Dashing Dave Rides Again

PROLOGUE:

Wells Is Burning!

Dashing Dave McCoy, once great soul hunter, a man of myth and legend, sat alone in his cabin nursing a bottle of whiskey as he stared at a faded photograph. The photograph was of a young woman. Her name was Beatrice, and she was only twenty-six years of age when the photograph was taken, seemingly in the prime of her health. What the photograph did not show was the sickness that lurked inside her, the sickness that in six short months after the photo was taken would rob her of her life.

Dave suppressed the tears that wanted to come and instead took another swig from his bottle. He also tried to suppress the anger that came naturally to him these days. With that, he was less successful. He didn’t ask God why. Not anymore. He had in the beginning. He had begged until his throat grew dry. But now he knew better. God had rejected him. Twenty-five years he had devoted his life in service to the Almighty, and in the end, he was abandoned, robbed of his salvation as surely as a man who had never known Jesus at all. It burned. Dave didn’t want it to. He didn’t want to care anymore. But in the end, he couldn’t help it. He did care, and the bitterness ate at him just as brutally now two years later as the day he lost his faith, the day his daughter died.

Dave set the photograph to the side and took another swig from his bottle, then cursed when his tongue came away dry. Tossing the empty bottle to the floor, he lurched to his feet and stumbled to the cabinet.

Before he could open the cabinet doors to retrieve another bottle, though, an explosion sounded outside.

Thunder? Dave asked. Better go check the livestock.

Dave turned and stumbled for the door. The explosion was not close, nor if truth be told, did Dave own any livestock. But that mattered little to Dave. He was a man of action, or at least he used to be, and when he made up his mind about something, it was hard to deter him, no matter how ridiculous his reasoning or how much alcohol he had ingested.

Dave fumbled with the latch to the door for several seconds before managing to open the door and stumble outside. Then he looked around befuddled. For the most part, the night was as it had been the last time he checked—clear and cloudless. He saw plenty of stars, and the moon painted a pretty picture in the western sky. But thunder don’t come from no cloudless sky. Where were the storm clouds?

Dave shook his head and lowered his gaze. Toward the south, where the town of Humboldt Wells lay, he saw a faint orange glow. And presently, he noticed something else. Between him and the town came a rider, all black silhouette in this darkness, but strangely highlighted by the glow behind him, as if he were some angel of darkness wearing a halo of fire come to claim Dave at last.

The rider approached fast and hard, closing the distance to Dave in a matter of minutes. But it wasn’t until the man yanked his reins, pulling his horse to a sudden stop in front of Dave, that Dave recognized him.

Yello, Joseph! he said. How goes it, friend?

Joseph dismounted and pointed toward the fiery red glow on the southern horizon. Are you blind? he said. Wells is burning!

Dave squinted his eyes and peered into the distance. Again?

There’s no time to lose. The mayor’s forming up a bucket brigade, but we’re shorthanded...

Dave stumbled. It wasn’t much, and he righted himself immediately. But it was still enough to make Joseph suspicious. He stopped and eyed Dave warily. Then he leaned in close and sniffed before recoiling suddenly in a fit of coughs.

Are you drunk again? he demanded after the coughing subsided.

Dave pressed himself further against his doorframe to steady himself before raising his index finger toward his friend. Still, he corrected.

Joseph shook his head in disgust before letting out a miserable sigh. Doesn’t matter. We need all the help we can get, even if that help is a drunk. Come, let’s get your coat.

Joseph stepped forward and leaned into the house. He removed Dave’s coat and hat from where it hung on a hook just inside the door before shoving the coat into Dave’s hands and plopping the hat squarely on his head. Dave looked at the coat in his hand, then at Joseph. Joseph just shook his head in disgust.

Have you forgotten everything, Da—

Joseph stiffened suddenly. His eyes were wide as he looked at Dave; then they furrowed and he collapsed into Dave’s arms.

Dave peered confusingly at his friend. A large black stain radiated out from the center of Joseph’s back. And even as Dave watched, the black stain turned a dark crimson as it began to fill with blood.

Dave dropped Joseph’s body and jumped back. For a moment, he stared in horror at his friend; then he blinked and turned his bleary gaze upward. It took a moment to focus through the alcohol-induced haze, but what he saw when his eyes finally did focus confounded him. Sorcerers! A whole pack of them, and headed directly for him.

A fireball blasted into the doorframe to Dave’s left, causing Dave to stumble back through the door. He managed to slam the door shut behind him, but it was little reassurance. A door wasn’t going to hold against sorcery, and there was no other way out of his small cabin. He was trapped!

