The Valley

by William Meikle

  He didn’t have to ask.

  “Something got at the horses,” Jake said. “Some kind of killer-crab if we can believe the Squire. Killed one of them. Would’ve ate it all up too if we hadn’t killed it.”

  “There’s no crabs in Montana, Jake,” Frank said. “Killer or otherwise.”

  “I beg to differ,” the Squire said as he came in. He threw something heavy to the floor at Frank’s feet.

  A huge serrated claw lay there, spattered with blood.

  Sure looks like a crab claw to me.

  Frank didn’t know what to say. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for this. It was like something from one of the old slave stories that they told in the cotton fields, stories of haunts in the swamps and zombi that walked after they were dead and buried.

  “Broke the horse’s leg, poisoned it with a bloody stinger and dragged it off,” Jake said. Frank saw that he wasn’t talking to anyone in particular -- just staring into space, reliving a moment of horror. “Ain’t never seen nothing like it.”

  I know that look only too well.

  “So what now?” the Pastor asked from the doorway. “Now that we are beset by the spawn of Beelzebub?”

  The Squire spat and took the bottle from Jake, downing a generous slug.

  “It might be time to beat a strategic retreat lad?” he said when he’d finished.

  Jake was quiet for a long time.

  “I ain’t one for retreating. I aim to look for my folk in the morning. And if you want paying, you’ll come with me.”

  The Squire looked down at Strang.

  “I’m beginning to think that the boy may have had a point about the gold,” he said. He smiled, but his hand was near his saber.

  Jake spat on the floor at his feet.

  “I don’t give a tinker’s cuss what you think. I’m going up into the cave in the morning. Come, or stay, it’s no matter to me. But the only way you get paid is to help me out.”

  Frank saw that Jake’s hand had moved towards his holster. The Squire didn’t look in any hurry to back down.

  Another stand off. How many do we need before we trust each other?

  Frank stepped forward.

  “Anything you need Jake,” Frank said. “I’m game.”

  The Pastor laughed, but there was little humor in it.

  “I came this far with you Jake. I guess I can go a mite further. But what about this one?” He kicked Strang’s shoulder. The youth grunted, but didn’t wake. “I doubt we want him along on any expedition?”

  Jake looked down at the body.

  “I had a mind to leave him with Pat and the horses.”

  The Squire grunted.

  “The big man doesn’t have the sense to look after himself, let alone keep the hothead out of trouble.”

  Jake nodded.

  “But we ain’t taking Strang with us. He’s as liable to shoot one of us as anything else.”

  “That ain’t no problem.” The Pastor pulled out a pistol and pointed it at Strang. “Ain’t no problem at all.”

  Jake’s going to let him do it.

  Before he could talk himself out of it, Frank stepped between the weapon and the prone body.

  “I’ll stay and watch Strang,” he said. “I’ll take care of the big man as well.”

  Jake looked at him closely.

  “I believe you will at that,” he finally said.

  The night passed slowly. At first they were all on edge, waiting for an attack. But none came. Strang woke up and started to shout abuse at them, but that was fixed by tying him to a chair and tying a gag round his mouth.

  Jake took first watch, but Frank couldn’t sleep. He beat Big Pat ten times in a row at cribbage before sleep caught up with the Irishman. Pat lay down next to where the Squire and the Pastor slept on the floor on thin mattresses. The Squire snored like a rutting hog, and the Pastor talked to himself in an almost audible murmur. The noise soon drove Frank out into the night.

  He found Jake on the porch, staring over to where the horses were tethered.

  “Get some sleep,” Frank said. “I’ll take the next few hours and get the Squire up next.”

  Jake didn’t reply at first.

  “This was to be a new start for me,” he said softly. “Somewhere to forget.”

  He turned to Frank.

  “You understand that all too well, don’t you?”

  Frank nodded, but was afraid to speak, for then he might have to admit his fears, and if he started down that road, he might never stop talking. Luckily Jake had other things on his mind.

