Port folded his arms nodding, then pulled his Valley-Tan from his duster. “What makes you think I can take care of this?”
“You’ve got a charmed life, especially for a gunfighter and lawman. Word is no one can harm you with a bullet or blade, you’re a modern-day Samson. If anybody can face this thing it’d be you.”
“I been hearing that a lot lately, though I’ve had some folks trying to test that.”
Deacon grunted and shook his head. “Straight up that wash, is where we think the beast is. Night will be the best time to try and trap it for you to kill . . . somehow. It only comes out at night”
“I only use the same tools as any man,” said Port, gesturing to his Navy Coltand Bowie. “But sometimes you need a steady hand at the wheel.”
“You certainly do.”
“I am tuckered, wouldn’t mind a bit of shut eye before twilight.”
Deacon showed Port to his tent and said, “We’ll holler when we’re ready.”
All of it made Port uneasy but he was dog tired from scoping out the rustlers all night and he truly wanted to make things right for the Worrell kid. Why did that name seem familiar? He drifted off to uneasy dreams and the heat seemed to climb making him sweat more than he should have this time of year. Jackalopes danced in his dreams, slapping their feet against the naked desert. A warning that something was coming?
Specters haunted his sleep and something stole over him until . . .
“Mr. Rockwell, its time.”
Port roused himself and felt for his gun belt, it was gone! As was his Bowie.
Nothing to do but meet this challenge head on.
Stepping outside dusk washed blue black to the horizon that barely retained a shade of blood. Stars like serpent eyes blinked overhead and Port could swear that he didn’t recognize the constellations for a brief moment.
A handful of small fires blazed in a wide circular pattern and Port wondered at the devious mannerisms of Deacon and his men. “What’s all this?”
“We’ve called out the beast to take care of you.”
Port furrowed his brow. “Did I hear you right?”
“You did murderer!” accused John Worrell, his voice almost cracking to splinters.
It was then Port looked at the ground and where the fires were placed. A great pentagram was drawn out on the ground surrounding him, alien glyphs written in blood were spaced between the dark star’s points and Port was in the dead center. Alone.
“Now we’ve all heard the tales on how you cannot be harmed by bullet or blade. I never believed them myself, but hell we’ve been taking shots at you for three weeks now and haven’t been able to hit you once,” laughed Deacon, as if it were all in good fun.
“What’d I ever do to you?” asked Port, stalling for a moment as he eyed the canyon walls watching for a way out.
“You killed my Pa! Frank Worrell!”
Port rubbed his chin. “Yep. Got him right in the belt buckle. Thought your name was familiar.”
Deacon continued, “And we can all see now you’re unrepentant gunslinger son of a bitch too. No remorse for your killing!”
Port chuckled, “I ain’t never killed anyone who didn’t need killing. Frank got what was coming to him. Everyone always does.”
He might have taunted them further waiting for an opening to make good his escape when an unnatural chill fell on him like the mantle of winter itself. It was a cold cutting straight to the bone and it drained any love of life Port held. Only a dim recollection of what he cared for remained, drowning in a sea of emptiness and despair.
Then he saw the eyes.
Eyes crimson and full of hate, crowned with sharp tangled antlers.
From out of the ethereal abyss the demon jackalope stood before Porter with a wide twitching nose. His matted fur was a slain brown and long black claws hung from his paws. An orange aura hung over the demon looking like flames about ready to boil over in stark contrast to the overwhelming cold emanating from this forgotten specimen of hell.
“The Zuni’s call him Átahsaia, and we decided that if you couldn’t be killed by mortal means we would summon a demon to do it for us.”
Porter grunted and spat. “Jackalope demon huh? That’s diabolical.”
“Indeed it is,” confirmed Deacon. “I was able to summon and control him through this book of black magic I stole from a man name of Godbe. I reckon I’ll get better use of it than that Brit.”
“You make a deal with the devil you’re gonna pay more in interest than you ever bargained.”
“Don’t lecture me murderer. We got you! And you’re gonna be the one to pay!”
