Michael Spradlin - Blood Riders

She released her grip on the toothless man and he slumped to the ground. He couldn’t breathe, but with one hand he tried to draw a pistol. Shaniah stepped on his hand and held her boot solidly there until he breathed no more. With him dead, she turned her attention to the last man, who had rolled about in the dust and finally extinguished the flames. He had dropped his weapon when Demeter kicked him and as she started toward him, he cried out trying to crawl away on his hands and knees. For a moment she thought of letting him go. But he would have raped and killed her or watched while one of his companions had. Besides, she couldn’t let anyone know she was here. If he lived and talked, word would spread. She was close. He was close. She knew it. Malachi would reveal himself soon. She could not allow anything to interfere with her hunt.

As he desperately scrambled away, she walked up behind him. With a powerful twist she snapped his neck and he died instantly. And for a moment she felt rage, knowing his death had been too merciful.

She looked around. All three men lay dead in the street. It had only taken a matter of seconds. She walked to the second dead man and removed the dagger from his chest. As she did, she smelled the blood and her heart momentarily raced. She brought the dagger close to her face and inhaled the coppery scent. Archaic law forbade drinking the blood of dead humans as well, but she found it an interesting test of her willpower.

After a moment she cleaned the dagger on the shirt of the dead man and restored it to her boot. She carried the bodies to a nearby shed and placed them inside. She caught Demeter’s reins, mounted, and rode out of the camp, leaving the bodies behind.

And for a brief instant, the scent of the blood still caressing her memory, she had a better understanding of Malachi and the depth of his desires.

Jonas Hollister sat in the main dining room of the Paradise Hotel. He couldn’t stop staring at the table linen and thought for a moment it might be the brightest white cloth he’d ever seen. After four years of nothing but the drab gray and dank darkness of Leavenworth, it almost hurt his eyes. But the mug of cold beer sitting before him was another object of rapt attention.

Hollister had never been much of a drinker. He had shared brandy with General Sheridan during the war or when he called his officers together for staff meetings. And he occasionally had imbibed with his commanding officers at various posts on the frontier, so when it came to liquor he could take it or leave it. But the first sip of beer in more than four years felt like someone had tipped back his head and poured liquid ambrosia down his throat.

Hollister fingered the pips on his collar, feeling the major’s leaves there, and looked down at the dark blue sleeves of his blouse, something he thought he’d never wear again. He touched his belt and the leather cover of the holster holding the Navy Colt he’d been issued by the prison quartermaster. There was almost too much to take in. He felt slightly disconnected, like he was walking through a parallel world.

The Paradise was the fanciest hotel in Leavenworth. Pinkerton had given Hollister his first month’s salary in advance and told him and Sergeant Chee to have dinner, then meet at the railway station, where their train car was being readied.

Hollister sensed motion beside him, looked up and nearly jumped out of his seat, for the newly promoted Sergeant Major Chee was standing next to the table at attention.

“Holy shit, Sergeant! How did you do that?”

“Sir?” Chee asked.

“You snuck up on me,” Hollister said.

“No, sir. I’m reporting for duty as ordered, sir.”

Hollister studied the man before him. Not quite six feet tall, thin and rangy, his skin was coffee colored, his hair dark and curly. He had gray eyes, a shade Hollister had never seen before, but surmised they were eyes that never missed much.

“At ease, Sergeant, have a seat.”

Chee sat in the chair to Hollister’s right and Jonas could tell he was uncomfortable.

“Something wrong, Sergeant Chee?” Hollister asked.

“Sir? Uh… no, sir,” Chee said, shifting in his seat.

Hollister raised his hand and gestured to the waiter, who stood behind the bar across the room, in conversation with the bartender. Hollister watched until the waiter looked at him again. Hollister waved him over but the man stayed rooted to his spot. Another fellow dressed in a black suit walked into the dining room and strolled behind the bar, speaking quietly to the waiter and the bartender. After a moment he approached their table.

“Good evening, sir,” the man said to Hollister. He was portly, with a full set of whiskers. His hair was streaked with white, and he had stared hard at Chee as he approached the table.

“Evening,” said Hollister.

“Sir… Major… there is… if you would be kind enough to join me in the lobby for a brief discussion?”

Hollister looked at the man and a glimmer of understanding washed over him. “I’m a little pressed for time. Let’s discuss it here if you don’t mind,” he said.

“Sir, really…” the man stammered.

“Get to the point,” Hollister said.

The man sighed deeply, pinching his nose with his fingers. “Sir, our hotel has a strict policy regarding the…”

“Regarding what?” Hollister interrupted.

Chee had been silently watching the exchange, but then understood. He was not welcome in a place like the Paradise Hotel, and he started to rise from his chair.

“At ease, Sergeant,” Hollister said. Chee, confused, sat back down.

“Regarding what?” Hollister asked the man again.

“Major, you are of course more than welcome to dine with us this evening, but the hotel has a strict policy regarding the service of

… certain individuals.”

“Really? What individuals would that be? It wouldn’t be soldiers wearing the uniform of the United States Army, would it?” Hollister asked.

“No sir, of course not… it’s just that your companion… is… sir, I’m sure you understand we… the Paradise Hotel

… does not allow… Negroes to be served on our premises,” the man said, choosing his words very carefully.

“Really?” Hollister asked, the incredulity dripping from his voice. He turned and looked at Chee. “Sergeant? Are you a Negro?”

“One quarter, sir,” the sergeant answered quietly.

“I’ll be damned. Well there you go… Mr… I’m sorry… I didn’t get your name?” Hollister asked.

“It’s McLaren, sir, general manager of-”

Hollister interrupted again, “You heard the man. He’s only one quarter Negro, so there shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Sir… Major… I have no desire to make this uncomfortable for anyone. You, of course, are welcome to dine at your leisure, and I would be happy to have the kitchen prepare something for the sergeant

… but I’m afraid he will have to leave the dining room.”

Hollister put his head down for a moment. He thought of the events earlier in the day, of Chee taking on McAfee in the yard. He chuckled to himself quietly. He unsnapped the leather cover of his holster, removed the. 44 caliber Navy Colt, and laid it on the linen tablecloth.

“Sergeant, were you able to test fire your weapon before you met me here?” Hollister asked.

“No, sir,” Chee answered.

“I see. Perhaps we can do it here, starting with the first row of whiskey bottles behind the bar. My last Colt tended to pull up and to the right on the recoil. Hollister picked up the weapon and cocked the hammer, aiming it at the bottles. The bartender and waiter shouted, ducking quickly beneath the wooden bar.

“Major!” McLaren shouted waving his hands. “Please. There is no need…”