CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

   

   William Lyons wiped his mouth. He patted his wife’s hand and said, “That was a wonderful meal, love. Really hit the spot.”

   Catherine blushed and nodded. “I’m glad you liked it.”

   “Boys, did you thank your mother for making such a delicious meal?”

   The two young children at the table smiled and shouted, “Thank you, ma!” and then ran off to play.

   “Those little ones sure are cute, Cath,” William said. “I still can’t believe I had a part in making them.”

   “Yes, they’re our little angels.” Catherine was starting to clean the dishes when there was a knock on the door. “You expecting company, William?”

   “No, I’m not,” he said, standing up. “Why don’t you take the boys into the sewing room?”

   Catherine put her hands to her chest. “Oh my, what’s happening, William?”

   “Probably nothing but take them nonetheless.”

   Before either of them could move, both of the boys ran to the front door and opened it. Their father yelled. “Get your asses back here!”

   One of the boys said, “There’s no one here. Someone just left a toy.”

   William walked over to the door, grabbing his pistol on the way over. He pushed his boys towards their mother and watched them run into the sewing room.

   The kids were only half right. Yes, there was no one there but the hell if someone had left a toy. It wasn’t a toy at all.

   It was a wooden donkey.

   William put a hand on the door to slam it shut when the mouth of the donkey opened up with a fiery blast. He was blown back by the small explosion, landing on the table that he had built for Catherine for their anniversary.

   Then he saw that bastard standing in the doorway, the bastard he left in the desert to die.

   Calamaro smiled. “We were never properly introduced. William Lyons, is it?”

   “You little cocksucker.”

   “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Calamaro winked.

   William lifted his pistol and pulled the trigger hard, sending a bullet in Calamaro’s direction but missing by a good six inches. That’s when William heard the burp. At first he thought it came from him since, after all, he did just eat. Then he realized that it came from the doorway. Did the stranger actually have the nerve to belch? William heard it again and he saw that it hadn’t come from the stranger’s mouth but from his gun.

   That’s when he felt the pain of a bullet in each of his kneecaps. William lifted his pistol but didn’t aim it. It was shot out of his hand with another burping bullet.

   “Fuck you,” he said. He started crawling to the cellar door. It wasn’t much of a cellar, just a small area that he had dug out himself. It looked like the stranger wasn’t going to stop him. The stupid bastard had no idea what he kept down there. He held the doorknob to the cellar and said, “Hey asshole, you ever heard of syphilis?”

   Calamaro said, “Afraid not.”

   Lyons coughed and when he did, his wounds pumped more blood onto the floor.

   “It’s a disease. You get it from whores. My younger brother, he’s a doctor, lives in London, he told me all about it and I’ve never been able to get it out of my head, you know? Well, this disease does a lot to a man’s mind, makes them crazy enough to eat the devil with horns on.”

   “There a point to this story?” Calamaro said. He held his gun up, eager to hear it burp again.

   “The point is that I’ve always been fascinated with how a man can go and screw some whore with a dirty cunny, have a few minutes of pleasure not knowing they’re leaving with a disease that’ll rot his brain out. Tell me that doesn’t fascinate you.”

   Calamaro pointed his gun at William Lyons’ head. “I imagine you’re talking for a reason, trying to get my guard down or something. Sorry to disappoint you but it’s not going to work.”

   “No, I’m just trying to prepare you for what’s coming.” William Lyons turned the knob, opened the door, and whistled.

   Out of the darkness of the basement came a din of footsteps and groans. Then a rush of pale, naked bodies as more than two dozen syphilitic men ran out, almost trampling Lyons as he rolled out of the way. The men ran forward, stumbling like a drunken hoard.

   Calamaro lifted his gun to shoot but they were coming too fast. He backed out of the house and almost tripped down the stairs. The mob of sick men came shuffling out, pushing aside the wooden donkey. A few of them tried exiting at the same time and got stuck in the doorway.

   Kimama came running from around the side of the house. He saw the hesitation in Calamaro. Who wanted to shoot at a group of men who were obviously sick and probably dying? The Indian shouted. “Shoot, Calamaro! If you want to live, shoot!”

   The group of syphilitics looked so pathetic and crazed Calamaro wasn’t sure he wanted to just shoot them all down. But as they came out of the doorway, their mouths drooling foam, rushing to him with their arms outstretched, he decided he had no choice.

   He emptied his gun into the mass of naked flesh.

   The ones he hit yelped and spun around but continued forward as if not realizing they were shot. He hit another one of them in the chest, making a hole that exposed a rotted ribcage.

