by Ronald Kelly
Rusty stood away from the bar, his hand hanging loosely next to the holster of his gun belt. He watched his opponent, while Kid Calhoun did the same. Tension hung heavily in the air of the saloon, thick enough to cut with a knife.
An instant later, the gunslinger made his move. Both hands swung downward, shucking the silver Colts from their holsters. But before he could thumb back their hammers, a single gunshot boomed throughout the saloon. Startled, Kid Calhoun stared at the six-shooter fisted in Rusty’s right hand. It had miraculously appeared there; he hadn’t even seen the twitch of a muscle or the flash of steel from leather. Then he looked dumbly down at the spurting hole in the center of his own chest.
“Sorry about that, Kid,” Rusty said, twirling his Colt and slipping it neatly back into its holster. “But you made the call.”
Kid Calhoun’s guns dropped from his limp hands and he fell to his knees with a crash. A second later, he was lying face down in the sawdust, sprawled out and still. Dead before he even hit the floor.
A stretch of silence rang throughout the Wagon Wheel. Then the batwings burst open and a flood of men rushed in; citizens of Canton City who had witnessed the confrontation through the panes of the saloon windows. A short fellow in a black coat and derby hat stepped up and shook Rusty’s hand. “Thanks a million, stranger,” he piped in a squeaky voice. “That killer has been a thorn in our side for a couple weeks now.”
“Well, he won’t bother nobody again, that’s for sure,” assured Rusty. He lifted the glass of buttermilk from the bar and took a long swallow from it.
“Exactly who are you, mister?” asked the town undertaker as he pulled a tape from his vest pocket and bent down to take Calhoun’s measurements.
Rusty revealed his badge once again. “Rusty McLeod, United States Marshal, at your service, gentlemen.”
“Welcome, Marshal McLeod!” said the short fellow in the bowler hat. “I’m Mayor Talbot, the one who requested you. And it looks as if they sent us an exceptional lawman to boot!”
“Glad to be here,” said Rusty.
“Drinks are on the house!” called Mayor Talbot. “In celebration of the marshal’s arrival!”
Rusty finished his buttermilk and set the glass down. “How about another one?”
“You got it, Marshal!” said the bartender.
The peace officer relaxed, basking in the admiration of those who had brought him there. As the body of Kid Calhoun was carried through the doors of the Wagon Wheel Saloon, he accepted another glass of cold buttermilk and sighed.
After a long, hard ride, he felt as if he were finally home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Amos Hadley was startled from a sound sleep by silence.
He had lived on the rural farm at the far end of Sycamore Road all sixty-eight years of his life, and, in all that time, he had made a habit of sleeping with his bedroom window open in the spring and summer months. He had also grown accustomed to the comforting night sounds of crickets and tree frogs, as well as an occasional dove or whippoorwill calling distantly from the heavy stand of woods that stretched for miles to the south. Over the years, that nocturnal symphony had become a part of him, just as much as the beating of his heart or the steady rhythm of his breathing.
Then, shortly before midnight of that warm August night, those noises stopped abruptly, rousing him from a deep slumber that only hard work and a clear conscience could provide.
Amos sat up in the brass bed he had shared with his late wife, Helen, until her death five years ago. The elderly man stared past the moonlit square of the open window, listening. His ears strained for sound; any sound at all. He heard none. The crickets that normally sang from the darkness of the grassy yard were eerily silent, as were the tiny toads that usually peeped from the limbs of the big sugar maple directly outside the house. A hush a choked the summer night; a hush so still and so complete that it seemed as though time itself had been frozen.
What’s wrong with them? he wondered. Either something out there has scared them plumb out of their wits… or stricken them dead.
He figured the former assessment to be more likely. But what out there in the dark of night could have startled those creatures into total silence? Just the thought of such happening sent an involuntary shudder through Amos Hadley.
He sat there for a long moment, expecting the night chorus to resume, but it didn’t. The silence continued. He waited for the sound of a soft summer breeze blowing through the maple’s leaves, or perhaps the squeak of the iron weather vane shifting atop the roof of the twenty-stall horse stable out back of the house. But neither of those noises materialized either.
