Straight Outta Dodge City

by David Boop

  Slate said, “It looks like a massacre. I don’t see any bullet holes. It’s all cutting wounds, slashes, and what might be bear claws.” He paused a long moment in thought as he rode his horse slightly closer to the body of a woman who had been torn apart. “There are tooth marks, but they came after death. Someone ate this flesh.”

  Crowley nodded. “No bullet holes. What does that tell us?”

  Slate frowned. “Not white men. Possibly other Indians, but I have my doubts.”

  “Then what else do you suppose it might be?”

  “I expect something other than human, and not a bear.”

  “And why is that again?”

  “There are weapons and tooth marks alike.” He paused and stared at Crowley. “I am not aware of any cannibals in this area, and even if they existed, those are very large bite marks.”

  Crowley nodded and offered a very brief smile.

  “Look carefully, Mr. Slate. See if there are any survivors.”

  There were none, and the men moved on, living and dead alike.

  * * *

  “Your horse is not a horse.” The old man pointed to make sure his point was clear. “And his horse is dead.” The dead man continued pointing things out, and Crowley ignored him as often as not in the hopes that he would go away. He did not, and so Crowley sighed and decided the dead man could continue his rants until they had revenge for his people.

  “His horse died, and he brought it back. My horse is…convenient sorcery.” Slate shot him a sidewise glance and frowned.

  Slate shook his head. “Exactly what are you talking to, Mr. Crowley?”

  “There’s a dead man walking with us. He thinks our horses are strange and that I should kill you.”

  “I’d rather you not.” For a second the albino’s hands moved toward his weapons, and then he settled down.

  They rode through hard winds that birthed dust devils and clouds of sand and dirt. Both of them squinted, finding it difficult to follow the trail of something that did not want to be found and was very good at hiding. Crowley’s adeptness at stalking after it served them well, just the same.

  Jonathan Crowley, for his part, lectured the man he had come to think of as a friend, despite the sure knowledge that he might, at some point, have to take him down.

  Lucas Slate listened, occasionally asking questions.

  Crowley had been called “the Hunter” in some areas. He was a killer, to be sure, but mostly what he killed were the sorts of creatures that fed on human beings and their suffering.

  Sadly, he also found himself called upon for his duties as the Hunter more often than not. He did not like being the Hunter. It was something he simply could not avoid.

  While he’d been trying to ignore his calling, again, in the Colorado territories, he’d encountered Lucas Slate. When he first ran across the undertaker, he was alive and well. The second time he’d met him, the man had begun his transformation. He had been tainted by something, a Native American demon, he supposed. Crowley had killed the creature that caused the changes, but could not stop what was happening to Lucas Slate. Exactly what Slate was becoming remained a bit of a mystery. For that reason, they continued on as traveling companions.

  Crowley liked Slate just fine. He hoped he wouldn’t eventually have to kill the man.

  Slate asked, “So, you’re saying there are different sorts of creatures that fall into the same categories?”

  “Have you seen different types of birds, Mr. Slate?”

  “Well, of course.”

  “There are different types of clouds, too.” The old man’s ghost kept up with them and would not stop talking. “Doesn’t mean they have different purposes. Monsters are monsters and should be killed.

  “It’s the same sort of thing, really. There are creatures that can become human and humans that can become creatures. They’re all shapeshifters.” For his part, Slate liked these times the best. Jonathan Crowley was a very intense man, and often spent his time in a brooding silence that felt like a storm gathering on the horizon and threatening the world around them with the risk of lightning, hail and thunder.

  Ah, but when the man taught him, he was a different beast. He had a sharp mind, a calmer demeanor, and so very much information to share.

  Crowley gestured around them. “I have seen many of the shapeshifters over the years.”

  “In this country?”

