Deep in the ages before old men repeated the stories they were told as children, the last thunder lizard haunted the valley between the Twin Mountains. The valley was his and the red man knew not to disturb him . . . but the white man didn’t.
Cattle baron H. Roth Garfield laid claim to the big valley and homesteaded the Hero-T ranch. It was named for his deceased son. Ranging over thousands of acres consumed a lot of men and Garfield housed them all at the magnificent Hero-T. It was an ideal location, wide long meadows fenced in by stout pine forests and snow clad mountains. Situated halfway between the Oregon and Santa Fe trails, Garfield sold cattle in all directions.
At least he did, until the thunder lizard, called Unktehi by the red man, awoke.
Having made a fantastic sale of a few thousand head of cattle to the army at Fort Union, Garfield declared a celebration. He gave each hand a generous bonus and brought in a grand piano and mariachi band for the big night. Barrels of beer and casks of whiskey were divvied out freely and even the red-lantern girls from San Isadora came. They all banged the drum and sang the songs of life, lust and laughter. And they reveled as loudly throughout the valley as had never been heard since the dawn of time when Unktehi was spawned.
So, rudely awoken from his long slumber, the stalking demon despised the raucous melodies and blaring horns, the giggling women and carousing men. Waiting until dark, the monster watched and when even the horned moon hid behind veiled cloud, he struck.
Tramping into the carnival square with the speed of a ravening wolf, Unktehi rendered man and beast. Horses screamed as they were torn apart and men cried out for their mothers as they died. The lizard’s mighty jaws clamped down and those that could, ran and hid in deep shadows. He crushed horns and sombreros, and swallowed drunken snoring fools slumbering upon card tables. Some brave souls tried to shoot the demon, but nothing could penetrate his thick scaly hide. The thunderous repeat of rifles only further upset the monster and these men merely died next.
Unktehi slew some thirty souls, and by dawn’s early light the nightmare vanished back into the slot canyons. His great three toed tracks left a wake of such awful destruction upon the Hero-T that men whispered afterward across the territories when mentioning the doomed ranch.
Gunfighters and hunters came and gunfighters and hunters died as no bullet nor blade could harm the beast. Too wise for poison or traps, Unktehi or Render, as the white men called him became a blight upon a once fair land. Shaman’s from the five nations were consulted and all said the same, the land was Unktehi’s. Leave or die.
In the weeks to come, the monster returned chaotically, feeding upon whatever it found whether man or beast. The Hero-T soon had more ghosts than men to run the ranch and it was said bad luck covered the house of Garfield like flies on a corpse.
Garfield’s golden hall of dreams became a sad and somber place full of grim despair, until Porter came a riding.
Rain fell like angel tears as Porter rode through the Hero-T ranch’s broken gates and was challenged by a scrawny buck-toothed watchman.
“Who’re you?” asked the watchman, with fear only slightly hidden by disdain. He saw a broad shouldered man with long dark hair and a full black beard. Pistols jutted from Porter’s vest and his wide brimmed slouch hat did not conceal his penetrating gaze. His hands were strong and his voice burned like hot hammered iron.
“Name’s Porter. I’m here to see Garfield,” he answered, riding on past the slack jawed watchman.
“You’re Porter? Sorry, I reckon.”
“Uh huh.” Porter stopped at the stables, unsaddled his dun horse. He tossed a nickel to the stable boy to groom, feed and water the horse. Porter then strode to the Manor house.
The foreman, Uncle Ferdie, held the door open. Port passed through and addressed Garfield who lay stewing in his misery at the dinner table. “’Lo, H.”
Garfield blinked and wiped his bloodshot eyes. “Porter?”
“It’s me.”
“I haven’t seen you since California. What are you doing here?”
Port grinned like the devil. “You know why.” He tipped his hat to a handful of women who eavesdropped from the parlor.
“I’m thankful, I really am, but there isn’t a thing any man can do. I’m ruined and had best leave this cursed valley before all my people are dead. This Render, a demon beast of hell . . . he took four men in the bunkhouse night before last. I cannot ask anymore of anyone.”
