The summer of 1905 was a cruel one, but Dominic much preferred the dry Coahuila heat to the suffocating humidity back home. His dollars were more valuable, his clients generally more hospitable, and he could for the most part travel after sundown without risking his life. The natural world didn’t change much when crossing the immaterial line in the sand dividing Texas and Mexico, but the Río Grande in the cool grasp of night seemed to wash away the weight of generations. When the air was still and there was no imperious Texas Ranger or sweat-stained ranch hand to witness him, he would retrace the steps of a thousand of his kinsmen on their journey southward to freedom.
The grey dawn cast a dim light on the hand-drawn map he’d bought for a pittance at the last town. He guessed that there was about an hour and some change to the town of Altasgracias, where his next job and next meal awaited him. This one promised a hefty reward in return for a hefty risk. That paper nailed to the wall of a bar sat you down like an old uncle and told stories of something preying on livestock and travelers. And yet, Dominic doubted it could rebut the rhetorical eloquence of a loaded revolver.
It was entirely possible that it was some crazed animal, or even an unscrupulous vagabond. But Dominic knew better than to deal solely in the realm of the possible. He’d seen a few things that neither science nor Jesus could explain, and in the small hours of the morning, the sane world felt as fragile and precarious as the gossamer web of a brown recluse. But as sure as the sun would rise each day, he’d have to work to put food in his belly. And so he rode on to Altasgracias past the wizened trees and the sun-bleached rocks and the cacti like woody tumors on the skin of the world.
Eventually, the roofs and lone steeple of the town pierced the great wide horizon. Dominic breathed a sigh of relief. He’d had some success ignoring his thirst, but his empty flask and dry tongue made a compelling argument to the contrary.
Then he noticed the Indians. There were twenty or so of them – a few young men and women, no children. Their clothes were dust-bitten as if they had spent a long time travelling with no rest, and they were hurriedly loading sacks of grain onto two old mules that could barely withstand their burden. They did not once turn to look at the bounty hunter, except for one elderly woman who towered over the rest of her tribe. Her stark face followed Dominic as he passed by, her lips pursed as if she were withholding a tale of ancient darkness.
A shudder coiled itself around Dominic's spine like an angry rattlesnake, cold and quivering, as he met the woman’s obsidian pupils. Turn back, she seemed to say wordlessly, before the trouble you came looking for finds you. Dominic half-remembered a saying about heeding the warnings of crows and old women, but before he could fully recall it, the elderly Indian turned towards her people, leaving him with nothing but a vague taste of dread at the back of his throat. He swallowed hard to rid himself of it; all the more reason to get that drink. Ill omens would have to wait.
He rode past the sign hammered into the ground like a quack doctor’s orbitoclast at the side of the road and into the town proper. A group of lean and dusty children peered at him with shiny eyes as he entered and scattered at his sweeping gaze. He chuckled.
A handful of adults had gathered to watch him by the time he dismounted next to the bar for a glass of cowboy’s lifeblood and a warm bed. If he was lucky, he was el caballero to these people. Most of the time he was the Yanqui, or simply the negro. A portly man with big hands and a receding hairline addressed him as his boots hit the ground.
“You are the bounty hunter, yes?”
“Somethin’ like that.” Dominic’s Spanish wasn’t great, but it was enough to get by.
The man gave him a wide yellow smile. “Allow me to accommodate you, then. Have a drink, free of charge.”
Dominic raised an eyebrow, but he’d be a damned fool to turn his sudden benefactor down. He bade Jackie stay put with a stroke of the mane and a few words of comfort and strode through the swinging doors into the bar.
Every eye that wasn’t glazed over with moonshine turned to look at the stranger in the faded sarape and secondhand sombrero. The noonday sun through the doors lit him up from the back like the illuminated manuscripts they kept in old churches and made his shoe polish skin glisten with all the luster of fine leather. He stepped forward to break the silence and the moment was gone as quickly as it had come.
