Crowley sighed and placed his hat on his head. “And did your intervention result in injury or worse to the men?”
“Indeed it did, sir.”
“Well now, this should be something.”
The man pouring whiskey looked uninterested. Napier seemed eager to hear more. He also studied Slate with wide eyes. He stopped when Slate turned quickly and stared back just as hard. Might be things would have gone wrong from there, but a collection of Cavalrymen came into the tent before things could get worse.
Of course, them coming in rather took care of worsening matters all by itself.
* * *
Folsom looked around. They were an unpleasant lot to be sure. The tent was filled with people, and most of them were unwashed and underfed. Folsom looked at the crowd and found the man his soldiers had reported with amazing ease. The gaunt albino was as tall as he was thin and looked like death. He was dressed like a savage in rawhide, sported a coat made of some sort of animal fur, and carried two large pistols on his hips. Despite his uniform and the men behind him, Folsom hesitated for a moment. Then the Chinaman, Song, moved a bit to the side and a few more soldiers stepped into the tent beside them both.
Having an audience never failed to make Folsom feel the need to be brave. “You!” He stabbed a finger at the albino. “What in the name of God did you do to my men?”
The gaunt man looked at him. Next to him a smaller man with a feral smile looked in his direction with nearly feverish eyes. Most of the people were looking toward him, but what made those two different was simply that they were not afraid of him. Not in the least, and that was a worrisome thing.
The albino said, “I did nothing to your men that they did not provoke, sir.” He had a southern accent. Little existed that was more contemptible in Folsom’s eyes.
“I have four dead soldiers and a handful of men who swear you killed them. Attacking a soldier is a hanging offense.” Folsom stepped forward and Song moved with him, a graceful, silent man with the eyes of a cat. Song always looked like he was ready to pounce, to kill, though Folsom had never once seen the man strike first.
“And I repeat, Mister Crowley, I do believe I’ll need your help.” The albino murmured to the smiling man next to him, seemingly unable to speak louder than a whisper.
The man with him slipped forward and stood between Folsom and his prize.
“Don’t make this concern you, mister.”
The stranger’s smile grew broader and ice rimmed the inside of Folsom’s stomach. He had no idea why, but the man scared the hell out of him. Still, there were the troops to consider and justice to be handled.
“I know you. Henry Folsom. How’s your mother? Ruth, I believe?” The man did not speak. He purred. Folsom felt that cold in his guts spread. His mother had passed when he was only ten. How the man could possibly know her was a mystery. Still, he seemed familiar,
“I do not believe we’ve met before.”
“I know you. I know your father, Alexander. Your mother, Ruth. I knew your sister as well, Loretta.” The lean man looked away for a moment, his eyes staring past Folsom toward something only he could see. Folsom barely remembered his older sister. She’d been involved with a man in Boston. There had been a scandal, of course, though his father did his best to hide it. Loretta died and died badly. The thought was enough to twist his heart into a knot.
“And your name?”
The stranger smiled. “I’m Jonathan Crowley.”
Folsom backed up, his eyes growing wide. That was impossible, of course. He remembered Crowley. The man had seemed a giant to him when he was a child. He’d been tall and lean and he’d had the most terrifying smile.
“Good Lord.” Folsom’s lips barely moved. “How is that possible?”
Crowley’s smiled dropped as fast as it had shown itself. He ignored the question and countered with, “I expect your men might have told you one version of the tale. Why not hear the other version before you decide how to handle the situation, Captain?”
The request was reasonable enough, but Folsom did not like the tone of voice any more than he liked that damnable smile. He didn’t like the fear that seeing the man caused in him, either. “Your friend will have a chance to tell his side of the story when he stands trial.” He wanted to dismiss the man, planned to, in fact, but the man stayed where he was and damned if that smile didn’t come back and grow broader still.
