Curse of Skull Canyon

by Peter Brandvold

  It was a man’s high, mournful voice calling, “Innnngggggg . . . griiiidddddddd . . . Oh, Innnnnggggg . . . griiiddddd!”

  It mixed with the moaning to form a truly horrifying, low wailing sound that stabbed Lonnie deep in his loins.

  The boy’s heart thudded.

  “Ingrid,” Lonnie muttered to himself, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. “Oh . . . oh, Jesus!”

  Then, beneath the wind’s moaning rose a man’s cackling laugh.

  That, too, stabbed Lonnie deep in his loins. Even deeper.

  But the assault to his nerves was far from over.

  Behind Lonnie, Casey’s sudden, ear-rattling scream caused the boy to jump nearly a foot straight up in the air.

  CHAPTER 29

  “Casey!” Lonnie shouted as he ran back toward the fire shimmering straight ahead in the darkness.

  He tripped over a deadfall and fell, dropping his rifle. He grabbed his rifle and got up and kept running. Casey’s screams had died by the time he reached the outer edge of the firelight. Breathing hard, Lonnie stopped and stared across the fire, where a broad-shouldered man in a battered brown Stetson stood behind Casey, holding a big bowie knife tight against her throat.

  Challenge flashed in his eyes as he glared across the fire at Lonnie. He curled one side of his upper lip, showing badly rotted and tobacco-encrusted teeth. “Stand down, boy. Drop the rifle.”

  Lonnie held the Winchester up high across his chest. He squeezed it in his gloved hands. He looked at Casey. The girl’s face was blanched, her eyes wide with fear. Her throat moved as she swallowed. She winced when her throat moved against the bowie’s sharp blade.

  Lonnie tossed the rifle away.

  “Let her go!” Lonnie shouted, balling his fists at his sides. “Or so help me, I’ll—!”

  Something hard slammed against the back of Lonnie’s head, throwing him forward. He stumbled, hit the ground near the fire, and rolled close to the stones forming a ring around the crackling flames.

  “Lonnie!” Casey cried.

  The man with the bowie knife released her. She ran around the fire and dropped to a knee beside Lonnie, who lay groaning and clutching the back of his head with both hands.

  In the corner of his left eye, Lonnie saw a man stoop down to pick up his rifle. He was a tall man in a long wool coat with long, grizzled hair curling down behind his ears, and a three- or four-day beard stubble carpeting his craggy cheeks.

  He had large, light-blue eyes, which glinted in the firelight as he grinned after inspecting Lonnie’s rifle. “Kid comes well-armed. An eighteen sixty-six Winchester repeater. Yellowboy.”

  “Tough one, huh?”

  Lonnie turned his head in the other direction to see the man who’d been holding the bowie knife on Casey standing over him, glowering down at him. He wore a quilted deerskin coat and deerskin gloves. He had a round, meaty face and deep-set, cold gray eyes. He, too, had had several days worth of stubble on his sunburned cheeks.

  “Boys got mouths on ’em these days,” he grumbled down at Lonnie. “It weren’t like that before I went in. Boys talked respectful like to their elders. My, how things change.”

  “Are you okay, Lonnie?” Casey asked, leaning down to regard the boy worriedly.

  Lonnie nodded and looked up at the broad-shouldered gent standing over him. He was about to ask the man who he was but cut himself off when he saw a tattoo peeking out from under his upraised coat collar.

  The man grinned and jerked his collar down, revealing the tattoo of a naked lady raising her knees as though she were perched coquettishly on a saloon table, batting her long eyelashes at the men surrounding her.

  “You like it, kid? She’s some faded—I got her in New Orleans just after the war—but she’s still a looker, ain’t she?”

  “That’s disgusting,” Casey snarled. “Who are you?”

  Lonnie said in a voice hushed with awe, “Crawford Kinch.”

  Kinch stared at him, vaguely puzzled. Then he smiled, showing his rotten teeth again. “You have me at a disadvantage, boy . . . even though I’m the one holdin’ the bowie knife and Engstrom back there has your rifle.”

  “Lonnie Gentry,” Lonnie said, rocking back on his heels. “This is Casey.”

  “She’s some purty,” Kinch said, glancing lustily down at Casey. “But I’m an old man who knows his manners.”

