“Well, they left us a couple of horses, we best get moving on to a safer campsite,” he said, hoping they didn’t find the snake god dead downriver and return in anger.
She didn’t move. He had to pick her up and put her on a horse as she wasn’t about to move on her own volition. Ranging back toward a hollow along the route they had come, he made a campfire.
“Why?” She asked again through the freely flowing tears. “My sacrifice could have saved my people.”
Porter scoffed, after all he wasn’t the most sensitive of men, though he did always speak the truth. “How? By covenanting with a Blood God? That would have made you the same as that Blood Brujo. No, you gotta make your own way in this world. Struggle that it is.”
“I could have saved my people. Now without the snake god to grant us favor, the hard times will just be that much harder.”
Porter thought on his own people’s trials and tribulations and all they had been through. This life after all wasn’t about ease, it was about experience and struggle so that you could appreciate—nay savor the sweet with the sour, know the light from the dark and love from the hate, pleasure and pain but all that came out was, “Awww, don’t beat yourself up about it. Sometimes the best you can do in these situations is just survive.”
Black Wings in the Moonlight
Dusk revealed uncaring stars as the moon cast its ghostly image upon Old Man River. Bats flitted chasing mosquitoes, as darkness weaved against the swaying shoreline. The riverboat, Golden Phoenix, chugged upriver as if chasing the silvery moon light.
At the bow stood a taciturn, broad shouldered man with long dark hair erupting out from under his slouch hat. A black beard covered his face, but there were a number of laugh lines about his pale blue eyes. He had a brace of pistols leering from his vest as well as a bowie knife upon his belt. Holding a long hemp rope, he watched the shrouded eastern shore with interest until one of the crewmen, a steward, gave warning.
“It’s not safe to be out at night on this stretch of the river, Sir.” With eyes wide and fearful, the steward glanced up in the star flecked night rather than at the shoreline. “We’ll be coming up on the bluffs soon and I’ve already heard tell that two dozen men have been taken by the monster bird, the Piasa.”
The long haired stranger grunted, “Piasa, huh? Well, that’s why I’m here.”
“You must be Mr. Porter then.”
“That’s right,” answered the long haired man, as he tied one end of the rope to the iron riggings that were themselves stoutly anchored to the deck. “Captain Jack asked for my help.”
“I’m sorry sir. Thought you would be taller. I mean . . . after some of the gunslinger stories I’ve heard.”
Porter either chuckled or growled at that, it was hard to tell.
The steward watched the gathering gloom above saying, “Some of those lost were hunting for the Piasa too. They had buffalo guns and one brought a whaling harpoon. Have you got a harpoon to go with that rope?”
“Nope.”
The steward wrinkled his curious brow as Porter finished a massive knot and tested it by pulling his full body weight against it. “Excuse me, but what do you plan on doing against the Piasa? It’s a bloodthirsty beast, Sir. Swoops in and devours men alive. Plenty have tried to shoot it. But it has slain them all. The Governor even said we may have to limit river traffic to daylight only when the monster don’t come out.”
Porter fashioned a noose with the opposite end of the rope, just listening and nodding.
“The Indians say this is a monster that goes back to the old times. That it’s been gone for centuries but just come back lately. But I say what if the monster bird has a clutch of eggs? What then? Limiting river traffic won’t stop a pack of starving thunder birds.”
“Thunder bird’s?” questioned Porter.
“That’s what old chief Deecoodah calls it. The thunder bird that drives the storm. But everyone else calls it the Piasa, the bird that devours men.”
Porter nodded and coiled his rope. “Deecoodah said that?”
“Yeah, he did. You mind telling me why you’re so darn light-hearted about this? You stay out here tonight and you’re gonna die. What can any man do against a monster bird that bullets can’t harm and with a twenty-foot wingspan?”
“So you’ve seen it?”
“No, I haven’t. But Kofford told me, he seen it not two weeks ago aboard the Samaritan, when it ate the Johnson brothers.”
Porter guffawed, “You know Kofford is the biggest liar and drunk on the river.”