“Want your nugget back then?” Anything to buy some time, Port hoped even angering them might give him something to work with, but not this time.
“Átahsaia destroy him!”
The monster lunged and Port dodged, but the wicked claws still tore his jacket to shreds. Trying to roll away, Port was slammed to the ground, the air bursting from his lungs under the titanic pressure.
Port swept a leg out to trip the demon, but it merely hopped over his attack.
The treacherous men laughed at the spectacle calling out Átahsaia to slay their hated foe.
The Jackalope dropped down on all fours and tried to gore Porter with its hideous antlers, but Port grabbed the furthest one out and used the momentum against it, driving the monster into the ground.
Back legs kicked out sent Port reeling. Before he knew it Átahsaia was on top.
Turning blue from the pressure of a bear-sized creature on top of him, Port dazedly thought he saw a small typical enough jackalope slapping the ground with its big foot. No, it was scraping its foot along the ground, clearing a fresh trail of earth over the old. And Port understood.
Crushed down, Port’s boot cut across a portion of the pentagram’s circle. A whirlwind rushed through the gap and the monster sensed freedom turning its attention from Port to its unbidden masters outside, those foolish mortals who had dared try to command it.
“Now you boys messed up. I know the secret!” Port wiped clean a wide swath of the blood-soaked ground opening the door.
Like slick lightning Átahsaia was through the gap.
Taking a precious breather for the moment, Port marveled at the look of shock and fear wafting over Deacon and his men like palpable smoke.
The monster took one of Deacon’s men by the neck and throttled him. Another was impaled by the antlers and flung away, jets of blood spraying the already tainted ground.
Gunshots fired, birthed in chaotic abandon, but nothing harmed the demon.
Porter scuttled out of the damnable pentagram toward the canyon wall where the little brown jackalope had been. It was gone, but Port sensed it had stood there for good reason. Sure enough his bowie knife, gun belt and cartridges were lying there.
He checked the revolver, loaded and prepared to take whatever presented itself.
But all was now silent and gone. Deacon, Worrell and their handful of haggard men were all on the ground, bleeding out from voracious wounds.
Átahsaia was nowhere to be seen, but that vile cold still filled the camp.
Shadows moved out in the gloom and Porter prepared to give it his all against the devil’s jackrabbit.
Things swept in, surrounding. Chuckles and haunting whispers came and dread footfalls washed over the blood soaked sands. Voices crept in and the dying hellish flames only made Port blind to the encroaching mass. A figure moved into the half-light.
“Told you we wouldn’t forget,” said Two-Toes, with a jutting grin.
Port then saw Red Cap leveling his Sharps rifle and Saw-Tooth his scattergun, the others close behind. “I never doubted you, Turley.”
“How’d you kill all these feller’s? And where is that nugget I saw and more? Speak or Red Cap and Saw-Tooth are gonna open you up.”
“You boys should run.”
Two-Toes Turley gave a charity chuckle. “You ain’t immortal, gunslinger. You can’t use us
all up.”
“No, but he can.”
Átahsaia loomed behind Two-Toes and rammed his blood-red antlers into the rustlers back. Rearing up, it flung his body away into the night. Red Cap’s Sharps rifle sang out once before he died but Saw-Tooth only screamed. The others full of terror ran gibbering a brutal moment before Átahsaia bound after them silencing them swiftly. The bone-crunching savagery lasted but a few seconds.
Porter held his ground, waiting for the demon to return, all went still and though the darkness was hard as obsidian, nothing materialized and the feverish cold vanished.
Looking down, Porter saw the little jackalope beside his leg, standing on its hind quarters. He reached down to its eye level and said, “Thanks.”
The next day as Porter gathered his horses from the corrals at Lee’s Ferry, old Lee called out, “Will you take a look at that?” He cocked his rifle and took aim at a jackalope standing out on the flats beside the river.
Port put his hand on the barrel. “Oh no, John. That’s a friend that is and good luck to boot. Don’t ever try and shoot one and that’s God’s own truth.”
