OCCULT Detectives Volume 1

by Joel Jenkins

  Rockwell gave a cry and managed to raise his pistol, even as he caught sight of the gunman, who had killed Elvin, attempting to lift his rifle, which he had somehow managed to retrieve from the spot where the corner of the tent wall had once stood. Shreds of canvas waved in the spectral mist as the ice-laden gunman attempted to fire with frosted trigger finger, but even as he made the attempt his flesh and bone turned to ice from that fearsome chill brought on by the caliginous mists. So when a bullet sped from Rockwell’s pistol, the gunman shattered into a thousand frozen fragments of flesh and blood, which cascaded across the hard ground.

  Then, as suddenly as the brume miasma had descended upon them, it began to dissipate, dark tendrils seeping away, seeking lower ground or dissolving. The quaking earth ceased its convulsions and the crowd, most of which had been cast to the ground, who had witnessed the malevolent attack climbed to their feet and trekked toward what they hoped would be safer locales. A few remained, awestruck, by the dark manifestation they had just witnessed, sitting dumbfounded and gaping on the ground.

  Rockwell regarded the wreckage of the tent and the Chileno woman whose body and visage were still frozen into the icy aspect of fear. “Is there anything we can do for her?”

  Crow examined the frozen form of the harlot, face dispassionate. “If we touch her we risk shattering her, like you shattered the gunman. There’s nothing we can do.”

  The Indian relinquished the brass talisman which had saved them from being turned into ice and Rockwell turned it in his calloused fingers. “At least we know of something that can help us combat this demonic thing that attacked us.”

  Crow was less optimistic. “There’s no magic in the thing, and it’s no proof against the powers of the kurdaitcha.”

  “So this dark mist that swallowed us up like hell itself was the kurdaitcha?”

  “Sent by the kurdaitcha,” corrected Crow. “The kurdaitcha are ancient malevolent spirits that possess the bodies of the weak-minded, sinners, or those who have invited them. They have the power to cloud and affect men’s minds, but the more ancient of them sometimes have power over the elements.”

  Rockwell shook the beading droplets of melted ice from the brim of his hat. “The elements? You mean this kurdaitcha can control earth, water, and fire?”

  “The other possibility is air,” said Crow, “but I’ve never heard of a case where the kurdaitcha has sway over more than one element. Yet, it seems that this one has some minor control over the earth as well as water, since she can freeze the moisture in the air or even within our bodies.”

  “Minor control over the earth?” exclaimed Rockwell. “I wouldn’t call the trembler we just experienced minor control.”

  “If she had more than minor control she would have opened the earth up beneath us so that it swallowed us up,” said Crow.

  Rockwell replaced the hat on his head and examined the unblindfolded face of justice on the amulet. “Say what you want about this brass coin, but it saved us from being frozen into ice statues, so there must be something about it.”

  “I suspect that the amulet’s been marked by the kurdaitcha,” said Crow, “so that from afar she will know not to exert her powers against the bearer of it. Once we are in her presence she will know not to exclude the bearer of the coin from her destructive powers … or even once she receives message that she failed to slay us.”

  Concern crossed Rockwell’s bearded face. “So, you’re saying that she might at some point be able to use this talisman to locate us and direct her dark, freezing fogs against us?”

  Crow nodded. “That’s what I’m saying.”

  Rockwell drew back his arm and chucked the talisman as far as his arm would allow him. It glinted over the sea of tents that sprawled along the hillside, and then disappeared into the brambles and scrub brush of a rocky ravine. “Good riddance to it.”

  Crow said nothing as he looked out over the bay of listing ships abandoned in the rush for gold, wondering at the madness and fever that gold and greed caused in men.

  “Is there anything we can do to beat back the demon that has taken up residence in Sam Brannan?” asked Rockwell. “I’m no coward, but this sort of thing is well beyond my ken. Perhaps we should consult Brother Brigham for the best way to defeat this demon.”

  “Brigham is in Utah and the kurdaitcha is here, with us,” said Crow. “If we delay, we may return to find San Francisco an utter desolation. A kurdaitcha delights in the misery and bloodshed of mankind and she is gathering her power. Once gathered I am sure she will not hesitate to unleash it.”

