Skinwalkers

by Hill, Bear

  “Don’t,“ the bounty hunter said, his voice ice.

  The prospector sank back into his chair.

  “Fucking nigger,“ the prospector mumbled. “You don’t tell me nothing.“

  “And you,“ the bounty hunter said, putting the gun’s nozzle to his captive’s temple, “any more of that shit and I’ll say ’To hell with the bounty,’ and splatter your goddamn brains all over this fucking saloon!“

  The pair edged the remainder of the distance to the saloon’s entrance in silence and backed out through the batwing doors. Moments later, they were slogging through the wet mud of the main thoroughfare toward the bounty hunter’s animals—a pack mule and a large Quarter Horse with a champagne coat. The bounty hunter hoisted J.T. to sit atop the mule, the action taking surprisingly little effort for the large black man. He was about to mount the Quarter Horse when the prospector burst out the saloon’s entrance brandishing a pistol and screaming at the top of his lungs.

  There was a loud blast of gunfire and a chunk of wood along the saloon’s hitching post splintered into the air. The red-faced prospector continued to advance, firing his pistol and hitting everything but that at which he was aiming.

  Farnsworth recoiled as a bullet buzzed his ear, trying to shrink his spindly frame to its smallest possible size.

  “Great Godfrey, man!“ he yelled. “Shoot him before he kills us both!“

  The bounty hunter just stood, watching the prospector run at him like a Viking berserker.

  “Come on,“ the bounty hunter whispered. “Shoot me.“

  Not fifteen yards now separated the bounty hunter from the howling prospector. But still the bounty hunter stood, an obsidian monolith rising out of the muddy street.

  “Shoot me, God damn it. Shoot!“

  With less than ten feet between them, the bounty hunter drew his revolver and fired. The prospector went silent as the top half of his head disappeared in a pulpy, red mist. At the same time, his body was yanked backward into the street by an invisible rope.

  “Jumping Jehoshaphat on toast!“ J.T. said. “I know I called the ruffian to the task, but have you taken leave of your fucking senses?“

  The bounty hunter stood in silence, looking at the dead man spread-eagle in the mud. The corpse’s eyes were open and pointed upward in search of its missing cranium, a silent question etched upon its mustachioed lips.

  The bounty hunter turned and, without looking at Farnsworth, secured the reins of his pack mule to his saddle. Then he mounted the big Quarter Horse and spurred it into a trot, heading out of town, Farnsworth and the mule in tow, the dead and the gawking in their wake.

  “Sir, I implore you to reconsider,“ Farnsworth pleaded. “I assure you my father is a man of vast means. Whatever paltry bounty you hope to collect on my head would shrivel and fade in comparison to the leagues of wealth you might procure simply by endeavoring in a singular act of kindness—a token of good faith on your part that would provide you riches beyond imagining! Simply release me from captivity and I shall venture to the nearest telegraphing establishment to have father wire the money to the locale of your choosing.“

  They’d traveled the length of the day. The sun was setting ahead of them, its glorious corona shining from behind the gigantic, red-rock formations splitting the purple horizon in the distance. The landscape was breathtaking, but the bounty hunter was unmoved.

  The bounty hunter swayed atop his plodding horse. “So let me get this straight, Professor. We part ways and I trust you to see the cash delivered to me?“

  “Indeed! You are quite perceptive in your grasp of my proposal!“

  “Hmm. I don’t know. I’ll have to talk it over with my business associate.“

  The bounty hunter turned in his saddle to face his pack mule.

  “What do you say, Boss?“

  Farnsworth scowled.

  “Sir, you needn’t insult me with such tomfoolery! If you believe subterfuge my intention, then please simply confess as much.“

  “Oh, I just thought I’d talk it over with the ass, seeing as your intention was to make one out of me.“

  The men locked eyes for a moment, their wills battling in the open air between them.

  J.T. looked away first.

  As soon as the bounty hunter faced front, Farnsworth’s hateful gaze locked upon his captor’s back. They sat in silence for a time, trotting over red sand and sagebrush. Then Farnsworth began singing at the top of his lungs.

  Oh I wish I was in the land of cotton!

  Old times there are not forgotten!