Crowley’s brown eyes regarded him for a moment and then he shrugged. “He won’t be standing trial. He has things to do and so do I.” That was the end of the argument as far as Crowley was concerned. His tone said as much. Folsom looked closely at the man for the first time and shook his head. “Sir, you should take yourself away from this situation before it grows any worse. I have witnesses that say a man with skin as white as snow killed four of my men. I see exactly one man with skin as white as snow in this area, sir. In fact I’d hazard there are no more albinos for a hundred miles in any direction.”
“Would you indeed, sir?” The albino’s face crept into a strange smile as he spoke. His eyes glittered under lids at half-mast.
“Have you seen yourself?” Folsom asked. “Your skin is as white as milk.”
“Indeed it is. Has been my entire life. I did, however, have a conversation with another man not long before I saw your men, and he was just as pale as me.”
The smiling man laughed; it sent shivers down Folsom’s spine. “Well now, I would hazard a guess you might be mistaken, Captain.” His tone was dry and mocking and Folsom found him distasteful in the extreme. That damnable laugh, however, echoed in the back of his mind, brought back thoughts of his sister, and how he’d felt when he found her body.
No. The past was just that, and he’d not let the grinning fool confuse him with what had to be half-truths or blatant lies. How he knew about Folsom’s family was irrelevant.
He had every intention of brushing the nonsensical claim aside, but before he could the man he’d observed pouring shots of whiskey spoke up. “Saw him myself. He’s a little shorter, a lot thinner, and looks like he’s an Indian, but his skin is just as pale.”
“Nonsense.” Folsom shook his head. “Corporal Bridges, kindly put that man in irons.” He pointed toward the gaunt man.
Bridges nodded and took a step forward. The corporal was a burly man, large and heavyset and capable with his hands. He’d knocked several men larger than him down a few sizes in his time and he would likely do so again.
The smiling man shook his head and blocked Bridges. “Let’s not make a mistake here, gentlemen. My friend and I are perfectly willing to leave town right now and end this without any additional troubles.”
“Are you deaf, sir?” Folsom’s voice was as harsh as a whip crack when he spoke. “I have dead soldiers on my hands!”
“Your soldiers died trying to shoot me down.” The gaunt man’s voice remained as calm as ever, but the expression on his face belied his tone. “They were a mite bit offended, seeing as I stopped them from taking a few squaws to have their way with.”
Folsom nearly balked at that. Was that guilt in his chest? He tried to tell himself that it was not, but he also remembered his sister and the scandals she’d been involved in and that feeling bloomed inside him. With an effort he crushed the emotion down. “It is our duty to curtail the growing Indian problems in this area. And in addition to confessing to killing my men, you’ve just confessed to interfering with that duty.” He looked away from the gaunt man and barked at the corporal, “Bridges! Lock that man in irons!”
Bridges nodded and started forward. Before he could take two steps, the smiling man moved forward and struck him a solid blow that dropped the larger man to the ground.
“That’s enough of this!” Folsom grabbed at the pistol strapped to his hip.
By the time he’d drawn, several of the soldiers with him were doing the same, and the two men he was facing had both managed to draw as well.
The smiling man had two Peacemakers. One of
the large-bore barrels was aimed at Folsom. The other was pointed at Song, who was crouching slightly and looked like he might well enjoy taking a bite out of the gunslinger.
The albino aimed a heavy shotgun at the whole lot of them. He’d swept the damned thing from under his coat with ease, and was looking hard at Folsom.
“Anyone pulling a trigger might well wish they’d reconsidered, gentlemen.” A round-bellied man walked forward. His voice shook, but he had a pleasant enough smile on his round face. “Might I suggest we put weapons down and come to an understanding before anyone else is killed?”
Folsom didn’t like him. He spoke like a lawyer. Still, he offered a chance to the captain not to get his head blown off by two different men. Outside of the tent several of his men let out bellows of anger and shock. The ground trembled lightly and while he feared taking his eyes off the two men aiming at him, he risked a look around to the entrance of the tent.
“Would someone kindly tell me what the hell is going on out there?”
Private Bronson called out loud and clear from the other side of the tent flap, “Captain! We got injuns coming our way! A lot of injuns!”