Cautiously, he climbed from the bed and, barefooted, walked across the hardwood floor to the window. He took a deep breath, trying to slow the quickening pace of this heart. Amos expected to smell the sweet scent of honeysuckle blossoms, as well as the pungent tang of wild onions, which grew plentiful in the horse pasture. Something else dominated the air, however. An odor that hung heavily, almost oppressively, in the night. An odor not unlike that of a burnt-out house, combined with an underlying touch of raw sulfur.
He looked toward the long, low structure of the stable, but there was no evidence of a fire. The windows remained pitch black. There was no tell-tale flicker of flames from blazing hay, and neither could he hear the frightened whinnying of panicked horses. Amos Hadley currently had eighteen animals, all thoroughbreds, housed in the stable. If something had been wrong, they would have kicked up a ruckus that could have been heard clear to Harmony and back.
An unpleasant thought came to the old man. Maybe they’re like the crickets, he told himself. Maybe they’ve been scared silent, too.
He felt his pulse climb another notch as he peered into the night.
But by what?
Amos was about to call himself a skittish old fool and climb back into bed, when a sound cut through the quiet. The high-pitched squeal of unoiled hinges. He identified its location at once; the big double doors of the stable’s front entrance.
“There’s something out there all right,” he told himself, his uneasiness suddenly changing into angry suspicion. “A damn horse thief, more than likely.” A week before, such a thought would have never entered his mind – not in a virtually crimeless community like Harmony. But, considering the rash of strange burglaries that had plagued some of the businesses in town, he couldn’t help but wonder if the perpetrator had graduated from paint, tools, and wagon wheels to something much more valuable.
Dressed only in a dingy V-necked undershirt and boxer shorts, Amos walked to his closet and opened the door. He found his old double-barreled Parker shotgun leaning against the wall behind his best Sunday suit, where it had stood longer than he could even remember.
He cracked open the double breech and checked the shells. There was no rock salt or birdshot loads like some farmers tended to keep on hand. His gun was loaded for bear with double-aught buck. If the thief at the stable made one wrong move toward him, he would end up badly hurt and bleeding, or maybe even worse. Needless to say, when it came to someone stealing from him, Amos Hadley was not a very tolerant or forgiving man.
Cradling the scattergun in the crook of his arm, the horse-breeder left his house and started across the dark yard, toward the stable. As he grew nearer, he could see the big double doors standing wide open. Cocky bastard, thought Amos sourly. Well, we’ll see how cocky he is with a load of buckshot in his ass!
He was halfway there, when dark motion showed just inside the stable doorway. Amos lifted his shotgun and curled his finger through the trigger guard, waiting for the thief to show himself.
A moment later, he emerged. Even in the light of a new moon, Amos could scarcely make out the trespasser. All he could distinguish was his basic size and shape. The man was rail-thin and tall, dressed almost entirely in black. And he wore a peculiar, high hat of some kind.
Amos’s confusion turned into cold rage when he saw what the thief was leading from the stable. It was
two of Hadley’s finest roans. One was pitch black and named Charcoal. The other, Spitfire, was also black, but with three white stockings and a slash of white running down his slender forehead. The two were Amos’s pride and joy, the sires of many a Kentucky racer during the past five years.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
In the light of the moon, Amos detected the glint of amused eyes within the shadowy sockets of the man’s gaunt face. “I’m stealing your horses, Mr. Hadley,” he said. “Go on back to bed and I’ll spare you. Refuse and you’ll surely regret it.” A wicked grin curled between dark whiskers. “Until your dying day. Or night, as it may be.”
The threat stoked Amos’s anger even more. “I don’t see no gun with you,” he said, raising the butt of the Parker to his shoulder. “But I’ve got enough here for both of us. Now let go of those horses, or I’ll blow a hole through your belly big enough to pitch horseshoes through.”
