“No,” Port groaned, “What’s in that case yonder?”
“It’s for tinctures.”
“Good enough, hand it over,” he said, extending his broad palm.
Thomas paused.
Porter gestured with hands strong enough to break a bull’s neck.
Reluctantly handing over a bottle, Thomas said, “You know the Good Lord doesn’t want you to drink that.”
Porter uncorked the bottle, sniffed it and took a swig. “Well, has He ever tried it with raspberries?”
Thomas curled his lips at that. “After last night I imagine Brother Cook needs all the help he can get. Soon enough President Young will have to address things too.” He held up the latest issue of the Utah Magazine to emphasize his point.
Porter looked at Thomas. “Don’t know anything about that, I just need a place to sleep a couple nights. Give me four bottles.”
“But you are here because of the monster?”
“Yup, a monster, sure” said Porter between gulps.
“You don’t know much about it then do you?”
“Nope. I understand there’s been some killings. Brother Brigham asked me to come take care of it. If there was anything to it.”
“There is,” Thomas said with conviction. “We need true authority to take care of the problem. You can wait for Brother Cook to be ready to talk, but understand this, he had a hook and chain tied to buoys and roped to a huge stump beside the lake.”
“So?” said Port, quaffing another mouthful.
“This morning Brother Rich told me, he saw that stump in the lake heading north.”
Port shrugged.
“Something pulled it up the lake, against the wind, the buoys were held down underwater. This thing may be too blessed big…even for you.”
“I got my own blessings,” responded Port. “Where is Cook?”
“Fine house, above the mill, just up the hill. Talk to Brother Cook, but he’ll be no help. If I was you, I’d talk to one of the Lamanites,” he said, gesturing south.
Port’s gaze hardened at that remark; it didn’t seem that long ago he met the Shoshone on the Bear River. Images of frozen blood and thunder washed over him. “Which one?”
“You’ll want to find Ligaii-Maiitsoh. We call him Lehi; he likes that. Knows everything about the monster.”
“That’s no Shoshone name,” said Port.
Thomas shook his head, “He’s not Shoshone, they avoid him, not sure what tribe he is. But he’s been good to us. He’s nearly a convert.”
“Where can I find him?”
3.
Stepping into the bright sunlight, Port stared eastward across the vast long lake. He stretched his back, which in turn let his brace of pistols leer from his person.
A young mother and her son took one look at the long-haired gunfighter and wheeled around.
Port grinned. Watchdogs are rarely appreciated.
He went down the steps whistling an old tune, but a sixth sense that always rode shotgun with him, whispered, look around.
Three men, dogged his trail. They followed on his right with the rising sun at their backs.
“Hey, Rockwell! Need a word with you,” shouted the foremost of the three.
Porter pretended he couldn’t hear them while watching them in his peripheral vision. He crossed the muddy street in long strides, so that he was on their right, with the sun and shimmering lake at his back.
“We’re talking to you, Danite!”
Porter faced them where the alleyway between buildings flashed sunlight into their faces. He watched as townsfolk scurried off the street. All but a curious white haired old Indian, he just stared.
“Hey, Porter!” called the foremost man. “Heard, you can’t be shot or cut.”
Port spat, “You pukes need schoolin’?”
The first averted his eyes pulling his revolver saying, “Ain’t you the funny man.” A second with crooked teeth also drew a pistol, the third a shotgun. They kept their distance with guns trained on Port, who had yet to draw, but they respected the pistol handles sticking out of his coat.
“You want me to feed those to ya?” asked Port with a grin.
The three stood with guns pointed but still nervous. Crooked Teeth shook so that his pistol trembled.
“You boys think I’ve lasted this long to be gunned down by your sorry hides?”
The leader swaggered, “Maybe. You’re getting old. Why not?”
Port prodded, “So why don’t ya try already?”
Crooked teeth, whined, “Boss said we could just run him out of town.”
“Huh-uh. He ain’t gonna run. Are you Porter?”
Port shook his head.
The shot-gunner chuckled, “We got him.”
