How the West Was Weird, Vol. 2

by Barry Reese

Kane winced at the talk of parents, but held his peace. “Were there any further leads?”

  Dean smiled thinly. “There are, thanks be to the Almighty, we've had a stroke of luck. The young private – Snyder I believe his name was – managed to scratch out a map of the surrounding area, including the intelligence that there are survivors, isolated and possibly trapped but alive.”

  Kane quirked a brow. “Then respectfully sir, why hasn't the second search party undertaken their duty?”

  Dean spread his hands. “Why else? We've too few men. There's been rumblings that a few of Riel's more violent lieutenants have been sighted among the Cree and the Blackfoot, stirring up resentment among the younger braves. A few skirmishes have already broken out. With a potential uprising in the offing, the resources of Fort Saskatchewan and Fort Edmonton have been dedicated to finding those blighters and tossing them in irons before they can start another damned rebellion. At this stage in the game another military entanglement is the last thing this country needs.”

  Kane's hand strayed to a slight scar along his jawline. “I heartily agree.”

  “So you see my problem. We haven't the manpower at the moment to commit a full search party, and the volunteers we had previously aren't leaving their homesteads open to attack. The few constables I have with experience have either been dispatched to hunt for the malcontents or are presently on assignment. You're all I have Kane.” Dean's eyes held the younger man's for a long moment. “You've been with the force since damned near the beginning, and have a solid reputation for getting matters settled to satisfaction. Well I need this matter settled. Find Zabros and his party and return them safely. At the very least, return their bodies for a Christian burial.”

  Kane considered a moment. “The terrain further north is a bit beyond me. I'll need funds to commission a guide.”

  “Of course, we've a few guides in the area who could be of some use. Did you have anyone in particular in mind?”

  Kane grinned. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “This is entrapment, damn your eyes!”

  Kane tugged the reins between his gloved hands, bringing Persephone to a slow canter. He took a breath, allowing the urge to reach out and strike his companion across the face to wash over him before releasing it in a long, slow exhalation. Composing his features into a plea-sant expression, he turned to the man beside him.

  They were an odd pair. Where Kane was tall and broad, the other man was small and wiry, clad in a mix of the finely tailored and the trapped. A large fur coat made him look like some small mammal reared up on hind legs, puffed up in some kind of threatening display. His features were friendly, but pulled into an almost comical scowl of pure displeasure, an expression of wrath cut slightly by the jaunty bowler hat cocked at an angle on his smoothed, well-greased hair.

  “Enlighten me Terrance, how is this entrapment exactly? I made a fair offer to obtain your services as guide for the region...” Kane smiled, looking down at the man riding the slightly smaller palomino. The man – one Terry Potts, tracker – glowered back.

  “Fair offer. Oh yes. Fifteen dollars a day. Fifteen measly dollars! You know the yanks would pay five times that to have me guide them to the Klondike. Fifteen dollars is—”

  “A very fair price, especially to the man who saved your life.” Kane grinned.

  “I saved yours first! Those Blackfoot would have had your guts for garters if it wasn't for me.”

  “And you'd have died on that ice floe if it hadn't been for me. Not to mention keeping Clarence Rickman from putting a bullet through your nether regions for your indiscretion with his eldest daughter...”

  “Lies. Lies and slander. I treated that woman like a princess!”

  “Heaven help the monarchy...”

  “Hey?”

  “Nothing. How much longer?” Kane pointed east, toward a series of ominous looking clouds. Snow crunched beneath his horse's hooves, not quite as deep as the mountain pass but Persephone was tiring. He patted the mare's neck gently.

  Potts's expression cleared. The finer points of debt and barter (to say nothing of temperance and restraint) were usually lost on him, but in matters of tracking, shooting, and fighting the man had few equals on the frontier. Raised by his uncle, the legendary tracker Jerry Potts, the younger man was known for his cool head in a tight spot and his near uncanny ability to navigate the worst Canada's temperamental landscape could offer. He pursed his lips in thought.