The man laughed softly. It was a hissing, serpentine sort of laugh that caused the fine hairs on the nape of Amos’s neck to stand on end. Amos felt his hands begin to tremble slightly, making it hard to keep the shotgun squarely aimed.
“Don’t say that I didn’t warn you,” whispered the thief. Then something strange happened. The man’s hands began to crackle with what first looked like static electricity. The blue-white current intensified as it danced along the leather straps of the roans’ bridles, immediately engulfing their narrow heads. The two horses stood stone still for a moment, their muscles taut and quivering. Soon, saliva began to seep from between their clenched teeth and their black eyes rolled up into their heads until only the whites could be seen.
Lord Almighty! thought Amos. He’s killing ‘em both!
But that wasn’t what was taking place at all. The fingers of electricity culminated in a brilliant burst of light, nearly blinding the old man. When he finally regained his sight, he saw the two horses standing tall and darkly ominous on either side of the stranger. They pretty much looked the same as before, except for one aspect. Their eyes blazed fiery red, like the coals of a fire peeking through the slotted grate of a potbelly stove.
“Kill him,” rasped the tall man, releasing their bridles and stepping away.
As the horses started slowly toward him, Amos aimed the shotgun between them and fired the load of one barrel at the thief. The big gun boomed, but its bee swarm of buckshot parted only open air. Before the pellets could hit the dark man, he was gone, swallowed up by the blackness of the night.
Amos turned his attention back to the two horses, who plodded toward him, their heads lowered, their red eyes glowing eerily. For the first time in his life, Amos Hadley felt an emotion he had never experienced in the presence of his beloved horses. Fear. Cold, undeniable terror. He could tell by the way the two roans were coming toward him that they had one intention in mind and one only.
The intended to murder him in cold blood.
The elderly man could think of nothing else to do but turn and run. He didn’t start back for the house, instead fleeing for the open pasture that lay just south of his property. As his bare feet pounded across grass, Amos turned and glanced behind him. The two horses were picking up speed, moving at a light trot. A cloudbank swallowed the moon, painting the night pitch black. Hostile red eyes pierced the darkness, as well as the coarse breathing of the two roans. Obscured from view, they sounded more like a pair of crazed, disease-ravaged beasts than the healthy, gentle-natured animals that Amos had risen from the time they were colts fresh from their mothers’ wombs.
He ran past the smokehouse and chicken coop, then hurriedly climbed the white board fence that stood beyond. A moment later, he was stumbling across the grassy pasture. He heard the drumming of hooves quicken and looked around to see both animals jump the four-foot barrier with no trouble at all. The clouds overhead seemed to tighten in density, shutting out every last bit of moonlight. In utter darkness, Amos ran across the open pasture, hoping to reach the cover of the South Woods. The horses pursued him, powering into a full gallop.
Is this really happening? he found himself wondering. Or is this just some sort of horrible nightmare?
A peal of evil laughter told him that, indeed, it was happening and, yes, it was truly a nightmare that he was caught up in. A nightmare that was frighteningly for real. The laughter seemed to swoop through the air above his head, encircling him, both receding and growing nearer at the same time. The ugly sound almost seemed to crawl inside his ears and enter his body, infecting every vein and artery, muscle and bone. He could feel the force of its wickedness thrumming throughout him, causing his blood pressure to rise and his breathing to grow labored and irregular.
Halfway across the pasture, his legs gave out. He dropped feebly to his knees, bright pinpricks of light dancing before his eyes. Amos felt as though he was on the verge of passing out, but he fought the sensation. If he fainted, he would die for sure. The only chance he had for survival was to keep a clear head and attempt to fight for his life.
He turned and feebly lifted the shotgun. From out of the darkness appeared an even blacker form. Angry red eyes glared at him as the beast stopped twenty feet away, its sleek muscles quivering in anticipation. A hideous sound rumbled deep down in the roan’s throat; a low growling much like that of a mad dog, but a dozen times more terrifying.
“I’m sorry about this, Charcoal,” moaned the old man. He steadied the sights of the gun on the heaving chest of the dark animal.
