“Didn’t I just prove that?”
6.
Though it was still afternoon on a warm day, Many-Buffalo kindled the fire inside his tepee. He took a powder and scattered about the perimeter of his dwelling, paying specific attention to the door-flap.
Sitting on buffalo skins, Port and Amanda waited, while Many-Buffalo sang a song of blessing and protection. Taking a seat opposite them, Many-Buffalo spoke quick, harsh-sounding words, staring deep at Port.
Amanda translated, “He said . . . to speak of such things as we ask . . . he must bless and purify his tepee. He will do it again . . . after we’ve gone. They’ve had problems . . . but he will not ask for help . . . since he was already denied.”
“Tell him this. A proud man won’t ask, but a proud man can answer. Tell him, I’m asking to know about these things, so I can help his people.”
Many-Buffalo looked at Port as Amanda spoke. He nodded and went into a lengthy round of back and forth with Amanda, as she gave Port snippets.
“He says the lake monster . . . haunted the waters in the time of his ancestors. It has slept for many moons . . . and only awoke when . . . Mormons came. It eats sheep and cattle . . . perhaps even men . . . but it is not to be confused . . . with other curses that have befallen his people. Murders have come . . . the last few weeks . . . only. Sorcery has tainted the people. They fear the witch and skin-walker . . . more than they do . . . the lake monster. The reason . . . they have not moved yet . . . because these evil things follow them.”
“What’s that?”
Amanda shook her head, “I’m not sure but it has all of them afraid. He is reluctant to tell me more . . . because it invites . . . the evil thing into his tepee. They hoped Brother Brigham could help . . . but the . . . drawing man . . . told them Brigham . . . would not help.”
“What’s a drawing man?”
Amanda shrugged. “There is no word for it, I translated as best I could.”
“What can he say about the lake monster? How big is it? Is there a way to kill it?”
She asked Many-Buffalo and he pondered a moment, before going into a number of hand gestures and excited speaking with a final disgusted look before throwing holy powder into the fire, that made it blaze brilliantly.
“He says they are related . . . that Mormons . . . brought the curse here . . . the monsters are linked to each other . . . yours and ours,” said Amanda. “I’m not sure what yours and ours mean.”
Port rubbed smoke from his eyes, “I thought we would get some answers here.”
“I’m sorry. They’re scared. This has touched them deeply,” she said.
Many-Buffalo watched them and spoke again.
“He says their burial grounds . . . have been violated. Something steals from the dead. As for your questions . . . the lake monster . . . is long as four wagons . . . and its skin cannot be wounded . . . by a gun or knife.”
“Kinda like me,” said Port.
“He says . . . works of darkness . . . fill this land. We walk…the path of the . . . skin-walker. May the Great Spirit…protect us . . . on our quest. He will say no more.”
Murmuring the drums outside beat again.
Amanda gasped, “Someone is here.”
7.
A man on a rickety wagon pulled into the Shoshoni camp. Bearded and slight, he glowered at Port and Amanda as they exited Many-Buffalo’s tepee.
“What’s the matter Stenhouse? Upset I wasn’t chased outta town by your blacklegs?” called Port, chuckling.
Stenhouse dropped off the wagon, tipped his hat to Amanda, “Mrs. Cook,” and extended a hand to Port. “My apologies, the uneducated rascal’s misunderstood my direction and inclination. I have not levied them out of jail and I directed the sheriff to let the lot of them stay a fortnight therein.”
Port declined the handshake, as he tried not to smirk at Stenhouse’s English pretentious accent.
Stenhouse continued, “Forgive my temper, I merely wished to meet with Chief Sagwitch’s son myself, and worried that he already had guests, you see.”
“Yeah, ‘I see’,” mocked Port, “you’re upset we beat you here before you could spread more lies. How’d you know I was coming up to Bear Lake before I did?”
“Nothing of the sort, I came to speak with the Chief much the same as I imagine you did, as for knowing you would be here…whom else would Brigham send? Understanding his mentality, as I do, it was elementary, my dear Danite.”
