The Long Walk (The Verge Walker Book 1)

by Ben Reeder

  Caleb nodded. “I’ll make sure it gets into his hands.” He stood up and took the tin plates from the table and took them over to the stove. “You get on to bed, brother Ezekiel. I’ll see to the washing up.”

  “Thank you, son,” Flint said as he got to his feet and nodded toward the narrow bed near the fireplace. “You’re welcome to the guest bed there. I’ll see to that letter come morning.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Caleb said. “I’m much obliged.” He watched as Flint made his way to the bedroom, then got up and went to the pile of dishes.

  Half an hour later, with the last of the few dishes cleaned and put away, he unbuckled his gun belt and slung it across the back of his chair. Then he crossed the room and allowed himself to sink into the mattress of the guest bed. With a relieved sigh, he pulled his boots off, then laid back and closed his eyes without bothering with the blankets.

  It seemed his eyelids had barely shut before he heard the first scream of a horse in pain. He staggered to his feet, disoriented. As he got his bearings, Flint pounded by in nothing more than his long johns. Caleb followed him out the door, barely noticing the sandy ground under his sock-clad feet as they sprinted toward the barn.

  “Something’s after my horse,” Flint yelled over his shoulder as he grabbed an ax from the woodpile. The barn was barely visible in the starlight, but Flint seemed to know what he was about, and Caleb followed him. “Get the door!” Flint called as they got to the barn. Caleb went to the barn door and pulled it open. Beside him, light flared as the preacher cast aside a flickering lucifer match and held a lantern high.

  Standing in the yellow light of the lantern was a seven foot tall creature with whipcord muscles stretched over bones that were too long for them, skin worn like an outgrown set of clothes, reaching only halfway past the elbows, leaving red muscle and yellow sinew exposed to the night. But the true horror was the thing’s stolen visage; a child’s face that had been forced across an oversized skull, leaving the nose to flatten and the eyes as deformed slits. The mouth was torn at either side leaving the teeth only partly covered by strands of flesh that curved into a macabre grin. Even as Caleb recoiled in horror, his hand flashed to his hip, belatedly remembering that his gun belt was still in the house. He looked about, and his eyes fell on a pitchfork. Snatching it up, he was a fraction of a second behind Flint. The preacher charged forward and swung his ax in an overhead arc that knocked the monster back, but did little else to all appearances. Caleb thrust the pitchfork at its chest, the thin tines bending under the pressure against them as they tore thin gashes along the pale skin covering its chest. The boy’s stolen face stretched into an even more grotesque mask as the creature screamed and swung its elongated arm at the shaft of the pitchfork, snapping it in two places.

  Pastor Flint leaped forward and swung his ax at the outstretched limb. The blade tore through the thinly stretched skin, but bounced off of the thicker muscle beneath it. In the same moment, Caleb charged the beast, ramming the splintered shaft of the pitchfork like a bayonet into the creature’s exposed armpit. It splintered even more, and the beast snarled as swung at him with the back of its hand. The blow was high, and Caleb ducked beneath it, backpedaling as the monstrous thing turned its full attention on him. As it turned away, Flint took advantage of the opportunity and swung again, bouncing the ax off the thing’s back. It turned and reached for the minister, and a dark furry mass leapt out of the shadows and latched onto its arm, diverting the blow. The creature’s other clawed hand struck in a blur, and there was a yelp followed by a thud as the dog struck the stall door then only silence. Flint’s dog lay still on the ground, and all three looked at it for a heartbeat. Then the creature bolted from the barn.

  “What in the Hell was that thing?” Caleb asked as a stricken Flint went to his dog’s side.

  “I have no idea,” Flint said as he knelt by the dog and pulled his broken body close. A grulla mare lay in the stall, its belly torn open and its throat slashed.

  “Poor Nicodemus,” Flint lamented, cradling the dog’s head in his lap. “You were such a good boy.” Thick tears ran down his cheeks as he gently closed the dead animal’s eyes with a gnarled hand. Caleb hung his head, his chest tight with heartache at the old man’s grief.

  “Ezekiel, I’m-” he started to say, but was cut off by a crashing sound and the frightened whinnying of horses in the distance.