  “I’m trusting you to look after Pat,” Jake said. “He might be a bit slow, but he’s a good man. Better than any of the rest of us at any rate.”

  That would not be difficult.

  Still Frank kept his peace. He liked this man, and talking to him would come easy. He saw something in Jake that he saw in the mirror when he shaved; something had been lost in both of them, and both were still trying to find it again. But he couldn’t talk about it.

  Not yet, and maybe not ever.

  Jake stared out at the night for a while before continuing.

  “I heard splashing down at the creek earlier. It could be that thing ain’t dead yet. Or it could be there’s more of the critters. Keep your wits about you,” he said, and clapped Frank on the shoulder. “And whatever you do on the morrow, don’t be letting the big man near a weapon. He ain’t the best shot I’ve ever seen, and he’s as liable to hit you as anything else.”

  Jake left Frank alone with the dark and the soft trickling of water in the creek. The air was chill, steam rising from the horses flanks, but Frank’s deerskin jerkin kept the cold at bay for now.

  The sound of Jake settling down to sleep slowly faded until all was silent. Frank let the quiet fill him. He took out his tobacco pouch and lit a pipe, savoring the taste of the hot smoke.

  Inwardly he was still coming to terms with the earlier events.

  The Pastor could have killed me.

  Maybe he should have.

  He had no idea why he’d stepped in front of the gun, beyond the fact that he’d seen too many young men die needlessly.

  Hell, I don’t even like the boy.

  But not liking someone was no excuse for letting them get shot for being young and stupid. And now he was left with the consequences. He was to be a babysitter, both to Strang and Big Pat.

  How the hell am I going to look after them. I can hardly look after myself most days without a drink.

  He’d eyed the whiskey bottle all evening. When Pat went to sleep he’d even gone and stood beside it. But he hadn’t touched it. It was a pledge he’d made to himself when he took this job.

  This one I do dry, or not at all.

  He’d kept that promise for three weeks now, but each day it got a little bit harder; each day the bottle called a bit louder.

  A shadow crossed the moon, too fast to register its shape, but high overhead an eagle called out to its mate. It was as mournful a sound as Frank had ever heard. He looked up at the dark hills that loomed over the settlement and shivered.

  He was a long way from finding peace.

  7

  Jake went up the hill with the Pastor and the Squire just after sun-up the next morning.

  His head pounded. He hadn’t been able to sleep for long, and had taken to the whisky during the Pastor’s watch, hoping that the liquor would send the demons away, for a while at least.

  I should have known better.

  The sun gleaned off the snow and lanced straight into his brain. His mouth tasted like something small and furry had shat in it, and his guts roiled, threatening to come out one end or the other if provoked. He had forced himself to eat some gruel, hoping it would settle his insides down for a while.

  So far, it ain’t working.

  They equipped themselves as well as they could for a climb through the mine but they had no idea what they might face, and all three of them decided on weaponry over anything else. Jake even
considered taking Strang’s Walker, but it felt too heavy in his hand, and was too slow to reload in a tight spot. He stuck to his Colt, but took advantage of the Pastor’s offer of ammunition and filled a shoulder pack with over a hundred paper cartridges. He also carried his old army saber, and although it banged against his hip as they climbed, he felt reassured by its weight.

  Twenty yards up he had to stop to catch his breath as his stomach flipped and threatened to show him the gruel. He turned and looked back. The devastation of the settlement looked even more pronounced from up here. The path of the flood was clearly marked on the ground and looking at it now, Jake was surprised that anything had survived at all.

  Pat was tending to the horses, studiously avoiding looking in Jake’s direction.

  Parting with the big man had been hard. The man was distraught at being left behind.

  But I can’t put him in a danger I know nothing about. Pat might be all I have left.

  “I’m gonna lose you too,” Pat had wailed when Jake told him to stay with Collins “And I’m gonna be left all on my lonesome.”

