by Faith Hunter
“What if it’s other?” Jacob asked.
“European?”
“Farther than that.”
Mitch shrugged. “Maybe. It’s happened before. Those orbs over New Pittsburgh. Remember?”
Jacob remembered. The Department of Supernatural Investigation was not limited to problems with rogue magic. Sometimes, the threats came from far away—not just beyond the United States, but beyond Earth. “Yeah, I thought of that. But let’s start with the simplest explanation. And that would be someone with enough resources to outfit an experimental airship with off-the-record bells and whistles. That’s scary enough, considering the short list of who might be behind a project like that.”
Mitch held out the button to Jacob. “What do you make of this?”
Jacob frowned as he examined the stamped brass. “Military issue. One of our folks. Doesn’t look like it’s been out in the elements too long.”
Mitch nodded. “Might be a clue to confirm our hole-digger. Now let’s see—treasure hunter, rogue agent, outlaw—sure sounds like someone we know.”
Jacob swore. “Yeah, the Prospector. I was hoping it wasn’t.”
“Well, it all fits. I thought they’d finally locked him up in Fort Leavenworth,” Mitch replied.
“Maybe he got out for good behavior. Or escaped. Or paid someone off,” Jacob said.
“Think he had anything to do with Bly being here—or his sudden departure?” Mitch’s tone made his own opinion clear.
“I think it’s very possible. Even likely.”
Mitch and Jacob were both on the lookout for danger as they climbed the sloping sides of the basin. Nothing but cactus and rock formations met their gaze as they peered over the rim before scrambling out.
“I set the Maxwell box to its lowest setting,” Mitch said, glancing at the device. “Farber assured me that would just monitor whether ghosts were present, but not call them or drive them away.”
“And?”
Mitch made a face as he stared at the readings. “There’s a lot of activity around the basin. And some weird readings I can’t explain.”
Mitch gave the Maxwell box to Jacob and took the mineral detector for himself, hefting the duffel bag with their extra weapons over his shoulder. Then they led their horses by the reins over to the railway tracks.
The stretch of railroad tracks ran as far as the eye could see. They agreed to walk for two miles in either direction of the track closest to the crater, then switch sides. Out of the corner of his eye, Jacob glimpsed movement, but when he turned to look, no one was there. On the other hand, my horse is skittish as a colt, Jacob thought. People say horses can see ghosts. So maybe I’m not crazy. I’m certain we’re not alone, and I’m positive we’re being watched.
“I’m getting some strange readings,” Jacob said.
“Me, too,” Mitch agreed.
The toe of Jacob’s boot caught an edge of something metallic. “I’ve got something!”
“What did you find?”
Jacob bent down, kicking at the dirt for a better look. “A bit of silvery metal—not the kind of thing I’d expect from the Atcheson-Topeka.”
“Throw it in the bag,” Mitch said. “We’ll sort it out later.”
“And you?’
“Lots of rocks,” Mitch replied. “Bits of something my detector recognizes as metallic, but can’t identify the composition. We may have to send them to the lab at HQ to get an analysis.”
“We can send a telegraph from Ruin Creek,” Jacob said.
“Yeah,” Mitch replied. “I think that would be a good idea. Something about this whole mission gives me the creeps.”
Jacob was glad Mitch admitted being uneasy. He had misgivings since they had been dispatched. The missing folks of Ruin Creek and the mysterious Navajo shaman only deepened his concerns.
“Now that’s interesting,” Jacob said, bending down for a better look. A smooth, oval-shaped metallic object caught the light. It was no bigger than his palm, and definitely not natural.
“What?”
Jacob let his hand hover over the object and felt a prickle of power. “I’ll throw it in the bag,” Jacob said. “You find anything?”
“Nothing bigger than a quarter,” Mitch replied. “Makes me think our Navajo friend was right, but whatever it was didn’t just crash—it exploded.”
“Makes you wonder what they had onboard,” Jacob said.
They heard the unmistakable crack of a rifle shot, and the bullet barely missed Jacob’s shoulder. His horse shied. Mitch had his own rifle up and sighted before Jacob could calm his frightened horse, and returned fire, though there was no one in sight.
