Curse of Skull Canyon

by Peter Brandvold

  “Help me,” a man was calling, half moaning. “Help me . . . please. Someone . . . please . . . help me!”

  CHAPTER 3

  Lonnie stared into the canyon, his lower jaw hanging.

  The man’s moaning pleas had died, so all he heard now was the eerie soughing of the breeze and the occasional, soft thud of a pinecone tumbling from a tree.

  Another moaning sound rose from deep inside the canyon. A louder sound than the soughing sound of the breeze or the previous moaning of the injured man. This sound was made by occasional gusts of late-day wind blowing through a high, porous, distant ridge at the west end of the canyon and then funneling down the canyon’s sloping floor toward where Lonnie stood now.

  The wind carried with it that eerie, hollow, ratcheting lament that sounded like the agonized moaning of a dying man.

  Another chill slid deep into Lonnie’s bones despite his knowing that the moaning was not that of a dying man but merely the wind as it sluiced through a rock formation. That formation, standing tall atop the far ridge that Lonnie couldn’t see from this vantage, bizarrely resembled a giant human skull.

  Thus the canyon’s name.

  Skull Canyon.

  Lonnie had always tried to avoid the canyon when possible, though occasionally he’d had to ride into it looking for lost cows and calves he hadn’t been able to find elsewhere. Over the years, he’d found three or four cows inside the canyon, and never dallied but had hazed the befuddled beasts back out of the canyon and down the mountain.

  Few people around here dared enter Skull Canyon, for it was said—and had been said for generations of non-Indian settlers throughout this neck of the Never Summers—that Skull Canyon had been cursed long ago by a young Indian brave who’d sought refuge inside the canyon and had perished there after he’d been run down and tortured for several long days and nights by the mountain-man husband of the Indian’s white lover.

  The white lover had been a young Norwegian girl named Ingrid, a pretty blonde with cornflower-blue eyes. Thus the name of the creek curling down out of Skull Canyon to form a falls farther on down the mountain—Ingrid Creek. The dying brave had summoned a dark Indian spirit who had conjured the curse that was said to cause any man who saw the sun go down in the canyon to suffer shortly thereafter a violent death.

  Of course, most folks didn’t give the legend much credence. Such stories abounded throughout not only the Rockies but across the entire frontier. The story had probably been made up by some old-timer who’d discovered gold in the canyon and had merely wanted to frighten others away from his mine.

  He’d probably been inspired by the skull formation at the canyon’s far end, and the eerie sound the wind made as it passed through and around the giant skull.

  Lonnie hadn’t taken the legend overly seriously, either, though his young imagination was vivid enough to make him want to stay as far away from the canyon as possible whenever he could. He’d noted, however, that the cows he’d found lost inside the canyon had seemed unusually nervous and afraid and had seemed relieved when they’d been hazed on out of it.

  But that might have been Lonnie’s overactive imagination, too. Most beasts—whether they be with four feet or two—did not enjoy being lost.

  Just as the cries he’d heard only a few minutes ago had likely been a trick of his imagination, fired to a frenzy by his recent, harrowing escape from the four men who had been determined to kill him. They’d most likely been rustlers worried he’d spied them at work with their running irons—branding irons long-loopers used to doctor the brands of the cattle they stole. Rustling was a hanging offense. Lonnie’s hunters had likely felt the desperate need—even if that need meant shooting an innocent young cowboy—to keep the law from playing cat’s cradle with their heads.

  That was all he’d heard, Lonnie decided. Merely the wind playing its usual tricks in Skull Canyon.

  Relieved, Lonnie swung around and started back down the mountain, deciding to follow the narrow, bubbling creek to the falls, where he’d fill his canteens and water the General, and then continue riding down into the lower reaches.

  “Help!” a man yelled behind him.

  Lonnie swung back around to stare once more up into the canyon, his heart thudding with exasperation.

  “No,” he told himself, shaking his head. “It’s . . . it’s the wind, galldangit.”

  “Help me!” the man cried, louder.

  Then Lonnie saw him. The man was maybe a hundred yards away, stumbling through the knee-high grass along the creek, tracing the bend the creek made as he continued stumbling toward Lonnie.