   Kimama was swinging his shovel like an axe through the crowd of diseased men. Blood splattered, flesh flew off in flakes that danced in the desert wind, and teeth fell to the ground like seeds. When he stopped swinging, Kimama had killed five of the syphilitics. Some of the ones he didn’t kill ran away towards the center of town as if realizing that the Indian was not one to be reckoned with.

   Calamaro held his ground, punching and kicking while reloading his gun and shooting at the remaining men who looked more confused than dangerous. The crazed men kept charging despite being shot several times. Calamaro wondered how screwing a whore could turn a man into that. They were barely human beings.

   One of the men sat down on the ground and looked up at Calamaro. He stuck his fingers into his mouth, plucked out a tooth and said, “You want to know what William does to us? He comes down to the cellar and sticks his fist in us because he can’t get his pecker hard enough to screw his wife.” He looked at Calamaro and pointed to the men that Kimama had killed. “You can clean up the mess, but don’t touch their coffins. You may have to drag them across the desert.”

   A bullet ripped through the man’s head, shattering it into a cloud of confetti made of brain, skull, and blood. William Lyons stood in the doorway on his wounded legs. He smiled and pointed the gun at Calamaro. “That fucker never could keep his mouth shut.”

   The surviving syphilitics saw what had happened so they quickly dispersed, giving up on their attack.

   Calamaro said, “You’d shoot a sick man who wasn’t even looking at you?”

   “Don’t act like a saint, Calamaro. Why’d you come to this town? Whores? Gold? Who the hell do you think you are? This is my fucking town.”

   Calamaro nodded. “Your town? That changed once you buried me up to my neck. You’d do the same you were in my position, don’t you think?”

   “I don’t really give a shit.”

   “Well, then,” Calamaro said. He dropped to the ground and rolled towards Sartana, sending a hard kick to the wooden donkey’s backside. Another blast of flames and shrapnel erupted out of its mouth and engulfed William Lyons, blowing him back into his house.

   He trembled and bled profusely on the floor.

   Calamaro and Kimama stood over William. It was amazing that the man was still alive.

   “You have anything to say?” Calamaro kicked him in the leg.

   William Lyons looked up at the ceiling. “Look what you’ve done. My sons won’t have a father and that’s all because of you. When they grow up, I imagine they’ll realize what happened and get angry enough to hunt you down and kill you. Especially Ringo. That boy has a temper. He’ll be coming for you sure enough.” He leaned his head back. “You know, Calamaro, you’ll see me in Hell and when we’re there, I’m going to skin you alive.” He coughed up blood and started shivering. “It’s cold in here. Close the door.”

   Calamaro humored the man and closed it.

   Lyons continued. “Put me in the cellar. Let me die in peace, will you?”

   Calamaro thought about how it might be the honorable thing to do but then he remembered being buried up to his neck in the desert. He remembered his face being slashed and being made to eat his own flesh. Then he remembered the murder of his wife and daughter. He remembered walking in on the killers and seeing that they all looked like William Lyons.

   Calamaro said, “William, I just can’t do that. You understand?”

   “I understand you’re a fucking cocksucker.”

   Calamaro held his weapon out, pointed it at William’s heart, and pulled the trigger.

   The pistol burped and then William Lyons was dead.

   Kimama was silent, still holding his shovel that was now covered in brains, hair, and scalp-flesh. He was glad Lyons was dead but knew that he had to do one last thing to make sure the man’s bad spirit didn’t live on. He raised his shovel and rammed the sharp end into William’s skull.

   It cracked open like an egg. A mess of brains and blood oozed out along with dozens of tiny two-tailed scorpions. They crawled out in all directions as if happy to be freed from their prison. He left his shovel embedded in the floor in between the two halves of William’s head.

   “Guess I’ll go to Betty’s and say my goodbyes,” Calamaro said.

   Kimama smiled. “You do that. I cannot join you, though. I’m going back into the desert. I have done enough here.”

   “Thank you.”

   “You are welcome, Calamaro.”

   With that, the two men parted ways.

   Calamaro leaned against the house, relieved that the bulk of the fighting was over. He was about to holster his gun when he heard the sounds of yelling. It was the Indians.

   They were attacking the town.

* * *

   “Oh my god,” Mayor Douglas said. The man named Sergio Cardinale was standing in front of him, pointing a gun and looking like a vicious but patient dog ready to attack. But he wouldn’t. He probably wanted to have a little fun before he got his revenge. “You’re Belladonna’s husband?”

   Sergio shook his head. “Brother.”

   The mayor nodded slowly and looked at the floor. He thought he could probably reach the gun he kept under his desk. If only he could play the part of the slow and helpless fat man well enough. He put his hands out in front of him. “Oh god, please don’t kill me. Oh my god, please, forgive me. Forgive me!”

