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

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Cold Slither: and other horrors of the weird west (Dark Trails Saga) Page 24

by David J. West


  I wondered that I should be so alarmed, as this was the longest space yet where I had not heard Rockwell’s guns and I wondered if he yet lived.

  Chief John leveled his rifle and bid the three braves accompany him forward into the entrance. I was close behind and as I took a step inside, cold wind met my face and a terrible smell of stale blood and offal met my senses threatening to catapult my morning’s nourishment free. Chief John and the braves went down the ladder and I followed.

  Pillars of light from the skull’s eyeholes above pierced the dark but the rest was lost in shadow.

  We are not alone, whispered Chief John.

  Nothing was in sight and I moved forward a step but was quickly pulled back by Chief John as something struck right where I had been. I felt the air and heard the thump.

  We surely disappointed the ambush by not perishing.

  I saw the quick movement of black on black only because of the sheen of sweat glinting faintly upon the muscular giant who charged me.

  Then the flash of guns lit the gloom and a cry of shock and pain revealed we had lost a man. Framed against the gunshots I saw big shadows of men charge and soon I was struck across the mouth by a broad hand and taken to the dirt floor. Chief John’s rifle blasted a man and I felt a body fall against me on the ground. I struck back against who I know not. And then just as suddenly it was over.

  Breathing heavily, I was picked up and brushed off. Chief John’s voice said we had slain the men who meant to ambush us and that we should go outside to the cliff behind the kiva where he believed Toohoo-emmi and Rockwell had gone as everything inside the kiva had been but a trap or distraction.

  I was dazed and bleeding from a scalp wound but I followed and realized we had lost two of the braves who had come with us but Chief John was resolved to hurry and deal with this wicked threat.

  Outside and behind the skull like mound of the kiva stood Rockwell, facing a tall man covered in black paint who held a woman to his chest with an obsidian dagger to her throat. He called out in broken English for us to surrender to him and he would spare the woman.

  Rockwell answered, Like Hell. He had his pistol trained on the man but did not pull the trigger as he did not wish for the man to pitch her over the side if he was hit. Let her go! Rockwell ordered.

  Toohoo-emmi knew he was in a desperate situation, his men were all dead and we had conquered his sacred city. He had nothing left but a hostage and a glass knife. His terrible eyes swept back and forth at us and he muttered some wicked verse low under his breath.

  What foul powers of darkness can be contained in but mere words I know not, but I was a witness that they do take hold and demand to be reckoned with. The Paiute brave who had followed us all the way up the slopes and fought beside us suddenly went mad and tackled Rockwell sending them both off the precipice.

  Toohoo-emmi threw the woman at Chief John and lunged with his knife. I was in shock but grasped the woman and pulled her from between them. She was either in shock or drugged as she went limp in my arms and went to the ground.

  Chief John grappled with Toohoo-emmi and I went to assist him when I heard Rockwell’s cry for help.

  He was not dead?

  Clinging to the edge of the cliff with both hands, the long haired gunfighter had the possessed brave holding at his left foot and growling like a mad dog.

  “I’m trying to shake him loose but I can’t do that and climb up,” shouted Rockwell.

  I looked behind me and Toohoo-emmi and Chief John were in a terrible tussle. I looked to Rockwell and he shouted, “Hurry up and do something!”

  I picked up a stone the size a fist and looked from Toohoo-emmi to Rockwell and his assailant.

  Rockwell saw what was on my mind and said, “Don’t miss!”

  The mad brave was trying to bite Rockwell’s slipping boot and I carefully released the stone and hit the poor deranged man square in the face. He swatted at the missile and came loose of Rockwell and plummeted the hundreds of feet to the ground below, all the while clawing at the air as if he might suddenly take flight.

  I extended a hand to help Rockwell up when I felt someone tugging at my shoulders to send me over the brink!

  Toohoo-emmi had knocked Chief John senseless and was striving to eliminate me! The last of his foes still at the summit.

