Dust--Chapter 7, PG-13
Posted: Thu May 14, 2009 7:25 pm
Usual disclaimers…I don’t own Josef. All the plot and the other characters, though, are mine.
Dust
Chapter 7
Josef was almost stumbling before they reached the shelter of the central compound, but he summoned all his concentration to focus on putting one foot ahead of the other. Sally was close at his side; he could hear the hammer of her heartbeat, smell the fragrance of her blood.
Sally could see how drawn he looked. She was tired herself, and she’d spent the night watching, not working. It was tempting to regard him as an unending source of strength, but she could see he was moving more slowly, with less of the assured grace that had characterized him earlier.
The light was growing, the low clouds streaking the dawn sky with bands of color, orange, purple, pink against the graying expanse. There was not enough light yet to illuminate the ground, and Sally stumbled over an unseen stone in the grass, almost falling against Josef. He shot an arm out to catch her before giving it a thought, and left it around her shoulders before he realized she was rock steady next to him.
“Mrs. Watkins,” he said with a hint of a smile in his voice, “please do attempt not to fall down.”
Sally felt a little of the tall man’s weight rest on her shoulders. “I’ll try, Mr. Constantine,” she replied demurely, “if you’ll help me.” She paused. “Where are we going?”
Josef nodded toward the center of the camp. “Shelter.”
Sally looked. It was a few dozen yards, no more. The adobe house with a walled courtyard was dark, appeared uninhabited. No smoke rose from the chimney. While she’d cheerfully have killed for a hot meal and a bed, at the moment she was prepared to settle for a flat surface. Walls and roof to keep the sun from Mr. Constantine were a bonus, what with his mysterious allergy. And although she was desperate to know whatever he could tell her about what was in store for them, she also recognized it was no time to have a conversation.
At the adobe, Roberts directed them into a room with a stout plank door. “Sorry we can’t arrange a chaperone for you, Miz Watkins,” he leered, “but maybe you don’t want one anyhow.”
Sally’s face flamed, and Josef felt her tense. He tightened his hand on her shoulders. “I believe the Colonel characterized me as the lady’s guardian, in the absence of her husband, Mr. Roberts. And there can hardly be any impropriety involved for her in that case.”
Roberts looked sour. “Sure, whatever. Not like it’s going to matter, anyway.”
“Speaking of, I believe my—ward—could use a meal. Bring her something.”
“I don’t take orders from you, gambler.”
Josef looked him straight in the eye and smiled. “Bring food,” he said, and turned to inspect the room.
It was small and dark, almost bare. A single window pierced the thick walls, and Josef noted almost absently that a good part of the room would stay in shadow for the entire day. It was cool, quiet, and almost lightless, and he rejoiced to see it. He could rest here. Granted, he’d rest better without the near presence of Sally Watkins and her enticing double heartbeat, but his hunger was a long way from being beyond control.
He stood straight until the door slammed shut, and then almost fell forward to find a seat on the single narrow bed, bracing himself on one hand as he pivoted. As he eased his shoulders against the adobe wall, he realized Sally was regarding him with troubled eyes.
“My apologies, Mrs. Watkins. Allow me to move. I’m sure you need to sit.”
She shook her head, and gestured to him to stay where he was. “You must be exhausted.” She cast around the room, found a hard wooden bench against the wall beneath the square of light from the window, and sank down gratefully. She pulled the bonnet off her head and put a smoothing hand to her hair, feeling that it had been years since she’d pinned it up the morning before.
“I’ve been better. But I’ll survive. I always do.”
Sally pondered that for a moment. “Mr. Constantine, what’s going on? What’s going to happen?”
He regarded her steadily, biting his lower lip, but did not answer at once. Finally he motioned to her, gesturing her to leave her seat and come closer. When she had taken a place beside him, he spoke in low tones into her ear. “This is not familiarity, Mrs. Watkins,” he said. “These walls are thick, and so is the door, but it’s always safer to assume someone is listening.”
