Skull Moon

by Tim Curran

  "Damn heathens," Runyon cursed and made his way back.

  Sitting by the wood stove and warming his numbed hands, Runyon grinned, knowing he'd freed the world of a few more thieving redskins.

  The bastards would freeze.

  Runyon smiled.

  7

  It was much later when the scratching began.

  Runyon had been dozing in his chair, a game of solitaire laid out before him, the. 38 still in his fist. He'd been dreaming he was down in Wolf Creek, warm and toasty, having a drink and eating a good meal. Then he opened his eyes. He wasn't in Wolf Creek. He was out in the goddamn signal shack waiting for morning.

  Something that never seemed to come.

  Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he set the Colt down and listened. He'd heard something. Some unknown sound. He knew this much. Runyon wasn't one to wake without reason. Cocking his head, he listened intently. The wind was still shrieking, the snow still dusting the shack and making it tremble.

  But something more now.

  A low, almost mournful moaning noise broken up by the winds.

  And scratching. Like claws dragged over the warped planks of the shack.

  Runyon swallowed, a trickle of sweat ran down his back. It was the injuns. It had to be the injuns. Somehow, they had survived the subzero temperatures and had come back now. Maybe with a raiding party. At the very least with guns, knives, and evil tempers.

  What had that injun said?

  We will die…but so will you.

  Runyon shivered.

  He shouldn't have shot that one… he should've shot them all. He should've tracked the bastards through the snow and killed them. Shot them all down and saved himself a hell of a lot of trouble.

  But now they were back.

  Runyon lit his cigar back up. He wished he'd brought more bullets for the Colt, but, hell, he hadn't expected any trouble like this. He should have known better. Those savages were always on the look out for a lone white man they could murder and rob.

  They were circling the shack now. Moving with quiet footfalls. He could hear them scratching at the shack. But what he heard then made no sense: growling. A low, throaty, bestial growling. No man made sounds like that. Maybe they had brought a dog. He could hear it sniffing, pressing its nose up against the boards, growling low and snorting like a bull.

  Runyon aimed the. 38 at the door.

  The first one in was a dead man.

  The door began to rattle, to shake as someone pulled at it. The boards were shuddering, groaning beneath great force. Nails began popping free. The entire shack was in motion now, swaying back and forth as something out there clawed and tore at it. It wasn't built for such stress. The roof was collapsing, snow raining down as planks fell all around Runyon.

  The lantern went out as it was engulfed in snow.

  With something like a scream in his throat, Runyon began kicking at the rear of the shack, knocking boards free. Just as he pulled a few planks clear and squeezed his bulk through, the door was shattered to kindling.

  Runyon plowed through the drifts, his ears reverberating with the deafening howls of the thing that could not be a man. Runyon ran through the swirling, blowing snow, tripping, falling, dragging himself forward. Behind him, there was an awful low evil growling and something that might have been teeth gnashing together.

  He turned and fired twice at a blurry, dark shape.

  A huge shape.

  He could smell the beast now. It came on with a stink of decay, a reek of rotting meat and fresh blood.

  Runyon screamed now, a high insane screech that broke apart in the wind.

  And something answered with a barking wail.

  Down in the snow, breath rasping in his lungs, fingers frozen stiffly on the butt of the Colt, Runyon saw a great black form leaping at him. Much too large to be a man. A giant. Runyon fired four more bullets and the gun was knocked from his hand.

  But the wetness.

  It steamed from his wrist.

  In the numbing cold he hadn't even felt it, but now he saw. The thing had sheared off his hand at the wrist. And as these thoughts reeled in his head with a quiet madness, the black nebulous shape attacked again.

  Runyon saw leering red eyes the size of baseballs.

  Smelled hot and foul breath like a carcass left to boil in the sun.

  And then his belly was slashed open from crotch to throat and he knew only pain and dying.

  Runyon was the first. But not the last.

  8

  By dawn, the storm had abated.

  The wind was still cool and crisp, but only a few flakes of snow drifted from the clear, icy sky. In the Union Pacific Railroad yards in Wolf Creek, it was business as usual. Just before nine a flagman discovered the wreck of the signal shack. Searching around out back, he saw a single blood-encrusted hand jutting up from a snowdrift.

