The Silver Shooter

by Erin Lindsey

  “It’s not that.” I pointed at the stool tucked under the table where he worked. It was serving as one of two mismatched chairs, or so I’d assumed by its placement, but now I wondered. “I can’t imagine Upton had many guests out here. What did he need with two chairs?”

  “Perhaps he didn’t. This one is actually a stool.”

  “Exactly. Do you remember the description of Upton in Mr. Roosevelt’s letters?”

  Thomas paused. “Middle-aged, rather rough-and-tumble looking, and…” His brow cleared. “Extremely tall.”

  “The ghost I saw was well over six feet, but look.” I rested my hand on the top shelf. “I don’t even need to stand on my tiptoes to reach. There’s nothing hanging on the walls. So what did he need a stool for?”

  We both looked up. Above the rafters, the peaked roof stretched into shadow. There was no ceiling, and no place to conceal anything, except …

  “Stand guard, would you?” I grabbed a broom from beside the door and started prodding along the tops of the rafters. Dust and mouse filth and heaven knows what else rained down on me, but eventually something more substantial slipped free, tumbling to the floor in a whirr of pages. I scrambled to collect it, and not a moment too soon: Thomas coughed just as another stranger barged through the door. He eyed us suspiciously, but all he saw was a photographer framing the scene with his hands while his assistant scribbled away in a notebook.

  “Yes, I believe this angle will do nicely. Although … Really, Miss Gallagher, could you kindly step aside? It’s frightfully difficult to imagine the oeuvre with you standing in the middle of the frame.”

  “Yes, Mr. Wiltshire. Sorry, Mr. Wiltshire.”

  The treasure hunter skulked around for less than a minute before stomping out, muttering in disappointment.

  The moment he’d gone, Thomas whirled on me, eyes shining. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “A journal, from the look of things.” I flipped through the pages. “There are drawings in here and everything.”

  “Rose Gallagher, I could kiss you.” And then he did just that, pressing his lips triumphantly to my forehead.

  As many times as he’d said that, he’d never actually done it, and it sent champagne bubbles through my blood. It doesn’t mean anything, you goose. He’s just excited. Well, that made two of us now, and I turned for the door, hoping he wouldn’t notice my blush. “Let’s get out of here before somebody gives us trouble.”

  Alas, it was not to be. No sooner had we stepped outside than we were accosted by a trio of treasure hunters. “Gonna have to search you,” one of them said.

  Thomas’s reply was mild enough, but I felt him coil beside me. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  “It weren’t a request.” The ringleader took a threatening step forward.

  “Careful, Silus,” another man called from the campfire. “That’s the pair tore up Granger’s last night.”

  The man called Silus scowled. “That s’posed to scare me?” He did, in fact, look a little nervous, but that was hardly a comfort. Nervous men were dangerous men, especially when they had guns in their belts and liquor on their breath.

  “You don’t look like a man who scares easily,” Thomas said. “Which is why you’re absolutely perfect. Don’t you agree, Miss Gallagher?”

  “Perfect,” I echoed dutifully, having no earthly idea what he was talking about.

  “I’m afraid I can’t allow anyone to handle this most delicate machine.” Thomas gave his camera a reverential little pat. “But I would be so very obliged if you would allow me to take your photograph, all three of you. The interior of the cabin is rather a fright. No newspaper is going to print that. But a photo of three intrepid adventurers? That would look very well in Harper’s, don’t you agree?”

  Silus grunted. “Harper’s?”

  “Or perhaps The Atlantic. They’re simply mad about such images back east. You’d be seen by thousands. Hundreds of thousands, even.” The trio exchanged glances, and the next thing I knew I was helping Thomas set up his telescoping tripod.

  Half an hour and half a dozen poses later, Thomas and I were ready to make our getaway when a new rider came up the path, grim-faced and spattered with blood.

  “Shit, Eli,” said our new friend Silus. “What in hell happened to you?”

  “Found Jonah out on the trail. What was left of him, anyway.”

  Thomas and I exchanged a blank look. One of the treasure hunters, presumably.