“I can’t deny that, Kofford is a thief and a cheat, but them Johnson’s is dead and the Piasa is what ate ‘em.”
Stretching this way and that, Porter said, “I’ve heard tell the Piasa has a ten-foot wingspan upwards to fifty feet. Seems some people just aren’t accurate witnesses. I suspect closer to ten and the thing scares men into jumping in the river, where they drown.”
The steward shook his head fiercely, “No sir, Billy Barnett was torn apart and everyone knows that. The Piasa ate ‘em up and spit out the mean indigestible parts.”
“Yep, that would’ve been most of Billy alright.”
The steward looked warily over his shoulder to the comfort and protection of the wheelhouse. “You sure I can’t convince you to come inside for the night? Your trap could work without you, couldn’t it?” He gestured at the rope.
“Nope.”
The steward shook his head, “I heard a lot of wild stories about you Mr. Porter, but this seems crazy. Why you doing this? The glory? Think you can succeed where everyone else has failed? You think you’re better than all those others that died trying?”
Porter wheeled on him, “You wanna know why? Not for them that died trying to kill it. But for those women and kids that never saw it coming. The ones that had no chance, that’s why.”
The steward tipped his cap and made the sign of the cross at the mention of the dead women and children, they had been the first to die only a few weeks back. “I hope you can do it. But I’m still afraid the Piasa is gonna ate you up tonight.”
Porter grinned, “We’ll see.”
“See you on the other side then, Mr. Porter.” The steward tipped his hat and hurried back to the wheelhouse.
Rummaging through his equipment, Porter put together a scarecrow and stood it upright in a waist high barrel. About the scarecrow’s shoulder he coiled the wide noose, he then eased the rope back and away to a canoe on deck, from there the rope was knotted to the rigging firmly attached to the deck.
Crouching, Porter hid in the canoe with a worn piece of canvas to conceal himself. He knew the Mississippi and that the riverboat would be coming up on the bluffs between the towns of Alton and Grafton soon enough. He had but to wait.
It was a warm night, the mosquitoes hardly buzzed in Porter’s ears and the chug of the riverboat paddles lent a soothing rhythm. Porter’s eyes drooped and with nothing happening, he felt sleep swoop in on soft feathered wings and he dreamt of happier times in his youth.
A cacophony of shrill squawks roused Porter from deathly slumber. A strong breeze washed over him, sending the canvas that covered his hiding spot flying away into the humid murk. Hovering in the darkness, a massive shape tore into the scarecrow and cried at the trick. It was assuredly angry at the lack of flesh and blood.
Blinking with surprise, Porter yanked on his rope and caught . . . nothing. The noose glided toward him on the deck with naught but a hint of straw and the scarecrows hat to show for it.
But the movement caught the monster birds amber colored eye. It croaked at Porter who still sprawled in the canoe, as it landed upon the deck. Covered in thick black feathers, it was doused in shadow and gloom. The pink hued head was almost bald of feathers but for a trace of midnight between it’s terrible eyes. Its twisted beak was curved, an instrument made for the tearing of meat and rending of bone. Standing perhaps eight feet tall, Porter could only guess at what the monster birds wingspan must be.
T
he sound of its talons scuttling across the deck broke Porter’s surprise. From his vest he pulled his horse pistol and shot a .58 caliber ball into the breast of the Piasa.
It hardly noticed. If there was a wound, there was no blood.
Porter rolled out of the canoe just as the murderous beak crashed. Screeching, the Piasa stepped upon the canoe, tilting it over as Porter scrambled away.
A pair of shots were fired from the wheelhouse and the monster bird was momentarily distracted. Porter got to his knees, then ran behind the cover of a stack of crates.
The Piasa lifted into the air. Porter felt the beat of its wings as it melted into the night overhead.
Watching, Porter reloaded the horse pistol. A crash and scream from the rear of the riverboat told him he had precious moments left. Racing back to his scarecrow, he lifted what was left of it up and readied the wide hangman’s noose. His trap likely would not work a second time but he wanted to be prepared.
