Meanwhile, Back in Deadwood (Deadwood Humorous Mystery Book 6)

by Ann Charles

  The crunching sound was growing louder. “Do you hear that?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” It must be something to do with the séance. Harvey was probably eating crackers again while I faced off with another paranormal being.

  “I buried it all out behind the chicken coop in some ol’ tins.”

  I frowned. “You what now?”

  He held up the double-barreled, sawed-off shotgun I’d had on my lap at the start of the séance, but the wire around the triggers was missing. “That young whippersnapper five-fingered it before cuttin’ dirt out of the house.”

  “What whippersnapper?”

  He cocked his head to the side, stroking his beard like his grandson often did. “Well, from what I figure, he was fixin’ to play a little hide-n-seek. But that humbug got the budge on him. After that, he was a gone sucker.”

  “What’s a humbug?”

  “Ya mean the odd fish? Oh, his heart was all played out after their little fuss back in the bone yard.”

  “Who? The what yard?” Criminy, I was starting to feel like we were operating on two completely different planes.

  “The whippersnapper.” He handed me the shotgun stock first, which I took without thinking, noticing the same rectangular tin tag Cooper had shown to Harvey riveted to the wood. “That humbug done did run against a pill, but the rock salt made it techy as a teased snake. It ain’t like the others that been here before.”

  “You mean the rock salt in the cartridges in this shotgun?” I held it up. As in the same rock salt Cooper had said was embedded in the barn wall? Was Grandpappy trying to tell me what had happened to the dead guy?

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Then I honed in on one particular word. “What others do you mean?”

  “You sure are as purty as a field of bluebonnets.” His focus drifted lower. “Nice breedin’ hips, too.”

  Right, well breeding was one of my specialties. “Do you know who the man in the safe was? And what others do you mean? When had they been here?”

  He held his finger to his lips, shushing me, and then cocked his head to the side again. “Well, some of them there hard cases are ugly as a mud fence. Masks make ‘em bearable.”

  What in the world was he talking about? The masks in Harvey’s tool shed? Crikey, I needed a translator.

  “Way back,” he continued, “long ‘fore we got the deed ta this place, t’others started usin’ it like some sorta stage stop, droppin’ ‘em off at odd times.”

  “Dropping off what?”

  He lowered his gaze to me. “The unwanted, purty lady. Although, this whippersnapper wasn’t s’posed ta be here. But ol’ milky eyes was on the hunt again. That humbug always did like ta play with his food ‘fore usin’ one of his pig stickers on it.”

  I couldn’t follow the ghost’s one-sided conversation, and the crunching was growing louder and louder, making it hard for me to hear as well as focus. I looked around, searching for the source of the sound, wishing Harvey would come strolling out of the shadows with a boxful of crackers. I found nothing but dark skies and moonlight shadows. The crunching continued, mixed with a scratching sound every so often.

  “You’re hearing that, right?” I said, still searching the shadows. “Surely you must hear that.”

  “That crazy fool tried to pull foot, but once ol’ milky eyes gets yer scent, there’s no shakin’ him. He figured the safe would hide him well enough, but he was dead wrong.”

  “Who’s ol’ milky eyes?”

  “I reckon he shouldn’t have lit from the whangdoodles. They may be ravin’ distracted, but they don’t mess around with their prey, they just kill it. Ol’ milky eyes, though, he’s downright ringy, always playin’ with his food first. That runner’s heart gave out before ol’ milky eyes even poked his head in that safe, lucky for him. Otherwise, he’d been screamin’ for mercy when the humbug cut the skin off his face.”

  I stood there stunned for several seconds as my brain translated and filled in what blanks it could. “So, milky eyes is one and the same as the humbug? And he’s the one who cut the skin off the guy’s face? And the guy was dead when it happened?”

  Was I getting this … crunch, scratch, crunch, crunch.

  “Ol’ milky eyes came back later to play s‘more. Boy howdy, ya shoulda heard that humbug roar when it found that safe empty.”

  Crunch, crunch, scratch, CRUNCH.

