Yea Though I Walk

by J. P. Sloan

  “Remember I told you about my boys what got killed in and around the mine a few years back?”

  Redhawk nods slowly.

  “I think there may be something up in those hills that’s killin’ people. Something that ain’t human.”

  “Lots of things kill people,” the old man grumbles. “Bear. Mountain lion. Winter.”

  Scarlow squints, then continues, “It started five years ago. There was an accident in the mine. Several fellas got trapped inside. By the time they was rescued, only one of them was left.” He shifts uncomfortably. “Seems he survived by… eating the other men.”

  Redhawk’s face pulls a little tighter. “Where is he now?” he asks.

  “That’s the thing. No one’s seen him since he started killin’ in the town. We think he’s up in those woods. Still eating people.”

  Redhawk pulls in a long breath and exhales with a word. “Wendigo.”

  I lean in close and repeat, “Wendigo?”

  “Spirit of hunger. There are many legends of monsters that eat the flesh of men. It is said a person who comes close to starving can become possessed by the Wendigo. He eats people from then on. No matter how much he eats, nothing will stop the Hunger. He grows into a creature and only stops when his body becomes so gnarled and mangled that the Wendigo leaves to find another.”

  Now this is progress.

  I ask, “This Wendigo spirit, it’s like some kind of demon? It enters the body and takes possession?”

  “It’s a stain. The stain of greed. A dark taint that leeches into the body.”

  “And you said it’ll leave on its own? How long until a person with this Wendigo stain gets too monstered up to function?”

  One of Redhawk’s leathered cheeks pinches a little, and he cocks his head. “Could be a hundred years.”

  Scarlow gives me a tired look. “Suppose we ain’t waitin’ him out, then.”

  Redhawk looks to Scarlow, then back to me. “If you have a Wendigo in your hills, you must kill it.”

  I hold up my hands. “I am soundly on board with killing that abomination. Question being how to do it?”

  Redhawk’s face gnarls a bit, but he straightens a little more and sucks in a breath.

  “Hunger is a powerful force. It gives men the strength of panic, robs them of their minds. You have to think smarter than the Wendigo. You can’t beat it with strength alone.”

  Scarlow lifts a finger. “What about silver? We know that puts them down quick.”

  Redhawk’s brow raises higher than I figured was possible. “Silver?”

  “I brought a few down with silver-tipped cartridges,” I explain. “One shot, they fold up like a Strigoi.”

  “Never heard of that.” He turns away from me and pauses to give a fellow lingering near the laundry tents a nod. Seems we’re surrounded by his own posse. Safer than sorry, I figure. “The white leeches are breeding on the plains. More come every month. They, I know, can be killed with silver. But not the Wendigo.”

  “Well, experience says otherwise,” I answer. “Put a half-dozen down myself, and silver’s what does the trick.”

  Redhawk’s chest bobs, and I clench up in alarm until I realize he’s laughing.

  “How many?”

  “Maybe six, all said. There’s more every day.”

  “No.” Redhawk chuckles. “Only ever one. The Wendigo are alone. It is their curse.”

  “But this taint… demon. It can spread to others like a disease.”

  Again, Redhawk answers, “No. Only one. They guard their territory, and never let any human live inside it.”

  I turn to Scarlow. “Well, that don’t make no sense.”

  “These are the stories,” Redhawk adds.

  “Ever draw up on a real Wendigo?” I ask.

  Redhawk shakes his head.

  “So, these are just stories.”

  His grin eases into a sneer. “They are the stories of my people, mister. And my people have hunted them hundreds of years before you Godpistols came. We respect the living and the dead.”

  I cock my head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Redhawk steps into me, and I muster as much posture as I can.

  He rumbles, “Some stains are shadow. Others are human. My people understand this.”

  Scarlow eases me clear of Redhawk with a tight grip on my arm. “Much obliged, William, but we must take our leave. Y’all take care.”

  We venture away from the laundry tents and into a clear lane near the saloon.

  “I’m not sure,” I grumble, “but I think that man just called me a stain.”

  “Told you he’s crotchety. He’s chiseled of granite, and gettin’ uppity with the man will only get you hammered flat.”