  Crowley smiled tolerantly. “Around most of the world, Mr. Slate. I am newer to this land than you are, remember. No, I have seen Raghosh and Naga in India. The Raghosh—also called a Rakshasa—can take on the form of virtually any animal. The Naga are serpents that can take on human form. You have no less than half a dozen different forms of werewolf.”

  “We have shapeshifters here, too,” the ghost said, interrupting Crowley. “They are called by many names. One of those names is Skinwalker. That thing you continue to talk to, he is a Skinwalker. You should kill him.”

  Crowley continued to ignore the dead man, but made note of the name. He would see what he could learn as time went on, and it was nice to get confirmation about what Slate was becoming.

  If he had a chance, he’d talk to the old man’s ghost when Slate was not quite so close by.

  The old man’s ghost sighed. “He’s a Skinwalker. He’s lying to you.”

  Crowley frowned and said to the old man, “He’s still new at this. I’m trying to help him out. He never wanted this.”

  “Beg pardon?” Slate was looking Crowley’s way again.

  “If you can’t see the spirit I’m talking with, you need to concentrate on your newer abilities and senses.”

  Slate nodded his head. “Have you found anything unique to this land, Mr. Crowley?” The albino looked harder, trying to see what Crowley saw.

  “You mean aside from your kind?” His smile was dark, and Slate chose not to take offense.

  “Obviously.” Slate’s response was dry. It had taken them time to understand that Slate was a Skinwalker. In this case, that apparently meant a being twisted by magic until he was capable of performing it, as well. He could not change shapes, which, as they had learned, was what some of the native tribes called those who could shift from human to animal form.

  “A simple fact for you, Mr. Slate: Humans tend to bring their own sort of supernatural disorders wherever they go. For us to find truly original creatures, it’s best to travel where Europeans have not yet tainted the area. That is getting harder and harder as the railroads make their way across the continent.”

  Slate nodded his head. He had heard the same sort of comment from Crowley before and understood the wisdom of his words.

  “The storm’s fading.”

  Crowley’s words were a relief to Slate. “Do you suppose we’ll find anything new and different out here, Mister Crowley?”

  “It’s hard to say. I haven’t seen any new plants or wildlife in a few weeks.” They were traveling in the Southwest, in an area that seemed made up of sand and wind and little else.

  Oh, and Indians. There were plenty of the native tribes around the area, and most of them had less than kind thoughts about the Europeans they encountered. They also had a powerful fear of Lucas Slate, who understood that the curse he carried came from this area. That was one of the reasons they were here now. They wanted to better understand what was happening to him. They also wanted to see if there were new plants or animals that Crowley could catalogue.

  The hills around them were of layered stone, cut down by wind over the centuries. Crowley had seen them before in different places but here the colors were vivid and vibrant. It was a welcome change from the endless dust that had marked their travel for several days.

  “I’m weary of this journey, Mister Crowley.”

  Crowley nodded his head and paused a moment. “What makes you so weary here?”

  Slate took a long while to answer. “If you discover there is no cure for what I am becoming, I have a powerful suspicion I might not leave this vicinity.�
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  “Mr. Slate, when we find Marcus Jacobi, who just might be a vampire, we might be able to take the time for some answers. As you have been with me on his trail for several days, that is a priority. I am also currently hunting down whatever just killed an entire gathering of local Indians. When I am done with those matters we can discuss whether or not I intend to kill you any time soon. Should I decide to kill you, I will make my intentions known before it happens.”

  “Then you are a fool,” replied the ghostly old man. “Skinwalkers should not be trusted and should be killed as quickly as possible. They take a great deal of killing.”

  “And should I hunt down and kill ghosts because they walk and talk? Should I trust that spirits deceive and plan only harm?” He looked to the dead man as he spoke, and the man looked back, frowning. “In my experience most of the dead who do not rest deserve to be destroyed.”

  “Are you speaking to me, Mr. Crowley?”

  “No. I’m talking to the dead man who thinks I should kill you.”