Sally nodded, eyes wide.
“I’m going to be blunt. Last night I made certain—concessions—to get a couple of the things I wanted. One of them was permission to bury Iris properly. Another was to keep you as safe as I could.”
“What—what do you mean, concessions?”
Josef shrugged. “I have something they want. Namely, money. And in such a fashion that I have to be kept alive to extract it. So, I agreed to help them get to my assets.”
“But—“ she started to protest.
“Sally. Listen to me. I’ve made and lost fortunes before. I will again. As long as I walk the earth, I can get more money. And I won’t lie to you. Your life was at stake. I told them, if anything happens to you, the deal’s off. Not that I have any intention of us being in their hands long enough for it to play out that way.”
“I have to ask you—why does it make any difference to you, Mr. Constantine?”
He looked genuinely puzzled. “What?”
“Me. What does it matter what happens to me?”
“Ah.” He gave her an enigmatic smile. “I’m a creature of whim, Mrs. Watkins. And my whim, now, is to be opposed to senseless slaughter of innocents. I haven’t always been so nice. But there you are.”
Sally nodded. “So what do we do? What can we do?”
Josef leaned closer yet, his lips almost against her hair. “During the daylight, we rest. And tonight, we’ll see about taking our leave.”
“How?”
“You’re going to have to trust me on that.”
Sally looked down at her hands. “It’s just—I don’t understand what’s going on. Who are these people? What are these people?”
Josef drew in a breath, and sighed, a cool brush of air across her cheek, as though debating what to tell her. “It’s the Colonel,” he said at last. “The Colonel is insane.”
Sally snapped her head toward him, so he could see the fear in her eyes, and waited for him to say more, but he only looked away, staring at the opposite wall.
He’d never understood how it was that madmen sometimes gathered such passionate followers. What he’d seen inside that tent…
The aide had stood aside to let them in, Roberts prodding the bound prisoner in ahead of him. The scene had been prosaic; a military staff meeting, men grouped around a map table. Josef gauged them instantly. Veteran soldiers, every one. The hard, ambitious type who would have been waiting, patiently, since the end of the war. Waiting for another chance at power. In his centuries, he’d seen it hundreds of times. Occasionally, he’d been one of them, until he decided that as much of an opportunity as war could be, it was more of a risk. The rewards were not worth the gamble.
He felt he could deal with most of these men. Practicality would appeal to them.
Unfortunately, it was also instantly evident that in the midst of these rational soldiers, the leader was the worst possible type. A visionary.
When Roberts and Josef came in, the Colonel was haranguing his officers about the need to cleanse the Western plains of sinners and scum. How he was going to set up a kingdom of the righteous, in the purity of the Rocky Mountains.
Josef tried to remember the last time he’d heard this. Was it the Caucasus? The Atlas Mountains? Sierra Nevada? Possibly the altitude had something to do with it.
He’d seen this type in two varieties. The decadent sort lolled obscenely on a throne, dreaming opium fueled dreams of grandeur and conquest. Those were usually hereditary nobility, men born to the purple who carried their self-importance as a taint in their inbred blood. The others, like this one, were more up-through-the-ranks, the ones burning with the zeal of some vision, the ones who claimed divine sanction for whatever holy madness they undertook.
It didn’t really matter, Josef supposed. Either type was capable of extreme violence. Their ends, they felt, justified any means, whether the goal was personal power, or the kingdom of God on earth.
When this particular madman paused long enough to recognize that his audience had increased, he turned his attention first to Roberts, excoriating him for his failure to achieve his objective, and for bringing prisoners to pollute the purity of the encampment. Worse than the mere fact of unbelievers among them, he’d had the gall to bring a woman here.
Josef allowed himself to wonder briefly how long the kingdom of the holy would last, without means of procreation, but decided the problem was not really his. He waited patiently, and when the chance arose, began, slowly, carefully, to persuade.
Whatever Josef might have wished to share about his experiences with the Colonel was lost when the plank door opened, and Slade Weston came in, carrying two plates of stew.