  “Torn up from root to stem,” the rider went on. “Wouldn’t even have recognized him except for that fancy six-shooter of his. It was still in the holster. That thing must be awful fast.”

  The others had started to gather round now; Thomas and I drew closer to listen. “You sure it was the monster?” one of them asked.

  “What else would it’ve been?” said another.

  Eli seemed to be enjoying his audience a little more than was seemly. “It dragged Jonah’s pony off into the bush,” he said, raising his voice for all to hear. “I tried to get what was left of him up on my horse, so he could be buried and whatnot, but it was too much of a mess.” He shook his head. “I sure wasn’t gonna hang around waiting for that thing to come back for the rest. I’m telling you, boys, it’s time to get out of this place.”

  “Excuse me,” Thomas said. “Where was this, exactly?”

  “Not two miles south, where the crick meets the Deadwood trail. I’d stay well clear if I were you, mister.”

  “Oh yes, we certainly shall.” Thomas turned back toward the horses.

  “Straight there, then?” I murmured.

  “Of course.”

  We lit out at a lope and didn’t slow until we saw the ravens. They circled lazily overhead, rustled and cawed in the trees. We reined in, and Thomas slid his 12-gauge out of its scabbard. I did the same with my rifle, letting Luna’s reins go slack as we scanned the surrounding undergrowth.

  I’d had my doubts about the creature, wondering whether it could possibly be real, but let me tell you: it’s one thing to be skeptical when you’re sitting in the snug confines of a saloon, and quite another when you’re out on the trail, exposed, surrounded on all sides by dense brush. I thought I’d encountered every shade of dread by then, but I’d never felt anything quite like this. As if death could literally pounce on me at any moment, from any direction. Every creak of a branch, every shiver of a leaf, sent a spike of fear through my veins.

  There was no body. Instead, a swath of broken branches marked the place where the carcasses had been dragged off. Blood soaked the muddy earth, pooling in the half-moons gouged out by horse hooves. This, it seemed, was all that was left of poor Jonah, whoever he was, and I crossed myself, whispering a prayer for the dead.

  Thomas swore under his breath and lowered his shotgun. “Whatever did this certainly wasted no time coming back for the rest.”

  Which was why I was keeping my rifle right where it was. “If this is a forgery, it’s a very good one.”

  “Too good. No, I think we can officially discard that theory. This was certainly an animal attack of some kind. These furrows in the mud … Claw marks, I presume.”

  “Should we try to track it?”

  “If we had the appropriate skills, perhaps. As it stands, we’d simply be offering ourselves as digestifs.” He walked his horse in a tight circle, scanning the ground. “Hopefully, we can return with Mr. Ward, but in the meantime let us focus our efforts where they may do some good. I want a look at that portal. We’ve all but ruled out our earlier theories, but I’d like to be sure.” Glancing at me apologetically, he added, “It will be a long ride.”

  “Good thing we have those tents,” I said, and put my heels to my horse.

  * * *

  We continued south, cutting a twisting path through the Badlands. Castles of rock towered over us on all sides, ramparts and turrets and rugged keeps baked under a punishing sun. The heat, combined with the long afternoon shadows, conspired to give the landscape a vag
uely sinister air. The earth looked flayed, bone-white and bloodred, shot through with layers as black as ash. I could almost imagine the faint smell of sulfur. It was like riding through—

  “Hell,” Thomas murmured. “With the fires out.”

  “Pardon?” I glanced at him, a little unnerved at how in tune our thoughts were.

  “That’s how General Sully described this area when he first rode through in the sixties. A fitting description, don’t you think?”

  “I’ll say. I can practically smell the sulfur.”

  “That’s not your imagination.” He pointed at a hill just ahead.

  At first glance, it was no different from the others: a layered mound of gold and rust separated by veins of black. This one, however, was on fire. Smoke billowed out from one of the dark seams, curling lazily into the afternoon sky. If I squinted, I could almost imagine a craggy old cowpoke with a sunburn enjoying a cigar, letting the smoke leak out of his toothless mouth.

  “Is it a volcano?”