  “How can you not hear that?” I asked, glaring over at the barn. It seemed to be coming from around back, loud and clear in the moonlit night.

  “I never have seen anyone escape those pig stickers, human or the others.”

  “What others?” Was he talking about Aunt Zoe’s Others?

  “The mead?” he asked.

  I scratched my head, wondering if I’d somehow missed the segue to the topic of mead.

  “Oh, ya mean in my chicken coop? They were left by the grave digger. He got into neck trouble before he could send the message back to Slagton to come fer it.”

  CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH!

  I winced, the noise grating on my nerves as much as the sound of my kids fighting.

  That was it. I needed to find Harvey and make him stop. This conversation was confusing enough without his chewing. “I’ll be right back,” I told Grandpappy.

  “That shotgun don’t work no more.”

  “I need to wire the triggers back, I know. Your grandson filled me in.”

  He crossed his arms. “Yer all balled up. That there is some bad medicine.”

  Being balled up is bad medicine? I waved off his confusing babble. “I’ll be right back. I need to go tell your grandson to chew with his lips closed.”

  I rounded the barn, searching the moonlit world, but found nothing. Leading with the shotgun, I followed the crunching sound further back, around the chicken coop and into the shadows beyond.

  The crunching stopped.

  Then I realized what I was doing and fear stopped my feet cold.

  What in the hell was wrong with me? I’d left Doc back with Grandpappy.

  “Time to go, Killer,” I whispered and turned around.

  But the barn was gone.

  The chicken coop and tool shed were missing, too.

  In their place was a graveyard, tombstones all around, some straight and regal, others slanted or broken into pieces. They stretched up a knoll and over into the trees.

  My heart ratcheted up. This wasn’t the Harvey family graveyard. It was bigger with many more tombstones. The trees and hills were in the wrong places. I was still in the Black Hills but not on Harvey’s property.

  A cold wind blew across my face, making my shivers crawl even deeper under my skin.

  I heard scratching right behind me, like fingernails on wood.

  What was that?

  Too afraid to look, I stood there telling myself over and over again: There’s nothing there.

  CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH!

  Drawing a shaking breath of courage, I looked over my shoulder.

  What I saw made that shaky breath whoosh out like I’d been gut punched.

  Not ten tombstones away in a partially dug up grave squatted a creature outlined in shadows. Every muscle in my body went into lockdown. My heart even paused to assess just how screwed I was.

  A distant soundtrack from my memory replayed, Harvey’s voice echoing from a day months ago in Bighorn Billy’s diner … spiked teeth, claws like scythes, and a coat made up of its victims scalps.

  The description fit. I was too far away to confirm the scalps, though. From where I stood, it looked more like patches of white fur.

  The White Grizzly was what Cooper had called it, mentioning something about a legend that had been passed down from the Lakota Sioux tribe. That must mean this thing had been around since before the miners and ranchers had come to the Black Hills. Was it here before the Sioux, too? Or was there more than one?

  I watched in silence as it scratched at and tore into the top of a coffin
, pulled out a skull and bit into it, chewing like it was an apple.

  There it was, that crunching sound that had been driving me nuts since I’d closed my eyes back in the barn. I winced with each bite, the sound reverberating in my eardrums. Why was it so damned loud? Was that my clue? Was I supposed to take on this vile creature and execute it? Why couldn’t it look like a Care Bear, for crissake, so that all I had to do was rip out some stuffing and dropkick the thing into the trees?

  Grunting, it threw what remained of the skull to the side and tugged on a leg bone, tearing it free of a pant leg.

  What had Harvey been telling me that bright summer day so long ago? Something about the sheriff’s crew, which had included Cooper back then, finding a bunch of the graves dug up, coffins opened, bones chewed on? Why did it eat the bones? The marrow would be long decayed. It didn’t make sense. Then again, neither did the séance, Harvey’s hooch-guzzling grandfather, or me standing here in some graveyard that just appeared out of the dark.

  Scratch, scratch, CRUNCH! CRUNCH!

