Michael Spradlin - Blood Riders

“You know Shaniah here, she’s impervious to fire, plus she’s fast. Faster than Chee.”

“Well, Major Hollister, I never went to West Point, so I don’t reckon I know what ‘imperialist’ means…” Slater started to say.

“Impervious, not imperialist, you moron,” Hollister interrupted. “Means fire can’t kill her.” Where is the damn dynamite? he thought. “Chee,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth. “You still got ammo?”

“Yes, sir,” Chee replied. “Six shots.”

“Crap on a Cracker,” Hollister said. “I’m out.”

“As soon as you two finish your little conversation there, please let me know. I’d like to get to the part where I kill the three of you,” Slater said.

“Kill these men,” Shaniah said. “Burn me with your contraption there, empty all of your guns into me. I will not die. And when I heal, which will only take a matter of days, I will find you, Mr. Slater. I have your scent. I will hunt you down and I will kill you. Without any hesitation.”

Hollister was growing impatient. Standoffs like this were not his forte. In the war, on the plains, he attacked or retreated to find a better tactical position. Waiting for the fighting to start was annoying as hell. It also led to stupid mistakes, he reminded himself. He wanted his explosion, he wanted his stomach to stop hurting like a bitch, and he wouldn’t mind putting a bullet in Slater’s head just to top off his day. He was out of ideas though.

Slater stared at Shaniah, his reptilian eyes slitted nearly closed, as he considered her words.

“You know, I’ve done a lot of killing over the years,” Slater said, looking at the barrel of the Fire Shooter again. “Shot people, strangled a few, stabbed a fellow once in Wichita…”

“Was that you?” Hollister said. “Because I’ve heard Wichita doesn’t usually get a lot of stabbings, but this one year…”

“Shut your mouth!” Slater shouted. “Like I was saying, hung folks, pushed a rustler off a cliff, pretty much killed every way you can. ’Cept I ain’t ever burned anybody to death before.”

He lowered the Fire Shooter and pointed it at Chee. “While we was watching you fight these…” He looked around at the piles of dead bodies. “… whatever the hell these things are, I got real interested in your little flamethrowers here.”

“Hey. Flamethrower, that’s a pretty good name. We were calling them Fire Shooters, but I didn’t much care for that. I like flamethrower a lot better, don’t you, Chee?” Hollister said.

“Yes, sir,” Chee said, never taking his eyes off Slater. Next to him he could sense Shaniah growing tense, waiting to spring. Chee held Dog in check some way Hollister wasn’t sure of. Probably by using his mind, for all Hollister knew.

“But wait,” Hollister said. “Did you say you were watching us fight these things? And you didn’t help us? Well, excuse me, but that’s just rude.” The dynamite was a goddamned dud; that was the only explanation. Hollister was angry he wouldn’t live long enough to tell Monkey Pete they had survived fighting a billion Archaics but were thwarted by faulty dynamite. If the three of them survived, Monkey Pete was going to get an earful. Hollister gave a sideways glance at Chee and rolled his eyes toward the mine, but Chee only shrugged.

“Shut up, Hollister. You ain’t funny. I ain’t the one sat in prison all them years like an idiot. I get to kill people and get paid for it and ain’t never got caught once. And now I’m gonna burn ya’ll, starting with the breed.” He looked at Chee “What do you think, Breed?”

“I think you better not miss,” Chee said.

Slater laughed, he turned the knob on the handle of the flamethrower and pulled the trigger. At that instant the dynamite inside the mine went off with a mighty blast. What Slater didn’t know was that the weapon Hollister had left behind had a barrel jammed with dirt and mud. The pressure mounted inside it, exploding in a burst of flames and engulfing Slater. Screaming in agony, he dropped to his knees as Monkey Pete’s fuel mixture burned the flesh from his bones.

The explosions threw the horses into a frenzy, their riders trying desperately to regain control of their mounts. The dynamite’s pressure wave knocked Shaniah and Hollister to their knees. Yet somehow Chee remained standing, and he fired the Henry shot after shot, killing five men. The rifle was empty. The last man tried to keep his horse under control and draw his pistol at the same time, until he was knocked backward out of the saddle by Chee’s bowie knife landing in the middle of his chest.

Then it was quiet. Dust filled the air. The torches had fallen to the ground and there was a little light left. Dog walked over to Slater’s remains and sniffed at him. Then he lifted his leg and peed.

“Good boy,” said Hollister. Even Chee laughed.

By the time they arrived back in Denver, Hollister was almost completely healed. Even the scar where the blade had entered his stomach was slowly disappearing. Chee developed an uneasy truce with Shaniah when he saw Hollister’s improvement. She remained on Dog’s bad list though.

Monkey Pete was happy to hear his contraptions had worked, but less so when he found out his equipment had been left behind.

“Sorry, Monkey Pete,” Hollister said. “In all the excitement we forget to grab the Ass-Kicker also, so it’s gone too, and I expect Winchester ain’t going to be too happy about that either. Besides, your damn dynamite nearly got us killed, so stop whining.” Pete groused and muttered a few curses but eventually came around.

The train chugged into Denver, and Hollister was happy to see the warehouse again. He’d come to think of it as home. Which was strange because there was nothing homelike about it.

On the way Shaniah and Hollister made no attempts to hide their relationship. But to Jonas it felt as if a veil of melancholy had descended over her and he couldn’t tell why. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t jolly her out of it.

They arrived about three o’clock in the afternoon. The warehouse became a hub of activity as the train was resupplied and restocked. Shaniah and Hollister stayed in his cabin until it grew dark.

“There’s something I’ve got to go do,” he said. “When I get back, let’s take a walk. Sound good?”

She stood and took him in her arms. She kissed him, a long lingering kiss.

“What’s that for?” he asked.

“For what you did for me. For my people. For keeping your promise.”

“Huh,” he said.

Declan hadn’t heard from Slater or any of his men and he was starting to get nervous. He entered his mansion at dusk and went to the study.

He was pouring the bourbon from his decanter when he realized a man was sitting at his desk. “Jesus Christ!” he shouted, spilling bourbon all over himself and the floor.

“Good evening, Senator,” Hollister said.

“Is that you, Hollister? What the hell are you doing here, trespassing in my house? By God, I’ll have you arrested!” His heart sank. If Hollister was here, then it meant Slater was probably dead. This was not good. Not good at all.

“I don’t think you’ll have me arrested. I don’t think you’ll do much of anything. In fact, in another forty-eight hours I don’t even think you’ll be a senator anymore.”

“What? Are you out of your mind? Get out of my house,” he said.

Hollister pulled a letter out of his vest pocket.

“I found this letter in Slater’s saddlebag. He’s dead, by the way. Pretty interesting, you transferring all this land and money to him, right before he comes trying to kill me.”