  “Help me!” the man yelled, his voice strangely clear now in the cool, dry, high-country air, aided by the canyon’s good acoustics. “I’ve been injured. I need a hand!”

  His arms were crossed on his lower belly.

  He took three or four more steps and then he dropped to his knees and pitched forward. He was hidden now in the tall grass behind a thicket of chokecherry shrubs sheathed in brightly flowered wild peas and columbine.

  Lonnie hesitated only for a second and then strode forward, into the canyon. He was wary of this place and all the more so because of what he’d just been through. Still, a man was injured. He needed help. It didn’t occur to Lonnie that the men who’d been out to kill him might be laying a trap for him until he was within ten feet of the man lying before him.

  The possibility hit Lonnie like a slap across his bullet-burned cheek.

  He stopped and looked around, half expecting to see the smoke and flames of guns opening up on him.

  But there was nothing anywhere around him. Only this man lying on his back, breathing hard, his hands pressed to his belly rising and falling sharply.

  “Help,” the man cried, squeezing his eyes closed and lifting his head and hardening his jaws as he looked down at his bloody hands and his bloody belly. “Help me. You gotta . . . help me!”

  It was as though he were speaking only to himself believing that no one else were here.

  Lonnie moved forward. He stepped around the chokecherry thicket, the creek murmuring to his left, and stood over the man who’d laid his head down again now, squeezing his eyes closed. Sweat glistened on his forehead and cheeks, which were very smooth and from which very thin strands of beard stubble sprouted like down.

  He was young. Maybe only a few years older than Lonnie. He was dressed, like Lonnie, in the trail-worn gear of the working cowboy—checked shirt, suspenders, faded denims, and brush-scarred chaps.

  Lonnie cleared his throat, which felt like sandpaper from all the running he’d done. “I’m . . . here . . . mister.”

  At first, the young man did not open his eyes. It was as though it took some time for Lonnie’s words to make their way into his consciousness. Then, when they did, the eyes opened, slitted against the sun quartering westward over Lonnie edging toward the ridge jutting on the far side of the creek.

  “I’m hurt,” the man said, wincing with the anguish of his wound. “My stomach . . . hurts real bad.”

  “What happened?”

  “Gut shot.”

  “I see that. By who?”

  “Some jaspers . . . who didn’t want me lurkin’ around here . . . I reckon. Didn’t see ’em.”

  “Were there four?”

  “I didn’t see ’em close enough to count. They shot me an’ rode away, took off after my partner, Dwight Halsey. I thought maybe you was him, when I first seen you. Dwight . . . he’s prob’ly dead now.”

  Lonnie looked around, a nearly palpable sense of danger closing around him once more. The men who’d ambushed him must have thought he’d been Halsey. He doubted it would matter now if they found out he wasn’t Halsey. They’d kill him to keep him quiet about shooting this man, whom they’d likely finish off, to boot, though it didn’t seem necessary.

  The man was bleeding bad. He’d already lost a lot of blood, judging by the crimson weeds charting his path down the canyon. He was due to lose a lot more unless that wound
was closed.

  “What’s your name?” the man asked, squinting against the sun again.

  Lonnie glanced around once more then dropped to one knee beside the man. “Lonnie Gentry.”

  “Cade McLory.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Wish it were under more favorable circumstances. You got a horse around here, McLory?”

  The wounded man lifted his head to glance around. “Well, I did. But I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him since they shot me out my saddle.”

  “Why’d they do that? Why’d they shoot you out of your saddle, McLory?”

  McLory tensed as pain rippled through him. Then he licked his dry, chapped lips. “I reckon that’s a long story. Don’t reckon I got time to tell it . . . less’n we can figure out some way to stop the bleedin’.”

  “Are they rustlers?”

  McLory merely shook his head and shrugged.

  Berating himself for not having done so sooner, Lonnie untied the man’s billowy green bandanna from around McLory’s neck, took it over to the creek, soaked it, and returned. He pressed the bandanna down hard against the wound.

  McLory lifted his head, cursing. “Ah, Jesus that hurts!”