  “Mm... four days hard ride so far, Expedition like you described, probably loaded to the gills with all sorts of useless odds and sods a group of idiot whites would think would keep them alive in the cold. Add to that heading into territory that's tricky even for dog sleds... I'd say they're another eight, ten hours away. Give or take.” He shrugged, letting his horse take it's time fording the small river they'd come across.

  “Give or take?” Kane looked to his friend.

  “The bone-deep stupidity of the white man. Did they even bother talking to any elders? To the Blackfoot, the Crow, or the Cree? Do you know what they call that place they're going to?”

  Kane shrugged. “You know my Indian languages are rudimentary, at best.”

  Potts grimaced. “They call it 'The Rotted Place.' Some-thing out there isn't right. Never has been.”

  Kane scoffed, shaking his head. “I never took you for a believer, Potts. Superstition ill suits a man in the nineteenth century. We've invented the electric light, the telegraph, the locomotive. Goblins, beasties, and things that go bump in the night need no longer trouble a rational man.” He chuckled, but found himself reaching to his throat, to a chain about his neck and the item tucked down his shirt.

  “I never took you for a fool, Kane. Belief isn't required to know that some things in this world are just plain off. This place is one of 'em. Simple as that.”

  “Rubbish. We'll find them boxed in by some braves who've indulged in one bottle of whiskey too many and have it sorted within an hour. You'll see.” Kane's eyes fixed on the foothills and forest to come, grip tightening slightly on the reins. Potts snorted.

  “We surely will. It gets dark fast out here.”

  The first tracks became visible as they entered the woods. Potts grunted softly, though whether in approval or not Kane couldn't say.

  “Your tracking party,” the scout finally admitted. “They passed through here, heading...” He pointed into the shadows of the deep brush. “That way. Pine covered up the tracks, kept the worst of the snow out.”

  “Can you read the track, pick up their trail?”

  Potts gave Kane a look.

  “Right. Sorry. Of course you can.”

  The scout pointed to another series of tracks. “This set is that of the man who made it back. Or almost did anyway. He was riding hard and fast. He wanted away from this place in a bad, bad way.” Potts clicked his tongue and his horse strode forward. Kane flicked Persephone's reins and followed. Both men moved to check their weapons, Kane checking his sabre, carbine, and revolver while Potts pulled two navy colts from the holsters slung across his waist, looking down their barrels before replacing them and checking on a rather wicked looking knife strapped to his thigh and the scattergun strapped to his back.

  They rode on in silence, the shadows growing longer as the forest's canopy closed around them.

  “You hear that?” Potts’s voice was soft, his head darting slightly side to side as one hand traced the butt of a pistol.

  “No. I don't hear anything. That's the problem, I take it.” Kane's gloves creaked as his grip tightened on the reins.

  “No birdsong. No wind. No caribou, elk, or deer. Hell, I'd be just as happy hearing a coyote or wolf howl right about now... but nothing. Not a damned sound. A forest like this, so far out, this place should be louder. A lot louder.” Terry shook his head. “I don't like it. I just don't know why I don't.”

  “Steady on Terrance. We didn't come this far to let our nerves fail us, did we?”

  “I didn't come this far to
not listen to my guts when they're screamin' at me.” He looked up. “Besides, it'll be dark soon. We'll want to pitch camp, and I want to be out of this place before we do.”

  “All right. A little farther then. We'll see about finding the search party.”

  A short time later, they did exactly that.

  “Merciful Christ,” Kane murmured.

  “Somehow I doubt the almighty had any hand in this,” Potts said softly, closing the eyes of one of the few bodies fortunate to still possess them.

  The tracker rose from his crouch. Around them lay the strewn remnants of the dozen or so men and horses sent to find Zabros' party. Blood spattered the trees and sodden earth, and what little remained of the men and beasts was in such a state that it was difficult to say with certainty which was which. Kane coughed, running a gloved hand over his lower mouth and nose to provide some relief from the smell. Out in the snow it might have been different, but beneath the canopy of the trees it had become noticeably warmer, much more so than was normal for the season.

  “This isn't right,” Potts muttered.