The smiling man laughed again. It was a humorless, bitter sound.
* * *
There was a point where no more could be tolerated. That point had come a long time ago as far as Alchesay was concerned. His parents had been murdered and scalped when he was a boy. His wife had been taken only a few years ago. His family had been attacked and slaughtered again and again over the years, first by Mexicans and now by the round eyes. Enough.
Several of the tribal elders wanted peace, but that time was past. They came into the area and looked for silver, and when they found it, they started digging. Most of the Dilze’he were already stuck in this desert land, forced here by the white man, and now they were being told to move again.
And maybe they would have. Maybe even Alchesay would have accepted this – though he was not truly sure if he would or not – but now these fools had come and dragged several women from the town. They thought the women did not understand their words, but they were wrong. His sister was among them and she’d heard what the men intended to do.
And according to her, a Skinwalker had saved them.
Whatever the case, it had only taken the word of his sister to send him toward the town, and because many of the men were just as tired of being pushed and pushed, they came with him.
There would be no more of their women raped or scalped by the white men.
The men in blue uniforms were gathered in one area when Alchesay charged into town with his men. In numbers they looked to be stronger, but they were all busy looking at one tent and before they were aware, Alchesay and his men were in range.
The first rifle shots cracked through the air before the soldiers did much more than look around with open mouths. All around the area people of all colors were running, wisely clearing away from the charging horsemen. Four of the bluecoats fell before any of them considered attacking in return. Two of their horses fell too, shot by who knew. Men and horses alike screamed.
And then the soldiers turned and grabbed for their weapons.
Alchesay had planned for this. Instead of staying at a long range, he and his men charged their horses into the enemy. Flesh fell before the hooves of his mount. Men screamed and fell, and the horse stumbled but kept its footing. He was too close to shoot, so he swung his rifle and hit whatever he could with the butt of the weapon. Someone fired from nearby and a bullet cut past his head. He had no time to consider that. Instead he hit another bluecoat and felt bone break.
There were screams, of course. And then there were battle cries. He called out for his men and they called out as well. The cavalry recoiled as if hit by boiling water.
He charged forward.
The tent was closer now. And the time was finally here. He would kill them all, every last one of the soldiers. They would all pay for what they had done, what they had planned to do. There would be no mercy.
Unfortunately, the men in the tent felt the same away.
There were more of the soldiers than he’d expected. They came from inside the large tent and started shooting and they were far enough away that they could still aim and shoot and kill.
Beside him Mangas stopped his battle cry when a bullet tore his skull away. He fell from his horse and into the tide of men being crushed, and that was the last Alchesay saw of his lifelong friend.
The bluecoats kept coming, and Alchesay jammed his heels into the horse’s flanks and charged forward into the crush of soldiers.
And men screamed.
And men died.
And Alchesay roared his challenge for all of them. His skin felt hot. His bones were blades of ice. His heart thundered in his chest and his eyes shook in his skull.
And then the change came, and Alchesay roared his challenge a second time as his teeth grew and his body twisted into a new form.
* * *
Halfway across the camp he’d crouched in the dirt and made markings with one pale finger. His other hand had poured colored sand into the markings and filled them in.
The Navajo called his kind Skinwalkers. It was as good a name as any, but he knew better. There was more to them than just changing shapes. Most of his kind were gone now. They tended to kill each other off. It was not something they could, or wanted to, control. Like the weather or the stars, it was simply what was supposed to be. They felt a dislike for each other that could seldom be set aside for long. The one he’d seen earlier was a child, barely born into the world and likely knew nothing of himself.
He probably wanted to know more about what he was. And why he existed. The old one could have told him, but that was not what he planned this day.
What he planned was violence and carnage and blood and suffering, the things he fed on best.
And so he’d finished his simple spell and looked at the characters he had drawn in the dirt and then at the Apache charging into town. They had plans, too, and those plans were of blood and violence.
So the old one helped them along.