  “You’re gonna have to press down on that until we can figure another way to get the blood stopped.”

  “Mister Lonnie,” McLory said, “do you think you’d do me the favor of helping me over to the creek so I can get a drink of water? I’m powerful thirsty.”

  “I don’t know. If you move around too much . . .”

  “I’d very much appreciate it. I’m so galldarned thirsty that gettin’ that drink is about the only thing I can think about right now.” McLory gave a bleak, choking laugh. “Reckon I can’t say’s I even care if it kills me!”

  Lonnie looked around. He couldn’t see anyone else out here.

  There was only that moaning wind as it sawed down from the giant skull. It seemed to be giving voice to Cade McLory’s own agony. But then it always seemed to be giving voice to someone’s agony.

  Maybe it was giving voice to Lonnie’s own agony, now, too—the agonizing fear of what would happen if the four riders returned, which they might very well do before he could get the wounded man to cover.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Can you stand?” Lonnie asked McLory.

  McLory rolled onto his belly and then climbed to one knee. “Let’s give it a shot.”

  Lonnie wrapped the man’s left arm around his shoulders and helped him to his feet. “There,” McLory said. “That wasn’t so hard—now, was it?”

  Lonnie helped McLory walk through the high grass. McLory put a good bit of weight on Lonnie, who grunted with the effort of holding the bigger man up. McClory was about four inches taller than Lonnie, and he probably outweighted Lonnie by at least thirty pounds.

  When they’d reached the creek, McLory dropped to his knees and groaned miserably, clutching his hands to his belly again. He leaned forward. For a moment, Lonnie thought he’d pass out. But then McLory lifted his head, crawled a foot or so nearer the creek, and lowered his head to the water, cupping the cool, running liquid to his lips.

  When he had his fill, he lifted his head, smiled with satisfaction, and then, his eyelids growing heavy, swayed from side to side. Lonnie crouched beside him and wrapped an arm around him to keep him from falling forward into the water.

  “Look, McLory,” Lonnie said, glancing back toward the mouth of the canyon. “We’d best get you somewhere safe. We’re too exposed out here. If them shooters come back . . .”

  “Yeah, I know,” McLory said. “We’d be sittin’ ducks.”

  Lonnie looked around. His gaze gravitated toward the western ridge wall, which was strewn with gravel, boulders, pines, and cedars. Above and behind a nest of boulders, there appeared a black, oval-shaped gap in the ridge wall. Possibly a cave.

  Lonnie’s eyes swept the creek. When he saw a shallow place atop a natural shelf over which the water dropped, Lonnie said, “Let’s get you up into them rocks yonder. I see a place where we can ford the creek without gettin’ too wet. Think you can make it?”

  McLory nodded dully. He appeared to be only about half conscious. He was no longer pressing the bandanna to the belly wound. Fresh blood glistened in the waning sunlight, the stain over the young man’s belly growing larger and darker.

  Lonnie helped McLory to his feet once more. He led the young man upstream a ways, and then they crossed, the cool water just covering their boots and inching up toward their ankles. Once across the creek, Lonnie led the cowboy up the gradual slope rising to the base of the ridge.

  From there, the walk got harder, for they had to negotiate the steep slope up through and around behind the sandstone-colored boulders. Loose scree caused them both to slip and slide, both going down once on their knees.

  When they’d finished negotiating the hazardous trail, Lonnie was glad to see that the trip had been worth the effort. There was indeed a cave behind the boulder, which shielded the cave from the canyon floor.

  The cave was about five feet high and maybe twice that long. The scat and tracks inside told Lonnie that rabbits and a bobcat or two had called the place home within the last few weeks. There didn’t appear to be any fresh sign, which meant the place wasn’t currently occupied. The last thing Lonnie wanted this hectic day was to be fending off a bobcat or, worse, a mountain lion.

  He had no gun, as he’d left his Winchester in the boot strapped to his saddle. He’d already taken note that McLory’s holster, which sat high on his right hip, was empty. He’d probably lost the pistol when he’d been shot off his own mount.

