Skinwalkers

by Hill, Bear

  “When we gonna fuck, Max?“ Hank blurted.

  Maxine climbed the stairs, not bothering to look back. “When you win at cards more than once in a blue moon, Hank. Or when hell freezes over. Personally, I’m betting on the latter.“

  Hank’s cheeks flushed crimson. His fellow card players erupted with laughter once again. Garrett watched Maxine until she entered her room on the second floor. “Speaking of whores, where’s Gerdie?“

  “Gerdie?“

  Little Joe pointed upstairs and mimed praying.

  Garrett raised his eyebrows and smiled.

  “Amen.“

  Reverend Phillips removed the bit from his mouth and fell onto his side, panting and exhausted. “Ah, Ms. Gertrude.“ The tall, naked man peered at the behemoth of a woman who’d been riding his back.“It was quite unfortunate the iron-willed Madame Maxine was not here to rid me of my devils. But truly, the Lord doth provide.“

  Gertrude was already dressing herself. “Five dollars for the poke, Preacher. Two extra for the rest.“

  “Yes, of course.“

  The reverend rose to his hands and knees and removed his pants from where they hung on the bedpost so that he could climb into them. He reached inside his pocket and produced several coins.

  “And, might I say, Ms. Gertrude—“

  Reverend Phillips handed the large whore her money as he dropped onto the bed.

  “Worth every dime and nickel. Some men might find your girth a deterrent. But your immense bulk upon my back was every bit as enjoyable as the touch of the Madame’s boot heel. The hellfire that possessed me hath been quenched, and I’m once again worthy to perform God’s service.“

  “Hallelujah, Preacher. You’re short a dollar.“

  “Uh, well, yes. You see, with only the few of us here, in town, and the Indians not exactly taking to the Christian way of late, the offering plate has left something to be desired.“

  “I’ll tell Little Joe—“

  “No!“ Reverend Phillips jumped to his feet. “No, child. No need to bother the good Mr. Joe, God bless that savage heathen.

  “Perhaps you and I can come to some sort of arrangement? I saw how you took a shine to my layer cake, last Sunday potluck. Perhaps I could whip up another and bring it around—? In the service of the Lord, of course.“

  Gertrude’s eyes grew so large upon her chubby face they looked like boiled eggs dipped in flapjacks. She nodded enthusiastically, her multiple chins wagging to and fro.

  “God be praised.“

  Although, in all probability, it meant he was that much closer to the hangman’s noose, J.T. Farnsworth was pleased to see a town ahead of them in the distance—a last bastion of civilization standing before a wilderness of hill, mountain, and blood-red sky.

  Nightfall and the dangers it held weren’t that far away. But towns were safe places. Towns had doors you could lock and people to surround yourself with. Mad troll Indians did not frequent towns. They stayed in the open badlands or in dark caves under bridges.

  Farnsworth had been glad when, that morning, they’d headed in the direction opposite that of the Navajo war party—that’s what the bounty hunter had told him the Indians were—Navajos out for blood. And lucky for the two of them that the Indians been on the move with a set purpose, otherwise they might have decided to do more than just ride by the night before.

  The two men reached the town’s entrance, a freestanding frame with a wooden plank suspended from its header by rusted hinges. It creaked as it swung in the faint breeze, the two ugly vultures perched above it squawking and ruffling their wings as if in welcome.

  J.T. squinted as he gazed at the sign, but couldn’t make out what it said. He reached inside his pants pocket, a difficult task thanks to his shackled hands and the bony-backed mule rocking beneath him, and produced a pair of round spectacles. He spat on the lenses and then rubbed them against his trousers.

  He managed to put them on and threw back his head in surprise as the sign came into focus. It read:

  PERDITION

  All Welcome

  A bad comedian had carved, Abandon all hope, ye cocksuckers! diagonally across the sign’s face.

  “How far to Santa Fe?“

  “A fucking long way, Professor,“ the bounty hunter said. “What? You all the sudden in a hurry to get before that judge?“

  Farnsworth looked up at the vultures as he and the bounty hunter rode beneath the sign. The vultures stared back. Farnsworth could’ve sworn there was an intelligence in their gaze—an insight malevolent in its nature.

