By Steve Crow A tale of Deadlands Weird West
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The tombstone read: "Tao Cheng, 'There are two perfect men; one dead, and the other unborn.' 1839 - 1877 R.I.P."
A shadowy figure stood at the edge of the grave, quietly regarding the freshly padded earth. Eventually, it spoke. "You ain't forgotten, T.C. Not by a longshot. That tenderfoot sheriff went too far when he got you killed - somethin' that never woulda happened if I were in charge. But don't worry. He'll get what's comin' to him soon enough."
The figure dropped a white lily onto the grave and walked away. When he was out of sight, J.P. Coleman emerged from behind a wide tree nearby. "So, Nash," he said to himself, "You finally came back." Then, reaching down and collecting the skittering creatures at his feet, he added, "Big mistake."
Sighing, Coleman sat upon a tombstone next to T.C.'s. He reached into one ragged vest pocket and extracted a dented, rusting watch. Checking the time, he moved to tuck it back away, only to feel an obstruction in his pocket. Coleman dug down into the pocket and pulled out another black scorpion. He put his pocket watch back, then held his hands up, knuckles towards the cloudy sky. He watched with bleary amusement as the scorpion scurried endlessly back and forth over his hands.
Kinda like me, Coleman thought to himself. Once, he told Katie that he had only one more job to do, and then it'd be over for him. But Knicknevin had come and gone, and he was still standing. Hell, he hadn't even been there for the final showdown with the manitou.
Katie told him how Stoker had shot the Ghost, unleashing the Agency man's manitou and giving it full rein. Coleman wished he had been there – that his soul would have been consumed instead. Then maybe he could finally rest.
But instead, he'd shot down a horde of undead threatening to overwhelm a family at the outskirts of town. And then he'd tried to rescue T.C. as the Chinaman defended another family against Nicodemus Whateley. By the time he caught up with Katie and the others, it was too late. Stoker and his gun were gone, and Knicknevin was already defeated.
Now, Gomorra's people were calling out to him again, even if they didn't know it. J.P. couldn't just let them down. He couldn't just ignore them. He had a duty to consider ...
Depression threatened to overwhelm the ex-lawman for a moment, and with it came a familiar skittering in the back of his mind. With an effort, Coleman drove the demon back once more. "Not today, you bastard," he muttered through gritted teeth. "I've got business here."
After a few seconds, the nauseating sense of ... movement in his head died down. Still, he could feel it in there, waiting ... waiting. Just another reason to die, before it came out to play again.
Coleman wasn't by nature a vengeful man. Violent, maybe, in a violent town. But the Law Dog whose body was hopefully laying at rest before him had taught a different method. More than one outlaw owed T.C. his life, for talking Coleman down. Where the former sheriff would have simply gunned them down as soon as look at them, Wendy's father believed in peace before bloodshed.
J.P. had learned a lot from T.C., and he had been a better man for it. But the creature saddling J.P.'s soul had changed all that. One night, the demon got loose for the first time, and Coleman found his hands coated thick with St. James' blood. Hands that he had apparently used to write the words "Sweetrock Butcher" on the sign that hung around the neck of St. James' corpse, suspended upside down before him.
That was only the first time Coleman lost control. Maybe Bilton should be thankful; Coleman visited the traitor just before the manitou cut loose for the first time. No doubt his anger toward the former lawman had triggered the manitou's release. Maybe it was disappointed that he hadn't just killed the man, and broke free to come out and play.
From then on, T.C.'s lessons had kept Coleman in control. Every day the manitou within tried to take a little more of him away, but T.C. showed him how to create a quiet spot in his own mind, and use it to keep the demon at bay.
T.C.'s lessons only failed Coleman once ... once that he could remember. That was part of the problem with being Harrowed - you dozed off occasionally, giving your body a chance to heal, and when you woke up, you weren't always sure that you had ... rested peacefully.
Still, even through the manitou's spell, Coleman could remember the night it ... or they ... hunted MacNeil down. No hellspawn could blot out Coleman's memory of killing the man who had done him in.
