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

by David J. West

  The fire briefly flared and hid, perking up and down as it consumed its meager final meal.

  Facing the incoming canoe, Port couldn’t see anyone paddling it, just the form drifting closer. He strained to hear if anyone had fallen overboard or worse, if there was a struggle from someone becoming a monster’s most recent meal.

  “Hey-yaw, taw hey-yaw. Zhoo' yea' Zhoo' yea'. Yana Glooshi, hey-yaw, taw hey yaw. Oh yaw-hey! Oh yaw-hey! Yaw!” sang Lehi, powerful and deep.

  The canoe was almost to the raft and Port puzzled over its missing pilot. He saw that the canoe was misshapen, strangely wider toward the rear. Was there a body slumped to the rear?

  Gazing hard at the canoe, a wisp of flame from the firelight flared up for a fraction of a second and allowed Port to see two black eyes reflecting back the orange fire-light. Two massive eyes each set in the wider portion of what was not a canoe but the monster’s head. Like a crocodile it had cruised upon them, drawn by the shaman’s song.

  The huge multi-fanged mouth sprang open.

  Port braced himself, too stunned to shoot or grab the sack of poisoned roots.

  Ferocious jaws came down, splintering the raft into kindling, snuffing the weak fire and coals.

  Pitched into the air, Port was fell forward into the waiting jaws of the Bear Lake monster. He hit the giant tongue and was aware of a bright green light behind him as the cavernous mouth closed.

  18.

  Cold moonlight reached through the sheriff’s office window, barely warded off by the wood stove. Eight men sat with greasy cards as the lamp guttered low. Stenhouse was the only man sitting out the card game, but his whiskey bottle was emptier than most as he wrote at a furious pace.

  “Probably ought to call it a night,” said the sheriff. “Just after midnight.”

  Stenhouse didn’t bother looking at him from his crouched position over the desk. “I’m not yet done recording the events of today. I have more.”

  The sheriff laughed obscenely and dealt the next hand.

  A thunder rolled off the lake and even against the hugely waxing moon, a green-hued light approached, casting wicked intentions on the office floor like a dueling gauntlet.

  Stenhouse visibly shuddered, saying, “It will keep going, it will keep going.”

  “You know what that is or something?” asked one of his hired gunmen.

  “No . . . no, just unnerving is all.”

  Another hired gun added, “People been seeing ’em all week. Probably shootin’ stars is all, boss.”

  From that remark the deputy told a crude joke causing riotous laughter.

  Stenhouse turned from the desk glaring, “Be quiet, I am trying to work!”

  A chorus of off-color laughter was interrupted by a loud thump upon the roof above their heads. Dust shook from the rafters coating the men in pale gray hues.

  The card players looked up in wonder then terror as steps bounded across the roof. Stenhouse was halfway under his desk by the first thud.

  “What is it?”

  “Wha’ could be so big?”

  Frantic, Stenhouse ordered, “It doesn’t matter, kill it, shoot, shoot!”

  The sheriff looked unconvinced, “Shoot what? Sounds like whoever it was jumped off the roof. Slim, Roger, check it out.” He beckoned toward the door.

  Slim and Roger went to the front door, Slim gingerly opened as Roger covered him. With everything still as ice, they stepped out, pointing their guns in every which direction.

  “Nothing out here, boss,” said Slim.

  A massive white hand reached from off the roof picking Slim up by the head, yanking him out of sight.

  A chorus of gunfire followed, as Roger hit the deck. “Oh dear Lord, I saw it! Hideous!” As the shooting paused, he slammed the door shut and bolted it.

  “Who was it?” demanded the sheriff. “Porter?”

  “That was no man,” wailed Roger.

  A creaking across the roof was met with more lead, but no certainty. Something slammed against the door hard and final. Silence reigned as the sheriff stepped lightly to the side window to look. “Whoever it was threw Slim against the door. That’s a strong man.”

  “I’m telling you that was no man.”

  “Shuddup Roger, he’ll eat lead like anyone else.”

  Stenhouse beneath the desk looked about fearfully.

  The deputy coughed and was glared at for his mistake.