  Moving at a snail’s pace, I faced it head on, taking care not to disrupt its late night need for munchies. Then I realized something—I still held the sawed-off shotgun.

  Bullets won’t kill it.

  So what, I told the know-it-all voice in my head. Having the weapon in my hand made me feel less like peeing my pants.

  Something off to the side of the graveyard caught its attention. Then I heard it, too—twigs breaking underfoot. Someone or something was coming.

  The White Grizzly lowered the femur it was chewing, its head cocking slightly as it stared out across the graves. I followed its gaze but saw nothing under the moonlight: just tombstones, wrought-iron fences and gates, and dark pine trees.

  When I looked back, the thing was staring right at me.

  Oh. Hell.

  I turned to marble, trying to camouflage myself with the other gravestones behind me.

  A guttural growling rumbled from dark lips pulled back in a snarl. Dropping the femur into the grave, it rose up on its hind legs.

  And up and up.

  Holy fucked up freaky-ass shit!

  That must be why they called it the White Grizzly and not the White Sorta Big Weasel. It was huge! I wished it really was just a bear. I took a step back, my feet already putting Operation Run-Like-Hell into effect.

  It took a few lumbering steps toward me, sniffing the air in my direction. Its growl grew louder. “Scharfrichter,” it said in a gravelly voice.

  I blinked in surprise. Had it just spoken?

  While I was still trying to decide if my mind was playing tricks on me, it dropped down onto all fours.

  Uh oh. That couldn’t be good. Was this really happening? I clutched the shotgun tighter.

  It twisted its head from side to side. Its movements were slow and deliberate, a true hunter stalking its prey.

  And I was the deer in its sights tonight. What in the hell was this grotesque monstrosity? More importantly, what was it doing in my distorted dream? Or had I invaded its spine-chilling world?

  I lifted the double barrels, widening my stance. Bullets might not kill it, but maybe they would give it a good limp and give me a solid head start. As my jacket sleeve slid back, Aunt Zoe’s charm bracelet flashed, the silver and mirrored glass reflecting the moonlight.

  The creature screeched as if in pain, the sharp sound piercing my ears. I cowered back another step, half in fear, half in pain.

  “What—the—fuck—is—that?” Cooper enunciated from behind me off to the left.

  The sound of the detective’s voice jarred me out of my concentration on the creature. My gaze whipped in his direction. Behind him were Harvey’s outbuildings, the chicken coop not sixty feet away. I glanced around, realizing the tombstones had changed, many disappeared. The cemetery had shrunk. Realization struck—I was back on the ranch, standing knee high in the grass back in Harvey’s family graveyard.

  And Cooper was there, his gun raised.

  Unfortunately, so was the White Grizzly, its guttural growling even noisier. My anxiety rose along with its volume, my heart and pulse racing in a dead heat.

  “Parker, get behind me,” the detective ordered, his handgun out and aimed at the White Grizzly.

  “Cooper, that gun won’t stop it.”

  “Six bullets might damned well slow it down.”

  That was a nice theory, but I really wasn’t looking forward to testing it. The beast took a step in Cooper’s direction.

  With my gaze still on the White Grizzly, I spoke to the hard-headed man. “Christ, Cooper, listen to me. Put the damned gun down and let me handle this.”

  “Bad idea, Parker.” He pulled the trigger, a gunshot exploding in the clear night air.

  That mule-headed son of a bitch!

  The bullet hit the creature with a thick-sounding thud. It looked down where it had taken the shot, seeming more surprised than hurt. It glared back at Cooper and let out a roar that shook me clear to my boots.

  “Way to go, Johnny Ringo,” I said to him, closing the distance between us with several quick strides. “Now you’ve managed to piss off both of us.”

  The White Grizzly bared its fangs at Cooper and lunged.

  Everything happened so fast, my brain didn’t seem to keep up.

