Then later, the things they’d seen together;bushwhackers that were tickled to giggling by twelve gauge buck but melted to a bubbling mess when blasted with plain rock salt;hoodoo queens trafficking in dead soldiers, trailing the armies like buzzards, picking over the battlefields in the night to pluck the eyes from the slain for use in their deviltry. Belden had seen them himself, loading up bodies and carting them off to some cave, where they were sewn up and sold off and made to work until they rotted. All these horrors and more had pointed him back to Joe’s words in the dark night, and given him comfort. For if these dark hoodoos and fiends from hell could exist, then it followed that the spirit Joe talked of must also.
So, Belden leaned against the wall and watched his friend. He would watch him like a friend watches a neighbor’s house till they returned.
One thing was for sure. Wherever Joe Rider had gone, whatever he’d been up to in the past fifteen years, it showed on his face. Up close, his skin was a trellis of miniscule crisscrossed scars, as if he’d run through the walls of a greenhouse or been bit near to pieces by vermin. Inspecting the cut on his arm, he’d found evidence of past knife and bullet wounds too, scars he knew for a fact had not come from their time in the army.
Whatever he had gone through, he had come out the other side. If anybody could save the men from whatever weird happening was causing them to shoot each other, it was Joe Rider.
Kabede met the six cavalrymen in the center of the parade ground after they’d finished tracing a circle around the post. All of their horses were covered in foam, their flanks heaving.
“All finished?” he asked.
They nodded.
“There can be no breaks in the circles. Are you absolutely sure?”
They nodded again.
“Alright. Two of you draw a line from this point to the edge of the inner circle, headed north. You two do the same headed west, and you two draw a line to the east. I’ll head south.”
This would make a cross, completing the gigantic Third Seal of Solomon he had been busily inscribing all over the post as the soldiers had drawn the circle. It was not as exact as he would have liked, but if successful (and he hoped using the Rod of Aaron as a stencil would count for something), no spirit would be able to pass in or out of it when it was completed.
He gave his heels to the horse and dragged the point of the Rod of Aaron behind as the other troopers did the same in their respective directions. What would have taken most of the day for a single man to accomplish would hopefully be completed in a matter of minutes.
In the meantime he did not know how the Rider was faring. It was time to find out.
After he completed his portion of the seal, Kabede swung down from his horse.
He went to his knees and laid the staff across them. His eyes fluttered in his head, and he slumped over.
To the watching soldiers, he appeared to have passed out.
The Rider took his attention from Jacobi for an instant as another form shimmered into his vision. It was Kabede’s astral body, rising from where it knelt about thirty yards away. The Rod of Aaron was all ablaze in his hands, like a bar of brilliant white light, constantly shifting to include all the colors of the world and more besides.
Jacobi took advantage of the Rider’s distraction and suddenly coalesced from the bouncing blur he had been, into a solid shape beside him.
It was a strange sensation to feel another astral form touch his own. There was a crackle, as if of static electricity, wherever they touched. Jacobi’s hand gripped the Rider’s gun arm, trapping it, even as the muzzle of his own weapon was thrust into his armpit.
“So you die, Manasseh Maizel,” Jacobi hissed triumphantly.
There was a crimson flash and the Rider’s astral form shuddered and wavered, an ugly red light playing all about him for an instant, limning him in unnatural fire before evaporating. Then he moaned and collapsed.
Kabede came running full tilt across the plain towards them.
Jacobi smirked at the sight of the black man, and raised his pistol almost casually, intending for his etheric bullet to meet him before he ever got close.
Then his knee flared with blue-white fire and he screamed and fell to his side, beside the Rider, who propped himself up on one knee and kicked out, sending Jacobi’s pistol flying end over end.
“Not today, Pinchas Jacobi,” the Rider said.
Jacobi screamed again, in rage as well as pain, gripping at his leg. The spot where the Rider had shot him, just below the kneecap, was flaming white fire and spouting blue sparks.
