Cold Slither: and other horrors of the weird west (Dark Trails Saga)

by David J. West

  Ouatoga didn’t take Porters hand, keeping back a pace or two but pointed to wide flat stone nearby. “Remove that stone.”

  Porter looked at Ouatoga, furrowed his brow but did as the old man suggested. He stopped to look skyward once to be sure the Piasa wasn’t bearing down on them, then hefted the stone up. Like a lid to a box, the stone revealed a small chamber. Inside rested an unstrung bow and a handful of arrows in a fine deer skin quiver.

  “You must use these to defeat the black medicine of the Piasa and the Mahan.”

  “Mahan?”

  “The dark man you saw upon the cliffs. He is a sorcerer and witch and it is he who has brought the evil of the Piasa back to the land. His magic protects the Piasa. But with my bow and my blessed arrows you can defeat them.”

  Porter rubbed his bearded chin. “Bows and arrows aren’t something I have any familiarity with.”

  “You will use them.”

  Porter picked up the bow and quiver. He strung the bow and tested its pull. It wasn’t much, he had expected it to be more. The arrows were nondescript and all bore the same dull colored bands, owl feather fletching and obsidian flint heads. “This will do what a horse pistol couldn’t?”

  “It is blessed,” answered Ouatoga, ending the questions. He turned and walked to the edge of the bluffs until he came upon a narrow saw tooth like weathering upon the stone face. “This is the way.”

  Porter shook his head and followed. The saw tooth notches allowed them to swiftly climb. It was farther up than Porter had climbed earlier. Then as they entered a narrow gorge, the mouth of a great cave loomed open.

  “The Piasa is there now. You must enter and slay it.”

  Porter gave Ouatoga a shrewd look and wondered why this had not been done before, a long time ago. He was about to ask the old man when a sound within the cave alerted him to its angry presence.

  Ouatoga offered encouragement again. “Keep your arrows ready. You must slay the demon bird. It knows you are here.”

  Porter nodded and stepped into the cave. He kept a loose draw on the bow and watched with eyes flickering in every direction. “Here birdy, birdy, birdy.”

  Moonlight splashed into the cave giving weak cold light. Bones littered the cave floor in a gruesome display of the monster’s appetite.

  Porter stepped over skulls only to crunch a ribcage. A loud flutter of wings threatened from somewhere in the gloom.

  Porter looked back and Ouatoga was still there ushering him on.

  A long black feather floated across the chamber, carried on the gulf of night.

  What looked to Porter like a great nest sat against the far end of chamber. It appeared empty.

  Where was the Piasa?

  Porter watched his sides now more than the nest. Where could the monster lurk?

  Almost to the nest, Port spun to face the mouth of the cave, Ouatoga was gone. Wondering if the nest held a clutch of gigantic eggs, Porter stepped closer to peer inside.

  The bald head shot up from the nest and snapped in harsh clipping retorts.

  Porter leapt back loosing an arrow wildly to the side, missing the mark by several feet.

  Retreating to the far wall, Porter readied another arrow.

  The gloom played tricks on him. Shadows swirled like phantasms in the pale moonlight. Voices in the dark whispered that he was a dead man. Dread welled up in Porter's heart and he almost dropped the bow to flee to the cavern’s mouth. Doubt and fear crossed swords with faith and hope.

  The Piasa croaked from somewhere in the darkness and that primal fear turned into anger.

  Remembering his sacred charge, Porter renewed his vow and steadied his aim.

  The Piasa squawked divulging itself and crossed a section of the cavern chamber in seconds. It’s bloody amber colored eyes narrowed and with a snapping beak it came on, strong and loud as thunder.

  Porter loosed an arrow into its breast. The first reveal of pain echoed from the big bird. With the cascading fire on him, Porter backed away.

  The scuttling bird raised a mighty wing and batted Porter against the cavern wall.

  Porter rolled away with the sharp snap of the beak close behind. Tripping and falling face first against a grinning skull, Port rolled again as a taloned foot smashed the grim trophy. He lost the bow.

  The avian demon backed Porter up toward the cavern’s mouth, its sharp beak snapping and lunging.

