The Fang of Bonfire Crossing

by Brad McLelland

  “I gather you’ve seen a marker tree before. Most folks pass them right up. Think they’re just part of the normal landscape. They would never imagine these trees keep old secrets.”

  “What kinds of secrets?” Keech asked.

  Doyle glanced at the bending tree’s branches. He rested a finger on the puckered bark and slowly grazed the wood. “All kinds, son.” A thick cloud of blue pipe smoke wafted from the side of his mouth. “Let’s get back on the trail. I’ve dallied long enough. The house ain’t far from here. Less than a mile or so.”

  As the young riders followed Doyle back into the forest, Nat reined Sally a little closer to Keech and Quinn. “Maybe this is good luck after all, Keech. Especially if the Ranger knows a connection to these trees and Bonfire Crossing. All the same, keep your eyes peeled. There’s something odd about this fella.”

  “I’m telling you, ain’t nothing to worry about,” said Quinn.

  A baffling notion suddenly occurred to Keech. The sight of the bending tree had startled him so he hadn’t recognized an obvious detail about the meadow itself.

  The snow on the far side of the tree had been undisturbed. The Osage travelers had ridden into the clearing but had left no tracks when they departed.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE MOSS FARM

  On the distant side of a rolling lea, Keech spotted the rooftop of a two-story farmhouse nestled inside a ring of redbud trees. Edgar Doyle drove straight toward the property and called back to the gang, “This is it.”

  “Have you ever seen this place?” Keech asked Quinn.

  “No. But I suspect Ranger Doyle knows all sorts of places to hole up.”

  The group approached the gate of a broken split-rail fence. The low barrier divided the meadow and the farm’s front yard and zigzagged around the entire property. A tall red barn stood off to the right, its tapered roof smothered in ice. The whole place looked deserted.

  “Everyone wait here. Let me check out the situation, put down some protection.” Doyle clicked his tongue and rode through the gate. A moment later, he disappeared around the back of the house.

  “What does ‘put down some protection’ mean?” Duck asked.

  Before anyone could guess, Doyle reappeared at the far side of the house, moving swiftly on foot, his horse strolling beside him. The Ranger held a large leather pouch and busied himself sprinkling some kind of dark red substance around the property. After completing this mysterious task, he called to them.

  Nat led the young riders into the yard. As they dismounted, Doyle held up a cautioning hand. “Don’t disturb this barrier even in the slightest.”

  Keech took a closer look at the powder Doyle had scattered on the snow. It resembled flecks of rust grated off a piece of old tin. “What is that stuff?”

  “Sanguinaria canadensis. Bloodroot. Indian tribes use it for sores and cramps and whatnot, but in this case, it’ll protect us.”

  “From what?” Duck asked.

  The Ranger’s tone darkened. “The Man Slayer at work in the region. A Shifter beast from a dark place, a creature that crawled up into our world long ago.”

  “The Chamelia,” Quinn said.

  “It’s been roaming these parts for a few days now. I know it attacked your troop at the mission.” Doyle glanced at Quinn. “That’s what I was doing north of the Kansas. I was checking on you, Mr. Revels. I saw the rubble and the bodies the Man Slayer left at the river. I also saw peculiar tracks. Looked to be dragging something, maybe a person.”

  Cutter spoke up, his voice bleak. “It killed our friend John and took his body.”

  Doyle looked down at his moccasins. “I’m sorry for your loss. A beast like that is a tough critter. Near impossible to kill. Once it has your scent, it won’t stop coming. You kids have defensible ground here, at least. The Chamelia can’t get you inside the bloodroot.”

  “You’re saying a line of red powder can stop that thing when bullets can’t?” Nat asked.

  “The bloodroot will keep it out, not stop it.” The Ranger slipped off his brown hat, revealing a head of curly, dark blond hair, and rubbed his forehead. “Let’s stable the horses and get inside. I’ll cook some grub, and we’ll talk more.”

  Sleet kicked up while the riders stowed and fed their ponies in the barn. Ice pellets tinked and jangled on the rooftop, reminding Keech of the Chamelia’s nails scratching at the clay tiles of Mercy Mission.

