HOUSE OF USHER

 By Andii Valo 

CHAPTER FIVE

Blue eyes, cold as ice. Boring into him, reaching deep into his soul, finding it devoid of anything decent or worthwhile and liking that. A smile, grim as the reaper, silent words promising damnation. Blood and flames . Red eyes now, burning his conscience, searing his head. Pain that will never cease… Because purgatory is eternal.

Cort started awake, for what felt like about the twentieth time. His heart was racing, he was sweating and disoriented and it took him several long moments to realise he’d been dreaming again. Dreaming and sleeping was all he’d been doing recently, and he was still too damned tired to move.

His head was aching like a bastard and he poked at the bandage wrapped around it, wincing as his fingers made contact with the huge lump and stitched up cut beneath. Even raising his arm hurt - there was a bandage there, too – so he let it flop back onto the bed and cursed his own weakness.

The door creaked open and Doc Wallace stuck his head into the room. He looked anxious.

“You okay, son? I thought I heard you call out.”

“Sorry, Doc. I was dreaming again.”

“How you feeling, Cort?”

“My head’s hurting fit to bust. You got anything for that ?”

The old doctor moved in closer to the bed and squinted at him appraisingly. “That’s one hell of a shiner you got there. You’re damned lucky that bottle didn’t crack your skull open. I got some chloroform. That’ll knock you out for a while.”

Cort shook his head and instantly wished he hadn’t. “I was thinking of something more sociable, like maybe whisky.”

The expression of distaste on the old man’s face warned him exactly of what was coming.

“If you’re thirsty there’s water on the table right next to you. I reckon you drunk enough whisky last night to last you a lifetime, and that’s mostly why your head’s hurting. Now do you need anything sensible while I’m here? Food or a piss?”

“What I need is to get out of here, Doc.”

That generated some emphatic head shaking.

“I’ll decide when you leave. Right now I need you close so I can watch you.”

Then he was gone, closing the door softly behind him and Cort sighed. He knew the old man was right. He was in no state to look after himself right now. And last night he’d been in no condition to argue when the Doc decided he should stay here a while.

Cort’s eyes flitted around the observation room, no more than a boxroom really. The walls were painted terracotta orange, not much different to the colours of the desert outside the window, and all it contained was a narrow bed, a rickety table and a crucifix hanging on the wall above him. Cort considered how many times this bunk might have served as somebody’s deathbed and the thought made him squirm.

There wasn’t much in here to occupy a patient except thoughts of getting well and getting the hell out. Maybe that was the point of it. Cort wished he knew what time it was but his watch was in the pocket of his pants, and his pants had disappeared along with most of his other clothes. He wondered if the doc planned on releasing him back into Redemption wearing only his drawers.

He glanced over at the window. It was getting dark outside which meant he’d been laying around here on his arse for the whole day. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had the luxury of doing that.

Ben Carter had pretty much carried him here to the doctor’s house last night. Cort had suspected that whatever old Wallace was going to do would hurt even worse than getting clubbed and shot, so he’d got drunk and reckoned without the effects of blood loss and shock. When he’d tried to stand up he’d fallen over and by the time Ben got him here he was pretty much unconscious. He didn’t remember his wounds being stitched up and dressed, and now he reckoned it might have been smarter just to have endured the pain of the needle. That way he wouldn’t be struggling with the hangover from hell.

When he opened his eyes again it was full dark and he blinked around, surprised. Not because he’d fallen asleep without realising – he’d been doing that a lot lately - but because of the absence of nightmares. He was cold and fairly quickly realised it was because the bedclothes were gone. He felt around in the pitch black but they weren’t on the bed so he rolled gingerly onto his side and began groping on the floor. His hand banged against something and then there was a crash and the sound of glass breaking.

“Shit!”

He heard the scrape of a chair being pulled back in the next room – the doc wasn’t joking about staying close – and a moment later he was standing in the doorway with a lamp.

“What the hell was that?”

Cort didn’t really need to explain. The bedside table was over on its side and there was glass and water all over the floor. “I’m sorry, Doc. I was trying to find the blankets.”

“Why didn’t you just holler? I’m right next door.”

He turned the table upright and set the lamp down on top of it.

“Guess I shouldn’t have left you in the dark like that, but I figured you’d be mostly sleeping.”

He located the blankets, laying in a heap at the foot of the bed, rolled Cort over onto his back and spread them over him.

“You probably kicked ‘em off. You squirm around something wicked when you’re asleep. Those dreams of yours must be pretty hot.”

Cort thought about the flames of purgatory and he couldn’t help smiling. “They’re hot as hell.”

The sudden talk of his persistent nightmares made him realise he might be able to get a few answers here. He waded right on in.

“Tell me, Doc, you ever hear of a man called Henry Usher?”

“That preacher fella? Everybody’s heard of him.”

“Not the folks in Hermosillo. What do you know about him?”

The doctor scratched at his beard, considering. “Well, let me see…”

He shuffled out of the room and Cort felt all of yesterday evening’s frustration return. He’d been down this route with Foy in the bordello and, right after, Horace the barkeeper over at the saloon. He’d got no satisfying information from either. It seemed everybody knew Henry Usher was some kind of big shot preacher with a veritable army of devout soldiers at his disposal. A man who worked out of Tucson, delivered on his promises and travelled a lot, but no more than that. He’d hoped an educated  fellow like Doc Wallace might be able to shed a little more light but now he wasn’t so sure.

The doc returned with a broom and a mop and began cleaning up the mess on the floor. He wasn’t talking and the silence stretched out. Cort suspected he’d forgotten the original question.

“Henry Usher, Doc?”

