Curse of Skull Canyon

by Peter Brandvold

  “What was he doin’ in Skull Canyon, this Cade McLory?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t ask?”

  Lonnie tried to remember. Little but McLory himself and the way he’d died, the way he’d looked after he’d died, had stayed clear to Lonnie. The peripheral stuff, what they’d talked about, had turned blurry.

  “I don’t know. I reckon I did. But . . . if I did, he didn’t tell me. At least, I don’t remember what he said, if he said anything. He was there with another fella.”

  “Lonnie, why were those other men chasing you?”

  “I got no idea, Casey. I know what you’re thinkin’. You an’ Walleye an’ Bohannon and Sheriff Halliday.”

  “Don’t throw me in the stable with those worthless—”

  “All I know is I was up brush poppin’ lost cows an’ haulin’ ’em out of the mud when those four curly wolves rode at me like the devil’s hounds loosed from hell. Then I found McLory. I came to town to report it all to the sheriff, but now I’m wishin’ I’d stayed in the mountains. I should know better than to ever leave the mountains. Dang near got drowned in a horse trough, was treated like a killer, slapped by a man three times my size—and all that was only after I rode by the mercantile and saw my girl lookin’ all starry-eyed at . . .”

  Lonnie let his voice trail off when a knock sounded on the door.

  The door opened. Fancy Dan himself poked his head into the kitchen, grinning. The grin faded, however, when his large, copper-brown eyes found Lonnie sitting at Casey’s kitchen table, still wet and muddy, with Casey sitting within three feet of him, the two of them holding hands.

  “Miss Casey,” fancy Dan said, looking bewildered as he slid his gaze from Lonnie to Casey and back again, “I just wanted to stop by and tell you . . . when the next dance was . . . out at Vott’s Barn, but . . .”

  “Oh, Niles!” Casey lurched to her feet so quickly that she nearly knocked her chair over backwards. She hurried over to the door. Fancy Dan retreated out onto the porch, and Casey followed him out, drawing the door closed behind her.

  The door wasn’t much of a buffer, however. Lonnie could hear the fancy Dan also known as Niles say, “Casey, who is that boy? He and his horse nearly ran me over in town, and . . .”

  Casey spoke in a soft, low voice, but Lonnie could still hear the girl say, “Oh . . . he’s . . . he’s just a boy from the mountains, Niles. I see him from time to time. He gets into trouble on occasion and . . .”

  Then they must have moved off down the steps because Casey’s voice grew gradually quieter until Lonnie could no longer hear what she was saying.

  That was all right.

  Lonnie had heard enough.

  His bruises no longer ached. At least, they were nothing compared to the driving, burning agony that the invisible fist of Casey Stoveville’s hushed words had hammered into his gut.

  Lonnie rose unsteadily from his chair.

  The kitchen pitched and swayed around him. He felt the way he had when he’d “gentled” half-wild horses to add to his own remuda, riding the green out of them. Those owl-eyed broom-tails would use the lean-to shed off the barn to rake Lonnie off their backs and then pummel him down hard in the dust with their hooves.

  He felt the same way now. He felt as though he’d had the stuffing kicked out of both ends.

  Dragging his heavy feet, Lonnie made his way out of the kitchen, through a curtained doorway, and down a short hall to the house’s rear door. He pushed through the door and outside, leaving the door wide behind him. Regaining his balance, he almost ran to the corral, threw the gate open, and ran at the General so fast that the horse whickered and sidestepped from him, neck arched and tail raised.

  “Easy, boy—easy, easy,” Lonnie said, moving up on the horse more slowly but with no less urgency.

  When he’d slid the bit back into the General’s mouth and tightened the latigo strap, Lonnie mounted up and rode out of the corral. He galloped off to the southwest, toward the trail that would take him deep, deep into the mountains where no one else in the world would ever see or hear from him again.

  CHAPTER 13

  Crouched behind a boulder sitting like a hat on top of a haystack-shaped bluff, Lonnie slowly pumped a cartridge into his Winchester’s chamber and caressed the cocked hammer with his gloved right thumb.

  He doffed his hat and edged a look around the boulder.