Port winked.
Crooked teeth wiped his brow with his free hand, letting his aim go far afield.
Porter lunged sideways, drawing his two Navy revolvers. Shots blazed and echoed. Bone shattered as Port’s lead was sown scarlet upon dirty white fields.
Bullets whizzed like mercurial hornets past Port’s ears, but he was untouched. He was always untouched, but he also respected how close death stood, always over his shoulder.
The three lay upon the ground, alive but wounded, mewling.
“Quit you’re caterwauling,” Port ordered. He nudged their shattered elbows and forearms with his boot. “You pukes is lucky, I was aiming lower.” Glancing about for onlookers, “Where is the Marshall?”
The only soul on the street was the old Indian.
“Chief, I need the Marshall or deputy, where’re they?”
The Indian just stared.
The lead gunman stopped crying long enough to ask, “Arrrgh. Why don’t ya just kill us?”
Grinding his boot heel into the bleeding arm, Port demanded, “Why’d you come gunning for me? Who put you up to it? How’d you know I’d be here?”
The man screamed as Port’s heel pressed. The old Indian still watched impassive as ever.
“Well?”
A new voice called out, “Rockwell! You can’t do that, it isn’t legal.” A smartly dressed man approached, followed by two deputies.
“You the sheriff?” Port extended a handshake.
“I am.” The man declined to shake, instead pointing at the three wounded men. “I respect your reputation, but you cannot torture these men.”
The deputies picked up the wounded and led them down the road.
Grimacing, Port said, “I suppose it’s right for them to threaten me on the street?”
“Of course not, but times have changed. You’re not the judge, jury and executioner. Not anymore,” said the sheriff.
“I never was,” answered Port.
The sheriff gave a sarcastic half-grin. “I could run you in for this.”
Port glared.
“But I won’t, I’ll ask that you leave your guns with me while you’re in town.”
“Ha! No.”
Paling, the sheriff blustered, “Fine, but any more trouble and you’ll be locked up.”
“Someone put them up to this, I’ve a right to find out who.”
“We’ll find out. When it goes before Judge Jenson, next week. They may counter-charge you, so if there were any witnesses, you may need their testimony.”
“Got one saw the whole thing.” Port looked for the Indian, but the old man had disappeared on the wide open street. “He was just here.”
“I didn’t see anyone when I walked up. This may turn into a case of your word against theirs,” said the sheriff. “Maybe you better leave town before any of that happens, let Brigham protect you again.”
Cocking an eyebrow, the old gunfighter spat on the sheriff’s polished boots and walked away.
4.
Port rode to the house just up the hill. A black dog lounging on the porch watched him dismount. At the door it licked Port’s hand.
“Hey, boy, what’s your name,” asked Port kneeling. He scratched its exposed neck before knocking.
/>
A short blonde woman opened. “I’m so glad you’re here. Come in,” she said, beaming. “Ahab, stay outside.”
Removing his hat, Port asked, “Really, ma’am?”
“Of course. I recognize you, Brother Rockwell. I’m Amanda Cook.”
Realization dawned across his face. “Wheat! You’re, Dave Savage’s papoose, ain’t ya?” Port said with a laugh.
“Mary, see that the eggs are collected.” Ushering her daughter out to the hen house, Amanda smiled. “No one has called me my father’s papoose in years. Phineas is going to be so glad to see you and get your help.”
“My help, ma’am?”
She turned her head, “With the monster,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “That is why you’re here isn’t it?”
“I reckon so,” said Port. “But everyone seems to know a trifle more than I do.”
Amanda ushered Port into a side room where Phineas lay in bed. She tossed a chunk of kindling into the fire.
Heat made Port uncomfortable. He longed for a cool breeze.
“Sorry if I don’t get up,” sniffed Phineas, “but I got a terrible chill last night.”
“What happened? Heard you fell into the lake because of a monster,” said Port.
“I didn’t fall, was pulled in. Maybe twenty, thirty feet before I jumped off the stump and made it to shore. I was afraid the monster would get me,” added Phineas.
