Chameleon

by E. R. Torre

  This was insane. Too insane to be a prank. Though he desperately wanted to believe otherwise, his child was kidnapped. He again looked at his wristwatch.

  8:26.

  The Sheriff pressed down hard on the accelerator and spun his truck around. The Blue Mountains were due west of the Devil’s Ravine. There was a trail leading in that direction, but there was no way his truck would make it through that wasteland of sand and brush.

  The Sheriff drove to Robertson’s Stables. Old man Robertson was a blacksmith, but with the arrival of the automobile, blacksmiths and horse stables were fast becoming a thing of the past, even in a small town like this one. The Sheriff recalled the many times he chided old man Robertson for living in the past.

  At this moment, however, he couldn’t be happier with this backward thinking resident. The Sheriff parked his car at the stable’s side and checked his revolver. It was loaded and ready. He reached into the back seat of his truck and grabbed his rifle from its case before running to the stable’s front entrance.

  Old man Robertson was there, sweeping the floor. The pungent smell of horse manure assaulted the Sheriff’s nose. This was another reason the horse trade was going extinct, the Sheriff thought. Cars would never be as hazardous to the environment as those foul smelling animals.

  “I need one of your horses,” the Sheriff said.

  “You do?” Robertson said, a smile wide on his face. “What’s a matter, that contraption you ride in ain’t reliable enough?”

  “What do you have?”

  Old man Robertson’s smile disappeared when he realized just how tense the Sheriff was.

  “I got a few to choose from. What are you looking for?”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have an Arabian?”

  “’Fraid not,” Robertson said. “But if you want distance, I got a strong mare.”

  “I need the strongest you’ve got,” the Sheriff said. “And a canteen.”

  Old man Robertson dropped his broom and led the Sherriff to his stable’s first stall. A magnificent white and brown mare stood within, her saddle already on.

  “After sweepin’ up, I was gonna take her for a trot,” Robertson said. “She’s the strongest I got, Sherriff, and she’s ready to go.”

  The Sheriff opened the stall door and grabbed the horse’s rein. He tugged at it, harder than he should, and the horse protested.

  “Easy, Sheriff,” Robertson said.

  The Sheriff eased off. He rubbed the horse’s side until the animal calmed down.

  “About that canteen?” the Sheriff asked.

  Robertson grabbed one hanging on the stable wall. He used a hand pump beside the stable’s door to fill it. When done, the Sheriff took the canteen and walked the horse outside.

  “I gotta go,” he said.

  “Where to?”

  “The Blue Mountains. If anyone asks, tell them I’ll be back soon.”

  “They’ll ask?”

  The Sheriff nodded. His watch read 8:36.

  “I really have to go.”

  The Sheriff mounted the mare and galloped at full speed down the street. In less than a minute he was out of town. A couple of minutes later, he was on the trail leading to the Blue Mountains. His only hope was that the prospector would see him coming alone, and not do anything to his daughter even though he wouldn’t make it to the mountains in time.

  “You hungry?” the Prospector repeated.

  “Thirsty.”

  The Prospector walked back to the campfire and returned with a canteen. It was the same one Robertson gave the Sheriff back at the stable. He unscrewed the canteen’s top and placed the opening over the Sheriff’s mouth. The Sheriff took a very deep pull of the liquid. It was warm and tasted stale, but considering his thirst, it was the best damn drink he’d ever had.

  “Now,” the Prospector said. “Food?”

  “Yes.”

  The old man pulled one of the largest pieces of meat off the twig. He held it in his hands, waiting for the Sheriff to open his mouth. But the Sheriff didn’t do so. Instead, he said:

  “What is it?”

  The Prospector’s eyes lit up.

  “What is it?” he repeated, his voice a whisper. Images of Jessie filled the Sheriff’s mind. He could barely look at the meat. Had he failed his daughter so completely?

  “Tell me what it is.”

  The Prospector let out a laugh.