  I pushed back in vain, Toohoo-emmi was much the stronger and I had no traction.

  “Watt! Duck!”

  I looked just in time to see Rockwell training his pistol right at me. I ducked and I felt the heat, powder and air cascade as the bullet went right past my ear. I was deaf in it for days. But Rockwell had sent a slug right into Toohoo-emmi’s face. Yet the wicked shaman was not dead!

  He gargled and grasped at his face as blood poured over his black-painted body, his cheek and ear were ruined but he was not yet even close to dead. He turned and ran from us as I pulled Rockwell up and over the edge.

  Chief John had been sorely struck but was still alive as well. The woman remained catatonic but appeared otherwise undamaged.

  I helped Chief John to his feet and senses as Rockwell went in pursuit of the foe.

  Toohoo-emmi had run to back side of the mesa and to another ladder and further down a relative back way to Kai’Enepi. As near as I could tell, from this high place you could climb down into another slot canyon and eventually make your way back to the Virgin River.

  Rockwell was already halfway down when Toohoo-emmi reached the bottom and began kicking and knocking away at the long ladder in an effort to knock Rockwell loose.

  He succeeded in knocking the ladder loose and it started to fall over to the left and into an awful gorge. Rockwell leapt free and caught a jutting pinnacle of stone.

  Toohoo-emmi then disappeared into the crags and we saw him no more. It took Rockwell sometime to be able to climb back to our position.

  We would camp in the cliff palace that night and care for our dead and wounded. Chief John led us all in prayer to cleanse this place and among the purifications that were done, we did burn some of the towers and the great skull kiva at the summit. It was a bonfire for the ages and finally by morning did the thing collapse upon itself and release what evil spirits it held.

  The next day we began the long arduous journey back to St. Thomas and Rockwell did grumble exceedingly about, “The one that got away.”

  Chief John reminded him that we should see Toohoo-emmi again soon enough and though it was a bitter defeat for him, the black magic medicine man would not leave us alone for long. He would have to be challenged again.

  We reached St. Thomas a day later and I did then begin to relate the events to President Young and herein record them for myself alone as it was not recommended that we share such foul sorcery with the body of the Saints.

  The last night we remained in St. Thomas, there was a dance and gathering of the Saints. President Young did advise them to be sober minded and such but it did not dampen the festivities much. I was discussing some of the recent political maneuverings with you [Mr. Bonelli] and as you may recall I was called away by a Brother Sorenson.

  Now I shall relate the rest of the evening to you and leave this full recollection in your care as I cannot take it back to Salt Lake and further scrutiny.

  I was told that on the southernmost edge of St. Thomas there was a ruckus of some kind. Some said that it was not unlike the one the first night we had arrived and that it was involving the Paiutes. Still I was advised to go as I had some doings with them in the days previous and it was thought that perhaps I could help in calming things down.

  I arrived to discover that Brother Rockwell was already there and was facing off with a rather large Paiute. Who to my astonished eyes turned out to be Toohoo-emmi himself. He spoke in an angry broken English, calling down blood and fire upon Rockwell for the destruction of his city and his acolytes. That he did blame both Rockwell and Chief John for the desecration of his sacred priesthood and he was there for terrible revenge and through the power of Xuthaloggua
[his toad-like idol] he would conquer.

  Chief John had not been found as yet but Rockwell did not seem worried. He said to the big Paiute, “Throw down and do your worst.”

  Toohoo-emmi then raised his hand which held the curious idol and crying aloud the earth rumbled and rose at his very feet.

  I was aghast at the sight of it.

  In a circle of some twenty feet round, the ground churned and pitched as if boiling and then a blast of lightning went from his hand that held the idol of Xuthaloggua, to Rockwell, centering upon the medicine pouch from the Paiute maiden that he still wore.

  While the lightning from the toad did seem intense it was swallowed whole by the medicine pouch and no harm came to Rockwell.