Dave grabbed his carbine and a box of blessing rounds from their place near the door and ran to the back of his cabin. He overturned a cabinet, more by falling over it than by intention, and took position behind it. Then he fumbled with the blessing rounds. He dropped more of the ammunition than he managed to force into his gun, but he did get the gun loaded. Then he clutched the weapon for dear life as he waited.

His hands shook uncontrollably. He tried to steady them, but it was no use. He was genuinely afraid. He wasn’t sure why. He had faced odds worse than this with a lot less when he was soul hunting. But he’d never done it drunk, and he’d never done it without faith. Still, it wasn’t as if he had a choice. Nor did he have long to wait. Almost as soon as he finished loading his carbine, an explosion rocked his small cabin and the door blasted from its hinges. A second later, the sorcerers entered.

Dave considered issuing a quick prayer, but discarded the idea as soon as it occurred to him. A faithless prayer was more worthless than a Confederate dollar. So instead, he renewed his grip on the carbine and lifted his head above the overturned cabinet to see exactly what it was he was facing. Then he nearly dropped the gun. Three sorcerers had entered the apartment, but they were not alone. They were accompanied by a shade, the ghost of a dearth warrior. And worse still, the sorcerers appeared to be answering to the ghost.

After a moment, one sorcerer inclined his head to the shade and asked, Is it here?

Yes, I can sense it. The shade allowed its gaze to roam across Dave’s home. Finally, it settled on a spot on the far side of the cabin past Dave’s bivouac. The shade lifted a finger and pointed at the spot. There, he said. In that cupboard.

Dave turned his head so that his gaze joined the dearth shade’s. It was then that understanding came. The map! They were after the map.

Dave settled back down into his sanctuary and considered the situation. He may not be the soul hunter he once was. He may be nothing more than a no account drunk, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to let knowledge that could destroy the world fall into the hands of a bunch of sorcerers.

Renewing his grip on his weapon, the shaking conspicuously absent, Dave pulled himself to his feet and fired a volley straight into the sorcerers... and the shot bounced right off the damn hellbound. Dave didn’t know whether to curse or cry. The potency of a blessing round came from the faith of the person who shot it. There was a time when his faith was enough to rip the demons right out of those sorcerers. Now his rounds didn’t even penetrate their clothing. Like Dave had noted, he did not know whether to curse or cry, but for the time being he did neither. Even before his finger had pulled the trigger, all three sorcerers lifted their arms and unleashed fireballs at him. Dave didn’t wait for those fireballs to hit. He turned and raced to the cabinet.

The fireballs missed Dave and blasted into his cabin instead, igniting the furniture and turning the cabin into an inferno. Dave ducked as another fireball hurled past his head. Then he ripped open the cupboard doors and yanked the map from its location buried under a pile of other stuff Dave never expected to use again. The pile came crashing down onto the floor. Dave gazed down at the mess he had made, but stopped when his eyes fell on a piece of black fabric that had unrolled itself into a glistening black circle where it rested on the floor.

No, he thought. The cost is too high.

Take him, a sorcerer shouted. Dave lifted his gaze just in time to see a sorcerer waving his hands frantically. Dave was not a True Seer; he couldn’t see the actual magic as it was being created. But he was familiar with the gesture. It was a harness, an immobility spell. Once the spell would have meant nothing to Dave. He could have broken through it as easily as he breathed. But not anymore. He looked down again at the black circle in the floor. He called it a rabbit hole. It was a transportation device. Some might say it was similar to a portal crystal, and in truth, it did transport a man from one location to the other. But that is where the similarities ended. A portal crystal was a construct of sorcery, and as such was subject to the will of its user. The rabbit hole was a construct of wizardry. It did not take you where you wanted to go; it took you where God wanted you to go. So if Dave jumped into this thing, he was placing himself squarely into the will of God, something he swore he’d never do again.

Dave looked again at the map in his hand. He couldn’t let this be captured by them sorcerers. He didn’t have a choice. Dave stepped forward, but stopped as the sorcerer’s magic slammed into him. Instantly, he became paralyzed. The map flew up out of his grasp as he was flung about, as did Dave’s carbine. The map drifted to the floor, but not so the carbine. The stock slammed into the floor, and the gun fired. Blessing shot ricocheted off a pan hanging from a hook in the wall, then hit one of the sorcerers in the eye. The gunshot had no more effect when fired by the floor than it did when fired by Dave. But it did distract the sorcerer. He had been in the process of forming a fireball when he was hit. When that blessing punched him in the eye, his arms flew wide, and his fireball blasted to the side and right into the face of the sorcerer that held the immobility spell on Dave, turning him instantly into a human torch.

