Drovers and Demons: A Weird Tale of the Old West (Murphy and Loco Book 1)

by Scott Langrel

  “It’s nothing,” Northwood said, waving a dismissive hand. “Couple of workers decided to move on and left. It happens a few times a week. Turnover in the mining business is pretty steady.”

  “Do they generally leave in the middle of the night without collecting their wages?” Murphy asked.

  Northwood gave Murphy an annoyed glance. “It’s not as uncommon as you might think, Mr. O’Bannon. More than a few of those men are wanted by the law. If they get wind that someone was in town asking about them, they make tracks. They won’t risk hanging around till payday.”

  “Makes sense,” Murphy acknowledged, pretending to study the office’s décor. “I heard Pete Williams is one of the men who got gone. He’s the one who got lost in the mine after the fire yesterday, isn’t he?”

  “Look, Murphy, I have a shipment going out today. How about you start earning your wage and plan out the security? It’s what you were hired to do, after all.”

  Murphy nodded and glanced over at Skillings. On second appraisal, the foreman didn’t appear to be simply sullen. He looked scared.

  Scared as hell.

  ***

  Loco was busy hauling attle when Skillings came to get him.

  “Boss wants you up at the office,” the foreman said with his usual reticence. He turned and headed back up the shaft, leaving Loco with no option but to follow. Though curious, the Apache remained silent and asked no questions.

  When they arrived at the building, Skillings opened the door and motioned for Loco to enter. Unused to such displays of respect, Loco kept an eye on the foreman as he sidled past him and into the interior of the office. It took a second for the Apache’s eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, but when they did he saw Murphy standing beside Northwood’s desk. The mine boss was seated in his customary chair, writing something in a ledger. He looked up and regarded Loco with feigned interest.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly,” the mine boss said, though his tone insinuated that the acknowledgement was simply perfunctory. “Mr. O’Bannon, our new security chief, has requested that you accompany him in overseeing the delivery of one of our shipments. He feels that having someone along who is fluent in the Apache language could prove to be a valuable asset, and I happen to agree. You’ll receive double your pay for your time on this assignment, plus up to a day to recuperate after you return. Do you understand these instructions?”

  Loco gave Northwood a slow nod, then turned to give Murphy the evil eye.

  “Very well,” Northwood said, returning his attention to the ledger. “Go ahead and gather what you need. You’ll be leaving in two hours.”

  Thus dismissed, Loco nodded again and turned to leave, but not before casting another furious glance in Murphy’s direction.

  “I have to collect some things myself,” Murphy told Northwood. “I’ll be back in an hour or so to start getting everything ready.”

  Northwood nodded and Murphy hurried out the door after Loco. The Apache was already halfway across the camp, heading toward the bunkhouse. Murphy broke into a quick jog to catch up with him.

  “You could have at least asked me first,” Loco said as Murphy pulled up beside him.

  “You would’ve passed,” Murphy said by way of an explanation.

  “You’re right,” Loco confirmed, stopping to angrily face Murphy. “The only reason I came to work here was to make sure the Anasazi weren’t released, and if they were somehow freed, to figure out a way to contain them again. And now that they’re out, you want me to just take off on a three-day trip with you?”

  “Two days, tops,” Murphy corrected. “We only have to escort the shipment halfway to Phoenix. And I don’t want to take a chance of you disappearing before I get back. Besides, do you know how to put the Anasazi back in the cave?”

  “I’m working on it,” Loco muttered.

  “Exactly. We need a little time to come up with a workable plan. This trip is the perfect excuse.”

  “Wait a minute,” Loco said. “You suddenly believe in all this lunk-headed superstition?

  Murphy paused. “When you were in the mine this morning, did you get a chance to see the spot where Ford Earheart broke through into the cavern?”

  Loco shook his head. “It’s been sealed off. Someone boarded up the entire shaft. Why?”

  “I think the someone in question was none other than Henry Northwood. He probably had Skillings helping him. Northwood looked dead tired, and Skillings was as skittish as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rockers. They were up to something last night, and whatever it was, they’re not letting on.”