  The Ranger took a moment to sprinkle more bloodroot where the sleet had disturbed the circle. “You can never be too careful,” he explained, then they followed him up to the farmhouse.

  The home was spacious but timeworn. A narrow staircase ran up to the second floor, and a short hallway led back to a large kitchen. While Keech glanced around, wondering who the house might belong to, Doyle built a roaring fire in the stone hearth. The group crowded around the fireplace and sat on a moth-eaten rug. Keech and Quinn hung their damp coats and socks near the flames to finish drying.

  “I’d forgot what proper warmth feels like,” said Cutter. “I may never leave.”

  The Ranger moved to a long table next to the sitting room, pulled out a cobweb-covered chair, and sat. He scattered a pouch full of nuts and dried figs on the table. “Come get a nibble. It’ll ease your hunger till I can cook up something proper.”

  Keech joined the others around the table. As he chomped on a handful of pecans, he took a moment to further examine Edgar Doyle, who had paused a moment to fuss with his red pipe. Underneath his curly locks, Doyle’s deep walnut-brown eyes refused to linger on any one thing. They roved about the room, delving into the dusty corners. They teemed with a wild energy, a sort of manic intensity that left Keech feeling both curious and wary.

  After lighting a new plug in his pipe, Doyle inspected the food left on the table and chortled. “You kids are like a pack of hungry wolves. I best get to cooking lest one of you gnaws an arm off.” Before excusing himself to the kitchen, he gave Quinn’s battered clothes a fretful once-over. “Mr. Revels, remind me to fetch you better garments before we light out.”

  While they grazed, Keech turned his attention to the house’s dim stairwell. A frightening unease suddenly creased his heart when he saw the pulsing darkness of the second story, a crawling murkiness that seemed to seep down the stairs. He snapped his eyes away and tossed a few more pecans into his mouth. They tasted curiously stale now. He wondered if the others were feeling anything unusual, but they were happily munching.

  Doyle returned with a lit lantern and a handful of deer jerky. “I’ve set some beans on the stove. Till they’re ready, we can talk.”

  Keech accepted a strand of the jerky. “I’ll start,” he said, and swept his gaze around the house. “Whose place is this?”

  “This house belonged to the Moss family, Elijah and Abigail. A few weeks ago, I found the place empty. A traveling farmer informed me that the Mosses had died while in St. Louis, so I’ve used the house to rest during my investigations.” The Ranger shifted his weight to lean against the wall. His deerskin coat fanned back, revealing a sheath for a knife and three or four small, bulging pouches tied to his belt.

  “We appreciate the house and the grub, but I just want to know one thing,” Duck said.

  “How my horse walks on water?” Doyle chuckled. “He’s called Saint Peter. An unusual name for a horse, I know, but he answers to it. He’s named after Peter the disciple, who climbed from his boat and walked on the water with Jesus.”

  “A name don’t make a horse magic,” Cutter said. “I named my mare Chantico after the Aztec goddess of volcanoes, but you don’t see her spittin’ lava.”

  The Ranger’s flickering eyes lit up. “Saint Peter’s a Kelpie. A Scottish spirit in the shape of a horse. I acquired him for a goodly sum while traveling through East Jersey. Some believe the Kelpie to be a demon who preys on men, but Saint Peter won’t even bite a pear without looking to me first.”

  “What about the water funnel?” Nat asked. “How does a lawman control the wind?�
��

  “Ah, yes. That, my friend, is a feat I can’t explain in simple conversation. What I can tell you is that I work for a special division of the Texas Rangers. We investigate unusual circumstances. Our work has uncovered teachings that have expanded our arsenal. The funnel is just such a trick. In fact, I may have a few more stunts hidden up my sleeve.” He winked.

  Nat said, “The horse is a powerful sight, Mr. Doyle, and your water funnel saved our lives. But we want to know what you’re doing in Kansas. Revels tells us you’re out looking for your partner, a man called Warren Lynch. But what led you here in the first place?”

  Doyle’s light smile slipped away. “Warren and I came to this territory to investigate a gang of outlaws, a depraved company of scoundrels who’ve been terrorizing the Southern regions for some time now.”

  “The Big Snake,” Cutter said.

  Doyle’s tone grew sober. “You’ve heard of them?”

  “We’ve run across their ilk,” Nat said.