  Within the hour, the law was there.

  "What you make of it, Doc?" Sheriff Lauters asked. He was rubbing his gloved hands together, anxious to get this done with.

  Dr. Perry merely shook his head. His hair was white as the snow, his drooping mustache just touched by a few strands of steel gray. He was a thin, slight man with a bad back. As he crouched by the mutilated body of Abe Runyon, you could see this. His face was screwed tight into a perpetual mask of discomfort. "I don't know, Bill. I just don't know."

  "Some kind of animal," the sheriff said. "No man could do this. Maybe a big grizz."

  Perry shook his head, wincing. "No." Pause. "No grizzly did this. These bite marks aren't from any bear. None that I've ever come across." He said this with conviction. "I've patched together and buried a lot of men in the mountains after they ran afoul of a hungry grizz. No bear did this."

  Lauters looked angry, his pale, bloated face hooking up in a scowl. "Then what for the love of God?" This whole thing smacked of trouble and the sheriff did not like trouble. "Dammit, Doc, I need answers. If there's something on the prowl killing folks, I gotta know. I gotta know what I'm hunting."

  "Well it's no bear," Perry said stiffly, staring at the remains.

  Abe Runyon was missing his left leg, right hand, and left arm. They hadn't been cut as with an ax or saw, but ripped free. His face had been chewed off, his throat torn out. There was blood everywhere, crystallized in the snow. His body cavity had been hollowed out, the internals nowhere to be found. There was no doubt in either man's mind-Abe Runyon had been devoured, he'd been killed for food.

  With Lauters' help, Perry flipped the frozen, stiffened body over. The flannel shirt Runyon had worn beneath his coveralls was shredded. Perry pushed aside a few ragged flaps of it, exposing Runyon's back. There were jagged claw marks extending from his left shoulder blade to his buttocks.

  "See this?" Perry said.

  He took a pencil from his bag and examined the wound. There were four separate claw ruts here, each ripped into the flesh a good two inches at their deepest point. On the back of the neck there were puncture wounds that Perry knew were teeth marks. They were bigger around then the width of the pencil, and just about as deep.

  "No bear has a mouth like that," Perry told the sheriff. "The spacing and arrangement of these teeth are like nothing I've ever come across."

  "Shit, Doc," Lauters spat. "Work with me here. Dogs? Wolves? A cougar? Give me something."

  Perry shrugged. "No wolf did this. No dog. Not a cat. You know how big this… predator must have been? Jesus." He shook his head, not liking any of it. "Hell, you knew Abe. He wasn't afraid of man nor beast. If it was wolves, they'd have stripped him clean. And he got off five shots from his. 38, so where are the dead ones?"

  "Maybe he missed," Lauters suggested.

  "He was a crack shot and you know it." Perry stood up stiffly with Lauter's help. "Well, I'll tell you, Bill. No bear did that, no way. Those teeth marks are incredible. The punctures are sunk in four, five inches easy." He looked concerned. "I don't know of anything in these parts that could do this. And I hope to God I never meet i
t in the flesh."

  "You saying we got us a new type of animal?"

  Perry just shrugged, refused to speculate.

  Lauters spat a stream of tobacco juice into the snow and looked up towards the mountains. He had a nasty feeling things were about to go bad in Wolf Creek.

  9

  When Joseph Longtree rode into the quadrangle of Fort Phil Kearny, the first thing he saw were bodies. Eight bodies laid out on the hardpacked snow and covered with tarps that fluttered and snapped in the wind. They were all cavalry troopers. Either wasted by disease or bullets. Both were quite common in the Wyoming Territory. He brought his horse to a halt before the bodies and followed a trooper to the livery.

  Longtree had been to the fort before. But like all forts on the frontier, its command roster was constantly changing. During the height of the Sioux War of '76, this was especially true. Troopers were dying left and right. And now, two years later, that hadn't changed.