  Look away! Look away!

  Look away! Dixie land!

  The bounty hunter looked ahead to the horizon, pretending not to hear.

  They made camp that night at the base of one of the rock formations. The bounty hunter removed the irons around Farnsworth’s wrists only to use them to anchor his leg to the terrain. The bounty hunter built a fire and they ate a meal of beans and dried jerky without a word passing between them. Afterward, when the sky was dark and pin-holed, the bounty hunter relaxed on his bedroll with whiskey and a rolled cigarette.

  “Sir,“ Farnsworth began, “might I inquire of you for a dollop of—?“

  “No.“

  “Perhaps, if you would be so kind, at least a pinch of that—?“

  “No.“

  Farnsworth crossed his arms and slammed his back against the rock face—pouting like a child.

  “You know,“ J.T. said. “you astound me, sir!“

  The bounty hunter cocked his eyebrows in mock interest.

  “Here I sit, an innocent man, whom in all probability you are ushering post haste to his final moments, and—“

  “I know a few folks who see things differently where the question of your innocence is concerned.“

  Farnsworth leapt to his feet.

  “Deceivers! Brigands! Destroyers who would see an enterprising young man like myself shot down like a dog for daring to stray beyond the bounds of the atrocity they themselves would construe to be justice!“

  “You shot a man and stole his horse.“

  “In self-defense, I assure you. The cad accosted me due to his frustrations at my unburdening him of a large percentage of his income throughout various sessions of gentlemen’s gambling.“

  “In his own home? While you were in bed with his wife?“

  “If his shortcomings in his marital responsibilities drove the man’s cherished one into mine arms, what blame can be laid upon my head?“

  “And the horse?“

  “Little choice did I have there also, what with his brothers misconstruing the unfortunate passing of their sibling as something I had association with. Immediate flight by means available proved my only option.“

  The bounty hunter stared at Farnsworth in disbelief. Farnsworth stared back, his expression imploring. The bounty hunter sighed and tossed his captive his whiskey flask. J.T. smiled and took a greedy pull off it.

  “You are a true compatriot, sir!“ Farnsworth said. “A veritable saint! Children shall take your name in honor for generations to come. I shall personally—“

  The horse and mule whinnied and the bounty hunter was on his feet, revolvers drawn. Farnsworth crouched in indecision, not knowing whether to meet whatever peril lay in the darkness on his feet or curled in a fetal ball.

  The bounty hunter peered into the night. Farnsworth could almost feel him willing his eyes to divide the pitch. Seconds crept by, minutes, eternities. Farnsworth strained his ears, listening for the slightest scrape of brush against pants leg—the smallest scrape of boot upon rock.

  As a child, J.T.’s father had told him story of Billy Goat’s Gruff—of the troll who lived under the bridge, waiting to devour goats—or even children—too stupid or unlucky enough to travel into the monster’s domain. And nighttime was the domain of all monsters, wasn’t it? The realm of all things dead? Of things that scurry and slither, devour and destroy?

  Thoughts of the bridge troll loped through Farnsworth�
�s mind. He saw the troll’s gnashing, rotted teeth—smelled the maggot-ridden flesh it reeked of. Somewhere in the depths of his psyche, the fleeting, rational side of his mind asked what kind of lunatic would tell a person such stories—and what kind of lunatic would sit back and listen?

  “Quiet,“ the bounty hunter whispered.

  J.T. heard chains rattling and wished whatever coward was doing that would get a grip on themselves. When he saw it was his own trembling shackle causing the noise, he stilled.

  Night. Silence. Abyss.

  Then the slightest of hoofbeats upon rock, growing steadily louder with each passing second. Then they appeared—Indians—spectral riders on horseback who seemed to float past camp in the darkness. Farnsworth saw both horse and rider were painted. But, in the night, the dyed clay shone merely as varying shades of blue-black. The night seemed to devour the campfire’s light so that the Indians remained cloaked in skins of shadow.

  Then they were gone as quickly as they came. Farnsworth knew if he and the bounty hunter made it through the night, the morning would reveal no tracks or other evidence the ghostly party had passed them by.

