II

“Some Sheriff I am turning out to be,” Caff grumbled. The air was growing warmer, the sky lightening to gray. Dawn grew in the east, splashing bright reds, oranges, and pinks across the horizon. Fatigue weighed down his shoulders and burned in his eyes. He had searched, for hours, for any sign of Elijah's passing or whereabouts. All that he had to show for that effort was the dew soaking his pant legs and the embedded certainty that something was going on. What, and involving who, he had no idea. Having nothing to show made frustration roil in his gut, had him clenching his jaw and crushing the unlit cigarette between his teeth. His mouth felt coated in ash, his throat sore from the smoke. He had been awake for far too long.

So he'd given up. Packed it in and was headed back to the Jail. He was going to rest, just for a short bit, then come up with a plan. He wasn't a tracker. He had some skill, but in his state he had certainly missed something. Maybe he could enlist some folk to help, get a posse together and get them searching. Granted, doing that would mean letting people know that Elijah was both awake and acting peculiar, which he did not find favorable. He'd have to tell people, sooner or later, but he wanted to keep this close to the chest for a bit longer. The path he trod dipped into a small gully and, when he crested the other side, Calavera came into view.

There was the steeple of the town church, on the edge of town nearest the desert. As he walked the dull, brassy ring of its bell rolled across the flat ground. He counted them, thinking nothing more of it than the usual marking of hours. The count reached six. It kept going. He scrubbed a palm down his face and wondered if he'd misjudged how much time he'd spent searching, or perhaps misread the clock in the Mayor's sitting room. It had been two, hadn't it? He couldn't recall. His tired mind wouldn't allow it. He knew it wasn't nine, he still had some faculty left. So it was something. If it's the Swanson boy again, I swear I'll have him clean every square inch of every stable, sty, and outhouse I can find.

Once he was about a quarter-mile out of town, he saw a horseback rider kicking up a rooster tail of dust. They were riding hell bent for leather in his direction. As they grew closer, he saw that a second horse in full tack ran behind the first. They cantered up to him, coming to a dust-laden halt. The rider's horse was a compact, long-maned gray mare. She stomped a hoof into the hard earth and tossed its head, snorting in protest of either the hard ride or the sudden stop. The rider wore a pale green work shirt under a vest, sleeves rolled up. A scarf protected her face from trail dust and a woven straw hat rode low on her brow. “Mayor said you'd be out this way,” said Sheriff's Deputy Jennie Leeds. She tugged the scarf down and looked him over. “You look terrible.”

Caff spat his cigarette, and a mouthful of dust, onto the ground. He put his hands on his hips and smiled wryly. “I feel terrible.” he said. He jerked his chin towards town. “What's the ruckus?”

Jennie's mouth formed a grim line. “Someone's been killed.”

The second horse had paced over to him. Another mare, this one was a sure-footed dappled silver with a short pale mane. Her narrow, graceful head bumped into his shoulder in greeting. He brought up a hand to scratch between her eyes. She whickered and swished her tail. Something cold and solid settled in his chest. He asked, “Who?”

She cleared her throat and looked away. “Can't tell. There...ain't much a face left to identify.”

Caff mounted up, settling into the saddle with a grunt. “Where's the body now?”

“Doc Crabtree was loading it into a wagon when I left to fetch you. Probably has it back at his shop by now.” Jennie turned her mare in a circle to come closer to him. “I ain't seen anything like it, Caff. Not ever.” He believed her. She had a haunted look in her eyes, a weight to her shoulders.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Me? I'm alright,” she waved him off. “Feel better than you look, anyways.”

He grunted. “Yeah, yeah. Come on.” He put his heels to his horse's flanks and she jumped forward into a smooth, sure-footed run. Behind him, he heard Jennie's hya as she spurred her own mount to follow. As they raced towards town he realized that the cold, solid thing in his chest was dread.

