Before he could pull the tool free, Pete was kicking at Porter. “You killed my friends, you son of a bitch!”
Porter lined his barrel up with Pete’s head.
Pete’s eyes widened with fear.
Click. He was empty.
“Ha! I got you-you sum bitch!” shouted Pete, as he kicked at Porter.
Out of ammo and Pete had yanked the pickax up again.
Porter lunged to get inside the arc of Pete’s swing.
The Pickax came down and the handle bruised Porter’s shoulder something fierce, but that was a helluva lot better than being skewered.
“Kill him!” cried Stoney, as a shot rang out and ricocheted from the boulders just behind Porter.
“You trying to kill me, too?” shouted Pickax Pete. The miss was too close for comfort since he and Porter were caught in a killer’s embrace.
Porter hit with a left hook and sent Pete sprawling to the ground.
Stoney shot again and this time the bullet ripped through the elbow on Porter’s coat. The lead ball yanked at the thick leather, threatening take it on a faraway journey, but it missed Porter’s flesh.
Dropping to the ground and the cover of the flume, Porter grabbed for another cylinder for his dragoon. He fumbled in his pocket for the cylinder while Pickax Pete crawled away from him.
“Where you at Pete? Kill him!” snarled Stoney.
“I don’t want you to shoot me in the trying,” responded Pete.
Porter found the cylinder.
“You yeller polecat!” shouted Stoney, as he shot the flume twice. His wheel gun clicked on empty.
Pickax Pete jumped up, the hickory haft of his pickax in hand again. He glanced at Porter fiddling with his dragoon, while Stoney was busy reloading too.
Porter loaded the cylinder.
Pete raised the pickax over his head for a devastating blow.
Porter flicked his wrist, bringing the gun to bear, and shot Pete between the eyes.
The pickax fell but only from gravity not a deathblow. Pete’s eyes crossed and he fell backward.
Porter took a deep breath. The pickax and bullets had sheared several holes through his coat. Awful close.
He glanced over the edge of the flume, looking for Stoney.
A shot rang out, tearing the lip off the flume just a pace away from himself.
Porter gritted his teeth and moved down the line a few feet. He tried to gauge Stoney’s whereabouts anyway he could. He strained to see the reactions of the nearby horses, but they had panicked and were all out of sight.
The dull roar of the river masked any hint of sound.
Stoney had been coming closer. He must be just on the other side of the flume.
Porter glanced at the bottom to see if there was any space he could see beneath the thing to better get at the big man, but the flume sat firm against the ground, heavy with the ever-running water.
Launching up, Porter sent several shots right over the top at where he though Stoney hid. But there was no one there.
Where had he gone?
A Wild Man
The ruckus of someone stumbling through the brush a short distance away gave the answer. Stoney had retreated from what looked like a suicidal position.
Porter shot once more in his general direction, then reloaded.
Glancing toward his appaloosa, he saw the animal was down and not likely to get up again. He strode to it and whispered, “Damnit.” He pulled the trigger and ended the horse’s suffering.
The gang’s horses lingered a short distance away but moving toward them would expose himself to a severe lack of cover, while Stoney was still making a terrible sound crashing through the trees. Too risky to get a horse just yet, so he waited beside the flume a moment longer.
What was his angle, Porter wondered? He was making too much sound to be sneaking into a better position to snipe at him, besides, he didn’t have a rifle.
A few wild shots from the pistol went off, but near as Porter could tell none of them were even close to heading his way. Was Stoney shooting at him as a distraction for something else? Did he have another man out there looking to flank Porter while he did a stupid bluff? Unlikely, the man in the tent had been a surprise and it was Porter’s own fault for not counting the seven horses as he reached the bottom. They had left a man at the bottom as a lookout just in case of any other troubles. But there wouldn’t be anyone else out here.
There was another wild shot and a loud snorting amidst a snapping of twigs and underbrush.
Stoney cried out in fear.