“You think so?”
“Yeah, folks have been seeing the monster for a spell. Lately it’s been killing livestock and Indians. Figured if we could capture it, I’d solve some of our local problems and make some money to boot.” Phineas paused to blow his nose.
“It’s been killing then?”
Phineas looked surprised. “Yeah Porter, I thought that was why you were here. We all heard you were coming. I assumed Brother Brigham was sending you to help us deal. Have you throw down with it!”
Port scratched his beard. “Who told you?”
“That apostate writer Stenhouse. Been shooting his mouth off about how President Young is sending you, his avenging angel, up here to save face. Stenhouse has been up here the last few weeks writing up scandalous material for Godbe’s rag. Keeps saying you’ll fail, since Joseph’s blessing for you weren’t against tooth and claw. You read any of that trash?”
“Nope.”
“You know how the Godbeites are don’t you? The Utah Magazine?”
“Nope. Don’t read much.”
Phineas wrinkled his brow and Amanda restrained a giggle. “Well, they keep pushing for mining rights, trade with gentiles and abandoning sacred law. They’re upset with Church doctrine and are trying to change things. Think because they control the paper and wealth they have a right, I suppose. Things could get bad if they convince the government to seize church property. We're at a crossroads.”
Amanda broke in, “They believe they can steady the ark and dictate the Lord’s commandments, telling the Prophet he is the one out of order. They are Spiritualists, communicating with either ghosts or charlatans through séances.”
Phineas nodded, “Personally, I think it’s all their high falutin’ British sensibilities, but I doubt any of that has to do with the monster itself.”
Porter grinned. “Go on.”
“This monster has been costing us livestock and even been killing folk on the south end. And Stenhouse is writing up articles, playing both sides, pressing for government regulation while also pleading sympathy from the Saints by saying if Brigham can’t control a thing of the devil, how can he control Deseret.”
“Brother Brigham,” Amanda corrected.
“That’s what I said. Now Stenhouse writes if Brother Brigham can’t control Deseret, if he’s not in touch with the Spirit, how can he lead the Church and be right about everything else,” said Phineas. “Monsters should be easy, he says.”
“His fault?” Port wrinkled his brow in disbelief.
Phineas shook his head. “It’s not. It’s ammunition, a distraction for something else. I don’t know what yet. But they’re sowing seeds of doubt and discontent, while something is murdering folks and livestock.”
“Seems convenient,” said Port.
Amanda nodded, “That’s what I said.”
Phineas pointed at the lake, “There is a connection somewhere, but one thing at a time. I already heard this morning from Brother Rich, that bodies were found in the Shoshoni area and I heard screams and saw weird fireballs last night. The monster got ’em.”
“I’ll go look around,” said Port. “Is there anyone trustworthy who speaks Shoshoni to go along with me? I heard about some old Indian named Lehi?”
Amanda shook her head. “You don't need him. I can go with you and translate. Soon as Sister Ann-Eliza arrives to look after Phineas.”
Port raised his eyebrows and looked to Phineas. “This could be ugly,” said Port. “I’ve already got somebody gunning for me.”
Looking up at the old gunfighter, Amanda replied, “You need someone trustworthy to go along with you. I can help get to the bottom of this better than anyone, and take a crack shot at the monster too, if need be.”
“Not a monster I’m worried about.”
Amanda answered. “Have no doubts Brother Rockwell, we do seek a monster. I’ve seen the slaughtered cattle and sheep. I don’t think my Phineas realizes how lucky he is to still be alive.”
Port raised his hands, “All right, little sister, we’ll head out, soon as the relief arrives. Phineas, why didn’t your fishing tackle work?”
Phineas sighed, “It did work. I had stout chains and rope, but my anchor was too weak. Monster tore the stump out. If you find it, I need that rope back, it was Brigham’s.”
“Brother Brigham’s,” said Amanda.
“That’s what I said. The point is, Porter, this thing is big. I’m not sure anymore what it’ll take to rein the beast in.”