“You ain’t asking, I’m offering. I heard this . . . Render? Can’t be shot, poisoned or cut.” Porter sat down across from Garfield and scratched his beard.
“You heard right. Nothing more can be done. You best head on out. I know you’ve been considered a destroying angel to whole lot of men, but that’s men. This is different. This thing is a satanic curse. There isn’t anyone alive who knows how to kill such a demon.”
Port pulled a flask from his vest and took a long pull before answering, “Killing’s an instinct for good or bad. One of the only talents I got. I’ll find a way.”
“Can’t be done,” Uncle Ferdie taunted, as he came out of the gloomy hallway. “Porter, you may have quite a reputation as a blood thirsty killer, but I gots no doubt most of those was in the back. I heard ‘bout you in California. You and a Brown had a saloon in Murderers Bar, and look what happened to Brown?”
Garfield grumbled, “Enough Ferdie.”
“Naw, it’s alright,” said Porter. “Go on since you know the story so well, friend.”
Ferdie wiped his thin beard, answering, “I will. You had a partner, Brown, running your saloon and hotel during the gold rush days upriver of Sutter’s Mill.”
Port nodded.
“Then one night, Brown was horribly murdered. Seems just a day or so later, you up and disappeared. Pretty suspicious. I believe I heard most of the folks there in Murderers Bar was looking to lynch you, gunslinger. You think that was bad, let me tell something . . . this here . . . is gonna be a whole lot worse.” He gestured all around to drive home the point.
“You talk a lot of rot for a drunk. I took bloody handed vengeance on those that murdered Brown. They’re dead and buried like anyone else that ever crossed me and all of ‘em have holes in the front. Everyone knows I took care of those things that rolled into Eden City, the wolf-man in the haunted Henry Mountains, the Finnegan gang and the skin walker of Bear Lake. And there’s still plenty of tales I ain’t never told anybody. But I don’t recall ever hearing any such tales about you around the campfire, except maybe the one about why you’re still alive but none of your cowhands are, friend.”
Ferdie frowned and slunk away amidst the giggling of the women folk.
“You might’ve been too hard on him,” said Garfield. “He’s a good foreman.”
“Sometimes yapping dogs need a kick.”
Garfield nodded but said nothing as he lit his pipe. Outside the rain pelted the windows with an incessant rapping and the trees swayed against the wind. Porter sensed a dark aura hung over the Hero-T ranch that leeched the will power from its inhabitants.
“Tell me a little more about the Render.”
Garfield puffed on his pipe, sending smoke rings over his head like dirty halos. “It’s big. Big as an elephant. Pear shaped body. Walks on two legs, large as tree trunks, has a mighty tail that swings around like a thunderbolt. The arms are tiny, have claws but they are not to be feared. It’s the mouth. A long snake-like head with a maw full of bristling teeth like buffalo horns. Could swallow a man whole if it wanted, but usually it tears them apart first. It’s gruesome I tell you. It does most of its killing with its mouth, some with the feet, but it’s usually that awful fang sprouted mouth.”
Porter listened and took another pull on his flask. “Sounds like a dragon.”
“I suppose it does. But while dragons are reptiles and have scaly skin like it does, they’re reptiles. Reptiles are dumb but this monster is too smart for traps or poison. Render isn’t any reptile. It looks reptilian for sure, but it’s
warm blooded.”
Porter cocked an eyebrow. “Thought you said no bullet or blade can pierce it.”
“None I’ve ever seen. But I felt the thing once. That first night while it ate thirty of my men and a couple gals from San Isadora, it pinned me against a dead horse and the barn. It was gulping down on some poor bastard and I felt its huge leg and it was warm. That tough scaly leg was warm! So, it’s no dragon. It’s a warm blooded demon.”
Port sketched a charcoal picture on a sheepskin and showed it to Garfield who had him shrink the arms even more.
“The arms are even smaller. No bigger than a man’s.”
“How fast is it?”
“I think that’s part of what makes it so dangerous, is that it’s warm blooded. I’ve been in the south and seen alligators moving slow when it’s cold in the morning. Render don’t mind, he’s been seen hunting at night and in the snow. No reptile could do that. So he’s fast, can run fast as any horse. Hell, if he’s chasing a horse, he gets them, they’re dead.”
