“I never go anywhere without blessing oil, but I can see your reputation precedes you. We’ve all heard the stories—”
Porter held a hand up cutting Palmer off. “We ain’t here to jaw about my stories. You go on and tell me yours.”
“I was just going to say that while I respect your work for the brethren on many points. A gunslinger isn’t what I was expecting to aid our community. We need prayers and faith driven fortitude. We need a holy man.”
Porter chuckled. “I’ve done an awful lot more than just use my guns.”
“Yes, well I was hoping perhaps one of the Twelve might come and set things a‘right. Perhaps a prayer circle on our behalf at the very least.”
“The Lord helps those that help themselves,” grunted Porter, already bored with the conversation but doing his damndest to remain patient.
“Do you think we might wait and see if someone else with more authority might arrive soon? I—”
“Whoa, nobody else is riding to your one horse town but me. I’m here because I’m a problem solver. Plain and simple.”
“Yes, well. You should know we aren’t dealing with a human adversary here. There is a wasting sickness upon our town. Even now my wife has succumbed and I fear she may not last the week. Most of the town is ill. This is something we need a higher power’s help with.”
Porter again raised his hand, halting Palmer. “Look, I’ve tangled with near anything you can think of a time or two and I’ve heard all about the wasting disease.”
“This isn’t something we can just fight. We’re sick.”
“But did you send riders to check out your water supply?”
Palmer was exasperated and raised his voice a little. “Of course I did. It’s pure water. Besides, I don’t believe this wasting disease is natural. We’ve drank the water here off the mountains for years. No, this is something like a plague brought down on us and I don’t know how to fix this and I’m sorry but I have my doubts that a gunman, even one so blessed as yourself, can do anything about it either.”
“It’s good to have opinions,” drawled Porter, as he stood up and put his hat back on, “but it’s even better to know what you’re talking about first. I’m gonna stick around and see what I can put together about all of this. I’ve already arranged a place to stay on awhile. You let me know if there is anything or anyone I ought to take a look at further.” With that, he saw himself out.
In the bright sunlight, Porter glanced around the town square. None would meet his gaze and most of the folk outside hurried away. Across the street sat the church, rather large for such a small town. It had white washed stucco siding, just like the mayor’s home. Six steps from the ground led to big double doors stained deep maroon with ox-blood and further accentuated with aged copper rivets along the inside trim. A high vaulted roof gave it an imposing stature while a dark vented steeple reached farther into the heavens than anything this side of Provo. A dark bronze bell hung inside catching a bit of sunlight while the weathervane above looked like an angel lying prone with a trumpet at his lips. Those prize relics doubtless came from another church back east ages past; they would have been lugged across the plains and finally utilized here. Countless days and hours of work had gone into the massive structure, especially considering the size of the town. Someone must have hoped that this place would blossom like a rose in the wilderness and it never had.
Porter’s horse was still awful skittish; its eyes leered huge at the edifice and it was then that Porter noticed there were no other horses, cats or dogs anywhere near the town square. Odd for such a town, there should have been at least a few riders with horses and what town didn’t have cats and dogs roaming all over its borders?
Porter tipped his hat at a few ladies walking but received nary a look or reply to his face. There’s no pleasing some people he mused. Probably didn’t help that his horse was still so spooked that it looked like it was trying to dance around rattlesnakes. Soon as they were a block or more away from the church building his horse stopped acting so skittish. Porter noted that to himself pondering the connection.
Despite what Mayor Palmer had said, Porter still had to satisfy himself that there wasn’t a simpler explanation. He remembered plenty of strange things that had earthbound answers in his past and he aimed to verify those possibilities first. He followed the snake-like stream on up the valley, coming to a headwater where it sprang from the mountainside itself. Higher up he could see the snows that fed it and filtered through the tumble of boulders to its present point. He dismounted and knelt at the bank. Dipping a hand in, he found that it was cool and clean. He smelled the sweet water. It was cold, fresh and as good as anything he had ever tasted before. Near as he could tell there wasn’t a contaminant that he could account for. His horse was pleased with it too.
