Hot Iron and Cold Blood: An Anthology of the Weird West

Hot Iron and Cold Blood Copyright © 2023 by Death’s Head Press

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author(s), except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this anthology are either products of the author(s)‘s imagination or used fictitiously.

Published by Death’s Head Press, and imprint of Dead Sky Publishing, LLC

Miami Beach, Florida

www.deadskypublishing.com

Cover by Robert Sammelin

Edited by Patrick R. McDonough

It Calls Edited by Patrick C. Harrison III

Copyedited by Kristy Baptist

ISBN 9781639511396 (paperback)

ISBN 9781639511389 (ebook)

First U.S. Edition August 2023

Set A Spell, The West Has A Story To Tell: A Foreword © R.J. Joseph 2023.

Ruthless © Jill Girardi 2023.

Texas Macabre © Owl Goingback 2023.

Holes © Brennan LaFaro 2023.

Soiled Doves © Vivian Kasley 2023.

About Her Given Name @ Kenzie Jennings 2023.

The Night of El Maldito @ Ronald Kelly 2023.

The Deviltry of Elemental Valence © Ed Lee, first appeared in Skull Full Of Spurs, edited by Jason Bovberg and Kirk Whitam, Dark Highway Press, 2000.

Old World Birds @ Drew E. Huff 2023.

Sedalia © David J. Schow, 1989, first appeared in Razored Saddles, edited by Joe R. Lansdale & Pat LoBrutto in Dark Harvest, 1989.

Rope and Limb © Jeff Strand 2023.

Dread Creek © Briana Morgan 2023.

It Calls © Patrick R. McDonough 2023.

The Readheaded Dead © Joe R. Lansdale first appeared in Dead Man’s Hand: An Anthology of the Weird West, edited by John Joseph Adams, Titan Books, 2014.

Seeking A Grave In Canaan © Wile E. Young 2023.

An Exploration of the Weird West: An Afterword © Patrick R. McDonough 2023.

Contents

Set A Spell, The West Has A Story To Tell: A Foreword

Ruthless

Texas Macabre

Holes

Soiled Doves

About Her Given Name

The Night of El Maldito

The Deviltry of Elemental Valence

Old World Birds

Sedalia

Rope and Limb

Dread Creek

It Calls

Old Habits

Hungry

The Redheaded Dead

Seeking A Grave In Canaan

An Exploration of the Weird West: An Afterword

About the Authors

Set A Spell, The West Has A Story To Tell: A Foreword

by RJ Joseph

The mere mention of the Wild West conjures romanticized images of open terrain and prairies, dotted with budding and established towns along the road to glistening riches. Strong and hearty people occupy these spaces, performing honest—and not so honest—work to build prosperity for themselves, while helping America fulfill its destiny as an expanded and evolved nation. Humankind wars with, and overcomes nature, breaking the wills of the domesticated animals that aid in these endeavors.

A closer examination reveals this is a vastly simplified picture of a time that included these ideals, yes, but which was also punctuated by sorrow, disease, and horrific living conditions. It is this inextricability—of prosperity and desperation, sorrow and joy—that paints a more accurate story of this space that ultimately mirrors the certainty of life and death.

The Wild West is more than drawls, leather, and ranches. Those of us who live here in the present day, realize other folks may cling to the romance of a time long past, desiring to emulate and report on our lives and culture. But many still do not completely understand what drives us. Those things for which we live and die. The things that bring us joy. The things that terrify us. To truly know a peoples’ story is to listen to their souls and hear what they hear, feel what they feel—and to then recognize their experiences as tied to the universality of the human existence.

To embody the Wild West is to revel in our expanses of space, rife with endless possibilities. To witness the spirits of the past permeating the elements, dancing intermingled with the breezes of today—to watch them dissipate into the ethers of tomorrow. The spirits are borne of strength, driven by loyalty, epitomized through tenacity, and bolstered throughout community. These foundational tenets of the Wild West are lain bare through the silence, whispers, murmurs, and clamoring of the stories in this anthology.

Silent strength.

We see just how strong a business owner must be to overcome the opposition when they fight dirty. This same strength must come from within, if one seeks to resist the comforting call of loved ones awash in a beckoning light. The tool of vengeance wielded by a cruel God may wish to deviate from that control, but instead calls on the strength of conviction to carry out obligations. And strength is the only thing left to rely on while steeped in abject loneliness, serving a tortured penance.

Whispered loyalty.