  “You mean it gets worse?” questioned Rockwell.

  “It was a kurdaitcha that caused the desolation and disappearance of the Roanoke Island colony,” said Crow. “The name of that particular kurdaitcha was Naotaorc.”

  Rockwell was familiar with the story of the British Colony where ninety men, seventeen women, and eleven children had disappeared without a trace. “That was hundreds of years ago. How would you even know that?”

  “Such things are recorded in ancient tomes which are kept in the libraries of the Miskatonic University,” said Crow. “There are many secrets there which would have been better off destroyed—like the corrupt combinations and pacts of the Gadiantons.”

  “So how do we fight something that can befuddle our minds and freeze our flesh and bone, Crow?”

  “How does one combat the elements?” asked Crow.

  “That’s exactly what I’m asking,” said Rockwell.

  Crow returned to his horse and climbed into his saddle.

  Scowling, Rockwell followed. “Where are we going, Crow?”

  “We’re going to find Sam Brannan and exorcise his kurdaitcha.”

  Rockwell grabbed the saddle horn and swung onto his horse. “Swell, let’s ride blindly to our doom. It seems I’ve got nothing better to do today.”

  6

  At the corner of Washington and Kearny Streets stood the Bella Union, primarily a gambling hall, but also equipped with a stage for various vaudevillian theatrical, dancing, and vocal performances. Even as Crow and Rockwell approached the entrance, the jangling of a piano filtered into the street, as did the muted tones of both a male and female singer. Because of the high rates of pay available on the California coast, some of the top flight establishments like this were able to attract talent that habitually stayed cloistered in New York or Boston.

  Rockwell fingered a small vial which he had obtained from Hell Haggerty, proprietor of the Fierce Grizzly, which was known for the female grizzly bear it kept chained in the street outside, in the Sydney Town portion of San Francisco. “You sure this is going to work, Crow?”

  “I don’t know,” said Crow. “I’ve never used knockout drops on anybody.”

  Rockwell raised an eyebrow. “That’s not what I’m worried about. Haggerty says these knock a person out in about five minutes and make them easy pickings to rob. Apparently, he uses them all the time in his various establishments.”

  “You keep some interesting company, Porter.”

  “You know I don’t condone such sort of thing, but he does prove useful” said Rockwell. “Haggerty and I have an understanding since that night I put a bullet through a man who was about to put a knife to his throat. He lets me know when I’ve got folks gunning for me and is always happy to do me a favor.”

  “So why didn’t he let you know that the Committee of Vigilance was hunting you down?”

  Rockwell laughed. “Haggerty and the Committee of Vigilance run in different circles. When their paths cross it usually calls for bullets and arson.” They paused a dozen feet away from the entrance of the Bella Union, not drawing near to a group of revelers who were taking bets and enjoying sport at the expense of two drunken fellows brawling in the street. “What I want to know is if these knockout drops will allow us to take down Brannan without releasing the kurdaitcha to take up residence in someone else’s body … or our own, for that matter.”

  “That’s something that I don’t
know,” said Crow, “but perhaps if we can subdue Brannan quietly, we won’t arouse the kurdaitcha, and we can take him somewhere isolated to dispose of the demon that possesses him.”

  “And if the kurdaitcha attempts to enter us?” asked Rockwell.

  “We’re men of faith, Rockwell. Put your faith in the Lord Jesus Christ that He will protect us.”

  “And what of Brannan?” asked Rockwell. “Why didn’t his faith in Christ protect him?”

  “He abandoned that faith, didn’t he?” asked Crow. “Can you expect protection from Christ when you’ve made it clear that you want no part of Him?”

  “I suppose not,” replied Rockwell.

  Rockwell paid a quarter for admission to the Bella Union, but when Crow proffered his quarter the doorman held out an arm, blocking his entrance. “This establishment ain’t for redskins. You want to be entertained; you go down to Sydney Town and find some dive that will accept the likes of you.”

  Turning slightly, hand on the butt of his gun, Rockwell addressed the doorman. “That’s Lone Crow you’ve got your grubby little hand on doorman. He’s killed dozens of men far more dangerous than you.”