  Cooper held his gun steady, unloading five more rapid shots into the beast before it reached him. The bullets didn’t seem to faze the creature at all. It moved with lightning quickness, pouncing and knocking the detective onto his back. They rolled on the ground as Cooper struggled to throw it off, grunting and cussing the whole time. The beast gained the upper hold, pinning the detective down with its weight, its sharp claws sinking into his leather coat. Cooper shouted in pain. When it raised one front leg, its claws fully extended, I saw my window of opportunity.

  Flipping the shotgun around, I gripped the double barrels and went in swinging. Babe Ruth had nothing on me.

  My first swing caught it along the jaw with a solid thwack, sending it rolling sideways from the detective. Before it could recover, I leapt over Cooper and spun round quickly to increase my momentum, bringing the stock of the shotgun down on its skull with all the strength I could muster.

  Something cracked and the beast staggered several gravestones to the right, shaking its head while snarling and whimpering. Then it let out a snorting growl and stood up on its hind legs, towering.

  “You okay, Cooper?” I kept my focus on the beast.

  “I think so,” he said from behind me. I heard the grass rustle as he got to his feet. “What in the hell is that thing?”

  “That’s your White Grizzly you told me about.”

  It hulked menacingly, roaring at me.

  “Jesus, I always thought that was an old wives’ tale used to keep kids from screwing around in graveyards.”

  The creature shook its head a couple of times.

  “You really rang its bell,” Cooper told me. “Did you look into those milky eyes? I saw some fucked up shit there for a minute.”

  Ol’ milky eyes … This beast was what Harvey’s grandfather had been talking about earlier. It was what had hunted down and defaced the dead guy.

  I heard a small clinking sound next to me but didn’t want to take my eyes off the beast. “What’re you doing?” I asked Cooper.

  “Loading my gun.”

  “I told you that bullets don’t work.”

  “They make me feel better.”

  I knew that exact line of thinking, but I couldn’t resist a jab. “Next time we hang out in a graveyard together, I’ll be sure to bring your binkie and favorite blanket along.”

  “Shut the hell up, Parker.”

  The beast lowered onto all fours, getting into lunging position again.

  “Don’t even think about it, you ugly motherfucker,” I heard Cooper say, raising his firearm again.

  I repositioned my hold on the shotgun, knowing what I had to do. “Cooper.”

  “Yeah?”

  �
�If you shoot me by accident, I’m going to come back and haunt your ass.”

  Before I could chicken out, I raced at it, circling around to the side, trying to catch the hunter by surprise. It tried to adjust and lunge at me, but I was able to cut sideways and dodge out of its path, jabbing the shotgun toward its face like it was a lance. The end of the barrel connected, nailing it in one of its milky eyes.

  The roar that followed was a mix of rage and pain.

  The momentum from my dash and jab sent me spinning, my boot connecting with a small gravestone sticking up out of the ground. I tried to catch my balance but stumbled. The shotgun whacked into a crumbling headstone, jarring it from my grip as I staggered further and fell onto my hands and knees. My chest just missed being pierced by a rusted metal rod stuck in the ground decorated with a circle and star midway down.

  The creature recovered more quickly than I did, undoubtedly fueled by the need to rip my face from my skull, too. It sprung toward me while Cooper unloaded more lead into it.

  I rolled onto my side and reached for the shotgun, but the White Grizzly beat me to it, knocking it aside.

  It circled me, its teeth gnashing, its remaining milky eye sizing me up. The smell of its breath reminded me of roadkill, making me gag. It shook its head again, my earlier blow still giving it grief.

  A sudden coolness spread through my limbs, a euphoric feeling almost. Somehow, someway, I was going to kill this nasty son of a bitch tonight and put an end to its reign of terror.

  “You wanna dance?” I heard a voice ask, and then realized it was mine. Before I knew it, I was up on one knee, poised like a runner on the starting block, ready to go head to head. “I’ll teach you the Two-step.”

  The White Grizzly snorted at me. I could hear its breath rattling in and out, every click of its teeth, each scratch of its claws in the dirt as it circled me.

  “Violet!” Doc’s voice cut through my focus.

  “Stay back, Doc.” This bastard was mine.

  I glanced off to the side for the shotgun, but it was not to be seen, hidden in the tall grass.