Loyalty and comfort in love supersede distrust and ultimate terror. We see men motivated by pure profit and loyal to gaining it for themselves, innovating to accommodate market demand for special services. A bandit loyal only to self-preservation feels the sting of the spirits in their retribution. A woman and the dark angel sent from her God stand unwaveringly in the face of conflict, loyal to deeply held beliefs.

Murmured tenacity.

An unlikely attacker uses his tenacious cunning to prevail over his hunters. A woman holds true to waiting to enact the ultimate vengeance on her perpetrator. We see a person’s true self cling tenaciously through hardship to emerge on the other side. A woman devotes her life to a tenacious embodiment of ultimate power.

Clamoring community.

A group of immigrants finds a recognizable solution from their community to mitigate spiritual invasion. Strangers from the Old World seek community, death, and rebirth within one another. A community concerned about its reputation works to clean up for outsiders. Scientists commune with one another to seek answers to timeless inquiries.

Come, set a spell. Have a cool drink on the porch. Do not mind those voices It is only the restless spirits of the Wild West, channeling through their worthy mediums here. They just want to tell you a story or three…

—Rhonda Jackson Garcia, writing as RJ Joseph

Texas, September 28th, 2022

Ruthless

by Jill Girardi

Goddamn idiots! Ruth Sutton spat. She tied her roan to the hitching post, alongside several other horses. Across the dirt road, two soused cowhands brawled on the porch of Noonan’s saloon. One of the drunkards grabbed the other by the shirt, then hauled back and punched him so hard he flew backward over the steps. His back slammed on the ground with an audible thud, a thick syrup of dark blood streaming from his nose. The winner threw his arms above his head in a triumphant jig, then lurched to the side of the porch and vomited a stream of green bile into the dust below.

Ruth pulled down the brim of her straw hat to shade her face from the boiling East Texas sun. This is the last settlement before the Llano Estacado and the Comancheria, she muttered. But these buffoons think whiskey makes ’em death proof.

She stalked across the road, the toes of her cracked leather boots kicking up the dust and turning the hems of her breeches red. When she reached the saloon’s swinging door, she paused. She’d gone to the saloon to seek a favor from the proprietor, Billie Noonan. Ruth hated Billie now, as fiercely as she’d once loved her. The thought of having to grovel for help made her guts churn. She slammed her palms against the door, its rusty hinges squealing as it flew open.

The place was full from floor to balcony. Men gulped their gin at the bar, slipping their arms around the saloon girls as they passed, their trays loaded with glasses of Forty Rod and Red Eye. The room smelled of Figurado cigars and unwashed travelers.

Qué cabrón! A dark-eyed vaquero in a broad-brimmed black hat slapped his hand on the mahogany table, arguing with two men over a game of Three-Card Monte. He stopped mid-swear when Ruth entered, her silver-white hair streaming behind her. Soon the entire bar was in a hush, all eyes on the proud woman in the doorway.

Dennis Noonan glared at Ruth from behind the bar.

You ain’t welcome here, woman.

I come to speak with Billie, and I ain’t leaving till I do it.

She’s in the store room. You got something to say to my wife, you can tell it to me. Noonan accosted Ruth, sticking his face close to hers. He was a big man with a head the size of a blacksmith’s anvil. He could have picked her up with one hand and toss her out the door if he desired, but that didn’t intimidate Ruth. She leaned into him.

"I can smell the whiskey on your breath, Dennis. Ruth fought the desire to move downwind. I don’t blame you for gettin’ roostered. Gotta be hard to stand behind the bar while your wife’s off blowin’ the grounsils with someone other than you."

Noonan’s hand balled into a fist. Ruth’s blue eyes flashed in the glow of the chandelier like light refracting through a diamond. Her hand moved to the Colt revolver strapped to her side.

You’re meaner than a wet polecat, Noonan, but don’t be a fool. You know I’ll put a dent in your pomade before your arm drops, make that bride of yours a widow.

Make yourself scarce ’fore I call the sheriff.

Let her talk, Dennis, said a familiar voice.

Quiet as a phantom, Billie appeared beside her husband. Ruth’s heart slammed in her chest, driven by hate and sorrow. She’d aged some, the prettiness of her youth replaced by a hard beauty that still had the power to stop Ruth’s breath.

Quit beatin’ the devil around the stump, Billie said. Say your piece and go.

Ruth glanced around the room, her eyes resting on the vaquero, who watched her with his dark orbs. She shifted, her thumbs laced through her belt loops, reticent in the company of enemies.