The man who was presumably the owner came in after him and clapped him on the back like an old friend. A pulse of rigidity rippled through Dominic’s muscles, and yet no flinch came but a sullen look on the newcomer’s shadowed face.
“Treat this man well. He is here to solve our problem.”
Dominic scanned the room. He saw the drunks getting shuteye on the bar and the gamblers hunched over the card table like hungry rats and the ladies in ratty dresses in the corner who met his gaze with an uncanny readiness.
“Howdy, folks.” A practiced and insincere warmth coated his voice like varnish.
They looked at him quizzically, as he knew they would. He was perennially the foreigner in town, and the smoky room of hard-eyed strangers was no different. Nevertheless, he strode past the onlookers, gawkers, and prospective hecklers toward the bar.
He sat down on a ratty stool, noting the empty seats on either side. The bartender, who couldn’t have been older than 17, turned around to face him.
“How may I serve you, sir?” Timid and formal like a big-city waiter. Interesting.
“What mezcales you got? Somethin’ light, please.”
The bartender wordlessly poured him a glass of something clear and smoky from a bottle at the back. Dominic tipped his hat, shot him a gap-toothed grin, and took a sip.
“Good shit.”
“¿Perdón?”
Dominic gestured dismissively. “It’s nothin’.” He leaned forward to rest his elbows on the bar table and looked up. “So, you need me for something. What’s the deal?”
The bartender’s eyes flitted to the side for a split-second before returning to Dominic. He probably wouldn’t have caught it if he wasn’t looking the man behind the counter in the eye.
“Those indios haven’t been telling you lies, have they?”
Dominic’s gaze hardened just enough to be noticeable, even as his mouth stayed motionless.
“People outside the town? Didn’t talk to ‘em. Why?”
“It’s not important.”
“Then out with it. Dead or alive, and where do I find this thing?”
The boy behind the bar nodded in the vague direction of something out the door.
“Ask Father Torres. He’s been handling it.”
Dominic nodded with a slight squint. Houses of God were a mixed bag, in his opinion. Priests were either the nicest men in town or the most corrupt.
“Someone gonna steal my horse if I tie her up here?”
“No, sir.”
“Alright then.”
Dominic set the empty glass down with a clink and stood up. He hadn’t noticed how much taller he was than the boy in front of him when he sat down. For just a moment, he saw the fear he had come to expect on the other man’s face before it was wiped away by a smile.
“Come back if you need anything, sir.”
“Will do,” he lied.
Dominic had seen this same small-town church a million times over the course of his life. Sure, the trappings were different between the Baptists back home and the Catholics here, but this was no cathedral. No stained glass, no ornate architectural flourishes, just a hardy adobe box in the center of town. He idly ran a finger along the rough, sand-worn outer walls of the church as he made his way to the entrance. He paused for a moment to listen for a sermon, but there was none, so he eased the ajar door open and walked in.
Inside the old church, the differences between the building and the churches of his youth became starker. Even in the poorest towns down here, there was gold in the church, and this one was no exception. There was always that metal of kings that caught the light to reflect it as heavenly radiance. Yet, at this time of day, the church let in very little natural light and wreathed the back pews in shadow. The light streaming in from the few windows seemed to build as he ambled down the aisle towards the altar.
A middle-aged man in clerical clothing with a pale complexion looked at Dominic as he entered without a hint of surprise.
“You must be the bounty hunter.”
“How’d you guess?” Dominic wore a painted-on smile.
“We don’t get many strangers.”
Dominic shrugged. “Fair enough. Bar-boy told me to talk to you about what’s been going on.”
“Ah, Héctor? Such a nice boy. I do hope you enjoyed his service.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Dominic sat down in a pew near the front and crossed one leg over the other.
“So, anybody actually seen this thing?”
The priest, presumably Father Torres, nodded solemnly.
“Oh, it would be a mercy if it was just seen. People have been attacked.”