  “Damn thing’s at the livery stable,” Flint growled. Caleb started for the house, sprinting across the open space. He pushed the door open and went to his gun belt, taking but a moment to buckle it on. As he fastened the buckle, he heard a click and turned to find Flint standing behind him with a double barreled shotgun in hand.

  “You give that thing a couple of barrels of buckshot for old Nicodemus,” he said, his voice hard. He tossed the shotgun to Caleb.

  “I will, sir,” Caleb said, then bolted into the night. The moon and stars gave enough light to see all but the smallest or best hidden of obstacles, and Caleb took the straightest route down. Brush scraped at his hands and face as he barreled down the hill. The trail offered a brief reprieve from the onslaught of twigs and thorns, then he plunged straight back into the thick scrub. After a few moments of running, he found himself on level ground. Ahead of him was the livery stable, its door hanging open on one hinge, light spilling out in a crazy triangle on the ground. There was the sound of tearing and a horse’s terrified squeal, then the sound of impact.

  Caleb thumbed both hammers back on the shotgun as he vaulted through the narrow opening. When his feet hit the ground, he took a step and brought the scattergun to his shoulder. One horse already lay on the ground, hideous wounds laying its side and belly open. The creature from the pastor’s barn stood near an open stall, and Caleb could see his horse spin about to land on his front legs. As the monster stretched its misshapen arm back, the horse kicked out and knocked it back into the middle of the barn.

  “Get away from my horse, Hellspawn!” Caleb yelled, drawing its attention from its previous prey. The thing turned to him and bared yellowed fangs. Caleb raised the shotgun until the barrels were covering its hideous face, and pulled both triggers. At such close range, there wasn’t much spread, and the charge of shot impacted the the monstrous face like a pair of runaway freight trains, shredding the stolen skin away and baring the true visage beneath. The thing shook its head and scattered the lead pellets that had stuck to it onto the ground.

  “It ain’t much,” Caleb continued as he drew his pistol and pulled the hammer back, “and it might be crotchety, slow and lazy.” He leveled the barrel on the thing’s chest. “But it’s my damn horse.”

  The Colt roared and the slug sent the creature staggering back. Caleb thumbed the hammer back again and pulled the trigger, and again the thing stumbled back. The third shot knocked it up against the far wall of the barn, and it shook its head and sprang forward. It swung backhanded and knocked Caleb sprawling, sending the gun flying from his hand. With a rumbling snarl, it took a step forward and raised its clawed hand, ready to deliver a fatal blow.

  As Caleb braced himself and got ready to dodge, the monster hesitated, and turned to look over its shoulder. Caleb scrambled back and got to his feet, then turned and grabbed the nearest weapon: a thick tined garden fork. He charged forward and thrust the shorter weapon at the thing’s chest, forcing it back a step. It grabbed the fork by the shaft and reached for its attacker with the other hand, but Caleb had already let go and drawn his Bowie knife. He slashed at the hand reaching for him, feeling the blade bite into something before the creature knocked him away and bounded out of the barn.

  Groaning, Caleb picked himself up from the dirt and slapped away the worst of it, then went to retrieve his pistol. As he picked up the revolver, he also grabbed the garden fork. Then, he went to the wounded horse. Its sides heaved and its back legs twitched slightly. He knelt next to the dying horse and made soothing sounds to cover the click of the hammer being drawn back.

  “I’m sorry
I wasn’t here in time,” he said. “I can’t save you, but I can give you an end to suffering. Go with God.” The pistol boomed and the horse gave a final spasm, then went still. He stood slowly and turned toward his horse’s stall. Before he could take a step, though, the barn doors opened and he found himself faced with half a dozen people, including the sheriff, who held a Winchester lever action rifle centered on Caleb’s chest.

  “I want to see empty hands, mister. Right now!” Browder barked, looking down the sights of the Winchester. Beside him, Zeb held a double barreled shotgun in shaking hands, and Robbie thumbed the hammers back on the coach gun he’d covered him with hours before.

  Caleb lowered his left arm a bit before he dropped the garden fork, then opened his hand so the pistol rotated out of his grip and hung by the trigger guard on his trigger finger.

  “You won’t get no trouble from me, sheriff,” he said as he slid the gun off of his finger and let it drop the the floor. He moved his right hand down his body and undid the buckle on his gun belt. “I didn’t do any of this.” When the belt slid free of his hips, he held it out away from his body with his left hand and slowly set it on the ground.

