by Barry Reese
“No,” Matt looked the big man in the eyes. “I think they’ve tricked us and doubled back.”
“Huh? Doubled back to where?”
“To my place.” The words tasted bitter even as he said them. “It’s the only thing that makes any sense.”
Matt went on to explain how Butternut had purposely led them deep into these hills for the sole purpose of drawing them away from the ranch. Sometime during the night, the wily Indian and the remaining two bucks had cut back on foot, leaving this sole Indian to continue leading them on.
“They made a wide swing and passed us silent as the desert wraiths they are,” he concluded. “And now they’ve almost got a full day’s lead on us.”
“But they’re on foot,” the burly non-com rebutted, still trying to grasp what the rancher had just told him.
“They’re Apaches, Sergeant. I’m betting by now they’re half a day away from my place.”
“So what do we do now? We just can’t go hightailing back the way we came. The horses are done in. They need to rest.”
Matt didn’t argue. The man was right. A foolish charge back would only kill their horses, leave them on foot and more useless than they were now. He tugged at his stubbly chin before answering, weighing his words carefully.
“I’m gonna wait till nightfall, then head out alone. If I pace myself, my horse should be able to get me there in a day and a half.”
Gunnerson realized the man would be riding on a fool’s mission. If the three Indians were indeed making for his ranch, they would be long gone by the time he got there. Still, a bit of decent wisdom stifled the comment and the veteran soldier merely nodded in acquiescence. “We’ll let you have a couple of extra canteens for your horse.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Matt turned his head and sighed. “Now I need to see to my dog.”
The ground was too hard to dig a grave and Matt settled for laying rocks over him Indian fashion. Gunnerson and the other troops pitched in to help.
Butternut Charlie and his two companions, Crazy Wolf and Black Deer, arrived at the horse ranch just as the fat summer moon poked its face through the wispy night clouds. Its silver light illuminated the darkened house clearly, as well as the horse corrals and smokehouse. Everything was silent save for the noises of the night creatures moving in brush beyond the homestead.
The renegade leader was not a tall man, but he was stocky like a young bull. Across his broad scar-covered chest he wore a bandolier of bullets. His long, greasy black hair fell to his shoulders and his brown eyes were twin slits in his chiseled face.
Butternut’s greatest asset was his flat nose. Like all his people, he could smell the world around him unlike the stupid whites who were forever covering their own scent with harsh soaps or repugnant perfumes. Charlie and his men stank of the desert, its dirt, rocks and scrub. Which was how they were able to walk right up to the big corral without alarming the sleeping horses inside. A few skittish mares picked up their familiar earthy scents and merely snorted.
The weary Apache felt confident they could steal the entire remuda before anyone in the house would even know they had been there. But the very nose that he was so proud of now smelled bread, recently baked. Standing by the wooden gate, Charlie sniffed deeply to confirm the scent. Sourdough bread. His empty belly grumbled. None of them had eaten anything substantial since they had robbed the mission store.
By now both Black Deer and Crazy Wolf had smelled it as well and when Butternut rubbed his belly, they both grinned and nodded appreciatively. So they would break into the house, kill those inside, and eat their fill. This was settled without uttering a single word, as each clutched their stolen rifles and strolled across the open yard, their leather-covered feet making no sounds.
The trio came within ten feet of the wooden porch when a growl stopped them. As one, they turned to see a mangy mongrel dog with a chewed up ear confronting them. The Indians looked at each other, puzzled. None had heard or seen any signs of a dog while approaching the ranch. That it had waited until they were almost at the house to make its presence known was unusual. Still it was only one dog and not a very big one at that, despite its threatening growls.
Butternut Charlie’s concern was that the dumb animal would alert those sleeping in the house. He motioned to Crazy Wolf by slicing his right hand along his throat. The Apache acknowledged the command by reaching into his leggings and withdrawing a long, sharp hunting knife. He approached the snarling dog, holding the blade innocently at his side, ready to use it the second he was within striking distance.