“Don’t think about jumping me,” he growled. “McCarty’s outside, and the trigger-happy little bastard may shoot me on the way out.”
Sally rose to take the plates, and held one out to Josef, who shook his head. “Thank you, Mr. Weston,” she said, setting them down on the bench.
“Yeah, don’t thank me until you’ve tasted it.”
Josef leaned back and threw one forearm across his eyes, his expression distasteful. “Pity,” he said, “I’d hoped to see Roberts again.”
Weston snorted. “Roberts is—otherwise engaged.”
“Oh?”
“The Colonel required his presence. I gathered it was not going to be a pleasant meeting.”
Josef’s response was succinct. “Good.”
“Mr. Constantine,” Sally interjected, “perhaps you should eat your stew while it’s hot. You need to keep up your strength.”
“Please, Mrs. Watkins. You eat what you will. I’ll see to my needs later.”
Weston gave Sally a long, thoughtful look before turning again to Josef. He cast a glance at the door, and said in a low voice, “This isn’t right, and I want you to know I know it.”
Josef removed his arm from over his face, regarding Weston with deceptively sleepy eyes. “Come back when you’re ready to prove it,” he challenged.
There was another long pause, and Sally watched the dust motes dancing in the rays of the morning sun that found their way through the window. She was wishing to be invisible, not to be a part of whatever this drama was playing out between the two men. But she wasn’t invisible, and she felt Weston’s gaze, not on her face, but resting like a heavy hand on her gravid belly. She blushed in embarrassment.
Slade seemed to reach a final decision, wiping a hand over his mouth as he looked at little Sally Watkins. He might be able to walk away from this man, but she needed his help. And if he’d never cared before what anyone thought of him, it occurred to him that he was tired of being nothing but a disappointment to everyone. He nodded to Josef. “When?” he asked, with a feeling he’d assented to his own execution. What the hell, he thought. Life was wildly overrated, at least the way he’d been doing it.
Josef smiled like a spider regarding a freshly-caught fly. “Nightfall,” he said. “Come back at nightfall.”
Dust
Chapter 7
Josef was almost stumbling before they reached the shelter of the central compound, but he summoned all his concentration to focus on putting one foot ahead of the other. Sally was close at his side; he could hear the hammer of her heartbeat, smell the fragrance of her blood.
Sally could see how drawn he looked. She was tired herself, and she’d spent the night watching, not working. It was tempting to regard him as an unending source of strength, but she could see he was moving more slowly, with less of the assured grace that had characterized him earlier.
The light was growing, the low clouds streaking the dawn sky with bands of color, orange, purple, pink against the graying expanse. There was not enough light yet to illuminate the ground, and Sally stumbled over an unseen stone in the grass, almost falling against Josef. He shot an arm out to catch her before giving it a thought, and left it around her shoulders before he realized she was rock steady next to him.
“Mrs. Watkins,” he said with a hint of a smile in his voice, “please do attempt not to fall down.”
Sally felt a little of the tall man’s weight rest on her shoulders. “I’ll try, Mr. Constantine,” she replied demurely, “if you’ll help me.” She paused. “Where are we going?”
Josef nodded toward the center of the camp. “Shelter.”
Sally looked. It was a few dozen yards, no more. The adobe house with a walled courtyard was dark, appeared uninhabited. No smoke rose from the chimney. While she’d cheerfully have killed for a hot meal and a bed, at the moment she was prepared to settle for a flat surface. Walls and roof to keep the sun from Mr. Constantine were a bonus, what with his mysterious allergy. And although she was desperate to know whatever he could tell her about what was in store for them, she also recognized it was no time to have a conversation.
At the adobe, Roberts directed them into a room with a stout plank door. “Sorry we can’t arrange a chaperone for you, Miz Watkins,” he leered, “but maybe you don’t want one anyhow.”