  “Then I’m surprised you kids are still alive. Many skilled Rangers have gone up against those fiends only to perish. Now Warren’s gone missing. Perhaps he cashed in on the trail, but I got a feeling they rattlesnaked him. Till I know he’s alive or dead, I aim to keep looking. My next stop is the town of Wisdom.”

  “I had a feeling,” Nat said.

  Doyle puffed on his pipe, letting the smoke drift around his face. “I’ve been studying the outskirts of that place. Unusual storms and a terrible darkness surround the area. They’re up to something. I plan to search the town and hopefully locate Warren.”

  “Don’t forget Auntie Ruth,” added Quinn.

  “Yes, your aunt Ruth as well,” Doyle said.

  “Ranger, there’s another man in the town, a fella by the name of Strahan,” Duck said. “He’s the sheriff in the region, but Quinn told us he got taken, too. Do you know him?”

  “I know his reputation. He’s said to be a good man, kind and fair, but forceful when it comes to the Law.”

  “We need to find him,” said Duck.

  “Like I said, I’ve been devising a plan,” Doyle replied.

  “There’s just one problem.” Quinn’s eyes dropped to the table. “The whistle bombs I wanted to use, I lost them back on the Kansas.”

  Doyle waved away his concern. “I told you those bombs in the mission were next to worthless. Warren’s got the good supply. I’d venture a hefty sum he’s tucked away a few crates somewhere in Wisdom. If I find him, I’m certain he’ll help you get all the whistle bombs you desire.” Using his hands, he mimed an explosion.

  “You know about Quinn’s plan to blow up the town?” Duck asked.

  “That ain’t very Texas Ranger of you,” Cutter quipped.

  “Destroying the hornet’s nest will take care of the hornets,” Doyle said, then gestured to the kitchen. “How about you kids help spoon up the beans?”

  The young riders followed Doyle to the kitchen, where they served up bowls of red beans. Doyle surprised them with a wedge of hard cheese. He pulled a short knife with a curved horn handle out of his rawhide sheath. Spinning it on his palm, he winked at Cutter. “Mine’s not as big as yours, but it cuts cheese just fine.”

  Back at the dining table, Keech considered what they had discussed with Doyle. He understood the desire to liberate a partner, but something was poking at the back of his mind. The bending tree in the nearby meadow. Doyle had wanted to follow the seven Osage travelers there. Most folks pass them right up, he’d said. Think they’re just part of the normal landscape. They would never imagine these trees keep old secrets.

  Pa Abner’s dying words were more important now than ever. The young riders were close to finding Bonfire Crossing. Keech felt it down in his heart. “Ranger, is all this bending-tree business somehow related to your friend, Mr. Lynch?”

  Doyle’s spoonful of beans hovered just in front of his lips. “Yes, I figured you’d have more questions about the trees. Back in the glade, I saw the looks on your faces when I stopped at the maple. They mean something to your team. The trees are important to me as well. There’s a kind of code to them I’m trying to crack. Thing is, I can’t.”

  “But Warren Lynch can,” Keech guessed.

  “Without my partner’s knowledge, I can’t figure out the path.”

  “The path?” Duck repeated, but Doyle offered nothing more.

  Keech turned to Quinn, who was busy devouring a small hunk of cheese. “Back at the mission, you said you overheard Mr. Strahan talking to a man. Do you suppose that man was Mr. Lynch?”

  Quinn shrugged. “Maybe so. Maybe they swapped notes on what they knew before they got captured.”

  Doyle said, “My partner and I rode separate so that we’d cover more ground. He’s been working secret in this quarter for some time. He would’ve established a contact with the sheriff, since Strahan knows this part of Kansas like the back of his hand.”

  “Ranger, you should know we’re determined to go along to Wisdom,” Keech said. “We promised Quinn we’d help him find his aunt and rescue Sheriff Strahan if we can. Maybe if we work together, we could help one another.” And track down Bonfire Crossing in the process, he thought.

  Doyle put down his spoon. “It’ll be awful dangerous. One wrong move could spell violence. I can’t lead a bunch of kids into peril.”

  “You won’t be leading anyone,” Cutter said. “We help you find your compañero, you help us find Strahan. We’ll call it a temporary team-up.”

