The old man scratched at his face asking, “What did the dead man look like?”
Porter propped his hat back saying, “Well, he was foreign looking. He had a leopard skin tunic, copper arm bands and a whole mess of snake tattoos over his exposed skin. Even his neck and face. Did you know him?”
“No. He must have been one of the servants of Coatlicue. He was alone?”
“So far as I know. Course the storm blew me off course, maybe he was lost too?”
The old man lit a pipe and thought for a long moment before saying, “My son’s name was Mazatl. He must surely be dead if that man was carrying the idol here. My son was to take my place here and keep the spirit of Coatlicue contained, that she might never return to Tenochtitlan.”
“Sorry, Chief, I truly am. But is that such a bad thing? Some spirit returning?”
The old man nodded and slumped against the cave wall. “I know now you are not a servant of the Blood Gods. But for a moment, I was afraid, I thought maybe you were.”
Porter took a swig from his flask. “Good. I don’t know whatever could have given you that idea.”
“When you held the vessel of Coatlicue, I could see blood glowing on your hands.” He shrugged, “I panicked.”
Porter nodded. “Lord knows I got blood on my hands, but it was all blood that needed spilling. What’s with the idol?”
“There are dark forces that wish a return to cruel gods. But I remember the blood debt they demand and I will not exchange them for even the hated Spanish. Men can be overcome . . . but gods . . . much more difficult.”
The old man stood and threw branches on the fire and as the sparks flew up and smoke curled from the green wood, Porter could almost see the bloody tale the old man began.
“This world is a wheel, what has come before, comes again. Sometimes all that stands before evil conquering is one good man.”
Porter couldn’t help but look at the sealed tunnel behind the fire, it contrasted with the howling wind and swirling snows outside the cave.
The old man continued, “Ages before Monctezuma, a wise man, a good man, called Madoc, came from far across the sea. He was a herald of Quetzalcoatl and became king of my people by banishing the cruel Blood Gods. Madoc stopped the human sacrifices and ended the evil ways of the Blood Gods. He was the first to succeed in that since the Blood Gods began their reign under True Great Jaguar Claw a thousand years earlier, beginning the Age of Chaos.”
“Forgive my saying so Chief, but weren’t your people sacrificing to the Blood Gods again when Cortez came rapping at their door?”
The old man nodded soberly. “The priests of Tezcatlipoca, Huitzilopotchli and Coatlicue tried for years to bring back the favor of the Blood Gods. It was a mixed blessing for both Cortez and my people that the magic didn’t work anymore. Because Madoc had banished the Goddess Coatlicue and the other Blood Gods too far to be recalled—yet.”
Porter took another swallow. “Can they ever come back?”
“Their return is difficult but not impossible. I have stood watch for many moons, keeping the sacred flame burning. Keeping the Snake Goddess and her servants asleep.”
“You mean in there?” Porter gestured to the tunnel. “What’s in there? Evil spirits?”
“Worse.”
The sealed doorway beckoned, inviting all of Porter’s curiosity and wonder. He stood and went to the edge of the walled up tunnel. There was yet a tiny space left open where a draft flowed. Air coming from the very top portion, was musty, foul and reptilian. Yet something tugged at Porter’s senses, asking, no, pleading with him to loose the stones and look inside.
The Chief wagged his finger at Porter. “You go in there—you never come out.”
Porter swallowed the last drop of whiskey and stared into the abyss for a long moment. “You’re right Chief, you are old. What happens when no one is around to keep that fire burning? Do these Blood Gods escape? Can they roam free?”
The old man shook his head. “They still need a vessel to touch our world. Evil men, would want that,” he said, pointing at the idol of Coatlicue. “It is a bell to wake them. If they could take it down into depths to wake the Blood Gods, they would. The only reason my son would have brought it here is because it was too dangerous to remain in the south.”
“You asking me to get rid of it?”
The old man nodded. “My son is gone and my people have fallen. That is the reason you are here. To protect the way. To keep them asleep.”
“You want me to throw it off a cliff? In a lake?”
