faded to dead silence. Only the rain, smell of her skin, terrifying gravity. Dolores took a slow step closer. The black silk of her widow’s weeds brushed the rough canvas of his coat. She reached up, fingers hovering just an inch away from his jawline, where the faint, jagged shadow of the rope scar hid beneath his collar. Her eyes were wide, intense, liquid heartbreak, a blend of grief and desire. “You look like a man who’s seen the ends of the Earth, and…forgotten the way home,” she whispered, breath drifting slow in the chill. “Maybe I did,” Connor muttered. The swagger was gone, raw dangerous sincerity now, hero caught in a trap. His hand came off the brass rail and found her waist, fingers clutching her back, pulled her an inch closer, chest right against her. “Lookin’ at you, right now… ain’t sure I even wanna find the map.” “Don’t look for it,” she breathed, lips parting as she leaned, up on her toes. “Just. Stay lost. Look for me…” The space between ‘em vanished. Connor tilted her chin up, thumb resting right against the pulse on her throat. He could feel her heart hammering, a trapped sparrow. He leaned down, mouth only a fraction of a whisper away— Thump. Inside the cabin, a sudden, violent flurry of wool and silk hit the French doors. Maddie Covington’s face slammed nearly flat against the glass, her hands waving frantically as she pointed at a completely invisible flock of birds in the pouring rain. The world rushed in at once, a deafening roar. Squeal of iron on steel, loud hiss of steam, bitter taste of reality. Dolores snapped her head back, eyes wide, cheeks burning a brilliant crimson. She instantly dropped her black veil back over her face, turning her back to the glass. Connor let his hand as he cleared his throat, reaching for the brass handle of the black iron door. Inside, Maddie Covington, blocking the view out the door, was expounding on the variety and numbers of avian species found on Burnt Water Mesa. Herbert looked dubious, “In the rain?” Marilee, equally restricting the view on the other half, was ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the abundance of exquisite blooms in Apache County. Mildred’s massive winter shawl unfurled like a stage curtain, blocking the view entirely as she stood behind the two women. She fanned her palms at her face from her extended arms, declaring. “Oh! I declare! The heat! I feel faint, a case of the vapors coming on!” Donal O’Donall rose heavily from his armchair, glass decanter clinking against the silver tray with an uncharacteristic tremor. “Nothin’ like a—high country, ah, rail ride to bring out the man in us all,” Donal muttered to the floorboards. A thoroughly awkward statement, devoid of his usually lyrical charm. He kept his back squarely to the room, methodically tending the vices, flicking away a stray tear unseen. Donal poured amber whiskey with deliberate slowness, cutting the tips of cigars precisely, packing Med’s pipe tobacco with a demonstrated purpose. Med didn’t look up, reaching across the table for a leather-bound tome. Herbert, finally grasping the situation, strode across the salon, where an exquisite landscape by Gaines Ruger Donoho hung. He tilted his fedora back, staring at the brushwork. “Good lord, this painting!” Herbert exclaimed, voice booming with forced military authority. “A veritable masterpiece, Med. The fineness of detail. Look at the pocket buttons on that infantryman. The brushwork! Gaines, you master, you!” Mildred paused mid-fan, leather-bound hymnal hovering an inch from her chin, as her case of the vapors momentarily suspended itself. She blinked at her husband’s back, bewildered. In all their years, Mildred had never known Herbert to understand, appreciate, or even glance at fine art. She knew his past only as “a soldier.” The quiet man who managed their business. She had no conception of him as a Colonel of Artillery, eyes trained to calculate distances, recognize details, appreciate culture. As Lynch stepped back inside, he kept his face a perfect bluff of indifference. Looking across the cabin, he realized: he could lie to the ladies’ bird-watching club, but he couldn’t lie to the men. Every man in this carriage had war experience. They didn’t see the Veil Effect. They saw HIM. Lynch, as he was. Donal kept his back turned to let Connor save face. Med kept his eyes on the text and Herbert kept his gaze locked on painted buttons. Dolores kept her face down, wrist moving in a furious, rhythmic blur, swishing her black silk fan at her face. The silk clicked like beetle wings, creating a pocket of air to cool her flaming cheeks. Before she could take two steps, Marilee stepped in with tactical grace. She gently locked an elbow into Dolores’s arm, steering her toward the card table with the practiced ease of a high-society diplomat. Mildred immediately flanked her other side, her wide skirts forming a solid human barrier that completely blocked the view from the men’s lounge. They moved as a single, defensive phalanx, insulating the “widow” from the sharp eyes of the room. While the matrons