  “It isn’t easy finding fresh meat in the desert,” he said. “Rest easy. I’m many things, but I’m no cannibal.”

  The Sheriff let out a heavy sigh. There was little reason to believe the Prospector’s word, yet his answer sounded sincere. Or perhaps, the Sheriff thought, he was that hungry. The Sheriff reluctantly allowed the Prospector to put the meat into his mouth. It was a tough chew, but like the water, it tasted nothing short of heavenly.

  “What is it?” the Sheriff asked.

  The Prospector scratched his head.

  “My apologies, Sheriff. We’re eating your horse.”

  The Sheriff let out a groan. He wanted to spit the chewed meat into the crazy old bastard’s face. But he needed the nourishment if he was to regain his strength and didn’t want to anger the crazy bastard. Not until he had his daughter.

  The Sheriff heaved with every swallow yet forced the food down until it was gone.

  “More?” the Prospector asked.

  The Sheriff nodded. He was given another bite. This one went down easier. He already felt strength returning to his body. It was only then he realized how weak he was. After finishing a third portion, he looked the old man in his eyes and asked:

  “Where is my daughter?”

  “She’ll live,” the Prospector said. He retreated to the fire.

  “Why did you take her?” the Sheriff asked. “She’s only a little girl. You need...you need to let her go back home, to her mother.”

  The Prospector let out another chuckle.

  “Did you really think this was about her?”

  The Sheriff frowned.

  “You wanted to get me out here? Why in God’s name…?”

  The Prospector returned to the Sheriff’s side. He had another piece of freshly cooked meat in his hands.

  “I brought you out here because you need to see something,” he said and offered the Sheriff more meat.

  “That’s it? You wanted to show me something?!”

  “Yep.”

  The Sheriff found it hard to contain his fury.

  “Why didn’t you just ask?”

  “I could have,” the Prospector admitted. “There are many things I could have done differently. But time’s short and the opportunity sorta presented itself.”

  The Prospector pointed to one of the dark passages leading out.

  “We’re going that way.”

  The Sheriff stared down that dark passage. He felt his flesh crawl. The situation was even more dangerous than he thought. During the Great War, while he was in the trenches, he’d seen many fellow soldiers lose their minds because of the stress of battle. It was the reason that, upon returning to the United States, he had forsaken a promising new life in Boston and moved to the desolate state of Arizona. He found a peace here that eluded him in the big city. In the years since, he made his life in this quiet, and very small, world. He found his calling in law and envisioned growing old and, eventually, dying here, as far removed from the problems of the rest of the world as he could be.

  But the Sheriff now realized there was danger in this solitude as well. This old man, who likely lived his entire life among the plains and deserts, had also succumbed to madness. What unspeakable things had his precious little daughter experienced during the course of this day?

  “What do you want to show me?” the Sheriff said, gently.

  “If describing it was enough, I would have done so back in town,” the Prospector said. “You’ll see, soon enough.”

  The Prospector approached the Sheriff. As he did, he produced a blood stained Bowie knife. He held it be
fore the Sheriff’s face.

  “Easy,” he said. “No funny business.”

  The Prospector cut the rope from the Sheriff’s legs.

  “Get up.”

  The Sheriff got on his knees. His legs felt like slices of dead meat. The Prospector grabbed one of the Sheriff’s arms and helped him stand.

  “This way,” he said.

  They walked out of the cul de sac and followed a long crevasse. It was very dark and the Sheriff had opportunities to make a move on the Prospector. He didn’t. He felt the point of the Bowie knife against his back and knew that anything he tried in these dark, unfamiliar surroundings could result in injury…or worse. Besides, he needed to know where the Prospector hid his daughter. Otherwise, he could spend days searching in vain for her. There was absolutely no way he would let her die here, alone and thirsty.

  “They’re coming for me,” the Sheriff said. “I told old man Robertson where I was going.”