Chief shook his head. “No, they would find it and bring it here. You will take it to your chief, the great Brigham, let him keep it safe. Then you return and keep the sacred fire safe. That is enough.”
“Look, I got a lot of responsibilities, and I can’t be sitting in no cave the rest of my days. If someone has to tend the fire and the idol it should be your people . . .” Porter realized he was talking about the old man’s dead son as if that were still a possibility, he felt bad and tried to change the subject. He laughed hoping to lighten the mood. “Hey! At least we got the idol now right? They can’t use it now huh?”
The old man shrugged again. “Let me show you the magical way of the old ones.” He beckoned for Porter to come closer. He took hold of the jade idol of Coatlicue and rubbed his hand vigorously along the grooved white quartz base. A slight snapping of electricity and the very idol itself began to glow bright as a lantern.
“That’s amazing,” exclaimed Porter.
“In elder days, many such items were in use in the lands of my birth. They were gifts from the gods. But this one is cursed and is only to be used to wake the Blood Gods.” He covered it in a deer hide and tucked it beside a cairn of stones. “This must be taken far away and hidden away.”
Porter rubbed his chin. “Sure, Chief. I could do that.”
The old man nodded, looking quite pleased. “Then return and take up your watch as the keeper of the sacred flame.”
“I told you, I can’t do that, Chief. I’ve got other responsibilities.”
The old man shook his head in confusion. “Why else would the Great Spirit guide you here when my son was slain? You are the one to take possession of this honor.”
Porter frowned. He had a lot of duties and not a one of them included sitting in a cave like a damn hermit. “Look Chief . . .”
The old man interrupted him, asking, “Are you sure it was Shoshone that killed the man that carried the idol?”
“Sure, I’m sure,” answered Porter.
“Then who are they?” asked the old man, pointing out into the windswept moon-covered gloom.
3. The Servants of Coatlicue
Porter glanced around the cavern wall and outside, he looked down the slope. At least a dozen tall lanky men, shadows taller than their souls, were approaching uphill through the snow. Three or four had rifles, the rest were armed with clubs, tomahawks and bows while the largest intruder had a full sized ax; though he was so big himself it looked like a tomahawk in his clenched fist.
“They followed you,” said the old man, gravely.
“Sorry, Chief.”
“It’s all right. They would have found me eventually anyway.”
Dark as it was, silver moonlight stole through the clouds and caught the swirling snows granting ghostly definition to the marauders, who sure didn’t look to be Shoshone. They were dressed as alien as the dead man Porter had found earlier that day, spotted jaguar pelts wrapped about their loins, brightly colored feathers decorated their hair and copper armbands betrayed their foreign source. Once they knew they had been spotted they split in multiple directions, some disappearing into the frosty murk others remained as sentinels facing the cave. Their intent was murderously clear.
One in a dark cloak called out in a language Porter couldn’t fathom.
The old man replied in the same tongue. Porter still couldn’t understand a word but the old man’s message was clear enough. He told them off and they wer
en’t happy.
The leader shouted something menacing again, then shrunk back into the shadows.
“Who the hell is that?”
“Ichtaca Eztli, he is the Blood Gods Brujo. He asks that I give up and put out the sacred flame, extinguish it. I told him—.”
Porter stopped him with a wave of his hand. “I know what you told him and I support you all the way. We had better get ready to throw down with ‘em.” He checked his pockets and felt the comfort of having four extra cylinders ready for his Dragoon’s. It made reloading in a gun fight a whole lot faster—and faster counted in leagues out here.
“They mean to wake the Blood Gods. There are more men out there than you can see. Might be more on their way here.”
“I’ll be dipped,” Porter spat. “Sure hope you’ve got some supplies in here so we can wait them out. At least the bitter cold is on our side.”
“They won’t wait. They come for blood.” The old Indian folded his arms.
“I was afraid you’d say that.” Porter checked his two Dragoon’s then motioned to his rifle. “Man that Springfield musket, Chief. If they rush us you can get at least one or two, I’m sure.”