  A few moments passed and, satisfied they’d gone, Farnsworth relaxed. He took a step back and bumped up against something—against someone. Farnsworth whirled around and an icy fist of terror seized his heart. J.T. gazed into the face of the troll. He knew it was the troll. Nothing else could be so wretched. In truth, the monster wore the face of an ancient native, but J.T. was not fooled. He knew pure evil when he saw it.

  Demons of fire and shadow danced across the ancient’s scowling, wrinkled face. His long, platinum hair wriggled in the breeze like a bed of snakes. But that was not the worst of it.

  It was the ancient’s eyes—those twin infinities of soul-swallowing cataract—a blind man’s eyes—a demon’s eyes—that made J.T. scramble backward and fall upon his ass as he screamed his mother’s name.

  The ancient turned his empty eyes to the bounty hunter. Despite the native being unarmed, it was the bounty hunter who trembled in the other’s presence. The bounty hunter glanced down at his quivering weapons. When he looked up again, the ancient had been swallowed up by the night.

  From Black Bob’s Doom; or The Hounds of Perdition, a dime novel by J.T. Farnsworth…

  The noble gunslinger kicked in the cabin door and fired his weapons in the air as he announced his arrival in a most vociferous manner. “Be you either gentlemen or brigands, I am Daniel Sinclair. If the resounding of my psalm-like title does not chime the bells of memory within your cowardly heads, let me say that you may recognize my more titular appurtenance, that of Deadshot Dan!“

  “Deadshot Dan of Arizona?“ One of the brigands seated at the cabin’s sole adornment, a roundish table, queried, his voice quivering as he gazed into the glistening, nickel-plated barrels of Dan’s infamous twin revolvers.

  “Aye,“ Dan confirmed, a wry smile upon his lips, “the very same. Deadshot Dan of Arizona, the sultan of six-guns and the prince of pistoliers who, with the aid of my trusty revolvers, Death and Doom, hulled the town of Big Grit single-handedly of all ruffians and evildoers in defense of those too innocent of heart and meek of character to protect themselves! Make no mistake that I can nere do the same with the likes of this motley crew any day of the week and as many times on Sunday as the good book orders!

  “But both good luck and lady fortune have shined upon you this day, gentlemen, for allow me to state that my quarrel and reason for being here is not with the likes of you, but rather with that fiend of fiends, the coal-skinned rascal known as Black Bob! He has apprehended my beloved Anna, and I must track down this black-hearted mongrel before he has the opportunity to assail her purity and leave her for dead in some dark hole within the earth! That is why I have come to palaver with the likes of you, known persons of ill character, for if anyone will have heard recent news of Black Bob’s whereabouts, it will be snakes like yourselves. Now talk or I’ll send every one of your treacherous outlaw souls over the river Jordan by the most direct ethereal line!“

  The men surrounding the table appraised the gunslinger and found his words to be true. For who but Deadshot Dan could appear before six dangerous men such as themselves so strong of heart and steady of hand? However, an idea occurred to one of the more formidable among them, a dark-hearted rogue with a patch over his left eye somewhat learned of books who’d oft twisted the high morals of good folk to serve his evil plots and schemes.

  “Sir, you have us at a disadvantage,“ the one-eyed man said in a voice full of feigned despair. “You ask us to reveal the comings and goings of Black Bob, a disreputable sort whom we freely admit is our leader, under the threat of meeting death at the end of your guns. And yet, if we are to comply with your request, surely the same fate awaits us when next we encounter Black Bob himself. This is hardly a choice to be presented by a man of supposedly high moral character and fair mindedness.“

  “You do not fool me with your backward arguments,“ Dan exclaimed as he gesticulated dramatically with his infamous pistols. “Though that patch may hide your deformity, your deceit is as obvious and undeniable to me as the hills surrounding this cabin. However, I am intrigued. Please speak the thoughts which have peregrinated in your mind.“

  “I propose this,“ the one-eyed man spouted in a most boisterous manner as he rose to his feet, “holster your most feared six-guns and let us match mettle for mettle in a bout of fisticuffs. Surely with the six of us, a band of rough and tumble brigands, against the revered Deadshot Dan, whose physical prowess is known far and wide in these parts, the odds would be near even.“

  “I accept your proposal,“ Deadshot Dan said, his face full of glee, for the only thing he liked more than dispatching villains with his guns was giving them their just desserts with his bare hands, “provided you swear before all that is holy not to draw your guns upon my own person.“

  “Agreed,“ the one-eyed man said as he reached behind his back and placed his hand upon the knife he had stowed in the rear of his belt.