He watched for anything amiss on the ride back and found nothing. It was a pleasant little high mountain valley. Good fields, blue skies and pleasant breeze all of it hardly seemed on the edge of town that many in Salt Lake had claimed was cursed. Taking a long circuit around the outer rim of the valley he hoped to come across some sign of trouble, perhaps a trail of bandits or some sinister witch-doctor up to no good. But the valley was as clean and downright boring as could be. Porter didn’t so much as find a mountain lions track or the remains of any scavenger at all. This place was near perfect as the Garden of Eden itself.
Porter decided to make his way back to the outskirts of town again and set up room and board at Truman Ward’s home as the man’s son, Timothy, had suggested. Keeping a good pace through the fields, Porter was struck at the beauty of the place, but as he neared the town and the shadows from the looming mountains grew, the horse was again spooked but Porter retained control of the beast and made it to afore mentioned ranch house.
It was as Timothy had described with a stone fence across the front and a big stone box of granite to the side with a few sprouting garden greens. It was an odd stone thing almost like a sarcophagus rather than a planting box. Just beyond the sound of labored work brought Porters attention. A man worked, splitting timber.
“Morning. My name is Orrin Porter Rockwell and I understand you have a room to rent?”
“No,” was the curt reply, as the man continued splitting wood and not bothering to look Porter in the eye.
“Are you Truman Ward?”
“Aye.”
“Your son told me you had a room for rent and stall in the barn for my horse.”
“Nope,” answered the man, without looking up, still splitting logs. “Ye’d do far better to stay on that horse and ride on back to Salt Lake or wherever ye come from and forget this cursed place. No good can come of staying here. Specially after dark.”
Porter was undaunted but waited a spell before answering, “I haven’t ever turned my back on a body in need. Why don’t you tell me what the matter is?”
Truman continued splitting his wood but did take a long sideways glance at Porter.
“Pa,” broke in Timothy, “we still have Mr. Dentwieller’s room available.”
Truman Ward stopped setting up his logs for splitting and scowled at his son. “True enough, we do still have that room above the barn, but ye shan’t be wanting it.”
“Man’s gotta hang his hat somewhere, even if it’s just for a night or two.”
Truman Ward shook his head and spat. Porter could now see that the man had quite the sweat going and in the brisk evening air, he didn’t imagine it could be solely from splitting wood. “That room was the first one the wasting disease appeared in. For all I know it’s still rife with the sickness.”
“Looks like you’ve got something yourself,” said Porter.
“Aye, I do. Nary a person in town doesn’t have a touch of something. But far be it from me to open ye up to getting something too.”
“Such as?” questioned Porter.
“Aye, ye’re here because of the sickness aren’t ye?”
Porter shook his head, “I came to find out why
folk have gone missing round these parts. Too many have never been seen again. That Mr. Dentwieller, the Mason twins, a Miss Purdy, and a traveling performer out of Frisco.”
Truman Ward dabbed at his beading forehead. “Aye, I remember them all. I’m not sure myself what’s become of them. All of ‘em young and in the prime of their lives, but this wasting disease is what’s affecting us in the here and now. We’ve lost too many people already and more to follow I’m sure. That’s what truly needs to be answered.”
“I think I’ll take the room regardless,” said Porter.
“It’s yours then brother, no charge,” said Ward. “But ye can’t say we didn’t warn ye off.”
“Much obliged,” answered Porter.
Ward continued still sweating like it was a 100 degrees outside instead of fifty. “Timothy, show Mr. Rockwell the room and take care to feed and water his horse.”
“Yes, Pa.”
“Ye’re welcome to have a meager supper with us. But when eventide comes ye best be indoors with the door bolted,” said Truman, then he muttered under his breath, almost imperceptibly, “For all the good it will do ye.”