Fangs Of The Dragon
He who fights with monsters should take care to see that, in doing so, he doesn’t turn into a monster himself. And when you take a long look into an abyss, the abyss looks back into you.
146., Beyond Good and Evil, Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche
(Trans. by Wm Morris)
1.
The water lapped hungrily at the shore. Waves rippled across shadowy liquid, pushed by something stronger than the moon’s dominion. Something splashed far out in the lake as the mournful melody of a flute carried and abruptly went silent.
An eerie green ball of fire raced across the night sky on the far side of the lake. It shot chaotically from side to side down the mountain as if chasing down prey, diving hard, it was gone.
A man driving his wagon approached the lake. “Look at that Ahab, who says there isn’t even a lake monster to see around here?” said Phineas Cook, to the dog that sat beside him. “I see lots of things.” He cracked the reins and forced the ox, Petunia, down to the lake-shore.
Bringing the wagon to the rim of the ebbing surf, he circled it around next to a massive gnarled stump.
Phineas didn’t want to be on Bear Lake at night, but it couldn’t be helped. Work at the mill had taken longer than expected and he still had to uphold the bargain with Brother Brigham. The rope was expensive and there wouldn’t be a better time than now. Naysayers were asleep, as were curious onlookers.
Bleak stars hung overhead as Phineas removed a rowboat from the wagon and set it upon the lake-shore while Ahab chased his tail.
The ox eyed the water, snorted and threatened to depart.
He ran a hand across her flanks, “Easy, Petunia. I’ve work to do, nothing to be afraid of.”
Ahab whined.
“Same for you. We capture this leviathan and we’ll be able to take care of the Church’s debts. Think of the good we can do.”
Ahab buried his face with his paws.
Icy mist lingered over the lake as Phineas secured a thick hemp rope to the huge stump. He put a pair of buoys in the water, one larger than the other, next to the rowboat. From the buckboard he produced a flag, Old Glory, and attached it to the top of the larger buoy.
It was cold, steam flared from his nostrils as Ahab whined again. “You coward,” he said, loading the buffalo gun and setting it within easy reach.
A mournful sound carried across the waters and Phineas watched a moment, discerning nothing in the gloom. He waited a minute longer and whispered a prayer with eyes open. “Lord, walk beside me.”
He lanced raw mutton upon a great triangular hook. Ahab whined so he tossed a small piece of meat to Ahab, saying, “You wait here. Watch Petunia. I’ll be back shortly.” He attached the hook to the smaller of the two buoys by a twenty-foot chain.
Phineas pushed the rowboat into the lake, with the tethered buoys floating beside. He kept the baited hook in the boat with the buffalo gun. He waved to the pacing dog and rowed with soft sloshing sounds out into the lake. The rope slowly uncoiled from the stump into the frigid waters. It was fall but already frost danced across the valley.
Three hundred feet out and the larger flagged buoy jerked, held fast by the great stump. Phineas had another three hundred feet for the second buoy but with as late and cold as it was, he decided he needn’t row that far. He pushed the smaller buoy to let it drift away. The twenty-foot chain dragged from the boat. Phineas picked up the stout barbed hook and let it lightly into the water.
The smaller buoy shook as the weight of the chain pulled it taut. Phineas smiled. Nothing to do now but wait and let blessings come.
A tortured scream shot across the lake.
Phineas couldn’t tell if it was human or animal nor from which direction it came. The boat rocked as he looked frantically in all directions. Picking up the buffalo gun, he was momentarily disoriented as the boat spun upon the dark mirrored water.
A horrifying roar echoed over the waters, terrible in its satanic majesty. Beastly divergent from the first cry, this was the sound of a bloodthirsty victor, not a victim.
If he had ever heard a monster, that was it. The sensation of that demonic call sickened him, inducing nausea worse than the time he fell into a swarm of pungent crickets. He'd never thought to feel that horrible again, but this enveloped him in thick dread.
Silhouetted against the hills, the greenish light of a fireball rose and floated across the lake some distance south, writhing worm-like in its flight. The color and speed were too strange for a lantern, the twisting trajectory maddening.