  Thomas shook his head. “Burning coal, apparently. That’s the geological explanation, at any rate, but it certainly can’t be a coincidence that it’s in the immediate vicinity of…” He reined in abruptly, and this time I didn’t need him to point.

  Before us loomed the most striking butte I’d seen yet. A soaring column of sandy white, it reminded me of a cathedral spire—except it was the size of the Statue of Liberty. A memory came over me, of sitting in a back room of Wang’s General Store, having portals explained to me for the first time.

  “Aren’t they sealed with magic?”

  “Nothing quite so impressive, I’m afraid.”

  Holding his hands a couple of feet apart, Mr. Wang said, “Big rocks.”

  “Just a minute. You’re telling me that the gates separating the dead from the living are sealed with—”

  “A monolith,” I murmured.

  “And a rather obvious one at that.” Thomas jumped down from his horse. “Any member of the paranormal community would know it for a portal straightaway.”

  “If it were leaking, wouldn’t there be shades and heaven knows what else all around here?” I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder as I said it, even though I hadn’t sensed anything. In my experience, the dead can be awfully sneaky.

  “Not necessarily,” Thomas said, already rummaging in his saddlebag. “Still, we’d do well to be on our guard. You have your hairpin, I presume?”

  “Always.”

  “Good, because I’m quite unarmed, spiritually speaking. Bringing my cane along wasn’t practical. If we’re in the territory for any length of time, I’ll see if I can have a gun stock made out of ash, but in the meantime…” He hauled out Mr. Tesla’s luck detector. “I’ll operate the device while you keep an eye out for trouble.”

  As science experiments went, it wasn’t very exciting. Thomas spent the better part of two hours wandering around the base of the butte, waving the probe hither and thither. He climbed as high as he dared, leaning out so far that my stomach did backflips. He shuffled about on his haunches, in case the leak was below ground. He scanned every crag and crevice. All the while, the dial stayed stubbornly at zero, and the box failed to emit so much as a single click.

  Finally, Thomas was forced to admit defeat, jamming the luck detector back in his saddlebag with enough force to set Gideon dancing. “No radiation,” he growled. “The seal is quite intact, apparently. Whatever we’re dealing with, it doesn’t appear to involve the portal.”

  “Isn’t that good news? You said you wanted to rule it out, after all.”

  He sighed. “You’re right, of course. I’d just hoped for … something. If not an answer, at least a clue about the creature, the winter … anything at all. If the portal isn’t involved, then I struggle to see what connection there could possibly be between the Winter of the Blue Snow and the animal attacks, or indeed between any of our three mysteries. Two days’ worth of investigating, and what do we have to show for it?”

  “We have the journal,” I reminded him. And three jars of dirt. I figured that last bit wouldn’t help my case.

  Thomas passed a weary hand over his eyes. “Apologies, Rose. I’m being needlessly pessimistic. It’s only that after this morning … That poor fellow on the trail…”

  “I know. I feel it too. Like we’re running in place, and people are dying because of it. But we’ll figure it out.” I tried for a comforting smile. “Let’s head home and get some rest. Then we can look at this journal with fresh eyes.”

  Thomas nodded, and some of the tension went out of his shoulders.

  As for me, I couldn’t help looking out over the horizon. Thunderheads gathered in the distance, roiling slowly westward against an otherwise pristine sky. To another pair of eyes, they might have looked like buttes, or a herd of buffalo.

  All I saw was monsters.

  CHAPTER 12

  X MARKS THE SPOT—ELECTRICITY—AN ARRESTING DEVELOPMENT

  “It’s more of a sketchbook than a journal,” I said, scanning yet another drawing that meant nothing to me. “If I didn’t know who this belonged to, I’d guess he was an inventor.” I turned the book around to show Thomas.

  The two of us sat in the shade, resting our horses—and our rumps—for a spell. We were still well south of Medora, and with afternoon fading into evening, I had a feeling we were going to be putting our new tents to good use.

  Thomas glanced up from the map he’d been poring over. “What am I looking at?”

  “No idea. It looks like a design for some kind of pulley mechanism. Maybe for a new mining technique?”