Jacobi lurched to his good leg and limped off, dragging the wounded leg behind him like an oversized Roman candle. As the Rider watched, the astral flesh about the wound began to melt. The lower leg was dangling now, twisting haphazardly about.
The Rider got to his feet as Kabede reached his side.
“Are you alright?” Kabede asked hastily, inspecting him for signs of a similar wound.
“Yes,” the Rider said. There was not a mark on him anywhere. “The soul is doubled.”
“Another time, Rider!” Jacobi screamed over his shoulder.
With a whimper he leapt into the air, and he was off, actually flying, his long black coat fluttering about him as he caught the etheric wind and rode it away from the post, presumably back toward his waiting body.
It was at that instant that the cavalrymen, in the physical world, completed their circumnavigation of the post, and completed Kabede’s immense sigil.
Lines of golden light began to glow on the ground beneath their feet. These lines flared into a blazing sunshine fire that shone straight up into the sky like beacons, creating walls of impermeable solid light, an intricate house sprung from the blueprint of the Third Seal of Solomon.
The outer circle sprung up just as Jacobi’s astral body was passing over the boundaries of the post on its mad flight back to his physical form. His etheric body was instantly split in two. His lower half stopped in mid-flight and tumbled to the ground, legs askew, and there was a horrible shriek of extreme agony. Then the kicking remains dissolved before their eyes.
The Rider closed his eyes. He could only imagine what had become of Jacobi’s physical form, if the wounds sustained in the Yenne Velt were indeed correspondent. Perhaps though, the trauma had killed him outright.
When the Rider opened his eyes again, he was staring into Belden’s. The light of the real world was glaring, and the stone wall was hard against his back.
“You’re back!” Belden exclaimed.
“I’m back,” the Rider agreed. “There won’t be anymore suicides. At least for now.”
He rose unsteadily, and Belden walked him out of the guardhouse. Armendariz’s body was gone, as were the other suicides.
He saw Kabede then, being helped across the parade ground by two cavalrymen, as the others led the horses back to the stables.
“Your man fainted dead away,” one of them explained as they rejoined them.
“It’s alright,” Belden said. “It’s over.”
“As long as the circle holds,” Kabede interjected. “It’s quite large, and imprecise. A stray foot or a gust of wind will disrupt it. We need a sturdier spiritual guard.”
“You said the aleinu this morning,” the Rider said.
“Yes, in the prescribed manner. For protection,” Kabede nodded. “It could work.”
“Dick, could we assemble the men and have them recite something?”
Belden smirked. “You’re serious?”
Lieutenant Cord and Colonel Manx came over.
“All the weapons are accounted for,” Cord reported to Belden.
“Yes, we’re sufficiently disarmed,” Manx said, his lip curling. “What next? Are we to hop about on one leg?”
Belden couldn’t help but grin.
“Better.”
After redistributing the guns to the troops, who were now past fear and resorting to grumbling at the odd and contradictory commands they were being issued, Weeks
awoke and had to be locked in the guardhouse by no less than four men, one of whom walked away with a black eye for his trouble.
Manx agreed to assemble and address the men (they had skipped morning reveille at any rate), but when handed a transcript of the Hebrew prayer and being advised he would be ordering his soldiers to recite it, his face purpled once again.
“The hell you say. These are Christian men.” He slapped the paper on which the Rider had carefully written out the aleinu in English letters. “I don’t even know what this gibberish means.”
“I can assure you we’re not tricking you all into renouncing Jesus Christ,” the Rider said.
“We can translate it for you if you wish,” Kabede offered.
Manx wheeled on Belden and Cord, who looked doubtful themselves.
“These two tell us something out there is mesmerizing the men into killing each other,” Manx said, his fists doubled up, smashing the paper. “You men believe them, to the point of disobeying my direct orders.”
“I don’t have to obey your orders any more, Manx,” Belden pointed out.