Florence is alive.

Billie’s face blanched. Her eyes darted to her husband before she touched a hand to her forehead, then swayed as if she’d fall. The big man caught her, helping to steady her before glaring at Ruth.

Who are you to come here upsettin’ my wife with your lies?

Ruth ignored him. I believed you were a good-hearted girl when I took you in, she said to Billie. A lost woman with an eight-year-old you couldn’t keep fed. I gave you a home, loved your daughter like she was mine. And you twisted a knife in my back.

Billie sputtered in protest but Ruth put up a hand to silence her. Then came the day the Penateka Comanche raided this fort. I was away, just started working for the Paulsons up on their horse ranch. Where were you when they slung your daughter on the back of a horse and rode off? Hiding in a thicket by the river, that’s where! You saved your own hide and let ’em take Florence. You’re the most spineless woman ever walked this earth.

The girl’s been dead more than twenty years, Noonan growled.

Cynthia Parker seen her, Ruth said."

The crowd gasped, then began whispering among themselves.

Nobody’d believe a word she says, Billie piped up. She’s crazier than a rat in an outhouse. Keeps trying to run back to her captors.

Tom Paulson spoke with her at Parker’s Fort last week, Ruth intoned, her eyes narrowed into slits of cold blue steel. "She wasn’t any prisoner. The Comanche raised her as a beloved daughter. She married a chief, bore children with him. He got himself killed fighting the Rangers when they tried to take her back. Protecting her! What’s more, some hunters sighted a group of Penateka on this side of the Brazos, a three-day journey from here. They seen a blond-headed woman with ’em. That’s our Florence, I know it is."

All right, so she’s alive, Noonan said. Nothin’ we can do about it. Now that Sam Houston’s got his peace talks, he won’t send the Rangers out on any more rescue missions. And just ’cause they sighted a group a week ago don’t mean they’re still there. You know they move camp every few days. Now that you’ve told your news of the world, you can get the hell out of my establishment.

It’s more my saloon than yours. Was my gold paid for it.

What are you after, Sutton? You want your money back, is that it?

It ain’t for me. I need it to go after Florence.

You going alone? Noonan laughed. You’ll end up with an arrow in your gut for your trouble. And nobody’d mourn you but that old mare you rode in on.

I’m going in peace, asking them to let Florence come home. Smallpox has ravaged entire tribes. We gave it to ’em and now the government won’t let them have the vaccine. We’ve killed more than they ever have. I need that money to pay some men to travel with me—I ain’t crazy enough to go alone. Now, I didn’t come here expectin’ you to give up the gold for nothing. I’ve got four beautiful Morgan horses over at Paulson’s, only six miles from here. They’re worth two hundred dollars apiece, but you can have ’em for half.

We got no use for those swaybacks you breed. Paulson needs workhorses. Go do your barterin’ with your boss. He turned away, dismissing Ruth.

We’ll go with you.

The well-dressed vaquero stood and walked toward them, his long hair hanging loose under his hat. Ruth wasn’t fooled by his dandified appearance. She knew these horsemen could dead-aim a target from the back of a Mustang without even breaking a sweat.

She regarded the two men who now stood, flanking him. One of them was no more than twenty-one, youthful blonde curls edging from the brim of his poblano. He grinned at the nearest bar girl, who swooned into the arms of her giggling friends. The other man was shorter, stockier, with hard, shifting eyes and a Remington lodged on each hip.

I don’t have money to pay you, Ruth said.

We’ll take those Morgans as our fee.

You’re insane, Castillo, Noonan interjected.

You sound just like my ex-wife, Castillo said, winking at Ruth. This handsome boy next to me is Dallas Walker. My mysterious friend here goes by the name of Sang Jopah. We’re on our way to seek work at Paulson’s ourselves.

Settle your score and meet me there, Ruth replied. We leave at dawn.

She walked out of the bar without looking back, striding across the road to untie her Roan. Her mind still roiled over the confrontation with the Noonans. Beneath the glowing embers of her hatred, she’d still had some hope, after all. Hope that Billie might have some love left for her daughter—and for her.

Ruth! Wait!

Billie dashed out of the saloon, holding up her skirts. Ruth watched her trip across the road in her patent-leather heels. She stopped in front of the Roan, panting as she pressed a hand to her chest.

I’m goin’ with you!

Ruth let out a mirthless laugh. "You lost your breath running twenty feet. Get on back inside before your man locks you up with the rest of his livestock.