  The men waited for another sound. None came for the space of eight heartbeats.

  Bursting through the window, a savage white shape roared as it rendered men too slow to defend themselves. Shots echoed from several pistols but the bone-pale attacker cast aside the lamp, blinding the men.

  The crunch and splinter of bone and wood tore through the room that lead could not hope to stop.

  Brief retorts from the echoing firearms illuminated the room, letting the terrified men see what they faced before the end came on black talons.

  Roger ran to the jail cell and shut himself in behind the bars.

  Unimpressed, the thing loped to the man cage, gripped the bars and tore the door from its hinges.

  Roger didn’t last as long as the door.

  Almost mad with panic, Stenhouse raced for the front door, clutching his notebooks to his chest.

  Three more shots rang out and the deputy, squealed.

  Daring to look behind, Stenhouse saw green witch-fire engulf the office.

  Stenhouse ran up the street in a panic and threw himself upon the threshold of what he prayed was refuge. He banged on the door crying.

  Growling behind him, heavy loping steps drew near, but stopped cold.

  Putting his arms over his face Stenhouse screamed.

  The door opened.

  Joseph Rich looked down at the gibbering mass of Stenhouse. “What the deuce?” Rich held his rifle at the ready and scanned the darkness as the hysterical crying man held fast to his knees.

  “Bring him in,” said Charles Rich, looking over his son’s shoulder into the vacant gloom. “He needs a blessing.”

  19.

  Porter had been baptized by water and by fire, now he was sure where the twain should meet. Hot fetid breath whirled about him like a hurricane as a monstrous tongue lashed, attempting to force him down a bottomless black gullet.

  Closed inside the leviathan’s mouth, Port gripped the top two rear fangs in the monster’s maw, only they allowed purchase without shearing his hands off. The tongue, almost as long as he was tall, proved a formidable opponent. Kicking at the pink monstrosity, Port knew he could not hold out forever.

  He despaired thinking of his holy blessing. Not cutting his hair would not help against being digested, no bullets or knives were needed to end his existence here. What of his children and Christine? What would they do without him?

  Anger coiled up in him, like a serpent preparing to strike its deadly blow.

  The tongue struck again, trying to fling him.

  Roaring, Port launched himself at the tongue and grasped it as he would a greased pig. The air pressure changed and he knew there were at the surface. Twisting the tongue, the monsters mouth opened and Port let himself out, still grasping the end.

  The monster wouldn’t close its mouth for fear of severing itself.

  Once outside of the teeth’s way, Port noticed something stuck on the lower left jaw-line. A crude contraption of tiny interwoven bones and rawhide, similar to the bizarre fetish he had seen earlier.

  The monster struggled, but Port kept a firm grasp with one hand on the slimy tongue. Try as he might he couldn’t free the fetish with one hand.

  A deep bass inside the monster reverberated out.

  He let go of the tongue and yanked the interwoven mess from the bleeding gums.

  It let out a rumbling purr, and Port could swear that the great eye went from a dull black to blue. Whatever wicked spirit had held the monster in thrall, was released.

  Running a hand back and forth over the thick scaly hide, Port looked the mo
nster in the eye. A thick eyelid closed in rhythm to his strokes.

  It let out a rumbling purr yet again.

  “What have I got to lose,” he said, to the monster as much as himself. “Lemme up, Blue.”

  Port slid over the head of the calmed beast. He found he could grasp the folds of skin where the jaw ended. Port lightly kicked at its neck with his waterlogged boots and the beast started forward. He could even guide the direction of the monster as they cruised over the lake by pulling one way or the other just like a horse and its reins.

  “Wheat!” Port called aloud. He had broken the wildest stallion ever.

  The Bear Lake monster swam quickly through the water in a way that reminded Port of the seals he had seen in California. It was quick and he had to pull upwards a number of times to keep the creature from diving into the depths. It was exhilarating.

  Piloting the monster to shore, Port finally realized how chilled he was. He needed warmth if he was to survive. Thinking of survivors...glancing over the waters there was no sign of Lehi. Old man must have drowned. Port bowed his head for some time.