The man screamed and fell to the floor. A thousand screeches ripped from his body as black shadows tore free and flooded into the remaining two sorcerers. And as soon as they did, the spell holding Dave released and he fell to the floor.

Dave grabbed the map and crawled toward the rabbit hole, but he stopped suddenly when he noticed two legs in front of him, and through those legs, his cabinet and the back wall of his house. Dave looked up to find the dearth ghost glaring at him, a fierce red light in his eyes he’d not seen in a ghost’s eyes before. And then the ghost did something else Dave had never seen a ghost do; he bent down and lifted Dave from the floor.

For a moment, the shade scowled at Dave; then he noticed the map in Dave’s hand. He pulled Dave’s hand up and peered at the map curiously before ripping the map from Dave’s grasp and tossing Dave to the side.

Dave drew himself up and settled his gaze on the ghost. But the ghost wasn’t looking at Dave; he was staring at the map. Finally, the ghost raised his head to Dave. My ancestors have been good to me, he said. With their ancient knowledge, I will not fail a second time.

Dave didn’t know what he meant by that. He didn’t know this dearth or his history; nor did he care. All he knew was that what that map led to was not meant for men, or dearth ghosts for that matter. Over my dead body, he said and launched himself at the ghost.

He grabbed the map, yanking it from the dearth’s grasp. The dearth backhanded Dave. Dave dropped the map as he fell to the floor. His legs slipped into the rabbit hole, and Dave scrambled forward. Furiously, he grabbed at the floor of his cabin, but couldn’t get a secure hold. Above him, the dearth noticed his mistake. A look of alarm passed across his features and he reached for Dave. Dave struggled. His hand closed on the map. Then he lost his grip on the floor and slipped through the rabbit hole.

***

The rabbit hole opened above a stark desert turf, dumping Dave hard onto his backside. For a moment, Dave was disoriented. The sun was in the sky, marking it as maybe late afternoon, not the early nighttime hours it was when his cabin was attacked. But more perplexing than that was the fact that a horse had taken up position over him and was now staring at Dave as if he were the strangest thing the horse had ever encountered in this world. If Dave didn’t know any better, he’d have sworn the horse was surprised by his arrival. The horse didn’t spook, but his eyes were wide and he had drawn his head back as he looked down on Dave.

Then the horse really confounded Dave. Dashing Dave? he asked.

Dave blinked, then blinked again, before finally coming to the only conclusion that made any sense. He was a heap drunker than he thought.

Chapter 1:

Ghosts of the Past

Looks like we’re here.

I glanced down at my horse and the author of the statement. His name is Typhoid, and he was as disagreeable a creature as you might ever find yourself embroiled in argument against. He was also almost always right, mainly because he had this annoying way of restricting his observations to the obvious.

With a sigh, I pulled my gaze from the face of the stallion situated beneath me to the house standing in front of me. Of course, at this point, house was a bit of a misnomer. It had once been a house, surely, but now all that remained was a burned out husk, the product of a fire that had apparently not only consumed the house but the town of Humboldt Wells some twenty miles to the south. According to the folk in Humboldt Wells, the fire occurred some six months ago, which would put it, as near as I could tell, at about the same time I began my journey to find the most recent resident of the house, my former mentor Dashing Dave McCoy. That meant that I was six months too late to do anything for Dave. Needless to say, I was more than a little chagrined.

Yeah, we’re here, I said finally in agreement with Typhoid’s statement. Several more seconds passed before Typhoid snorted irritably. Don’t you think you ought to go in? This was an awful long way to travel just to look at some charred brick and a fallen roof.

I shook my head and said, Wait here. Then without waiting for a response, I dismounted and strode up to and through what used to be the door.

The interior of the house was in even worse condition than the outside. It didn’t look like there was a single square inch that had not been touched by the fire. That did not surprise me, nor did the fact that the building was deserted, at least of the living. Unfortunately, I did find that very thing I hoped not to find. It was the remains of a human body, now charred beyond recognition, lying on the ground near the door, its hollow eyes staring up at me, condemning, demanding to know, Why weren’t you here sooner? This could have been prevented had you just been here. The accusation was entirely in my head, of course. But even so, I had to resist a rather strong compulsion to run from the house and never look back, a compulsion that grew stronger still as I forced myself to kneel by the remains to get a better look.