  Slate sighed and lowered his head for a moment. When he raised it again his eyes were narrowed and he began to look, to really, truly look, for the specter that walked alongside them.

  The winds finally died away revealing the bottom of a canyon of stone and sand with walls that twisted and turned ahead of them.

  “Why would anyone live here willingly, I wonder?” Slate’s voice was as soft as ever.

  The dead man followed with something decidedly rude by the tone, but Crowley did not understand the words. “Maybe they wanted to be left alone? Maybe they found things here that you are not seeing.”

  The pale giant looked his way. “I would think they’d prefer to find a place with food, Mr. Crowley.”

  The Hunter laughed. “There’s plenty, if you know where to look.” He gazed out at the distant mesas and barren landscape. “Also, though I couldn’t prove it, there are many places in the world where the land changes. This might have been a very green area once. Now, however, it is different.”

  “I have my doubts.”

  “And why is that, Mr. Slate?”

  Slate pointed to a wall of stone not far away where someone, likely a very long time ago, had drawn several images on the rock. A hunchbacked thing danced and played what looked like a flute. Next to it, a massive hairy shape wielded a large club and what might well be a sword. The head of the thing was adorned with horns and oddly shaped ears, and the mouth was filled with jagged fangs. Images that looked like they could be various animals surrounded the two creatures, though one of the petroglyphs—a humanoid shape with antlers—stood out among the collection.

  “What tribe did the old man say he was from, Mr. Slate?”

  Slate stared at him, eyes narrowed only slightly. “The Hopi, I believe. I could only understand your side of the conversation, Mr. Crowley.”

  “I’ll teach you how to understand other languages in due time.” He waved a dismissive hand. “The Hopi. I have read something about them, but I can’t honestly remember what it was.”

  “They are kachinas. Kokopelli is there. And the ogre, Nata-Aska. Over there is a sorcerer.” The old man pointed to an image of the gaunt man with antlers. “Further up the way you can find images of the ant people. They are—”

  Slate stared at the markings, his eyes drawn again and again to the gaunt figure with antlers. “What do you make of that, Mr. Crowley?”

  “Far more importantly, Mr. Slate, what do you make of it?”

  “I wonder if it’s supposed to be a Skinwalker, like me.”

  “Just as bad if you ask me.” The dead man continued to talk, and Crowley pretended not to hear.

  “Perhaps we’ll find someone who can tell us.” Crowley frowned. “Does it make you feel any connection to the area?”

  “No. Not precisely. But that song inside me, the one that comes from whatever abides inside my body, it gets stronger when I stare at that shape.”

  Crowley frowned. “There is no power here. They are only images.” He paused. “At least, as far as I can tell.”

  The old man’s spirit laughed. “Then you are a fool. There is great power here.” His smile faded.

  Crowley repeated the words to Slate.

  High, sweet notes echoed from the rock formations around them and reverberated back and forth. Crowley tilted his head to the left and listened, a faint grin playing at his lips.

  Slate shivered at the noises.

  “I feel, Mr. Crowley, that we might once again have found a connection to whatever I am becoming. The thing that makes that noise inspired within me a deep discomfort.”

  “In the natural world and the unnatural alike, most everything has enemies, Mr. Slate. You might be best off preparing your weapons.”

  “Do you think whatever made that noise is among these images?”

  “That is Kokopelli. He plays to offer you luck in your coming battle.” The dead man shrugged. “He is not as offended by your Skinwalker, as I am. Perhaps, I have been mistaken.”

  “I imagine that stranger things have occurred in this world,” Crowley said to the ghost, and then said to Slate, “I don’t get the same feeling that you do at all. That noise actually makes me feel happy.”

  “Truly?” Slate looked genuinely surprised.

  Crowley took off his hat for a moment and brushed his hair with his fingers. “Nor do I sense anything of the unnatural here.” A small lie for the benefit of the dead man.

  “How is that possible, Mr. Crowley?”