Port sniffed and spit.
“Regardless of what you may think of me, Porter, I am not the enemy. We may disagree fundamentally on authority, but our core is the same. The New Movement and I seek truth the same as you.”
Amanda countered, “What was it Fanny wrote? To doubt one doctrine was to doubt all? Our core is not the same. You abandoned yours.”
“Madam, I must protest.”
But Amanda wasn’t even close to being done, she reared up in the Englishman’s face. Port stood back and smiled, this was gonna be good.
“You think we haven’t all had hardships? You think we haven’t all questioned the tests we have in life? Let me tell you something. You’ll be caught in your own traps.”
Stenhouse looked to Port for assistance from the feisty young woman, but the old gunfighter raised his hands, cocked his head and smirked.
“Don’t you and the other Godbeites fool yourselves. This life isn’t where you will be successful. It’s in the eternities. Just because Brother Brigham might have given you some bad business advice or won’t let you mine our mountains to ruin, doesn’t mean you can become a law unto yourselves. If you lost faith in God, it’s because you put your faith in the arm of flesh!” shouted Amanda. “Your lies and schemes will snap back upon you.”
With that, she mounted her horse and cantered off.
Visibly disturbed at her words, Stenhouse slunk away.
Port followed after Amanda.
Big Bear, still cradling his broken nose, glared at Port.
Tipping his hat to the big man, Port gave his horse heels to catch up to Amanda.
She turned in the saddle, “I’m sorry about that, but I’m so tired of his lies.”
“No problem, little sister.”
“I did give him what-for, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did,” Port laughed, deep and loud.
8.
Dusk rode in with Port, laying red like a mantle across the valley. With no clouds, it would be a cold night.
In the Cook home, Phineas gave his wife a warm hug before grilling Port. “So what’d you find out?”
“Whole lot of nothing. Many-Buffalo didn’t have anything I can use and wouldn’t tell us much of what’s happened to his tribe.”
Mary, the Cook’s young daughter, offered Port a glass of water and hugged her mother’s skirt.
“They’re scared,” said Amanda. “Something is happening. They feel powerless. And Stenhouse went out there after us.”
“Really? What’d he want?” asked Phineas.
Port gulped down the glass of water and made a face, “Said he wanted to talk to Many-Buffalo. Don’t know what for. Amanda gave him a good tongue lashing though.”
Amanda blushed, “I did, I suppose.” Phineas’s beamed.
Port took off his hat and slumped into a chair. “Now, I need to find out why Stenhouse tried to get me outta town.”
“He’s afraid of you!”
“Well, he should’ve known his thugs couldn’t do it. But why would he wanna talk to the Shoshoni? Can’t imagine him getting any farther than I did.”
“Nothing to do then but get some rest for the morrow,” said Phineas. “Way past your bedtime, Mary.”
“Goodnight, Papa,” said Mary, hurrying to bed.
9.
The little girl rushed up the steps to the loft. The moon shone in her window like a finger of ice. Nestling in the covers, she said her personal prayers, closing her eyes as the lamp downstairs dimmed. She slept restless, dreaming of drowning.
From behind the closest tree, a taloned hand gripped bark and then a white face leered. It was wolf-like, with red eyes glowing like embers which burrowed into Mary’s.
Fear petrified her, she couldn’t look away from the thing loping closer. So frightened she couldn’t speak, only shake. Did the monster smile at that? The hideous wolf-man looked from her to the front door.
It would come inside.
She shivered, too terrified to warn her parents. She heard father downstairs, talking with the strange long-haired man. Her lips trembled but no sound came.
The thing stood directly below her window. It seemed capable of leaping up and through the glass. Those eyes so blood-red and evil. She couldn’t look away, what horrors did it have planned for her? Her parents? Her sleeping siblings? It would come inside and devour them.
The monster, with white talons smeared scarlet, motioned for her to come.
Compelled beyond fear and reason, Mary released the latch on the window.