I started with a prayer. I found it galling that the townsfolk had not extended the man the courtesy of a Christian burial. And it was hard not to let that gall turn to fighting anger as I considered the possibility that this might be all that remained of my old friend Dashing Dave. But as I knelt close to the man, the gall turned to relief as I came to understand the slight given this man, a slight born in all likelihood of fear more than anything else. As I kneeled beside the corpse, my hand brushed against the skull, causing it to shift down and away from me. And as it did, something metallic fell from the body’s chest to the ground. I reached down and grabbed the trinket, then rubbed the soot away as best as I could with my thumb. It was a gold medallion, and its surface was engraved with a symbol I was all too familiar with—a crescent moon encased in a pentagram. So the Tikatu Brotherhood had been here, and in force from the looks of things.

Briefly I wondered how the man died. It was no small feat to kill a sorcerer, especially if you’re not a wizard. I suppose Dave might have managed to get off a lucky shot with his hex shooter, but that would have been one heck of a lucky shot. Even minor sorcerers were so cursed that the strongest blessing shot from a hex shooter did little more than annoy them. But it was just conjecture that the man was killed by hex shot. For all I knew, he could have been killed by friendly fire. There really was no way to tell how he died. A fine silvery-white powder surrounded his body. I picked up a pinch of the powder and examined it. I couldn’t tell what the powder was, but when it caught the sunlight that filtered down from the hole in the roof, it sparkled.

I dropped the powder and stood to take another look around the house. As near as I could tell, this sorcerer was the only body in the carnage. That gave me some hope that Dave had escaped, but not much. A more viable scenario was that Dave had been captured. I’m not sure what the Brotherhood wanted with my old mentor, but if past experience with the fiends was any judge, it had something to do with me. The last (and only other) time I had a run-in with the Brotherhood, they took my friends hostage to get me, or more specifically, my soul, in an effort to bring about a dark prophecy. I still wasn’t entirely sure how my soul and the prophecy were linked, but one thing was certain; mine was one soul these sorcerers could not have.

I wandered further back into the house but didn’t see anything that might give a clue to the fate of Dashing Dave. I was about to turn back to rejoin Typhoid when a strange pattern on the floor near the northeast corner of the house caught my eye. I walked over and knelt next to the pattern. A nearly perfect black ring had formed on the floor, as if something circular had occupied this space during the fire. I reached down and felt the ring, then smiled as my fingers came away contaminated with a greasy film. I knew this film. It was the telltale signs of a magical device Dave called his rabbit hole. It worked much like a travel portal but was far less predictable. Generally speaking, a travel portal took you exactly where you wanted to go, more or less. The rabbit hole, on the other hand, was arbitrary. It might take you to the other side of the world or drop you off a foot from where you entered it. So there was no telling where Dave was now. But he had escaped, and that was good enough for me for the time being.

I took another look around the house before returning my gaze to the ring left by the rabbit hole. Because of its unpredictable nature, Dave rarely used the rabbit hole. He was always afraid of being dropped into a dark pit deep in the bowels of a mountain, the fate of the last owner of the device, or so he claimed. It spoke volumes for the direness of his situation that he would risk using it now.

I thought I might find you here playing in the dirt.

I leapt to my feet and spun at the sound of the voice, my hex shooter raised and ready to fire. But then all I could do was blink. My assailant was a woman, a young beautiful senorita with dark luxuriant hair, brown flawless skin, and expressive brown eyes. She stood near the door as she regarded me, next to the sorcerer’s remains, her arms crossed in front of her and a disapproving frown somehow managing to further highlight her beauty.

Do I know you? I asked.

The woman’s frown deepened. Really, soul hunter? Must we play this game every time we meet?

This time it was my turn to frown, which I did to full effect as I slammed my hex shooter back into my holster. Annie, I accused.

Annie smiled, or at least the woman she now possessed smiled. Annie was a demon. You might even call her my familiar, considering that she had once owned my bond, which is basically fancy spiritual speak for saying that I had inadvertently forged a contract with her that would have, at least in theory, given her ultimate ownership of my soul. Of course, it was all a lie. I know that now. I received the Gift of Salvation from God long before I met Annie. The problem was that Annie failed to see it and insisted on pestering me at every opportunity. Well, as far as I was concerned, we had nothing to talk about, so the less time we spent in one another’s company, the better, a position that at the moment I demonstrated by walking past Annie without a word and out of the cabin.

Unfortunately, Annie was not so easily discouraged. By the time I got to Typhoid, she had caught up to me.

Where are you going? she demanded.

Wherever you are not.

Annie snarled at me. After everything I’ve done for you?