Dominic’s brow furrowed. “Any survive?”
“Some.”
Dominic rubbed his chin, feeling the rough bed of wiry stubble.
“Where and when?”
“Almost always at the outskirts of town. Always at night.”
“Who’s it go for?”
“Anyone and everyone. Men, women, children, the elderly. We’ve put a curfew in place, but it hasn’t lost interest.”
Dominic looked him in the eye.
“And you expect me to kill this thing?”
“Few things survive a well-placed bullet.”
“True that.”
Dominic drummed his fingers on his jeans. They needed to be washed.
“You payin’ my room and board while I wait for this thing to show up?”
Father Torres nodded to the space behind Dominic. The American turned around to look and was greeted by a well-dressed man just entering through the church doors.
“He’ll take care of it, señor.”
The mayor — Dominic knew who he was from the moment he walked in — shot him a smile. His hair was combed, his small mustache was trimmed, and his suit was probably the most expensive article of clothing in the town. Granted, that was a low bar, but still.
Dominic tipped his hat as he leaned with one elbow up on the side of the pew. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“A hired gun is expensive. We might as well not cut corners. Especially not for a special guest.”
Dominic brushed off the flattery and leaned forward a little. “So, how’d ya get yourself into this mess?”
The mayor shrugged easily, like a proper big-city politician. “Do monsters need a reason to be monsters?”
“Dunno. Not an authority on the subject.” Dominic grinned darkly.
“Well, trust me, if you would. And yes, we will be paying for your expenses for the night. Should you need more than that, it will have to come out of your own pocket. But I trust you won’t.”
Dominic snorted. “Yeah.”
“Do mind the Indians. They don’t know the ways of civilized folk.” Behind Dominic, Father Torres murmured in agreement.
“Whatever you say, boss.” Par for the course.
Night came quickly, despite the lack of anything for Dominic to do in the meantime. He’d developed a knack for wasting time at a young age, and he’d only honed it to mastery as the years passed. Still, he didn’t dare whistle. It might have betrayed his position on top of a shabby roof to whatever was out there.
That being said, there wasn’t much to see. Just beyond him, the town petered out into the Mexican wilderness that he had grown so used to. It wasn’t bad, per se. It was quite nice to look at, especially on a clear night like this. He had just seen a lot of it. The unfamiliar land had a tendency to blur together into a barely navigable open-air labyrinth. Maybe the land was like the people; it just didn’t want him.
He shook the thought out of his head. No time for that. A strange, hollow thumping noise was just barely becoming audible over the cicadas and the wind, prompting him to squint out into the night.
There. Something human-sized in the blue darkness. It moved faster than it should, and it made that sound with every step it took. At first, Dominic thought it was a person — a man, naked as a newborn babe. But there was no head between its shoulders, no eyes to betray ill intent or otherwise. And on its bare chest was a rent spanning from the clavicle to the sacrum, behind which a dark mass glistened in the moonlight.
Dominic’s breath quickened. Like clockwork, he slipped a round in the chamber of his rifle and cocked it. The thing moved in a straight line. Not a terribly difficult shot, all things considered. And yet his hands trembled.
The sharp crack of the rifle begat a spray of dark blood from the thing’s shoulder. Dammit. Dominic had been aiming for the chest. A bead of sweat nestled in his eye with a fresh bloom of stinging pain.
The thing recoiled as most men do when getting shot. But it wasn’t down. It barely spent a moment stunned before it clutched its shoulder and made a beeline for the forest.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
Dominic awkwardly slid down the roof and moved to give chase. Come on now, Dom. Don’t be afraid. You can’t be afraid.
His boots hit the ground and he broke into a run, but even while injured, the thing managed to be faster than him. The rifle awkwardly dangling by his side couldn’t have helped. The thing soon melted back into the treeline, leaving Dominic to try to catch his breath with his hands on his knees.
