“And the wolf.”
“Wolf?”
McKay continued, “Big wolf. I never stuck around the Henry’s after dark. Wash told me the wolf would get me. Said it has plagued his people for two Wash now. They won’t hunt or camp within a couple hours ride of it.”
Porter frowned. “Is it related to the uprising? Bad blood unleashed?”
“That’s what I asked Wash. He wouldn’t say for sure, but I was able to piece together some from a few other Utes. Sounds like a sorcerer or some such thing cursed the mountains and the wolf that stalks the Henry’s to this day is its terrible guardian. So don’t go there or you will get ate.”
Porter folded his arms with a disbelieving smirk across his face. “So where is Wash now?”
“Someone shot poor Wash a few years back when he came begging for food in winter. Anymore secrets he knew, the stubborn cuss, he took to a cold grave.”
Port listened but must have had an unconvinced look upon his face. “So no one alive knows how to find the treasure?”
“Now hear me out. I ain’t run you untrue yet has I? The secret to finding the treasure Wash said once; something about no peace until there is peace for the victims. And I don’t know how that could ever happen. Whole lotta bad blood must have been spilt at these mines. No way for anyone to account for that now. Blood won’t wash away blood.”
Porter straightened, “I gotta tell ya, I didn’t kill the Kofford gang. The wolf did.”
McKay sat at attention. “You’re plum full of surprises ain’t ya? Can I ask why it left you alone?”
“I was still in the foothills, looking up into the camp the Kofford’s had in the canyon. Too dark to actually see what happened, but Lord I heard it. A real slaughter from what I saw in the morning too. The Kofford’s were murdering, lying, thieves; who deserved no better, but still . . . ”
“So you found the ingot in the morning?”
“Yeah.”
McKay lit his pipe and took a good long puff before answering, “My advice. Don’t ever go back there. That wolf is baiting you. Maybe he knew he couldn’t get you that night and did that to tempt you to come back. Don’t. You get greedy or too curious and go poking around, something will happen. Your horse will throw a shoe or break a leg and you’ll be stuck and the wolf will come down on you like a thunderhead of teeth.”
“Why didn’t it get you?” asked Porter.
McKay produced his crutch, “Let’s just say I had an incident that made me reevaluate my priorities. I don’t care to be food for wolves. I’d rather go out with a little comfort. Tragedy is the incompatibility of two good things.”
Porter rubbed his bearded chin, adding, “Something else. When I found that ingot, I could swear from the corner of my eye, I saw a pale woman behind me. I turned, but she was gone. I think she was a spirit and crying. Any ideas about that?”
“Nope, you’re on your own for that one.”
The look in McKay’s eye told Porter beyond a doubt that he knew something about the ghostly woman but wouldn’t budge about that tidbit of information. Deciding in an instant that it was useless to pursue further Porter stood, “Much obliged for your help.”
They shook hands. “No problem. Just remember what I said, don’t go back there,” said McKay, gesturing toward the Henry’s with his crutch.
Porter nodded, mounted his horse and rode on.
Three times Porter was heading for home and three times he turned the mare around to head back to the Henry’s. It tore at his craw that he honestly liked McKay yet knew the old man was lying. He had been free with information but had obviously held some things back, that and the use of the crutch was irregular.
He cursed himself, he had more wealth in that single Spanish ingot than he would likely see in a year’s worth of monies made cow punching. He didn’t need the hassle of trying to find more cursed gold or dealing with some kind of wolf thing in the haunted Henry’s, so why was he turning around?
Porter hated to admit it, but at least in part, it had to be because McKay told him not to. He couldn’t stand anyone telling him what he could or couldn’t do. It also galled him that McKay was likely bee-lining it to the Henry’s at this very moment to look over the bitter remains of the Kofford gang. Perhaps he knew some trick or other that would allow him to find the gold after the bloodshed. Maybe everything he had told McKay was key enough to take care of whatever that wolf thing was. If indeed there even was a monster wolf.