Were Slow Bear and the other Indians pursuing him? That didn’t seem right. Besides, the snorts were too loud for a man.
Stoney darted out of the woods, but not toward Porter in an attack, he headed as fast as he could straight to the river in a crazed panic. “Run!” he cried, glancing only just once sidelong at Porter. He no longer held a gun. He must have dropped it with his last shot spent. He inexplicably continued his course to the river in a mad dash and threw himself into the cold water, heading out for where the current would carry him off.
Was this some kind of insane trick?
The great tearing through the trees continued to get closer. Porter wondered if there was a grizzly about to launch free of the woods. But would even a grizzly have given a man like Stoney such primal terror? He glanced about the camp, hoping for something with a bigger bore than his dragoon.
Porter stood his ground in wonderment.
Stoney was in three feet deep of water and beginning to be tugged away by the current.
The crashing through the underbrush drew closer and a wild black shape materialized in the center of it all. It was incredibly tall, perhaps eight feet, and Porter wondered if it was a gigantic bull moose.
But a huge, hair covered man-thing stepped out and looked at Porter. Its red eyes blazing with hate.
Porter stood slack-jawed, staring at the incredible monster. “I’ll be dipped,” he said to himself, realizing he had left his mouth open a good while too long.
It stared back, breathing deep. It snorted once then let out the most terrible roar Porter had ever heard in his life. Porter felt the beast’s call vibrating deep into his chest. It seemed like the earth itself shook from the terrific sound.
In that moment, Porter no longer heard the dull perpetual sound of the river.
The wild man stared at him again, breathing deep with lungs that sounded like a blacksmith’s bellows.
Lost at what to do, Porter did the first primal thing that came to mind. He didn’t shoot, he had forgotten about his gun, but he didn’t cower in fear either. He shouted back at the wild man as loud and angry as he could. “Argh!”
By comparison it was a pup howling at a lion, but this lion heard him.
The gigantic wild man picked up a boulder as big around as a wagon wheel. Porter gaped in awe at the immense strength to even budge the stone, let alone pick it up.
The wild man threw the boulder, not at Porter, but perilously close. It made a titanic splash in the river. The hairy man raised his arms, beat his chest, and gibbered as if in triumph.
A cry of fear from Stoney farther out in the river brought Porter back to the wider world. He had been lost in the moment. With great difficulty, Porter tore his gaze from the giant wild man to glance at Stoney out in the river.
Stoney was splashing out into the waters and drifting away toward Murderer’s Bar.
The wild man’s breathing was thunderous, like the chugging of a steamboat’s paddle. He grunted at Porter then roared again. The sound echoed from the far-off mountain tops.
Porter was aware of no other sound in the world.
Porter glanced at the still swelling spot where the boulder had crashed. The river swirled dark and muddy. He returned a steely gaze to the wild man.
The wild man took a step forward and grinned.
Porter didn’t take it as a friendly grin. It looked more like a show of force like, these are what I’m going to use to eat you.<
br />
His blood turned to ice water, his legs ready to buckle, but Porter would never just take the easy walk into the dark without a fight. He whispered a prayer, guessing this would be his final moment. At least he would see lost friends soon.
The giant charged.
Porter brought his pistol up and shot the brute three times in his left breast. Tufts of hair and dust burst from the behemoth’s chest, but Porter saw no blood.
He was out of shots. He fumbled in his coat for another cylinder. Something metallic touched his hand he though perhaps it was another cap and bull come loose. He withdrew the strange golden pin.
A solitary ray of sunlight caught on the pin and dazzled the eye.
The wild man snorted angrily, spun around, took a massive step to the left, and faded back into the trees. This time there was no crash of thunder as it moved away. It silently vanished like a black cat into starless shadow.
Porter watched a long time thinking it was going to charge him and smash him underfoot, but it was gone. Was it a bluff? There was no blood. He had hoped to take out the thing’s heart, but it didn’t appear wounded.