The monster bird had ignored the first shot of his horse pistol, but it was a living breathing creature and Porter didn’t believe any animal could ignore bullets forever. If he could trap it, he and the crew could surely overwhelm it with lead. He would try for a head shot the next time.
The familiar beat of wings echoed overhead. Porter shouted, “Down here! Ya overgrown buzzard!”
The Paisa’s awful call rocked the night. It swooped over the deck not far from the remains of the scarecrow.
Porter sent his lasso flying but he missed the monster bird.
Aboard the riverboat, near everyone had doused their lamps so as not to attract the birds notice. Porter wondered if there was even a pilot any longer or if they might run aground.
Black wings glided overhead.
Porter sent the noose flying again, a silent prayer upon his lips.
Still it missed.
Cursing, Porter stepped out from beside the ruined scarecrow. “Here I am! Come on!” He fired his Navy revolver twice at the airy phantom.
Still no blood appeared, but the sounds did anger the monster bird. It swung its massive gnarled head about and champed its pointed beak. Swooping in for the kill, it screamed.
Porter held his ground against the Piasa, swinging the noose.
Talon’s flared and wings spread wide, the Piasa screeched an unholy dirge.
Porter dodged aside at the last second. Talon’s ripped Porter’s shirt. He swept the noose at the reaching feet.
The noose caught one foot and held fast.
Porter jerked on the rope hoping to send the monster bird reeling. But the Piasa remained airborne, tugging at its thick restraining tether.
Porter hoped it would wear itself out in the struggle or perhaps even have a heart attack and drop dead in its battle. The monster had likely never been caught before and it didn’t know how to react to being a prisoner.
A line of more than one hundred feet into the dark stretched taut as the monster bird cried.
Then the rigging started to creak.
A nail popped from the deck and the rigging flexed skyward on one corner. Porter jumped and stood upon the anvil-like rigging hoping to weigh down the monster. He held to the rope and watched warily to be sure the monster didn’t circle back.
There was a pop and a burst of wind made Porter close his eyes.
Then the line went slack. Then it was tight again. The wind slapped Porter in the face.
And the realization struck Porter. He was riding the rigging as the Piasa carried him into the night sky. Looking down, he was far above the riverboat. The wide Mississippi shrunk and they were soon over the trees.
The Piasa circled to see what it was carrying, but it couldn’t dive at Porter because like a kite tail, whenever it dipped, he did as well. The constant spinning made Porter queasy.
Sensing that it could not attack its unwanted passenger in the air, the monster bird came up with a new plan for its dogged antagonist.
Losing altitude, the Piasa took Porter into the treetops. Tiny branches slammed his body as if he were beaten with stout rods of iron. Leaves slapped like leather and then Porter saw the stony bluffs. Either he would be taken to the nest to be fed to the Piasa’s ravenous chicks, or the monster would crush his body at high speed against the limestone cliffs.
Guessing any option was suicide, Porter did the only one that gave him a modicum of choice. He waited for a thick looking clump of trees and leapt into the aether.
Hurtling through the trees, Porter slammed into myriad branches and brambles, each breaking his fall while threatening to make bread of his bones. The earth greeted him by expelling the fraction of whatever air was left to him.
Lying on his back, he heard something falling through the branches above. Was it the Piasa? He couldn’t breathe yet and here came the monster bird.
No, this was smaller.
Silver glinting and spinning through the air with captured moonlight. Singing through the night air, his own Bowie knife landed blade down, sticking in the soft earth only inches from Porter’s face.
He glimpsed the reflection of his own eyes in the Damascus blade. Somehow, he managed a mute nervous chuckle.
Above, the Piasa shrieked its displeasure at losing a meal.
Rolling onto his stomach, Porter attempted to get his stolen breath back. Feeling for his weapons, he discovered he had lost all but the bowie knife that almost killed him.
