began to notice the odd smell of him—like sulfur, or rot.
"No," the fat man said. "Of course, you aren't. You aren't from that town. You're from somewhere else."
Cobb frowned. "Right."
"You're from somewhere far away from here. So am I. So is everyone. We are all from somewhere else, a place we all long to return to."
"Yeah," Cobb said. "Santa Fe."
He felt the fat man's body quivering against his shoulder, realized the fella was laughing silently. That annoyed Cobb. He wanted to ask just what the hell was so funny, but looking at the fat man's face again, he decided against it. A fine sheen of sweat covered the fat man's forehead and jaw now, and his smile had begun to resemble the rictus grin of a dead man.
Bette had come out of her silent mourning enough to notice the odd behavior as well. She and the refined lady next to her glanced at each other, but said nothing.
The fat man sighed. "All any of us want," he said. "All any of us want is to go home again. But sacrifices must be made for that to happen. Don't you think that's true?"
Cobb said, "I don't rightly know what you're talking about, mister."
The smile dropped away from the fat man's face. Looking at Cobb, he said, "You wouldn't. No, you wouldn't. None of you would. And yet I always ask, don't I? I always ask, like some kind of fool. No one understands about sacrifice. I always have to ... I always have to show them."
"Show them what?" Cobb said uneasily. He looked at Bette, saw that her gaze had at last rested on him, although her eyes were wide with alarm. Same with the lady next to her.
The big man opened the valise on his lap, reached in. His voice was petulant when he spoke, "Everyone wants to go home, but no one wants to make the sacrifice. It's selfish. It's just selfish."
He fished around in the valise, and his thick fingers came out holding a long, wicked-looking blade.
"I always have to show them!"
"Whoa, mister, take it easy—"
The big man leaned forward, his face twisted with something like grief. The blade glittered in the gaslight above them, flicked forward and out, and then the refined woman's throat came open like a gaping mouth, blood cascading down her frock. She tried to speak, made a pathetic gurgling sound, and her delicate hands came up to staunch the flow of blood.
The man sliced again, half-up out of his seat, grunting with the effort of it, and cut both arms nearly all the way through. Blood splattered everywhere.
Cobb sat dumbly, hardly believing what he was seeing, and for what seemed like a long moment nothing happened. He and Bette sat there, covered in the woman's blood, and the other passengers started to become aware that something horrible was happening, and the big man grinned and wiped blood out of his eyes.
And then Bette screamed, and the big man began his ritual slaughter.
* * *
There were strange, unsettling noises coming out of the gathering dusk.
The Morgan nickered uneasily, and the rider reined it in for a moment, quieted it with a hand on its neck.
To a less trained ear, it would have been easy to mistake the noises as wind, sweeping down the hills and whistling low through the trees. But the man recognized the sound, and understood why the horse was so nervous.
They were moans. Human moans, of such intense sadness and misery that hearing them could make a man of lesser grit despair.
He flicked the reins and the horse started forward, along the rails.
The train tracks cut through the low hills of the Western Slope, heading away from Denver and south, toward Santa Fe. The rider in gray had trotted the black Morgan out of the shadowed woods and along the tracks just as evening was descending.
Now, horse and rider ambled along and the rider kept his right hand near the grip of his Smith & Wesson Schofield .45. The night was coming fast the way it always did in this country, and the tracks in front of him were disappearing into the darkness.
The moans were coming louder now, and there was a smell,
"No," the fat man said. "Of course, you aren't. You aren't from that town. You're from somewhere else."
Cobb frowned. "Right."
"You're from somewhere far away from here. So am I. So is everyone. We are all from somewhere else, a place we all long to return to."
"Yeah," Cobb said. "Santa Fe."
He felt the fat man's body quivering against his shoulder, realized the fella was laughing silently. That annoyed Cobb. He wanted to ask just what the hell was so funny, but looking at the fat man's face again, he decided against it. A fine sheen of sweat covered the fat man's forehead and jaw now, and his smile had begun to resemble the rictus grin of a dead man.
Bette had come out of her silent mourning enough to notice the odd behavior as well. She and the refined lady next to her glanced at each other, but said nothing.
The fat man sighed. "All any of us want," he said. "All any of us want is to go home again. But sacrifices must be made for that to happen. Don't you think that's true?"
Cobb said, "I don't rightly know what you're talking about, mister."
The smile dropped away from the fat man's face. Looking at Cobb, he said, "You wouldn't. No, you wouldn't. None of you would. And yet I always ask, don't I? I always ask, like some kind of fool. No one understands about sacrifice. I always have to ... I always have to show them."
"Show them what?" Cobb said uneasily. He looked at Bette, saw that her gaze had at last rested on him, although her eyes were wide with alarm. Same with the lady next to her.
The big man opened the valise on his lap, reached in. His voice was petulant when he spoke, "Everyone wants to go home, but no one wants to make the sacrifice. It's selfish. It's just selfish."
He fished around in the valise, and his thick fingers came out holding a long, wicked-looking blade.
"I always have to show them!"
"Whoa, mister, take it easy—"
The big man leaned forward, his face twisted with something like grief. The blade glittered in the gaslight above them, flicked forward and out, and then the refined woman's throat came open like a gaping mouth, blood cascading down her frock. She tried to speak, made a pathetic gurgling sound, and her delicate hands came up to staunch the flow of blood.
The man sliced again, half-up out of his seat, grunting with the effort of it, and cut both arms nearly all the way through. Blood splattered everywhere.
Cobb sat dumbly, hardly believing what he was seeing, and for what seemed like a long moment nothing happened. He and Bette sat there, covered in the woman's blood, and the other passengers started to become aware that something horrible was happening, and the big man grinned and wiped blood out of his eyes.
And then Bette screamed, and the big man began his ritual slaughter.
* * *
There were strange, unsettling noises coming out of the gathering dusk.
The Morgan nickered uneasily, and the rider reined it in for a moment, quieted it with a hand on its neck.
To a less trained ear, it would have been easy to mistake the noises as wind, sweeping down the hills and whistling low through the trees. But the man recognized the sound, and understood why the horse was so nervous.
They were moans. Human moans, of such intense sadness and misery that hearing them could make a man of lesser grit despair.
He flicked the reins and the horse started forward, along the rails.
The train tracks cut through the low hills of the Western Slope, heading away from Denver and south, toward Santa Fe. The rider in gray had trotted the black Morgan out of the shadowed woods and along the tracks just as evening was descending.
Now, horse and rider ambled along and the rider kept his right hand near the grip of his Smith & Wesson Schofield .45. The night was coming fast the way it always did in this country, and the tracks in front of him were disappearing into the darkness.
The moans were coming louder now, and there was a smell,
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