“That is not so different than what the Bible teaches. Eden had its own serpent, and there has been enmity between such creatures and man ever since.”
Pierce stared at the fire, flames digging their way out from below. “No, not so different.”
“What’s going on, son?”
“Let me tell you another story, Reverend. A story about a young officer assigned to assist the Confederate Indian Agent. The Union had withdrawn at the start of the war, and left a string of broken treaties in its wake. The Confederacy couldn’t spare enough men to ward off Comanche attacks. So this man helped negotiate treaties, keep them from declaring war. He was hardly a statesman, and had never negotiated for anything more than a plowhorse, but he’d grown up on the edge of the Comancheria, spoke a few phrases of their language. That was enough for him to be volunteered.”
Swain lowered himself from a crouch onto the ground, sitting. He rubbed his knee and listened.
Pierce kept his gaze on the fire, watching his story play out in the glow of the orange and white embers.
“Then one day this man was introduced to a Comanche shaman. A tribal elder named Dark Horse. It was his role as respected advisor to the council to determine the worth of the officer’s words, the value of his promises. The soldier was not allowed to negotiate in his presence. His daughter acted as translator and intermediary. She was very young. In English, her name meant Morning Flower.
“Now, this soldier had lost his wife a few years earlier, watched her die from consumption. He was a lonely man, far from home. He spent long hours with Morning Flower to explain why the Confederacy was more trustworthy than the Union, why our words meant something. Hours talking with her, watching her eyes watch him as he spoke. Understanding eyes, inquisitive eyes. Breathing in her raw scent, both pure and wild at the same time, and he fell in love.”
The reverend cast a glance over his shoulder in the direction of the cabin, but did not speak.
“Dark Horse forbade it, of course. He cut off the negotiations as soon as he realized what was happening, withdrew all support. But Morning Flower let this man talk her into leaving with him. Abandoning her tribe, her family. Her people.”
Pierce loosened the string around the pouch and gently shook his palm, feeling the shifting of its contents.
“I wish I could tell you this had a happy ending, Reverend. But I can’t. You see, the war was almost lost, and this man decided one more soldier couldn’t make a difference, anyway. So he set off with Morning Flower with the idea of deserting, and happened to cross paths with a detachment of Magruder’s Texas cavalry. He tried to talk his way out of it, but they weren’t buying it. Maybe they saw the way he looked at Morning Flower, the way she looked at him. Maybe they just didn’t like anyone who rode with an Indian. They took him into custody. She broke free of the blue-bellies holding her and threw herself at him, screaming his name, wanting one last embrace. And they shot her.”
Nobody spoke for several seconds. The fire and the creek continued their rhythms.
“That’s quite a story, son.”
“It gets better.”
The fire had sucked all the moisture out of the branches and was now in full glow. Pierce stood and sprinkled some dust over it from the small pouch. The flames flared high, and he quickly leaned over the fire as they receded and inhaled as deeply as his lungs would allow. The smoke scalded his nasal passages and throat, made his chest burn from within. He opened the end of the goatskin he’d been carrying and, coughing, breathed into it, inflating it like a bladder, its liquid contents weighting the bottom. He pinned a thumb over the opening and shook it. The large sack sloshed loudly. He coughed his lungs clear.
After giving it some time to absorb, he let the excess air out then closed the top off. “I’m going to need you to take a swig of this, Reverend.”
Swain looked at the goatskin, scratched his head again. “Why don’t we head back to town. Continue this discussion over a proper libation?”
“Please, Reverend.” Pierce held the canteen sack out for Swain to take it. His other hand pushed aside his coat and rested on the butt of his revolver.
The man said nothing for almost a minute. The fire crackled patiently. “Is it some sort of poison? Did you bring me out here to kill me for reasons I cannot fathom?”
“It’s not the kind of poison you think. I promise the stuff in this canteen won’t kill you.”
The preacher took the floppy canteen and looked at it. Then he looked at Pierce, who dipped his head.