  “That would make sense. Roosevelt did say that Upton was one of the last lone wolves operating in Deadwood. Most of his ilk were pushed out by corporations long ago, not least because the gold is becoming increasingly difficult to extract. It’s not a business of pickaxes and shovels anymore. There’s machinery involved.”

  “So maybe Upton was trying to figure out a way to stay in the game.” I flipped to another sketch, a tool of some kind that vaguely resembled a war club. “But then why come to Medora? There isn’t a gold mine within a hundred miles of here.”

  “Perhaps those soil samples tell a story after all.” Reaching into his satchel, Thomas pulled out one of the jars and gave it a contemplative shake. “I’m half inclined to send for Burrows. His luck would tell us everything we need to know about these jars.”

  “Where would that get us?”

  “It would help us trace Upton’s movements, which is always useful in a murder case. A bit of a long shot perhaps, but we’re stretched thin at the moment. The creature is still our most urgent priority, and we’ve scarcely touched on the Winter of the Blue Snow. We need all the help we can get.”

  “Would Mr. Burrows really spend four days on a train just to help us with a couple of jars of dirt?”

  “In a twinkling,” Thomas said with a wry smile. “He has altogether too much time on his hands. The slightest whiff of adventure will have him packing his trunk. Or at least, have someone packing it for him.”

  “Worth trying, I guess. In the meantime, I’ll have to go through this book more carefully. After I get something in my stomach.” I set the sketchbook aside in favor of a can of peaches, which was the first thing I’d eaten all day. “How about you? What exactly are you doing with that map, anyway?”

  “Now that we’re convinced our predator is real, I’ve been jotting down the locations of the attacks. It’s not good news, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh?” I shuffled closer to look.

  “We have Cougar Ranch, here.” He showed me a wide circle drawn in ink. “Their stock ranges far and wide, which makes it difficult to be precise about where the attacks took place, but I’ve assumed a radius of a few miles in each direction. I’ve done the same for Pronghorn Ranch, as well as Roosevelt’s Maltese Cross. That leaves us with a radius of about fifty square miles. Now, within that…” He pointed at an X. “These denote predator attacks on humans. The ones mentioned
in Mr. Roosevelt’s letters are here and here. Then there’s young Gareth Wilson, who died two days before we arrived. According to Mr. Morrison, he was killed approximately here, in the vicinity of the Bar H. And finally, we have the site of poor Jonah’s demise this morning. The attacks occurred in that order, which means…”

  The peaches turned over in my stomach. “It’s getting closer.”

  “I fear so. Jonah’s death is the only one that doesn’t fit the pattern. The rest have been concentrated south of town. Assuming the animal remains in the area, it’s probably hunting somewhere among this dense cluster of ranches, including Roosevelt’s Maltese Cross. In other words, just outside of Medora itself.”

  “You don’t think it would venture into town, do you?”

  “If it were any other wild animal, I would say no. But we still don’t know what we’re dealing with here. It’s terribly difficult to predict next moves when one doesn’t even know the rules of the game.”

  Speaking of rules … I frowned, looking closer. “There’s another pattern here. Do you see?” I traced my finger along the map, drawing a line between the Xs. Each and every one sat directly beside some kind of waterway—the Little Missouri, or one of its offshoots. The rivers and creeks ran like roads between destinations, almost as if …

  Thomas closed his eyes briefly. “Of course. Is it any wonder John Ward keeps losing the trail?”

  In my mind’s eye, I saw again the tracks White Robes had drawn. The front foot like a cougar, with claws as long as a grizzly’s. The back foot clawed as well … with lines between the toes.

  “Webbed feet. It’s swimming.” Our eyes met. In his, I found the fascinated gleam of the scientist. In mine, he found abject horror. “Thomas, what in the name of God is this thing?”

  “Perhaps a giant beaver wasn’t far from the mark after all.”

  “I can’t believe you’re joking about this.”

  “I’m not. At least, not entirely. An otter-like creature existed in the Miocene that weighed more than four hundred pounds. Enhydriodon sivalensis. Native to East Africa, mind you, and one doubts it had claws like this creature.”