by Ben Reeder
“Surely you don’t believe a word of that malarkey, Jim,” Prater said.
“I don’t know what to believe, Doc. But I don’t think that man Archer hurt them horses.”
“Why the hell not? He was the only person in that damn barn!”
“Maybe so,” Broward conceded as he sat back down in his chair. “But did you happen to notice how many folks were out in the stocking feet tonight?”
“No, can’t say as I did.”
“Not a one, Doc. Not a one. Except Archer and the reverend. You got woke up out of a sound sleep, and you still put your shoes on. Bet ya even tied them.” Broward put his boots up on his desk. “A man with mayhem on his mind is still gonna put his boots on before he goes out and raises a ruckus. But what makes a man run half a mile in the dark without even taking a moment to put his boots on?”
Prater shook his head and held his hands palm up in a shrug. “I surely don’t know.”
“Neither do I, Doc. Neither do I. But something made those two men do it. And I ain’t too sure I want to find out what it was.”
Chapter 5
Most of the town turned out for the Carson boys’ funeral. Flint’s voice carried across the graveyard, clear, sincere and compassionate. He spoke of the joys of Heaven, of God’s plan and redeeming love, and how the two boys would never know hunger or suffering again. From the shadows of the barn, it almost made being dead sound better than being alive in Caleb’s ears. He watched the somber ceremony from the doorway, unwilling to intrude on the town’s grief or risk their ire any further.
Out in the afternoon sun, Flint closed his Bible and bowed his head. Caleb crosed himself and bowed his head. When he looked back up, he noticed the biggest of the Hamori brothers turn his head. A quick backstep took him into the shadows again, but not before the other man’s eyes went wide. The smart thing to do would have been to go back inside, but he had come to the door to catch sight of Widow Miller. Her voice was still clear in his memory, lifting up in the chorus to “Safe In The Arms Of Jesus,” and actually hitting the notes. Flint ended the prayer, and the congregation lifted their heads. Anne Miller’s face came into profile, and Caleb smiled. Red spots showed on her cheeks and tears glistened on her face. It could not be said that she became more beautiful when she cried, and that somehow made her all the more appealing to him.
Caleb turned and went back into the barn to see to his horse. Broward had sent the cantankerous beast up not long after he’d let Caleb go, figuring everyone would be safer if it wasn’t in the livery stable. Everyone except me, that is, Caleb thought. The pain from his late night run was mostly gone, but now he limped when he walked back to pick up the brush.
“Try to walk on your own feet from now on,” he admonished his mount. “I put mine through enough last night trying to save your sorry hide from...whatever that thing was.” The horse snorted at that, then shifted its weight. Caleb took a hasty step back to keep his feet clear. “If I didn’t have things to do, I swear, horse…” he grumbled. Still, he did have other things to do. He turned to the matted straw on the floor and took up the new pitchfork. The horse’s blood had turned the straw dark brown since it had been spilled, and it definitely needed to be mucked out. The gentle roan mare that the reverend had bought before they came back to the parsonage whickered and tossed her head the moment he started moving the hay. He bent to the work, and soon had the straw piled near the door. The roan seemed calmer, and his own horse had even been fairly quiet. With the main floor cleaned up some, he noted his horse’s stall was due to be cleaned as well, so he went to work on that.
“I need to have visitors more often,” Flint said from the doorway of the barn. “Can’t remember when this place looked this good. Though I guess I should be grateful that-” he stopped and coughed, then dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it up to his face. Another spasm of coughing racked his body and doubled him over. In a heartbeat, Caleb dashed across the barn to support him. The older man’s weight felt almost inconsequential against his shoulder.
“Come along inside, Ezekiel,” he said when the coughing fit subsided.
“Been...running myself a little...too hard lately,” Flint wheezed. He straightened a little and stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket, but Caleb had already seen the red spots on it. Joe waited for them by the front porch with a shovel in hand.
“Reverend, you want a hole dug for your dog?” the Navajo man asked. “I can dig it for you, only ten cents.”