  “Me? I’m an old man but I don’t know my manners,” said the man whom Kinch had called Engstrom, ogling Casey. “And you’re right . . . she’s some purty.”

  “Stay away from me,” Casey said. “Either one of you comes near me, I’ll bash your head in!”

  Kinch and Engstrom laughed.

  “A polecat, that one!” said Engstrom.

  Kinch sheathed his bowie knife and thrust his hand out toward Engstrom, who tossed him Lonnie’s Winchester. “Tie ’em up, Dutch,” he told his partner. “Good and tight.”

  “Tie ’em up?” said Engstrom, incredulous. “We’re gonna have to kill ’em, Craw. Ain’t no two ways about it. The kid knows who you are. Now, they both do. And they’re after our gold!”

  “We’re not after your gold,” Lonnie said. His words had fallen on deaf ears.

  “Don’t make no difference,” Kinch said. “I ain’t up to killin’ kids tonight. I’m old and tired and I got contrary ways about me. You know that, Dutch. Killin’ grown men after my gold’s one thing.” He shook his head as he switched his gaze from Lonnie to Casey and back again. “But two young folk with their lives ahead of ’em is another thing altogether. Saddens me, it does.”

  He gave a coyote-like, menacing grin at his partner. “We’ll do it in the mornin’. Throw ’em both in the lake, see how good they float!”

  He laughed at that.

  Lonnie and Casey shared a wide-eyed glance of terror.

  “You oughta thank us,” Kinch told Lonnie. “We got them three curly wolves back there off your trail—didn’t we, Dutch?”

  Engstrom smiled.

  “Huh?” Lonnie said.

  “Sure, sure,” Kinch said, winking at his partner. “You won’t have to run from them no more. And me an’ Dutch won’t have to worry about ’em, neither.”

  “This canyon’s fillin’ up fast with dead men—ain’t that right, Craw?”

  “Sure is. It’s time fer us to pull foot soon,” Kinch said. “Before the law starts sniffin’ around, finds our blood trail.” Kinch cocked Lonnie’s Winchester and aimed at the pair straight out from his right hip. “Either of you two move, you’re be flappin’ your golden wings tonight instead of tomorrow. No use rushin’ things. You can live a good long time over the course of a few hours. I spent eighteen years in the territorial pen.” His expression turned dark. “I know how long a single hour can be, let alone eighteen years when you’re spendin’ every minute of it thinkin’ about a stash of hidden gold.”

  “Aren’t you the philosopher,” Casey said. “You’re the convict who stole the payroll money. Lonnie told me all about you. Wicked!”

  Staring at the rifle aimed at him, Lonnie said, “Easy, Casey. Pull your horns in—will ya? I for one don’t wanna be flappin’ golden wings tonight!”

  CHAPTER 30

  “Yeah, pull your horns in, girl,” warned Engstrom, grabbing Lonnie’s coiled lariat from where it lay by his saddle. He tossed his head to indicate behind him as he crouched down by Lonnie. “Who’s the dead fella laid out back there?”

  “One of the men you shot,” Lonnie said. “You might not have given him a chance to introduce himself. His name was McLory. Cade McLory.”

  “Don’t know who’re talkin’ about, kid,” Engstrom said, tying Lonnie and Casey’s wrists together, behind their backs. “All the men we shot of late we made sure were dead.”

  “Certain sure,” said Kinch. He looked at Lonnie. “Your man was shot by someone else. There’s two or three groups of bounty hunters hereabouts. Leastways, they were hereabouts,” he added with a dark chuckle. “They’re after me and my gold. They all
want to be the first ones to reach the secret cache, hot on my heels, and they’re shootin’ each other for the privilege. Don’t bother me none. Saves me an’ Engstrom from havin’ to kill every polecat powderin’ our trail!”

  He chuckled through his rotten teeth as he sank onto a log a ways away from Lonnie and Casey, holding Lonnie’s rifle across his thighs. Engstrom was tying Casey’s ankles.

  “Fortunately,” Kinch added, “there ain’t enough lawmen to go around.”

  Lonnie said, “McLory was a bounty hunter?”

  “Most likely. Part of a group huntin’ another group. I swear, I never seen the like in this canyon since the War of Northern Aggression. Little battles breakin’ out every whichaway! Word spread fast that I busted out of the territorial pen. Dutch an’ me thought we wasn’t followed, but we led one group right into the canyon, and another group must’ve been followin’ the first group! I reckon eighteen years breakin’ big rocks into little rocks made me lose my outlaw savvy,” Kinch added, shaking his head in disgust. “I wasn’t watchin’ my back trail.”