  “We should keep riding,“ Farnsworth said.

  “Tonight? Through those mountains? To the judge in Santa Fe?“

  Farnsworth nodded without taking his eyes off the vultures.

  The bounty hunter shook his head.

  “Damned if I ain’t heard it all.“

  They entered the town and Farnsworth scanned the main thoroughfare: nothing but a dusty, sodden path empty of anything but a few rolling tumbleweeds. The town itself couldn’t have extended farther than a few hundred feet. Most of it appeared to be run down and abandoned. There was, however, a horse tied to a hitching rail alongside what appeared to be a saloon.

  Someone still lives in this godforsaken place.

  Beyond the saloon, the town’s decrepit wooden buildings petered out, giving way to a handful of adobe structures. Farnsworth thought this arrangement of structures odd and mismatched. But then he noticed the large adobe mission just outside of town. It stood like a steepled cube at the feet of the mountains towering over Perdition.

  Spanish must have started this town to convert the aboriginals, Farnsworth thought. Gold rush probably moved everyone on over to California. This place is a ghost town and it will only be ghosts and trolls that walk it!

  Farnsworth cursed his thoughts for they turned back to the troll and caused him to shiver in his saddle.

  The bounty hunter and Farnsworth rode up to the saloon. A small Mexican boy, golden in the setting sun, sat on the porch, rocking back and forth, his eyes turned up so they looked like blank eggshells. The sleeping mongrel on the steps beside him let out a loud, dry fart as if to welcome them.

  The bounty hunter dismounted and removed a Henry repeating rifle and saddlebag from his horse. He slung the saddlebag over his left shoulder and moved the rifle to his right hand, barrel pointed toward the earth. With his free hand, he helped Farnsworth slide off the mule. Holding Farnsworth’s right bicep, he led him up the stairs to the saloon.

  “What an odd, little fellow.“ Farnsworth reached down to pat the boy on the head. The boy’s eyes rolled forward and he hissed as he bared his teeth. Before Farnsworth could withdraw his hand, the boy clamped down on the writer’s palm, sinking his teeth into the flesh.

  Farnsworth screamed a litany of obscenities as he jerked his hand free with a rattle of chain. He checked it to make sure the skin remained unbroken. The boy hissed again and then took off around the side of the saloon. The dog didn’t move. Looking at him, Farnsworth doubted if anything short of the End of Days could draw the mutt out of slumber.

  Farnsworth peered inside the saloon. A petite, attractive blonde waved to him, giggling and batting her eyes.

  “Maybe we should ride on, Professor—?“ the bounty hunter said, a smile on his face.

  Farnsworth removed his spectacles and ran a hand through his tangled hair. “No, no, no, good sir. Are we not both vexed and weary from the long day’s ride? Surely this venue has proper accommodations for men such as us.“

  “Changed your mind, huh? Okay. We’ll stay. But don’t you be getting any ideas in the way of escape.“

  “Perish the thought, my good man.“

  “Yeah.“

  The bounty hunter led Farnsworth through the saloon’s batwing doors and the jovial laughter and banging piano music that had been floating through the air came to a halt. The bounty hunter scanned the room.

  A few empty tables directly ahead. Four armed card players in the co
rner; two whores trying to get their attention. No real trouble there, unless someone decided to be stupid. A pale, thin man at the piano in back of the room, beside a staircase. Unarmed, soft as they come. Probably a minister. A frowning, walrus-sized whore beside him. Hallway leading out back. A gamble what’s out there. But, no one on the stairs, or on the promenade above. All doors leading onto the promenade are shut—no slight gaps for persons to shoot through. Still, unknown what’s behind them. Like with the rear entrance, have to be careful. On the left, two men. One-armed man leaning on the bar, his right hand in his pocket—probably on a derringer. The owner. Poison, but hesitant. It’s the big Indian with the knife in his belt and the scattergun I’ll bet he’s got under the bar that One-arm’s counting on to take care of business, should the need arise.

