COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2007 by James C. Glass
Cover painting Copyright © 2007 by James C. Glass
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
For those of us with European ancestry
who accept the fact that there’s
a little bit of Neanderthal in all of us.
CHAPTER ONE
THE ENCOUNTER
In the light of dusk a splash of blood looked black against the straw covered ground. Jake Price froze when he saw it, and then closed one hand tightly around his rifle. The cattle moved nervously around him, eyes rolling, still fearful of whatever had happened only moments before. Must have been quick, he thought. Otherwise every cow would have stampeded down the canyon. Jake cradled the rifle in one arm and pushed his way forward until the puddle was at his feet and he could smell salty musk. A part of his mind was screaming for a drink. The thing had killed before, and only in this canyon. He had seen it and heard its cry, but when he’d warned the men they’d only laughed. Poor old Jake, drinkin’ his own stuff again. Well, this time he’d make sure it wouldn’t be so funny.
He worked the lever of the Winchester, and put the hammer on half-cock. The grass was bent and crushed where the bleeding animal had been dragged, and he followed it up a steep hill. There was less than an hour until sunset, and he had no lantern. I’ll follow until sunset, he thought, then pick it up in the morning, but no way will I spend the night up here, rifle or no rifle.
The trail led straight up the canyon towards cliffs of grey slate towering three hundred feet above his head in a series of shelves. Jake’s heart was pounding when he reached the field of boulders and rubble separating grass from cliffs, for the trail had suddenly become a scramble climb. How the hell could it drag a cow up here? Maybe a calf, but that’s still two hundred pounds of dead weight! Jesus, I can’t catch my breath! He breathed deeply, then reached into his back pocket and pulled out a flask. He took a long pull from it, and closed his eyes as the whiskey burned a path into his stomach. He took another pull, then studied the rocks ahead of him. The trail had disappeared, but the canyon was getting narrow, and he had seen nothing moving up the cliffs. Plenty of places to hide in the boulder field.
Ahead of him there was a crashing sound.
A cascade of pebbles bounced down the steep slope, narrowly missing his left foot.
Jake raised the rifle, aiming at shadows, swinging the barrel back and forth.
Silence. Nothing moved. Even the birds were still. So many shadows, so many places in which to hide. It could be waiting for him anywhere, eager for the chance to tear out his throat. He remembered his dog Bustard, a hundred pounds of mongrel, throat gaping, belly slashed open from neck to testicles, and the shadowy form loping up the hill behind his barn after slaughtering everything in the hen house.
The lip of a prospector’s test hole loomed ahead, a miniature moraine. Jake stepped up to it, holding the rifle across his body, peering into the darkness. Something was there, a form, on its back, legs splayed out and very still. He took a deep breath, then climbed down the shallow moraine side of the hole in soft dirt.
It was the carcass of an adult cow, gutted and partially eaten, the head nearly torn away and dangling limply. The stench of blood and decaying organs engulfed him in a wave of nausea that undoubtedly saved his life, for as he scrambled out of the hole they were coming for him, relying on surprise against an armed man.
Jake Price scrambled gasping from the hole, a cocked rifle clutched in one hand, gasping for air, looking up to see three nightmarish figures descending on him from the surrounding boulders. Two beings crouched, ready to spring, the third standing tall, arm drawn back, startled by Jake’s sudden appearance. A whirring sound as Jake ducked beneath the edge of the hole, and a fist-sized pebble smashed into the shale at his back. He sat up and fired without aiming, a deafening explosion in the narrow canyon and then a gratifying shriek of fright. Rising up on his knees as he aimed the rifle, Jake saw low sloping foreheads and bared, yellow teeth in grimaces as two figures rolled out of sight over boulder tops. The third bounded lightly from one boulder to the next, then turned and looked at Jake defiantly, daring him to shoot.