“Get to cover!” Mitch snapped, and Jacob pulled his mount into the only shelter close at hand, the shadow of three large saguaro cactus. Mitch swung partway up to the saddle, rifle at the ready, as he rode for the scant protection of a rock pile left behind by the railroad construction.
A second shot kicked up dirt just behind Mitch’s horse. Jacob returned fire. He could not spot the sniper, but the only likely cover was another pile of dirt from the construction efforts, far enough away to make even a sharpshooter’s aim iffy.
“Look!” Jacob called to Mitch, pointing toward a rising dust cloud behind a rapidly retreating man on horseback. “Do you think we can catch him?”
Mitch shook his head. “Too much of a chance he’s leading us into an ambush. He’ll be back.”
“It’s not like Kasby to miss,” Jacob observed. Mitch was a sharpshooter, and long ago, Kasby had been part of Mitch’s rifle unit. A lot of bad blood separated then from now.
“He missed on purpose,” Mitch replied, anger clear in his voice. “He’s warning us away from ‘his’ find. To hell with that.”
~*~
All of their hot, dry hours of work led to a bucketful of bits of odd metal, fused rock, and shiny objects. All the while, Jacob could not shake the feeling that they were being observed.
Movement off to one side caught Mitch’s attention. “What was that?”
“I don’t know,” Jacob said warily. “Whatever it is, I don’t like it.”
Both Jacob and Mitch pulled their guns. This time Jacob caught movement out of the corner of his eye, something cutting them off on the right. “Let’s get back to town,” he murmured.
“Sounds good to me,” Mitch agreed.
A strange, lonesome cry broke the desert silence. Both their mounts spooked at once, whinnying and prancing nervously. When Mitch and Jacob looked up again, a hunched, snaggle-toothed creature with red eyes and sharp fangs blocked the roadway.
“That’s a skinwalker,” Jacob said quietly. “When it’s not wearing a borrowed skin. Saw a drawing in an old book. We’re in trouble.”
“Get out of the way,” Mitch said, drawing his Peacemaker. “We mean you no harm.”
The creature glared at him, a crafty, hungry look. It did not move to let them past.
“Stand aside,” Jacob said, bringing up his revolver where he was sure the creature could see it.
In response, the creature snarled and lunged straight at them.
Jake and Mitch reined their horses in hard to keep them from bolting. Mitch fired a shot, but the bullet passed right through the skinwalker without harm.
“It’s a ghost!” Mitch shouted.
“Yeah, but it’s coming right at us!” They took off at a gallop. The ghost followed, snapping at their mounts.
“I have the feeling we’re being herded,” Mitch called over his shoulder, as he and Jacob tried to outrun the creature. Every time they tried to get back on the road, the ghost snapped and dove at them, driving them around the rim of the crater.
“Yeah. Me too,” Jacob admitted. “The question is—why?”
By this time, they were on the opposite side of the huge depression from where they had entered. The ghost hunkered down just far enough away to keep the horses from bolting. Construction crews had dumped dirt and debris on this side of the basin, and windblown mounds
stretched for a quarter mile.
Mitch swung down from his horse. “Maybe we’re supposed to find something here Maybe that’s the point.”
“Maybe that shadow has friends, and they’re going to eat us,” Jacob replied. “Maybe that’s the point.” They were quiet for a few moments, keeping a careful eye on the skinwalker as they looked for debris.
“I think Sani knows more than he’s saying.”
“Yeah,” Jacob said bending down to examine something that was half buried in the sandy soil. “I think you’re right.”
Mitch picked up on the change of tone. “What did you find?”
“Not sure,” Jacob replied. “But it might be what Bly and Kasby were looking for.”
~*~
By the time they returned to Ruin Creek, the moon had risen. The skinwalker shadowed them back to town but made no further move to attack.
They headed into the rooming house. Lanterns burned in the windows, but the kitchen was quiet. Dried sausage, cheese, dried fruit, and hard bread were in the cupboard just like Sani said, as was the whiskey. Jacob took a bucket and went out to the well, returning with fresh drinking water.