The Piasa squawked overhead, circling. Porter watched its dark form high above the trees as it blotted out the stars. The rope and rigging still trailing from its taloned foot. It appeared unwilling to land on the forest floor and hunt for Porter. Guessing he had a small amount of time, Porter glanced about for his pistols, hoping to find at least one of the three. He found them. But one was broken, one was lost and the last, his big horse pistol, only had a single shot left. He searched again for his cartridges but could not find them in the moldy undergrowth.
Porter resolved that he must slay the monster bird. Finding its lair might yield answers, so he watched the Piasa circle, and then followed it to the bluffs ahead where it disappeared.
Crags of stone rose up from the forest floor, giving a commanding presence over the Mississippi.
Porter watched and listened a few moments before even attempting a climb. The Piasa had been silent some twenty minutes now. Perhaps it was bedding down after its eventful night or maybe it waited in ambush for an easier meal. Either way, Port knew he had to finish this tonight. His trick on the riverboat would never work again. But if he hurried, maybe he could take advantage that the rope was still attached to the avian leviathan.
The cliffs were almost vertical and Porter had to hunt a moment to find a long crack that would provide good handhold's. He scrapped and prodded his way up, attempting to be as silent as possible while also knowing he failed at that. His breath was labored in the climb and twice he cursed in frustration at the lack of good purchase.
A long ledge afforded some relaxation. It ran horizontally along the bluff until it disappeared around an outcrop of fractured stone. Porter slumped and looked over the river below. He wasn’t nearly to the top of the bluffs yet but even so he had a magnificent view. This place was an ideal aerie for the Piasa.
Movement caught Porter’s eye and he thought he glimpsed a tall dark man at the far end of the ledge. The stranger was concealed by the gloom of night; did he wear a black robe? Was he a priest? Porter had to wonder at whom else would be fool enough to be upon this monstrous cliff at night.
Stepping careful and keeping a hand upon the face of the bluff, Porter edged toward the dark man. Over a dozen yards away, Porter would have sworn the man was looking directly at him. Then the man turned and vanished around a bend. Porter continued and cautiously went around the bend.
It was dead end.
The sheer cliff face offered no answer as to where the dark man could have gone but to the ground below. Porter saw no one in the jumble of rocks below. Where could the black robed man have gone?
A ra
mpaging squawk stole down like haunted thunder. The Piasa flew straight at Porter with its talons outstretched and beak snapping.
On pure instinct Porter drew his horse pistol and aimed for the monstrous head. The horse pistol boomed a deafening crack at almost point blank range and yet the Piasa was unfazed. Talons tore at Porters legs as the vicious beak snapped at his head and arms. The wings beat the air like a hurricane, holding the Piasa in a stationary position to attack. Porter dodged and held his arms up to evade the deadly assault when he lost his balance on the cliff face. He twisted to avoid the talons and footing vanished.
Then he was falling.
A rope brushed his face and Porter grabbed hold for all he was worth.
The Piasa still had the rope attached to its foot and Porter yanked the flying behemoth down as he took hold.
Screeching, the monster flapped wildly as Porters hands burned sliding down the rope.
The ground hit harder and sooner than expected.
The rigging leapt past Porter’s face as the Piasa went upward, cawing its discontent and anger.
Porter took stock of what had just happened. He was sure what he had seen was a man and not the Piasa itself, where could the dark man have gone? Could the Piasa have eaten him silently? Even more disturbing, the massive .58 caliber horse pistol had done virtually no damage to the monster bird at even point blank range. What could harm such a monster?
Porter lay still a moment pondering when movement caught his eye. It was a man, an Indian by the look of him striding through the forest. He was old with white hair and pale colored buckskins. He greeted Porter with his arm held up to the square and he smiled with no guile behind it.
“Hello?” said Porter, surprised at the old man’s sudden appearance.
Nodding, the old man said, “I have watched you in your attempt to slay the Piasa and am here to offer my help. Your guns cannot harm a monster with such strong medicine protecting it.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” said Porter.
“My name is Ouatoga and I can help you.”
Extending his hand, Porter said, “I’m Porter and I’d be obliged for whatever you can suggest.”
Cold Slither: and other horrors of the weird west (Dark Trails Saga) Page 6