  Whatever force there was blasting from the vile shaman, it was taken and held by that maiden’s magical pouch. Rockwell looked askance at the blackened pouch and then to Toohoo-emmi and he said dryly, “My Turn.” He drew his snub-nosed Navy Colts and emptied both barrels he into the dark shaman.

  Yet here was no discernable effect at the impact of those slugs! The dark man smiled mockingly and proclaimed the power of Xuthaloggua and I could see that even Rockwell was worried a moment.

  But as Toohoo-emmi went to attempt a second blast from his idol, the Paiute squaw who Rockwell had rescued twice over, struck the toad-like deity Xuthaloggua, with a broad stick.

  The wicked shaman did wince in fear as the broken clay god crumbled in his hands from the sundering. He then grabbed the squaw and stabbed her with his dagger.

  Rockwell shot again and this time blood flew from the shaman’s chest.

  I counted at least nine direct hits in the big man’s torso as he shook with the force of them who then fell over dead with a look of astonishment upon his face and pieces of the broken idol in his dead hand.

  The maiden was dead and for her Rockwell did mourn.

  But those who had gathered cheered and swept over to Rockwell and then some cast stones at Toohoo-emmi’s corpse and even his destroyed idol. Before I could say anything, Rockwell admonished them to stop and bury the wicked man’s body right where it lay, especially since the ground was already broken up and made for easy diggings.

  After this was done, Chief John arrived and asked about what had happened. He looked to the medicine pouch Rockwell had and proclaimed that it had done what it was intended and was now used up. That seemed to strike Rockwell fine and he cast it off.

  Chief John was also rather concerned on where Toohoo-emmi was buried and he was shown approximately where that was. But because the ground had been thrown up in such force it was difficult to tell exactly where the body lay so a guess was ventured forth to tell Chief John and he then went and fetched a small sapling of a sacred palm tree which he did plant on the spot that most agreed was correct.

  I thought it a strange custom but he assured me that it was necessary. He said that unless great care was taken it would be possible for as powerful a sorcerer as Toohoo-emmi to rise again from the clutch of death unless his dark spirit was contained by the sacred tree.

  I had seen the broken shattered body full of bullet wounds and my rational mind thought that his diabolical resurrection impossible yet, I had seen many terrible wonders that week previous including the lightning from Xuthaloggua and upheaval of the earth at his command so I cannot be sure how many more dark and mysterious wonders are in our world, hidden away in some terrible corner of the globe, defying, Nay! Even mocking our imagination and comfort in the world at what is both right and sane.

  Rockwell and Chief John and I did take the maiden’s body farther out into the desert and did give her a sacred funeral pyre, which we alone did witness.

  I leave this record with you my friend, that in case such information is ever needed again it will be at your fingertips to be put to good use.

  Until then, farewell.

  Striding Through Darkness

  Or

  An Episode of Chapel History

  The ground on which we stand is sacred ground. It is the dust and blood of our ancestors. — Chief Plenty Coups

  It was late spring in the high Uintah’s. The golden dawn looked warm against the high mountain tops as the sunlight caked the distant snowy caps a brilliant pink hue. The air itself however was chilled and save for the trotting of Porter’s horse, there wasn’t a sound. It seemed like everything was frozen in midair. Even the ever-present wind was absent here.

  Porter had been up plenty early to watch the sunrise as he had barely slept a wink. Cruel dreams taunted his sleep and the cold nibbled at his toes too. He had his horse step over or around the occasional sagebrush growing here and there. This road didn’t get a lot of traffic, it being well off the beaten path to most anywhere else. On the positive side he mused, it didn’t have hardly any ruts.

  He crested the peak overlooking the town of Wallaceburg. A scattering of pines and willows dotted the town between two dozen various homes and barns. The largest building was the whitewashed church in the center of the town square. The steeple stood prominent and tall like the mast of a wayward and lonely ship. A swift brook snaked its way across the fields, winding here and there through the town before finally meandering on its way down the valley. Surrounding fields stretched out and away from the settlement along with a handful of outlying farms and ranch houses complete with crisscrossing pasture fences.