Timothy showed Porter the barn and stall for his horse.
“Why’d your Pa say that?”
Timothy looked outside at his Pa still chopping wood and whispered, “After dark is when the crying and calling start. The best you can do is close your head up under your pillow and hope it goes away.”
Porter shook his head but contained his own laughter—just barely. “Son, I ain’t got where I am in life by burying my head in the sand.”
“It’s something terrible, Mr. Rockwell, Sir. When you hear it you’ll know it’s something awful and unnatural.”
“What is it?”
“Ma and Pa tell me it’s just cats or foxes yowling but taint nothing like those. It’s always coming in the dark and carrying on a good portion of the night.”
“You don’t think it’s an animal or you don’t know?”
“It’s not any animal I’ve ever heard. It’s gotta a holler like a demon and it has kept us all up most nights. And then there are those red eyes I saw too.”
“Red eyes?”
The boy nodded rapidly. “A few weeks ago, after I went to sleep the cries, they started up. Hungry like. Real close, like maybe they were right in our yard. My dog, he got scared and hid under the bed. Ma and Pa came and looked in on me and thinking me asleep, I heard them say they was glad I didn’t hear those wicked cries and at least I was safe inside with my dog. They went back to bed but the cries kept up. I felt brave enough to try and look out my window since I knew my folks was right down below. I went to the window and it was terrible dark, but I saw a shadow out by the barn and two red eyes just looking up at me. They were red but dim like embers flaring. Then a I heard the cry again and something touched my bare ankle. I almost jumped out of skin, so scared I couldn’t even scream—but it was just my dog licking my foot from under the bed. I looked back outside and those eyes were gone. I never told Ma and Pa.”
Porter, pushed back his slouched cowboy hat asking, “Don’t any of the men in town try to watch for this thing? Shoot it or something?”
“Well, a few of the men would gather together to watch for it, but they would always bunch real close together and nothing ever come of it. If they stood on one end of town, something would happen on the other end. The cries at the least.”
“The cries, what do they sound like?”
The boy looked behind him in the gloomy barn saying, “It’s loud and screeching, calling like it wants someone to come. Always just a reaching out of the gloom and taking hold of your dreams and turning them to nightmares.”
Porter guffawed, “How you talk.” The boy looked downcast at his comment, so Porter tried to turn it around asking, “When did this start?”
“Same time as the wasting sickness or thereabouts. All just after the earthquake back in November.”
Porter rubbed at his beard. “Earthquake huh? Did that damage the town much?”
“No, not really though it did do a just a spare bit of damage to the pulpit in the church and the foundation stone.”
Porter was perplexed. “Foundation stone? You mean like a corner stone?”
“No, it’s inside the church. Old Dean Wallace he built the church around what everyone calls the foundation stone.”
“Is there only one foundation stone or are they in all four corners?”
“I dunno, I’ve only ever seen part of the one the pulpit sits on top of. You’d have to ask someone older than me.”
“I’ll do that.”
Porter rubbed down his horse, fed and watered her. Then he was invited into the Ward’s home for supper. Mother Ward made a stew of chicken and had some corn and onions in the kettle as well.
Mother Ward started the conversation. “So, Mr. Rockwell, I’ve heard tell about some nonsense up toward Bear Lake you were involved in.”
“Whatever you heard, I’m sure it was exaggerated.”
Mother Ward insisted, “Something with the Godbeites.”
“Godbeites?” snarled Mr. Ward, “Can’t those leeches just leave it alone.”
Porter made as if to reply but let the couple keep talking back and forth. It was getting dark out and Timothy looked apprehensively at the window. The red dusk was growing over the black razored edge of the mountains.
Porter leaned over and said to the boy, “I’m gonna want to see that church house and foundation stone tomorrow.”
“Yes sir,” nodded Timothy, “I’m sure we can do that.”
Both parents were suddenly aware of the conversation again. “Ye don’t need to be poking around in that church after hours. It’s just for Sundays it is.”