It was a kind of man: brute face painted with streaks of red and yellow, amber eyes close-set, small, flat nose and narrow forehead above a tiny chin. A sling dangled from his hand, and when he smiled a malevolent smile there were fine white teeth, and the level, intense stare of a hunting wolf. A quick pirouette on the rock, and the creature-man was gone from view as Jake tugged in vain on the rifle trigger. He’d forgotten to lever a new round into the weapon. Now he remembered, levering and firing in every direction until the firing pin was poking air. Ears ringing, he waited a moment, then scrambled out of the hole and stumbled down the steep gorge, rocks slashing at his knees and thighs until he reached the grass and was running, not looking back, past startled cattle bellowing protests and banging into each other to clear the way for him. An instant later he was clawing at the cabin door, barring it behind him and stumbling to the big oak gun cabinet where he kept cartridges for the rifle. He tore open a drawer, and found only two cartridges in a box.
Jake’s face felt flushed, and the room was spinning fast. He sat down hard on the floor, and fell over on his side, eyes open, a little line of spittle running from his mouth. When he slipped into his blackout, devoid of sight and sound, everything was peaceful again, and there were no dreams.
* * * * * * *
By late morning, Jake had split half a cord of wood, and he was reasonably sober when the sheriff arrived. Tom Henley, the one-man police force and county sheriff based in Crosley, heaved his two hundred sixty pound bulk off of a tired looking mare and strolled smiling over to where Jake was leaning on his axe, eyeing him coolly.
“Mornin’, Jake.”
“Nearly noon, Tom. How ya doin’?” Jake said it amiably enough because he liked the man, but he knew right away it was a business call.
“Pretty good: full stomach, and a nice sunny day to visit folks. How’re you doin’, Jake? Feelin’ okay today?”
Jake sighed. “Get on with it, Tom.”
Tom looked down at his size thirteen boots, and shuffled from one foot to the other. “Oh, it’s nothin’ to get over-concerned with, I guess. Lot of shootin’ up here yesterday. Scared some folks, so I thought I’d check it out.”
“People complain and say a lot of things about me, Tom. What else is new?”
“Oh, this is different, Jake. I hear about when you get drunk and puke in the Athens, and Pete ends up finding you a room for the night. And the whole town has heard your stories about the critters a hundred times. But there was a lot of shootin’ here yesterday, and folks is nervous. What happened?”
Jake looked at the round, friendly face: clear blue eyes, a pea-sized brown wart clinging to a jaw line. How many nights had this man put him up in an empty cell, door open, then fed him breakfast the next morning? How many times had they talked about Ester, and what she’d done to him? Here was a man he’d cried in front of. He was a friend.
I was drunk and scared, Tom.”
“Okay. But what happened?”
Jake looked hard at the big man. He felt his mouth moving, and knew he was going to sound crazy again, but with Tom it was somehow safe. “They—they came back—yesterday. I heard ’em screaming up by the cliffs all afternoon—darin’ me to come out.”
“The critters,” said Tom.
Jake swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“The same ones you say hit your place before, even though nobody else has had any trouble?”
“They killed five of my hens, and—”
“We didn’t find anything, Jake. Not a si
ngle feather, not a drop of blood. Nothing.”
“I saw them this time. Close up. Three of them. Big. They had weapons. A sling. Nearly brained me with a rock. Not injuns, Tom. Half-men, sort of. They killed one of my cows, Tom, and dragged it up to the cliffs. I found it there. A whole cow they dragged up a steep hill, and I followed the blood and—”
“Easy, Jake, you’re shakin’ all over.” Tom put a huge hand on Jake’s shoulder.
“I took my rifle and went up to the cliffs, and the dead cow was there in a hole, and then they ambushed me. I drove ’em off, emptied the rifle and scattered them good, but then I panicked and my head was spinning. When I came back to the cabin I guess I passed out for a while, but they was screamin’ up there most of the night, and I sat by the window with the rifle in my lap.”
Tom looked sadly at him. “Oh, Jake, what am I gonna do with you?”
Jake looked straight into the friendly, blue eyes. “I’m cold sober, Tom, and this is no bull shit, no hallucination. I know what I saw, and they’re killing my animals. I want it stopped.”