“I think it’s time we got some back-up,” Mitch said. “Let’s get a telegram off to Agent Kennedy. I want to make sure she’s going to have an airship out here to pick us up, and if she’s got any intelligence on weird airship sightings, now’s the time to sing out about it.”
Jacob gave a curt nod. “Agreed. Right after we eat.”
With a skinwalker and a hostile sharpshooter on the loose, Mitch and Jacob went together to send the telegram. Mitch took the duffel bag of weapons and the three most valuable items they had found at the crater with them, in case Kasby had tracked them to the rooming house.
Lights glowed in the windows of the houses, saloons, and brothels. Faint strains of music carried on the night air, and shadows moved behind the curtains.
“I thought Sani said everyone else was gone,” Jacob said nervously. “Are you sure the Maxwell box is off?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Mitch replied. “But I’m starting to wonder just what kind of trouble Bly’s gotten us into.”
“There’s the railroad station, where the telegraph office should be,” Jacob said, with a nod toward the small shed. Dust covered everything in the cramped office. Rumpled, yellowed papers lay scattered across a hard-used desk. Jacob rustled through the papers while Mitch stood guard. “Can’t find anything dated more recently than six months ago,” Jacob said. He reached for the telegraph key and began to tap out the Department security code. “Damn.”
“What?”
“Telegraph isn’t working,” Jacob said, adding a few choice curse words in his native Croatian for emphasis.
Mitch kept his gun at the ready as he craned for a look out the window. “Well, that would explain why,” he said, pointing. Jacob peered over his shoulder. The nearest telegraph pole was down, and it had pulled the wires right out of the wall of the station when it fell.
“Tomorrow, we’ll nail down the truth from that shaman,” Mitch said. “Let’s get back to the rooming house. I don’t know what’s going on, but I definitely don’t like it.”
Both of them had their revolvers in hand as they walked back toward town. Their boot steps echoed on the plank sidewalks. Music still came from the saloons and bordellos, and they could see the silhouettes of townsfolk going about their evening routine behind the thin curtains.
The sound of a raucous player piano grew louder as they approached the Brass Pounder saloon, along with a woman’s laughter and the muted rumble of men’s voices. Mitch pushed open the door into the tavern and found a darkened, abandoned shell.
“Nobody’s here,” Jacob said.
Mitch glanced down at the Maxwell box. “Oh, they’re here. The meter on the box is jumping like catfish on a hot summer day. Sani told us the truth, at least about the dead being restless.” He looked up at the dirty mirror behind the dusty, ornate bar. “Isn’t that right?”
The mirror cracked loudly enough that for a second, Jacob mistook it for a gunshot, fracturing from the center out, showing the ruined bar like a crazy carnival mirror. Glassware hurled itself off of the shelves, sending a spray of shards into the room. Jacob dug into the duffle and pulled out a strange long gun, like a shotgun wound with wires and tubes. He kept his revolver in one hand and the newfangled weapon in the other, as Mitch and he began to back toward the doorway, one of them facing in each direction.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs from the second floor. The piano music suddenly started up again, though the old upright along one wall was as swaybacked as a knacker’s mare. A chair tipped over, as if its occupant stood suddenly, but the Brass Pounder’s patrons were not visible to anyone but the Maxwell box.
Someone shoved Jacob, hard enough to make him take a step back. It was a move he would have expected from a belligerent drunk looking to start a fight. Out of nowhere, a tattered playing card wafted down in front of Mitch and landed at his feet.
“All bets are off,” Mitch muttered. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Back on the sidewalk, some of the lights had gone out. The Brass Pounder’s competition remained lit up, as did the brothels, and as soon as Mitch and Jacob started to walk away, the sound of distant music filled the night air once more.
Unsure who was watching them, Mitch and Jacob stayed to the shadows, moving with prudent speed toward the rooming house. As they passed the Rusty Spike, Jacob peered in through the doorway. What had appeared to be a busy tavern seconds before was as empty as the Brass Pounder.