Timothy pleaded, “I just wanted to show Mr. Rockwell the foundation stone.”
Mr. Ward nearly snorted out his soup with the objecting, “It’s nothing! Just a big block of stone left here by the ancients. It’s nothing.”
“Anything carved on it?” Porter asked, as nonchalantly as he could possibly manage. “I saw some carvings on that stone in your front yard.”
Mr. Ward could see that Porter wouldn’t be assuaged from asking so he said, “Timothy—off to bed.”
“But it’s still light for another half hour,” Timothy argued, as if he had a case in court.
“Mind the tongue or mind the belt, lad,” said Truman, pointing at the loft.
Timothy shrunk away and disappeared up the steps in a flash.
Truman Ward continued, “Well, I’ll tell ye what I know about it sure, but I don’t want to hear any more questions afterward. Agreed? And keep the boy out of yer prodding’s.”
Porter agreed with a solemn nod.
“I’ll speak this one time about the foundation stone and the church and that will be the end of it.”
Mrs. Ward interjected, “It truly is a big fine building for such a small town. We’re blessed to have it, despite things.”
“Despite things?” questioned Porter.
She gave him a warm affirmation. “We treasure what we have, neither adding to them nor taking them away. We won’t be galled by wicked spirits seeking to lead us from the righteous path.”
Mr. Ward gave her a look for that remark but continued. “Well, old Dean Wallace, he founded the town. He came riding into this valley and made plans to buy lots from the Indians. But turned out he didn’t need to as they didn’t camp in this valley—ever. They said it was haunted or some such nonsense. As ye can see we have fine fields and water and everything ye could every need, right here. So Brother Wallace, he looks around, deems it good and gets a dispensation from Salt Lake to settle here and he starts to lay out the town. He finds that rectangular stone in the center of the valley and he thinks to himself that it would be a good stone to lay the foundation of the town on. Big as a giants coffin it is and t’was the original landmark for where the town would be built. That’s why it’s called that.”
“Gotta be more to it
than that,” drawled Porter.
“There’s a little more. See Brother Wallace, he was convinced the day would come that the town would blossom as the rose in the desert and he wanted a church big enough to last the ages. He built our church around that stone, but only after an old Indian came riding in and telling him we ought to leave the valley on account of it. That old Indian said it would bring bad medicine. I think he said it was a sleeping curse.”
Mrs. Ward broke in again, “Brother Wallace used to be a Bishop in Nauvoo, and he thought if he built the church around that stone, that the gospel could keep the bad medicine contained.”
Ward looked at her annoyed, but continued, “I’ll say, we’ve lived here for thirteen years without any trouble. I don’t believe the stone is connected to the bad dreams and sickness. It’s just a stone.”
“Bad dreams?” asked Porter.
Mrs. Ward added, “That foundation stone is mighty strange; animals won’t go near it.”
“Animals shouldn’t be in a church anyhow!” thundered Mr. Ward.
Mrs. Ward said, “Some folk have said that you shouldn’t fall asleep beside it. The sleeping curse.”
Porter raised his eyebrows at that and asked, “Who would do that?”
She said, “I was told a Norwegian saint fell asleep alongside it back when they were still building the church and they let him lie there fallow and the like. Seems he woke up the next morning deranged and spouting about the horrors in the earth. They had to cage him up but somehow he found a knife and cut his own throat. He died the next day.” She looked to her glowering husband asking, “Did I not speak the truth?”
Mr. Ward just looked away, unable to deny her tale.
Porter asked, “You said the ancients carved on the stone?”
Mr. Ward shook his head and went on. “All right then. The ancients, the Jaredites, we were told by Brother Isaac Morley, a carved on it long ago. But that don’t mean nothing. There, we’ve told ye all about it and we shan’t talk of this again. Good night!”
“What about the crying and calling I’ve heard tell of at night?”
Cold Slither: and other horrors of the weird west (Dark Trails Saga) Page 25