secured the table, Maddie Covington launched a counter-offensive. With her scandalous riding pants and knee-high leather boots, she stepped across the salon area, toward the liquor tray. With her to watch, there would be no eyes upon the table. She knew the men, out of intense, masculine honor, wouldn’t dare break their unspoken agreement to let the couple handle their trauma in peace. Because the men’s gazes were strictly locked onto paintings, books, and liquor bottles, Maddie had free rein of the room. She passed straight through the center of the salon, giving the men an excuse to study other things. By the time Connor Lynch closed the French doors, the cabin had reset itself like a clockwork stage. The women were huddled whispering, Maddie tossing back rye at the sideboard, and old soldiers were… ‘not watching’ Maddie, everyone pretending the world hadn’t tipped on edge for a few moments. “It’ll be Witch Well soon, Donal. My saloon will disembark to seek the early report in Burnham.” Maddie, as always, had her paper in mind. Donal didn’t argue. “I’ll make sure your saloon and team is untrained first. The rest of us will go on to Rancho Piñon Springs.” Donal leaned in confidentially. “And for God’s sake, woman, wear a dress in Burnham. Keep the Spencer ready. I’ll feel better if you take my pocket pepperbox with you. A silk skirt keeps ‘em blind—until you need to pull the trigger.” He stepped closer, as he pulled out a small, heavy, multi-barreled pepperbox and forced it into her palm. Maddie looked down at the tiny rotating cylinders in her hand, a slow, dangerous smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. She slipped the hideout gun deep into her waistcoat, adjusted her high collar, and gave Donal a sharp nod. With things settled down now, Herbert gestured his beer at Medicine Man. “So, Med, tell us of Estebanico the Moor. A slave, was he not? We’re near the place where he met his end, I believe?” Med nodded. “Marcos de Niza wrote that he lost touch near here, at the Zuni pueblo, Hawikuh.” “A remarkable individual,” added Donal. “Survived with three Conquistadores, alone of six hundred, and walked from Florida to Mexico, acting as guide and translator.” “It was there,” Med continued, “in Mexico City, that Mendoza, hearing the legends they brought, sent him in front of Frey Marcos de Niza as a guide, seeking the Seven Golden Cities of Cibola.” He thumbed through the tome he was reading. “The Zuni simply reported him dead, no explanation. Marcos de Niza, outnumbered, assumed an accident or misunderstanding, and the expedition carried on.” He looked around the group, the ladies listening as well as the men. Reading from the tome, Med related, “Anno Domini One Thousand Five Hundred and Thirty-Six. Fourteen of Juno. Nine witches tried, shamans brought by various peoples of the region.” He paused to savor his whiskey and light his pipe. “Given the dunking. All survived, convicted as witches, three with no skin remaining. All strangled, bound, thrown into the sulfur hot spring, hereafter known as Witch Well.” “Good God,” exclaimed Mildred. “Barbaric times in this country.” Medicine Man kept reading. “Anno Domini One Thousand Five Hundred and Thirty-Nine. Seventeen of May. Said by local peoples that the body of Estebanico, guide of de Niza, was brought to Witch Well, weighted by Spanish silver and rolled into the hot spring, because de Niza was coming to Hawikuh.” Maddie drained her whiskey and BANGED her glass on the table, making everyone jump. “Full moon tonight.” She grinned at the astonished faces. Happy All Hallows.” When the train hissed to a shuddering stop at the Witch Well tank, Maddie didn’t wait for an escort. She vanished through the side vestibule, into the downpour, dressed in finery. Within minutes, the sharp crack of a whip echoed through the rain as her fast, lightweight saloon bounced down the road toward her early report of the game, leaving the rest to guide two blind lovers back to Piñon Springs. “Marilee. That little tart has left you to tend my stables yourself,” remarked Dolores. “What a scandal is that woman.” Marilee stood, mouth open in shock as Mildred and Dolores tittered. “Not to worry, ma’am. I’ll run the stables out in short order.” Lynch touched his brow as Marilee curtsied. “Thank you, sir. I am obliged.” When they disembarked at Witch Well Siding, the world smelled like Hell ripped open. No town here, no law, no saloon. Just a looming timber water tower and a dark, bubbling sulfur spring. The air was thick with the reek of rotten eggs and coal sulfur. The ground around the hot spring was bleached white, crusted with mineral deposits crackling like dried bone under Lynch’s boots. Beside him, Dolores adjusted her veil against the sulfur mist, and they went to the now-unhitched coach, where he helped her back up the stairs, then went to rig the trace for Jericho and Nineveh. Later, at the ranch, Med sang out, “Ho, Donal! Best ribs I’ve ever had! What a chuck master, son.” Medicine Man handed the bottle over as Donal took his seat upon the porch, firepit