Abruptly the old fellow piped up, as though he hadn’t been asked the same question only minutes before.

“I sure remember him. I been to one of his meetings over in Bisbee once and it was an illuminating night. That fella knows how to preach the Bible without boring people to sleep or scaring ‘em senseless with talk of fire and damnation. You should’ve seen all the donations afterwards, too. I never seen so much silver in my life and not a single button in that pot! He’d be a rich man if he didn’t pile it all back into that ministry he’s got. He gets into godforsaken places and builds churches for people who’ve only known bloodshed and violence, turns them places right around too. When a town gets religion it starts to clean itself up, and clean towns bring in decent folks and decent business. Even the railroad sometimes. Redemption could sure use a man like Henry Usher.”

Whatever Cort had expected, it wasn’t this. Henry Usher had been visiting his nightmares for so long he’d started to think of him as some kind of a demon. But there was absolutely no basis for it other than his own mind, twisted by guilt, fear and alcohol, playing tricks on him. After all, hadn’t his only real experience of Henry Usher been one of  kindness and compassion?

“Why are you so interested in him, Cort? Thinking of asking for a job?”

Cort frowned. “He found me in the desert, pretty much stopped Foy and Ratsy killing me. Yesterday Foy told me how he’s looking for me and I’m trying to figure out why.”

The doc grinned. “Maybe he’s gonna offer you a job?”

Cort shook his head, relieved that it didn’t hurt so bad this time.

“All I’m good for is taking lives, not making them better.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, son. You did what you needed to do last night. You can’t expect to be town Marshal without shooting a gun now and then.”

Cort pulled himself up in bed and leaned against the headboard, eying the doc, considering what he’d said. Did he even want to be Marshal any more? Until now he’d not been alert enough to give it any serious thought and last night he was too damned angry to even think straight. Doc Wallace was looking at him with a quizzical expression.

“I reckon you’ve got some figuring to do, Cort. There’s a world of difference between the church and the law.”

“I don’t know about that, Doc. It always comes down to belief, doesn’t it? I believed the people here in Redemption appreciated what I was trying to do. No-one talks to me much, and I’ve never felt especially welcome, but I thought I was making some kind of difference to their lives and I thought that was enough. Last night it all changed. How many people do you reckon were watching that gunfight? A hundred? More than a hundred? All they cared about was watching me die and you know what the worse thing was…”

He was too choked up to finish the sentence. Tears were pricking at his eyes and he hung his head down so the doc couldn’t see. A moment later the bunk shifted slightly as the old fellow sat his meagre arse down. A hand on his wrist, squeezing gently, offering support. It made the tears come more freely and he felt hot splashes on his bare chest.

“You weep if you need to, son. I figure an ex-preacher who’s still wearing a cross round his neck is gonna hurt bad when he has to take life.”

Cort glanced down at the cross. He honestly didn’t know why he still had it on – it wasn’t like it meant much anymore. It wore it mostly out of habit.

“It’s not just the killing, Doc. Ben told me there was folks taking bets on that fight and they were all betting against me.”

He managed a weak smile. “I guess everybody gets to be a Judas when the odds are right.”

That got an unexpected reaction. The old fellow tightened his grip on Cort’s wrist and learned forward, almost skewering him with the ferocity of his gaze.

“You listen to me now, Cort, and listen good! Most of the decent folks in this town were in their homes when that gunfight started up. The ones taking bets mostly came from the bars and whorehouses and they aren’t worth jack shit. If it’s of any interest to you, son, about 20 of those sons of bitches left town today of their own accord and a bunch of townsfolk got together and ran out more of  ‘em. Folks have been banging on my door all day long asking after you and some of ‘em brought gifts, too. The women took your clothes away to clean them up and that fella down at the liquor store has written a letter to the US Marshal, demanding they send you some backup and damned quick. We all signed it.”

Cort stared at him, stunned. The doctor smiled.

“People here appreciate you, Cort, though they might not show it so good. They’ve been working up at that Marshal’s office all day. I think they’ve gotten the glass in now.”

“Some folks might call that closing the stable door when the horse has bolted, Doc.”

The doc shrugged. “Maybe…. You’ve got some thinking to do, son, but it’d be a pity if you decided to leave.”

He stood up and Cort heard his knees creak.

“I can bring you some stew if you like? Seems like you’re feeling a bit better now.”

“Stew sounds good.”

The doc nodded and was just leaving the room as an almighty banging started up somewhere outside. Cort’s reaction was instinctive, he jumped out of bed and looked around for his gun. Of course it was gone, along with the rest of his stuff.

“Where’s my fucking gun, Doc?”

Doc Wallace was staring like he’d gone mad.

“Calm down, son. It’s only someone paying a visit.”

“At this hour?”

“What hour, Cort? It’s barely nine o’clock.”

It had felt like it was much later and now Cort felt stupid for over-reacting. He sat back down on the edge of the bed, his face burning.

“Seems I’m a little twitchy.”

“I heard that, son.”

The doc shuttled out. He was gone a long time and Cort started to feel tired again. He lay down on the bunk and pulled the blankets over himself, wondering if he should blow out the flame on the lamp. Just as he was beginning to doze off he heard footsteps and then Doc Wallace was back in the room.

“You need to wake up, son, right now.” He sounded on edge and once again Cort wished his gun was at least in the same room.

“What’s the matter?”

The doc’s eyes were bugging out and he was white as a ghost.

“You remember that fella we were talking about earlier?”

“Which fellow?”

“That fella Henry Usher! Well he’s sitting in my parlour drinking bourbon and he wants to talk to you.”

ON TO CHAPTER 6

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