I don’t give a damn what that big meat bag says, and I don’t give a goddamn rat’s tail what you say, neither. That’s my daughter. Come dawn, I’ll be with y’all.

When’s the last time your feet were on the ground before noon?

Ignoring the insinuation, Billie spun on her heels and ran back to the saloon.

Filled with inexplicable sadness, with her heart sinking into muddy rivers of despair, Ruth mounted her horse and rode toward Paulson’s.

They’d been traveling a day and a half, heading into open territory toward the Rio Brazos. The land this close to the Trinity River was lush, lined with sycamore, pecan, and oak trees. The peaks of the distant hills poked over the treetops like curious birds. Castillo and Ruth took the lead, their horses laden with saddlebags filled with supplies. Ruth armed herself with her revolver and Tom Paulson’s Carbine.

Dallas and Billie trailed behind them. Billie had ridden into Paulson’s on the back of Dallas’s Pinto. Ruth let her use the Roan for the journey. She and the others took the Morgans.

Dennis tried to stop me, Billie explained, touching the purple welt under her eye. I put a dose of laudanum in his tonic. It’ll be hours before he wakes up.

Dallas provided a steady stream of tall tales of the gunfights he’d won on his travels, brandishing a pair of pearl-handled revolvers, custom-made back East. He handed one of the guns to Billie, who received it with gratitude. The younger man’s incessant chatter was a welcome distraction from her anxieties.

Jopah brought up the rear, ever alone, alert for any sign of danger. He preferred it that way. A Comanche family had adopted him after his blood parents died of Malaria. He’d lived with them for fifteen years, learning to hunt and shoot, until Texas Rangers wiped out their camp on a supposed peace mission. Now he worked for himself.

Ruth took a long swig from her canteen, enjoying the feel of the cool water rushing down her parched throat.

Hot enough to burn the bristles off a warthog, Castillo said, removing his hat. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then glanced back at Billie, who appeared to be wilting in her saddle.

You think she’ll make it?

She might outlive us all, Ruth replied. When I first met her, she wasn’t but eighteen, wandering outside the settlement begging for alms. No one knows what she went through out in the wilderness. But she deserves every bit of it for what she done to her daughter.

Is that why you hate her? Because she didn’t fight back when they took her daughter?

That among other things.

She stole your gold?

Yep, and my husband, too, Ruth replied, eyes pointing straight ahead. I don’t want to talk about it.

Tell me about Florence.

The ghost of a smile fluttered about Ruth’s lips. She was as sweet as honey, but nobody could make her do a thing if she didn’t think it was right. She wasn’t disobedient, just different. Times were, I’d come outside searchin’ for her, and damned if it didn’t look like she was talking to my horses. She had a strange connection to nature—it was a sight to behold.

They plodded onward, talking less as they passed endless sandstone mesas bordered by emerald green pines. Night fell, and they took shelter in an oak grove. Ruth hunted for jackrabbits, shooting one clean through the head with the carbine. After they ate, the men took turns keeping watch while the others slept. Ruth lay in her bedroll near the flames while Billie curled up next to Dallas.

Their giggling bothered Ruth. She remembered the nights she’d stayed awake, waiting for Billie’s goodnight kiss. Those secret kisses, so abundant at first, soon stopped altogether, only to begin anew with her husband while she was working on the ranch. When he died a year later, Ruth found he’d left her penniless, conned out of their savings by his paramour. Now, Billie had returned, slicing open old wounds against Ruth’s will.

A lonely howl echoed through the hills, mirroring Ruth’s melancholy.

Hear that wailing? she heard Dallas whisper to Billie. That ain’t no coyote. That’s the war cry of the Nonape, the Little People. They’re more fearsome than any gunslinger, with their giant eyes glittering like polished onyx, and teeth sharp as a honed ax. If they catch you, they’ll flay you—and eat you while you’re still alive! BOO!

Dallas grabbed Billie and hugged her to him. She squealed, her eyes shining with desire for the handsome grifter.

You’re only trying to scare me, she cried. That ain’t nothing but an old wives’ tale.

They’re all around us, Dallas continued as the haunting cries filled the air again. They’ll only let you see them at the last minute, when they’re already on you with their spears.

It’s forbidden to speak of them! Jopah snarled. Dallas ceased his playful talk, chastened by the first words the man had spoken since morning.