  “The old legend don’t seem to be keepin’ the gold hunters away.” Engstrom grinned at Lonnie. “I had you scared—didn’t I boy?” He threw his head back and gave a lower, quieter version of his call for Ingrid. “Why, you ’bout jumped out of your boots when you heard that. Not to worry, though. Just a legend prob’ly concocted by some prospector to keep folks out of the canyon and away from his diggin’s.”

  “Don’t laugh, Engstrom—it probably helped keep anyone from tryin’ overly hard over the past eighteen years to find that strongbox. Just a coincidence I came to bury the loot here. A fortunate one, though. A haunted canyon—yessir. Just what the doctor ordered!”

  Lonnie glanced over his shoulder at Engstrom. “Were you one of the gang that robbed the payroll, too?”

  “Me? Nah.” Engstrom stood and hitched his baggy canvas breeches up higher on his bony hips. “Me an’ Craw met up in prison. I was in for murderin’ the liveryman I caught . . . uh . . . I caught in a compromising situation, you might say. With my dear wife, Bertha.” He threw his head back and sniffed the night air. “Ahh . . . sure is nice bein’ free, though, ain’t it, Craw?”

  “Sure ’nough,” Kinch said. “Why don’t you fetch the horses, Dutch? We’ll be beddin’ down here at the fire of our new friends. You two don’t mind—do you?”

  “Would it do any good if we did?” Casey asked in her snooty, haughty way.

  Engstrom chuckled as he walked off into the trees. “I don’t mind a sassy girl as long as she’s purty.”

  Lonnie looked at Kinch who was helping himself to Lonnie’s cup of coffee. “You really gonna kill us tomorrow?”

  “Don’t have much choice, kid,” Kinch said, sipping the coffee and looking at the cup with approval. “That’s good. But, then, I ain’t tasted a good cup of coffee since me an’ Engstrom jumped the wall. They don’t serve coffee in the pen, you see. Only water. And it ain’t much good—the water—neither.”

  He took another sip of the coffee and shook his head as he looked around. “I’m never goin’ back there. Never. I’d die first. That’s why we can’t leave anyone behind to tell where we been. As soon as we dig up that loot, we’re hightailin’ it to Mexico.”

  “No need to tell us that,” Lonnie said.

  “Why not?” Kinch grinned devilishly over the rim of the cup. “You’ll be givin’ up the ghost tomorrow. After you done helped us with the gold, that is.”

  Casey fired another of her raw glares at him. “What’re you talking about?”

  “I buried the strongbox deep—in what I suspect was an exploration hole dug by some prospector long before me and Bentley came along. Bentley was the fella who made it into the canyon with me. All shot up, Bentley was. I put him out of his misery.” Kinch aimed Lonnie’s rifle at the ground and said, “Pop! Pop! Two shots to the head.” Then he grinned his wolfish grin again.

  “You probably killed him to keep from having to share the loot with him,” Casey said with a snort. “Or so he couldn’t tell anyone else where it was.”

  Kinch arched his brows at the girl. “You know, I always heard that brains and beauty didn’t mix. After meetin’ you, sweetheart, I might have to rethink that old saw.”

  “You’re awful,” Casey said. “And you smell bad. How long has it been since you’ve had a bath?”

  Kinch sniffed under his left arm. “Pshaw! I’m sweet as a spring lily.” He chuckled. “But to answer your question—oh, say, about eighteen years.”

  He laughed louder.

  “What’s so funny?” Engstrom said as he led two horses toward the camp.

  The General and Miss Abigail both snorted around and whickered at the smell of the strange mounts.

  “The sweet little flower says I smell bad.”

  “You do smell bad, Craw—that’s what I been tryin’ to tell ya,” Engstrom said, stopping the horses at the edge of the firelight. “You an’ me need us a good long bath in a fancy hotel just as soon as we dig up that loot of yours.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” Kinch said, grunting as he rose from the log. “Good to have such a smart fella with such winnin’ ideas backin’ my play.”

  “Aren’t you two just two peas in a pod?” Casey said. “Why haven’t you dug up the gold yet?”

