Dead of Winter

by Lee Collins

  SIX

  "A wendigo."

  "Wendigo?" Cora's brow furrowed. "Can't say as I've ever heard of one of them before."

  "Neither have I," Father Baez said, his hands folded in his lap. "Apparently, they are quite rare in these parts. A priest in Boston, Father Davidson, was the one to find the information we were looking for."

  Cora leaned back in the pew, wishing Ben could have been here to hear this. She had kept her word to Father Baez and returned to the church the following evening, but Ben hadn't followed. He had chosen to spend the time in the library near their hotel. His decision irritated her, but it wasn't a surprise. He'd always been the bookish type, shy and quiet, not at all suited to the military life that the war had forced on him. Duty was duty, though, so he'd marched off with his gray coat on his shoulders and a rifle in his hand. His engagement ring had been around her finger as she watched him go, his promise to return still echoing in her ears. That ring had gone with her to the local church every day during those four long years. She had lit a candle and knelt beside other women, both young and old, as they prayed for sweethearts and husbands and sons. As the years passed, their numbers dwindled. Some received word of the worst kind and lost the will to keep praying. Others just gave up hope, but Cora kept her faithful vigil. Each time a gray-coated rider appeared in town, Cora's breath would catch in her throat, but they would always ride past her door. Her heart had ached to see so many faces hidden behind black veils, but she couldn't help feeling thankful that hers was not one of them.

  "What did Father Davidson say about it?" she asked.

  "Well, he was a little vague. He hadn't heard of this wendigo himself, but as it turns out, several members of his congregation are from an Indian tribe."

  "Indians?"

  "Yes," Father Baez said, nodding. "According to them, the wendigo is a mythical beast from their own folklore. From what I understand, it's a cannibalistic ghoul that devours the flesh of humans due to a never-ending hunger in its own belly."

  "I figured that much. How did old Jules get himself turned into one?"

  "It seems a wendigo is created when one person eats the flesh of another person to avoid starvation. The moment they swallow their first bite, a demon begins to twist them from their natural shape, slowly turning them into the creature you saw in the mine the other day."

  "So you're saying that old miner was a cannibal?"

  "At some point, yes." Father Baez glanced at his hands for a moment. "You said he had a habit of hunting at night, correct?" Cora nodded. "I suppose he must have shot someone one night, mistaking them for an animal. Wanting to cover up his mistake, he took the body back to his cabin and cooked it anyway. Then, when he ate it, he began turning into the monster."

  Cora shook her head in wonder. Jules Bartlett a cannibal, and now some kind of cannibal demon. She wondered what Sheriff Jim Barnes would say when she told him about it. Probably that he had known it all along.

  "Did these Indians happen to know how to lick the wendigo after it's changed?" she asked.

  The priest nodded again. "Yes. Wendigos are vulnerable to silver weapons, but the silver must have the blessing of an Indian shaman."

  "No, that ain't right," Cora said. "I filled that thing full of my blessed silver bullets, but it ain't dead yet."

  "Your bullets were blessed by a Catholic priest," Father Baez replied. "Although the silver in them was able to injure the wendigo, without the proper blessing, they couldn't finish it off."

  Cora made a face. "Why's that? Ain't a blessing a blessing?"

  "Apparently not." Father Baez shrugged. "Father Davidson's parishioners said that only the blessing of one of their shamans could make a silver weapon effective against the creature."

  "So I couldn't get one of the tribes around here to do the blessing?"

  "Most likely not. Even if you were able to find a willing tribe, I doubt it would be effective. The wendigo isn't common in these parts of the country. Too warm, from what I understand. It's a demon of the cold and the snow, and this part of the country is too hot for them to flourish."

  "You clearly ain't been to Leadville during the winter," Cora replied. She pondered this new information for a moment, then sighed. "I reckon I ought to make my way out to Boston, then."

  Father Baez smiled. "No, that won't be necessary. Father Davidson promised to send out a shipment of blessed bullets as soon as possible."

  "Really?" Cora's eyebrows arched in surprise. "What makes him so generous?"

  "The Indians in his congregation were very upset by this news. The wendigo is one of the most feared creatures in their society. When Father Davidson told them of our problem, they immediately asked one of their shamans for help. The shaman wanted to come out and deal with the problem himself, but Father Davidson managed to convince him that there was a perfectly qualified hunter already working on the problem."

  "And this shaman already had him some silver bullets?"

  "Well, no," the priest replied, "but Father Davidson had some spares on hand. Not many, mind you; maybe two dozen at most. You'll have to use them sparingly when they arrive."

  "Well, don't that beat all." Cora folded her arms. "Did this shaman happen to mention how many it should take to kill this wendigo?"

  "No more than one or two, I understand. The blessing is quite powerful."