His heart hammered in his ears. Coming to terms with his resurrection had been one thing. Accepting the presence of things like these was another beast altogether.
“Fuck…”
He stood up straight once more and secured his rifle to his back. Get it the fuck together. There’s still a trail of blood from where you blew a hole in its shoulder. This ain’t over yet.
The volume of spilt blood on the ground suggested the thing was bleeding heavily, but it certainly hadn’t been getting any slower. Most men and animals would have keeled over and succumbed by now.
Woody thorns pricked at his exposed skin as he made his way through the undergrowth. In front of him there was a conspicuous trail of disturbed foliage, outlining the creature’s passage in snapped branches and trampled grass.
Dominic stopped for a precious moment. In the deepening silence, he could still hear that infernal noise, like an ax cutting wood. It had to be close. He pushed aside a thick cluster of leaves and thorns and stumbled into the clearing beyond.
There it stood erect, facing Dominic. Even without a head on its shoulders, it was still taller than him.
“What do you want?” Dominic said.
It took a step forward on slightly quivering legs. Its exposed ribs clicked together with the undulation of its chest, producing that terrible sound, far louder than it had any right to be. Dominic’s hand flew to his revolver, but by then, it was already moving.
The thing slammed into him with the force of a wild boar. The gun went skittering out of his hand to go off harmlessly in the dirt. He managed to avoid the worst of its initial clawing with a well-timed backpedal, but he still felt a stinging pain blossom from his left shoulder.
“Fuck–”
It was slower to turn around than him, which let him put a little distance between himself and the monster. Somewhere in his head there was a dim awareness of the location of his gun, but a gun would be no use if he didn’t survive the initial assault.
He was ready for it when it lunged at him again. Quick on his feet, he rolled through the dirt towards the fallen revolver. A familiar feeling of control washed over him as he wrapped his hand around the stock. It was quick to regain its balance, but this time, Dominic was faster. He had already aimed it dead-center and squeezed the trigger when it came for him again.
And yet, all he heard was an impotent click in place of the revolver’s faithful report. Had he been in his right mind, it would’ve occurred to him that a blunt impact could knock the firing pin out of alignment. But how could he be with the headless creature bearing down on him, its rapid thock-thock-thock growing louder every fraction of a second?
He scrambled back across the dry ground, kicking at its legs as it approached. His boots connected with its leathery hide once or twice, but it didn’t make a difference. It descended on him, and this time it was more than a glancing blow. Dominic felt the raking of claw-like fingernails across the side of his torso and the warm outflow of blood that followed. He could feel its bare ribs against his chest, staining his ripped shirt with semi-coagulated blood and other unmentionable viscera. Its bulk made breathing difficult.
Thrashing there like a dying animal, his knee eventually found purchase in its abdomen, knocking it back enough to give the gunslinger a modicum of breathing room. With a strangled cry, he shoved his free hand in the space between its ribs, looking for something, anything to tear out. He grabbed a fistful of what felt like lung and squeezed until his knuckles went white. That got a reaction.
It recoiled with uncanny speed, a gurgle emanating from the stump where its head should have been. Dominic had more room to move, but it was small comfort. He was in bad shape: beaten, bruised, and lacerated badly enough that infection was a foregone conclusion if he didn’t get help immediately.
Sure, he’d cheated death before. But he wasn’t eager to push his luck again. He threw himself up to a standing position with a meager burst of strength and disappeared into the treeline before the thing could follow him, without his prize, without his revolver, without his dignity.
Dominic grit his teeth as another shock of pain tore through the left side of his ribcage. He was lucky not to have any broken bones, but the monster had still managed to tear deep into his flesh: four parallel lines of ragged agony now tinted his shirt and the inside of his coat with the dark red of defeat. The skin around the wounds burned with a malignant heat, and Dominic knew that they would fester if he did not clean them soon. Limping, he made his way into the outskirts of Altasgracias, leaving behind the forest and the echoes of the triumphant creature’s mutilated torso.