Saliva dripped as its tongue lolled.
Mary pushed the window open.
The monster beckoned her to jump, its eyes hypnotizing.
Too afraid to move, to scream or even look away, Mary did the only thing left her, she cried a prayer deep inside for deliverance.
The wolf-thing beckoned for her to jump into its waiting arms.
Tears streaming, Mary lifted herself to the sill and precariously balanced, halfway in and out.
Licking its lips, it beckoned again as the moon illuminated its awful red matted fur.
Was there no relief? Did those who gave themselves to monsters deserve heaven?
Ahab the dog, bawled out loud in staccato.
The spell broken, Mary snapped back to self-control and dropped to the floor avoiding any possible eye contact. She heard Father and the long-haired stranger startle, each muttering as they stirred. The familiar cocking of guns told her they were prepared.
The wolf-thing snarled at Ahab, who cowered beneath the porch.
Praising the Lord for delivering her family from the evil of this thing Mary shut the window latch.
Raging, the beast summoned a ball of green fire in its left hand and cast it through her window. Flames erupted all about the bedroom as Mary screamed.
10.
“What the devil was that horrible sound?” shouted Port, drawing his pistols. He threw back the front door and looked into the gloom.
Nothing.
Ghostly green-orange firelight blazed upstairs, licking the windowsill and rafters.
Phineas cried, “Porter, help! The house is on fire!”
Somewhere a child screamed an unholy fear.
Port replaced his pistols and stepped back through the doorway only to be grasped by the back of his coat and flung backward off the porch.
Stars reeled overhead as a black wind blew.
The breath knocked from his lungs, senses fled and only the fire above was visible. He struggled to sit up. Reaching for his pistols, his hands found empty holsters.
Forcibly lifted, someone slammed him to the ground. The most disturbing part to the Danite was the low rumbling chuckle the attacker let out. He couldn't see his enemy, but he heard him all right.
Port kicked and connected to thick shin bone.
The midnight assailant didn't chuckle anymore.
Rolling to his feet, Port snatched his Bowie, ready for anything.
As the enemy grabbed him again, Port’s blade slashed across its chest. Blood and tufts of a white fur spiraled from the wound. Port trusted his honed senses to guide his hand. Listening intently, to his right a twig snapped. He barreled toward the sound, knife extended.
Port felt steel bite flesh, ripping the blade across what he hoped were vitals.
Howling in pain, an inhumanly strong hand took Port’s shoulder, tearing cloth, and threw him to the earth.
Roaring, “Wheat in the mill!” Port launched up, renewed to fight his foe with blood-maddening vigor. He spun about, waving the Bowie, expecting another attack.
None came.
Dark blood along with flecks of white fur trailed into the gulf of night. Port raced back to the house to fight the fire.
Inside Phineas and Amanda held their daughter. The fire was out. Mary was shivering, wiping the last of her tears away. “You did it.”
“I’ve never seen the like,” gasped Phineas. “The room blazed like a furnace. You must have slain the thing because the witch-fire up and disappeared. Thank you.”
“Yes, thank you,” repeated Amanda, her own tears falling. “It’s over.”
Shaking his head, Port growled, “No, ’tain’t. I didn’t kill it.”
11.
A long night brought morning headaches and breakfast questions.
“So what do you reckon it was?” asked Phineas.
Port chewed his mouthful, saying, “Probably that Shoshoni giant Big Bear. From what Mary said, sounds about the same size. Know I cut him bad, so he’s probably gonna hole up in a sweat lodge for a while.”
“What about the witch-fire?”
Stabbing another piece of venison, Port answered, “I’ve seen enough strange things in my time, to say anything is possible. Tricks is key to the sorcerer type. Probably a wolf-skin mask and bear-paw war-club.”
“That was no mask,” broke in Mary. “That was a monster.”
Shaking her head, Amanda said, “That wasn’t natural.”
“Darkness can play tricks on you.”
The little girl shook her head, “No, this was real bad. That thing is of the devil.”