  “I should say so. This is an abomination before God and man.”

  “No, I mean this isn't right.” Potts jabbed a finger at the scene around them. “No crows, no coyotes, no scavengers of any kind. Meat like this just laying here and nothing comes for it at all?” The young scout shook his head, his gloved hand gripping the hilt of his long knife. “Makes no sense. The more I see of this thing, Kane, the less I like.”

  Kane nodded. “You'll get no quarrel from me. I suppose we should see about giving these poor chaps a Christian burial. It's the least we can d—”

  The roar cut through the silence of the wood louder than any artillery barrage Kane had ever heard. Both men snapped their heads in its direction, drawing their pistols with impressive speed. The deeper shadows revealed nothing.

  “What was that?!”

  “A bear... grizzly from the sound of it. Big one too.” Potts kept his pistols trained on the darkness before them. The roar sounded again, then changed, became a cry of agony the likes of which Kane had never heard before. Sounds of thrashing, a struggle between two massive bodies slam-ming together and into the tall trees snapped and cracked through the brush. Another loud cry began, then was squelched, becoming a sickening gurgling as the echoes slowly died.

  Kane drew the hammer back on his pistol slowly. The sounds of thrashing, of something very big moving through the forest, were growing louder, faster, and closer. Whatever had killed the grizzly was moving quickly in their direction.

  “Whatever it is, I think it has our scent.” Potts began to move backward, guns still trained on the deepening sha-dows. Kane blinked, as he noticed just how dark it had become beneath the tall trees. It had been mid-day when they'd finally made it to the treeline... hadn't it? Kane joined his friend in making a quick bee-line for the horses. He mounted, looking back over his shoulder... and gazed upon the impossible.

  Night was falling... or rather, blackness was falling, the bright afternoon sun beaming down through a gap in the treeline being obscured by... darkness. The trees were changing as well, the boughs bending and shifting in ways that made Kane’s skull hurt, the bark on the tree nearest him becoming chitinous. For a moment the constable could swear he saw a portion of the tree part, revealing a peering yellow eye, but he quickly turned away, not wanting to be certain the world he knew was going mad.

  “We need to be going now.” Kane's voice was level, calm. He may not have the slightest notion of what was happe-ning, but he would be damned if he allowed this... whatever it was to break his composure.

  Potts caught his gaze, and saw for himself the mercurial terrain behind them and the deepening darkness before them. He was about to reply when a sound filled the air, a rending, piercing shriek, something neither of the men – experienced wilderness dwellers both – had ever heard before.

  “This way!” Potts spurred his horse into a gallop. “I know a place! We can hide until this... until this blows over!”

  Kane gripped the reins, knees tightening on Perse-phone's flanks as the mare almost reared. He retained control and drove her after the younger man. Kane kept one eye on the tracker, but turned his head from time to time, eyeing the deepening shadows. In the distance he saw trees fall, heard logs crack and snap, as something very big closed on them with building speed.

  He spurred Persephone on, leaning in low as he did his best to follow Potts. The screeching cry of the unseen stalker sounded behind him. It did not sound like a thing likely to blow over.

  Not at all.

  Kane was impressed; even with the landscape warping and changing around them, the darkness becoming oppres-sive and the sounds of pursuit from their closing stalker, Potts knew his terrain. The scout led the two horses along well-worn tracks, then off them into the brush, then over a series of sharp rises into the foothills. From there the terrain became rocky, the path more challenging for their mounts as they moved up a winding, narrow slope that eased open into a small clearing. The top of the hill was flat, save for a small rise. The opening to a cave yawned before them, a series of broad stones arranged in a semi-circle along the smooth grass. The air around them was still, that eerie, clinging silence broken only by the thundering of hooves as their horses slowed to a stop, Potts slipping easily from the saddle. For a moment Kane's mind flashed to his aunt's tales of Stonehenge. In the midst of the clearing lay an overturned wagon, a horse laying with neck bent at an unnatural angle.