  Weaponless, Porter felt in the darkness for a stone or femur to use as a club, useless as it may be. His strong hands instead caught the hemp rope and the rigging. He clutched the anchor like piece of iron and started it swinging like a shaft of whirlwind.

  The Piasa paused briefly then lunged, getting the pig iron full in the face for its trouble.

  Blinking and cawing it lunged again. This time Porter sent the rope and iron in a wider swing about the monster’s narrow throat. The iron rigging swung around twice, slapping the monsters breast while also strangling it. A silent squawk came from a struggling beak.

  Rushing back into the chamber, Porter searched for the bow upon hands and knees. He glanced back at the struggling Piasa as he searched, guessing he had but moments.

  Then something crushed a bone only a step away.

  Mighty hands grasped Port about his collar and tossed him aside as if he were a child. The dark man, the Mahan, rushed to strike him again.

  Port rolled even as he spat blood. The Mahan was huge and could apparently see in the dark just fine. The most unnerving thing was his determined silence.

  Another kick and Port was dazed almost beyond reckoning then his rough fingers found the quiver of dogwood shafts, the obsidian arrowheads.

  Drawing one in his left fist, Port lurched to his feet.

  The dark man crossed his arms daring Port to fight back.

  Pretending to be even more woozy than he was Port sent an incredibly slow right hand punch at his foe.

  The dark man might have laughed had he not been so silent. Coming in for his next excruciating attack, the dark man missed Port’s feint and walked right into an obsidian assisted roundhouse punch.

  Now the Mahan made noise as Port twisted the arrowhead. Staggering back, the Mahan twisted his black cloak over himself and vanished.

  Rope snapped and the Piasa let loose its shattering call. Swinging its gruesome head, it eyed Port and clawed at the ground before rushing in.

  Port dodged about a boulder and felt the bow of Ouatoga. Scooping it up in blind frustration, he knocked the arrow.

  Porter aimed true and sent a blazing shaft into the Piasa’s neck. It dropped to its crouching position and cawed, soft as rain. The monster flopped and jerked like a headless chicken.

  A third arrow ended the monster. Then it was still. There was no sign of the Mahan, nor did the nest have any eggs and Porter was grateful for that. Monster bird or no, he didn’t like the idea of smashing young un’s.

  Climbing back down the cliff face, Porter looked for Ouatoga, but the old man was gone.

  Dawn rose soon afterward and Porter made his way to the river and waited for a passing flatboat.

  Once aboard, news of the demise of the dreaded Piasa spread like a fever. A Quapaw Indian woman with a collection of woven baskets asked to see the final arrow Porter still retained. He handed her the dogwood shaft. She ran her hands across the fletching and simple bands of color on its length.

  “Do you know who gave you this?” she asked.

  “An old man, said his name was Ouatoga or some such. Don’t know who he was or where he went.”

  “I know him.”

  Porter shrugged, “Well? Who is he?”

  She sighed and answered, “Ouatoga slew the Piasa first and returned to help you do the same in his stead.”

  “In his stead? But he was there.”

  She shook her head, “Ouatoga slew the Piasa, yes. But that was more than a thousand moons ago.”

  Soma for the Destroying Angels Soul

  Somewhere along the pony express trail . . .
r />   Horseshoes slipped almost silently down the moldering wilderness road when Porter caught a glimpse of some phantasm skulking parallel to him in the wood. The ghostly image froze. Porter brushed aside his own long dark hair and narrowed his gaze straining to see the unexpected through the willows.

  “I’ll be dipped.”

  A ram bared its teeth, gave the most god-awful “Bah” and charged. Crashing through the saplings and mossy undergrowth the ram came on in a stilted unwholesome gait.

  Porter spit in shock. He drew the Sharps rifle from the scabbard on his saddlebags and took aim.

  His horse, Roman, unused to such a bizarre attack reeled backward when the ram was within twenty feet.

  Porter missed.

  The retort from the Sharps rifle did nothing to spook the oncoming beast and then it was too late. Lunging, the ram bit Roman on the neck before attempting to gore or bite Porter as well. Thrown to the ground in the ruckus, Porter drew his Navy Colt and fired all six balls into the rampaging spiral-horned head.