Sally’s face flamed, and Josef felt her tense. He tightened his hand on her shoulders. “I believe the Colonel characterized me as the lady’s guardian, in the absence of her husband, Mr. Roberts. And there can hardly be any impropriety involved for her in that case.”
Roberts looked sour. “Sure, whatever. Not like it’s going to matter, anyway.”
“Speaking of, I believe my—ward—could use a meal. Bring her something.”
“I don’t take orders from you, gambler.”
Josef looked him straight in the eye and smiled. “Bring food,” he said, and turned to inspect the room.
It was small and dark, almost bare. A single window pierced the thick walls, and Josef noted almost absently that a good part of the room would stay in shadow for the entire day. It was cool, quiet, and almost lightless, and he rejoiced to see it. He could rest here. Granted, he’d rest better without the near presence of Sally Watkins and her enticing double heartbeat, but his hunger was a long way from being beyond control.
He stood straight until the door slammed shut, and then almost fell forward to find a seat on the single narrow bed, bracing himself on one hand as he pivoted. As he eased his shoulders against the adobe wall, he realized Sally was regarding him with troubled eyes.
“My apologies, Mrs. Watkins. Allow me to move. I’m sure you need to sit.”
She shook her head, and gestured to him to stay where he was. “You must be exhausted.” She cast around the room, found a hard wooden bench against the wall beneath the square of light from the window, and sank down gratefully. She pulled the bonnet off her head and put a smoothing hand to her hair, feeling that it had been years since she’d pinned it up the morning before.
“I’ve been better. But I’ll survive. I always do.”
Sally pondered that for a moment. “Mr. Constantine, what’s going on? What’s going to happen?”
He regarded her steadily, biting his lower lip, but did not answer at once. Finally he motioned to her, gesturing her to leave her seat and come closer. When she had taken a place beside him, he spoke in low tones into her ear. “This is not familiarity, Mrs. Watkins,” he said. “These walls are thick, and so is the door, but it’s always safer to assume someone is listening.”
Sally nodded, eyes wide.
“I’m going to be blunt. Last night I made certain—concessions—to get a couple of the things I wanted. One of them was permission to bury Iris properly. Another was to keep you as safe as I could.”
“What—what do you mean, concessions?”
Josef shrugged. “I have something they want. Namely, money. And in such a fashion that I have to be kept alive to extract it. So, I agreed to help them get to my assets.”
“But—“ she started to protest.
“Sally. Listen to me. I’ve made and lost fortunes before. I will again. As long as I walk the earth, I can get more money. And I won’t lie to you. Your life was at stake. I told them, if anything happens to you, the deal’s off. Not that I have any intention of us being in their hands long enough for it to play out that way.”
“I have to ask you—why does it make any difference to you, Mr. Constantine?”
He looked genuinely puzzled. “What?”
“Me. What does it matter what happens to me?”
“Ah.” He gave her an enigmatic smile. “I’m a creature of whim, Mrs. Watkins. And my whim, now, is to be opposed to senseless slaughter of innocents. I haven’t always been so nice. But there you are.”
Sally nodded. “So what do we do? What can we do?”
Josef leaned closer yet, his lips almost against her hair. “During the daylight, we rest. And tonight, we’ll see about taking our leave.”
“How?”
“You’re going to have to trust me on that.”
Sally looked down at her hands. “It’s just—I don’t understand what’s going on. Who are these people? What are these people?”
Josef drew in a breath, and sighed, a cool brush of air across her cheek, as though debating what to tell her. “It’s the Colonel,” he said at last. “The Colonel is insane.”
Sally snapped her head toward him, so he could see the fear in her eyes, and waited for him to say more, but he only looked away, staring at the opposite wall.
He’d never understood how it was that madmen sometimes gathered such passionate followers. What he’d seen inside that tent…
The aide had stood aside to let them in, Roberts prodding the bound prisoner in ahead of him. The scene had been prosaic; a military staff meeting, men grouped around a map table. Josef gauged them instantly. Veteran soldiers, every one. The hard, ambitious type who would have been waiting, patiently, since the end of the war. Waiting for another chance at power. In his centuries, he’d seen it hundreds of times. Occasionally, he’d been one of them, until he decided that as much of an opportunity as war could be, it was more of a risk. The rewards were not worth the gamble.