Port had seen a lot of strangeness in his time, weird things that crawled up out of the abyss or even just man’s visceral inhumanity to man. Maybe that’s all this was too. Just some deranged bloody-handed lunatic with a penchant for knives. Maybe several somebody’s. The tracks had been indistinct and looked wolf-like but perhaps it was just a big scavenger and cautious Paiutes were the real culprits after all. It was still their land and who knows what offense the Kofford’s had likely done to the tribes in recent history.
But none of that seemed the real answer in Port’s heart. No, there was some darkness that lay over that mountain range. Something sick and twisted deep inside like an unnatural cancer. There was plenty of bad medicine there just like Bridger always said.
The storm moved on thru bringing a cold spell with it. Porter guessed it would be a bright clear night, with frost possible. Would tonight be the full moon? Or was it still waxing? He hated that he wasn’t sure anymore. He felt for the Bowie at his side. It was always there but it was an encouraging reassurance to feel it again. He had the pistols and Sharps rifle fully loaded, but there was something about the big knife that granted a primal strength, an indomitable will in the struggle to come.
He pondered all these things watching an eagle soaring high on the updrafts while a murder of crows gathered and squawked a few ridges over. The difference struck him funny and he laughed a little. He wanted to laugh at life a little more than he did these days.
Darkness came sullen and quicker than expected. The orange on the horizon rapidly faded to violet before bruising indigo. Stars winked into existence, like pinpricks in the curtain of night and the cosmic serpent wheeled overhead.
Porter came from downwind again, intending to take the high ground above the Kofford massacre. Ever cautious, he dismounted and led his horse on foot the last mile or so in the dark. A bright moon began its arc over the Henry’s just as he reached his desired overlook.
He watched with the patience of a chopping block and sure enough, something stirred down amongst the Kofford corpses. Port thought it was a coyote at first but then recognized the stooping gait. Inching down from his spot he carefully moved in on McKay.
To reach the no longer limping old man, Port had to cross a small dry gulch. He stepped careful, heel to toe to avoid loose shale when a stone gave way and he slid down on his rear, hitting his head.
Blinking, an Indian woman stood above him. Pale and sad eyed she extended a hand. Port reached for it, and his hand passed through hers. This only increased the forlorn look upon her face. She glanced back toward the mountain and silently vanished in a ghostly fade out.
Porter blinked again, sure he had seen her despite the bump on his head.
“Thought it might be you,” said McKay, from the top of the gulch. His rifle was leveled at Port. “Gotta be careful sneaking round these parts.”
Port started to stand.
“Not so fast. Take off that gun belt, slow and easy like.”
Port undid the belt and tossed it a short distance from himself. “You ain’t worried about the wolf?”
“Sure I am, but I know his schedule and weakness. You don’t.” Regardless of what he just said, McKay glanced about warily, as if expecting he could be wrong. “Now get over to the side,” he said, beckoning with his rifle.
As the barrel was pointed away, Porter threw a flat piece of shale at McKay then lunged toward the old man. The flung piece of stone, slapped across McKay’s hand and face. A shot rang out wild as McKay cried out in pain.
Porter
slammed him to the ground, kicking the rifle away.
“Folks aim high in the dark old man,” growled Porter.
“I wasn’t gonna do you no harm. Honest. I just wanted to get my share.”
Porter grunted at that and twisted the man about, then bound McKay’s hands with a thin piece of rawhide.
“You can’t do this Porter. Pick up that gun and be ready for what comes. I got silver bullets in there. You don’t know!” McKay was urgent and legitimately frightened. Porter picked up McKay’s repeating rifle. It was a fine piece.
“That wolf is gonna come, I swear it.”
Watching, listening, smelling, Porter caught nothing his rational senses could touch. But his heart said otherwise. The more he thought about it, the more he was sure that the ghostly Indian maiden was trying to warn him.
“Speak the truth McKay, or I’m gonna leave you here as wolf bait,” growled Porter, as he shoved McKay up over the rise.