“Hey!” Mitch shouted at a woman who emerged from a doorway up ahead of them. In the moonlight, Jacob could just make out the name over the door as The Parlor, and he could guess its type of business. He and Mitch ran to catch up with the woman.
“Miss! I’d like a word with you!” Mitch called. Just as they closed the distance, the woman turned. Her mouth moved but no sound followed. It couldn’t have, not with the ear-to-ear slice across her throat.
The woman’s figure winked out.
A low growl sounded behind them. Mitch and Jacob wheeled to see a huge, misshapen black dog with glowing red eyes standing in the middle of the street. Head down and hackles raised, it drew back its lips to expose sharp, white teeth. This time, the skinwalker was no ghost.
Mitch and Jacob shot simultaneously. Old danger and long practice meant they fought as a team. Mitch put a shot through the creature’s forehead, and Jacob’s bullet hit it in the chest, but the beast barely rocked on its feet. Two more shots each hit their target, to no effect.
“Get down!” Jacob cautioned, leveling the strange long gun. He braced himself and pulled the trigger. An invisible cone of energy burst from the muzzle, hitting the skinwalker and tossing the monster half a block down the street.
“Run!” Mitch said, and before the creature could gather its wits, they took off at top speed. As Mitch and Jacob ran past the general store, the lanterns in the shopkeeper’s apartment overhead sputtered out. So did the lights in the Brass Pounder and the Parlor, the Rusty Spike and the Paris brothel. Ruin Creek was going dark.
Jacob looked up to see Eli Bly gesturing to them from an alleyway. He motioned them toward the rooming house. Before either of them could say a word, Bly ran past them at the skinwalker, which barreled in their direction. The skinwalker stopped in its tracks as Bly advanced on it, and then began to warily back away.
“How does an old guy with no gun scare something like a skinwalker?” Jacob panted.
“Got a theory, but you aren’t going to like it,” Mitch said as they jerked open the rooming house door and flung themselves inside.
When Jacob looked back, both Bly and the skinwalker were gone.
Jacob leaned against the locked door, trying to get his breath. Mitch dropped the duffel full of weapons where it was handy and went to dump out their bag of rocks from the crater on the kitchen table. “Ghost?” Jacob asked, meaning Bly.
; “Alien?” Mitch replied. “Or maybe competing skinwalkers.”
“Aren’t you just a ray of sunshine.”
“Someone isn’t telling us the truth,” Mitch said, anger clear in his voice.
“Before we sift through those rocks, I want to make sure no one’s upstairs,” Jacob said. “We haven’t found the sniper. I want to make sure he didn’t find us, first.”
They lit two more lanterns from the kitchen and headed for the steps to the second floor. Four doors lined a short hallway. One door was open, and the twin beds were made up for company. “Guess that’s our room,” Jacob said.
Mitch opened the first door and held his lantern aloft. The bedroom was empty. A bed, washstand, and dresser were covered with dust. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s been in this room for a while,” Mitch said, batting away a cobweb.
He opened the doors to the second and third rooms and found the same thing. The fourth room had an occupant. “There’s someone in the bed,” Jacob hissed. He brought his revolver and the force gun up to point at the figure beneath the covers.
Worn boots sat beside the door and a battered valise lay on a chest at the bottom of the bed. Objects were strewn across the top of the dresser. Mitch laid a hand on the figure’s shoulder, turning it toward them, then flinched as the desiccated corpse fell onto its back.
“I think we’ve found Eli Bly. Let’s see what we can find out from his stuff,” Mitch said.
Jacob lit the bedside lantern. Mitch gave Bly’s corpse a careful once-over. “He had a bad wound to his shoulder,” Mitch mused. “Doesn’t look like he had a doctor around to treat it, either.” He looked up at Jacob. “Want to bet it’s a bullet?”
“You think Kasby was cold enough to shoot him in his bed?
Mitch shrugged. “Doubtful. I’m betting he was nosing around that crater and Kasby winged him. Maybe Kasby didn’t even mean to kill him; just scare him away. But at Bly’s age, who knows?” Mitch said. “Came out here in the heat, poked around all day without enough water, and got shot—maybe his heart just gave out on him, or maybe the wound went sour.”