  With a dry chuckle, I say, “That’s a fact.”

  “Where are we now, with regards to Magner?”

  I shrug. “Demon of hunger finds him down in that mine. He has a moment of weakness, commits one of the ultimate sins. You seen the Parson, right? The way he looked the night I brained him? Tell me he wasn’t growing into some kind of giant.”

  “So what about the silver? And the fact they’re reproducin’?”

  “Could be a different breed of these Wendigo. Look at the Strigoi. You got the likes of Katherina and Richtermen. They keep their heads around them, they can speak English. But there’s the orphans. A different breed. One thing or another goes right or wrong, makes a new kind of monster to kill.”

  “I suppose it’s poss―” Scarlow lifts his chin and clears his throat. “Look sharp.”

  I turn to find Red Ants stepping lively toward us, hand on his hip. I can’t make out a holster, but that don’t mean he don’t have some short pistol in his pocket.

  Red Ants holds up just better than arm’s reach from us, face aflustered. “You,” he spits.

  “Can I help you?” I offer.

  With a thrust of his free hand, he points at me and says, “You listen to me, and you listen sharp. You stay the hell away from my wife!”

  “Your what, now?”

  Scarlow leans into me and whispers, “Where have you been sniffin’ around, you old dog?”

  “You are not helping,” I respond over my shoulder.

  I turn to give some kind of clarity to this awkward situation, but before I can muster a thought, a fist slams into my jaw, sending me careening back into Scarlow. The sumbitch lets me bounce off his shoulder and onto the ground. I reach for my face, still a touch numb, but by the stars in my vision, I can tell that was a hell of a belt.

  Through a spate of stammering vulgarity, I manage to get back onto my feet and keep a hand close to the Remington.

  “Hell’s fire!” I blurt. “Fuck’s wrong with you?”

  “You people just stay away from my property!” he growls, spreading some of his attention over to Scarlow.

  My brain does its best to steer through the urges toward violence and quickly stumbles upon a key realization.

  “Grangerford?” I ask.

  His lip snarls.

  I hold up my hands, keeping the tips of my fingers steady, and talk smooth and low.

  “I didn’t do nothing but drive Folger to your place. He wanted to speak with you, but you was out. I promise upon all that is Holy he did nothing untoward.”

  Grangerford’s face tightens, and he takes a step back. His mouth opens a few times to say something, producing nothing but blubbering nonsense.

  This feels dangerous.

  I try again. “My name’s Linthicum Odell. I’m helping Folger out with his press.”

  Grangerford interrupts. “I don’t care who you say you are. None of you are to set one damn foot on my property.” He shifts his finger back to Scarlow. “I don’t care what Richterman says.” And the finger moves back to me. “I don’t care what Folger says. And I sure as shit don’t care what Linthicum Odell, whoever he is, says.”

  Scarlow brushes past me, taking a fast step into Grangerford’s face. “You keep a polite tone, now,” Scarlow
mutters.

  Grangerford’s hand moves from his hip. The motion is quick, and Scarlow, the lummox, is in my line of sight.

  But something in Grangerford’s face just feels homicidal. I move.

  Or I try to.

  I would, if my head would stop spinning. Christ, it’s overpowering.

  The sunlight dims. No, it’s my vision.

  The last thing I see, moving impossibly slow, is Grangerford’s pistol.

  y head bobs against my collarbone, and I pitch forward. Ripper grunts at me as my nose hits the back of his neck. I shake off the cobwebs and catch my balance in my saddle before I drop. With a quick dig of my heels, and a more disgruntled noise from Ripper, I steady myself.

  The cast of sunlight has taken an orange hue. My legs brush against tall grass as Ripper keeps stepping forward. On up ahead I spot Scarlow, not too far off. He’s on his horse, standing still on a rise in the grass ahead of me.

  I shake my head again and run a sleeve over my eyes.

  The hell just happened?

  I give my person a quick inspection. No wounds. No bandages or blood. My hands feel a touch sore, but then so does the rest of me.