“Do it.”
“Bleh!” Swain coughed and spat, wiping his mouth. “What in blue Hades is that?”
“Boiled sassafras root, with juniper and honey, mostly. What’s offending your tongue is silver nitrate. And some special powder ground from things you don’t want to know about, I assure you. Keep drinking.”
“Why?”
“I haven’t finished the story.”
Swain started to object say something, but it came out as little more than a cough. His eyes slid from Pierce’s to the holstered gun Pierce was tickling.
“Blahk!” he said, spitting. “That’s awful!”
Pierce nodded. “So is what happened next. Magruder’s troops were on their way to the coast, ran into some trouble near the Louisiana border. That soldier went from being a prisoner of the Confederacy to a prisoner of the Union. Ironically, he thought himself lucky, since the Yankees didn’t seem too concerned about whether he was a deserter. He was shipped by wagon somewhere, then by train somewhere else, then all of a sudden they told him the war had ended, and he was set free. Paroled, they called it. Made him sign some document promising not to fight anymore.”
“But that’s not the end of the story, is it?”
“That’s enough.” Pierce reached over and took the goatskin. He slung its cord over his head and sleeved an arm through. “Too much will make you puke.”
“You’re not really a Texas Ranger, are you?”
“No.”
“This, us being here, it has to do with the Indians, doesn’t it? The shaman.”
“A bottomless pit just isn’t deep enough for some things, Reverend.”
The preacher peered into the darkness beyond the fire before settling his gaze on Pierce. “Are you saying this shaman conjured up some sort of evil spirit?”
“Down at that cabin, Reverend, you’re going to see some things. I’m going to need you to remain calm. You’re the only one that can defeat it.”
“Defeat it? Me? You’re not making a bit of sense.”
Standing almost over the fire, Pierce opened his vest and began to unbutton his shirt.
“Son, I’m afraid you’re a bit... touched. I have a little place near town. How about we go back there, get a good night’s sleep. We can talk about this at length, come back tomorrow if—”
The preacher drew back, his body recoiling at the sight.
“My God...”
“Take a good look. This is one bite.”
Swain rubbed his eyes. “I’ve never...”
“I’m a cursed man, Reverend. This gnarled flesh of mine is its way of never letting me forget it. Not even for a moment.”
“What could possibly inflict such a wound?”
Pierce started to button his shirt. “I can’t describe it. It’s vague and shadowy. Sometimes people see it as a figure in a black hat and a blood red serape. Others have seen it as a tall, thin man in tails and a bowler cap with a cane. I don’t bother to even ask anymore. I just let the wound tell me how close I am.”
“But—”
“Listen to me. You have to keep your wits about you. I can’t have you running away in the middle of things. This devil I’m chasing, this is what he does. On the day of a full moon, he finds traitors to the tribe and infects them. When I arrive, it is too late, always too late. But if we don’t stop them, stop what he’s set in motion, they will wipe out everyone around. And I do mean everyone. It’s up to you. It all comes down to you.”
&
nbsp; “Me? I don’t understand.”
“I need someone pure of heart, which I am not. This, you see, is my curse. The shaman knew my heart, inside and out. Only I can track it, he made sure of that, but track it is all I can do. Others must do the killing.”
“I think you’re greatly overestimating my heart, son. And let’s drop this talk of killing, okay?”
“Just meditate on your Good Book there, Reverend, and get yourself as pure as possible. That concoction you drank is working its way into your blood. It’s a special blend. Powerful medicine. Once it’s done, we’ll be ready.”
“Is that supposed to protect me, that awful stuff I drank? Do you really not see the lunacy of all this?”
Pierce didn’t respond. He looked up at the moon, allowed a few moments to pass, then started to kick dirt onto the fire.
“It’s time. Say a prayer, Reverend. A good one. Cleanse your soul. Then we head down there.”