  The beast slumped its way onto shore using its shorter paddle like feet just as a seal would.

  Port ran his hand along the monster’s snout and ushered it away. He didn’t want it getting any ideas about his horse nearby “Go on, Blue. Git. We’ll be meeting up soon enough, I promise.”

  The monster seemed reluctant but finally went into the lake and disappeared beneath moon-stained waters.

  It took some time to get a fire going, but once the blaze picked up, Port collapsed beside it. Who would believe it? Revenge could wait, he needed sleep after breaking Jonah’s stallion.

  Why had he named the monster Blue? He didn’t know, but it made him laugh.

  “Wheat,” he chuckled as he fell asleep.

  20.

  Climbing off his horse, Port limped on account of his water-logged boots drying by the fire and shrinking to an uncomfortable size. He lost his 45-70 in the lake and one of his pistols and all of his ammunition.

  Shuffling into the general store Port could only point at the ammunition.

  “Morning Brother Rockwell. You weren’t part of that mess last night were you?” asked Thomas the shop keep.

  Port shrugged through bleary eyes.

  “Did you drink all of those tinctures last night? No wonder you feel so terrible.”

  Port rubbed his face and responded, “No, just get me some cartridges.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Cartridges!” hollered Port. “Wait, what mess last night? How’d you know?”

  Thomas gave a patronizing smile. “Last night right across the street. The sheriff’s office burnt down. Everyone who was staying there is dead, burnt up, except for Brother Stenhouse.”

  “Stenhouse? Where is that polecat?”

  Sniffing, Thomas responded, “Brother Stenhouse is among the most respected men we have in the Church, he hardly deserves to be called a polecat.”

  “Cartridges and where is he?”

  Thomas gulped, “I understand he is at Brother Rich’s for the moment. He went there last night a crying and a hollering that something was out to get him. No doubt he was distressed about the fire that took so many lives.”

  Port paid for the ammunition and walked out, figuring he had almost all the pieces to the puzzle. Now to get the last one from the dog’s own mouth.

  21.

  Stenhouse was shivering in the parlor, sipping warm milk. He started at Port’s entrance, a dark avenging angel with the brilliance of the sun at his back. Charles Rich calmed him as Joseph shut the door and ushered the other family members out.

  Joseph said, “He has been carrying on all night. Not a body in the house got a wink of sleep last night.”

  Stenhouse was still shaking, though the comfort of the Apostle had soothed him somewhat.

  “Come and take a look at this,” said Joseph, leading Port back outside.

  On the ground in an obvious perimeter all about the Rich home, were big wolf-like tracks, as if a creature met an invisible barrier through which it could not pass.

  “What do you make of that?” asked Port.

  “What else? Father is here.”

  Port nodded and the two went back inside. Sitting across from Stenhouse, Port tipped his hat to Charles and said to Stenhouse, “Alright, don’t feed me any cow pies. What is that thing? What do you know about it?”

  Stenhouse looked at Port and quivered again, “It will find me.”

  “Are you talking about the Bear Lake monster?” asked Joseph.

  “We got bigger fish to fry,” said Port.

  Confused, Joseph shot back, “No, we don’t.”

  “Hold on son,” said Charles. “There is a deeper conspiracy afoot.”

  Stenhouse stared at the wall and looked far away, remembering. “It was Harrison and Godbe. They started it. Sure, I was right there with them, along with Shearman, Kelsey, Tullidge and Lawrence among others but it was Harrison and Godbe that started it.”

  He took a sip of his warm milk. “I’m not mad. I have seen things. They discovered the answers when they went to New York and met the medium Charles Foster—he greeted them in Heber C. Kimball’s voice! They knew it was Kimball communicating with them from beyond the grave. He told them our path was correct and Brigham was a fallen prophet, then others came and spoke the same; Joseph Smith, Alexander Humboldt, Solomon—even Christ spoke to them.”

  Joseph Rich snorted.

  “Truly, they didn’t see him, but he spoke to them and told what we wanted to hear. Our reformation path is correct and Brigham is wrong. He is not infallible.”