  The doorman hesitated, for he’d heard the name of Lone Crow, and how he’d killed Butch Cassidy by slitting his throat with a Bowie knife.

  Rockwell continued. “I’d suggest that you accept his quarter and let him inside without any further fuss, and then maybe we can all forget this ugly incident ever happened.”

  The doorman considered this and removed his hand from Crow’s chest. “I do apologize; I didn’t recognize you Mr. Crow.”

  Without speaking, Crow pressed the quarter into the doorman’s palm and brushed past him into the smoke-filled interior. Card games progressed at every corner and table of the establishment, and on a stage fringed by red velvet curtains, a dapper man with slicked back hair made a frenzied play at the piano keys while a shapely woman with carefully coiffured golden hair belted out an irreverent tune. Crow had little use for gambling or alcohol, but he found himself fascinated by the piano and the chanteuse so much that Rockwell had to get his attention.

  “There’s an empty table over there, Crow. Sit tight and I’ll see if I can locate Brannan.”

  The songstress warbled a version of ‘Molly Do You Love Me?’ and ‘I Have Got the Blues Today’ and to Crow it seemed scarce but a few figments of time before Rockwell returned to the table bearing a couple bottles of sarsaparilla.

  “It took some doing to get these, Crow. It seems this establishment is strictly alcoholic. Normally, I might indulge in one or two tipples myself, but out of respect to you and the job we’ve got to do this evening I thought…”

  “Who’s that singer?” asked Crow.

  “Sarah Armstridge,” said Rockwell. “A pretty piece of calico, if I’ve ever seen one, but more trouble than a bucket full of weasels in a hen house or so I hear. But then there isn’t a woman in this place that wouldn’t bleed a man dry and leave him dying in a gulch for fairer prospects. Now listen, one of the house girls by the name of Elsa has told me that Brannan is in a private box on the second floor. He and his friends are being entertained by some others of the house girls, and drinking enough ale to float a ship.”

  “How do we slip the knockout drops into his drink?” asked Crow.

  “Elsa says she’s friends with the girls doing the entertaining. For fifteen dollars, Elsa says that she can persuade Charlotte to dose Brannan’s drink and let us know when he starts sawing logs.”

  Crow rolled a small diamond onto the table. “I’m nearly out of cash. Will this be sufficient?”

  Rockwell picked it up and examined it in the lantern light. “More than sufficient. Where did you get this?”

  “I know of a field of them here in California,” said Crow. “There are plenty more if you’re interested.”

  “Interested? Why if I manage to live through this evening I say we saddle up and you take me right to it. A couple pouches of these and I’ll sell my taverns and move right back to Utah and marry me a couple of wives. You sure you can find this place again?”

  “Quite sure,” said Crow.

  A woman with a hook nose and a slender figure packed into a too-tight dress approached them. “So, boys, have you considered my offer?”

  At most any other place in San Francisco this might have been considered a proposition, but the Bella Union was a respectable place—or relatively so. Out and out prostitution was not tolerated by the owner, though behind the curtained partitions he did encourage his girls to do whatever it took to sell drinks, and this might include flirtation and kisses, which most churchgoing folk would consider an unseemly way to sell your product, but then there weren’t many churchgoing folk in San Francisco.

  Rockwell handed Elsie the diamond. “This is worth far more than the fifteen dollars you requested to do the job, but you’ll have to figure out how to divide the spoils with Charlotte.”

  Elsie was used to accepting payment in paper, coin, nugget or gold dust, but she goggled at the sparkling stone. “Is this a real diamond? It looks like a star fallen from the night sky!”

  “Mars,” said Crow.

  Elsie gave him a sideways glance and she pushed the diamond inside her bodice. “Do you have the knockout drops?”

  Rockwell handed over the small vial of chloral hydrate and Elsie slipped this into her bosom as well, even while brushing away a stray lock of mud-brown hair. “I’ll get Charlotte right onto the job.”