  No amount of pleading that they would only be gone an hour would convince him otherwise, and he had refused to meet Jake’s eye as they said goodbye. Jake had gone up the hill with a heavy heart.

  While Jake had stopped the Pastor had climbed ahead like a man many years younger, and Jake had to hustle to catch up. The Squire lagged ten yards behind, his face already as red as his tunic before they were halfway to the mine.

  It was initially hard work as they picked their way through muddy slush and fallen rock, but it only took five minutes to reach the wide shelf in front of the shaft. Jake only looked back once more, as they got to the entrance. Pat was still tending to the horses with his back to Jake. Frank Collins stood on the cabin porch, looking up at the mine. They waved, almost in time with one another. Jake was gratified to see that the Greyback cradled the Walker pistol in his right hand. He still wasn’t sure about Collins. Desertion was a serious matter, no matter which side you fought for. It told Jake he would never really trust the man until they’d been tested side by side in a fight.

  And maybe not even then.

  Leaving him with Pat and the Strang lad was a gamble, but he needed the best shots, the most seasoned fighters, in the mine with him, in case of trouble.

  I hope I’ve done the right thing.

  Then again, if I have, it will be a first.

  He put it to the back of his mind as he turned towards the mine entrance.

  It was immediately obvious that most, if not all, of the floodwater had come this way. When Jake was here last, the walls had been neatly squared off and lined with timber. That had been back in the autumn. Now it looked more like a natural cave. The shoring wood had been washed away and the walls showed signs of having been scoured by a rush of water and rock.

  Everything was covered in a thin layer of frost that crackled underfoot.

  “A blasting accident? That’s what you said?” the Pastor asked.

  Jake nodded, distracted. He was trying not to think of the fate of any men caught in such a torrent of water and rock.

  They lit the lamps they’d brought from the cabin. The Pastor and Jake headed in but the Squire hung back in the entrance, looking warily into the darkness ahead.

  “How long will the oil we have last?” the Englishman asked.

  “Several hours at least,” Jake replied. “But if we ain’t out of the shaft by then, we’ll be lost, for it only goes a hundred yards into the hill.”

  But it went on for longer than that.

  A long way longer than that.

  When they reached the spot where the mine had originally ended the shaft turned into a cave proper. The rough-hewn entrance was ten feet wide and the cave inside climbed at a thirty-degree angle. At the base of the incline an arrow; as long as Jake’s arm and made of small rocks, pointed up into the passageway.

  I’ll leave a trail as I go like we did at Granddaddy’s place.

  When they were lads George had always been laying trails; trails to treasure. Back then the treasure had been old bullet casings and rusty knives. Now George had hoped it was the real thing.

  “At least we know they got this far,” Jake said. “Come on. Let’s see where this goes.”

  The Squire held back again. In the dim light from the lamps his face looked pale and drawn.

  “This is no place for men to be; crawling about in the dark like rats.”

  The Pastor laughed.

  “Even in darkness light dawns for the upright, for the gracious and compassionate and righteous man.”

  “Pastor,” Jake said. “If I had a dollar for every quote of yours I understood, I’d have two dollars.”

  “In the kingdom of the Lord, the rich man is no better off than the poor man.”

  “See,” Jake said. “There’s what I mean. I’d still ain’t got any more than two dollars.”

  He’d hoped the Pastor’s laughter would improve the Englishman’s mood, but when Jake and the Pastor strode towards the incline the Squire did not move.

  “Come, or go,” Jake said. “It makes no never-mind to me. But there’s a motherlode in here somewhere. You ain’t looking for the Pastor here to get your share, are you?”

  The Squire had a look back the way they had come, then followed Jake up the slope.

  “This gold is proving a mite trickier to procure than you promised us lad.”

  Jake did not reply.

  You ain’t telling me nothing I don’t know already Squire.

