The Devil's Finest, 1865
Death's horse limped through the snow on three legs.
A severed head dangled from the saddle horn, bouncing with every lurching step.
The rider slumped over his steed, snoring into the silver river of his beard; the black
hood had fallen back, exposing hair as pale as moonlight.
His cloak was draped in inky folds over the pearl-white flank of his horse.
Dark trees choked the path, making way for the horseman and closing immediately behind.
A drift barred the way ahead.
The horse floundered as it entered the deep snow, the stump of its right foreleg pumping
in space.
It snorted and reared onto quivering hind legs.
Death awoke.
His head bumped a snow-laden bough, showering him in chill flakes.
"Whoa, Isham," he said, pulling back on the reins.
The horse came down, flanks heaving.
Death slid from the saddle, landing thigh-deep in the drift.
He wiped his eyes with pallid hands and yawned.
Reaching into a leather saddlebag, he drew out an ear of corn as black as coal.
He pried loose a handful of kernels and held them out to the horse.
Isham nuzzled his master's palm, raking the kernels into his mouth with fleshy lips.
Death ran his hand over the saddle and tested the girth strap.
He glanced at the severed head, its frozen mouth leering around the rawhide thong worked
through its jaws.
Some fool's always trying to outrun his own shadow.
Death cinched the strap tighter.
The Devil had a surprise coming tonight.
Isham snorted and raised his head, breathing a great gout of vapor into the night.
A ghostly limb sprouted from his legless nub, barely visible in the moonlight.
He flexed the unearthly leg and stomped.
"That ought to get us to this infernal meeting a little quicker," Death said.
He put his foot in the stirrup, swung back into the saddle, and clucked his tongue.
Isham sprang forward, clearing the drift with ease.
The path grew thin and soon disappeared altogether.
They moved through the snow-clogged bracken and creaking trees into the heart of the forest.
At length, Death saw an orange light quivering in the darkness.
He urged Isham toward it, and they emerged into a clearing ringed by a black wall of
pines, a fire blazing at its center.
The snow had drawn back from the heat, leaving a damp ring of ground.
Three figures were gathered around the flames.
At Death's approach, a small, finely dressed man rose from his perch on a stump.
"Welcome, Pale Rider."
He lifted a cane in greeting and removed his top hat.
Death fixed the smaller man with a gaze as cold as ice, then turned his head and spat
in the snow.
"Scratch, you're a thorn in my side, you know that?"
Scratch raised an eyebrow.
"My, my, what a foul humor you're in tonight."
He shrugged.
"No matter.
This won't take long.
William, quick and orderly as he is, has given me two contracts already signed in blood.
His own, which is due for renewal, and one for Amos, our newest recruit."
He reached into his coat and withdrew two pieces of parchment and a pen.
"All we need is your signature, and you won't be bothered for another seven years."
Death scowled.
"Save it.
I found something that belongs to you."
He unhooked the rawhide thong from the pommel and tossed the severed head onto the ground.
It rolled to a stop at the Devil's feet.
Scratch turned the grisly offering with his boot, examining the face.
He clucked his tongue.
"Henry tried to run, did he?"
"I chased him clear across Arkansas!"
Death leveled a finger at Scratch.
"From one side to the other.
You know how long that took me?
Four days to hunt him, and three days to ride here.
That's seven days that I've had to abandon my duties, all on account of your failure
of a servant.
You know why it took that long to catch him?
In every campfire the fool made, he crossed two sticks and poured salt over them."
Death folded his arms.
"Tell me, where'd he learn to do that?"
Scratch spread his hands in a gesture of innocence, diamond cuff links winking in the firelight.
"I haven't the faintest idea.
Maybe you let it slip in front of him like you just did in front of these two mortals."
He pointed to the two men waiting on the other side of the fire.
Death squinted, taking in the mortals for the first time.
They both wore the gray uniforms of soldiers.
The first, a middle-aged man, squatted by the flames, his palms held out to catch the
heat.
He met Death's gaze and smirked.
At his side, a gangly youth sat on a log, bouncing one knee, hands tucked into his armpits,
steadily avoiding Death's eyes.
Death snorted.
"If they've got any sense betwixt the two of them, they'll see just how useful
that little trick was to their friend."
He patted Isham's neck.
"There isn't a soul on this earth my horse can't run down."
He looked back at Scratch and waved dismissively.
"I'm done cleaning up your leavings, Scratch.
I won't be signing these deals."
Scratch shrugged.
"Suit yourself."
Death pulled on the reins and wheeled Isham away from the fire.
This felt good; he should have done it centuries ago.
He'd been a fool to let the Devil push him around in the first place.
"How's dearest Maude?"
Scratch asked.
Death stiffened, his breath catching in his throat.
How did Scratch know about Maude?
He pulled Isham back to face the Devil.
Scratch arched a perfect black eyebrow.
"Thought you had a secret, didn't you?
That's right.
I know you've been holding her back from the Judgment."
He wagged a finger.
"Naughty, naughty."
"I make no distinction between saints and sinners."
Death spoke through clenched teeth.
"The Judgment is no concern of mine, and Maude is no concern of yours."
"I've never accused you of dividing the goats from the sheep."
Scratch winked.
"The only prejudice I've ever known you to show is your eye for redheads.
But contrary to your claim, Maude is very much my concern.
By the way, have you had any luck finding her?"