  Kinch set his coffee cup down and walked over to tend his horse.

  “And lead all the jaspers doggin’ our heels straight to it?” said the old outlaw, walking stiffly, hunched a little forward, as though his lower back ached.

  As Engstrom tossed his saddle onto the ground near the fire, he said, “We decided to hang low and let ’em all kill each other, or at least cull their own herds, before we dug it up and lit out with it.”

  “No point in leadin’ ’em right to it,” Kinch said, “so they could just shoot us and take the strongbox for themselves.”

  “How did you find us?” Lonnie said. “Way over here at the far end of the canyon.”

  Engstrom squatted down in front of the boy, his eyes fairly glowing as he said, “Why, because the gold is right nearby, my boy. So close I can smell all that gold blowin’ on the southern breeze.”

  He closed his eyes and drew a long, slow breath, his horsey face fairly blossoming as he took in what he believed to be the smell of gold coins on the eerily moaning wind.

  Later, when they’d eaten and had their fill of coffee, the two men rolled up in their blankets and rested their heads against their saddles on either side of the fire. They pulled their hat brims down over their eyes.

  Kinch started snoring almost immediately.

  Engstrom was looking as though he, too, was drifting off, when Lonnie turned toward Casey to whisper, “These two jaspers are crazier’n a tree full of owls.”

  “Yep,” Casey agreed, nodding. “And we’d best try to work our way out of these ropes before sunrise, or we’ll be flyin’ off on golden wings before noon.”

  CHAPTER 31

  “I think I’m starting to work mine loose,” Lonnie whispered when he and Casey had been working at the ropes binding their wrists for over an hour. “He tied ’em good, but I’m getting some slack.”

  “Good,” Casey said.

  Lonnie could feel her shoulders rubbing against his as she worked to loosen her own bindings. Lonnie glanced toward the shadowy lumps of their two captors, one on either side of the fire that had burned down to dully glowing coals. Both men were snoring loudly beneath their hats, bellies rising and falling deeply.

  Crawford Kinch whistled faintly with each snoring exhalation.

  Lonnie kept working at the ropes, turning his wrists from side to side and clawing at the ropes with his fingertips. He got enough slack in the rope around his right wrist that he thought he could pull his hand through the loop.

  Again, he glanced at the two men. They were still asleep, snoring peacefully. They must have been relatively certain that none of the other men hunting the gold had picked up their trail.

  Lo
nnie winced against the pain of the rope scraping his skin as he pulled his hand slowly through the loop. He pulled hard, grinding his molars against the burning pain of badly chafed skin. Feeling the slickness of blood oozing from a cut, he groaned softly, bit down on his lower lip, and pulled his right wrist free.

  “Got it!” he said, unable to control his glee despite the skin he’d scraped off.

  “Shhh!” Casey admonished.

  They both looked at Kinch. The old outlaw had stopped snoring.

  Lonnie cursed under his breath.

  “Stay asleep, you old codger,” he said inside himself. “Please, please, please—keep sleepin’!”

  Kinch grunted, sighed, ran a hand across his mouth then turned onto his side. His hat tumbled off his shoulder. Soon, he resumed snoring.

  Casey turned her head toward Lonnie, wide-eyed with anger.

  So quietly that the boy could barely hear her, she said, “Idiot!”

  This time, Lonnie had to agree with her.

  Quickly, he used his free hand to free his other hand. As he did, he glanced toward Kinch and then toward Engstrom, who lay as he had before, hat over his eyes, snoring deeply.

  When Lonnie was free, he turned to Casey and began untying the ropes binding her wrists. It didn’t take him long. Lonnie stood and then helped Casey to her feet. She looked at him as though to say, “What now?”

  Lonnie glanced to where his rifle leaned against the log near where Engstrom was lying. The Winchester was on the other side of the man, ten feet from Lonnie.

  The boy strode around behind the log, moving nearly silently on the balls of his boots. He looked at his rifle barrel glistening in the moonlight. Slowly, he reached for the jutting barrel, which was about two feet to the right of Engstrom. His hand was a foot away from the barrel when Engstrom rolled over, grabbed the rifle, cocked it, and aimed it from his knees at Lonnie.

  “Uh-uh,” Engstrom said, grinning winningly, thoroughly satisfied with himself. “I think I’ll hang onto it a while longer.”