  “That explains it,” the Prospector replied.

  “What?”

  “Maybe five hours ago a posse left town. Big group. They were headed this way. You’re a popular guy.”

  “Can’t say the same about you,” the Sheriff said. “When they find you…”

  “That young Deputy of yours was leading the posse.”

  “He’s a good tracker,” the Sheriff said. Despite his attempts to sound convincing, doubt crept into his voice.

  “He could use more experience,” the Prospector said. “Before they left town, I laid down some tracks heading to the southern passage of the mountains. Your Deputy found ‘em. He followed them and kept going in that direction. I figure it’ll take his group until early tomorrow morning before they get back. By then our business will be over.”

  They worked their way through a twisting maze of rocks and parched wood, often ducking or climbing mounds of crumbly debris. Though it was a difficult trek, the passage they were in grew wider and the light from the moon made their walk less treacherous.

  After nearly a half hour of moving through the rock corridors, the Prospector laid a hand on the Sheriff’s shoulder.

  “Over there,” he said. He pointed to another cul de sac.

  The Sheriff gazed in that direction. He was surprised to see a shadowy figure standing before a boulder. It looked like a man, but he was completely immobile. He stared up at the Moon. Littered around him were a backpack, a small shovel, a pick, and a pan. Prospecting gear.

  “Who’s that?” the Sheriff asked.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” the Prospector said.

  He pushed the Sheriff into the cul de sac. As they approached the figured, the Sheriff realized he wasn’t looking at a man. Rather, the figure was a sleek sculpture of a man. It appeared to be in the process of emerging from the rock itself. The figure was covered in a fine orange grain, the same that made up most of the weathered rock formations in this part of the mountains. However, there were parts of the sculpture that reflected the light of the moon.

  “What is it?” the Sheriff asked.

  “Why don’t you take a closer look?”

  Despite everything, curiosity got the better of the Sheriff and he moved in. His mind filled with questions. Was the figure made of stone or metal or was it a combination of both? But how was this polished metal coming out of stone? The Sheriff was no longer sure of what he was looking at. The figure was clearly not flesh and bone, but neither was it a rock sculpture.

  “Go ahead,” the Prospector urged.

  The Sheriff’s concern for his missing daughter was momentarily set aside as he drew even closer to the figure. Soon, he stood directly before it. The figure was at least six feet high. Its lower body was fused to the rock below.

  Fused.

  That seemed the only explanation, for several chips of hardened rock cracked away at its base, revealing the polished metal skeleton. In the Moon’s light, the metal was incredibly beautiful.

  “I don’t understand,” the Sheriff said.

  “It’s been here a very long time,” the Prospector said. “It took me many, many years to find it. Many more years to dig it out. Now she’s fixed.”

  “Fixed?”

  The Prospector walked to the Sheriff’s side and produced his Bowie knife.

  “I’m going to release you now,” he said. He stared deep into the Sheriff’s eyes. “You’re a strong young man and I’m sure your first inclination is to attack me. Maybe you’re even thinking about how you’re going to kill me. Let that anger go, Sheriff. You’ve got a reputation for being a decent man and we shouldn’t fight. Even if you think there’s reason to.”

  The Prospector drew the knife closer to the Sheriff.

  “Let me clear up a couple of things before I set you free,” the Prospector continued. “First off, it wasn’t my intention to bring you here the way I did. I’m sorry you lost that mare. You were riding her real hard and she tripped over a rock a mile or so back and broke her neck in the fall. You just about did the same.”

  The Sheriff glared at the old man.

  “I know,” The Prospector continued. “The mare’s death is my fault. Anyway, I gave you plenty of care afterwards. For a while, you were done for. Luckily, I know a few things about medicine. I healed you up and took some meat off your horse for nourishment. When you see the horse’s remains, after all this is done, you’ll know I was telling you the truth.”

  “What about my daughter?”

  “She never left town.”

  The Sheriff frowned. What the hell?

