Chapter 318 - Utah, One Week Ago part 3

Sydney rode north toward Beat Stone River, which was a distributary of the Canadian. It was more of a creek than a river, really, wide and shallow and hedged by dense bulrushes and low wind-sculpted willow and birch. As he rode he kept turning in his saddle to look behind, expecting to see a posse come riding in pursuit at any moment, but he saw no other living souls the entire afternoon. He met no drifters and encountered no outlaws skulking along the stony banks of the meandering creek. He felt very small and alone beneath the vast blue canvas of the heavens.

At sundown, he rode away from the river a little way and made camp at the bottom of an arroyo, spreading his blanket on a bed of powder fine sand. He hobbled Black Devil, made a small fire and settled against the bank of the dry wash to eat. His mother had wrapped some biscuits and bacon for him. There wasn't much but it was good and he ate all of it, knowing he should hold some of it back for later but too hungry to resist. He hadn't eaten since breakfast and his belly was clamoring almost as loudly as the coyotes yelping out in the dark.

When he had finished eating, he leaned back against the bank, pulled his blanket over himself and watched the smoke rise sinuously from his campfire as his eyelids grew heavier and heavier. He was dog-tired and his nerves were near frayed through and for the first time in his life he didn't know what the next day would bring. He felt like a trapdoor had sprung open beneath him and he'd plummeted into some dark and bewildering labyrinth.

He was still watching the smoke, one foot in the waking world and the other in a dream, when the pale man swam out of the gloom.

Before the stranger's features resolved in the firelight, Sydney's drowsing mind summoned up the spirit of Dutch Jacobson, come back from hell and looking for revenge. The stranger didn't look a thing like Dutch. His face was long and narrow and pale as unbaked dough. Dutch was a stout man, fair skinned and freckled, with a face like an anvil, but that was where Sydney's thoughts went the moment he saw the white face swim up out of the darkness like something dead and bloodless floating up out of a dank pool. He's come back to get me! Sydney thought, and clutched his blanket to his chest like a startled spinster, heart jumping into his throat. He thought he might have cried out a little, a girlish squawk of dismay, and then the phantom was upon him.

The pale man was quick, whoever or whatever he was. He was on Sydney in the blink of an eye. Sydney struck at the creature's chest and shoulders as he latched onto him but it was like beating his fists against marble. Fingers, cold and hard as iron, seized his shoulder and twisted his head to one side. An instant later, the man had clamped his lips onto the side of Sydney's throat. Sydney's thoughts turned from boogeyman to buggery and he redoubled his efforts to pitch the man off, but he was hopelessly overpowered. A moment later, his attacker's teeth pricked the skin of his neck.

And then the fiend drew back.

"You are no villain," the man pronounced, blinking in surprise.

The stranger withdrew to the other side of the fire, his movements so quick he seemed to vanish in one spot and reappear an instant later in another. Sydney stared at him, captivated by the man's eyes. They were large and jewel-like with startling gold irises. The man's pupils caught the firelight and held it so that his eyes seemed to have hot coals inside of them.

"They said you were a murderer," the stranger said. "To quote one of your fellow townsmen: a mad dog that needed to be put down. I was told you murdered a young man in cold blood this afternoon, and for no other reason than your hatred of him, but I suspect this is not exactly true. Tell me the truth, boy. I will know a lie if you speak it."

His attacker spoke perfect English, but with a faint foreign accent. Sydney had met an Englishman once, a tourist from a city called Bristol. The stranger's accent sounded somewhat like that, slightly British, only sharper, the consonants pronounced with a bit more of a bite. 

"I ain't no mad dog," Sydney stammered. He reached up and felt his neck. There were two wounds, side by side, just below the ridge of his jaw. When he took his hand away, there was blood smeared on his fingertips. The stranger had gone for his jugular, meant to tear out his throat, but had stopped at the last moment. Sydney wiped the blood on his pantsleg before continuing. "I… he… Dutch, that is… he always had it in for me," Sydney said. "I can't tell you how many times he whipped my ass when we were kids, and only because he was bigger than me and he knew he could get away with it. I never did anything to provoke him. It's just how it was. Then, today—that is to say, last night-- at the dance, him and his cronies laid into me again. They beat me. Stole my clothes. I… I just couldn't take it anymore."

The stranger's eyes narrowed. "Your injuries?"

Sydney touched his face, running his fingers over the scrapes and bruises Dutch had inflicted on him the previous night. He had two black eyes, a split lip. His nose was swollen and felt like a big potato in the middle of his face.

"Yeah," Sydney said. "He did this. Last night at the cotillion. They had Barbara Jo invite me outside for a stroll. Barbara Jo Clemmens. They knew I was fond of her. They used her as bait to get me outside. I should have known better. Barbara never showed any interest in me before. But I was stupid. I followed her out like a puppy. They were waiting for me around the corner. Dutch worked me over while his buddies held me down, and then they tore off all my clothes and made me ride home naked. Nobody tried to stop them. Nobody tried to help. They just pointed and laughed. All of 'em at the dance. Even Barbara Jo."

The stranger considered this a moment, and then he smiled. Apart from the pointy teeth, it was a surprisingly congenial smile. The flesh around his eyes softened, and he stroked his whiskers thoughtfully. Sydney wasn't sure but he thought the man was trying to decide whether he still ought to kill him or not.

Finally, he seemed to come to a decision, and he cast about for a place to sit. "I apologize if I frightened you," the stranger said, settling down on the ground. "It has never been my habit to feed on the innocent."

Despite the blood trickling into his collar, Sydney believed him. Not only did he believe the white-faced stranger, he felt inexplicably drawn to him, despite what he'd just said. "Feed on…?" he said. "What… who are you?"

"I am called Gon," the stranger said with a bow. He was a big man, much taller than Sydney, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He was dressed in a bowler and a fancy frock coat. He had long wavy auburn hair and a waxed moustache and skin as pale as moonstone. The man, phantom, whatever he was, paused for a moment for effect, and then he said, "I am the oldest living vampire in the world."