The Undertaker’s Daughter

The Blackwood Undertaking and Funeral Services home was the closest building to the church, for the graveyard bordered it. Escaping once more from the merciless sun, Veron Romero stepped into the shadows of the building’s awning. He rapped at the door, his dark raven clothes and shiny black hair evermore cast him as a reaper collecting souls.

The door was opened by none other than Vincent Blackwood. “I have seen the MacLooneys but have heard no thralls of death. Must I admit I am quite disappointed that I have not the pleasure of crafting coffins for them?”

His heavy Romanian accent rolled from his tongue, smooth as river rocks. Despite generations of his bloodline having been in America, his ancestors frequently married other Romanians, retaining their idiom and traditions.

Veron shook his head. “Unfortunately, I had not the pleasure to reap their souls today.”

The undertaker held the door open for the man, nodding his head.

“Brother Sheriff told me to lay off,” Veron hissed. “There’s more of them.”

“You used to be quite the professional body-bringer,” Vincent said. “Tis a pity your brother leashes you.”

Veron huffed, turning as he squinted into the sunlight. “And he’s coming here. You can fill his ear with your grievances, my kind sir.”

Vincent laughed gently, his black mustache twitching. “Perhaps I shall.” He watched like a vulture, standing within the shadows of his residence. The man donned his usual black suit and tie, the stovepipe hat which he habitually wore rested on the table. His skin was chalkier than the average sun-kissed shade of the burghers, seeing as most of his toil was completed thoroughly hidden from the sunlight, as it was much less sweat to dig a grave in Arizona by moonlight.

Veron sat on one of the sofas of the foyer, putting his feet to rest upon the ottoman. He leaned back, placing his arms behind his neck, staring up towards the ceiling. He relaxed, easing from the visions of violence dancing in his brain.

“I’d like to talk to your daughter, if she’d wish to speak to me in return,” Veron said.

“She has many a thing to say to you,” Vincent answered. “And to the others. I am sure she has already noted your presence.”

“Has she been alright?” Veron’s heart leapt at Vincent’s response, eager to see her alright.

“She has been improving,” Vincent replied.

Clifton and Roscoe arrived soon thereafter to the door, welcomed in by Mr. Blackwood. They removed their hats and filed in, somberly yet politely.

“Your brother regrets to inform me I won’t be crafting new coffins for burglars and miscreants,” Vincent said to Clifton in a quite disappointed tone as the Sheriff settled down.

“Unfortunately,” he replied. “Just can’t risk having a swarm of them show up to town.”

“Of course not. But we will have to put them down eventually,” Veron interceded. “Just like the last gang.”

“Yes. The ones I did not even have to create coffins for,” Vincent said.

“The desert was grateful for their filth,” Veron snorted. He eyed the room for liquor, making the gesture of taking a shot to Vincent. The man nodded, retrieving a bottle of fiery bourbon.

Clifton shot a fiery-eyed glance at his brother, His lips pursed and head shaking subtly.

Veron shrugged in reply. “Just a little.”

His blonde kin’s eyes did not waver.

Vincent placed the bottle of bourbon alongside the glass onto the table in front of the man. Veron thanked him, then poured the glass and took the shot. He capped the bourbon.

Clifton crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. Roscoe mirrored him.

“Strong stuff. I needed that. Thank you,” Veron said.

Vincent nodded. “This is a man who understands when a dog needs to be put down,” said the undertaker. “My daughter will see you all, but she may not be happy at your decisions on handling the Mad Dogs today.”

Clifton scoffed in the way only his twin and Roscoe could recognize; his chest puffing up subtly and his fingers wrinkling his white sleeves.

The undertaker rapped his bony fists on the old dry wall, knowing his daughter would hear and slink down the stairs upon her own readiness.

“Take it slowly,” Vincent said, meeting each of the men’s eyes.

Footsteps thumped around upstairs, light and quick, those of a small woman.

Bury Blackwood made her appearance, dipping down the stairs, her inky black dress folds followed her like a shadow. With skin as bloodless as her father’s, she always made her makeup dark around her piercing grey-blue eyes. Her hair was an extraordinary shade of blonde, being almost a silver white. As she beheld the guests, she slinked to the bottom step. She eyed them as a cat would eye another. She tardily found her way to one of the couches, close to Veron. Vincent gestured for the two lawmen to sit.

The air hung like a spirit silent, cloaked in the weight of speechless strain. Miss Blackwood glanced around between the suspended faces.

“I heard you didn’t bring me back a MacLooney body.” Her voice was full of sing-song, though lacking the firm Romanian accent of her father.

“We did not, I’m quite sorry, Miss Blackwood,” Clifton said, leaning forward. “We’ve only sent Creed off to Everlow because of what he tried to do to you. The others have not yet committed any crimes within our county’s borders.”

Bury drew in a deep sigh. Her jaw clenched, stormy eyes filling with a thin veil of tears. She swallowed, attempted to collect herself, but the attempt was futile. “I wish you had shot them all dead!” Her voice quaked at her exclamation. “Because you know exactly what those god-damned bastards are going to do to me if they get out, Clifton Romero! Ask your brother!”