  “Now, I’ll admit, I seriously thought about taking her to draw you out here.”

  “In the name of God, why?”

  “Come on, Sheriff. If I had come to your office and asked you to ride out all this way alone with me to look at some sculpture, would you have done so?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “Besides, this meeting here needed to be just between the two of us.”

  The Sherriff shook his head in frustration.

  “What about my daughter? What do you mean she never left town? Where is she?”

  “Right now? I’m guessing she’s in her bed, sleeping.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  “In the morning, I saw you leave your house and, a little later, your wife and child walked to school. I got close enough to hear your wife tell the teacher your child might be catching a cold. She gave the teacher permission to let your child return home if she wasn’t feeling good. They talked a couple of more minutes before your wife left.”

  The Prospector smiled.

  “I may be old, but my hearing ain’t too bad. Your daughter’s hearing ain’t too bad either, because she also heard everything her mother said and, kids being kids, decided after playing around a bit with her friends that she’d had enough of school for the day. So she pretended to be a whole lot sicker and that got her teacher’s attention. She let your child head back home on her own.”

  The Sheriff gritted his teeth. The idea of his daughter walking alone with this old man following her…

  “That was when I made my move. I stopped your daughter a short distance from the school and gave her some change. I told her the drug store had a fresh supply of peppermint sticks. Last I saw, she was on her way there, to see if that was the case.”

  The Prospector chuckled.

  “Kids. Anyway, I found your Deputy eatin’ breakfast in the saloon and told him I was looking for you. I ran to your office, broke in, and left you that note. I made it as menacing as I could, hoping that would make you move instead of think. Otherwise, you might have searched a little harder in town for your daughter. Of course, there was a risk you’d run into her anyway, but it was worth taking.”

  “How did you know I wouldn’t round up the posse myself?”

  “As I said, the note was designed to…encourage you…to rush. With that note and the Deputy telling you I was looking for you, I figured you’d put two and two together and guess I was the one that took your daughter. Yo
u being a young and strong man and me being old and feeble, I also figured you’d think you didn’t need no posse to take care of me. All alone.”

  “I’ll see you jailed for this.”

  “No,” the Prospector said. “I don’t think you will.”

  The Prospector gazed at the statue.

  “It’s time you were free,” he muttered.

  True to his words, the Prospector cut the rope from the Sheriff’s arms. The Sheriff drew his hands forward. They felt like pieces of wood. He rubbed them until they were no longer stiff. The knots were effective, though not so tight that he would suffer lasting pain. From the corner of the Sheriff’s eye, he noted the Prospector putting away his knife.

  Now or never.

  The Sheriff let out a yell and spun around. He grabbed the Prospector’s ragged jacket and slammed the old man against the rock wall.

  “You will pay for this you bastard.”

  The Sheriff swung at the old man’s face, intent on removing every one of those unnaturally white teeth from his mouth.

  His fist was stopped in mid-flight. To the Sheriff’s shock, the Prospector held it firm, unmoving.

  “We’ll deal with your anger later,” the old man said.

  The Sheriff tried his best to free his hand, but couldn’t. The Prospector’s grip on his fist was like a vice.

  “You need to see him,” the Prospector said.

  “Him?” the Sheriff yelled back. “You mean that statue? Are you truly insane?”

  “You won’t think so in a couple of minutes,” the Prospector said. The smile disappeared. “There was a reason I needed you here, Sheriff. You and no one else. You know what the nations of this world are capable of doing to each other.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You were in the Great War,” the Prospector said. Sensing the Sheriff’s anger ebb, he released the man’s hand. “There isn’t anyone else within five hundred miles who knows what you know.”

  The Sheriff’s anger had given way to pity. The Prospector was indeed crazy. He didn’t need physical punishment. He needed someone to care for him. The Sheriff took a step back.

  “What is it that I know?” the Sheriff asked.

  “Your military might,” the Prospector said.