As if reading his thoughts, the yellow dog barked loudly and then propelled itself into the air. The leap caught the Indian unprepared and before he could react, the dog’s weight hit his chest and he fell off his feet. Then, to his utter shock, the beast’s teeth found his throat and bit into it.
Crazy Wolf tried to scream, but the dog’s teeth squelched the sound as it ripped into his neck, blood spurting everywhere. Finally remembering his blade, Crazy Wolf swung it up, aiming for the creature’s ribs only to strike nothing. His arm and the killing blade passed through the attacking mongrel as if it wasn’t there. But it was and it was killing him.
Momentarily frozen by the sight of the dog bringing down their companion, Butternut Charlie and Black Deer both came to their senses and rushed to help Crazy Wolf. Being the closest, Black Deer took his rifle by the barrel and swinging it like a club, brought it down on the maddened canine. The stock passed through the dog and hit Crazy Wolf, at the same time throwing Black Deer off balance so that he started to topple over.
Charlie, shaken by what he was seeing, reached out to steady Black Deer when suddenly there was a loud report as a hundred buckshot pellets tore into his backside. The same blast took off the top of Black Deer’s head and he was dead before his body hit the ground.
Falling to one knee in pain, Butternut looked over his shoulder at Sarah Germaine standing on the porch, a smoking shotgun in her steady hands. He felt blood oozing from the dozens of small holes in his back and anger swelled up inside him like an all-consuming flame. Using his rifle like a crutch, he managed to get to his feet. His only thought was to kill the white squaw who stood before him unafraid. He would teach her fear before he ended her life.
Then he heard the growl of the yellow dog and knew his own folly. He had forgotten it in his rage at being shot. In the glaring moonlight, the dog’s snout appeared to be covered in black paint. He knew it was Crazy Wolf’s blood, the brave stretched out on his back, his throat ravaged by this four-legged demon spirit.
The yellow dog growled again and the frightened Indian tried to bring up his weapon. Like a bolt of lightning, the dog leaped onto him and he dropped the rifle, throwing up his arms to fend it off. The impact pushed him back, his hands wrapped around the dirty fur of the beast in his arms. Then for a second the dog’s snarling face was inches from his own, drool and spittle flying from its open mouth. Butternut Charlie looked into its black eyes and his doom. His knees buckled and he toppled over, losing his grip on the dog. Its nails dug into his torso as its teeth clamped onto his exposed throat.
It was over quickly, the yellow dog ripping the soft, vulnerable flesh to tatters amidst the arterial spray that splashed over it. When the dead Indian had stopped thrashing, the animal made a guttural noise then stepped away from the unthreatening corpse.
On wobbly legs, it surveyed the hell it had wrought. On the porch, Sarah lowered her shotgun and at last took a breath. “Dear sweet Jesus,” she whispered. She heard her children’s footsteps as they came out to join her, one to either side.
Little Molly, clutching her nightdress, raised her hand and pointed. “Look, mommy, it’s Yellow Dog.”
As if to answer her, the ghost dog shook its head and barked, its tail wagging furiously. Then it vanished before their eyes.
“And then it was just… gone,” Sarah told Matt the following afternoon after he’d come riding in, both he and the gray stallion looking as if they had
crossed the entire west.
Upon seeing his family, Matt Germaine had leapt from his saddle and run to embrace them, one by one. But it was Sarah he held onto the longest. Then when both their tears were dry, she had told him of the bizarre events of the night.
“The yellow dog?” He wondered if he would ever be able to wrap his mind around it.
“It was him,” Sarah swore, the resolve unshakeable on her face. “All three of us saw him, Matt. He came home to save us.”
There was nothing left to be said. Matt had Nathan go and rub down his horse and make sure it was watered and fed properly.
Then Sarah took him into the kitchen to do the same for him. It was an hour later when he went to the smokehouse to fetch his shovel. Sarah and Nathan had dragged the three dead Apaches behind the ranch and tossed them in the small ravine, knowing he would bury them proper when he came home. It was time to do that.