She pointed right to Veron’s throat, whose hand instinctively went up to his collar to hide the marks history had marred upon his throat.

Roscoe leaned his massive form forward and Bury lowered her arm. “We’re goin’ to make sure none of that happens, Miss Blackwood. Besides, I think they are all quite too stupid to get Creed outta that hellhole.”

“They weren’t stupid enough! They nearly raped me, Roscoe,” the woman hissed. She shook as she drew in breaths, tears creating gloomy rivers down her face. “Johnny was an accomplice! Why ain’t he in Everlow? They all deserve to rot. Just as Pa said.”

“I could not agree with you more,” Roscoe nodded, gently taking her hand up in his. His amiable eyes, the color of warm and welcoming silt met her tempest grey ones as sky and earth, immediately understanding each other’s roles in the world. “If they ever come back, we won’t be making any hesitations at putting them down.”

“We were on their tails today,” Clifton interceded. “The moment they were in town, we knew about it. The only reason they are not dead is ‘cause they listened.”

Roscoe shook his head again. “See? We swore a solemn oath to protect this town. We shall always uphold the end of our duties.”

Bury studied the two men, then her father.

“I’ll shoot ‘em if I see their asses a mile from town,” Veron hissed. “Then I’dn shoot any of the rest of them. Need an exterminator, those rats.”

Bury’s head had turned to face him.

“I trust you three,” Vincent spoke. “Even though I wish you’d brought me bodies today. Especially that of the twin.”

Bury shuddered. “That bastard laughed as Creed…” Her voice trailed. Her delicate pale hands clenched Roscoe’s atop the table. “As he tried what he wanted to do.”

Clifton searched sincerely into her eyes, nodding. “I’m so very thankful to Kilmer for rescuing you. He said he’d also be on the lookout. You are safe, Miss Blackwood. I can promise you that. If anything happened, your father himself may turn Roscoe and I into business opportunities.”

Vincent huffed out a solitary laugh. “Is that a deal you are willing to make?”

Clifton nodded. “Why, yes. As one of the people I’m sworn to protect, you deserve my Sheriff’s word.

Veron invisibly scoffed at the ‘Sheriff’s word’ talk.

“Very well. But I must say Roscoe’s coffin would cost quite much,” Vincent said.

Even as Roscoe sat, he loomed over the others. His broad shoulders blocked out the chunk of sunlight which was able to pierce through the dark curtains.

“It would require many men to lift him onto my wagon,” Vincent continued.

Roscoe chuckled. “As long as you give me plenty of room to rest, my brother will indeed bring you a pretty penny to have me buried by your skillful hands.”

The dark realizations of death and humor around it seemed to lift Miss Blackwood’s spirit. “I am quite grateful such noble men live here to scare away the dogs. If it weren’t for Kilmer, I dunno how much worse off it could have been if it weren’t for you—”

“Don’t mention it,” Roscoe smiled. “We’ll never let it happen.”

Veron’s gaze lifted subtly towards a movement in the darkness. Silently, long dark legs skittered along the black curtains. The silk-weaver bore witness to the congregation of mortal men below.

“Christ. That’s a big spider,” Veron said.

“Where?” Clifton’s head whirled, spotting as the creature descended towards him at a quick pace. His face became flustered and he lost his regular lawman’s composition. He swatted at the thing with his hat, but Bury stood up.

“Don’t hurt it!” She begged, hurrying towards the curtain. She gently coerced the arachnid into her spindly pale hands, allowing it to explore and run from her palms to fingertips.

“Ain’t that thing venomous?” Clifton asked.

“Only if it bites,” Veron said, leaning forward to look at the spider. It sent his spine tingling, yet he couldn’t help his entrancement.

“And it won’t bite me,” Bury reassured. “I know how to handle spiders.”

Clifton nodded nervously, placing his hat back onto his head. “Now, it’s not because I’m terrified of your new pet, but I really must be going. I’ve got to meet with Mr. Mortarmor in an hour. I thank you for speaking to me, and allowing myself to be heard.” He climbed to his feet, nodding and bowing, shaking the hands of Vincent, but avoiding the touch of Bury and her new friend.

“It is nice as always to have you,” Vincent said as he clasped the Sheriff’s hand.

Roscoe had also gotten up, following the ritual of dismissal and parting. “My wife’s fixing up a good lunch and I don’t want to be late.”

The two lawmen parted, closing the door and blocking the intrusion of sunlight once more. Veron was leaning forward still, cautiously watching the widow-like arachnid as it danced up and down the arms of the undertaker’s daughter.

“You know, Bury,” Veron began. “I’d seen the MacLooneys before my brother did. Thought about shooting them, I did. But I knew…I just knew, I couldn’t start it again.”

Bury looked up to him, her stormy eyes now wet as rain. “I understand.”

“And to execute them in front of everyone?” Veron continued. “I wanted to. Really did. For you.” He looked deep into her gaze. “I promise you this: next time, I will find a way to steal their souls. I’ll pile their bodies at your door. I’ll hunt down every last Dog if it comes to it. I promise you.”

The spider in her hands had paused its scurrying, seemingly listening.

“Thank you,” Bury said. “Nobody could do it but you.”