Tom’s faint smile suddenly evaporated, and he stood up straight. “All right, let’s go up and look at that dead cow of yours, and I’ll file a report.”
Jake could hear the disbelief, and felt foolish again. “I’ll get my rifle.”
“No need for that. This here is all we need.” Tom patted the Colt forty-four holstered at one hip. “Let’s go.”
Jake led the way up the hill, feeling scared and guilty, and wondering why he’d said anything at all. You’re the town crazy because you talk too much, stupid. Let ’em find out when their animals are torn apart. Or their kids.
As they approached the cliffs, Jake felt colder and colder. A welcome morning rain had been hard, sending rivulets of mud running down the hill. “I found a big splash of blood about here,” he said, “but looks like it’s been washed away.”
“Well even that rain wasn’t hard enough to wash away a whole cow. Shit, my boots is covered with mud all ready. Let’s get on with it.”
Somehow Jake knew what they would find before they got to the hole. It made sense, all the screaming last night. Covering their tracks. Tom went ahead, a hand on the Colt’s grip, peered over the edge of the hole and sighed. “There’s nothin’ in here, Jake.”
Jake felt his face flush. “They moved it, then. Dragged it away last night. I heard them, I told you.”
“Oh come on, Jake. There’s nothin’ here but mud and a foot of water in the bottom of a hole, and my clothes are a mess. God damn it, there’s nothing here! Believe your eyes, for Christ’s sake!”
Jake looked down at mud and water, shaking his head. All feeling seemed to drain from him as his jaw set stubbornly. He walked over to a boulder, pointing to a jagged chip at the top. “That’s where a bullet hit. They couldn’t rub that out or drag it away, but a dead cow they could move, and the rain would obliterate everything else.”
For just an instant Jake saw a hint of belief in Tom’s face, but then the eyes clouded again. Tom stumbled and slid down the moraine of the diggings, and put an arm around Jake’s shoulders. “Come on, let’s talk, but not in this mud.” They hung onto each other on the way down while Jake babbled about man-like critters who screamed like banshees and threw rocks with slings and dragged his animals away. Tom listened quietly, but seemed to be thinking about something else. When they reached the cabin he suddenly turned Jake to face him, taking a deep, slow breath before he spoke.
“We’ve been friends a long time, Jake, and I really believe you think you saw something, so I’ll look into it. I don’t know what I’ll do, maybe set up some kind of watch, but I’ll do something. Okay?”
Jake nodded.
“Now, whether I find anything or not, there’s something I want you to do for me and—well—for yourself. Ever since Ester left you’ve sort of fallin’ apart, and it’s worrying me. You’re drinkin’ too much, Jake, and I think you’ve got a problem with it. I want you to do something about it, put the cork in the bottle for a while, maybe get Doc Ellis to check you out. Do some good for yourself, Jake.”
“You’re right,” said Jake. “I’ve been hittin’ it too hard, and I don’t need to. Guess I’ve been feelin’ sorry for myself, Tom. Losin’ Ester hit me harder’n I expected, is all. First woman I ever fell for.”
“You need help, you yell,” said Tom
“Thanks, Tom, you’re a friend. You’ve always been a good friend.”
The two men hugged like two standing grizzlies, embracing awkwardly, then Tom walked back to his horse and climbed on. Jake stood forlornly by the woodpile, looking like a reprimanded forty-year-old child.
“Check back with you in a couple of days. Take care of yourself,” said Tom, and Jake watched until the horse disappeared in thick stands of trees. He went back to the cabin and ate some jerky and bread, then found a bottle in a cupboard and poured a tumbler full of whiskey for himself. He sipped whiskey all afternoon and into the evening, so that it didn’t bother him so much when the screaming began again later that night, continuing until dawn of the next day.
He returned from oblivion at noon, and discovered that another cow was missing.