  “Reality is sometimes fluid, Mr. Slate. It is very possible that the thing making that sound, and all of the images on these rocks, are considered perfectly natural in this area of the world. Gods have influence on their people. Perhaps these things are seen as gods. I have no notion beyond that.”

  From a different direction than the fading notes of music, a deep roar echoed across the faces of the stone barriers marking the landscape. Slate’s face scowled and then the albino bared his teeth. Crowley’s concern for his companion grew.

  The dead man warned, “That is the ogre. He will come to kill you now, as he killed my people.”

  “Why did he kill your people?”

  The old man’s wrinkled face twisted in a mask of sorrow. “Normally, the ogres only come to punish, but I do not know why they would punish everyone.”

  Crowley said nothing of this to Slate, but continued watching the man’s reactions.

  Slate swallowed hard. “I can feel it. The thing that made that sound, I think it’s what killed those Hopi.”

  Crowley gave Slate a predatory smile. As was often the case when people saw that expression, it sent a shiver down Slate’s spine.

  “Well then, I believe I have business to attend to. Will you be joining me?”

  Truly, there was no question about it. Even if Slate felt a cowardly desire to stay hidden—which he did not—the song that ran through his body ever since he’d been changed would not have tolerated the notion.

  Crowley rode forward.

  Slate waited only a moment before following Crowley. His skin felt too tight on his body, and his hair wanted to stand on end. Had he not been wearing his top hat, it might well have succeeded.

  Crowley rode steadily, but slowly, taking the time to examine everything around him. Not far along their ride, he came to a complete stop and pointed toward the west.

  What he pointed at was immediately obvious—buildings up ahead, clearly built directly into and from the local stone. The structures were solid, and had been worn down by the elements over God alone knew how long. Their location—seventy feet off the ground—would be easily defended and very difficult to attack by surprise. A sheer cliff rose above and below the hidden structures, obscuring much of the sunlight that might otherwise have made the area impossibly hot.

  Trees grew nearby, making the area greener than its surroundings, and though they could not see it, the men could both smell water in the area. “Well, that is something I did not expect to see this day, Mr.
Slate.”

  The dead man sounded surprised. “I have never seen this before, and I have traveled these canyons many times.”

  “Once again I fear that whatever is inside me does not like this place, Mr. Crowley.”

  “You say that as if it is a bad thing, Mr. Slate. I remind you that whatever it is inside of you is not a good thing. It has given you strength, true enough, but we’ve seen firsthand what others afflicted by the same curse have become.” He furrowed his brow. “Why you are not as completely altered remains a mystery that I intend to solve.”

  Slate nodded.

  The roar came again, echoing from the stone village above them.

  Crowley frowned and Slate joined him. “Whatever that is, I expect it wants to discuss with us what we might be doing around its home.”

  “Do you suppose it built this place, Mr. Crowley?”

  “I’ve my doubts.”

  The shape that walked out from the stone structures was much too large to qualify as human. It crawled on hands and knees and then rose to stand like a man.

  But, it was most decidedly not a man. The legs were too short, the arms too long and the head would never mimic a human skull. Humanlike, but flawed.

  It let out another deep roaring noise. There was no doubting where the creature was aimed as it started in their direction with surprising speed for its size.

  “I believe you may be right about this beast, Mr. Slate.”

  “In that it does not bode well for me? I expect I am, indeed, Mr. Crowley.” He settled the long rifle usually slung to the side of his saddle up into his arms. The two pistols he wore stayed in their places for the moment as he took careful aim.

  From a hundred yards away, the thing challenged them again, and increased its speed. Lucas Slate took his time, exhaled slowly and pulled the trigger on his Sharps .50-90 buffalo rifle. The rifle was designed to take down a buffalo with one shot and, normally, did its job admirably well. Though Slate had seen no reason to date to hunt buffalo, he’d heard plenty of stories about one bullet dropping the creatures that weighed two thousand pounds or more.