I had retrieved Typhoid’s reins and pulled myself into the saddle. My plan was to hightail it out of there as quickly as Typhoid could carry me, but when Annie made that statement, I had to respond. Everything you’ve done for me? Annie, every time we meet you try to drag me to Hell.

And do I get thanks for it?

I shook my head, and pulling Typhoid about started back towards town. Annie had the gall to follow along beside. Okay, bad example, but I don’t understand why you’re the one who’s angry. If anything, I should be angry with you for withholding such important information from me.

Despite myself, I looked down at my self-appointed companion. What are you talking about?

You’re friend, Dashing Dave. You never told me he was a True Believer.

I pulled hard on Typhoid’s reins. When Annie and I last parted company several months ago, I had just rescued a woman named Grace Parsons from a prison in the Spirit Realm. Shortly thereafter, Grace left to study wizardry in Texas, but before she left, she wrote me a note, warning me to trust no one and to find the True Believers. I kept the note in my coat pocket, so I pulled it out now and reread the part about True Believers:

It is the True Believers the Brotherhood fear. The Brotherhood cannot discern them, so they cannot hunt them. But you can. Find them, Jim. They are the remnant through which God can redeem America. They are the only means by which the war may be won. Find them before it is too late.

I returned my gaze to Annie. This may not have been the first time I’d heard the term True Believer, but it was the first time I’d heard it said in association with my oldest friend, Dashing Dave McCoy. Quite frankly, I found it unsettling.

What are you talking about? I said finally. Dave was no True Believer.

Then how do you explain that white powder?

I shook my head.

The powder that surrounded the dead sorcerer. That powder means that the sorcerer was purged of all his demons. Only two kinds of people can purge a Brotherhood sorcerer of his demons—very powerful wizards and True Believers—and I think we can both agree that your friend Dave is no wizard.

I looked back at the cabin where the corpse of that sorcerer and that mysterious white powder still resided. It couldn’t be coincidence that Annie pronounced Dave a True Believer at the same time that the Brotherhood was hunting him.

I can help you find him.

I removed my gaze from the house and settled it again on Annie. This is no game, Annie.

Everything’s a game, soul hunter. But call it what you will. The fact remains that True Believers are not easy to find. They hide themselves well, and are nearly invisible to demonic powers.

Then how do you expect to find him?

Annie scowled at me. I didn’t say I could find him for you, Jimmy. I said I can help you find him. I know someone who can locate items invisible even to my eyes.

I hesitated. What Annie was asking from me was maybe more than I could afford. She was asking to be allowed back into my fellowship, which was a dangerous proposition for someone whose hold on his salvation was still not quite so firm as it should be. I had successfully withstood Annie’s advances twice; I wasn’t sure I had it in me to stand against her a third time.

If Dave is a True Believer, you won’t be able to find him, not unless you are a True Seer. Annie looked me up and down quickly before returning her attention to my face. Believe me, you ain’t no True Seer.

I regarded Annie for several seconds before finally shaking my head. Fine, I said. But if you come with me, there is to be no sorcery whatsoever. Do you understand?

Annie beamed; then put her fingers to her mouth and whistled. A pale horse came around from the back of the house and trotted to her side, which she then mounted with practiced ease before turning back to me. You won’t regret this, she said. I hope you like trains. She then clucked to her horse, starting the beast forward toward the southwest.

"Did she say trains? Typhoid tossed his head. She’s got to be kidding."

I looked at Typhoid, then at Annie’s retreating form. Finally, I shook my head. Annie was too late in her promise; I already regretted my decision to let her tag along. Nevertheless, I clucked to Typhoid (who clucked back at me) and followed in her wake.

Chapter 2:

Thus Saith the Lord

We caught a train at nearby Humboldt Wells, and thanks to the miracle of modern technology were able to travel the bulk of the width of Nevada in just under twelve hours. We disembarked at a town called Woolsey, and from there our pace slowed considerably, taking us another full day to reach our destination. The nicest thing I can say to describe my state of mind when I saw where Annie had brought me is that I was nonplussed. Sitting in front of Annie and me was a town, and it wasn’t a town I was unfamiliar with.

I’m not going in there, I told Annie.

Annie frowned. I thought you wanted to find this friend of yours, what’s his name, Dandy Dan.

Dashing Dave. And yes, I want to find him. But that’s Eulogy. The town holds weekly meetings to discuss the best way to lynch me should I ever be found again on its streets.

Annie sniffed. The meetings are monthly, at best, and quite unproductive. Take my word for it.

You’ve attended these meetings? To say I was appalled was to put it mildly.