“Shut up, Belden. You’re mine until you’re off this post.” He spun and stalked back and forth in his rage. “I think you’re crazy, but alright. Against my better judgment I allow some pagan symbols to get scratched in the dirt. I even let my sergeant get locked in the guardhouse.”
“It’s worked hasn’t it?” Belden said.
“It’s true that nobody else has tried to kill anyone or themselves, sir,” Cord agreed.
“Bullshit, lieutenant. You want to know what I think? I think it’s the both of you that have been mesmerized. These things didn’t start happening until these two wandered out of the valley.” He looked accusingly at Kabede and the Rider. “If there’s anything odd or mystical behind all this, it’s them. I think Davies let the three of you out in the night. I think you did something to the water supply, or you drugged those men with some of your homebrewing, Belden. I think Davies, young drunkard that he was, sampled some of your native potions and had some kind of episode.”
“You’re the one that’s crazy, Manx,” said Belden.
“Well,” he said, proceeding to shred the Hebrew prayer in his fists. “I’m not crazy enough to play along with this. Mister Cord, I’m going to release Sergeant Weeks myself and you and these men are going to take his place in the guardhouse.” He threw the paper to the breeze and dug for the cell keys still in his pocket. He began to march over to them.
Behind him, the assembled men in their ranks looked at each other and shuffled as their bickering officers left them standing at attention.
Kabede, the Rider, Belden, and Cord went with Manx.
“Be serious,” Belden said. “We’re not going back in there. Not with—”
“Not with what?” Manx scoffed. “Not with the threat of some phantom army marching on us out of the desert? Strange that nobody’s seen hide nor hair of them today. You would think they would’ve gotten here by now.”
It was true that there was no sign of DeKorte and his horde down in the valley. They had not had time to investigate yet, but Manx had apparently broken out some field glasses and looked for himself during the morning’s commotion.
“Where’s Portis and the patrol then, Manx?” Belden demanded.
“What you saw down there yesterday was the Mexicans taking their cattle to the railhead. They probably requested an escort from Lieutenant Portis.”
“The Mexicans wouldn’t ask us to catch them if they were falling off a cliff, Manx,” Belden said. “Thanks to you.”
“Mister Belden,” Manx sighed, reaching the guardhouse and throwing up the bar. “There’s very little of what’s going on here that I understand, but I do know that before this all began you were already about to be expelled from the service. I intend to at least complete that sentence.”
He threw open the door and Weeks stood there, gripping the cell bars and glaring.
In the other cell, Bigelow, who had killed the man in front of him under the influence of Jacobi, sat on his cot with his head in his hands.
“I’m trying to help, Manx,” Belden said. “But if it’ll make you feel better to lock me up again, you can.”
“I’m not locking you up again. I want you off this post now. Along with these two. And Lieutenant Cord, your insubordination will be noted in your record.”
He swung open the door and Weeks stepped out, cracking his knuckles.
“Sergeant Weeks will show you to the boundaries of the post.”
“With pleasure, sir,” Weeks said.
“I thought you were going to turn me in, colonel,” the Rider said.
“I’ll leave it to the civil authorities. I don’t want any part of you,” Manx said gruffly. He coughed violently into his fist and waved him away. “Take your mule and go.”
The Rider was about to correct Manx about the onager. It was an automatic response, a kind of tick he had developed over the years he’d owned the animal. But that was when they heard the sound of hooves outside, and the exclamations of the assembled men. Everyone but Bigelow went out to look.
A man on horseback rode into the middle of the assembly and nearly fell from his saddle. Corporal Quincannon lifted him to the ground.
“Jeffries,” said Manx to himself. He coughed, and he and Weeks and Cord rushed over, Cord glancing back at them over his shoulder.
“Our scout,” said Belden. “What’s happened to him?”