Phineas’s eyes and rifle followed the thing as it moved away. He wondered briefly if he saw the eyes of a dragon, its colossal head lumbering back and forth as it swam the lake. If so, the brute would be far larger than he had anticipated, a behemoth for the ages.
The wicked firelight continued south, growing dim until it disappeared behind hills or sinking into the depths. Phineas couldn’t be sure where it vanished in the dark. He pondered his predicament when a splash and knock against the rowboat made the blood in his veins freeze in piercing shards.
Something was alive in the water beside him.
Heart thawed and racing, he paused and looked over the side.
A thick wet tongue caressed his hand.
Cursing, he leveled the gun at Ahab’s wet black face. “Ahab, you fool, I nearly killed ya.” He pulled the dog into the boat and was promptly rewarded with its shaking dry. “As if I’m not cold enough,” he growled, before rowing with all possible speed for land.
On shore, Phineas painstakingly loaded the rowboat into the wagon as the wind came down from the north. It whipped and gave him a chill as it cut sharply through his damp clothes.
“Let’s go Ahab, we gotta get home.”
The dog whined again as a loud creak caught Phineas attention. The rope to the first buoy was stretched rigid to the stump, water droplets catching moonlight before falling.
“The wind must be pulling her tight,” said Phineas. “It’s fine.”
Creaking again, the stump lurched from the bank, exposing a few inches from the sandy shore.
Phineas frowned and stepped upon the stump.
“Wind must really be pulling, but this is too heavy to go any further,” he said, stamping his foot to reassure himself.
Shuddering, both the man and the stump were suddenly heaved through the air and splashed into the lake, creating a white wake in dark churning waters as the monstrous unknown force pulled them away.
Screams were swallowed up by the cold water.
Ahab whined as his master was pulled out of sight.
2.
It had been a cold night on the mountain for Porter and he meant to stay indoors tonight if he could, but first he went looking for a drink. He was of medium size but broad shouldered and strong, a fighting man, a gunslinger. Dark hair beginning to pepper erupted from beneath h
is slouch hat and his beard was long and wild as the north wind. But the most disconcerting thing to the townsfolk that watched him ride in, what made them turn away, was his piercing pale blue eyes. The eyes of a killer.
Riding the full length of the town and back again, he was disappointed. No saloon and no inn. He cursed the luck that broke two bottles of Valley-Tan whiskey on the ride through the mountains.
The most promising sanctuary looked to be a general store. He tied his stallion to the hitching post, knocked grime from his worn duster and went inside. His heavy boots pounding the floorboards as the spurs chimed in.
The air inside was stuffy; sunbeams swirling dust graced through thin windowpanes. A thin clerk paused reading the latest edition of the Utah Magazine and smiled, “Morning sir, what can I help you with today? Name is Thomas.”
“Got any whiskey? Valley-Tan?” asked the rider, looking about the sparse room.
Frowning, Thomas put down the paper and grabbed a broom. “No, ‘fraid not.”
“How about a room then?”
Tightening the broomstick, Thomas said, “No, sir, we don’t. You ought to keep moving along if you’re looking for such things.”
The rider gave a lopsided grin and ran a hand over his long peppered beard. “How’s about you direct me to Brother Cook then,” he said staring through Thomas.
Thomas repeated, “Brother? You . . . you’re Porter Rockwell! The gunslinger of God!”
Port grunted, “You sure you ain’t got anything to drink?”
“Yes, sir.”
Pounding the counter-top, Port said, “I need a squar’ drink!”
“Let me look again. Said you want to see Brother Cook? He’s laid up in bed, had an accident last night, he did,” said Thomas, as he rummaged through crates behind the counter. “Seems he fell into the lake, near froze to death afore he got home. Heard he blamed it on the lake monster.”
“What’s that?” replied Port, only half-listening as he squinted at a suspect case in the corner.
Straightening, Thomas proclaimed, “The eighth wonder of the world Brother Rich calls it. Right here in our own valley. You haven’t heard of the Bear Lake Monster?”
Cold Slither: and other horrors of the weird west (Dark Trails Saga) Page 11