The old man took the rifle in hand. It was a flintlock musket that Porter had bartered from a veteran of the Mormon Battalion. He hadn’t used it much yet but it was reliable and would sure do the trick.
The gale howled outside the cavern. Porter expected to hear the cry of attack, the unnerving yipping and yowling of braves on the warpath, but instead there was no sound but the mournful wind.
“What are they waiting for?”
“Ichtaca Eztli is wise as a serpent and he waits for our nerve to drop so that his men may attack us unexpectedly.”
Porter grimaced, but kept both Dragoons trained on the entrance. His mare nickered. He responded to her, “It might get loud, Hoss. You gotta have some patience too.”
An hour passed and though the storm subsided, the roiling skies with pinpricks of stars overhead only made it all the colder. Not to mention that the wailing wind hadn’t let up either. Their fire was waning against the relentless tide of wind.
Porter spit to the side. “And you said they wouldn’t wait.”
“I just meant that my supplies wouldn’t matter for this confrontation. It will be decided by morning.”
“Maybe you ought to let that fire go out. They won’t be able to see us too well in here, if you think they’re coming before daybreak.”
The old man shook his head, though he never took his eyes away from the threshold. “I must keep the fire burning. The evil ones must be held at bay.”
Porter cursed under his breath, but couldn’t help but respect that the old Chief’s complete devotion to his charge. The old man had lived out here as a hermit shaman for who knew how long anyway? Years? Decades? Now that was dedication!
The wind ripped a freezing blast into the cavern, hushing the fire dangerously low. The coals flared bright red while the flames themselves vanished. In a panic, the old Chief put down the rifle and cast more twigs and sage atop the glaring embers. Smoke roiled up and the blaze snapped awake in a flickering yellow-orange dance accompanied by castanet-like snaps.
Then warriors were at the entrance. First one, then another and another until their muscled tattooed bodies blocked out the cold light of the stars.
The old man made a dash to grab the rifle and fire at the intruders but arrows sprouted from his chest like pins in a cushion. He fell backward over a cairn of stones.
Porter blasted both Dragoon’s and took down the bowman assassin as well as the warrior beside him. The chamber filled with a healthy gout of smoke and flame from the guns and echoed the throaty retort. A hidden rifle just beyond the border of the cavern belched acrid flame and smoke. The ball buried itself in stone just above Porter’s head.
The mare’s scream echoed into the canyon as arrows ricocheted from the ceiling above. One shaft buried itself into the animal’s shoulder blade. Snorting and kicking in pain, it reared, snapped its reins and dashed out into the night, carrying Porter’s supplies and ammunition with it.
Somewhere out into the licking darkness, a trio of rifle shots rang out and the mare’s screaming stopped.
Porter returned fire in kind, though he no longer saw anyone to aim at. All was again silent again as the grave. Cold blackness beckoned like a spurned lover outside the flame-lit cavern. Porter found it to be a curious paradox. He stood amidst swirling smoke and snow, the juncture of cold and heat, flame and ice, life and death.
Shallow breaths escaped from the old man who lay bleeding a few paces from the fire. Porter went to him, turning the old man so that he laid flat on his back in order to examine his wounds.
“Keep the flame burning,” he wheezed as blood bubbled over his lower lip. Several wicked shafts protruded from his chest and stomach, leaking blood into a veritable river that rolled across rock floor.
“We got other worries, Chief. I’m a little shy on ammunition now. You haven’t bartered any have you? Out here as the shaman mystic?”
The old man, coughed up blood, smiled and said, “I’ve been a fool many years but I recognize now that a new blood and people had to come here, had to hold back the darkness. My time is over. It is you and your people’s duty now. You must keep the Blood Gods asleep. You must keep them contained.”
“No old man, you got time left. This is your job, not mine,” Porter argued. But the old man’s spirit was already wind-walking its way up to the stars.
A crunch of snow outside the cavern brought the Dragoons up again, blasting lead balls at unseen opponents. A startled cry and the crumpled sound of groaning and tumbling down the hillside in the snow told Porter he had hit someone.