Port adjusted his drawing and Garfield nodded. “You got it about right now.”
“How about its senses? Eyes and ears, nose?” asked Porter.
“Big eyes and nostrils, can’t say I ever saw its ears but it sure ain’t deaf. It doesn’t like the sound of rifles even if they can’t hurt it.”
“Anything else you can tell me about it?”
“It roars, makes the most hideous sound you ever heard, like a hundred bears coming out of one cavernous mouth. It is the devil’s mouthpiece.”
Porter pondered a moment longer and looked out the window toward the high desert wilderness. “Every creature beds down sometime. Any ideas where Render might?”
“Johnny Martin and that Tabeshaw kid tracked it to the marshes against the north face. Said they figured it went through the swamp to the canyons and caves on the other side. But . . .,”
“But what?”
“They told us about it and the next morning they headed out after it with some buffalo guns and powder kegs. We found what was left of them the next afternoon. Hardly a grease spot, but Ferdie, he recognized the Tabeshaw kids hand and Martin’s mangled lower torso halfway to the marsh. Some hooves were left behind too. We never went out that way again. We buried the hand and torso right there because of the worms.”
Port growled, “You ain’t giving me too terribly much to go on, H.”
Garfield guffawed bitterly, “You know why? There isn’t anything else to tell you. This demon spawn defies God with its very existence. This thing should not be. It’s an abomination. I talked with the medicine man of the Dakotah’s, Walking Bear, and he said Unktehi, he called it, has been here since they came into this world. He said the demon owned this valley and that we were the ones trespassing. He said we should just quit, just leave. He said it would take a greater killer than the demon itself to win back this valley.”
Porter put his feet up on the table.
Garfield got up and looked out the window at his broken creation. “What can be done? We have sent more lead at that thing than we did at Santa Anna when I was young. Heaven doesn’t love me.”
Port grinned answering, “You say guns don’t work? Guns have never worked against me either in a manner of speaking. Maybe I’ll meet this monster head on without any guns or knives. Just so’s its square with the Big Man.”
Garfield spun on Porter glaring, “The medicine man said we should walk away. I cursed him for his advice. Walk away from all I built up? I thought he was insane and we hung on. But no one will come work for me anymore; the odds aren’t in their favor. Over a hundred men have been slain these last twelve weeks. Bounties only brought death to more men and here you are proclaiming a weaponless plan?”
“Wheat! H., I am the weapon.”
“You’re as insane as the monster. But maybe it takes a monster to kill a monster.”
Port raised his flask and took another pull. “Maybe it do, H. Maybe it do.”
The rain stopped, but a curling fog clung to the landscape like a death shroud. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted and the wind whipped off the pines sending needles spiraling. Up on the mountain peaks, snow pushed off the frozen stone like a comet’s tail.
If the grim aura didn’t drape itself over the place, Porter would have thought it all beautiful. But before the sun set he wanted to have a personal understanding of the lay of the land. He asked the dozen ranch hands crowding around the false comfort of the fire ring.
“Anyone willing to show me the way to the marsh?”
The cowboys looked at him with barely concealed disgust.
“That’s where the demon lives,” said one, spitting a wad of tobacco.
“Render is on the other side o’ the swamp. You ought to go back where you came from, if’n you know what’s good for ya, cricket cruncher,” said another chortling.
Porter exhaled loudly saying, “I want to see it. Someone just tell me the way.”
A fat hand with red sideburns rumbled, “You durn fool, we just told ya. You’re asking for a pine box.”
“No, he’s asking to be dinner,” another cackled.
Porter wiped his beard saying, “Just point me in the right direction. I don’t need your concern.”
“No!” shouted the first, spitting again. “You can’t ride in here acting the hero. We all done our best and there ain’t no such thing as hero’s anymore. No one faces that rending demon and lives. You get on your sorry dun horse and git! We don’t need you.”
Porter cocked his head at the ranch hand. “Now, that’s just unfriendly.”
The man spat his mouthful of black juice at Porter’s boots and grinned.