  With a kick, I goad Ripper up closer to Scarlow. He turns in his saddle as I approach. Instead of his usual shit-snacking grin, he watches me with a grave wince.

  I rasp through a dry throat, voice barely recognizable, “What happened?”

  His face softens a touch, and he adjusts his hat. “You back?”

  I clear my throat and answer, “Where’d I go?”

  Scarlow’s laugh is thin. “You got a mean streak, you know that?”

  I pull my gun and check the chambers. All full, though I notice a smear of dried blood on the butt.

  “What happened to Grangerford?”

  Scarlow shrugs.

  “Is he dead?” I ask.

  “No. Probably wishes he was.”

  “You wounded?”

  Scarlow shakes his head.

  I prod, “And Grangerford?”

  “He’s beat pretty good. Once I got the gun outta his hand, he didn’t have much stick to him.”

  I holster my pistol and give Scarlow a long look. “How bad did you beat him?”

  “Weren’t me did the beatin’.”

  I lean back in the saddle, a knot twisting in my stomach. “Where is he?”

  “Holed up in the inn where he was stayin’. You let into him something fierce, but he’ll walk tomorrow. Probably think twice about getting snatch-mouthed with you again.”

  I beat the man.

  Why did I do that? Sure, I was pissed as hellfire, but I’m not prone to throwing hands against the living. This was weakness. My weakness. I’m feeling thin, overworked. I’m just… too far from Gil. Maybe I’ll never make Godpistol. Maybe that’s a good thing.

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter.

  Scarlow’s face twists into a sour look. “You can stow that sorry-faced horseshit, Odell. We have more direct problems.”

  “How so?”

  Scarlow nods ahead, just over the crest of the hill.

  A wagon sits alone among the tall prairie grass.

  I urge Ripper forward, advancing close enough to inspect it. First thing I notice is the horse, dead on the ground, already picked over by some vermin.

  I look up to the seat.

  Two corpses.

  “Crow, you think?” I ask as Scarlow moves alongside me.

  “Crow wouldn’t have killed the horse.”

  I inspect the terrain and the angle of the sun. “Which way were they headed?”

  “Looks to be north. Dead north.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  I dismount and step closer to the wagon to get a closer look at the corpses.

  Something black flutters inside the wagon behind them, and I suck in a breath as I pull my pistol. Wings beat out over the corpses, and with a long, dusty squawk, a couple buzzards take flight overtop my head.

  I holster my gun and climb up the rail. Just as I’d feared, I find the gaunt, shriveled faces of the Hitchenses.

  “Shit,” I whisper, climbing up into the wagon.

  Nothing is out of order. All of their belongings remain strapped tight. Only thing upset was a few packages of rotting traveling food the buzzards seemed interested in.

  “That the Hitchenses?” Scarlow calls from below.

  “Looks that way.”

  “I take it back. Could have been they got waylaid by savages.”

  “Nothing’s missing.” I twist around and give him an eye. “This was an execution.”

  He lifts both hands and waves his fingers. “Weren’t me. I swear to it.”

  “Richterman probably farmed out his vengeance to someone else.” I give the corpses one more check and nod before climbing back off the wagon. “Look at their necks.”

  Scarlow eases his ride forward and sneers. “Tore out. What did this?”

  “I think you know.”

  “Your Strigoi?”

  “Not mine. Katherina’s. Though, I wonder…” I consider the scene before me. “You reckon Richterman’s got a direct grip on some of these orphans?”

  “We’re a good piece from Gold Vein, Odell. These orphan Strigoi would have to be wanderin’ pretty far for dinner. If they came this far, then they came on purpose.”

  “It must have been Richterman,” I state. “I know he’s your gravy maker, Scarlow. But I’m going to tell you right now, before God and Heaven, I’m going to ride into town and I’m going to end the sumbitch.”

  Scarlow’s eyes wilt a touch.

  I prod, “You got a problem with that, you tell me now. I hate surprises.”

  After a long pause, he finally says, “We better make camp. Don’t want to ride through the mine forest at night.”

  fter an unnervingly quiet night, we break camp. Scarlow eyeballs the Hitchenses’s wagon and asks, “Should we do something about them?”