“I can dig my own damn hole,” Flint snarled, reaching out to shove Joe away with his free hand. “Damn savage.” Caleb nodded back toward town, and Joe ducked his head before moving off. He helped Flint up the steps and led him to the rocking chair by the fire.
“Rest a bit,” Caleb said. Ezekiel, his face drawn and pale, nodded and slumped in the chair, his breath coming in soft gasps.
“I’ll be fine,” the reverend muttered softly. “Just need me a minute.” His head drooped forward and his eyes closed.
“Take all the time you need,” Caleb said in a hushed voice.
When Ezekiel stirred again, the sun had gone down and the smell of food filled the house. He got to his feet and made his way to the table to find Caleb there with a thick book open before him.
“There’s food on the stove,” the younger man said. “It ain’t much, just rice, refried beans and some tortillas.” A few moments later, both men were sitting down at the table with a plate in front of them. They set to the business of eating without a word. It wasn’t until Flint broke out the bottle of whiskey that any words were exchanged.
“What in the Hell did I see last night?” Flint asked, his face pale. His hand trembled as he poured a couple of cups and handed one to his guest.
“If I had to guess?” Caleb said. “The thing that killed those two boys.”
“I ain’t never seen anything like it. It was like it didn’t have no hide of its own, so it was wearing someone else’s skin like a shirt.”
“I think we both know whose skin it was wearing,” Caleb said. Flint’s gaze went to the window, and the two fresh crosses in the graveyard visible under the pale light of the moon.
“I seen it, but...I can scarcely believe it. Hell, every time I try to conjure up what it looked like, my thoughts get all jumbled up and I think I’m about to piss myself.”
“You did okay when it counted.”
“You don’t think about it when you’re right there, you just...damn thing killed my dog, Caleb. All I could think about was killin’ it back. I wasn’t thinkin’.”
“”I know. And I’m sorry,” Caleb said in a hushed voice.
“To Nicodemus,” Flint said, holding his cup up. “As fine a dog as there ever was.”
“To Nicodemus.”
“Reckon I’ll have to dig up a hole for him in the morning,” Flint said after the initial burn subsided.
“There’s one already dug out back of the barn,” Caleb said. “Guess Joe came back and took care of it anyway.”
“Maybe that damn redskin’s serious about being a Christian after all. At least, when he’s sober.”
“Could be,” Caleb conceded. “Either way, I think we’re going to need him to take us to where they found the boys.”
Flint gave him a long look before speaking again. “You’re dead set on killing this thing, ain’t ya?”
“Yep,” Caleb replied. “It’s already killed two kids. We’re just lucky the only thing it’s killed since is horses. I’m thinking the sooner the better.”
“I christened those two boys. Never thought I’d live to be the one who sent them to meet the Lord. How soon you thinking of going out there?”
“Tonight.”
Chapter 6
“When you said tonight,” Flint muttered, “I thought you were being rhetorical and such.” He held his lantern up again, trying to see further into the darkness. Caleb and Joe rode ahead of him, though only Caleb displayed any enthusiasm for their expedition. The preacher was sure that th
e only thing keeping the Navajo swamper out in the dark on the far side of the Snake River from the saloon was the gold quarter eagle in his pocket, and the matching one Caleb held. Five dollars would buy a lot of whiskey, or even more beer.
“Would you rather have stayed home?” Caleb asked over his shoulder.
“And let you get yourself killed trying to take all the credit for catching the damn thing?” Flint scoffed. “You’re going to need the Lord’s help with this undertaking, son.”
“I’ll take all the help I can get, padre.”
Up ahead, Joe’s lantern swung to the side, and the Indian turned in his saddle. “Here,” he said, pointing toward a gore-streaked tree. Caleb and Flint pulled on their reins and dismounted, leaving Joe with the horses. They advanced with slow, careful steps, their boots nearly silent on the soft loam, guns held at the ready. Two bloody spots on the ground near the tree showed them where the boys’ bodies had laid. Flint sniffed the air and his nose wrinkled.