“You wouldn’t do that. You can’t!”
Port laughed and pushed the man down on the ground, before picking him up by the belt. “You wanna try my patience?”
“The wolf won’t come out til after midnight. That’s gotta be soon. I got them six silver bullets and a double load of silver shot in the scatter gun yonder. Might not be enough.”
“You still ain’t really told me anything,” said Porter.
McKay looked Porter over, swallowed and said, “I’ve been hunting for that gold for twenty years. I earned it. I always knew it was near this canyon, where I found the mule hooves, and the slag from the smelters. It’s got to be right near here, but I could never find it and that damned wolf. He’s killed three of my partners already. And he’ll get us too, if you don’t let me get the shotgun and we ride!”
Porter pulled a flask from his coat pocket and took a swig, all the while keeping the rifle and an eye trained on McKay. “You are a sorry liar. There is something, but you ain’t told me anything but a line of half-truths. What do you know about the ghosts?”
“Nothing.”
Porter scrutinized McKay and spit. “I’m gonna leave you here and come back at dawn, if I don’t start hearing some truth.”
“Alright, I’ll tell you what Wash told me and what I learned after I shot him.”
Porter cocked an eyebrow at the mention of the old Indian being shot, though he wasn’t surprised by anything but the admission of guilt.
“When the Utes rose up against the Spanish, started stoning and knifing them, a few Spaniards managed to hole up in a cavern for shelter. They took squaws as hostages, thinking it would preserve them against the braves. Thing is, the braves could not be turned aside even for their women. Ortiz killed the women one by one hoping to put the fear of God into them. Wash said a medicine man lay a curse on the Spaniards by the power of some heathen god. Now anyone hunting for gold at night is bound by magic to this mountain, as are the ghosts of the maidens Ortiz slew. Neither can leave.”
Porter grunted at that but said nothing as he watched the darkness.
“That’s how I know its gotta be around here somewhere. The ghosts are here and can’t leave. It’s close. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you about it. It should be mine. I earned it.”
Port stifled a laugh.
A wolf howled from deep in the night.
McKay struggled frantically at his rawhide bonds. He tried to stand but Porter pushed him to his knees again.
“That’s the wolf coming for blood. He is bound to this mountain same as the Indian maidens and can’t leave until—”
“Until what?”
“Until someone breaks the curse. And you can’t break a curse on the dead.”
A ghostly witch light appeared on the mountain side, swinging back and forth, beckoning to Porter. Again he heard the flute and wondered at the gloomy tune. It was hard to suppress chasing after the light and music.
“What is that?” he asked, McKay without even bothering to look at the man on the ground.
“Witches,” McKay spat, “witches that want to curse you and eat your spleen. They must serve the wolf.”
“I’ve had about enough of that attitude.”
“What you gonna do about it? You need me.”
“The hell I do,” snarled Port, pushing McKay over as he strode toward the mysterious fire light.
“You can’t leave me like this.”
Porter turned and drew his bowie knife. McKay winced as Porter cut the rawhide. “Get your scatter gun and keep watch. You try anything—”
McKay nodded, “I’ll keep watch, but don’t go toward the witch light.”
“I have to see.”
Porter was halfway between the witch light and McKay when he could finally make out the figures holding the light and the players of the flute, a trio of ghostly Indian maidens.
They were at once both beautiful and sad, proud and broken. They gestured to the mountainside which warped and revealed a cavernous doorway where Porter would never have believed such a thing could exist. Dried branches and twigs filled the cavern so that no one could get past.
Porter heard McKay scrambling away in the darkness, then the quick hoof beats of the old man retreating on horseback but the maidens had his full attention. They pulled at the straw and sticks clearing a path so Porter could get into the mountain.
A howl and a scream echoed across the valley.
Porter paused, wondering if the old man’s death was his fault.
But there was no time. Silent, yet urgent, the maidens formed a path through the rotten brambles into the belly of the mountain and Porter squeezed through.