  Elsie went over to the bar and caught the attention of a buxom house girl in a beer-stained skirt, and passed her the vial of knockout drops. With a sleight of hand that indicated that perhaps Charlotte had once worked in less reputable taverns and dance halls, those which made a practice of dosing their customers and robbing them when they slipped into unconsciousness, she shook a couple drops of chloral hydrate into one of the glasses, then made the vial disappear into the sash at her waist.

  Then Charlotte climbed a curving staircase to the curtained balcony boxes, some of which were thrown open so as to enjoy the pianist and chanteuse and others that were drawn tight for privacy. Crow and Rockwell watched as she traveled halfway down the length of the balcony and entered a private box near the stage.

  “So that’s where Brannan is hiding out,” muttered Rockwell.

  “His wife might be disappointed to discover that he’s spending the evening with house girls and firewater.”

  “Oh, his wife has long since left him, for just those reasons” said Rockwell. “Now, Brannan considers himself footloose and fancy free; even though the pesky matter of a divorce has yet to be settled.”

  “Do you have the knockout drops?”

  There was an angry roar and a cursing which for a moment rose above the volume of Sarah Armstridge’s heavenly voice, and the curtain of Brannan’s box shunted aside, disgorging a staggering Charlotte, who clutched at the side of her face as if she had been struck.

  “It seems that Brannan has a temper,” said Crow.

  “He always has, but it was very tightly controlled when he was part of the flock,” replied Rockwell. “Only occasionally could you see a hint of it. Since he left the church I hear he is prone to fits of rage.”

  “It is the kurdaitcha working inside of him,” said Crow. “The dark spirit finds a man’s little weaknesses and grows them into raging giants.”

  Rockwell watched the buxom house girl descend the stairs, clutching at the rail. “I wonder if Charlotte was able to administer the drops?”

  The answer came shortly, when Charlotte visited their table, pressing a wash rag to her cheek, where her flesh had split and she was bleeding. “I gave the knockout drops to that dirty shank. I’ll let you know when he passes out, and you can do with him what you like, just promise me that it will be painful.”

  Crow hated to think that he’d been the cause of the woman’s pain. “Why did he hit you?”

  “It weren’t nothing to do with the knockout drops, if that’s what ye were thinking,
” grimaced Charlotte. “It’s just that I wasn’t forthcoming enough with my favors for his liking.”

  Cigar smoke rose thick in the rafters as Sarah Armstridge continued her songs and finally finished out her set.

  Through the blue haze, Elsa approached Rockwell and Crow. “Brannan can barely put one word after the other. If you want him, he’s all yours but he’s got three young men with him, all lusty lads that are quick with their guns. They’ll be dragging Brannan along with them if you don’t make your move quickly. I’ve told one of the gunmen that he has a female caller on the boardwalk, but you’ll have to take care of the other two yourselves.”

  Crow tipped his hat to Elsie. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  A smile touched Elsie’s lips. “Ma’am? Why I’ve scarcely run into a gold hunter so polite, let alone an Indian!”

  With hands resting on the butts of their pistols, Crow and Rockwell rose and shouldered their way through the crowds and began to climb the curving staircase to the balcony. Rockwell glanced back and noticed Charlotte at the bar, still daubing at her cheek as she prepared a drink, and watching their progress with great interest. They passed by a number of curtained boxes and heard the giggles of the house girls as they enticed their customers to purchase more drinks and the bawdy responses of the patrons hidden behind the velvet folds. The cigarette smoke gathered in thick clouds at the balcony and Crow couldn’t help but cough as they strode to the box.

  Rockwell swept aside the curtain and saw two gunmen lounging around a beer-stained card table examining the hand of well-worn cards in front of them. A pile of coin and paper money stood at the center of the table and these two were vying for ownership. Sam Brannan occupied the third of four chairs, slumped over and his eyes bleary slits, his cards discarded on the table in front of him.

  The gunmen immediately reached for their hoglegs, but Rockwell raised a pacifying hand. “Steady, hombres. We’re just here to collect Sam and take him home to sleep off his over-indulgence.”

  The gunman with the cleft chin and clean-shaven face narrowed one eye. He didn’t draw his gun, but neither did his hand leave the polished butt of his pistol. “Who are you, Mister? We’re not letting a couple of strangers haul off Brannan…and one an Indian, to boot.”