  “So maybe they did for Pete and Albert, threw the bodies in that shaft, and then sealed it up,” Loco said, playing the devil’s advocate.

  “No,” Murphy dismissed, shaking his head. “Northwood’s not that stupid. And Skillings is plumb scared. I think they saw something, or at least caught wind of it.”

  “And that’s enough to get you to believe my story?” Loco asked, skeptical.

  “C’mon over here,” Murphy said. “I want to show you something.” He walked over to his horse and unbuckled one of the saddlebags. Reaching inside, he withdrew the funny straw hat he’d found the day before. “What do you make of this?” he inquired, handing the hat to Loco.

  Loco took the hat and turned it over in his hands. “Where did you find this?” he asked finally.

  “It’s a long story,” Murphy replied. “I’ll tell you on the ride later. But suffice it to say I’ve seen some unexplainable things in my time, and my gut’s telling me you’re not as full of shit as you sound.”

  “So, I’m not just a crazy Injun?”

  Murphy climbed up into the saddle and looked down upon the Apache. “An Injun you may be, my friend, but I’ve got a strong feeling you’re a far cry from crazy. Go on and get ready. I should be back in an hour or so.”

  Murphy turned his mount and began to head back toward town, leaving Loco to stare after him.

  Chapter Five

  The wagon moved slowly over the flat Arizona basin, and the men who accompanied it were cautious and watchful. The driver and shotgun messenger rode aboard the wagon itself, while Murphy and Loco followed closely behind on horseback. Each man was vigilant for any sign of road agents who might be looking to hijack the wagon’s cargo, and also for rogue Indians, though the latter were becoming increasingly rare as time moved on.

  “What’s with the aversion to carrying a gun?” Murphy asked Loco as they squinted into the late afternoon sun for any hint of danger.

  Loco shrugged in his saddle. “I just prefer knives. You never run out of ammunition with a knife, and they don’t have any moving parts to break. It’s a matter of practicality and reliability.”

  “Bringing a knife to a gunfight doesn’t seem all that practical to me,” Murphy commented.

  “Depends on who’s carrying the knife,” Loco countered.

  “I reckon you’re right,” Murphy conceded. “So, where did you avail yourself of American higher education?”

  “Dartmouth,” Loco answered. “It seems like a lifetime ago, but it’s actually only been eight years. I attended four semesters of general studies before returning to Arizona.”

  “That’s impressive,” Murphy said honestly. “Mind if I ask what compelled you to undertake such a lofty task?”

  “It’s not something I usually go into with someone I’ve just recently met,” Loco replied.

  “That’s okay,” Murphy said. “I mean, if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.”

  They rode in silence for several minutes before Loco gave a heavy sigh.

  “When I was younger,” he said, “I had a—disagreement—with the tribal elders. I won’t go into the details, but all parties involved felt it would be best if I left. I wandered for several months going from town to town, taking work when I could find it. It was difficult because I spoke very little English and was unfamiliar with the ways and customs of the white man.

  “I became very depres
sed. As often happens, I began to numb myself with whiskey. The jobs began to get fewer and further between, which also often happens when one is struggling to stay sober for any measurable length of time during a given day. Within a matter of months, I was pretty much useless. I was waking up drinking and passing out drunk. I’d basically given up all hope.”

  “That’s a tough break,” Murphy said. “I guess we’ve all been there at some point in our lives. At least you survived it. A lot of men don’t.”

  “By that time,” Loco continued, “the only work I could hold down was playing the part of a wild Indian in traveling medicine shows. I’m sure you know the type. They often hire Indians to recreate ‘war dances’ or ‘rain dances’ for entertainment while they pitch their worthless products. The job only called for me to be sober three or four hours out of the day, which suited me just fine. I made enough money to eat and keep myself in cheap rotgut. I bounced from show to show, never staying with the same one for very long.