The sound of the river and birds returned shortly.
Porter wondered at that. Had it been just the unreal experience of seeing the hairy wild man, or was there something else? Strange coincidence that he had pulled the pin out and the wild man ceased his charge and retreated into the woods. Was it related? Hadn’t Mary said something about it being a pin of protection?
Porter sunk down beside the flume and breathed deep. He dug in his torn coat and reloaded another cylinder into his dragoon. He found the scattergun and loaded that, too. Only then, when he felt ready for anything, did he reach into his inner pouch and find a flask. He took a long pull of whiskey and watched the thick dark woods.
Nothing. No sound of anything having been there at all. Porter kept a wary eye but took another long pull of refreshing liquid courage. He stepped forward and glanced along the ground, trying to see any sign of the hairy man. There were no tracks he could see along the hard-stony ground.
A branch overhead showed that if anything, once he stood beneath it, the wild man might have been even taller than he first thought. The sheer size had been incredible.
Had he been poisoned? Hit in the head and imagined the whole thing? No, Stoney saw it first, panicked, shot at it, and even ran into the river risking drowning to escape it. They had not shared a delusion, he decided. That had really happened.
He rubbed his hands across his face and splashed some water on it.
What had Fei Buk said last night? The stars were right for old ones here? Could that giant wild man be an old one?
He sat down. Realized he was still sitting in a scene of grisly death, but the slain bushwhackers seemed inconsequential compared to what he had just been through. Porter liked to think of himself as a man prepared for anything, but this had flummoxed him. He saw a cigar resting on the ground near the still crackling fire. He picked it up, lit it on the coals, and puffed mightily.
Porter knew he should have been grabbing one of the available horses, but he had to take in the moment and deal with it first. It seemed unbelievable. He finally stood up to go and fetch a horse when he heard something whispering on the wind from the nearby woods. It sounded soft and feminine. Was it Bloody Creek Mary calling him?
“Porter,” it called from somewhere farther into the woods. “Porter.”
It sure sounded like Mary.
“Mary? Is that you?”
“Porter,” the voice summoned again.
He went toward it. It didn’t sound troubled. She didn’t sound wounded or hurt, but it was urgent and pleading.
Porter found himself stumbling off the beaten track and heading into the dark forest.
“Porter,” it beckoned, “over here.”
He tripped on a log he didn’t realize was lying in his path, he was so focused on reaching the source.
“Over here.”
He thought he saw her outline near a tree, the light was refracting strangely, but the willowy shadow resembled the lithe Indian woman.
“Over here, Porter.”
“Where are you going?” asked a new voice, breaking his dreamlike concentration.
He resisted turning around to look. A powerful feeling that he should press on into the woods persisted.
“Over here.”
“What are you doing?” challenged the new voice. It sounded harsh and unpleasant.
Porter wheeled about to face whoever had disturbed him. It was Mary standing twenty paces behind him on the trail. He wheeled to glance toward where he thought she had been calling him, perhaps another fifty yards into the forest. The shadowy outline was gone. Only a red, moss-covered tree trunk remained.
“Is someone in there?” Mary asked.
Porter trudged back to her and the trail. “I thought it was you. Could have sworn I heard you calling my name.”
She shook her head. “You know I was up the mountain at the dig. I heard shots and came down on foot.”
He peered accusingly back at the woods. “I heard something.”
“Where is your gun?” She watched and waited for him to speak.
Porter reached to his gun belt and was dumbfounded to find it empty. He took a gander at the log he had hopped over to see if he had dropped the dragoon, but it was not there either. He passed Mary and the trail and looked at the incredible scene of carnage. His dragoon and shotgun were resting beside the fire. Right where he had been when he first heard the call of the voice in the forest. What on earth could have made him forget and leave his weapons lying there?
“What happened?” she asked.
Porter motioned at the dead men all over Williamson’s camp. “I got the drop on ‘em. Got everyone except Stoney.”
“Where is he?”