  His horse stabled, Longtree made his way to the larger of the blockhouses, knowing it contained the command element of the fort. It was warm inside. A great stone hearth was filled with blazing logs. A few desks were scattered about, manned by tired-looking officers, their uniforms haggard and worn from a brilliant blue to a drab indigo. They watched him with red-rimmed eyes.

  "Can I help you, sir?" a stoop-shouldered lieutenant asked. He had a tic in the corner of his mouth, his amber eyes constantly squinting. A habit formed from long months chasing Sioux war parties through the blazing summer heat and frozen winter wind.

  Longtree licked his chapped lips, pulling open his coat and flashing his badge. "Joe Longtree," he said in a flat voice. "Deputy U.S. Marshal. You have some orders here for me from the Marshals Office in Washington, I believe."

  "One moment, sir," the lieutenant said, dragging himself away into the commanding officer's quarters. He came back out with a short, burly captain.

  "We've been expecting you, Marshal," the captain said. He held out his hand. "Captain Wickham."

  Longtree shook with a limp grip. "The orders?"

  "Don't have 'em," the captain apologized. His cheeks were full and ruddy, his hairline receding. Great gray muttonchop whiskers rode his face like pelts. "There's a man here, though, to see you. A Marshal Tom Rivers. From Washington."

  Longtree's eyes widened.

  Rivers was the Chief U.S. Marshal. He was in charge of all the federal marshals in the Territories. Longtree hadn't seen him since Rivers had appointed him.

  "Tom Rivers?" Longtree asked, his face animated now.

  "Yes, sir. He's come to see you before riding on to Laramie. I'm afraid he's out right now with Colonel Smith." Wickham frowned. "One of our patrols was ambushed by a Sioux raiding party last night. We lost eight men. Eight damn men."

  Longtree nodded. "I saw the bodies."

  "Terrible, terrible thing," Wickham admitted.

  "Sure it was Sioux?"

  Wickham looked insulted. "Sure? Of course we're sure. I've fought them bastards for ten years, sir." He quickly regained his composure. "We still have trouble with isolated bands. Most of 'em don't even know Crazy Horse surrendered. And until they do…well you get the picture, Marshal."

  "When do you expect them back?"

  "Before nightfall, sir. I've heard you went after the fugitives who robbed that wagon in Nebraska. Murdering thieves. How did you fare, sir?"

  Longtree shrugged. "Not as well as I'd hoped." He scratched his chin. "Had to bury all three of 'em. Would've liked 'em alive."

  "It's what they deserve, sir." Wickham patted Longtree on the shoulder. "It seems you have some time before the colonel and his party return. You've had a long hard ride, sir, might I suggest you take advantage of our hospitality?"

  "It would be welcome," Longtree said, the burden of the past few days laying heavy on him now.

  "Lieutenant!" Wickham snapped. "Find a bed for the marshal. He'll be wanting a hot meal and a bath, I would think."

  The stoop-shouldered lieutenant took off.

  "If you're a mind to, sir, I'd be pleased to join you for a hot drink."

  "Lead the way, Captain," Longtree said.

  10

  The interior of the groghouse was dim and dark and smelled of pine sap and liquor. There were tables arranged down the center and knotty benches pushed up to them. Longtree and Wickham each got a mug of hot rum and sat down. There was no one else in the house but them.

  Longtree hadn't been to Kearny for some time, but it hadn't changed very much. In '68, it had been abandoned due to pressure from warring Indians. As had Forts C.F. Smith and Reno, all located along the old Bozeman Trail. Only Kearny had been re-opened, back in '75.

  "So tell me of your exploits in Bad River," Wickham asked in his typically robust manner. He could discuss a woman's frilly pink underthings and make it sound masculine with that voice.

  Longtree sipped his drink. "Not much to tell."

  "They put up a fight, did they?"

  Longtree laughed without meaning to do so. "You could say that." In a low voice, he described the events that had transpired. "If it hadn't been for that Flathead…well, you get the picture."

  Wickham furrowed his eyebrows. "A strange turn of events, I would say. Very few men survive the noose. I've known but one and he spent the remainder of his days with a crooked neck."