  “You’ll pardon me if I’m not keen on believing that,” Browder said. “Because it sure looks to me like you done plenty.”

  For the second time in as many days, Caleb found himself sitting in a jail cell. Robbie sat stone-faced at the sheriff’s desk, a shotgun cradled in his lap. A few folks were gathered outside, but even from the cell, Caleb was able to see that the bulk of the town’s interest was at the livery stable. Hours had passed, and he had stretched out on the bunk. Aches and pains had made themselves known as the initial excitement had worn off. The first thing he’d noticed was how bad his feet hurt from running around in his socks. Then there were the numerous aches from where the creature had knocked him around. Adding to that the running and the fighting, and Caleb was exhausted. It had been years since he’d felt this kind of fatigue, and he was grateful that it wasn’t worse. He closed his eyes, but sleep eluded him. The thing he fought kept appearing in his mind’s eye, and the images of the animals it had killed.

  As his brain catalogued the many aches and pains, one sensation finally registered, so faint that it had almost gone unnoticed amid the greater pains he was experiencing. All that brought it to his attention was the newness of it: a slight tingling around the edges of each place he’d been hit. Much like the feeling that he’d gotten when he laid the ticket on the bar. Again he looked at his fingertips, and felt the barest tingling sensation in them. The more he concentrated on it, the stronger it seemed to get.

  His musings were interrupted by the door opening. Sheriff Browder walked in and laid his Bowie knife on the desk, then walked to the door of the jail cell.

  “You been nothing but trouble for me from the moment you showed up, mister,” he said. “Now, it looks pretty obvious what you’ve done, but I gotta get your side of the story, too.”

  “It’s like I told you before, sheriff,” Caleb said, not even bothering to get up. “It looked like some kind of monster. It was wearing a boy’s skin over its body, and it had long claws. Nothing I did seemed to really hurt it. Hell, I emptied both barrels of the preacher’s scattergun in its face and put at least three bullets into it. That should have been enough to kill man or beast.”

  “We heard the shots,” Browder said. “But we didn’t find any bullet holes except in the one horse’s skull. I don’t suppose anyone can back up this load of malarky you’re trying to sell me?”

  Caleb sat up and put his feet on the floor. “Reverend Flint can,” he said. “Same damned thing killed his horse and his dog.”

  Browder raised an eyebrow at that, then turned and looked over his shoulder. “Robbie, head on up to the parson’s place, see what he has to say.” The deputy at the desk got to his feet and headed out the door, and Browder went to take his seat back. The door had barely clicked shut before it opened again to admit Joseph, the Indian who had accompanied the sheriff earlier.

  “You wanted me, sir?” he asked softly.

  “Yeah, it looks like I’m finally going to get an honest day’s work out of you,” Browder told the man. “I need two graves dug come sunup, and Nate Jackson needs that dead horse moved out of the livery stable.”

  “Yessir,” Joe said and left.

  “Dumb Injun’s prob’ly going to want two bits per grave,” the other deputy said.

  “And he’ll get it,” Browder said. “They may not be six foot tall, but we’ll still bury those boys six foot deep, and I ain’t gonna gyp a man who does an honest job.”

  “You’d charge two bits each if it was you digging those holes,” Caleb said.

  “I wouldn’t be spendin’ every dime I made on rotgut whiskey.”

  “Stop flapping your gums, mister,” Browder said. “And keep your mind to your own business. Seems to me you have enough to worry about already.” Caleb shook his head and sat down on the cot

  Moments later, the door slammed open and Robbie burst into the room. “Sheriff, we found the parson laid out on the floor!” The young man’s face was red from exertion, and the sheriff got to his feet and went to the cell door, a snarl on his face.

  “What did you do to Zeke?” Browder demanded.

  “Nothing,” Caleb said. “He was fine when I left him. He even gave me his shotgun to use.”

  “He ain’t fine now,” Robbie said. “I sent someone for Doc Prater already.”

  “Good work, Robbie,” Browder said over his shoulder. “We’ll see what the doc says before we decide what to do with this fella. If the parson don’t make it,” Browder said, turning back to Caleb, “I’ll be tempted to let folks lynch you. I might even lend ‘em some rope.”