A deep throated voice called something infernal out in the vast palpable darkness, but Porter had no idea what was said. A scuffle near the entrance made Porter blink. Another rush was coming. He quickly reloaded his pistols and had three cap and balls in the first pistol when they came.
War whoops shattered the silence. Two wild shots rang out and then men were inside the cavern.
The titanic ax man, face splashed with black and white war-paint meant to resemble a deaths head, strode into the cavern. He swept his vicious weapon at Porter’s head.
Porter lunged backward to avoid the death stroke. The ax head bit into the unforgiving stone wall and sparked as fragments chipped off.
Rolling away from another blow, Porter fired twice, barely missing each time. He held off his barrage on the last shot. It had to count.
A screeching wild man with bright feathers in his hair and raccoon-like eye makeup, loosed an arrow at Porter but miraculously missed. Falling to his backside, Porter scooted away from another hammering blow of the ax man.
As the wild man took another arrow from his quiver, Porter aimed the Dragoon and fired. It split the wild man’s head like a canoe.
Porter had just enough time to duck as the ax man swung again, but his hat wasn’t so lucky. It was taken right off Port’s head by the ax man’s terrible maul.
Another tattooed warrior was at the entrance, then another and another, tomahawks and bows in their skilled hands.
Porter grabbed the flintlock musket from beside the fire. He swung it up just in time to shoot the ax man square in the chest as his own weapon hung perilously overhead. The .69 caliber ball threw the big ax man against the cave wall; where he slumped down, leaving a ghastly red smear behind.
Using the musket like a club, Porter swung and jellied the brains of the nearest attacker. He charged at the two warriors remaining in sight shouting like a man possessed.
The two warriors at the door stared stupidly at their ruined comrades and at the angered white man. Shaking themselves out of their shock, their self-preservation got the better of them, and they turned and fled into the night. They tumbled down the snowy embankment in a mad rush to escape his wrath.
Porter halted beside the sheer edge of the hillside, watching the warriors retreat
. Remembering he had to reload, he fumbled in his woolen pockets for more caps and balls, hoping he could pick them off before they got too far away.
A sudden crunch in the snow behind him brought him wheeling about just in time to catch a crack to his skull and then swift blackness on dreamy wings spun from spider-webs took him far, far away.
Porter fell twenty feet off the leeward side of the exposed cliff, right between two jutting fingers of stone.
From the top, Porter’s opponents looked down at his body. He wasn’t moving.
4. Blood Brujo
Porter’s face was numb, his eyelids nearly frozen shut. He awoke face down in pink snow. He raised his head and slowly looked about, relieved that most of the blood in the snow wasn’t his own. One of the men he had shot in the night was broken atop one of the two pillars of granite he had landed between. Thankfully, there was quite a cushion of snow where he’d met the ground. It seemed his enemies believed him surely dead. His mare lay less than a hundred yards away with fields of hoar frost sprouting over her stiff body. The rosy finger of dawn was just teasing at the backside of the mountains, but Porter couldn’t see any light issuing from the cavern above.
He slowly perked his head up to look about for any foes. None it seemed were outside any longer and he listened a long while before moving. Far down and around the hillside, he saw more than a dozen picketed horses. One man lay nearby the animals as if on watch but Porter guessed by the way he sat at a near dead fire that he was asleep.
The others must be in the cavern going through the old man’s things. Not that there had appeared to be much that he could recollect. They must be after the idol and going into that sealed tunnel.
Cold as he was, he needed a drink. He took a mouthful of snow and washed it down with his flask. He would get the jump on those men soon enough, but he needed more ammunition. Scooting to his dead horse, he felt inside a saddle bag and grasped a handful of caps and then his lead balls. He loaded his one remaining Dragoon. Both had fallen in the snow with him, but he couldn’t find the other one. Whomever had bushwhacked him must have taken it and his knife. He reached for the spare in the saddle bags and found the sacrificial obsidian knife from the dead man. Lighter and shorter than his favored blade, the knife was still a mean contender.
Cold Slither: and other horrors of the weird west (Dark Trails Saga) Page 2