As he forced himself through the pain of his open wounds with bruised legs and punctured pride, Dominic passed the Indian encampment. It was now reduced to a lone bonfire around which sat three Indians – two young men, and the old woman who had earlier transfixed Dominic with her pitch-black eyes. She was the only one who did not turn to look at him as he dragged his mangled body towards them, her gaze instead focused on imbibing the fiery dance of light against the backdrop of midnight. The other two Indians – their brows heavy with suspicion – attempted to stand and face the bounty hunter, but the old woman intervened before they could so much as utter a word.
"Let him come," she said in Spanish, not once taking her sight from the fire. "He is wounded; he can do us no harm."
"Don’t mean any." Dominic breathlessly responded – also in Spanish – as he came between the two warriors. Their shoulders were tense in anticipation of violence, but they said nothing and sat back down. "Name’s Dominic. Can I sit?"
"If you must," the old woman said. She did not share her name. "Though I do not believe it will do your reputation any good if the kind people of Altasgracias see you sharing fire with our like. They warned you about us already, did they not?"
Dominic nodded with veiled caution. A stinging feeling of shame crept into his chest as he sat down. He said nothing. There didn’t seem to be anything to say that didn’t make him look worse. He didn’t want to offend his hosts, especially in his wounded state. Even a fistfight would be too much for him now.
"People say a lot of stuff," Dominic said at last, watching his words. "They make their truth from anything. Not to say it’s gotta be yours or mine."
"And what truth have the townspeople spun this time?" The old woman laughed with acrid contempt. "That we are backward savages who must be whipped into submission for our own good? That we are little more than uncivilized Indians who will not join the march of progress? That we are sorcerers, heathens who practice black magic?"
"They think you brought the monster here," he said. "They think your magic summoned it, and that now you leave them behind to die at its hands."
"Of course," she sneered. "If only we had any magic left, then maybe we would not be moving from town to town, always watching our backs, waiting for someone to blame us, or kill us or enslave us. No, the magic faded from our veins a long time ago. All we have are stories – stories they took and twisted until they became far too real."
Dominic winced. His wound hurt to high heavens, each flash of agony accompanied by the memory of the headless monstrosity clawing at him, its open chest calling for his blood.
The old woman put a hand to Dominic's forehead. He flinched, but his sorry state left him too slow to avoid the sudden gesture. She furrowed her brow and gave an order to one of the two young men in their native tongue. The warrior disappeared into the darkness and returned with a small burlap sack and some water. The woman washed Dominic’s wound. She pulled thorns and small rocks out of his gashes, took some foul-smelling herbs from the sack, crushed them into a paste, and smothered the raw flesh with it. Dominic again winced under the sting from the woman's medicine, but was slowly relieved when the worst of the pain died down. A weak thank you died on his lips.
"You went to face it," the woman noted as she finished dressing his wound. "You are a fool."
"People say that a lot," Dominic tried joking, but the woman pressed his wound with both hands , drawing out a hiss of pain.
"There is no bravery in charging towards certain death," she said sternly, "especially not for people like these. Not for their money, nor their lives."
"I mean, they can’t all be that way, right?" Dominic said after she was far enough that she would not be able to prod his injuries to reprimand him. "Judge not the child for the sins of the father and all that?"
"Easy for you to say," the woman responded. "You do not know them like we do. You carry yourself like a free man."
Dominic remained stone-faced, firelight dancing across his obsidian features. He nodded.
"How could you know?" The old woman continued. "How could you understand what it is like to live under the whip?"
"How can you?" He retorted. "Slavery ain't been legal here since before my time."