Katie cut him a break with the deaths of St. James and MacNeil. She thought the two of them had worked together to kill Coleman, and didn't begrudge Coleman his revenge. He'd never dared to tell her the truth - that the manitou inside him had committed the murders - or explained how he frequently lost control to the creature within. And since none of the Rangers had ever come gunning for him, he could only assume that whatever the beast did while he was "sleeping", it couldn't be too awful - or too public.
There was a faint scratching noise from the grave next to him. In one smooth motion, Coleman dropped the scorpion, drew his .45, and pointed it at the raised mound of dirt. For a second, there was silence. Then another scorpion dug itself out of the dirt a couple of feet away from T.C.'s resting place and scurried to Coleman's feet. It climbed upon one boot and then crawled beneath the cuff of one faded pantleg. Coleman felt nothing as it made its way up his body to nest in the gaping hole in his chest, where the damn things made their home.
He kept his revolver leveled at the grave, mainly because he didn't care to shift his position. It wasn't like his arm was going to get tired of holding the gun up or anything.
For a moment, Coleman considered how he must look - like a statue poised to fire upon anything that suddenly decided to rise from the grave. What would be do if someone were to wander into the cemetery. Not that there was much chance of that in Gomorra any more. But what if someone did?
Maybe he'd just gun them down.
Horrible thoughts like that occasionally crept into his mind - more and more lately, and he was becoming less concerned about them as time went by. He still couldn't decide how this made him feel - or if he felt anything about it at all.
"Ya know, T.C.," Coleman chuckled to the grave, "You're lucky. Take my word for it, comin' back from the dead is highly overrated. Don't think your daughter Wendy would appreciate it much, either. And Lord knows, I don't need or want the company."
Coleman's owed his former deputy the courtesy of a peaceful death. Without T.C.'s lessons, he would have killed a lot more folks than he did - and one of them might not have deserved it.
Of course, that was assuming the Agency or the Rangers didn't put him down first. The thought of someone finally ending his afterlife was looking better and better ...
He'd heard that Katie Karl was preparing to head back east, and he'd only heard a little about her replacement - some fella named Patterson. A military man, Dex had told him. He couldn't imagine some spit-and-polish career soldier getting along with Ranger "special agents" like Bobo or Camille. And where did Coleman fall in all of this? Katie held him back during the assault on the Whateley Estate, calling him a "secret weapon". How would Patterson react to inheriting a demon as his "secret weapon"?
Maybe there wasn't anything left for J.P. in Gomorra. With dedicated folks like Katie leaving, it was obvious that at least one chapter was ending around here. But still, he could sense ... something ... deep in his bones ...
J.P. had learned many things from his manitou, having harnessed just a sliver of its dark power. He could sometimes ... sense things just beyond his vision. Spirits, maybe, lurking in the dark. Knicknevin had been put down, and hard. But Coleman suspected that wasn't the end of it. Not by a long shot. And maybe whatever was out needed just as much killin'.
Maybe when he finished it off, it could take him with it. Heck, if nothing else, Nash Bilton was up to something, snooping around the edge of town. Coleman had refused to kill him once, but maybe conditions had changed. Maybe Nash was the one who needed killin'. A little part of Coleman's soul hoped Bilton would try something—or maybe that was the manitou hoping. Maybe it was both.
Absentmindedly, Coleman realized he was still holding his gun pointed rock-steady at T.C.'s grave. Time's up, he figured. He'd given the manitou more than enough time to slip into T.C. if they wanted to.
"Lucky bastard," Coleman muttered, twirling his gun on one well-preserved trigger finger and then dropping it into his holster. "Looks like you get to rest in peace after all. Looks like my services won't be required."
Coleman jumped down to the ground, then tipped his hat to the grave. "Wherever you're heading, friend, have a safe journey. Maybe we'll meet there some day ... But I doubt it."
Turning from the grave, Coleman headed off into the gathering twilight.
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