Hell's Marshal Read Free Page B

Frank.
    “If you can get him to drink even a drop of this, it’ll capture his soul in the bottle until you bring him back. That might be tricky, though, since it’ll capture you, too, if you drink it. And he’ll be suspicious if you won’t drink with him.”
    “What if I pour it on him? Break the bottle on his head or something?”
    Buzzy shook his head. “It’ll hurt real bad for a minute—the whiskey has Holy Water in it—but then he’ll just be mad as a hornet. You gotta get it inside him.”
    Frank nodded and made a mental note.
    Next, Buzzy handed him the gleaming wrist irons. They didn’t come with a key.
    “Let me guess,” he said, “slap these on the host and they drive the spirit out.”
    Buzzy shook his head. “Opposite. Traps the spirit in the body so it can’t leave when you…uh…”
    He made a finger gun and pointed it at Frank’s head.
    “Until I kill the victim. Seems like I’m more of an executioner than a marshal.”
    Buzzy looked Frank in the eye. “You do have a certain reputation. Your skill set suits this mission perfectly.”
    “You needed a killer, not a lawman.”
    “Not me, friend. The judges.”
    Frank shrugged. “Then a killer is what they’ll get.”
    Finally, Buzzy handed Frank the box of bullets. Frank opened it and found one bullet inside.
    “That’s a last resort weapon,” Buzzy said. “Only use it if you have no other choice.”
    Frank narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
    The old man shifted on his feet. It was a subtle movement, one Frank might have missed had he blinked, but it happened.
    “You see, this one bullet won’t contain a soul, or incapacitate it. Won’t knock it out or return it to the underworld. This bullet will destroy the soul, burn it out of existence and leave a gaping hole in the universe where it used to be. It’ll stop James’ reign of terror in the living world, but destroying a soul makes a lot of noise down here in the underworld, and in—”
    He let the sentence hang there between them.
    “And in Hell, too?”
    Buzzy nodded.
    “So the Boss-man will find out?” Frank pressed.
    Another nod.
    “So, when should I use this magic bullet?”
    “Never.”
    Frank gave him a flat stare.
    “Then why the Sam-Hell are you giving it to me?”
    Buzzy closed the now-empty cabinet and moved back to the examining table to look at Frank’s body there.
    “Mr. James may try to bring others across to help him. Use that bullet then and only then.”
    Frank was about to ask more when a door opened in the otherwise smooth, granite wall and an Indian walked in. He was only half Indian—the top half, to be precise—while the bottom half was that of a coyote, with scruffy brown-and-gray fur and a matted tail. His top half was naked but for beads around his upper arms and war paint on his angular face.
    The Indian grinned, a wide, crooked smile that spoke of mischief and deception. He raised one hand in greeting, a gesture Frank did not return.
    “Batcho,” Frank said, jaw tightening. “What the Hell are you doing here?”
    The guide stopped a few feet from Frank, his smile fading from his dark face.
    “Batcho is going with you, Frank,” said Buzzy. “He’s part of your little posse.”
    “No.” Frank turned his back on them. “Not him.”
    “What did I do?” Batcho asked. “I helped you through the underworld, Frank Butcher. I guided you, offered advice. I—”
    Frank wheeled, putting his nose just an inch from the Indian’s.
    “You lied to me every step of the way!” He jabbed his finger at the Indian’s chest as he spoke. “You tried to keep me from passing every test. If I’d listened to you, I’d be-”
    “Exactly where you are anyway. In Hell.”
    Frank tried to think of an argument, but the guide was right. He’d lived up to his reputation as a Coyote, playing tricks, but in the end, changing little.
    “You have no choice, anyway,” Buzzy said. “Judges’ orders.”
    Frank sighed and spit on the floor. “This time, Indian,