"Of course they don't," the woman grinned a bitter smile. "That is what we Yaquis always hear. We hear it when they come for us, when they take our men, women and children to be worked to death in their mines and plantations. We hear it when they speak of their México, this nation whose foundation is Indian yet will only welcome us as servants or corpses. First, it was the Spaniards, yes, with their swords and plagues and crosses. Now, it is the Mexicans who will not rest until we are less than a memory, until the last Yaqui has been wiped off this land, from these plains and deserts that were once all ours. ¡Viva Don Porfirio! They will cheer when that day comes. Do not fool yourself, bounty hunter: for the Mexican, to be Yaqui is to be vermin."
The only good Indian is a dead Indian. Dominic had heard the saying many times throughout his life. Yet here, amidst the pleading of the people, entranced by the gladness in their eyes at his arrival, he had dared to think things would be different – he had dared to hope that they'd see deeper than mere skin.
"They gave you a hero's welcome, did they not?" She said. "You could see them smiling, cheering even, like you were heaven-sent. They praised you, let you into their midst. But they don't really care who their savior is; all they care about is that you'll kill the monster or die trying like all those before you. To them, you are like us – and even if you succeed, they will never let you forget it."
Dominic fought through the fog of pain as her words sunk in. He would be kicking himself if he had the strength. Had he died, they would have discarded him, left his body to rot in the woods and remembered him solely as a negro who thought himself a hero. Had they even cared to tell him the truth about the monster?
"Why is it here? If you didn’t summon it, where did it come from?"
"They brought it here," the old woman responded. Her gaze was stony and dark. "I told them how to."
"Why?"
"Once, Dominic," she emphasized his name, "we were as foolish as you are, and thought we could live in peace alongside them. We shared with them what little we had: our warmth, our songs, our stories. Among those stories was one I heard from a Nahua man who claimed his bloodline went back to the priesthood of Old Tenochtitlan, long before any white men came across the sea. This is what I heard, and what I told them:
|
In those forgotten ages, men worshipped gods of night and blood and death – not as terrors to be wary of, but as bringers of change and guardians of ancient secrets. Among these dark gods who protected and provided for the people, one sought to reward those brave enough to face their fears, those few men and women who had the heart of a true warrior. His name was Tezcatlipoca – the Smoking Mirror, the Lord of Night and Magic. Smoking Mirror came down from his starry domain bearing the name Yaotzin – Venerable Enemy – and fashioned out of dream and fire a creature in the semblance of a man. And when it was done, he cut off the creature’s head so it would be blind to anything but the bravery in the souls of men, and carved its chest open with a flint knife so that its thrumming heart would call out to the darkness, a summon for those who would face it. He named the creature Yohualtepuztli – the Night Ax – for its open chest beat like an ax against a tree, and infused it with his essence in the manner of the gods. And it was the decree of the Venerable Enemy that any man or woman who heard the sound of the Night Ax and fearlessly followed the call of its beating chest would be rewarded. Whosoever defeated the Yohualtepuztli in honorable single combat, tearing away its immortal heart and claiming it as theirs, could ask it for anything they desired. Be their wish love, knowledge, riches or glory, the creature would obey, for it possessed the power of Smoking Mirror to give, but also to take. And for this reason, the Night Ax would bring only doom and misery to those who were cowards or tried to claim victory through trickery and deceit. They would be visited by terrors beyond imagination, be ceaselessly tormented by nightmares and plagues. Woe to those who in their greed and cowardice would try to fool the Smoking Mirror, for they will know only shame and sorrow. |
She finished the story and waited for Dominic to take it all in.
"They summoned it," the bounty hunter mused. "They summoned it so they could take its heart, so they could demand rewards and riches."
"And so they did," the woman said. "Blinded by their greed, the people performed the ritual of the god and brought his spawn to this land, far away from Tezcatlipoca's domain. They set a trap for it and chained it down, tearing its heart out while it writhed helplessly. They thought they had made themselves rich, triumphant over the old gods. But the riches never came, and now Altasgracias is doomed, starving and collapsing while the Night Ax haunts the forest and the roads, still aching for a fair fight."