   “God may forgive bastards like you,” Sergio said. “But I don’t.”

   Mayor Douglas made his move. He grabbed the gun underneath his desk and pointed it at Sergio.

   Leonard and Clayton had their weapons aimed, ready to shoot if Sergio gave the word. Three guns against one were pretty good odds but they didn’t want to lose Sergio.

   The mayor said, “You want revenge, that it? So your whore of a sister is dead and now you think killing me is going to satisfy you. You think it’ll get rid of the guilt you have for not being there to protect her? Killing me isn’t going to bring her back.”

   “Not bring her back,” Sergio said. “Just make it so you don’t get the chance to enjoy yourself anymore.”

   The mayor looked at Ana. “And this little Mexican cunt is helping you, huh? This little two-faced bitch?”

   Sergio said, “You don’t like women much, do you?”

   Mayor Douglas laughed. “And you do? Don’t let this whore fool you. Before I took her as my own personal cunt, she was the mistress of General Santo Leche. Ever hear of him? He was a general down in Mexico during the Battle of Puebla. You know what happened to him after his victory against those French bastards? This bitch here killed him in his sleep. Slit his throat like a pig. That’s why I never fall asleep unless I know the doors are locked. This little Mexican cunt who was so nice in helping you? She’d kill you for a cigarette.”

   Sergio knew the man was right. Even though she was the one who sent him the message that Mayor Douglas had his parents killed and his sister kidnapped, Ana didn’t seem like someone who could be trusted. She was also the one who clued him in on the gold which probably meant she had an interest in it, too.

   Without warning, Mayor Douglas turned the gun on Ana and sent a bullet through her right breast. She fell backward and convulsed.

   Sergio pulled the trigger and let a shot go off right on the side of the mayor’s head, startling the man.

   Ana whispered, “Bastard.”

   “Shut up, whore,” Mayor Douglas said.

   “You pull that trigger again and I’ll make sure it takes you weeks to die,” Sergio said.

   The fat man scoffed. “You boys aren’t stupid enough to kill a mayor.”

   Clayton stepped forward. “I’m going to rough him up a bit.”

   “No,” Sergio said. “He’s going to unlock his vault and give us the gold. Then I’m going to kill him. Deep down he knows it. Just won’t admit it to himself.”

    “Maybe I won’t leave this house alive,” Mayor Douglas said. “But I’m taking you with me.”

   Sergio saw his opportunity, grabbed the mayor’s weapon, and then punched him in the gut, sending the fat man to the ground.

   Leonard said, “Mayor. It’ll be best if you just let us have that gold.”

   Mayor Douglas crawled to the wall behind his desk and pushed a button. A part of the wall opened up, revealing the door to his vault. He got to his knees to reach the combination lock.

   As soon as Sergio heard the click that let him know the vault was unlocked, he put his gun to the mayor’s head. “I’m just letting you know I’m not giving you the luxury of saying any last words.”

   He pulled the trigger. Brains and skull splattered the door to the vault.

   Clayton laughed, ran forward, and pulled the vault door open.

   “Holy shit,” he said.

   Leonard stepped forward. “What the hell?”

   Sergio looked inside. “Christ Almighty.”

   There was no gold in the vault, not one piece. It wasn’t filled with currency of any kind.

   It was filled with corpses.

   For the first time in weeks, Clayton took the donkey mask off. He stared in at the bodies. “So where in the hell is all that gold?”

   Before either of the other men could respond, they heard shouting from down the street. They looked out the window and saw Indians riding into town.

   Leonard said, “Looks like Hell just rode into Screwhorse. Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

   “Okay, just calm yourself down.” Bluford had never struck a woman and would have never thought he would contemplate it. After meeting Mrs. Duma, however, he was getting ready to jump forward and punch the bitch in the jaw. Before he could do so, she grabbed a razor out of her dress pocket and lunged forward with it, cutting Bluford in the neck.

   “Whores!” she screamed, shaking the glass doll that was in her other hand. Her face was an inch from Bluford’s. “These whores are ruining everything, spreading their diseases, turning men into monsters! Look at what they did to my brother, making him so sick that William Lyons locked him up in his cellar. He’s barely a man anymore!”

   Bluford had no idea what she was talking about but figured that any killer was going to come up with a variety of creative excuses for their crimes.

   So he slapped her.

   “Cocksucker!” she screamed and then slammed the glass doll into his nose. He fell back, pulling her on top of him. As they struggled, the sound of hoof beats and screams came through the window. They both got to their knees and looked outside.

   Bluford couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Holy shit.”

   Mrs. Duma’s mouth opened in shock. “Indians.”