Oh, and now he
felt
the drunkenness he was bringing forefront in everyone else fine enough, but with no release, no real enjoyment—a ticking timepiece, a lit fuse’s hiss.
Decency
all ’round him, like an insult by proxy.
On his left a kid sat crying, all by itself, ’til seconds later its dam swept down to pick the little monkey up, cuddling, soothing, stroking. Chess watched the kid latch on like a drunk does to his poison, and felt
something
inside him give a painful click, like tumblers falling.
He elbowed Morrow in the ribs, hard, hissing under his breath, “Let’s just get the hell gone from this place, Ed—’cause, ’fore God and man, it’s gettin’ so I want to
shoot
something.”
Morrow gave his head the slightest shake. “Give it another hour,” he murmured back. “They ain’t far enough gone yet. Someone might still remember us, we left now.”
For what minuscule consolation it was, he didn’t look all too much like
he
wanted to stay, either; more like he had a bee crawling ’round in his britches, fixing to find just the best place to sting. And Chess soon found he well knew why, just from the way he kept on stealing cow-glum glances back in the newlywed Kloves’ direction.
“Christ, Morrow,” Chess snapped, “you want this gal so bad, I could lay the Marshal out under the table for a good few hours, while she thanks you proper.” Which actually got Morrow to throw a glare at him, flushing—as much in embarrassment as in anger, though, which cut down on the entertainment factor considerably.
Across the room, a mob of dancers were yelling suggestions at the band: “
‘Rake and a Ramblin’ Boy’! Naw, hell—‘West Virginia’!” “‘Buffalo Skinners’!”
“I ain’t too like to make you fear I’ll bail out to chase some girl we both of us just met, let alone one new-hitched in holy matrimony,” Morrow told him, at the same time, “and not being
quite
so stunned as I look, I got no desire to get Chess Pargeter mad at me, either. ’Sides which . . .”
“‘The Red-Head Pistoleer’!”
That one got cheers.
Here Morrow cut off, reconsidering his next sentence. But Chess simply nodded, and finished it for him anyhow: “’Sides which, you might get
her
killed,” he said, nodding to Yancey, now looking over at the band in dismay. “Right? Oh, Christ’s sake, Ed, don’t take on—who you think I am, your gal back home? So long’s you’re there for me when it counts, believe me, you can get gay with whomever you choose to.”
“Really?”
“True dish. Think
I
want a damn ring, from anyone? A church full’a fools and some combine playing clog-step crap like—” He turned, frowning. “What the hell
is
that song, anyway? Tune sounds familiar.”
“Think it’s ‘Two Dimes and a Nickel,’” said Morrow, eyes narrowed. “Lyric don’t seem quite right, though. . . .”
“Oh, no,
that
ain’t ‘Two Dimes’!” The man standing by them was one of Kloves’ deputies, Chess vaguely recalled; reflexively, he tightened his glamour, and Ed’s as well. “It’s a whole new reel entire, from someplace back Arizona way—‘The Red-Head Pistoleer’!”
Chess froze.
Morrow: “I, uh, never heard that before.”
“Oh, don’t worry yourself, Mister Chester—take ya home humming, you’ll see, ’specially the way Joe sings it.” And, slamming back the last of his punch, he hurried for the dance floor, calling over his shoulder: “It’s a right toe-tapper!”
Which seemed to be true enough, the way the dancers were now singing enthusiastically along.
Chesssss . . . Pargeter was a pretty little man, his hair was red as flame,
His Ma she knew no better, and she raised him up the same.
The ladies he liked little, the men he liked too well.
Mere repetition of his sins might send a man to Hell!
He danced with men for money, but he’d kill ’em just for fun,
And the only thing he truly loved was the barrel of his gun.
In the army he met Reverend Rook, who tried to pray him ’round,
But Chess sunk in his wicked hooks, and pulled that good man down.
Me,
Chess realized.
It’s about
me
. And—
He drew a long breath, thick-burning, gullet suddenly a-heave.Felt Morrow’s touch on one shoulder—all five fingers, strong and warm yet far too brief:
appearances,
don’tcha know. So’s not to fright the horses. “Chess . . . ter, Junior: buck up, little brother. Just hold on, now.”