  Cora nodded, marveling at the innovations of evil. No matter how many monsters she and Ben put to rest, something new always managed to spring up. It was almost as if the Devil took it as some sort of challenge. They had battled his minions for well over fifteen years now, yet he still managed to toss something new their way every once in a while. This wendigo was certainly a fair sight different than anything they'd seen before, even needing its own special type of blessing. Still, a spook was a spook, and she was sure they could whip it all the same.

  "So how long did Father Davidson say the shipment would take?"

  "No more than a week, I imagine." A smile spread within the priest's white beard. "Still enough time for a confession if you feel the need."

  Cora snorted a laugh. "Thanks for the offer, Father, but I reckon I'll slide back into my sinful ways before the night is over, so I can't say I see much of a point."

  The priest sighed and tossed up his hands, but the smile never left his face. Cora rose to her feet and offered her hand again, but Father Baez was already rising. They walked down the aisle together, the priest with his hands clasped behind his back.

  "I expect you'll send the bullets on to Leadville when they arrive?" Cora asked.

  "No need," Father Baez replied. "Father Davidson said he would ship them directly to Leadville in your care."

  Cora nodded in satisfaction as they reached the wooden doors. Turning to face the little priest, she held out her hand. Father Baez clasped it in both of his and smiled. "Take care of yourself, Cora."

  "You too, Father. Thanks for all your help."

  "Of course, my dear. If you ever need anything, please do not hesitate to ask."

  "Oh, I reckon me and Ben will be just fine, but thanks anyway."

  The priest's smile faltered. "Yes, well, my offer is always open. Go with God, my child." Cora nodded, gave his hand a firm shake, and left.

  In the darkness of the foyer, Father Baez closed his eyes. The hunter's unexpected visit had brought back the memories of ten years before. A lingering sorrow crept into his heart when he thought on them, but it encouraged him to see the brave huntress still fighting the servants of Hell. Some of the things she'd said worried him, but it was not his place to pry. He could only entrust her to the good Lord's care and wait for her to come to him when she needed his guidance.

  "How long do you reckon we'll be waiting for them bullets?" Ben asked. He was stretched out on one of the benches in the passenger car, a newspaper covering his face.

  "Father Baez said no more than a week," Cora replied.

  "I hope he's right. We don't have time to wait for some priest back East to count h
is tassels."

  "Ain't got much of a choice in the matter," Cora said, annoyed by his flippant attitude. "Besides, that Father Davidson is helping us out of the kindness of his own pockets. Silver bullets ain't cheap."

  "Ain't that pricey, neither." The newspaper rustled as Ben spoke. "Most of them ain't even pure silver, but you'd think they were diamonds, the way some priests carry on."

  "As I recall, you're the one that claimed that them silver alloy rounds worked better."

  "Well, they certainly didn't work no better on that wendigo thing."

  "Neither did you." Cora crossed her legs and looked out the window. "You're just cranky because you had to leave your precious library behind."

  "That was a damn fine library. Best I've seen in a powerful long stretch. We really should spend more time in proper cities and stop dumping around in the sticks."

  "No kind of living for us in a city," Cora said. "Monsters prefer living in the sticks, so that's where we have to hunt them."

  "Not arguing that point, missy. Just saying we might find ourselves a bit more civilized if we took some time to read every now and again."

  "Who's saying we ain't civilized?" Cora asked.

  "When was the last time you opened a book?"

  "You know I ain't much for letters. Even so, I still read my Bible at least once a week."

  Ben snorted a laugh through his nose. "Reading the bits about wine when you've had your fill of whiskey hardly counts as reading."

  "Oh, go to sleep, you old grump," Cora said. "Your bellyaching is like to drive me to the drink before we even get off this train."

  Ben grunted and pulled the newspaper down a bit farther. After a few minutes, Cora could hear his even breathing. She stared out the window, watching the canyon walls roll by as the train pulled them deeper into the Rockies. The great gray stones seemed to swell and fade like the waves of the sea as they passed by the windows. Pine trees clung to the sides of the boulders with tough roots, their green tops reaching toward a bright blue sky.

  The West was so different from her farm back home that Cora sometimes felt she lived in a dream world. The plants out here lived much like the people did, somehow pulling life and water out of the red clay that covered the ground. She remembered the rich, dark soil of the Shenandoah Valley, how it felt almost like cotton in her fingers. Her hands had been smaller then, the hands of a young girl. Mother would scold her for dirtying her stockings and her dresses, but Cora had loved being close to the earth. She knew her father worked with his own hands in the soil, growing food for the three of them and their small lot of animals, and she wanted to be a part of it. Her mother told her not to bother with such things, that she would grow up and find herself a proper husband to work the earth for her. Cora would always reply that she wanted to help her man when the time came, and her mother would shake her head and sigh.

  She turned her eyes from the window to consider the sleeping form of her husband. Ben was the son of a printer, not a farmer, and it was from his trade that he learned his love of books. She'd met him in the town nearest her farm while she was running errands for her mother. Rounding a corner, she had collided with him as he had been walking the other way, his nose buried in a book. The impact knocked her down and sent the book flying. Ben had stooped to recover his lost treasure before offering his ink-stained fingers to her. She had taken his hand with a coy smile, enjoying the feeling in her stomach as he pulled her to her feet. The feeling didn't go away once she was standing, so she kept her eyes on the cobbles beneath her shoes as he apologized.