Jeffries looked the worse for wear. He was bleeding down the arm of his light colored deerskin coat, and he was hatless. His horse, a mottled pinto, looked to have been torn or cut in several places, the hide hanging off in flaps. Blood was streaming down its flanks, and it shook its head violently when Cord ran up to take its reins.
Manx stood over Jeffries with his hands on his hips.
“Where’s your patrol? Where’s Lieutenant Portis?”
“Get Doc Milton, for Crissakes,” Belden said.
Weeks turned and shoved him hard in the chest with one huge hand. Belden fell on his behind in the dust.
“Don’t interrupt the colonel,” Weeks snarled.
Belden scrambled to his feet.
“You sonofabitch—” he began, but the Rider grabbed his shoulders, both helping him up and holding him back.
“I’ll fetch him,” Lieutenant Cord announced, and limped off for the doctor’s quarters.
Weeks grinned and turned back to the scene.
“They’re dead,” spluttered Jeffries. “All of ‘em.”
The Rider and Kabede moved closer to hear. Jeffries’ voice was quite weak. He was covered in dust and was bleeding not just from his arm, but from a sizable gash in his scalp.
He was an older man, possibly in his forties, with a thick gray flecked mustache. His eyes were red-lined and blood leaked from the corners of his mouth. He coughed some of it on Manx’s boot, and Manx covered his mouth with his handkerchief and coughed too, as if by suggestion.
“They kilt ‘em, sir. But I seen ‘em…walk.” Jeffries shuddered.
“Who killed them? Who?”
“Them bounty hunters. We rode up to ‘em. Lieutenant Portis thought it was a cattle drive. Every head of beef in the valley looked to be there. Portis. He was the first to die. They was smilin’ and they waved, but as soon as we rode over they just poured into us. The people with ‘em reached up and dragged us down.”
“Who? Who was with them?”
“Mexicans…Indians…folks from Escopeta…little kids even.”
Manx frowned and coughed into his handkerchief, blood coming away in a line from his red lips.
“How did you get away, Jeffries?” Manx asked. His voice was very hoarse.
“I didn’t. They…let me go.” His eyes widened for a moment. “They did somethin’ to me.”
The Rider looked over as Cord returned with a pair of orderlies bearing a field stretcher and Milton bringing up the rear in his undershirt. Milton looked terrible. The dark rings under hi
s eyes had deepened. As he watched, Milton’s bag popped open and his instruments spilled on the ground. He stopped to pick them up, and the two orderlies put down their stretcher and knelt to help him.
“What are you talking about?” Manx said, taking an uncertain step back. He looked over across the parade ground and spotted Milton and the two orderlies fumbling with his bag. Cord stood over them, watching.
“Cord. What the hell are you doing? Help them!”
Cord nodded and eased to his knee, obviously a little stiff from the beating he’d sustained.
Then Jeffries began to gag and shake in Quincannon’s arms.
“Lay him down,” Weeks told Quincannon. “He’s havin’ some kinda fit.”
“I can’t!” said Quincannon. And he couldn’t, for Jeffries was holding onto his arms for dear life, his hands clawing into the corporal’s sleeves.
“The hell,” said Weeks. He nudged the man nearest him. “Help him.”
The trooper stooped down to help pry the trembling scout loose.
A sound built up deep in Jeffries’ throat, and it erupted from his lips as soon as the trooper laid a hold of him.
It was a horrible, agonized scream, such as no one thought a hard man like Jeffries capable of.
What happened then caused everyone gathered around to freeze in place.
Jeffries’ eyes bulged almost imperceptibly for half an instant, before they burst in their sockets, splattering Quincannon full in the face with not only blood and eye jelly, but a strange, dark green substance.
Quincannon fell back, gagging, but the blind scout continued to grasp him, screaming. Each of his ragged, empty eye sockets sprouted some sharp, black, tapered growth, spotted with quivering quill-like bristles that twitched nervously as they extended ten or twelve inches past Jeffries’ face, to bend at knotty joints.
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