  “I swear to you, sheriff, I didn’t hurt him. You sent me up to see him because you were concerned about his health. Well, you were right. He’s real sick. All the excitement must have been too much for him.”

  “We’ll see,” Browder said. “Robbie, did you look in the parsonage stable?”

  “No, sir,” Robbie said, his face going red. “Once we found Reverend Flint on the floor...well, we kinda forgot about everything else.”

  “Go back up there and check the stable. If there is a dead horse in there, tell Joe to take care of it.” The deputy nodded and left. Broward gave his prisoner a long look and scowled. It would have been easier if the way things looked was the way they actually were, but so far that hadn’t been the way things went with Archer. And damn if the man didn’t act like he was as innocent as the day was long. Where most men would be pacing the cell or trying to plead their case, the damn Rigger just laid back on the cot and looked to be taking a nap.

  “You must have ice in them veins, mister,” Broward said. “Sleeping at a time like this.”

  “Been a long day, that’s all,” Archer said without opening his eyes. “Either way you look at it, I been busy.” The sheriff shook his head, then looked at the man’s feet. His socks were dark with both dirt and blood. A man looking to cause trouble usually took the time to dress proper. At the very least, he’d put his boots on. The only man Broward recalled ever seeing who didn’t bother with boots was a lot crazier. For that matter, the fella hadn’t bothered wearing much of anything. Archer didn’t strike him as that far gone. The man was definitely a cipher, no mistaking that.

  Broward went back to his desk and pulled open the bottom drawer to reveal the office strongbox. His gaze went back to Archer as he slid the key into the padlock and opened it. He counted out two quarters and two dimes, then plucked another quarter out for good measure. God only knew what else they’d be asking the Injun to do that day.

  Once he had the strongbox put away, he put his feet up on his desk, leaned back and pulled his hat down over his eyes. Archer was right. It really had been a long day.

  The sun had been up for a while when the door flew open Broward and Archer both came to their feet, both hands reaching for a holster. Only Broward’s hand fou
nd metal, and he stopped mid-draw.

  “Damn it, Reverend!” he said as he shoved his pistol back into its holster. “You’re like to get yourself shot barging in like that.”

  “Sheriff, you have to let Mr. Archer go,” Flint said, stopping in front of the sheriff’s desk. “I assure you, whatever story he told you, no matter how strange it sounded, is the God’s honest truth.” Before he finished speaking, someone else shoved the door open and stepped inside.

  “Ezekiel, I swear,” Dr. Prater said, his breath coming rapidly. “If you don’t take it easy, you’re going to overexert yourself and pass out again.”

  Flint shook his head and waved the doctor off. “Both of you, listen to me. The boy didn’t do anything. There’s something out there, sheriff, you have to believe me.”

  “Phillip,” Sheriff Browder said to the doctor. “What happened to the parson?”

  “Exhaustion, mostly,” Prater said. “Man’s got the consumption, and he plain ran himself too hard last night. He’s about to do it again, if he ain’t careful.”

  “So, Archer didn’t bushwhack you or anything.”

  “Hell, no,” Flint exclaimed. “Some damn thing broke into my barn and killed my horse and poor Nicodemus. Archer didn’t hurt me, he saved my dang bacon. When we heard it attacking the livery stable, I gave him my shotgun and told him to give the Hell-spawned beast what for.”

  “That’s a mighty strange tale,” Browder said. He looked to Archer, then back to the pastor.

  “You calling me a liar, sheriff?”

  “Any other man, I would,” the sheriff said. “But it’s the exact same tale that fella told.” He nodded toward Caleb. “So I figure you both saw the same thing. Besides, I checked that horse. There was no way I could figure that garden fork could’ve made those slashes, or that big Bowie of yours. And there wasn’t any blood on ‘em, either. Hell, I got no idea what you two really saw. But your stories match, and, as strange as they are, they’ve a ring of truth about ’em.” He walked over to the cell door while he addressed them and opened it. “If I was you, I’d keep on staying up at the parson’s place for now, ‘til things quiet down a little. In fact, I insist on it.” Caleb wasted no time getting out of the cell. Browder handed him his boots as he passed, earning him a double take. Both men left in a hurry after that, leaving Dr. Prater in the office with the sheriff.