- - -

Doctor Crabtree – Barnabas, though he preferred Barney – operated out of a large, single-story building down the road from O'Neil's. Caff saw his wagon, sleepy old draft drowsing in the traces, parked out front as he rode up and swung down out of the saddle. As he led his horse by the rein around back of the wagon to the hitching post, he felt a small relief to see that the wagon bed was empty. He had spent the ride over creating ever more horrific pictures of the body, and was not eager to see how his imaginings compared to reality. He looped the reins through the metal loop driven into the post as Jennie caught up and joined him. After hitching her own horse, she stopped at the back of the wagon, staring at its empty bed.

He cleared his throat, drawing her attention. “You know,” he offered. “you could stay out here, you know. Keep an eye on things.”

Her brow furrowed. She was quiet for a moment, before shaking her head. “Naw,” she said. “I'll come with, if that's alright.”

“Sure,” he nodded. Then he stepped up onto the dust-covered, wooden stoop in front of Crabtree's practice and pushed through the door. Inside, a counter sectioned off a part of the front room, behind which stood a cabinet full of bandages, medication, and other things that Caff could only guess the purpose of. A register and bell sat atop the counter, and a half-dozen wooden chairs were pushed against various walls. A door leading to the back room had a small sign on it, declaring it off limits to the general public. He called out, “Hey, Doc! You in?”

Caff stopped in the center of the front room. Jennie stood by the door, arms crossed. From behind the door to the back room came the sounds of a thump, a muffled curse and agitated footsteps. The door was pulled open and emitted Barney Crabtree. His face, dotted with sweat, relaxed when he saw Caff. “Oh, Sheriff, it's you. Good, good. Please, come on through.” He turned on his heel and disappeared into the back room. Caff looked over his shoulder at Jennie, who shrugged, then went on through the door.

Crabtree's back room was half the size of the front. Grimy windows illuminated a cramped space that served as examination room and morgue for the town. A pair of tables took up the center, each with a thin sheet of metal nailed to the wooden surface. Easier to clean, apparently. The body lay on one, covered by a woolen blanket. Barney stood with his back to the table, washing his hands in a sink. Then there was the smell. A pungent, cloying thickness that hung almost visibly in the air. The hell is that? It stung to breathe and sat heavy in his gut, nausea churning.

“Pleasant, isn't it?” Barney asked, shaking the water from his hands. “If it helps, you would not be the first person to vomit. I have that honor.”

Caff swallowed, steeling himself. “Think I'll be alright. What is it?”

Barney shrugged helplessly. “I don't know. I...” he trailed off. “It's not what decomposition smells like. That is an entirely different breed of horrid.”

That was true enough. It wasn't the smell of blood, either. Only way to find out is get a look, I guess. Caff stepped up to the table and peeled the blanket back from the body's head. He clenched his jaw against the bile that rose in his throat and covered it back up. He paced away, hands on his hips. From her position by the door, Jennie gave him a sympathetic look. It took him a long minute to get himself back under control. He let out a low whistle and shook his head. “Damn. You weren't lying, Jennie.”

“Wish I had been,” she answered. Her folded arms looked more and more like she was hugging herself, trying to gain a small measure of courage or comfort. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed thickly. “I really do.”

Caff grunted and returned to the covered body. His fingers trembled as he reached for the blanket. He stopped, pulled his hand away, and clenched his fist. His lips thinned into a flat line as he mustered his courage and he peeled the blanket back. He took the part of him that wanted to flee out back and puke and shoved it away. The face was gone. A blackened, charred ruin of flesh clinging to ashen bone. Eyes, nose, lips, all gone. The tongue was still there, swollen and bruised behind grinning yellow teeth. Long hair was matted with dirt and dust, creating a tangled snarl of a crown. “Was it the burning that killed them?” he asked, voice hoarse.

Barney shook his head. “No. Whoever killed her burned her–her face after.”

Caff snapped his eyes to Barney's drawn, ashen face. “Her?”