* * *
The cabin was made of sturdy wood planks over a rubblework foundation. Flat sod roof, but even in the moonlight, Pierce could tell it was well constructed. Built by a man who intended it to last.
Pierce dismounted quietly and hitched his horse. He spoke in a hushed tone.
“How many children Slocum have?”
“One boy, I think.” The reverend’s horse reared and he gave it a sharp tug on the reins until it settled. “Now, listen. I’m only doing this because you’re obviously troubled and need help. I’ve heard of war doing strange things to men, contaminating their minds. Of course, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit the fact you have a gun and look like someone not afraid to use it doesn’t continue to weigh in the decision. But you have to promise me that we knock and politely ask him how he’s doing, okay? Tell him there’s been talk of Indian trouble in the area and we just wanted to check on him. Once we see that everything’s okay, we’re heading back. You and me. Promise?”
“Whatever you say, Reverend.”
“I’m serious. You have to promise.”
Pierce patted his horse’s neck. “You have my word.”
Swain hitched his horse next to Pierce’s and swung off the saddle.
“Doesn’t it strike you as strange there isn’t any light coming through the windows, Reverend? Not a single candle?”
“Maybe they settle in early.”
Pierce walked up to the door, his spurs pinging with each step. He looked back at the preacher, one hand on his revolver, then gave the door a solid rap with his knuckles. Once more. Then again.
“Heavy sleepers, wouldn’t you say?”
Swain didn’t respond. Pierce tested the door, could feel it was braced. He drew his Remington, took a step back. The reverend started to object, but Pierce lunged forward, stomping the door with his heel. It cracked and splintered some, but held. He kicked it two more times, then finished it off with his shoulder.
The air that greeted them seemed to hiss as it escaped. A gamy odor scrabbled aggressively up Pierce’s nose, harsh and fetid, excrement and rotten eggs. Pierce was used to it. Swain covered his mouth and turned away.
Pierce let him gag for a few seconds, then took him by the arm and led him inside.
“I need you to be strong now, Reverend. I can’t kill it. Only you can.”
The interior was littered in shades of darkness. A slice of moonlight cut across the floor, illuminating a severed limb. A very small severed limb.
Pierce eased to his left, groping the wall for a lantern. He bumped a table, patted it until something rattled against his hand.
“Keep blocking the door.”
The match sizzled, an explosion of light, before shrinking down to a small flame. Pierce set down his revolver and wasted no time lighting the lantern. He grabbed his gun, turned and held up the lantern in one fluid motion.
“Good God in Heaven...”
A wash of yellow light flickered across the floor, chasing shadows to the corners. Pierce let the reverend take in the scene. The headless body of a man, almost certainly Tom Slocum, was in the middle of the floor, intestines coiled next to him like noodles. The body of young boy, torn at the limbs, lay inches away. A heap of body parts sat nearby, including a man’s head. Like the aftermath of a giant child at play, pulling the wings off things it considered flies.
“You with me, Reverend?”
The man said nothing, standing fixed to the spot. Pierce thumped him on the ribs.
“Keep your wits, Preacher.”
Swain’s voice was wavering and weak. “What on Earth could wreak such carnage?”
Pierce stepped forward and lifted the lantern, allowing its light to flow into the corners of the room.
A figure stood against the back wall, its bottom half visible in the glow of the lantern. Legs bare from the knees, feet coated in dark blood. The rest of its shape a darkness within the shadow, interrupted only by the red glow of two eyes, an outline of long straight hair descending around them.
“It’s, it’s a woman,” Swain said. “It’s his wife! She survived!”
“No, Reverend. It’s not. And she didn’t.”
As if to make the point, the figure lurched forward into the light, baring an impossible number of teeth, its head and shoulders in a feral lean. The blood vessels in its eyes had burst, making them swell red, bulging over the edges of the lids. It let out a long hissing, growl. The taut peel of its lips stretched over jagged rows of tightly packed fangs, slicing at angles like miniature daggers.
“Sweet Christ Almighty...”
