A Congregation of Jackals

CHAPTER ONE They Should Have Paid Attention to Otis 1888 Otis Boulder had what some people in the San Fortunado area referred to as a rumble gut, which was a stirring in the juices of the stomach that warned a man of danger like how the nerves in the tip of a dog’s nose could prophesize bad weather. These both were helpful senses in the sprawling Southwest. When the two swarthy, sun-bronzed strangers entered the largely empty saloon, Otis’s gastric fluids intimated with a low growl that he should leave. Without even finishing the watered-down drink for which he had been overcharged, the thirty-nine-year-old blacksmith stood, grabbed his hat, and walked toward the exit. The final thought that he had before he passed through the open door and entered the San Fortunado dusk outside was that these two fellows smelled not like men, but like vultures. The denizens of the saloon glanced furtively at the sun-bronzed arrivals and then returned their gazes to the collections of diamonds and royal personages that they would only ever see in card games. The beeves had been ridden northeast that morning and for the next two months the saloon would be peopled by drunken tradesmen with little to do, and sour fellows who were too old to ride and too ornery to marry. Amongst these disenfranchised locals sat an anomalous pair, a young handsome couple from Arizona who had been married not more than three weeks prior: Charles and Jessica Lowell. When the two sun-bronzed strangers entered the saloon, the newlyweds did not glance furtively at the duo as did the others inhabitants—they turned their heads and looked. The couple from Arizona gazed upon the weathered arrivals, surveying their holstered guns, the spurs that were long and unnecessarily cruel, the yellow gloves that were stained brown with what might have been dried blood, their dark coats, which were ragged with wear, the cracked faces that lay submerged beneath their prickly beards, and the long black hair that twined and trailed from beneath their broad brown hats and dripped like candle wax in oily tangles about their shoulders. The striking resemblance of these men was beyond coincidence: they were identical twins. Charles squeezed Jessica’s hand and whispered, “Do not stare.” The newlyweds had looked, and now, the twins were looking back. The one on the left pointed at the couple with his prickly chin and the other brother nodded while removing his hat. Heavy boots elicited groans from the floorboards as the twins strode toward the Arizonians. Charles felt his muscles tighten with apprehension as Jessica sidled close for protection. Limned by the dusty blue light of the gloaming, the twins closed the distance between the door and the newlyweds. Charles was reminded of standing beside train tracks when a locomotive arrived, though he was not exactly sure why this image came to mind. “Might I offer you fine gentlemen a drink?” The twins did not acknowledge this inquiry. Tacitly, they pulled weary wooden seats from the table, legs scraping upon the planks of the saloon floor, and seated themselves. The smell of these men reminded Charles of butcher’s offal left a day too long in the bins. The gentleman inquired amenably, “Which particular drink is your preference?” The twins looked at Charles and then over at Jessica. Their obsidian eyes coolly fixed upon the finely dressed blond woman. The fellow from Arizona cleared his throat. “What would you gentlemen care to drink?” “We ain’t gentlemen,” said the twin who sat across from Charles. The fellow pointed to his dingy brown hat. “I still got it on. You want my hat off, just try and take it off.” “I am not overly concerned with hats,” replied Charles. Jessica giggled at this jest, perhaps too loudly because of her agitated state. The one with the hat who was the talker looked at his brother and then back to the gentleman. “You havin’ fun at us?” “I can assure you, Mister . . .” Charles waited for a name from the twin. Receiving none, he continued, “I can assure you, I am not having anything remotely resembling any form of fun at this present time.” “You talk smart. That’s how you got her, I s’pose?” The talker looked over at Jessica, upon whom the eyes of the silent brother remained fixed like black moons that were too stubborn to rise or set. “I was lucky.” Charles turned in his seat and faced the bartender, a nervous bald man of thirty who could pass for fifty, and called out, “Three bourbons and a glass of wine.” “Get us whiskey instead.” Charles turned back to the bartender. “Make two of the bourbons glasses of whiskey.” “We’ll take a bottle,” amended the talker. The bartender looked at Charles, who nodded his assent; the rapidly aging drink slinger disappeared to fetch the liquids of his trade. The gentleman leaned back comfortably in his chair his fears allayed by being able to involve some of his considerable inheritance in his current predicament. “Where are you fellows from?” “Ain’t none of your mind,” said the talker, who then looked over at Jessica. “She’s got good breeding. You can tell she ain’t done much in the way of work with those hands she got. And all that softness all over.” The bartender appeared beside the table, set down a glass of wine, a glass of bourbon, and a bottle of whiskey, and reached for the two empty cups upon his tray, but the talker shooed him off. “You ain’t gettin’ this bottle back.” The swarthy man uncorked the whiskey, put the neck to his chapped lips, swallowed a cupful, and handed the bottle to his sibling. The silent brother opened his mouth. His gums were wholly bereft of teeth and grossly swollen.