- - -

The doctor swallowed hard, and nodded. Caff pulled the blanket down past the body's – her – neck and shoulders. The ratty, ruined straps of a blue dress lay against her shoulders. One was torn. The black ruffles that lined the straps struck him as familiar. There was bruising on her neck; roughly circular on the sides with long, thin lines on the front and around the back. Strangled, then. He pulled the blanket further back, revealing a corset. The stays were broken wood, splinters protruding from tears in the dirtied blue silk. He knew this dress from somewhere. Her right arm was bare, covered with more bruises. There were handprints circling her wrist, forearm, and upper arm. The left arm was gone.

Barney cleared his throat, hands twined together, and said, “It's likely that an animal made away with her arm. That...tends to happen.”

Caff grunted his agreement. If he spoke right now, he couldn't guarantee that words would be coming out. There was a hole in her side, roughly the size of a fist. The fabric of her dress had been pushed into the wound and were stained with a dark, waxy substance. It wasn't blood. Buckshot? No, edges are too neat. He stepped away from the body and swallowed the rising bile again. “That wound in her side,” he said eventually. “is that what did her in?”

“I believe so.” Barney answered. “If the size and severity of the wound were somehow not enough, the removal of her liver would be. That and the strangulation...” he sighed. “This was not a good death, Sheriff.”

“Most ain't.” Caff muttered. At this point, it'd be a lie to say that there was something strange about this. Everything about this woman's death was strange. Everything. Further, he knew her. He did. This wasn't an unfortunate wayfaring stranger but a resident of his town. “They took her liver?”

Barney nodded. “Leaving the rest of her organs behind.”

Caff grunted, then said, “Animals ain't picky. Wouldn't take one and leave the rest. What in all hell would someone do with a liver?”

Barney shrugged, helplessly spreading his hands. “I'm afraid I don't know. Some grisly manner of trophy, perhaps?”

“Maybe,” Caff rubbed his chin. I hope so, anyway. Give him ordinary human evil any day. He circled back to the dress. It was one of the only things he could make sense of, if not the only thing. He called back, “Jennie, her dress look familiar to you? Swear I've seen it somewhere.”

He turned to see his Deputy frowning at the floor. Her pursed lips moved back and forth as she thought. She said, “I think so. Maybe around O'Neil's?.”

Of course. O'Neil's Hotel and Bar was the only place in town people could find booze, let alone loosen their inhibitions enough to consider hiring a working girl. Perfect place for someone in that profession to find work. The part of him that wanted to scream, weep, and puke, that he had shoved away at the beginning of all this was returning. Rapidly. He choked out, “Jennie, get on over there and start asking around. Doc, start getting this poor woman for a burial.”

Barney nodded. Jennie pushed away from the door and asked, “What about you?”

“I'll meet you there. Now get.” His stomach churned, but he held it down. He waited until Jennie was gone, then rushed back out through the front room, ducked around the side of the building and puked all over his boots.

- - -

O'Neil's Hotel and Bar was run by Milton O'Neil and had been for as long as Caff could remember. It was another rare two-story construction; built of solid, machine cut timbers and thick shingles on its flat roof. The second story had a wraparound porch that each room up there could access. Another raised wooden stoop led to the polished saloon doors flanked by large, wide glass windows. Benches sat on the stoop, one in front of each window. A wooden awning covered the stoop, the blank wall above it painted in large white letters that proclaimed the place. Jennie was seated at one of the benches, hunched over. She looked up at the sound of Caff's boots clicking on wood. Her brow was furrowed over her eyes. “You okay?” she asked.

His gut still churned, but distance and fresh air was doing a lot to settle it. His throat was sore, and the inside of his mouth tasted sour. He cleared his throat and said, “Yeah. Yeah, I'm alright. Any reason you're waiting out here?”

Jennie grunted, then pushed to her feet. “Yeah. Caught Mr. O'Neil just before he went to bed. Asked him about a woman wearing that dress.”

“He recognize it?” Caff asked.

Jennie nodded. “Said she'd been working near his hotel for about a year. Said her name was Ruby. Ruby Pendleton.”