  “Though I was still young, my health was beginning to fail me. I stayed sick a lot and developed a nasty cough. Not that I cared, of course. As long as I had money for whiskey, I was the tall hog at the trough. But, even though I didn’t want to see it, I was living on borrowed time. I couldn’t save myself. I didn’t even want to try. Thankfully, though, fate stepped in and saved me from myself.”

  Loco paused, and this time Murphy didn’t interrupt. They rode in silence for several minutes as bright, wavy lines of afternoon heat rose from the desert floor and drifted up toward the scorching sun. At length, Loco cleared his throat and began to speak again.

  “I was in Pinos Altos, New Mexico. To this day, I don’t remember how I ended up there. I do remember waking up in a livery stable with my head pounding like I’d been knocked into a cocked hat. The owner of the livery discovered me there and was about to toss me out in the street when a man arrived seeking board for his two horses. The man who owned the horses was also the proprietor and sole employee of a small medicine show which operated out of a single covered wagon. His name was Professor Archibald Roop, and he was the man that saved me.”

  “Roop,” Murphy pondered. “Can’t say as to I’ve ever run across him. And I’ve seen my fair share of quack medicine shows, believe me.”

  “Professor Roop isn’t a charlatan,” Loco said, a bit defensively. “He’s not a snake oil salesman. He … offers items and services to those who need them. He took me out of Pinos Altos when I was nearly dead and nursed me back to health. He cured my drinking and gave my life purpose. And he was my benefactor when I attended Dartmouth. I owe everything to him.”

  “Wait a minute,” Murphy interrupted. “This Roop fellow financed your education?”

  “Down to the last penny,” Loco confirmed. “There were stipulations, of course, which I gladly agreed to. In fact, Professor Roop is the reason I took the job at the Vulture.”

  “What, you’re making money to pay him back?” Murphy asked.

  “Professor Roop isn’t interested in monetary compensation,” Loco replied. “It goes much deeper than that.” He paused to glance at Murphy. “I’ve shown you some of the demons from my past,” he said. “What about you?”

  “What about me?” Murphy wanted to know.

  “What are you seeking redemption for?”

  “Redemption?” Murphy snorted. “I’m not looking to be redeemed for anything. I’m no angel, but I’m not the devil himself either.”

  “Then why are you so eager to aid me with the Anasazi?” Loco asked.

  Murphy shrugged. “Because you need the help. And because I tend to be open-minded enough to believe your crazy story.”

  “And what has happened to you to make you so open-minded?”

  “Just things,” Murphy answered, looking uncomfortable now. “Shadows where there shouldn’t be shadows. Voices coming from an empty room. Sticks and hats falling out of the sky. You know, the regular stuff.”

  “The tale about the hat is fascinating,” Loco agreed.

  “Like I said, it wasn’t the first time I’ve witnessed something odd.”

  “Then you believe in the spirit world,” Loco surmised.

  “I don’t believe in anything more than I can see, hear or touch,” Murphy amended. “But I don’t discount experiences just because there’s no logical explanation. I’m not crazy, but I’m not a fool either.”

  “Yet you don’t consider me crazy,” Loco observed.

  “I’ve never claimed to know everything there is to know about this world,” Murphy said. “The Bible says there’s nothing new under the sun, but it didn’t mention anything about the dark.”

  “You’re maybe the second wisest white man I’ve come across,” Loco remarked, allowing a hint of a grin to grace his lips. “There may be some promise for your race yet.”

  “One can only hope.”

  They lapsed into silence as the arid desert landscape passed slowly by them. High in the sky above them, a pair of red-tailed hawks circled lazily, emitting the occasional raspy cry which never failed to send the eyes of all four men glancing upward. Though Murphy continued to be alert, he neither saw nor sensed any sign of impending danger. For Loco’s part, he seemed content to ride with his head lowered as if in deep concentration.

  “I don’t want to jinx us,” Murphy said to Loco, “but I think this trip might prove to be uneventful.”

  “I have a feeling you might be wrong about that, but not for the reasons you might think,” Loco replied cryptically.