As he walked around the house, the shovel resting on his shoulder, a hot breeze came up and enveloped him. The sun was achingly bright and he pulled his hat brim lower. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked and Matt froze. He looked out at the mesa and saw rolling sagebrush bouncing on the horizon. Nothing else.
Matt said, “Thanks,” then went about his task.
MR. BRASS AND THE DEVIL'S TEETH
by Josh Reynolds
It was 1885 and Frank James was a man tired of life, but not yet ready to die. He looked like trail jerky stretched over a scarecrow frame, and his hands shook as he rolled a cigarette. He stank of fear and cheap booze.
“I hid them when we were on the way down south during the Exodus,” James said, his voice like a razor riding a strop. He lit his cigarette and sucked in a lungful of tar. “You weren’t around then, were you?”
“Not as such, no,” Mr. Brass said, sliding a tumbler of whiskey towards James. They sat in the latter’s room in Galveston, and the salty scent of the sea curled through the open window.
James looked at the whiskey, then at Brass. His eyes slid away, and Brass couldn’t blame him for not lingering. He knew that his appearance was off-putting to most, being only remotely human. Thin, insectile limbs with cog and gear joints attached to an articulated torso, with a pump for a belly and a ball-joint for a neck. All of this was hidden beneath a tailored suit of Federal best, spats and a homburg with a snap brim. He held up the bottle of whiskey, examining his reflection.
His face was beautiful he'd been told, but too perfect. It, like the rest of his body, had been crafted by an artisan of rare skill. He’d had another name and another face once and what he was now was all that was left of that man. A ghost with fading memories and dulled emotions, sealed inside a brass coffin. Necromancy or science, alien or terrestrial, what Brass really was, was up for debate. Even he wasn't sure.
All he knew for sure was that he was a Pinkerton, and he had a job to do. And right now that job was to keep Frank James talking. He set the bottle down and his metal fingertips nudged the tumbler again. “Where did you hide them?”
James swallowed audibly. “A church.”
“Which church?”
James was silent for a moment. Then, “They’ll kill me.”
Brass’ mirror-lens eyes clicked once. Twice. “Possibly. I can protect you.”
James laughed. “Ha! You? Protect me from them? From Bloody Bill?”
“It is why I’m here,” Brass said. James was afraid, he knew. Fear, like sympathy and despair, was no longer something he himself could experience. Regardless, Brass was wary where things like this were concerned. Fear in others made his job more difficult.
“Funny, I thought you were here to find those damn bullets for the Yankees!” James snarled, lurching up out of his chair. Brass extended his hand, gently, but inexorably, pushing the former outlaw back down into his chair by his shoulder.
“Like most people, I can accomplish more than one task at a given time,” Brass said, smoothing the pleat of his trousers. “Where are the Devil’s Teeth, Mr. James?”
“Why the hell you even want those cursed things?” James said rubbing the shoulder Brass had exerted pressure on.
Brass paused, letting the information he’d been given in Washington filter through his pickled brain. Towards the end of the war, the Confederacy had resorted to unpleasant measures as Sherman and Robur burned their way through Dixie's guts.
One of those measures had been a box of bullets. Thirteen very special bullets, supposedly carved from the discarded fangs of Satan himself. They were called the Devil's Teeth, and one scratch from them could turn a man into a monster. Had, in fact, turned thirteen men into monsters.
“I don’t, particularly.” Brass rose to his feet, his hands clasped behind his back. “But the United States government is loath to leave hazardous unregistered occult paraphernalia just lying about.”
“It’s been fourteen years,” James said. His eyes narrowed. “Why now?”
“Classified,” Brass said, his voice a toneless monotone.
“Bull puckey.” James’ sudden grin was feral. “They’re coming back, ain’t they? Coming north again.”
Brass said nothing. James cackled. “They got tired of tearing up the little brown people, now they coming back up out the damn jungle and they got y’all blue-bellies pissin’ your drawers. Ha!”