Now, one sin leads to every sin, or so you may have heard—
And sodomy and sorcery are almost the self-same word.
He’d been a saint by all accounts, right faithful to God’s ways,
But once stuck fast in Chess’s toils, the Rev begun to change. . . .
Chess swallowed yet again, spit flavoured with bile. Said, slowly, “So . . . what they’re sayin’ is—
I
turned
him
bad?”
“It’s a
song
, is all. Wrote by some idjit in a saloon five states over, probably drunk, couldn’t even think up a brand new tune to set it to. Like the penny-papers, or them Dreadfuls done up on rag-pulp—all the lie that’s fit. You know for yourself they always get it wrong.”
The chorus rose up overtop, twice as strong, drunken-riotous:
The Good Lord wrote the Bible, Lincoln freed the slaves,
But the Devil made Chess Pargeter to drag fools to their graves.
He made him small and pretty, as bright as any pin,
And set that red-head pistoleer to tempt weak men to sin!
I could kill you,
Chess thought, head at once blessedly clear, if aching.
All
of you. Each and every damn one. It’d be easy. Pleasant, almost.
All he had to do was pour every last drop of his rage down the web, turn booze-sodden cheer to the same killing fury burning up his spine, let them all loose on one another and then just sit back, while the blood pooled at his boots. Or maybe he’d just let it rip in all directions at once, unguided: a barrage of grapeshot, grinding everything into chuck— meat on meat blended together to make one red flurry, like it was raining screams. All guts, no glory.
You . . . think you
know
, ’bout Rook and me? You don’t know
shit
.
“Chess, fucksake—” The light turned strange, and Chess realized Morrow had stepped close between him and the crowd, shielding the one from t’other. “We can’t, not now. Jesus Christ Almighty,
look
at yourself!”
Since there was more panic in Morrow’s voice than Chess had heard, well . . . ever, he did. And found that the sight did not ease his fury in the slightest, though it did come wrapped in blessedly dispassionate curiosity: A sweaty crimson sheen was leaking from his pores, slick and coppery, backlit by the subtle green luminescence outlining his bones. He turned his hand over and back, yet more sick light spilling forth like he’d cupped his hand on a green-flamed candle, so hard he’d bled in the cooking.
Now if he’d never met him, the Rev might still be right,
But Pargeter, that red-head tramp, a-turned him from the Light.
The Devil gave Rook magic, those mocking him were slayed—
And thus the Rev was proved a hex, and stays one to this day.
They scoured the state from east to west, a-robbing as they went.
Good men they killed, their widows left, ignoring their laments.
They took both trains and coaches, good folk were all appalled,
And the whole town of Bewelcome, the Rev, he preached to salt. . . .
What must his face look like, by now? Chess wondered, idly—some unholy mask, going on Morrow’s horrified look alone: raw meat and cut vines, bad things growing wild. He felt the glamour slip from him, part by part—saw those closest widen their eyes as he shimmered and shrunk, gaze greening up, reddening from tip to tail.
Danger,
his mind sang out,
dangerdangerdanger—
For
them
, Hell yes: danger aplenty. But not for
him
.
He was beyond that, and knew it, every fibre lit up with some deep, abiding grin.
“Wasn’t no
joke
,” he said, voice mud-thick, all uncaring who besides Ed might hear. “Not to me. And I ain’t no vaudeville-hall act. Laugh at
me
, it’s the last damn thing you’ll ever do.”
Then: more fingers—not Ed’s, too small and soft by far—touched his. He wanted to peel ’em off, like leeches, or crush ’em, just to hear ’em squirt. But they slid down to encircle his wrists without trembling; his pulse hammered hard against them, a caged rat.
“Then they won’t,” said Yancey Kloves, simply. “Not anymore.”
’Cause . . . I can
do
that.
It was her wedding, after all.
He swayed, pried his eyes open, but she was already gone, flitting through the crowd like a white-veiled wraith, as that damn refrain howled out all the louder:
Ohhhh, the Good Lord wrote the Bible, Lincoln freed the slaves,
But the Devil made Chess Pargeter to drag fools to their graves.
He made him small and pretty, as bright as any pin,
And set that red-head pistoleer to—
“’Scuse me, gents.
Excuse me!