CHAPTER TWO
THE CAVES
The high Sierra valley cupping the town of Crosley was untouched by the recent gold rush, but was gouged deep, having been scoured out to bedrock by an ancient relative of the crystal clear river now flowing there. Tributaries had emptied into the ancient one, and now there were hanging canyons lined with slate and quartzite cliffs dropping down into the town from both sides, making the mountains seem larger than they really were, and providing a spectacular view for the townspeople.
It had been exceptionally hot in the summer of 1880, and this day was no exception, dry and without wind, and now after the sun had set and a full moon risen the air was suddenly cool so that people went out on their porches to sip drinks and watch the night. In one canyon well east of town there were no porches, only a tangle of rattlesnake infested underbrush, and nettles beneath fir trees clinging tenaciously to steep rocky slopes glowing in moonlight. On the north wall of the canyon, barely within view of the scattered kerosene light of Crosley, a broad, pegmatite seam ran vertically between slate platelets on both sides, filled with crystals formed by mineral saturated waters of a distant past. Water and wind had carved the rock, gouging shelves, depressions and holes into cliff faces as if searching for an artistic theme. Halfway up the seam, a bear-sized hole disappeared into darkness, surrounded by rock gleaming yellow.
Suddenly, the hole seemed to move, growing larger, then drifting to one side.
A dark figure emerged from the hole, moving carefully like a shadow along shelves only inches wide until it reached broad, horizontal slabs of grey slate, blending into the background and effectively disappearing from ground view.
The figure settled itself on smooth rock, back against the wall, and sighed deeply, for it had come to watch a beautiful night. Peaceful. A second sigh of contentment followed the first.
Genetic wisdom of countless generations radiated from amber eyes gazing serenely upon the scene. Long, brown hair, with a reddish tint covered a massive head, flowing down to the nape of a muscled neck and covering the sloped forehead above heavy brow ridges. A full beard had been recently trimmed and decorated with streaks of blue and red mud which clotted in otherwise smooth hair. Thick lips, painted with ochre, were visible within the beard-forest, nostrils flaring in a broad, arched nose sucking in lungfuls of cool night air. The hands were thick, massive palms and stout fingers capable of the finest articulation and now folded together limply on drawn up knees. A man, yet different, so different that the slant-eyed black-haired nomads had never settled the valley, had fled the terrible visions given to their shaman by the strange inhabitants who had arrived long before them. But now the Others had come, and they did not see The Visions.
The big head turned slowly towards the hole going deep into the rock. A shadow within a shado
w was there at the entrance, then moving cautiously across the narrow ledge. He had felt her presence long before she reached the top of the tunnel, and now, sensing her fatigue and fear of losing balance in such a high place, he projected to her a feeling of confidence, exhilaration and awaiting love at the end of the short journey. She was smaller than he, with tiny feet making the traverse easier, and in a moment she was with him. They embraced when she had seated herself, and he touched her again with a love feeling, marveling as usual how she retained so delicate a beauty at such an advanced age. She smiled at The Vision, noting the way he always enhanced her good features and eliminated the poor ones. His mind was the perfect mirror, reflecting only the best.
“Anka, I hesitated to disturb you, but the children were restless before sleep and wanted to have a story about the days in the valley. You hide yourself well; this was the last place I thought of.” Her tongue clicked against the roof of her mouth in precise articulation of the old language, for she was also an Elder, and Keeper of The Memories.
“You worry too much as usual, Tel. I come here only to watch the night and smell the trees, and obtain relief from the noise below. I’m getting too old for it.”
“The children?”
“Not so. I enjoy watching their faces when I take them to the places of our youth, but it is impossible for them to sit still, and they insist on chattering away in the new tongue, asking questions, wanting to put a name on everything, making jokes. Can’t they take anything seriously? I show them the way things used to be, the way things can be again for them. How will it be if they walk about marveling at common trees and animals? They’ll be discovered, and then what? Weapons and torches? A trek across the mountains to avoid those with fears so easily aroused? The Hinchai spread everywhere, infecting the world, living apart from it. They do not have The Memories.”
“They are our cousins, dear heart.”
“Yes, but it is difficult to accept. They have come another way.”
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