  “You know something I don’t?” Murphy asked, eyeing the Apache suspiciously.

  “I only know that we were supposed to use this time to come up with a plan,” Loco said, changing the subject. “Which is something we’ve failed to do so far.”

  “Point taken,” Murphy conceded. “You seem fairly well-versed on the Anasazi. Is there some type of Apache medicine that can herd them back into that cave?”

  Loco shook his head. “The kachinas performed the original magic. It is beyond the ways of the Apache to reincarcerate the evil spirits.”

  Murphy nodded and thought for a moment. “Do you think Pete Williams was possessed by one of the Anasazi?”

  “The prospect had crossed my mind. Either that or the spirit simply took Pete’s form. It doesn’t matter much either way.”

  “It might,” Murphy interjected.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because Pete’s body could be destroyed. I’m not so sure about a spirit body, though.”

  “So, you think that by killing a possessed person, the Anasazi would also be destroyed?” Loco asked.

  “Hey, you’re supposed to be the expert,” Murphy pointed out. “I’m just thinking out loud here.”

  “It’s an interesting theory,” Loco said, “and it might even work, for all I know. The problem is we’d have to allow quite a few innocent people to become possessed simply so we could kill them.”

  “Okay, so there’s a downside,” Murphy admitted. “I never said it was a good plan. But I want to be able to defend myself if it comes down to it.”

  “Let me think on it some more,” Loco said, and pushed his hat low over his eyes as he reverted to his previous meditative state.

  Sighing, Murphy turned his attention back to looking for enemies who could be unequivocally stopped by cold iron firing hot lead.

  ***

  The group traveled until sundown, when the fading light made further progress dangerous and impractical. After making camp and hastily eating a meal of beans and jerky, Murphy took the first watch while the others bedded down for some much-needed rest. Several hours later, Loco relieved Murphy and kept silent vigil until dawn.

  The transfer the next day went off without a hitch. A group of three riders, all heavily armed, met the wagon about forty miles out of Phoenix. Murphy and Loco spent a few minutes exchanging pleasantries and gossip, then turned and started the tedious journey back to Vulture City. They rode in relative silence for nearly an hour, until Loco sudd
enly raised his head and looked at Murphy.

  “I think I’m done thinking now,” he proclaimed.

  “It’s about time. I was getting ready to die of boredom.”

  Loco nodded, then went about scanning the horizon for anything that looked out of the ordinary.

  “So?” Murphy prodded. “What did you come up with?”

  “I didn’t come up with anything,” Loco replied. “I asked the Great Spirit for guidance. I expect we’ll have our answer shortly.”

  “Wait a minute. You spent half the day yesterday and most of the morning praying? I thought you were working on a plan.”

  “And I thought we established yesterday that neither of us had enough knowledge to successfully address the problem,” Loco retorted. “We could think until our heads exploded and we still wouldn’t be any closer to a solution. I was merely taking the next logical step.”

  “By praying for divine intervention?” Murphy asked, flummoxed. “I gotta say, my idea of just shooting everyone is starting to look more practical by the minute.”

  “Your mind may be open, but you’re awful short on faith,” Loco remarked impatiently.

  “The Lord helps those who help themselves,” Murphy countered.

  “Be patient,” Loco assured him. “By the time we get back to the Vulture, everything will be clear.”

  “Forget what I said earlier. You are crazy.”

  “Like the fox, Coyote. Crazy like the fox.”

  They went back to riding in silence. Loco was busy looking for bushwhackers and Murphy was too pissed to talk. This went on until just before sunset, when Loco straightened up in his saddle and pointed to an object up ahead on the trail.

  “Look,” the Apache said, drawing Murphy’s attention to his outstretched finger.

  “Could be a wagon,” Murphy remarked, squinting into the dying light. “Kind of hard to tell from this distance. Whatever it is, though, it ain’t moving.”

  “Come on,” Loco said. He spurred his horse and took off at a gallop toward the unknown object.