  The train rounded a sharp corner in the tracks. A muffled thump echoed in the near-empty passenger car, and Cora turned her head around to search for the source. A small, round man in a bowler hat and suit sat across the aisle from her, fumbling with a small suitcase next to him. The trunk must have fallen over during the turn, causing the thump. Red-faced, the man grunted with the effort of pulling it upright again. Cora watched in amusement as he strained. When he finally succeeded, he smacked it with a pudgy fist, put a hand to his forehead, and took a deep breath.

  "That's a mighty fine trunk you got there, sir," Cora said.

  "Isn't it, though?" the stranger replied, turning to her and smiling. "I purchased it from a quaint little shop in Sussex. Burgess Hill, if I remember correctly. Though I must admit I rather neglected to consider its size when picking it out. It holds a fine number of texts, but I'm afraid it gets rather cumbersome as a result."

  "Is that right?" Cora said, unable to contain a smirk. "Maybe you could find yourself a servant to haul it around for you and save yourself the work."

  "Oh, I'm afraid I'm not quite that high in station. Yet, anyway. I hope one day to afford a nice staff of my own, perhaps even a valet, though of course one must own a buggy for that." He laughed, a rich sound that made his round belly jiggle. "Until such time, however, I must resign myself to my burden." He thumped on the trunk and laughed again.

  "Well, at least you're cheerful about it," Cora said.

  "The fine cider back in the city may have something to do with that, I think."

  Cora's eyebrow arched. "Cider's your drink, is it?" When the man nodded, she shook her head. "Can't say I care for it much myself. Not when there's whiskey handy."

  The man's round face twisted into a grimace. "Awful stuff, if you ask me. I honestly can't fathom who first took a sip and decided it was fit for human consumption. Most likely an Irishman."

  Cora couldn't believe what she was hearing. "A man who don't drink whiskey? How can you even call yourself a man?"

  "Quite easily, actually. Of course, I could call myself a roasted ham for all the good it would do. The names a man gives to himself aren't worth tuppence if he can't stand behind them, I say."

  "And what's the name you call yourself?"

  "James Townsend, if you please." He tipped his hat to her, and Cora nodded in reply. "To whom do I owe the pleasure?"

  "Name's Cora Oglesby." She kicked the bench in front of her, but Ben just grunted. "That sorry sack of sod there is my husband, Benjamin Oglesby."

  "Always a pleasure, to be sure," James said.

  "Ain't so often we see a Brit out here in the West. What brings you to our little corner of the world?"

  "Business, as one might expect." James smoothed down his ruffled shirt. "I'm on my way to a place called Leadville to see to my employer's affairs."

  "Well, ain't it a small world?" Cora said. "So happens Leadville's our stop, too."

  "Splendid!" James clapped his hands together. "You will have to give me the proper tour! I've always harbored a desire to see the legendary American West firsthand!"

  "You ain't been up there before?"

  "Oh, good heavens, no! Do I look like the sort of man who frequents such backwoods places?" He sat up straighter. "As it happens, I'm recently come from London herself, and she's where I lay my head when I'm not running about in the wide world."

  "How does that work out?" Cora asked. "I mean, what with your boss out here in the States and all."

  "Oh, Lord Harcourt would never dream of getting the dust of such a rustic place on his jacket. No, he resides at court and takes his tea with the finest nobility. He's even been called before the Crown a time or two, or so he's told me. A proper lord, he is, and wealthy enough to keep his investments halfway around the world."

  "Investments? He deal in liquor or ladies?"

  "Neither," James replied. "Lord Harcourt deals in silver. He owns a mine to the north of the town of Leadville."

  "Fine trade, as far as it goes," Cora said. "Whole reason for the town's existence, or so I'm told. Not that we ever had the money or gumption to dig for our own."

  "I thought not."

  "You thought not?" Cora asked, leaning toward him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Nothing! Nothing at all!" James waved his hands in surrender and leaned away from her. "I only meant that you don't really look the sort to dally about all day while others do your work for you."r />
  "So you're saying we ain't fancy."

  "No! Well, yes, but I don't mean to offend! I only meant to imply that you have the look of a gunfighter or an outlaw. A roguish look, if I may be so bold."

  "How do you know we ain't? Maybe we're fixing to rob you blind and dump your corpse off the next bridge."

  The blood drained from the British man's face. It was clear he hadn't considered such an option. He swallowed once, then looked down at his hands. They rode in silence for a few moments, listening to the clacking of the wheels beneath them.

  Finally Cora laughed. "You look a sorry sight, Mr London. No, we ain't planning you any harm. Why, we'd just as soon save your hide for the right price."