  The walk up the passageway proved relatively easy. They had been climbing for nearly twenty minutes when Jake noticed a soft breeze on his face. It fell noticeably colder and wetter underfoot. Their footsteps took on a hollow, echoing quality that sounded almost like drums in the passage ahead of them.

  “I’ve heard stories about mines,” the Squire said. “Indeed, I remember one time in the Kalahari. It was hot as hell and…”

  Jake tuned him out. The Squire liked to talk, but he didn’t necessarily require an audience.

  Minutes later they passed a side channel that led downwards. The rock around the entrance showed signs of recently having been sheared. The air around it felt damp and cold. There was a tang that Jake could taste at the back of his throat, like vinegar or piss. The noise of their footsteps echoed, as if the chamber opened out beyond the entrance into a larger space… a much larger space.

  The Squire raised his lamp and investigated the entranceway.

  “This hole is new,” he said. “Another effect of the blasting maybe?”

  He lifted a pebble and tossed it down inside. It clattered away into the depths. They never heard it hit bottom, although they listened for long seconds.

  “I doubt anyone went that way,” the Squire said after a while.

  “Not voluntarily anyway,” Jake replied.

  As they walked away from the entrance Jake thought he heard a noise in the distance, a scrambling, scuttling sound. He stopped and listened, but the noise wasn’t repeated.

  The Squire and the Pastor were already up ahead. The Squire was now in the middle of yet another story, concerning a whore with a very large chest. The Pastor wasn’t paying him any attention, but that never stopped the Englishman.

  Several minutes later the Squire laughed uproariously at his own story. Meanwhile Jake managed only the merest sign of a smile, and the Pastor was as tight-lipped as ever. But they were able to douse the lamps as light came in from the far end of the cave.

  “Wherever we are headed,” the Pastor said. “It seems we are getting closer.”

  The going got soggy, and soon their boots tugged at cold wet mud. The last ten yards of the climb took as long as the previous hundred. The cave ended in a high lip they had to pull themselves over but finally they stood outside the mouth, caked up past the ankles in clinging mud.

  It took Jake a minute to realize where they were; they stood in the bottom of a shallow basin, fifty yards across, full o
f damp mud and rotted weed.

  He looked back at the hole behind them.

  “It was a pond,” he said, almost to himself. “And somehow our blasting collapsed this here hole, and emptied it.”

  The Pastor looked around.

  “Sure looks that way,” he said. “But look here. Do you think the blasting caused this?”

  Tracks led away from the rim of the cave. There were many footprints of heavy work-boots. But overlaying them, following them, were even more of the deep gouge marks Jake had seen around the creek.

  This is where the scorpion things came from? There are more of them?

  The only way to answer that question was to climb out of the basin, and that proved to be more difficult than it looked.

  They left the oil lamps by the cave mouth and began to slog their way through thick clinging mud. By the time they dragged themselves out onto firmer ground they were caked up to their thighs in clinging, damp goop. But the view that met them took away all thoughts of discomfort. .

  They stood on a high rocky outcrop, looking down over a long glacial valley. It stretched off into the far distance, at least twenty miles long and two miles wide. Tall conifers lined the slopes on both sides below high snow-covered peaks. A large lake lay on the valley floor beneath them, with grass and snow covered plains dominating the long stretch away to the west. Several herds of large animals grazed on the plains, but it was too far to make out detail. They could only be bison, Jake thought, but there was something about these animals that just felt strange.

  He put it to the back of his mind.

  Animals ain’t important.

  He studied the ground around them, and found what he was looking for. Someone wearing boots had walked here. Frozen tracks led away towards what looked like a deer track. He raised his head and followed the line of it. The thin path ran alongside a stream for several hundred yards then led along the northern slopes just above the tree line.

  Jake headed towards the start of the track. He was almost there when he realised the others had not followed. They were staring at a point several miles away on the other side of the valley. A thin column of smoke rose high into the air from a series of caves on the tree line.