glowing below them, twenty feet out. Lynch came around from the well, drying his hands, all stables cleaned, horses fed, with Jericho, Nineveh and Jeb fully groomed and stabled. “I’ll have some of those beans and ribs now, and a cob o’corn if there’s any left.” said Lynch. Dolores brought him a plate and a mug of beer, seating herself nearby with a smile, then glancing away, a little shy. So fetching, he thought. “Thank you kindly, ma’am. Your company’s welcome.” Marilee, smiling, sang out loud and clear, her voice famous in the Southwest, “Well, come along, boys, and listen to my tale, I’ll tell you of my troubles on the Old Apache County Trail.” Everybody chorused at once: “Coma tie yie yippy, yippy yay, yippy yay, Coma tie yie yippy, yippy yay!” “I started up the trail October seventeenth, Started up the trail with a Hash Knife herd.” “Coma tie yie yippy, yippy yay, yippy yay, Coma tie yie yippy, yippy yay!” —Something SCREAMED in the night. The singing broke at once as Donal, Herbert and Lynch stepped off the porch, guns drawn. Med was soon after with a huge carriage gun. A sighing breeze in the juniper became a moan, rose slow on the breeze, smoke drifted on a frosty night, glowing now by the full moon straight overhead. Suffocating odor of sulfur covered their senses, as the breeze settled back. A strange, muffled quiet lowered their hearing, owl and coyote sounding distant. The witch spirits in the smoke circled the fire pit, a carousel of shadows. The ancient, rotting explorer stopped at the edge of the light. Hollow, milky eyes fixed directly on Connor Lynch. Leather bands, tunic, buckskin breeches mostly gone, pouches hanging, mummified remains, some skin still on, here and there, and threaded hair falling away. Eyes still bright, intelligent, glowing green with phosphorescent power. Silver Pieces of Eight were embedded throughout his body, protruding from even his head, his hands, legs, chest. Dolores and Marilee stood behind Mildred, who brandished a shotgun. “WHAT BUSINESS? EXPLAIN YOURSELF!” Thundered Mildred, raising her gun. The ghost turned his head momentarily, then focused on Lynch again. Medicine Man stepped into the yellow swirling witch mist, fingers moving in a rapid, geometric hand sequence—a sharp ritual chant cut through the noise of the well. “What is your Name?” Med demanded, voice dropping its huckster pitch, now something ancient, demanding, a slight echo. “Bilal,” the ghost rasped, throat filled with sulfurous silt. “Your Spanish appellation, sir!” Medicine Man folded thumbs across palms, thrusting both as if pushing a stone. The corpse tilted his ruined head, 350 years of decay stretching tight over his jaw as he forced out his Spanish Name: “Eshte… Baaah…. Neeecooh. Name. Spohh-ken. Tooo… daay.” “Estebaníco. Rest in peace, sir,” Medicine Man answered, wheezing voice carrying a sudden, rare note of genuine gravity. “Your name has lived, sir. Centuries of Legend. What is your purpose?” “Coro… naaahdoh.. Maaap,” the entity groaned, water-logged hand extending into the light. A silver coin wedged through his hand began glowing brightly, white-hot. “SEEEE-BOHH-LAAAH!” He shrieked, an earsplitting cry of anguish to the sky, holding a flaming page out, burning but not consumed, gesturing at it with his other skeletal hand. The scream echoed off the hills, cutting through the high country like a physical blow. Med turned in haste, gesturing Lynch forward to receive the page. “Take it, Lynch!” Med barked, composure entirely gone. “Take it! Before the fire changes its mind!” Lynch didn’t hesitate. Step by step, ten-dollar Stetson pulled low, he stepped into the blinding sulfur cloud. He reached out with a steady right hand, knuckles brushing against the phantom heat of the burning Coronado map. His other hand stayed firmly anchored on the Peacemaker at his left hip. He stared, eyes wide, into the glowing eyes of the specter, who tilted his decrepit, rictus grin to their hands. Lynch, in a sudden impulse, put his right hand on Esteban’s shoulder, telling him, “God Bless You, Friend. Rest in Blessed Peace.” He took the map, as the world exploded. Lynch was flung violently, landing on his back near the porch, blind and deaf as Med snatched the map. The witch spirits screamed, a shrieking chorus, and were yanked down through the ground. The smoke faded. Pieces of Eight began raining on the fire and the group, bruising the men as they sought cover, fire snuffed out. Howling wind, dust and smoke, as Esteban began to crumble, arms to the sky, swept upward in a twisting dust devil, pieces funneling skyward, and he was gone. Silence. Slowly, sound returned to their ringing ears, dust began to clear, last Pieces of silver fell, scattered about. They rose slowly, smacking the dust off, adjusting hats, shaking their hair. No sign of Lynch. Then, a loud belch and the sound of loud glugging of beer. “Best ribs I ever ate, Donal!” They turned, and there Lynch sat scooping beans like a starving man. “What?” he asked, noticing the stares.
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