"I couldn't kill it," Dominic said. "I shot it, stabbed it… nothin’ worked. It almost killed me, and I couldn't even scratch it. How? How do I kill something that don’t die?"
The woman turned to the two young men and signaled with her hand. One of them – the one who had remained seated while his companion obtained the healing herbs – took something from his neck and gave it to the woman.
"You are asking the wrong question, Dominic," she said while tinkering with the necklace. "Who you should be fighting against is what must concern you, and why. The Night Ax is in agony, yearning for its heart to be returned. It will not leave without it, for it has yet to be honorably defeated."
"I can't kill it, 'cause someone already did," Dominic reasoned. "The ritual ain’t finished. Can’t follow the rules if someone already broke ‘em."
The old woman assented, and she held the bounty hunter's hand between hers. Dominic could feel small wooden beads click against each other and against his skin.
"We Yaquis worship the Lamb whose blood made flowers sprout at the foot of His cross," she said. "The Jesuits taught us this, and we have chosen to believe. But we are not fools, and we do not forget that He is and always will be a foreign God upon this land. That is why we still commune with the spirits of the earth and the wind, why we dance the Stag's Dance and give offerings in exchange for rain. That is why we do not forsake the names of the old gods nor condemn those who still worship them."
She let go of Dominic's hand. He saw the rosary beads and the small black cross with the image of the nailed Nazarene carved upon it, and closed his fingers over it. The woman simply nodded.
"The Night Ax is like the Lamb: a foreign god, spirit made flesh. It came here from the south, born from the nightmares of the Nahua peoples who made their dwelling in Old Tenochtitlan. But the Lamb possesses something here that the Smoking Mirror does not: a sanctuary, a place of power where no other gods may intrude. Go there, Dominic, and you will find the heart, the key to saving this town… if you still care to do so."
Dominic nodded solemnly.
“The church. They got it in the church.”
Sacrilege meant different things to different people. Sure, breaking into a house of God in the dead of night probably qualified. But back where Dominic was from, teaching someone like him to read the Bible did too.
He muttered a halfhearted plea for forgiveness before snapping the lock in two with a blow from the stock of his revolver. A poor man’s Moses, but beggars can’t be choosers. He coaxed open the door and took a few tentative steps in.
Night suited the church better than day. Soft blue moonlight percolated through the glass, distributed more evenly than the haphazard rays he had seen in the daylight hours. Under the moon, the golden cross and the accents on the altar could have been any metal. Maybe the church was friendlier when its master wasn’t in it. Maybe Dominic was just being cynical. He could live with either outcome as long as he found this goddamn thing.
“Show yourself, if you can hear me. Makes this a lot easier.”
No response. It was worth a shot, he supposed. The atmosphere was already plenty suffocating. He could hear his heart hammering in his chest. That was strange; he didn’t feel his guts twisting themselves in knots or sweat dripping down his brow.
He put his free hand over his heart, only to find a more familiar pulse. It didn’t take him long to put two and two together.
“Thanks.”
The alien heartbeat grew louder and more frantic as he approached the altar, far louder than a human heart should ever beat. The hollow thumping reverberated off the walls, the floor, the ceiling, reproducing itself in the empty shell of the house of God. Perhaps the church was a kind of heart as well.
He ran his hand along the edge of the altar, slightly smoothed by years of veneration. It was cold. The heat had been leached out of it by the nighttime church’s cool. Below a smaller crucifix affixed to its back, the altar had a small compartment cut into the stone. He eased it open with a quiet scraping, and there it was.
It was bruised and lacerated, but it still beat, even now. It wet Dominic’s hand with half-dry blood when he picked it up. It didn’t feel real. A profound sense of intrusion settled in his stomach, like he was not supposed to be here; then again, neither was this heart.
“What do you want from me now?”
The heart pulsated softly, almost as if it felt relieved to be found at last.