The thing paused to sniff the air. Its skin was a pale green, almost blue. The bones of its fingers protruded through gnawed tips like ivory claws. It raised one of those hands and dug the bone-claws into the flesh around its mouth, ripping its lips away with a violent jerk. Freed from the constraint, its lower jaw dropped and its teeth jutted farther out. It seemed to enjoy the new range of motion.
It looked at the reverend and reached a long arm up, stretching its body, extending its legs, pointing its feet, until it was able to dig those claws into the wood of the ceiling and as soon as it did its body sprang up, defying gravity, pressed against the wood. It bent its head down, an insectile motion, still sniffing, its neck stretching beyond anything that should have been physically possible.
“Now, Reverend! Go! You’re a man of God! Face it down!”
“I have no weapon!”
“Your faith is your weapon! Go!”
Pierce pushed the man forward. The preacher stumbled, barely keeping himself from tripping into the pile of eviscerate. He slowly raised his head to look at the creature. It was almost directly overhead. A thick rope of saliva stretched from the tattered flesh beneath its gums, reaching for the floor.
“Please, Reverend. Show me you have faith. You have to have faith!”
The man glanced down at the Bible in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. He straightened up, holding it aloft. When he spoke, his voice bellowed with a newfound authority. Pierce sensed a glimpse of what this man had been like on the pulpit, how his sermons had sounded during those times of devout piousness.
“You have no power here, Demon! The Lord Jesus Christ is the protector of my soul! I do not fear you!”
Pierce felt the breath leave him in relief. The man had faith, after all. He hung his head, then raised his revolver, ready to fire.
The creature twisted its head one way, then back. The preacher met its gaze and did not blink.
Then the creature launched itself onto him from the ceiling, its jaws stretching wide and clamping down on his chest. The reverend gasped once, cried out in pain at first. Then the cries turned to screams and the pain to terror.
Pierce fired once, hitting Swain in the head. The creature feeding on him didn’t flinch.
“Sorry, Reverend.”
Powerful jaws crunched through the chest plate and quickly got to the heart. The thing ripped the heart out with its teeth, head snapping back in triumph. Blood gushed from dangling tubes with each bite. With
in a second or two, the heart was gone.
Pierce didn’t wait. He backed out of the cabin and yanked on his horse’s lead. He mounted it with a running start and spurred it to a sprint.
The thing would be dead in moments, if not already. The reverend’s blood would do it. It always did. The concoction was fatal to whatever the hell it was. He’d worried for the pastor’s soul, right up until the last moment. But that, too, worked out. It had to be a pure heart. And it was. He was just thankful he didn’t have to use a child this time.
The horse slowed to a trot after almost a mile. He picked up the creek again and let it drink. The stage would be arriving in town soon, and he was sure there were people on it looking for him. But that, of course, was part of the curse. Stages would always be delayed. Sheriffs would always be distracted. Posses would always get lost. Whatever it took to keep him going. He would always be one step ahead. And one step behind.
He thought of the dead boy, on the floor of the cabin. At least it was only one. And it wasn’t his doing, he reminded himself. The consolation rang hollow, as usual. He bent over and held his breath, waiting for the feeling to pass. The familiar sting seared through his scalp, the burn of shame somersaulting in his gut. But what choice did he have? Dark Horse was long gone, years dead. But the curse lived on. If he were to give in, by his own gun or otherwise, how could he be sure that would end it? How could he risk such a thing?
He raised his head to the sky, looked at the stars shimmering above. He wondered again, as he always did, how one man could know another man’s heart so well. To know what he was capable of, to make him face it, that was the cruelest curse of all.
He would ride all night, then start up again after a few hours rest. It would take some roaming to pick up the trail, some guesswork, but he always managed. Another town. Another name. He rubbed his face. One of these times it would be different. Yes. One of these times, he’d catch up with it. Maybe the very next time. The very next town. Each time he came a bit closer, didn’t he? Yes, he would find it soon.
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