“You smell that?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Caleb answered. “There’s something dead nearby.” He turned to face the wind and tested the air himself before he headed north again. About thirty yards up, they found a low bluff. The stench of death was stronger here, and they split up.
“Over here,” Flint called out a few moments later. Caleb hurried to his side and pulled his long kerchief over his nose.
An animal corpse lay on the ground, muscle and bone exposed to the night air. “Hear that?” Caleb said.
“Hear what?” Flint said. “There ain’t nothing to hear but frogs and crickets.”
“Exactly. No flies. Just like with the boys. This is our critter’s work. I figure this was a cougar or mountain lion. Hard to tell with the skin and claws gone.”
“I reckon you’re right. Now we know where it’s been but what about where…” Silence fell in the woods, and Flint went quiet as well. Caleb thumbed the hammer back on his revolver. Twin clicks from the preacher’s shotgun echoed the sound, and Caleb set the lantern down.
“Yee naaldlooshii!” Joe cried out. “Yee naaldlooshii!”
“Shut that fool mouth of yours!” Flint called out, but the only sound that answered him was that of hooves on the roadway and the whinnying of horses. “Damn coward,” Flint muttered.
“He might be the only one of us with a lick of sense,” Caleb said, scanning the night for their enemy.
A scream somewhere between human and feline announced its arrival. Both men spun in place to see the eight foot tall abomination rise up at the top of the bluff. Red muscle was visible, but now it held the dun colored pelt of what it had killed. Before either man could react, it flung the fur up and over its shoulders. Its form shifted and flowed as the fur flowed like water from the thing’s head to its toes. Thick claws sprang from its fingertips, and long fangs protruded from its mouth as it reared back and roared at the night sky.
“Get thee behind me, Satan,” Flint yelled, raising his shotgun to his shoulder. The scattergun boomed and sent a load of buckshot into the thing’s gut. “Thou art an offence unto me: for thou savourest not the things that be of God!” He pulled the trigger again and the second shot blew a hole in its hip that staggered it.
Caleb fired as it straightened, hitting it in the chest. It stumbled back and he thumbed the hammer again, putting the second round next to the first. Again and again he fired, each time with careful aim and deliberation, each round striking within an inch or two of another, each shot making the thing stagger back further. Actinic flashes erupted from the entry point of each new wound and from the larger wounds the bullets made as they exited.
The last round knocked the thing back into the thick trunk of a cedar tree. It slumped and put a taloned hand to on a branch to stay on its feet, leaving the fist sized wound visible.
“Shoot it, Zeke!” Caleb yelled. Flint, mesmerised by the spectacle, shook his head and fumbled to open the shotgun’s breach. Caleb turned to look over his shoulder, and the monster raised its head. Flint dropped one shell into the chamber but the other fell to the ground. Seeing the threat, he called out, but the creature was faster. It stepped forward and caught Caleb with a backhanded blow that sent him flying back past the preacher in a flash of light. For a moment, Flint would have sworn the other man simply wasn’t there, but then he saw the trailing arc that connected the creature’s hand to Caleb. Flint snapped the breech closed and pointed the shotgun at the beast.
“For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any two edged sword,” Flint said before he pulled the trigger. The creature danced to one side, and the round missed. Flint stepped back and went to open the shotgun’s breech again, but his foe was too fast. Its hand flashed forward and struck him in the stomach. Caleb saw the foot long talons emerge from the preacher’s back in a spray of blood. Enraged, he drew his Bowie knife and let out a yell as he sprang forward. Heedless of the creature’s claws, he clutched a handful of hair at its shoulder and thrust his blade into its chest, not stopping until the hilt slammed into its body.
For a moment, Caleb and the creature were eye to eye, and he could see the hate in its gaze. But Caleb’s righteous wrath matched it, and he twisted the blade in the wound, feeling a strange tingle in his hands and forearms with every movement. The creature drew its head back then slammed it forward into Caleb’s forehead, knocking him back. Then it stepped forward and swung.