  “Should probably bury them,” I answer. “It’d be the Christian thing to do.”

  “You got a shovel?”

  I glare at Scarlow.

  “Me neither.”

  I walk a slow circle around the cart, looking for a shovel among their possessions, but come short.

  Scarlow adds, “We could burn it.”

  After a moment’s consideration, I shake my head. “Windy season. Probably get the brush licking fire.” I sigh and mount Ripper. “Just leave it all. Someone finds it and musters the fortitude, they can make use of what they find.”

  Scarlow shrugs, and we move back south.

  The sun is high in the sky by the time we reach the first copse of pine trees leading down into the valley. No Strigoi will be guiding us in this time. Magner’s creatures, on the other hand, have no handicap by virtue of sunlight. I’ve seen that firsthand. They benefit from the Wendigo’s strengths, but lack the Strigoi’s weakness. Whatever these things actually are, they represent the strongest walking presence of evil I’ve seen in my time with the Godpistols.

  I have to focus on these monsters. Richterman is a distraction I can no longer live with. To settle this matter, I’ll have to choose the wrong side of the righteous path. I’ll have to break my word to Folger. There’s no other way. To stay true to my word, I’ve allowed evil to prosper. At times, Gil’s method had seemed heartless to me. Sometimes brutal. But always, in every case that the Godpistols had cleansed a scourge from the countryside, they had done so without hesitation. Swift strikes. No mercy.

  As we clear the bottom of the mine hills and reach the flat shelf of the Gold Vein valley, I realize why my apprenticeship has taken so damn long. My heart is filled with hesitation. Mercy, or what I want to call mercy, is in truth a reluctance to strike. I’ve been a coward, first to the war and now to the calling of God.

  We reach the Folger homestead, and I pause by the house.

  Scarlow gives me a look of anticipation.

  I hold out a hand. “Give me a minute.”

  I dismount and step i
nto the house, checking the bedroom. No sign of Folger. If he’d done what I’d asked, he’d probably be down in the cellar with Katherina. With any luck at all, at the very least he’d find solace in her arms.

  With a quick reach under that uncomfortable damn cot, I gather the last of my possessions and take one last look around the room. The hanging herbs, the old stove with its leaky pipe, the door leading to Folger’s room where I had nearly staked Katherina. This had to become a memory for me.

  Time I moved on.

  I step back out onto the prairie. A new, chilled breeze sweeps down out of the hills. Funny how the temperature felt milder up on the high plains than it does in this consigned valley. I move around the house to the cellar doors, and hold.

  I just stare at them. What the hell do I do? What do I say?

  I give the doors a couple kicks and wait for a response.

  Nothing.

  So I shout, “Denton? Katherina? I don’t know if you’re in there, or if you can hear me, but it’s done. The papers is delivered, just like you asked. And, well… I’m moving out. If you need me, you’ll find me in town. I’m shacking up at Holcomb’s. I wish you two the best. All right, then.”

  When I return to Scarlow and Ripper, I note he’s taking good care to avoid eye contact.

  “Shut up,” I say, just to be sure.

  “Didn’t say shit.”

  Putting the homestead behind us, we take the last hour’s journey on in to Gold Vein.

  The town looks quiet. No smoking ruins or screaming people getting devoured by Wendigo. I suppose that’s something to feel good about.

  We pull up at the front of Holcomb’s shed, and Scarlow pauses.

  “I’m headin’ to the jailhouse. See if I have a corpse or a cannibal on my hands.”

  “You solid?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “Scarlow?”

  “Odell?”

  “I can’t tell if you’re a friend or foe.”

  His smirk returns. “I reckon I’ve been both.”

  “I reckon we’ll find out when I treat with Richterman.”

  “He knows you mean him harm. You know that, don’t you?”

  I suck in a breath and nod. “He’s always listening. That’s what you say, isn’t it?”

  He looks up the street to Richterman’s office and runs a finger under his nose with a sniffle. “At sunset, you come to the office. I’ll let you in. And you go deal with him on your own. I won’t get involved. Nor will my men. It’ll be just the two of you. It’s all I can offer.”