  He looked back down the stone trail with pistol at the ready, convinced that at any moment they’d be set upon by something hideous, something from the old stories his aunt had told of their family line. Nothing, save the deep silence and the eerie sight of the land beyond shifting and changing just out of sight, just visible enough in the dim to be deeply unsettling.

  “What is this place?” He eased from the saddle, following Potts as he led his horse into the cavern. Within was darkness, but for some reason it felt more natural than whatever was gathering outside.

  “Hard to pronounce in English. Best I can do is 'Watch Post' or 'Guard Tower'. It's a place where Medicine Men gather sometimes. Check up on things.” Potts drew his scattergun, opening it to check its load before snapping it shut. “Lot of stories about this place. I could tell a tale or two that'd turn your hair whiaggggh!”

  Something slammed into Potts from behind, sending him sprawling on the dirt floor. A low, animal keening echoed in the close confines of the cave as a small figure drove its fists down on Potts's head and neck. The scout struggled to get up, but found his head grasped firmly in two grimy palms and slammed to the ground.

  Kane moved quickly, barely noticed by the gibbering thing until the last moment when his pistol butt slammed down upon the matted white hair and the skull beneath it. The small form slammed into the dirt floor like a felled tree, shuddered, and was still.

  Potts sat up, rubbing the back of his head. “What the hell was that?”

  Kane rummaged in his saddlebags, producing a small lantern. A quick strike of flint and gaslight filled the cave with a glow the mounted policeman found immensely com-forting. Offering a hand he eased his partner to his feet and both men looked down at their would-be assailant.

  The fallen form was clad in muddy, disheveled travel-ling clothes, pants and coat frayed at the edges. White hair lay matted along a balding pate, a pair of spectacles half-hanging from a weathered face caked with dirt and mud. Kane lowered the lantern, taking stock of the man’s features and comparing them to a smiling, optimistic looking gentleman of distinguished middle age from the newspaper clipping. Aside from seeming to have aged ten years, the match was unmistakable.

  “Professor Zabros, I presume.”

  “The hole in the sky. If it started anywhere, it was there.”

  Zabros sat before them, huddled beneath one of Potts’ blankets, a tin cup clutched between his hands. He sipped at the coffee, grimacing slightly at the taste, sitting beside the
small fire Kane had risked lighting at the cave’s mouth. Nearby, out of sight in the rocks, Potts sat with Kane’s carbine, his eyes trained on the darkness. They hadn’t heard anything in some time, but that meant damned little. Kane nodded to the professor, who continued. His voice was shaky, but he was calmer now, as if waking to the sight of the two armed men and having someone, anyone to talk to was providing him with strength.

  “The expedition was on schedule. We’d taken some samples of the local flora and fauna, and I was confident our animals would make for fine zoological specimens for the museum after a proper taxidermy. We were just beginning to return along our route to the fort when we experienced it.”

  The old man cleared his throat, took another sip of coffee and looked out at the darkness.

  “You’ve gathered this ‘night’ is anything but a natural phenomenon. Well imagine if you will looking up at the sky over this region of forest as you near its perimeter, only to find the sky... changing. Opening, like some obscene caricature of a mouth. At first I believed it might be some rare, previously unheard of manifestation of the aurora borealis, but no. It seemed as though the sky were being torn somehow. And the blackness fell... fell like rain... no. No, that’s not true. It fell like molasses being poured, fell in great, dripping clots all over the landscape, the animals... whatever it touches...” The old man shook his head, running a hand over his disheveled hair. Kane moved to put his hand on the man’s shoulder, only to have it waved away. The professor’s eyes locked on Kane’s own, the green orbs dancing with a terror held barely in check.

  “Whatever it touches... changes. It struck poor Jamie Latendre, a man I have known and worked with professio-nally for eight years. He fell from his horse, screaming like a man who had been set on fire. By the time Samuel, head of our guides, got to him... what was there writhing and spitting on the ground wasn’t Jamie Latendre. It burst out of his skin like it was overripe fruit.” Zabros’s mildly accented voice hitched, but held. Barely. He rose shakily to his feet, pacing slowly in front of the fire.