Port tipped his hat and said, “I’ll keep an eye out.”
5.
A skin-drum throbbed as Port and Amanda rode into the Shoshoni camp.
Port asked, “Why the drums?”
Amanda said, “They’re letting everyone know we are here. Everyone is skittish after the Bear River massacre. The monster only increases the tension.”
“I reckon so.”
Crowds of people gathered, faces carved with somber expressions, hard and unfriendly. A tall, young man approached Amanda and greeted her in silence. She turned to Porter saying, “This is Many-Buffalo, he is Chief of this clan, Chief Sagwitch’s son.” She then told Many-Buffalo of Porter.
The Chief glared at Porter and revealed a scar on his breast.
Port intervened, “It doesn’t have to be like this, we don’t have to be friends, I just want to know about the trouble.”
Many-Buffalo, gestured at his tribe and pointed at Porter.
“I’ll get to that, but they aren’t in a friendly mood,” she said. “He says you were there, why should he speak to you?”
Rubbing a hand over his face, Port said, “I was there, but I’ve never killed an innocent man, tell him that.”
“I will in not so many words,” said Amanda. She translated to Many-Buffalo and pointed at the lake.
The talk from several of the tribe grew excited pointing at the lake, several made a ward against evil, but Many-Buffalo looked at the sky. He spoke quickly back and forth with Amanda, who pleaded Port’s case.
Amanda finally revealed, “He wants proof that you are as good a man as I say you are, before he will discuss the monsters with you.”
“Monsters? There’s more than one?”
“First things first,” said Amanda. “He wants proof.”
“Like what?” asked Port, extending his hand to shake.
Many-Buffalo hesitated, and extended his hand to Port’s, but with only two fingers out, the rest clenched back.
Port questioned, “What’s that?”
“He doesn’t trust you.”
“Wheat! I knew that. Wh
at do I need to do to get him to talk?”
A mountain of a man stepped forward, creating a hush among the tribe. Thick and strong, he looked down on Porter scrutinizing him. “You are Mormonee?” he asked, bringing his bare chest to Port’s nose.
Amanda said, “This is Big Bear.”
“Yeah, I’m Mormonee,” answered Port. “He is probably the second biggest Indian I've ever seen.”
“Do you wear the sacred robes?” asked the grinning giant.
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
Port opened his shirt revealing the garments. “Satisfied?”
“The woman is Mormonee too?”
“Yes.”
“She will show me?” He smirked.
Port shoved Big Bear, “That’s enough. Can we talk or not, Many-Buffalo? Or do I have to teach some manners to your boy?”
Amanda shook her head.
Big Bear knocked Port’s hat off.
“Tell him! I’m here to take care of things and if they don’t help me, I can’t help them!” shouted Port. “But I’m not here to play games.”
Many-Buffalo stood impassive, then nodded to Big Bear.
The giant lunged, grasping Port in a bear hug, trapping his arms and lifting him off the ground. The gathering laughed as Many-Buffalo shouted in triumph.
Struggling to breath, let alone move, Port asked, “What’d he say?”
“He said, if you are the best the Brigham can offer, he doesn’t need help,” cried Amanda over the din.
Big Bear’s laughter boomed into Port’s face.
“Wheat! They ain’t seen nothing yet.”
Big Bear’s hug cracked Port’s back and grew tighter, forcing air from his lungs and still the big man laughed.
Looking Big Bear square in the eye, Port winked and slammed his thick forehead into Big Bear’s nose repeatedly. The huge man blinded and bloodied, dropped Port, who landed on his feet. Porter slammed Big Bear an uppercut to the chin, dropping the man mountain. Rounding on Many-Buffalo, Port snarled, “Was he the best you got?”
Amanda translated.
Many-Buffalo frowned, but motioned for Port and Amanda to follow.
Amanda picked up Port’s hat, and handed it to him saying, “You know, might doesn’t always make right.”
Cold Slither: and other horrors of the weird west (Dark Trails Saga) Page 12