  "My throat doesn't feel the best," Longtree admitted, meeting the captain's gaze, "but nothing's damaged. A week or so, I'll be fine."

  "Odd, though."

  Longtree had the distinct feeling Wickham didn't believe him. He loosened the top few buttons of his shirt, revealing a bandage wound around his throat. Carefully, he unwrapped it. There was a bruised, abraded, and raw-looking wound coiled on his neck.

  Wickham's eyes bulged. "My God… how could you survive that? How?"

  Longtree wound the bandage back up. "I don't know. Luck? Fate? The grace of God?" He shrugged. "You tell me."

  Wickham had nothing to offer. He downed his rum. "Well, back to work, Marshal. I'm sure we'll see each other before you leave. Good day, sir."

  Longtree watched him leave. No doubt he was going back to gossip about the hanged man to his fellow officers. Longtree supposed it had been a bit dramatic showing the wound, but he detested a look of disbelief in another man's eyes. And after everything he'd been through, he figured he could be excused a bit of drama.

  He ordered another rum and waited.

  Waited and thought about Tom Rivers.

  11

  The room wasn't bad.

  There was a bed and blankets and a little firepot in the corner. A few logs blazed in it. A washtub had been filled for him with steaming water. A cake of soap and a couple towels were set out.

  "Just like home," Longtree said, kicking off his boots and clothes.

  After his third hot rum, the lieutenant had come for him and brought him to the officer's mess. He stuffed himself on tender buffalo steaks, sliced potatoes, and cornbread washed down with ale. He hadn't eaten a meal quite so good in some time.

  As he scrubbed a week's worth of dirt and sweat off, he thought about Tom Rivers. Why would the Chief U.S. Marshal come all the way from Washington to the Wyoming Territory to bring him his assignment? It just didn't wash. Maybe Rivers was out visiting his marshals-something Longtree had never heard of him doing-and had just decided to serve Longtree's papers in person.

  Could be.

  But Wickham had said that Rivers wanted to see him before riding down to Laramie. What was so important that Rivers would wait around to see him in person? There had been no set time for the arrival of Longtree; it could've been today or next week or next month, for that matter.

  Longtree reclined in the soothing, steaming waters and wondered about these things. Thoughts tumbled through his head in rapid succession.

  There was always the possibility that Rivers had come in person to tell him that his appointment as a federal marshal had been revoked. It had happened to others. But it seemed unlikely. Lon
gtree had been with the marshal service since '70 and in that time, of the dozens and dozens of wanted men he'd hunted down, only a few had eluded him. His record was very impressive. If he was being turned out, then it wouldn't be a matter of job performance.

  The drinking? Was that it?

  Also unlikely.

  He hadn't allowed himself to do much drinking recently. And the only time he did was between assignments. And lately, there'd been no time between them: one assignment came right on the heels of the last with no break in-between. It had always been the boredom before, waiting around with nothing to do, no constructive purpose, that set Longtree going on one of his drinking binges or indulgences in other vices.

  No, Rivers coming had nothing to do with that.

  But just what the reason was, Longtree couldn't guess.

  The next thing he knew, the water was cold and there was someone knocking frantically at the door.

  "I'm coming," the marshal mumbled.

  He dragged himself to the door.

  12

  "Let me guess," Longtree said. "I'm fired."

  "Of course not, Joe," Tom Rivers said plopping himself down in a chair by the fire. He warmed his hands. "In fact, we need you more than ever now."

  Longtree, dressed only in a red union suit, pulled his shoulder-length dark hair back and tied it with a thong of leather. He reclined on the bed.

  "Tell me of your expedition with Colonel Smith," he said, changing the subject.

  Rivers grinned, smoothing out his mustache. He was a thin man, corded with muscle. His face was lined and pocketed with shadow. His eyes a misty green, like the depths of a pond. He had an easy way about him and there were few who didn't warm to him almost immediately. It was rumored that years ago when Rivers had been a marshal in Indian Territory, he'd charmed many a white and redskin outlaw into handing over their weapons. He was a natural diplomat. People just seemed to want to do good by him.