  “I need the sheriff,“ the bounty hunter said.

  “Ain’t no law in Perdition,“ a mustachioed card player yelled. “Besides, we don’t serve your kind around here, darky.“

  The bounty hunter ignored him. His eyes warred in the air with the Indian’s, both waiting to see the slightest change in the other that might telegraph the need for action. The bounty hunter strode up to the bar. Farnsworth stumbled, protesting as the bounty hunter pushed him along.

  “This your joint, ain’t it?“ He asked the question of the one-armed man, though his gaze never left the Indians’s.

  “That it is,“ the man said. “Name’s Garret. This here’s Little Joe. The cunt in the corner trying to set policy for my bar is Hank.“

  “What do you have to say personally on the matter?“

  Garrett stood in silence, looking the bounty hunter over.

  “There’s only one kind of hombre I don’t serve in this establishment—“

  The bounty hunter slapped his saddlebag down across the bar, the clink of the coinage inside audible throughout the room.

  “But you ain’t it,“ Garrett said. “What are you drinking?“

  The room relaxed. Hands eased away from pistol-grips.

  The bounty hunter nodded at Little Joe. “Whiskey.“ The Indian nodded back and released the trigger on the scattergun beneath the bar as he turned to fix the bounty hunter’s drink.

  “You have quite the talent for making friends,“ Farnsworth said. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking if I might, too—?“

  “No!“ the bounty hunter said. Little Joe sat a shot glass down in front of him. The bounty hunter devoured its contents in a single swallow.

  “I didn’t see a jail,“ the bounty hunter said, turning his attention to Garrett. “I need to secure my prisoner for the night.“

  Garrett nodded. “There’s a stove in my office upstairs. You can shackle him to it. Come on.“

  From Croatoan Unbound, by Lesley Robinson…

  While the ultimate disposition of Perdition’s townsfolk remains undocumented, multiple theories have been formulated in regard to their fate.

  The most likely is that the township moved wholesale when the railroad missed them to instead travel through the nearby city of San Ramirez. The family of Perdition’s founder, the noted Santa Anna loyalist Benito Ignacia, returned to their native land of Mexico soon after their patriarch lost his life in a riding accident. In addition, Perdition was already recorded to have suffered a significant decrease in population with the onset of the Colorado Gold Rush in 1859. Although Perdition saw a brief resurgence in the form of Anglo-American settlers during the early 1860s who gave the town its lasting moniker, it is doubtless the railroad’s decision to lay track through the neighboring city hammered the proverbial nail in the coffin of what would’ve already been a ghost town. When Perdition’s residents saw the city’s one opportunity for socio-economic growth falter and then die, abandonment of the township for other more established places of residence would have seemed the only logical course of action.

  Another more circumstantial theory is that, being unable to eke out a living as a township, the people of Perdition dispersed to be absorbed by the indigenous population. The Utalo, a Native American people having substantial numbers in that part of New Mexico, have the support of some historians in their claims that their ancestors incorporated the people of Perdition into their tribe. To date, the United States government has denied the Utalo federal “Indian“ status due to their high degree of mixed ancestry. Further evidence in support of this theory is the Utalo religion, a mixture of tribal philosophy and Fundamentalist Christianity unlike any other found among the Native American peoples. This theory was proposed by American anthropologist James Clayton in his book, Perdition Lost: In search of America’s True Ghost Town. However, Clayton would be the first to admit that there is no true empirical evidence to substantiate his findings.

  Probably the most talked about and least supported hypothesis for Perdition’s disappearance is that the township fell victim of some type of paranormal occurrence that wiped it from the face of the earth. Speculation has ranged from the ever popular alien abduction theory to the even more ludicrous Seventh Seal Theory. The latter takes its name from the biblical book of Revelation. The story of Seventh Seal speaks of hell opening up to scourge the immoral and unjust. Certain translations even mention hell swallowing those found guilty of sin.