He was about to pull the trigger, when he heard soft movement from behind him. Amos turned his head just as a hoof caught him just behind the ear. The force of the blow knocked the elderly man sprawling and he felt his hands grow suddenly numb. Lying flat on his back, he stared at his fingers and found the shotgun gone from his grasp. Dizzily, he looked up at the night sky. The cloudbank moved onward and the moon appeared once again, bathing the pasture with a pale glow. Immediately, Amos saw that his predicament had taken a fatal turn.
Charcoal and Spitfire stood above him, their nostrils flared, drinking in the rich scent of blood. Amos knew where they smelled it from, too. The back of his head was warm and mushy where Spitfire’s hoof had undoubtedly caved in a portion of his skull. The animal’s moved closer and, in the unnatural glow of their eyes, Amos could see something other than hostility. Something much more horrifying in nature.
Pure, ravenous hunger.
Amos Hadley screamed as Charcoal’s dark head dipped downward, his lips curled back and his huge teeth exposed. Agony coursed through the old man’s body as the roan’s teeth found his belly, slashing grinding, tearing past the flimsy cloth of his undershirt and rending the flesh underneath. The horse’s muzzle burrowed deep into the pit of his innards; working, chewing, devouring.
Spitfire joined in the grisly banquet. The animal latched onto the flabby muscle of Amos’s arm and, with a wrench of its powerful head, ripped the bicep from its moorings. The old man looked up in pain and terror as the roan tossed back his head and gobbled the hunk of meat down his gullet, then returned for more.
The horses fed with a hunger that could only be described as hellish. Soon, the pain grew so intense, that Amos could no longer hang on to consciousness. As darkness drew around him like a comforting blanket and the horrid sensation of teeth mangling flesh and bone grew less and less severe, Hadley weakly turned his head and looked back toward the farm.
Sitting on top of the white fence was the tall man Amos had encountered at the stable. He watched intensely from his perch, enraptured by the ferocity of the horses’ bloodlust, his smile brimming with sadistic approval.
“Eat your fill, my children,” he called out to the snarling animals. “We have much to do and you shall need your strength.”
They did as their master requested, attacking the dying man with a renewed vigor. As they tugged and tore at his body, Amos Hadley felt his life slowly slipping away. Toward the end, a great sadness filled him more than anything else. For he knew, once
the bellies of the two beasts were full, there would be very little left of him. Nary enough to be properly laid to rest and, more important, scarcely nothing left at all to warn the folks of Harmony of the horror that was about to be unleashed upon them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Further along Sycamore Road, the dreams continued.
Maggie found herself sitting at a dressing table in a roomy circus trailer. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, marveling at the maturity that shown both on her face and in her body. Her face was clear and beautiful, and her breasts were full and round beneath her skintight suit of shiny pink spandex. In real life, she barely needed a training bra. In fact, she was still so flat-chested that her big brother loved to tease her about her “mosquito bites” when their parents weren’t within earshot.
Someone knocked on the trailer door. “Five minutes till showtime, Ms. Sutton,” called a voice.
“I’ll be right there,” she replied. She looked around the interior of the trailer, amazed at the abundance of colorful posters that covered the walls – posters that possessed her name and likeness. In this world, it was clear to see that she was a star.
Maggie finished applying pancake makeup, lipstick, and rouge, and then placed a jeweled tiara atop her head of luxuriant golden blond hair. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath to focus herself, and stood up. She was amazed at how tall and strong she was. The muscles of her arms and legs felt tight and evenly balanced. They were no longer the awkward limbs of a girl on the verge of puberty. She slipped her tiny feet into rubber-soled slippers, then left the trailer.
As she walked along the stretch of circus trailers toward the huge canvas tent of the Big Top, roustabouts and animal handlers called out to her, wishing her luck. She smiled and nodded her appreciation, then proceeded onward, her head held high.
A moment later, she arrived at the rear flap of the tent. A clown in a bright orange overcoat and floppy size-forty shoes politely pulled back the flap for her. “Knock ‘em dead, kid!” he said.