  “Outstanding!“ Dan said as he holstered Death and Doom and then raised his fists. “Have at me, then, ye brigands! For justice awaits you on the bridges of my knuckles!“

  Chapter 2

  PERDITION

  “That’s what I’m fucking talking about!“ Hank raked the pile of poker chips toward himself, his shit-eating grin raising the corners of his handlebar mustache so high it almost touched his eyeballs. “Hey! Hey, Robby! Give me some ’bow on that one, partner!“ Lacey, the youngest and slightest of the saloon’s prostitutes, giggled and slid her spindly arms around the lucky winner’s neck.

  Robby removed his glass from his lips, wiped his rather impressive beard free of whiskey, and then touched his elbow to Hank’s.

  “You sure did, Hank,“ Robby said, pronouncing “sure“ like shore. Then he lost himself once more inside his whiskey glass.

  “God damn right, I did,“ Hank said, “This is The Hank you sons-ah-bitches are up against, here, boys. I can out gamble, out fight, out eat, out drink, and out fuck, any man north, south, east, and west, of the Mississippi! Come on!“ Hank let a large glob of spit and tobacco juice fly from his mouth to the floor.

  “God damn it, Hank!“ Garrett, the saloon’s owner-operator, stormed down the varnished wooden stairs leading to the main floor. He inserted his own chaw of tobacco into his bottom lip with his right hand. Garrett’s left shirt sleeve was folded and pinned to his torso beneath his vest. Nothing but air filled the space that should’ve been occupied by his left arm. “Quit running that cocksucker of yours and use the fucking spittoon if you’re going to frequent my establishment.“

  “Oh,“ Hank said. “Sorry, Garrett. I forgot.“

  “Yeah?“ Garrett said. “Well, see that you fucking remember from here on out or I’ll have Little Joe scrubbing the floor with your scalp.“

  The prongs of Hank’s mustache formed into a large “O“ as the six-and-a-half-foot-tall Indian known as Little Joe win
ked at him from across the bar. The abundant scars on the Indian’s face bunched and twisted with the gesture, serving to make him even more intimidating than usual.

  “You going to take that, Pecos?“ Wilson, the town general owner, shuffled the saloon’s well-worn deck of cards with hands made tough and leathery by hard work and unforgiving sun. Beside him, Jimbo, the final card player, erupted into guffaws, his hard, round gut shaking. The blacksmith’s laughter was infectious, and Robby and Wilson joined in.

  “What the fuck are you laughing at?“ Hank asked Robby. Robby quickly found silence on the inside of his whiskey glass.

  Garrett exited the stairs. “That goes for all you swinging dicks.“ He looked around the bar, his gaze tracking across four or five empty wooden tables to peer at the bat-winged entrance and the two windows bookending it. He turned around, his eyes running the length of the promenade upstairs and the four doors closed to it. Then he shifted his gaze to Little Joe. “Where the fuck’s Max?“

  “I’m right fucking here.“ Maxine Lopez entered the saloon and every man there felt the lust Adam held for Lilith in Eden’s garden. She was striking, all her curves and planes positioned perfectly and moving in a continuous, liquid motion with her approach. The frilly bedclothes she wore beneath her shawl exposed just enough copper skin to make you want to unravel the mystery of what you didn’t see. The smoking cigar she suckled between her bee-stung lips only added to her sultry beauty.

  Maxine sashayed the length of the bar to stand before Garrett.

  “I told the doc no more house calls,“ Garrett said.

  Maxine extinguished her cigar in a tray already black with ash. “Who says I was seeing the doc?“

  Garrett frowned. “It’s not like the town’s overflowing with customers these days. Give it up.“

  Maxine ran her hand along the bar, leaving ten coins in its wake. Maxine slinked by Garrett for the stairs, rubbing her body against him as she passed.