”
Slipping her way betwixt musicians, one hip moving Toe-Tapper Joe aside so forcefully he lost his breath, Yancey waved an empty glass at the crowd, overriding their complaints with effortless cheer. “Can’t tell y’all how much it means to me, and Uther,” a doe-eyed glance at Marshal Kloves, owlishly a-blink at her from their table, “that y’all are having such a great time here! You’ve all been so kind and generous t’us, I wanted—” She hesitated; then her jaw firmed. “I
wanted
,” she went on in a quieter voice, “to sing you something, in return. A song . . . my mother always loved.”
As time grows near, my dearest dear, when you and I must part,
How little you know of the grief and woe in my poor aching heart.
’Tis blood I’d suffer for your sake—believe me, dear, it’s true;
I wish that you were staying here, or I was going with you.
I wish my breast were made of glass, wherein you might behold
Upon my heart, your name lies wrote in letters made of gold;
In letters made of gold, my love—believe me, when I say
You are the one I will adore until my dying day.
The blackest crow that ever flew would surely turn to white
If ever I prove false to you, bright day will turn to night.
Bright day will turn to night, my love—the elements will mourn.
If ever I prove false to you, the seas will rage and burn.
On this last line, she let her struck-silver voice soften and fade away. And in the instant of silence before the hall erupted in praise, Chess let out a long, shuddering breath; he felt dazed, exhausted. The pull of the mind-web was a stabbing pain through his skull.
But Morrow’s grip eased, voice kindly once more. “You all right?” he asked, words pitched low, beneath the noise.
“I will be, we can git, right this minute.” Chess brushed at his face, impatiently. “That’s always assuming you didn’t break my damn arm, tryin’ to hold me still.”
“Very . . . pretty.”
The harsh, low voice might almost have been Rook’s; for one gut-wrenching instant, Chess half thought it was, before realizing it entirely lacked Rook’s hypnotizing resonance. Yet it cut straight through the revel, sent the crowd spilling back over each other’s feet as its owner reared up, just suddenly
present
, in their midst.
At the sight, Chess’s mouth went dry, and stayed that way. Like he’d swallowed a mouthful of salt.
The man—whom nobody had seen enter—was tree-tall, broad-shouldered but lankier than either the Rev or Morrow, skin a-gleam with an ill patina like dried sweat, or hoarfrost. His hair made a crusted fringe, one short pigtail still left hanging; his torn and threadbare clothes were streaked with the same white that cataracted his eyes clear across, leaving him only the pinpricks of pupils to see through. And on his chest, where a lawman’s vest once might have hung, the cross-cut icicle remains of a six-pointed tin star gleamed sharp.
That’s not him, though; ’course it’s damn well not.
Man’s
dead
, I saw it done. It . . . It just can’t be.
“But, even so—” The figure lifted a lengthy hand Yancey’s way, forefinger poised to shake, officious as any preacher. “—I’d far rather you’d let the
other
song reach its due conclusion, Missus.”
Yancey, near as white as her own dress, swallowed hard. Yet managed, without visible qualm: “I . . . I don’t hold with taking requests without some prior acquaintance, sir.”
“No?” Impossible to tell, given his voice’s ruin, if the question held any true amusement for him. “Then let me be known: My name is Love. . . .”
Sheriff
Mesach Love, that was, as the gasp rippling through her wedding party confirmed; decorated Bluebelly war hero, gentleman born, his privilege shelved in favour of church-raising and homestead-building. Mesach Love, who’d been dealt a fate suffered by none since Lot’s wife—widower to a murdered wife, father to a murdered son.
Late, in short, of Bewelcome township.
“. . . and I have come a long and tedious way to seek out either Reverend Rook or his creature, Pargeter, recitation of whose life’s works you so sweetly interrupted here—having sworn, no matter which of them I found, to deliver final judgement upon him.”
At this, Kloves stood out—laid one hand on Yancey’s arm, while the other sought for and found one gun-butt, sure as Christmastime.
“Even supposing you’re who you say,” he began, “might be your misfortune’s got you all turned around. I’m Marshal for the jurisdiction; this is
my
wedding feast, and that’s my wife you’re speaking to. If the Rev were anywhere hereabouts, let alone his fancy-boy, I’d know it.”