  The trail he’d been following from town snaked around the base of the bluff to climb steeply into pines. A few minutes ago, while Lonnie had been riding deeper and deeper into the mountains, the General had given a warning whicker. Thirty seconds later, Lonnie had heard what the General had heard—the distance muffled hoof thuds of a rider approaching along Lonnie’s back trail.

  Lonnie had quickly dismounted, led the General off the trail, and climbed the bluff to hide behind the boulder. If he was being followed, he wanted to know by whom and why.

  The hoof thuds told him only one man was approaching, but there might be more behind him. Like three more. Which would make a total of four—the same number who’d bushwhacked him yesterday afternoon around the same time of day, when his life had exploded like a powder keg.

  Now a shadow moved among the pines. Lonnie jerked his head back behind the boulder with a start. Then he slowly slid another peek around the boulder. He drew a short breath and held it.

  The rider was moving down out of the trees. He was a lanky man in a tall gray Stetson and long, spruce-green duster. His pinstriped trouser legs were stuffed down into stovepipe, cavalry-style boots. Lonnie couldn’t see his face from this angle, for the man was riding down the slope, and he had his chin down, as well, as though he were scrutinizing the tracks in the trail ahead of him.

  Lonnie’s tracks.

  The man rode a speckle-gray horse that lifted its head abruptly and gave a warning whinny. The horse had winded Lonnie. Behind Lonnie, at the base of the bluff, the General answered in kind.

  “Dangit, you old hay burner!” Lonnie snarled at the stallion.

  The rider jerked his head up, pulling back on his reins, and reaching for the big pistol holstered for the cross draw high on his left hip. Lonnie licked his lips, drew another, calming breath, and stepped out from behind the boulder, aiming his rifle at the big man on the speckle-gray.

  Trying to keep his voice calm, Lonnie said, “Leave the hog leg in its holster or I’ll blow you clear back to sunup.”

  The man froze and slid his head slightly to the side, his eyes finding Lonnie beneath the broad brim of his tall, gray hat. His long, lean face was sunbaked; his hawk nose was brick red. Long, gray hair curled over his collar. He wore a mustache, goatee, and muttonchop whiskers of the same color. Lonnie thought his eyes beneath his hat brim were frosty blue. They resided in deep sockets around which a meshwork of deep crow’s-feet spoked and beneath which heavy, dark bags sagged.

  Lonnie said, “Who are you and why’re you followin’ me?”

  The man narrowed his eyes as he took the measure of the rifle-wielding kid before him. “Careful, boy. You don’t want that thing to go off.”

  “Neither do you,” Lonnie said, consciously keeping steel in his voice. Just because he was young didn’t mean he was gonna take any grief from a grown-up. He’d had enough grief from grown-ups.

  The man raised his gloved hands slowly, holding his reins in the right one. “I was only wantin’ to ask you a few questions, that’s all. I don’t know who you are or where you’re from, but I figure you’re from around here. I’m not.”

  He raked a thumb across the edge of his duster, peeling the canvas lapel back to reveal a copper moon and star badge. “Name’s John Appleyard. Deputy US Marshal John Appleyard. Out of Denver. I’m lookin’ for an hombre who goes by the name of Crawford Kinch. Thought maybe you knew him or seen him hereabouts.”

  Lonnie kept his rifle aimed at the tall man before him though he eased the tension in his trigger finger. He’d shot one lawman last year. He didn’t want t
o go for another lawman this year. Unless he had to, that was. He knew from experience that not all lawman were lawful. They could kill you just as dead as the worst variety of outlaw.

  “I don’t know no one named Crawford Kinch,” Lonnie said.

  “He might be goin’ by another name. He’s a tall man. About my size, a few years older. Has a gray beard, one blue and one brown eye, and wears a tattoo on his neck. The tattoo is, uh . . .” The lawman glanced away, vaguely sheepish, before turning back to Lonnie. “The tattoo is a naked lady. Big enough so’s you couldn’t miss it.”

  Lonnie flushed a little at the image of the naked lady floating around inside his head. “Never seen him.”

  “Could you lower that gun, son? You’re makin’ me nervous. And I am a lawman. I don’t just wear the badge because it looks nice and shiny on my shirt.”

  “Just cause a dog has a tail,” Lonnie said, “don’t mean he wags it.”