  As Porter rode slow and easy down the slope, a young tow-headed boy in a checked shirt ran toward him, with his hat flying behind his neck yet held in place against his shoulders by the thong across the neck.

  “Hello sir. Where are you from?” asked the boy, with a bright smile.

  “I’m Orrin Porter Rockwell, out of Salt Lake. I’ve come to take a look around these parts,” he said, from the saddle without having his horse slow down its jaunty pace at all. The boy ran alongside undeterred.

  “Will you stay long? We don’t get visitors here too often.”

  “Don’tcha? Not sure how long I’ll stay yet. How many visitors do you get, Son?”

  “Maybe just a couple a year.”

  Porter stopped his horse with a gentle, “Whoa.” He looked closely at the boy. “You know the visitors? They still here?”

  “Yes, sir. No, sir. They moved on a month ago or more. Real sudden.”

  Porter rubbed at his salt and pepper beard. “Did you see them leave?”

  The boy vigorously shook his head. “No sir. No one did. My Ma and Pa said they must have had enough of some the trouble here and left in the night.”

  “Your Ma and Pa said that?” grunted Porter. “Is there a place to stay here in Wallaceburg?”

  The boy nodded. “My Pa has an extra room over the barn. There’s an extra stall too.”

  “Sounds good. Which place is your Pa’s?”

  “That corner lot. With the stone wall around my Ma’s garden box.”

  Porter tipped his hat and tossed the boy a golden coin of Deseret. “Much obliged. What’s your name?”

  “I’m Timothy Ward. My Pa is Truman Ward.”

  Porter started his horse moving again. “I’ll be by in a bit. Where is your town’s mayor?”

  “Bishop Palmer is our mayor. He lives in that white washed house across the street from the church.”

  “Thanks Timothy. We’ll talk again,” said Porter, with a nod, he then kicked his spurs to his horse to hurry it ahead of the boy and get to the mayor’s house unaccompanied.

  The handful of folk walking about Wallaceburg watched Porter’s sudden appearance with some surprise and wonder. The women folk whispering one to another like hens clucking while the men brooded quiet but with concerned looks to each other.

  Porter’s horse reared and panicked as he entered the town square as if something was terribly wrong, but he couldn’t see anything that should spook it so bad. People moved in normal enough fashion and Porter steadied the animal until he was able to dismount and tie her up. It shied closer to the Mayor’s home then turned facing toward the church as if watch
ing for a catamount that was about to strike.

  “What’s your problem?” Porter asked, trying to watch and see what could possibly be the matter. Sensing nothing more himself and seeing the townsfolk watching him but otherwise acting perfectly normal, Porter went up the steps to the Mayors front door and rapped loudly. It was a solid thump. This was a very secure door. Porter heard a thick bolt being thrown back before it could be opened.

  An older man with grey mutton chops opened the door with a “Yes? Can I help you?” He was obviously surprised to see Porter. “Aren’t you Rockwell?”

  “I am.”

  With a questioning look on his face Palmer asked, “Isn’t there anyone else with you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well. Come in, come in,” he said. “I’m Mayor Palmer, I’m also the Bishop.” He ushered Porter inside while also looking fearfully about the town square. “I’m not sure which title I signed when I sent the letter.”

  “You know why I’m here?” asked Porter, finding a comfortable chair and removing his hat.

  “Of course. As I was saying, I’m the one who sent to Salt Lake for help. We’ve had troubles, mysterious events for some time now that we had chalked up to just plain bad luck, coincidence and what not. But it’s only gotten worse lately.”

  “Well lay it all out for me,” said Porter, talking his hat off and letting his long salt and pepper hair unfurl about his shoulders like the snows melting off a mountain. He pulled a flask from his coat pocket and Bishop Palmer looked at it curiously.

  “Is that holy oil for blessings?”

  “Not exactly,” said Porter, as he pulled the stop and took a long pull.

 

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