Clear blue light emanated from the ghostly maidens illuminating the ancient mineshaft. Port strode over the bones and armor of conquistadors scattered over the cavern floor. They were pin-cushioned with arrows and hatchet dents. Among them were the skeletons of innumerable Paiute children. There was no wondering at the maiden’s sorrow.
Behind a venomous growl tore into the somber peace. A massive wolf yearned to launch through the passage. Striving forward its red rimmed jaws snapped and a negative shadow light of blackness leered from its empty eye sockets.
Porter reached for his Navy Colt and emptied the six shots into the monstrous beast. None had effect. He cursed himself for a fool, he had left the Sharps rifle with the silver slugs outside as he entered the mountain.
Only the monstrous bulk of the wolf slowed it from being upon Porter already. Its matted grisly fur twisted as it inched through the brambles. An aura of fear wafted off the monster like stink on a festering corpse.
Porter willed himself the courage to not avert his gaze—a gaze into the madness of the abyss-like eyes. He backed away, farther into the mineshaft come tomb. Rusted sword hilts and broken flintlocks littered the floor. Porter knew that none of these relics would avail him.
The hideous wolf smashed through the final decayed branches. Desiccated haunches readied to latch onto Porter.
“Conquistadoro?”
The monster paused. “Que?”
“I thought so. No reason for a Paiute curse to attack Paiutes. No reason for them to keep away, but from you . . . yes. You would have an ax to grind.”
Port edged backward and glanced over the pile of bones. One final pile of empty royal looking armor lay in a heap, surrounded by three piles of smaller fragile looking bones.
“They called your bluff didn’t they and sealed you in here.”
“Soy una Brujo. Sé que la oscuridad arts,” came a voice like a death rattle.
“Yeah, I’ll bet you do. Some men have an awful will that can transcend even death. But all things must come an end.”
What could only sound like laughter wheezed from the maw of the wolf. “Lo que ya está muerta no puede morir.”
“I’m sure you’d like to keep thinking that.”
Porter bet everything on the hint that he knew of the Spanish legends—that and that the ghostly Paiute maidens had led him here in the first place, the one place where th
e curse could be undone.
“But I know your name . . . Ortiz.”
The monster turned each way looking for escape but the tunnel had become a round chamber without exit. Only Porter, the three ghostly maidens and the wolf Ortiz remained.
“Me pueden quedar atrapados, pero todavía puedo matarte.”
Porter beckoned, arms wide open for the assault. “Let’s tangle!”
The wolf Ortiz leapt, jaws agape, dark claws glinting.
Knocked to the ground, Porter saw the hollow throat begging to receive him. Fangs gnashed in desperation to destroy the one man who knew the true identity of the cursed beast.
Taking hold of the jaw, Porter spread the monster’s mouth open until it snapped. He lifted the crippled monster above his head and slammed it down.
Ortiz tried to limp away but Porter’s bull hands grabbed the cursed werewolves tail and yanked him backward. In a suicidal last ditch effort, Ortiz dove for Porters throat.
But one last knock to the monster’s skull and it forgot its drive momentarily. Insulted, it leapt a final time.
A heap of dry bones hit Porter and fell to dust at his feet.
What remained of Ortiz was no more, the curse lifted and the way out of the tunnel appeared once again?
Porter stepped forward and then the gleam of gold bars, piled one atop another called to him. He stopped, taking the glorious wealth in with his eyes like a starving man at a feast. There was gold enough to buy the territory, gold enough to become a king. He reached out.
The ghost maiden stood before him and shook her head, she pointed at the bones of the children, then at her own and those of her sisters.
“I’m sorry Ma’am.” Porter pulled the original gold ingot from his pocket and tossed it on the pile of others. “My apologies. Rest in peace. You’ve earned it.”
He exited the mouth of the tunnel and it closed up behind him like a hunger was finally satisfied. Porter knew he could never find it again. He also knew he would never try.
Killer Instinct
Cold Slither: and other horrors of the weird west (Dark Trails Saga) Page 19