  The Ranger held up his hands in surrender. “If you say so, kid.”

  “I do say so. And I ain’t no kid.”

  Doyle grinned. “Then we’ll travel together.” Standing, he gestured to the empty bowls. “Now, how about you kids clean these dishes, then get some shut-eye. I’d like to leave for Wisdom before nightfall.”

  Doyle shoved his pipe into his mouth, left his empty dish on the table, and headed upstairs.

  After the man disappeared, Nat held his hands up to the young riders. “I think we ought to reconsider. I don’t like the notion of nestling up to a stranger, no matter what he did to help us. I vote we leave while he’s asleep.”

  “I’ll be going with the Ranger,” Quinn said promptly. “No offense, but he’s my best chance of finding Auntie Ruth and getting her out.”

  “You can take the path you want, Revels. What about you, Cut?”

  Cutter ticked his fingers against his knife’s bone handle. “I say we tag along, but only for now. He could distract all the bad men while we go about our business.”

  Nat sighed. “So you vote to ride with him. What about you, sis?”

  Duck pinched her lips in thought. “He does know an awful lot, but he ain’t too quick to volunteer answers. I vote we ride but keep our eyes wide open.”

  Nat turned to Keech. “What about you, Blackwood? Do you trust him?”

  Keech gazed up at the ominous second-floor landing, where Doyle had vanished for his nap. That bleak, stony feeling returned to squeeze at his heart. “I think Doyle could be a real help finding Strahan. We’re on the right path. I feel certain about that. Pa wants us to find Bonfire Crossing, so we should do whatever best gets us there. Even if it means riding for a spell with this fella.”

  Nat waved his hands. “All right then. The posse’s spoken. We stay vigilant, but we ride with the Ranger.”

  CHAPTER 13

  SHADOW OF THE BUFFALO

  Keech dreamed he met his father—his real father, Black Wood.

  They passed through a great stone cavern together, a vast chamber filled with impossible light. On the black stone walls were thousands of primitive engravings, a millennium’s worth of ancient etchings depicting gruesome creatures and human sacrifices. As Keech approached the carvings, he realized the figures on the walls were not static; they moved, crawling over one another, seeking places to peel away, as if alive and breathing. Disturbed, Keech looked up to tell his father they had to leave.

  He couldn’t see the man’s face, only a sm
eared darkness.

  The Reverend, his father’s shadow face murmured. Rough hands seized Keech’s shoulders and yanked him toward the source of the fearsome light. A terrible heat baked his face, and the stench of death filled his nostrils. The Reverend has woken in the Palace.…

  * * *

  Keech’s eyes snapped open. He sat up, his heart pounding, and rubbed sweat off his face. Then, mostly out of habit, he clutched at the crescent charm inside his shirt.

  The young riders were still asleep by the fireplace, Nat and Quinn unleashing loud snores that could awaken Bone Ridge all over again. The fire had died down, but a couple of logs were still glowing on the hearth. Gray afternoon light continued to suffuse the common room.

  Nearby, Cutter napped in a curled-up position, clutching a flimsy yellow object to his chest. With a pang of sorrow, Keech realized it was John Wesley’s straw hat. Cutter had stuffed it into his coat before leaving Mercy Mission.

  Tiptoeing over the sleeping bodies, Keech grabbed his dry socks and his bowler hat off the mantel. The fire had dried his clothes, but he didn’t expect the dreary Kansas weather to let them stay that way. If his journey thus far had taught him anything, it was to expect to get wet.

  As he slipped back into his socks and coat and poncho, echoes of the strange dream—The Reverend has woken in the Palace—tugged at his thoughts. He pushed away the terrible images of the writhing figures on the chamber walls, but they wriggled back to the foreground, refusing to disappear.

  A small cry startled Keech. The noise had come from Duck. She appeared to be trying to awaken from her own bad dream but couldn’t. Keech crouched beside the girl. “Duck, wake up.”

  A dismal sob escaped her throat.

  Keech placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder and shook her. “Wake up. You’re dreaming.”

  Duck came awake like a young deer shot in the woods. She sat bolt upright, tears springing from her eyes, and her knuckles flew to her mouth to stifle a scream.