  The man smiled briefly at that, and looked away again. “Fair enough.” He looked up at Lonnie, narrowing one eye. “You from around here?”

  “Yep.”

  “What’s your name?”

  Lonnie considered whether he wanted to give the man his name. He supposed it couldn’t hurt. He could ask around and find out easily enough. Lonnie told him.

  “Would you do me a favor, Lonnie Gentry?” the deputy marshal asked. “If you do happen to see this man, Crawford Kinch, around here somewhere, would you please get word to me in Arapaho Creek? I’m staying at the boardinghouse on Third Avenue.”

  Lonnie lowered the gun to his side but kept his finger curled through the trigger guard, in case he needed it quickly. “What do you want with this Crawford Kinch fella?”

  “Never mind about that. Whatever it is, you’ll want to steer clear of it. And you’ll want to steer clear of Crawford Kinch, too. But if you do happen to be unfortunate enough to run into him, and live to tell about it, tell me, will you?” Appleyard gave an ironic grin.

  Lonnie studied the man, nodded slowly. “All right. I’ll get word to you if I see this Crawford Kinch . . . and live to tell about it.”

  Lonnie wondered if he should tell the marshal about the four men who’d run him down yesterday, and about Cade McLory. He decided against it. He’d been reminded in town only a couple of hours ago that the less he said to the law, the better. Besides, he hadn’t gotten a very good look at three of the four riders yesterday, but he was sure he’d have noted a tattoo on one of them.

  Especially one in the shape of a naked lady.

  He’d already told Halliday about Cade McLory. He’d done his duty, and he’d suffered the consequences for it, and McLory wasn’t going to benefit one way or the other if the men who’d shot him were brought to justice.

  Appleyard dipped his chin and pinched his hat brim to Lonnie. “Much obliged, boy. Even from here, your lips look blue. You’d best get yourself warm before you catch your death of cold.”

  Lonnie didn’t say anything. He watched the lawman turn his horse around on the trail and then ride up into the pines, heading back in the direction of town.

  Lonnie stared at Appleyard’s back growing smaller and smaller until the tree shadows swallowed horse and rider. Lonnie scraped a thumbnail along his smooth jawline and mused softly, “Crawford Kinch, huh? A naked-lady tattoo. Imagine that.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Lonnie shivered as he rode higher into the mountains. His clothes were no longer soaked, but they were damp. The dampness had leeched into his bones, muscles, and tendons.

  He didn’t intend on riding all the way back to the ranch just yet. He didn’t feel like seeing his mother and his half brother, whom May Gentry had named Jeremiah. Jeremiah was the offspring of Shannon Dupree, but Lonnie didn’t hold it against the baby, only a few months old.

  Still, the kid was loud, and Lonnie needed peace and quiet. He felt like being alone for a while, to lick his wounds both physical and otherwise. He headed for the line shack at the base of Eagle Ridge. His mother wouldn’t start to worry about him for another day or so. When coyotes or wolves were around, or when he’d spotted the tracks of a mountain lion on his range, Lonnie often stayed with the herd in the mountains for several days and nights at a time, to try and keep his losses to a minimum.

  He was used to being alone. In fact, he was starting to prefer being alone. People were too much trouble.

  The trail meandered ever higher into the Never Summers. Finally, when Lonnie was a good hour and a half out of Arapaho Creek, he turned off the main trail and followed an old horse trail through a ravine thick with aspens. Eagle Creek flowed down the middle of the ravine, rippling over beaver dams. The air was spiced with the wine fragrance of the creek and green leaves and wild raspberries.

  The line shack sat at the head of this ravine and at the base of the towering granite crag known as Eagle Ridge. The cabin was a low-slung, mossy-roofed log structure that his father had built when he and May Gentry had first settled in these mountains. Mostly, his father had stayed overnight in the cabin only during spring and summer roundups or when predators were on the prowl. He’d limited his time here. He’d loved his family, so he’d stayed close to home.

  Lonnie tended and stabled the General out back of the line shack. Then he hauled his gear into the cabin. He climbed up onto the roof and removed the coffee tin which he always placed over the chimney pipe, to keep birds and squirrels out, and then went back inside the cabin and built a fire in the sheet-iron monkey stove.