His hands had scooped up the colored sand and dirt and held the mixture out and blew it at the Apache as they rode past.
He did not hit all of them, but he’d hit enough.
He waited until they were engaged with their enemies and the bloodshed had begun before he said that words that made the spell awaken. And just that easily, the anger within the warriors was given a face and a form.
The old one settled down and watched and waited.
Soon enough he would feed.
* * *
Crowley shook his head as the cavalrymen turned away from him and from Slate alike. Slate stared at them with an expression that was either shock, outrage or both. Whatever the case, it made Crowley chuckle.
“You find this situation amusing, Mister Crowley?” Slate looked his way with an expression of disappointment.
“Not at all, Mister Slate. I find you amusing.”
“And why would that be?” Damned if Slate didn’t sound offended.
“Because you look so very annoyed that the men who want to hang you are no longer bothering with you.”
Slate blinked and a quick, embarrassed grin flashed on his face. “Yes, well, when you say it like that.”
“We should leave.”
“I agree.” Slate pointed at the men flowing out of the tent. “But there are men in our way.”
“This is a tent, Mister Slate. We can climb out from under it if we must.”
The bartender looked at them and shook his head. “Could just go out the flap at the other side, too.”
Crowley smiled and tossed the man a coin.
And as they were walking away from the soldiers, ignoring the screams and the gunshots, a deep roar shook through the air and the tone of the screams changed from anger and pain to deep, abiding terror.
And he knew before it happened of course. It was inevitable, really.
Som
eone out in the front of the tent let out a shriek and someone else called out, “Help me! Oh, Lord, help me!”
Crowley shook his head.
“You don’t have to, you know.” Slate’s voice, as soft as a whisper.
“Oh, but I do.” He shook his head again. “Can’t you feel it? Whatever is out there, it’s not natural.” He spoke as if he regretted what was going to come next, but still the smile pulled at the edges of his lips and his heart beat faster in his chest.
“Well then, shall we do this?”
Crowley spun hard and nearly ran for the men at the opposite end of the tent. Many of the soldiers were coming back in, their eyes wide and frightened. He could understand that. There were a lot of things out in the world to be afraid of.
* * *
Folsom had planned to come out with guns blazing and eliminate the threat before it could become something larger. He’d half expected to run across a few of the savages in town, but when he heard the horses, and the sound of Apache battle cries, he felt a cold knot of dread in his stomach.
Had he, perhaps, turned a blind eye to his men having their way with the squaws? Yes. Why? Because happy soldiers performed better. What he had not truly considered was what might occur when the red skinned brutes found out about what was happening with their women. That was the very first concern when he heard the sounds of his men screaming. It shouldn’t have been, but truth be told the guilt had been gnawing at him for a while.
The guilt went away the second he saw the monsters.
He’d pushed through the crowd of his men to assess the situation and was looking directly at the Indians when they changed. Not all of them, only a few, but it was enough. The man at the front of the charge was a stocky brute in leathers. He wore a canvas coat that had seen its best days a few years earlier and was coming apart at the seams, and his rage was a brutal thing to behold.
The coat tore itself apart, shredded right before the captain’s eyes, and the clothes beneath it did the same, peeling away even as the man continued charging forward on his horse. One pace and the fabric was splitting. Another step forward and the horse was knocking two soldiers aside. A third step and one of the soldiers fell to the ground while the other kept his balance. A fourth step and Folsom was drawing his weapon, intent on killing the fool horseman. A fifth step and everything changed all at once. The horse let out a shriek and lost its balance, falling forward and crashing to the ground. He was a horseman himself and knew instantly the beast had broken its neck. The rider fell forward and blurred as he caught himself on his palms. That was the only way he could think of it. The fabric on his body was torn apart and so was the flesh beneath it. Folsom looked and his eyes refused to see properly. Great flakes of flesh and hair split away from the shape of the man and when he moved forward, standing instead of sliding across the ground, which seemed an impossibility by itself, he was not a man anymore but something entirely different.
SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror Page 34