Rows of fire erupted on Caleb’s chest in the wake of the creature’s claws. His vision went white for a moment, then he saw the creature standing over him, its arm drawn back, bloody claws extended for one final blow. Then the world started to go blurry. He tried to focus, but his eyes were reluctant to obey his wishes. The creature straightened at the sound of another voice, and Caleb managed to focus long enough to see an old man step over him with a pine bough held in one gnarled hand. He waved the tree branch at the creature, and it backed away, hissing. The old man thrust it forward like a spear, and the thing let out an agonized scream when a pine cone swung forward and struck it. It turned and bolted from the clearing. Caleb struggled to rise, but black slowly crept in from the edges of his vision, and he fell into darkness.
Toh Yah went to the older white man and checked his wounds. The fire of his life was weak and fading, and he knew the man would not live another hour. The old man had been speared through, and he was already weak and dying.
“Your God awaits you, my friend,” Toh Yah said, his voice gentle.
“Yeah, I kinda figured. What about Caleb?” the old man asked. Toh Yah looked at the younger white man and saw the fire of his life burning strong, though it was slowly getting weaker. But there was also a second light about him, one he recognized.
“He could live, if I take care of him.”
“You do that. His name’s Caleb. You make sure he remembers to do what he promised.” The old man coughed, and blood flecked his lips.
“I will, Ezekiel Flint,” the older Indian said. Just then, the sound of hooves reached the clearing.
“Hands where I can see ‘em!” Sheriff Broward yelled from the saddle. He leveled his Winchester rifle at the Indian, who backed away with his hands in the air.
“It’s okay, James,” Flint said. “He ain’t the one that done for me.” Broward slid down from the saddle and knelt by Flint, never taking his aim from the shaman.
“Don’t waste your breath talking, parson. The Doc will be here, he’ll get you fixed up in a jiffy.”
“Shut up, son, I know I’m not long for the world. At least the Injun was honest with me. Look, it wasn’t him or Caleb, it was something else.” He coughed, and spat blood off to the side.
“Your doctor can not save Caleb,” Toh Yah said. “I can. Let me take him with me.”
“Like Hell I will!” Broward said. “I’m the law in these parts, and I can’t let you take him and do God knows what to him.”
“It is the only way, if you would be rid of this thing that hunts your people. You know, too, that if you tak
e him, there will be no justice for him. If I take him, he is no longer your problem.”
Broward narrowed his eyes, then frowned and shook his head. “Damn it, you’re right. Folks will lynch him before the night’s out if I take him back.”
“Let him take the kid,” Flint said, his voice weak. “Call it an old man’s dying wish.”
“Okay, parson.”
“Good. You still have that flask on you?” Flint’s request brought a faint smile to Broward’s lips.
“Yes, sir, I do,” he replied, producing a metal hip flask and opening it. He lifted it to the old man’s bloody lips. The parson swallowed and sighed.
“Much obliged, son. I’ll put in a good word with the Lord for you.” With that, the light slowly faded from his eyes, and James Broward found the world a less worthy place.
“You get that fella out of here, quicklike,” Broward said, turning toward where he’d last seen the Indian. But there was no sign of either the redskin or the troublesome drifter. “Damn... that was disconcerting.”
Toh Yah carried the stranger a little ways away, then set him down and pulled herbs and cloth from his pouch. The fire of the white man’s life still burned strong, but it had begun to fade with the loss of blood. A paste of nettle leaves on a poultice would have to do. He applied it with haste, and used the shredded remains of Caleb’s own shirt to tie it in place. As he worked, he chanted a song of Walking, taking them to the edge of the Place Between Worlds. Light surrounded them, invisible to anyone else, and suffused the strange white man’s body. When he was done, his patient’s spirit glowed brighter, and the bleeding had slowed to a trickle. He picked the white man up again and carried him to his horse. Joe waited for him, his hat twisted in his hands.