Death's hand leaped instinctively to the reaping hook sheathed alongside the saddle.
"Scratch!
If you had anything to do with her disappearance, I swear I'll—"
The Devil laughed, holding up his hands.
"Whoa, slow down, Pale Rider.
I don't know where your sweetheart has run off to."
He paused, his eyes glinting with malevolence.
"Or who with."
Death's nostrils flared, and he pulled the reaping hook halfway out of its sheath.
"Put it away, Death.
You know it'll do you no good here.
I merely was going to point out that before you took a shine to her, the girl was destined
for my neck of the woods."
Scratch rubbed his chin.
"It had something to do with her burning the cabin down with her uncle inside."
His face grew serious.
"And if I find her first, well…" his eyes narrowed, "I keep a special place in
hell for pretty faces."
He held up the contracts.
"Then again, if I ran across the girl and you and I were on good terms…
I might be persuaded otherwise."
Death released the reaping hook, his fingers balling into a fist.
He bowed his head.
"All right.
Let's get this over with."
A grin spread over Scratch's face, erasing every ounce of menace from his features.
"I thought you'd say that."
He held out the pen and papers.
Death snatched the documents.
A quick glance confirmed that Scratch was offering these mortals his standard contract:
their "might, mind, strength, and soul" in exchange for seven years of protection
from the grave.
Death bit his lip as he scrawled his name, then thrust the papers back at Scratch.
The Devil accepted the documents.
"Everything's in order, then."
Lifting Isham's reins, Death prepared once again to leave.
"Not so fast."
Scratch raised a finger.
"We have to take care of my newest recruit."
He tucked the papers into his coat and turned to the gangly youth.
"Are you ready for your first assignment, Amos?"
The young man stood and rubbed his palm on the patched knee of his pant leg.
"Y-yes sir," he said, walking toward Scratch with jerky steps.
Scratch handed Amos a sealed envelope.
"You'll be traveling north, to the lumber camps on the Great Lakes," he said.
"The specifics on the man you're after are inside."
Amos accepted the envelope with trembling hands.
"You have seven years from today to persuade him to join my service.
As my servant, you'll be immune from Death.
If you're successful, you can choose to take another assignment, good for another
seven years free from Death.
If you fail, well…"
Scratch glanced at the fallen head.
"You'll be subject to the Dread Horseman, just like dear Henry.
Any questions?"
Amos shook his head.
"Very well."
Scratch placed his hand on the boy's back and pushed him forward.
"Death, remove your imprint."
Amos stumbled toward Isham's flank, quaking.
Death seized the boy's shoulder and shut his eyes.
Amos gasped and went rigid.
The boy's mortal imprint was a kind of long shadow that trailed from his being and connected
him to Death.
Every human was tagged with one from birth.
It kept Death from having to personally collect each mortal when their appointed time came.
I just wasted four days hunting down one of these, and here I am creating another, Death
thought.
He cursed himself for his weakness.
He cursed Maude for her hair, red like the sunset, and for smelling of lavender when
she tucked her head under his chin.
He resolved to let her go, and in the same thought, he knew he could not.
With a sigh, he detached the imprint from Amos and released him.
The young man staggered away.
Scratch grinned and thumped Amos on the back.
"Feels good, doesn't it?"
Amos looked back at Death and shuddered.
"On your way then," Scratch said.
"No time to waste."
Amos nodded vigorously and struck out from the fire, striding with purpose.
"North is that way," Scratch said, pointing in the opposite direction.
The youth did an about-face, stammering an apology.
Scratch chuckled.
"All nerves, isn't he?"
"He'll have more to worry about once I come to collect him," Death said.
The third man spoke for the first time.
"Not all of us are as blundering as Henry."
Death turned in the saddle to face William.
He was taken aback by the man's gall.
"What did you say?"
William crossed his arms.
"You talk as if the boy is sure to fail, and yet here I stand, a servant of Scratch
for over ninety years."
"That's bold talk for a mortal."
"Indeed," Scratch said, stepping between William and Death.
"William, it's not your place to goad the Reaper.
Are you ready to earn another seven years?"
William locked eyes with Death.
"Always."
Scratch produced an envelope and handed it to William.
"I'm sending you after a boy named Ephraim Cutler.
I'm quite eager to recruit him.
Don't let me down."
William rubbed his thumb over the envelope.
"Master, it only took me four years to persuade Amos."
He inhaled deeply.
"I'll deliver this Ephraim Cutler to you in three and half years, in exchange for fourteen
years of your protection.
That's half the time for twice the reward.
What do you say?"
Scratch laughed—a mocking sound.
"You are ambitious, I'll give you that.
But no, I'm afraid your request exceeds the bounds of our arrangement."
William's eyes flashed.
"But Master, I—"
Scratch held up a hand.
"That's enough, William.
You're free to leave."
William swore, and stalked off into the trees.
Death watched him go.
He lifted his black hood over his head.
"I don't care how much time it takes, Scratch, I look forward to beheading that
one."
Scratch sighed and patted Isham's muzzle.
"He can be insolent, but in the end, he's only a man.
William fights so hard against his fate.
Death, Heaven, Hell—he isn't satisfied with any of it.
But how I love to watch him struggle."
He grinned at Death.
"Don't be so mulish about these dealings, my friend.
Recruiting mortals to do your work makes eternity pass most delightfully.
You really should try it sometime."
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