He felt he could deal with most of these men. Practicality would appeal to them.
Unfortunately, it was also instantly evident that in the midst of these rational soldiers, the leader was the worst possible type. A visionary.
When Roberts and Josef came in, the Colonel was haranguing his officers about the need to cleanse the Western plains of sinners and scum. How he was going to set up a kingdom of the righteous, in the purity of the Rocky Mountains.
Josef tried to remember the last time he’d heard this. Was it the Caucasus? The Atlas Mountains? Sierra Nevada? Possibly the altitude had something to do with it.
He’d seen this type in two varieties. The decadent sort lolled obscenely on a throne, dreaming opium fueled dreams of grandeur and conquest. Those were usually hereditary nobility, men born to the purple who carried their self-importance as a taint in their inbred blood. The others, like this one, were more up-through-the-ranks, the ones burning with the zeal of some vision, the ones who claimed divine sanction for whatever holy madness they undertook.
It didn’t really matter, Josef supposed. Either type was capable of extreme violence. Their ends, they felt, justified any means, whether the goal was personal power, or the kingdom of God on earth.
When this particular madman paused long enough to recognize that his audience had increased, he turned his attention first to Roberts, excoriating him for his failure to achieve his objective, and for bringing prisoners to pollute the purity of the encampment. Worse than the mere fact of unbelievers among them, he’d had the gall to bring a woman here.
Josef allowed himself to wonder briefly how long the kingdom of the holy would last, without means of procreation, but decided the problem was not really his. He waited patiently, and when the chance arose, began, slowly, carefully, to persuade.
Whatever Josef might have wished to share about his experiences with the Colonel was lost when the plank door opened, and Slade Weston came in, carrying two plates of stew.
“Don’t think about jumping me,” he growled. “McCarty’s outside, and the trigger-happy little bastard may shoot me on the way out.”
Sally rose to take the plates, and held one out to Josef, who shook his head. “Thank you, Mr. Weston,” she said, setting them down on the bench.
“Yeah, don’t thank me until you’ve tasted it.”
Josef leaned back and threw one forearm across his eyes, his expression distasteful. “Pity,” he said, “I’d hoped to see Roberts again.”
Weston snorted. “Roberts is—otherwise engaged.”
“Oh?”
“The Colonel required his presence. I gathered it was not going to be a pleasant meeting.”
Josef’s response was succinct. “Good.”
“Mr. Constantine,” Sally interjected, “perhaps you should eat your stew while it’s hot. You need to keep up your strength.”
“Please, Mrs. Watkins. You eat what you will. I’ll see to my needs later.”
Weston gave Sally a long, thoughtful look before turning again to Josef. He cast a glance at the door, and said in a low voice, “This isn’t right, and I want you to know I know it.”
Josef removed his arm from over his face, regarding Weston with deceptively sleepy eyes. “Come back when you’re ready to prove it,” he challenged.
There was another long pause, and Sally watched the dust motes dancing in the rays of the morning sun that found their way through the window. She was wishing to be invisible, not to be a part of whatever this drama was playing out between the two men. But she wasn’t invisible, and she felt Weston’s gaze, not on her face, but resting like a heavy hand on her gravid belly. She blushed in embarrassment.
Slade seemed to reach a final decision, wiping a hand over his mouth as he looked at little Sally Watkins. He might be able to walk away from this man, but she needed his help. And if he’d never cared before what anyone thought of him, it occurred to him that he was tired of being nothing but a disappointment to everyone. He nodded to Josef. “When?” he asked, with a feeling he’d assented to his own execution. What the hell, he thought. Life was wildly overrated, at least the way he’d been doing it.
Josef smiled like a spider regarding a freshly-caught fly. “Nightfall,” he said. “Come back at nightfall.”