  The mad creature didn’t stop until the fifth shot.

  Porter got up and dusted himself off. He scanned the woods, watchful for anything more as he reloaded. He then checked the wound on Roman’s neck and cleaned it with a bit of whiskey, even if he instinctively believed in the painful inevitable. Roman had been a good horse and didn’t deserve to go out this way.

  Porter put the barrel of his Navy Colt to Roman’s head just below the ear and cocked the hammer. “Wheat! Why’d you have to go and get bit?”

  Roman nickered and turned to look at Porter.

  Holstering his six-gun, Porter muttered, “All right. I’ll wait.”

  He glanced over the ram’s carcass and wondered at its mangy coat. Wretched disease covered the animal from ear to hoof. Porter had seen this before, on more than a dozen pioneers headed west. He was grateful they were already dead by the time he had come upon them—but he was also sure they didn’t get that way by accident. Someone or something caused this.

  Before moving on, Porter lit a good sized fire over the top of the ram. He didn’t want anyone or anything sampling the foul body.

  By mid-afternoon Roman carried Porter into a small nameless town, but at a definitive effort. He wouldn’t last much longer before going the maddening way. Port sniffed at the bite and was horrified to see a pale fungal infection seeping outward.

  Calling to a stable boy, Port shouted, “Is there a horse doctor in town?”

  The boy shook his head, “But Doc Mathers might could help.”

  “Obliged. Where is he?”

  The boy pointed to a house on the opposite side of the blacksmith.

  As Porter walked Roman toward the doctors, an obvious scarlet woman from a local bordello crossed his path. Bad luck like a black cat, Porter couldn’t help but admire her figure while at the same finding revulsion in her sore condition. She covered herself with a frilly umbrella to match her provocative corset and bustle but still there was no mistaking the circular ringworm trails about her neck, shoulders and face. Her ebony eyes met his and a fear lingered there along with her scent. She disappeared into a slattern house with a sign that read Maison Rouge.

  Porter shuddered especially when he saw a second soiled dove with a similar affliction and then an old man likewise marked. The old man had perhaps the worst case but seemed unperturbed, a fancy whiskey bottle with exaggerated embroidered lettering in hand might have accounted for that.

  Knocking on Doc Mathers door, Port was met with a stream of vulgarity followed by, “Leave me be! I’ve no damn cure!”

  Porter opened the door, “Pardon Doc, but you ain’t even heard what I have to jaw at you about.”

  Doc Mathers, checked himself as he gazed upon Porter; a thick broad shouldered man with long black hair and a thick beard who stared back at him with the ice pale eyes of a killer. A Bowie handle and a six-gun in turn leered from Porters belt and the Doc had no doubt they had seen their use.

  “You’re Porter, the killer—”

  “Yup. Now how about you take a look at my horse.”

  “You shot Frank Worrell, Quinn Kofford, Philip Jackson and Governor Boggs.”

  “Yup, ‘cept the last one. Now let’s take a look at my horse.”

  Stepping outdoors to examine the horse, the Doc kept a second eye on Porter. Glancing only briefly at the animal. “Like I said, I don’t have a cure for this or any other fungal infection. You better put him down.”

  “Any other?” frowned Port.

  “So you didn’t shoot governor Boggs?”

  “If I shot Boggs he’d be dead, the son of a bitch. Now what’s this about other infections?” Porter gestured at yet another passing prostitute tattooed with the circular ringworm tracks. “What’d I see on them soiled doves?”

  Doc Mathers shook his head. “Near everyone in town has come down with infections. Quite a few have gone insane and I can’t do a thing. I could help with scarlet fever but not this pestilence.”

  “Just ringworm,” Porter protested.

  “That’s the beginning. Soon enough, a few days maybe . . . they’ll all have what your horse has. And I give your horse a day before it goes mad and attacks someone. We’ve already shot all the dogs in town. We locked up some people.”

  “What people?”

  Doc asked, “What’s a holy killer, a destroying angel like you care?”

  “I ain’t never killed anyone who didn’t need killing.”

  “Say’s you.”