“He… uh?” Porter scratched at his neck. “I forgot.”
Mary ran her hands over his scalp and neck. “Did you get hit?”
“No. Got thrown. They shot Bess, I had to put her down.”
Mary took in the scene. “But Stoney is gone? Were you chasing him into the woods?”
“No, he… uh. Where did he go?” Porter pondered. He realized he couldn’t remember anything except the gun fight. He retraced his steps about the camp and puzzled. “I shot those two. Used Thorne as a shield. Stoney killed him. Then I shot Pete. I went to shoot Stoney, but he ran into the woods, then he came out…”
Mary followed Porter’s tale of carnage knowing full well there was more to it than his simple retelling. She followed a track line to the edge of the woods then saw tracks rushing toward the river.
“Did he go to the river? Was there a canoe?”
“No, he… uh, jumped in and swam downriver.”
She cocked her head at him. “Why? Did you have the drop on him?”
“Not exactly no I… uh.” He couldn’t remember quite right. What had happened? He remembered all of that, but there seemed to be a blank spot in his mind’s eye.
“Then you were moving into the woods, but you said Stoney went to the river,” said Mary, trying to elicit a response.
“Yeah, I heard something in the woods. I thought it was you.”
She shook her head. “That was not me. I would not do that. I would come to you.” She peered sharply at the forest. “It called to you?”
“Yeah,” said Porter, sitting on a log and rubbing at his temples.
“It might have been one of the Furry People.”
“Furry People?”
Mary nodded. “It is not good to follow their call. Those that follow, do not come back.”
“Sounds like a will o’ the wisp.”
“I do not know those words, but is bad?”
Porter nodded. He knew he was forgetting something, but couldn’t recollect what exactly. “Hey, where’s Dawg?”
Mary pointed back up the trail. “Slow Badger has him. They are bandaging him up.”
“You sure?”
&
nbsp; “Yes.”
“Well, since only Stoney is left of the Mountain Hounds, and they shot my horse, let’s lay claim on these others and go get Dawg and head back home. If Stoney doesn’t drown, he’ll be trying to warm up all night long. It will be getting dark soon enough.”
Mary pursed her lips and nodded and helped Porter gather the horses.
They rode back up the mountainside, until they reached the spot where they had met the digging Indians the first time.
Ghost Horn Speaks
They turned to head into the trees, but Slow Badger was already there, carrying Dawg out.
Dawg looked happy to see Porter and Mary, his tongue was hanging out and he was mutely panting his hellos.
Slow Badger said something to Mary and put Dawg down. He limped toward Porter and licked his hand.
Porter kneeled. “Sorry, Dawg.” He let his pet lick his cheek.
Mary explained, “Slow Badger says it was clean and went through his upper leg and tail, but it is gone.”
Porter looked over Dawg and realized the missing appendage. His brow raised. “They shot off my dog’s tail?”
Slow Badger produced the tail and said something Porter couldn’t understand, but it sounded like an apology.
“He says he knows those men are killers of his people, and he is grateful you fought them.”
Porter stood and glanced back at the two dead men. “Nothing to thank me for, those bastards were here to try and cut my cord.”
Mary said, “They don’t know that, but he also said they are sorry for what they did to take back the key and bones. But they didn’t kill anyone.”
Porter grimaced, wondering if he had another fight about to erupt on his hands. “Key and bones? Aren’t they admitting to killing MacDonald? You said you thought they were all in on it.”
Slow Badger spoke a long harsh sentence that Mary translated.
“I was wrong. He said they took the bones but nothing else. They want the key, the book, returned.”
Mary translated and Slow Badger answered begrudgingly but pointed at the corpse of the dead tribal member.
“He says that he and Prairie Dog were the ones who went to steal back the book and that Prairie Dog lost the pin of protection. He did not want them to hurt anyone and start a war with you white men. Someone else got to the book before them.”
Let Sleeping Gods Lie Page 5