“Men can be monsters too,” said Port, finishing his last bite. “Much obliged Brother Cook, Sister Cook.” He looked to Mary and rubbed his broad hand over her head. “I’m gonna get to the bottom this, an’ that’s a promise.”
Amanda threw down her dishrag, “And just what are you planning to do? Sounds like you’re in denial of monsters.”
Grinning, Port said, “No need to worry, ma’am. I think Stenhouse, the Godbeites and some of the Shoshoni are in cahoots. I need a few more answers and I’ll get ’em.”
Blocking the door, Amanda said, “None of that explains the lake monster, what we saw last night was something different, probably the same thing that has the Shoshoni frightened. There has to be more to this than Stenhouse and a few bribed Indians.”
“I’m sure there is, but I can’t take care of it, jawing ’bout it.”
Amanda looked to Phineas, who nodded. “Then I’m coming with you. You need someone’s help to translate and watch your back,” she said.
Port shook his head, like a black-maned lion. “No, ma’am. I got an instinct about a few things I’d best check out on my own.” Before she could protest, he added. “And I won’t need a translator this time. Thanks for breakfast. Feel better Phineas.” Port tipped his hat, adjusted his gun belt and went out into the cool morning.
As he made for the Cooks’ stable, a hint of white moving in the trees caught his eye. It swayed with the light breeze at eye level. Port drew his trusty Navy revolver and approached with grim determination.
It looked like a tangled bunch of pale sticks strung in the pines facing the Cook homestead, but closer inspection revealed it was a curious cobble of interlaced bones, calico twine and a couple of dark feathers, about the size of his hand. It was some type of Indian fetish or charm. Then again it looked more like something a white man would make rather than a real Indian charm. The bones looked like chicken as opposed to eagle or crow. That and it smelt of coffee, not the succulent flowers of the field.
Port tore it down and put it in his pocket. He considered telling the Cook's what he found but decided against it, they were spooked enough.
12.
In town, a heated commotion ca
rried over the streets. Men shouted at one another and Port could feel the contentious spirit waxing. There appeared to be two opposing camps, one backed by Stenhouse, the sheriff, and their full gang of thugs; the other fronted by tall Joseph Rich, the local newspaperman, who was supported by a good number of townsfolk.
Port couldn’t tell what started the argument.
Rich’s strong baritone proclaimed, “I lost a horse to the monster. But that doesn’t mean it needs to be destroyed!”
Stenhouse countered, “You’re the beast’s greatest advocate. It clears you of the secret gambling debts, you lost your mount to. It grants sensationalism and lurid stories for your amateur journalism, but you seem to forget the spiritual implications.”
Men tried to shout him down, including Rich for the gambling crack, but Stenhouse persisted. “A duel is coming! The hour of struggle is at hand. If infallible Brigham,” he said sarcastically, “can’t cast out the devil, what good is he?”
A man swung at Stenhouse but was instead hit first across the mouth by one of the deputies.
Stenhouse continued, “If a man is to lead this people he has to be open to new revelation. We can change what doesn’t belong. We can prosper with what the Lord grants us here in these mountains, there is gold and silver aplenty!”
Stenhouse had Port’s full attention.
“My friends, Brigham is a good man but he has lost his way, don’t you lose it alongside him, a new prophet will rise!”
“Yeah? Who?” squawked a man between Stenhouse and Rich.
“Why the very blood of the great prophet himself, Joseph the third.”
A number of boos and catcalls came with the mention of Joseph Smith’s eldest son. Port just shook his head.
“What about the monster?” shouted a man in the crowd.
Another cried, “It took my sheep.”
“What can be done about it? It killed Big Bear and a half dozen braves last night.”
Port’s eyes grew. He struggled through the throng to get to the man who mentioned Big Bear.
The rebuttal from Rich was lost to Port’s ears as he pushed and grabbed the man’s shoulder.
Cold Slither: and other horrors of the weird west (Dark Trails Saga) Page 13