  Lonnie helped McLory sit down inside the cave. Then he removed his own, navy-blue bandanna, and gave it to the wounded man. “Take this. Press it hard against your belly or you’ll bleed out. I’m gonna see if I can’t fetch my horse. I have a few medical supplies in my saddlebags, and a small bottle of whiskey. We need to get that wound tended.”

  McLory leaned his head back against the cave wall, and grinned through his misery. “Whiskey, huh? I didn’t take you for an imbiber, Master Gentry.”

  “It’s medicine,” Lonnie said, though he knew the man was only pulling his leg. “Best thing for cleaning cuts and wounds and bad rope burns, and I get plenty of all that out here.”

  “You got a nice cut across your cheek.”

  “I got another across my shoulder. Compliments the same rustlers that shot you, most like.”

  McLory studied him. “Young cowboy, are ya?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Live around here, then?”

  “My ma and I own the Circle G down in the valley.”

  McLory shook his head. “Don’t know it.”

  “You’re not from around here, then.”

  Again, McLory shook his head. “Not by a long shot. Texas, born and raised.”

  “What’re you doin’ here? What’re you doin’ in the canyon? I thought maybe you rode for one of the other outfits.”

  Before McLory could open his mouth to respond, Lonnie said, “Never mind. Save your strength. I’d best get off after my horse before it gets too dark to see him.”

  McLory looked at Lonnie. His face was slick with sweat and the color of parchment paper. The walk up here had taken it out of him. “You really have to go?”

  Lonnie looked at him, vaguely puzzled.

  McLory licked his lips. “It’s just that . . . I don’t . . . I don’t wanna die alone. I’m really afraid of . . . dyin’ alone, for some reason. Never knew it till I thought I was all alone out here. I reckon that’s why I was makin’ such a fuss. Lost my head.” He swallowed, sucked a sharp breath, wincing against the pain it caused him. “Don’t wanna die alone, that’s all.”

  “You ain’t gonna die.” Lonnie wanted to believe that was true, but he wasn’t sure. “Not if I fetch my horse and bring some cloth back for bandages. That whiskey’ll clean out the wound till we can get you to the sawbones in Arapaho Creek.”

  Lonnie placed a hand o
n McLory’s shoulder, trying to comfort the young man. “I won’t be long.”

  McLory nodded, though Lonnie could see the darkness of fear mixing with the pain in his eyes. “All right. You go ahead. I’m sorry for the trouble, Master Gentry.”

  “I’ll get a fire goin’ as soon as I get back. I’ll boil some coffee.”

  “Good on ya, good on ya.”

  Lonnie stepped back out of the cave, and straightened. He looked once more at McLory, who rested his blond head back against the cave wall.

  He was breathing hard and sweating though he appeared to be losing more and more color from his face. For a moment, Lonnie hesitated, wondering if he’d made the right decision to go after the General.

  What if McLory died while he was gone?

  That would be an awful thing, his having left him while knowing how fearful he was of dying alone.

  But then Lonnie told himself that while the Texan looked bad, he didn’t look like he was about to die. Not within the next hour, anyway. And Lonnie would give himself only an hour to look for the General. If he hadn’t found the buckskin in that time, he’d head on back to the cave though he sure didn’t like the idea of spending the night in Skull Canyon.

  CHAPTER 5

  Lonnie found the General grazing near the pool beneath the falls that Ingrid Creek made as it dropped over a granite cliff.

  At first, the horse ran, still skittish from the shooting. He couldn’t hear Lonnie’s voice above the falls’ loud pattering. When Lonnie worked his way upwind of the stallion, the General recognized the scent of his rider and came running, dragging his reins, one of which the horse had stepped on and broke.

  Lonnie was relieved that he hadn’t run into the four trigger-happy riders. But his caution had caused his excursion out from Skull Canyon to take longer than an hour. By the time he rode the General back through the gap into the canyon, he judged by the low angle of the sun that he’d been gone a good ninety minutes.

  He remembered the curse.

  He remembered McLory’s fear of dying alone.

  Anxiety rippled through him as he galloped the General across the creek and around behind the boulders a ways up the steeply slanting ridge base. He leaped down from the stallion’s back before he was fully stopped, dropped the reins, and ran up the gravelly shelf and into the cave.