The hammer-like fist of Port hit the man square in the jaw, unhinging it. “Chew with your mouth closed.”
The men gave a wide berth to Porter as he stepped over the unconscious tobacco chewer on his way to the stables. The boy he had paid a nickel waited out front of the swinging stable doors.
“I can show you the way.”
Port looked back at the cow hands who would no longer meet his gaze. The chewer struggled to get off the ground. “That alright with your pa?”
The kid steeled himself before answering, “The Render done ate my pa a fortnight ago.” He then turned his face to brush away a tear.
“Sorry kid. You sure you wanna do this?”
Eyes blazing like dark burning embers, the kid answered, “Yes sir. I wanna see that monster fry in hell.”
“Well saddle up and I’ll see what I can do.”
“We only got a couple hours of daylight left kid. This ain’t gonna be too far is it?”
The kid trotted his horse closer to Port’s. “No sir, I reckon not. I’ve only been to the marsh one time but it wasn’t far. Just over these hills and past those trees.”
“Tell me kid, can you hear this Render coming?”
“Sometimes yes, sometimes no. It can be sneaky. But it will growl and roar at times, so you have fair warning.”
Port looked at him nodding, “You’re a brave kid.”
They passed through a stand of aspens that grew close enough together they had to ride single file. The horses snorted and Port kept a vigilant eye out on either side of the trees though it was difficult to see more than fifty feet.
“They smell something,” said the kid.
“I do too,” grunted Port. “The rot of the swamp and peat bog.” Porter dismounted and led his horse, through the last of the trees to the grassy meadow that extended a hundred feet before hitting the swaying cattails.
Fog wafted over the clearing and murky waters beyond. Behind the swamp loomed titanic granite mountains. A cleft in the rock disappeared like a passageway into a mountainous tomb.
The boy shivered upon the back of his horse and pointed, “That is where the Render lives.”
Port handed the kid his reins and walked closer to marsh. His boots sunk into the mud somewhat as he neared the staggered shoreline and he knew the horses would be worse than
himself. But what about a creature the size of what he had been told? Sure enough a dozen paces to the south there was a cow path of sorts leading to a break in the reeds.
Except it wasn’t a cow path.
Alternating each direction were tracks. There was no getting over the size of them. Massive three toed prints with a stride the length of horse between them. They embedded several inches into the soft earth and were full of marsh water. Porter looked closely and saw that the water was clean and still. These had to be at least a day old by his calculations. Each toe ended in a point, claws as big as his hand. Port looked toward the slot canyon in the mountain. He didn’t hear anything but couldn’t get over the feeling of being watched.
The mist had closed in some and the red glow of dusk stole over the mountains to the west, turning them black against the horizon.
“Maybe we ought to get back. We don’t want to be caught out here after dark,” said the kid softly.
Port nodded, watching the deep canyon across the marsh. “You’re right, nothing more to learn here on our own.”
The crack of lightning and subsequent thunder spooked the horses. The kid startled too and almost lost his grip on Port’s reins.
“Easy, we’re leaving. That was close.”
But the boy’s eyes were frozen staring at the crest of the meadow to the south. He pointed, but while his mouth opened, nothing came out. Something moved through the fog. Shadowy and vague, it slipped between cascading banks of gray. A phantom just beyond recognition.
The hairs prickled and stood up on Ports forearms as he caressed the pistol at his side.
It came closer, slow and steady.
Port narrowed his gaze. The shape wasn’t right. It was too short, too chaotic.
Parting through the mists revealed an old Indian shaman. His gray hair was fashioned in a braid and a few feathers clung, splayed down. He held a crutch like staff and silently lifted it toward Port.
“Walking Bear? Ain’t coming to count coup on me are ya?”
The ancient Indian gave what might either be a grimace or a smile. It was hard to tell because of his many wrinkles and lines. Walking Bear looked old as anyone living, his deep mahogany skin almost matched his buckskins. He also looked to the cleft and then ambled toward Porter and the boy. “Not wise to be here now,” he said, slowly.
Cold Slither: and other horrors of the weird west (Dark Trails Saga) Page 20