  Ignoring that, Porter persisted, “Where?”

  Doc pointed at a log cabin with a heavily barred door and said, “We put the worst of them in there, a bunch of easterners bound for Oregon. They stopped making noise last night. Now they just squat grunting, acting like rabid dogs.”

  Port grunted, “And you think I’m heartless?”

  “There was nothing we could do, jail was full. At least we didn’t shoot them.”

  “Any idea what caused this? Fever? Bad food?”

  Doc shook his head. “Bad food? Naw, how could that do anything?”

  Porter shrugged, “Just a hunch.”

  “No, this is a curse from runaway slaves and an old voodoo shaman named Bockkor.”

  “Bockkor?”

  Doc gestured for Porter to follow him inside. “We got word from a traveling salesman, a tonic doctor, that some dangerous runaway slaves were heading this way. Real rough bunch out of the Caribbean, heard they killed their whole master’s family down in Arkansas. We ambushed them at salt creek. We killed two and captured all but one, the witch-doctor name of Bockkor.”

  Porter rubbed a calloused hand over his midnight beard. “So he told you to let his people go just like Moses or he would curse the town?”

  “Yes, well maybe.”

  “See any frogs?”

  “Yes, well no. We never understood what he said in the darkness. He only shouted in French, but the tonic doctor, Silas Worthington he speaks French and he told us to watch out. He said we ought to kill them all for our own good, but Missouri state law says we need to try and apprehend them to return them to their rightful owners. It’s the law. Maybe we should have listened to the tonic doctor because once Bockkor escaped, the curse started. Silas knew what he was saying, even sold us some medicine to take care and ease the pain.”

  Porter frowned, “Ease the pain?”

  Doc Mathers raised his arm letting the shirtsleeve fall, revealing a grotesque spiral ringworm pattern down his upper arm. A white fungal fuzz crept over the maroon scab that itself covered most of his bicep. “We’ve all got it. And since your horse does as well, I expect you’ll catch it in a day or two.”

  “Anyone try to capture this Bockkor?”

  “Hell yes! But he has even infected the beasts of the field, a damn herd of sheep attacked us! Several men didn’t make it. And no one could find a trace of Bockkor in the forests southeast of here, nothing but open plains to the north and west. Nowhere to hide there. He’s a black magic piper that one. And w
e’re dancing to the devils tune now.”

  Porter drew his flask and took a long pull before replying. “I’ll find him and get to the bottom of this. Where are those slaves being held?”

  “At the sheriffs, building at the center square, everything wheels around it. But listen, we looked for Bockkor for three days and nights. Over fifty men, half of which are too sick now to get outta bed. What are you gonna do by your lonesome that we couldn’t with a pack of dogs?”

  “Suppose I’ll just have to sweet talk him.” With that, Porter went out the door.

  He was about to run a bare hand down Roman’s muzzle and reassure the stallion that things would be all right, but considering the infection looming from the bite mark, he held back. Instead he nickered to his friend getting a similar response. “I’ll be back soon.”

  At the sheriff’s office, a dozing deputy jumped at Porter opening the door.

  “Sheriff in?”

  “No sir, he ain’t. Can I help you?”

  Port gestured to jail cells beyond. “I wanna talk to them slaves, see what I can do about Bockkor.”

  The deputy sniffed. “You won’t get nowhere with them. They don’t speak no English and ain’t too kind on us anyhow.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I try.”

  “S’pose not.” Sniffing again the deputy asked, “Who’re you anyway? Some kind of tracker?”

  “Something like that. You agree with Doc Mathers? This is all a curse from Bockkor?”

  “Yes, I do. Ain’t none of those slave’s sick, but the rest of us are.”

  “Everyone?”

  The deputy sniffed and thought a moment. “Yeah, everyone but you—so far, them slaves and a couple travelers headed east, but the sheep got them. Oh, and the tonic doctor, yeah, everyone. Why?”

  Porter just shook his head.

  The deputy sniffed and sitting down, gestured for Porter to walk on down the hall. Ebon bodies were crowded into two rooms no larger than a wagon box. They did not bear the fungal infection, though their living conditions did not grant them any reprieve.