  Charles quieted Joseph. “He is speaking what he believes to be true.”

  “Of course I am. They brought back their ideas and wisdom. We have communed with spirits. Then Colfax came. The government wants to destroy Brigham and the Church along with it. We couldn’t let that happen, we had to do something, reform the Church from within to save it. If we can show how we accept the world, they will accept us.”

  “What’s all this up here then?”

  “We tried to talk to Brigham, to make him see, but he was obstinate and cruel. We knew we had to make a stand but time was short. We met at the lodge, with the ferry on Bear River, Godbe’s lodge. We held a séance. Harrison directed it. I remember it was cold no matter how we stoked the fire. A powerful force came to our room. It spoke from behind us, strong and vibrant. It surprised us. We all heard it but none of us could see it. It said to use an Indian shaman and the Bear Lake monster, to bring down Brigham. It said, His master wanted to bring down Brigham and would use his earthly servants to do it. We were all so thrilled to know the Lord was on our side.”

  Port rolled his eyes but remained silent.

  “We were validated. I thought it odd to use a heathen for the Lord’s work but we did as we were told. I found the shaman. He was staying just upriver from the lodge.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Ligaii-Maiitsoh.”

  Joseph widened his eyes, “You mean Lehi? He’s a friend.”

  Shaking his head, Stenhouse went on, “He is ancient as the mountains. He said he would call upon the Great Serpent to do our bidding. But something went wrong instead of just scaring people, the monster started killing people. I tried to help the Lamanites watch for the beast but it only made things worse.”

  “Ever wonder if you aren’t on the side of angels, much as you think you are?” asked Port.

  Stenhouse looked sharply at the suggestion. “There have been setbacks, but no, we are right.”

  “Then what was last night?”

  Shuddering again Stenhouse said, “That wasn’t right, I think it serves Ligaii-Maiitsoh. There has been a mistake. The fiend was supposed to be controllable, but it went blood-mad when it discovered the Shoshoni were in the valley. It has surely slain old Lehi. It will come for me next. I will never see Fanny again.”

  “That’s enough crying. W
hat is it about the Shoshoni?”

  “The Shoshoni used to capture Navajo and sell them into slavery. All sorts of horrible things happened. I learned of this from Chief Many-Buffalo. The Navajo retaliated by sending witches out to destroy the Shoshoni, I believe Ligaii-Maiitsoh must be the last one.”

  Port rocked back in his chair, “I couldn’t get him to tell me a darned thing and I even had a translator.”

  Stenhouse was surprised, “Why? He speaks perfectly good English. Oh yes—you were at the Bear River massacre; he was never going to tell you anything.”

  Port bristled as Stenhouse continued. “Many-Buffalo said his tribe was in the path of the skin-walker, and were under its doom. I wanted to help him but I knew there was nothing to be done when the crazy old man raved as he did over the Shoshoni enemies?”

  “What about them fetish pieces I found? Collection of bones?”

  “Some kind of curse is all I know. It lets the bloodthirsty creature focus where the shaman directs it,” said Stenhouse trailing off as recognition washed over. “You! You put the fiend upon me!” screamed Stenhouse, rising from his chair for the first time.

  “Just like it was put upon the Cooks and I couldn’t have that.”

  “It wasn’t for the Cooks—it was for you,” snarled Stenhouse.

  “I didn’t know what it would do. I just followed my gut,” answered Port.

  Stenhouse still fumed. “You black-hearted murderer.” He stood ready to fight bringing his fists up.

  Port slammed him against the wall with ease. “This is what I do, boy,” said Port, before letting him go. “And I never killed anyone who didn’t need killing.”

  Stenhouse collapsed to the floor and wept.

  Joseph asked, “What about the Bear Lake monster?”

  “Smoke and mirrors,” answered Port. “It was a decoy for the old shaman, I don’t believe it will give you any more problems.”

  “You didn’t kill it did you?”

  “No, I made peace with it. It’ll behave itself.”

  Charles Rich asked a question, “What will you do, Brother Rockwell?”

  “We’ll throw down with the shaman and his beast. I’ll use ’em up.”