  There is little doubt the town’s name and the supernatural taboo attributed to the area by its indigenous peoples have fueled supposition in this regard. Though, to date, all claims to this effect remain unfounded.

  If the scorched earth located roughly thirty miles south of San Ramirez is in actuality the remains of the township of Perdition, it is more likely the phenomenon which produced it is natural in occurrence. Such naturally occurring phenomenon might be a land-logged equivalent of the escaping methane hydrates along the continental shelf now considered to be the cause for the disappearance of vessels in the Bermuda Triangle …

  Chapter 3

  THE WOUNDED PRIVATE

  “When my innocence is proven at last,“ Farnsworth yelled through Garrett’s office door, “you brigands shall rue the day you crossed swords with J.T. Farnsworth!“

  “Got a highfalutin mouth on him, don’t he, stranger?“ Garrett led the bounty hunter off the promenade and down the stairs.

  “That’s the professor, all right.“

  “What’d he do?“

  “Nothing you need be concerned about.“

  Garrett scowled. They reached the main floor and he found something to occupy himself with that didn’t include the bounty hunter.

  The latter saddled up to the bar, pretending not to hear the derogatory remarks issuing from the card players.

  “Fucking nigger just roll in here like his fucking shit don’t stink,“ Hank said. Lacey’s arms were around his neck.

  “He’s brown as shit, Hank,“ Robby said, elbowing his friend for approval.

  “That he is, Robby. Browner than the brownest shit ever come out my ass, even after eating the Doc’s pork chops, that I can tell you!“

  Hank guffawed until he felt Lacey’s arms leave his neck. He watched in astonishment as she stumbled up to the bar to lean on the bounty hunter.

  “Want a poke, Mister?“ Lacey slurred. She placed a tiny hand on the bounty hunter’s shoulder, having to stretch her arm to its full length in order to do so. “You can stick it in my ass for seven.“

  The bounty hunter gazed down at her, a blank stare where pity might once have been.

  “Shoo, Lacey. Get.“ Maxine pushed Lacey away and took position at the bounty hunter’s side. “That little rabbit ain’t woman enough for a big, strapping gringo like yourself, stranger. I’m Max.“

  “Ms. Max,“ the man said, tipping his hat. He turned to Little Joe and gestured for another whiskey. Maxine waited for the bounty hunter to give her back his attention. She tilted her head in surprise when she realized he wasn’t going to.

  “I can give you something a hell of a lot better than what’s at the bottom of that glass,“ Maxine said.

  “Doubt it.“

&n
bsp; Maxine’s head rocked back in surprise.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you like women?“

  “I like them just fine.“

  Maxine looked the bounty hunter up and down. He was huge, as tall and solid as Little Joe, but without his gut. And there was something about him. Maxine was not the kind of lady who indulged in schoolgirl crushes, but she felt drawn to him—saw something in his eyes that she recognized in herself.

  “Then how about a poke?“ Maxine asked. She leaned in close and whispered in a conspiring tone. “On the house?“

  The bounty hunter raised his glass to Little Joe, indifferent. “Another.“

  “Come on. Make me feel alive again. Please?“

  The bounty hunter turned and peered down into Maxine’s eyes. There was no sympathy or judgment in his gaze, but it did hold understanding.

  “I can’t help you,“ he said under his breath. It was true, of course. Maxine knew she’d just been fooling herself.

  “Then make me forget,“ she whispered. “Just for a little while.“

  The bounty hunter looked at her a moment longer, then picked up his rifle from the bar and slung his saddlebag back across his shoulder. He took Maxine’s hand in his and led her away from the bar and up the stairs.

  Garrett watched them go, venom in his gaze.

  Afterward, the bounty hunter lay on his side, his body rising and falling in time with his slow methodical breathing. Dust motes illuminated by the setting sun fell lazily atop him by the hundreds. Maxine lay dozing in and out as she traced her fingers along the scars on his back. Their coitus had been hard, angry, and satisfying. Death had been beaten back for a little while longer, and both were spent from the fight.

  “That boy yours?“

  Maxine started awake. She realized the bounty hunter was addressing her and answered.