“Unpleasantly put, but nonetheless accurate,” Brass said after a moment. “The Confederate government-in-exile has denied all responsibility for your former unit’s current activities and disavowed any knowledge of their whereabouts.” Head cocked, he looked out the window. “The National Pinkerton Agency was given to understand that Bill Anderson, Jim Anderson, Cole and Bob Younger, and your brother—”
“Jesse,” James said quietly.
“—Jesse, were all dead. Or at least buried,” Brass said, flexing his fingers with a quiet squeal of gears.
“That’s what I thought as well,” James said, closing his eyes. “What I prayed for.” His eyes opened. “I left, you know. Before they did what they did in Nagadoches. I left.”
“We are aware,” Brass said, turning to look at the former bushwhacker. “That is one of the reasons why you were given amnesty during the Exodus. The other reason is because you told Federal forces where your brother and the others were holed up.”
James grimaced. “I couldn’t let it stand. Not what they had done. Not the way they did it.” The glass of the tumbler cracked in his fist. “But y’all couldn’t kill them, could you?” He chuckled. “Left that to the Confederacy, didn’t you?”
“It appears whatever methods they chose to employ were no more effective than ours.” Brass loomed over James. “And now, Bloody Bill Anderson and his raiders have returned for the Devil’s Teeth.”
James paled. “They're looking for me, aren't they?”
“Better to say, they have found you,” Brass said. Outside, the sun was setting over Galveston, and the rattle of wheels over the cobbles and the whistle of steam-powered engines were loud in James’ room. Then, over it all, came a long drawn-out sound. It was a howl, not of a dog or a coyote, but of something older and infinitely more horrible.
The effect on James was immediate. He shot to his feet and lurched towards his bed. The former bushwhacker snatched an old pistol from under his pillow and spun, aiming at nothing in particular. “They’re here! They’re here! You led them to me you brass bastard!”
Brass’ hand darted into his coat and emerged with a bulky pistol. Instead of a cartridge cylinder, however, Brass’ weapon was fitted with a miniature electrical generator and it began to hum as he cocked the weapon. “Doubtful. Likely they were already coming for you. After all, you’re the only one who knows the location of what they’re after.”
James cursed virulently as he spun in place, trying to keep both the window and the door in sight at all times. “They’ll kill me!”
“Possibly,” Brass said, peering out the window. The setting sun glanced off his polished cheek and caused James to blink and squint. “Or p
erhaps they won’t. Is there another exit out of this building?”
Another howl sounded, setting a horse in the street below to whinnying in terror. James nodded jerkily. “There’s a dead-man-drop in the hall.”
“Then down we go, Mr. James,” Brass said, indicating the door. But even as James reached it, Brass reached out and held it closed. “But, before we do, one final question...”
James spun and gawped at him. “This ain’t a time for games! We got to go now!”
“No game. Where are the Devil’s Teeth, Mr. James?”
“I’ll lead you to them if you get me out of here! I swear!”
“Oaths are for court, Mr. James. The location, if you please,” Brass said, inexorable as the tide. On the roof of the hotel, something clattered. The howl came again, echoing down from above. James shrieked and jerked at the door, but Brass was immoveable.
A muffled snarl rattled down. “They’re in a church in some little Mexican shithole called Santo Poco!” James screamed. He shoved away from the door and fired upwards wildly. Brass grabbed him and shoved him through the door, snapping it off the hinges while simultaneously firing upwards.
Lightning spat from the pistol, burning a hole in the roof and arcing up into the darkening sky beyond. Something squealed in pain, and then Brass was ducking through the shattered doorway and dragging James to his feet.
“Come, Mr. James, we have a train to catch.”
“But-we-what—” James barely struggled as Brass slung him towards the wall of the corridor. Brass swept his pistol out, striking the gas lamp mounted on the wall and causing a chute to open up at the point where the floorboards met the wallpaper.
Dead-man-drops were usually used to shanghai potential crewmembers by unscrupulous captains in need of men. Brass hurled James down the chute even as something hurtled towards them from the doorway of the room they had just vacated. Brass turned and fired again, lighting up the dimly lit corridor. The creature shrieked and floundered backwards.