  As the fire got going, Lonnie walked over to where the creek ran over its rocky bed through the aspens. He paused at the edge of the stream, near a cool, dark hole of waist-deep water, doffed his hat, kicked out of his boots, and steeled himself.

  He took a deep breath and then plunged feet-first into the pool.

  The water, fed by a spring deep beneath Eagle Ridge, was as cold as snowmelt. It was so cold that Lonnie thought his teeth would crack. Still, it was the best way to get himself and his clothes clean.

  He thrashed around for a while in the water, shivering and yelling, unable to control the outburst. Oddly the cold felt good. It almost pushed Casey and fancy Dan out of his mind.

  Almost, but not quite . . .

  When he thought his heart could no longer take the bittersweet torture, Lonnie crawled up onto shore, and gained his feet. Water sluiced off of him. He shivered and cursed like a sailor, feeling the luxurious freedom of being able to do so in so remote a place, where the hawks, chickadees, squirrels, owls, and occasionally a skunk or two were his only neighbors.

  Once, he’d befriended an orphaned fox cub out here, and named it Red. Red had grown up and gone off on his own, but occasionally Lonnie saw a red fox hunting mice in a near meadow, and he believed—at least, he hoped—the fox was his old pal Red.

  As he walked back to the cabin, Lonnie peeled off his wet clothes, leaving a soggy trail of blue denims, socks, longhandles, checked shirt and navy-blue neckerchief in a long, wet, twisted line behind him. Gray smoke billowed from the cabin’s stovepipe. It was like the fire was beckoning to the shivering youngster.

  By the time Lonnie reached the front door, he was naked—dark brown where the sun reached him and as white as flour where it did not, which was almost everywhere except his face, neck, and hands. He went in, closed the door, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, shoved more pine sticks into the stove, and hunkered close to the open stove door.

  The heat pushed against him, hot as a dragon’s breath. The fire whushed and the stove ticked as the iron grew hot.

  Gradually, the chill began to ease its grip on Lonnie though he continued to shiver violently, crouched beneath the blanket. After a time, he rose from the cot, went over to where he’d hastily piled his gear, and rummaged around in a saddlebag pouch. He pulled out the pint bottle of whiskey, and held it up to the window.

  Still half full.

  Lonnie had never had a desire for liquor before. He’d seen what it had done to the likes of Shannon Dupree. It had tu
rned him into an ugly, wild, violent animal. But Lonnie’s mother had given it to Lonnie, mixed with hot water and honey, when he’d suffered from colds and sore throats. The busthead had soothed not only the pain of the illness, but it had drawn the chill from his bones, as well.

  Lonnie sat back down on the edge of the cot, close to the crackling, popping fire, and pried the cork from the bottle. He took a sip and made a face as the liquor dribbled down his throat, burning harshly all the way down into his belly. A moment later, however, the burn eased. A comforting flush spread out from his belly, rising from his chest and neck and into his cheeks and ears.

  Soothing . . .

  He took another sip. That one was too big. It nearly came back up.

  Somehow, he managed to keep it down though he thought it would strangle him. He coughed and choked for a brief time, as though someone like Walleye Miller had his hand around his neck. But then the hand eased its grip, and the soothing flush rose once again.

  Lonnie looked around. The harsh angles of the cabin softened, and the mountain light slanting through the windows grew less harsh, pleasantly fuzzy.

  The chirping of the birds outside in the branches grew keener.

  Best of all, the warmth of the fire was finally seeping into his fingers and toes, thawing him out. Still, his heart felt swollen and tender. He doubted any amount of whiskey would heal it.

  Casey . . .

  Lonnie corked the bottle and set it on the floor beneath the cot. He chunked another split pine log onto the fire and sat back down on the cot, holding the blanket tight about his shoulders. He was no longer shivering. He just sat there now. Beneath the ache in his chest, he enjoyed being mildly drunk and the feeling of being dry and warm at last.

  Outside, the General whinnied.

  Lonnie snapped his head up.

  Now, what?

  Outside, another horse whinnied from the direction of the trail. Hooves thudded softly as the horse approached. Someone was coming.

  Lonnie held the blanket loosely around his shoulders as he scrambled over to his gear and picked up his rifle. He opened the cabin door, cocked the rifle, and held it in one hand straight out from his waist.