Ruth remembered the tales she’d heard as a youth. Folks said the Nonape lived in the caves dotting the hills. These were supernatural doorways they crossed through when called by powerful medicine.

An hour before dawn, Ruth awoke and stoked the fire to heat the last of the jackrabbit. Still on watch, Castillo came to sit beside her.

You know he’s following us?

Ruth nodded, focusing on her cooking. I heard him skulking behind the trees last night.

Reckon he’ll be trouble? Castillo clutched his revolver, running a thumb over the barrel like a lover’s caress.

Noonan’s madder than a rabid hound, a fool chasing his fool wife across treacherous country. Might be he gets himself killed and spares us the bullet.

At daybreak, they began the final leg of their journey, reaching the Brazos when the sun reached its zenith. Castillo and Jopah tracked the area, finding signs of a party passing through a few days prior. They followed the trail down into a clearing at the river bottom.

A Penateka lodge rose before them—a conical tent made of buffalo skin, within a ring of cottonwood trees. A string of deer hooves hanging from the door clacked a lonely song in the breeze. Otherwise, an eerie stillness cloaked the solitary dwelling.

Castillo cast a glance at Ruth, unspoken questions between them. Why was there only one lodge when the Penateka traveled in numbers? A lone shield rested on its tripod outside the tent. They dismounted their horses and huddled together, tense and waiting, all ears tuned for any sound coming from inside the tent.

A feral cry tore from the lodge, reverberating through the river bottom. Seconds later, a woman stumbled out, her eyes darting back and forth, her blonde hair unkempt. She fell to her knees, not appearing to notice the group before her. Tears burned Ruth’s eyes.

Something wasn’t right.

Florence! Billie rushed forward, abandoning all caution at the sight of her daughter.

Wait! Ruth called. Billie, stop!

The pounding of hooves clipped behind them. Dennis Noonan thundered over the ridge, screaming obscenities as he came. Billie was steps away from Florence. She gaped at her mother, and threw up her hands to fend the woman off.

An arrow whistled through the air, piercing Billie’s right eye as it drove into her brain. Blood spurted around the feathered shaft embedded in her eyeball. She swayed for a long moment, then fell, twitching on the earth.

Billie girl! Noonan leaped from his horse, landing on his feet. He charged the lodge like an angry bull. Florence’s hand shot out, seizing the revolver from Billie’s holster. She aimed and fired. Noonan’s chest exploded. He fell backward, his body throwing up a cloud of dust as it hit the ground. Spooked by the gunshot, his horse bolted over the ridge and disappeared. Ruth’s well-trained horses remained calm.

A Penateka man lurched out of the lodge like a drunkard, bow in hand, his black hair flying behind him. He attempted to nock another arrow but fumbled it. Ruth drew the gun from her hip and shot. The bullet hit him in the temple, exiting the back of his head. A geyser of bright red blood, brain matter, and splinters of bone sprayed the front of the lodge before he went down. Florence let out an unearthly scream, firing until the empty chamber clicked. She dropped the revolver. She threw herself over the bowman’s body and sobbed on his chest.

Castillo trained his gun on Florence, sidling up to her with swift steps. Jopah pulled several strips of rawhide from one of his saddlebags and joined him. Florence gazed at the two men as if dumb, her eyes clouded with anguish. She came alive when they grabbed her, kicking and thrashing as they pinned her to the ground. They bound her hands and feet with the rawhide while she hissed a stream of bitter Comanche words.

Dallas kneeled beside Billie, taking her wrist to check for a pulse. After several seconds, he dropped her arm and blessed himself. He looked up at the group, grim-faced, and shook his head. Ruth steadied herself against her horse as her legs buckled beneath her. The stench of death and gunpowder filled the air. Ruth stared at the mass of gore and blasted flesh that was once Dennis Noonan’s chest. There was no need to check for a pulse.

With his gun held before him, Castillo disappeared inside the lodge. Moments later, he poked his head out and beckoned to Ruth.

It was dark and cool inside the lodge. Ruth realized the tent was a home like any other, a jumble of cooking utensils, clothing, and other goods strewn about a central fire pit. Castillo pointed to a corner. At first, it appeared to be a large pile of buffalo pelts. When Ruth looked closer, she saw someone lying atop the pile, wrapped in a large fur blanket. It was a skinny boy about twelve years old, stone dead, his body covered with so many huge red welts they almost concealed his skin.

Ruth pivoted toward the doorway. Outside, Jopah and Dallas were bending to examine the dead man. Behind them, a bound Florence sat on the