“Stop!” The voice of the priest commanded. Dominic turned and saw him march towards him, his arms outstretched with pleading. “Please, you don’t know what you’re doing!”
“Don’t tell me what I know,” the bounty hunter replied. No use in being discreet anymore. “You mind telling me why you’re holding a monster’s heart in your house of God, father?”
“It was… it was the only way,” the priest gasped laboriously. “We couldn’t keep it from coming to claim it but by consigning the heart to the power of Christ Our Lord. Please, you must understand. We were desperate!”
Dominic scoffed. He put his hand on his empty holster as a warning – after all, the priest had no way of knowing he had lost his gun – and went straight for the door.
“You were greedy,” he said without turning. “You thought you could make yourselves rich – even you, father – and now you’re desperate.”
He felt the priest’s hands clutch his arm tightly as he tried to open the door, and sighed at the prospect of having to push an old man in the shadow of the Nazarene.
“We won’t forget what you did,” the priest said, and his mouth simmered with poison. “We will not forget how you betrayed us and left us at the mercy of that monster!”
“You tricked me, so I won’t forget either. And neither will it,” Dominic said, and he pushed with all his might. The church’s door opened with a heavy whine and there stood the Night Ax, its fearsome chest silent as it awaited Dominic.
The priest let out a curse and began praying in Latin, tightly holding his crucifix and attempting to drive away the headless creature. Dominic paid him no heed. Careful not to leave the church’s porch, he laid the beating heart on the ground and took a step back. The Yohualtepuztli groaned and reached forward with its long-nailed fingers, caressed its heart the way a father caresses his newborn child, and placed it back within its open chest. A victorious thock-thock-thock surged through its body, and it extended its right hand to the bounty hunter.
Dominic accepted and his hands felt a familiar object: the creature was returning his revolver. It wasn’t the same as it was before, however. His weapon, once worn, dented and scratched from many years of use, was now good as new, its muzzle clean and polished, and its wooden grip varnished. Six bullets shone back at him when he checked the cylinder, and when he looked back at the Night Ax, the message was clear: Let’s try again, shall we?
“No,” Dominic then said. “Thank you, but I’ll pass.”
The creature, despite being headless, seemed to nod. Then it turned to the priest and, with a furious rattling of its ribs, silenced the old man's prayers, which had devolved into fearful sobbing. It turned back and faded into the night, into the darkness that had given birth to it in nameless times.
In the moonlight, Dominic beheld the Night Ax’s gift. The words Viva su propia vida glistened in silver lettering on the wooden grip. He chuckled.
“I’d keep those prayers up if I were you,” he told the priest as he walked off to find his horse. He’d do good to leave town before morning came and the old man ratted him out to the rest of Altasgracias. “You might just start believin’ in them.”
A glint caught his peripheral vision as he rode Jackie back into the wilderness: two golden catlike eyes watched him from the depths of the forest. He blinked and they were gone. Soon he was too, his silhouette growing ever farther from the accursed town.
In the five years that followed, the wind would carry many rumors to Dominic. Words of death, desolation and doom spread all over the border. Down south, the government of old Don Porfirio was crumbling under nationwide insurrection, and Uncle Sam set his all-seeing eye on the new opportunities that might rise from chaos. The frontier was a more dangerous place now, with roaming bandits burning, raping and pillaging every village in sight, and the Indians up in arms against their oppressors, both real and perceived.
Still, there was one rumor that caught Dominic’s attention more than the others, even though he didn’t believe it until he saw it himself: a small town in the middle of the Coahuila wilderness, ravaged by an unseen force, its inhabitants torn limb from limb and scattered throughout the streets. No survivors had made it out, and the church had burned to ash. As he passed what remained of Altasgracias, his hat turned low to keep the sun from his eyes, he saw the marks of claws upon the people and the buildings, long and jagged like the attack of a huge cat. The Smoking Mirror, Dominic thought, had come to claim his share of blood. He tightened his grip on Jackie's reins and rode on.