“What’s going on?” Murphy asked as he caught up with the rear of the pack.
“Reckon they found Pete,” one of the men answered.
Murphy and Loco exchanged glances.
“Alive?” Murphy asked.
“Reckon so.”
The crowd of men reached the mine and formed a semicircle around the entrance. Alvin Skillings was the first to emerge from the darkness of the shaft opening, followed by a middle-aged black man and two other miners. The black man—obviously Pete Williams—was being helped along by the other two. At the sight of Pete, the miners outside broke into a boisterous round of cheers and applause.
“You must have been mistaken about what you saw,” Murphy whispered to Loco as the other men went forward to offer their congratulations on the successful search. Murphy started to follow them, but Loco clamped a firm hand on his shoulder. He turned to look at the Apache.
“That’s not Pete Williams,” Loco said softly.
***
The White Dog Saloon was seeing more business than it might normally have, given the events of the day and their eventual happy ending. Raucous laughter and piano music echoed off the walls of the crowded watering hole, making normal conversation next to impossible. Murphy and Loco sat at a small table in the corner of the large room, as far away from the piano as they could get. Still, they were forced to raise their voices in order to hear one another.
“All I’m saying is,” Murphy yelled, “the guy looked perfectly normal for someone who’d been wandering around lost in those shafts for an hour.”
“Then you weren’t really seeing him,” Loco argued. “Did you look at his eyes? Those weren’t Pete’s eyes. They weren’t even human.”
“You’re not making any sense,” Murphy replied. “How could they not be human? The man was obviously disoriented and frightened, that’s all.” He leaned back in his chair and gave Loco a measured look. “For an educated man, you seem to give in to superstition awful easily.”
“It’s only superstition if it’s unfounded,” Loco said irritably. “I know what I saw in that shaft. Ford Earheart can back me up.”
“Ford Earheart’s gonna wind up making mud pies at an asylum back east,” Murphy commented, taking a sip of warm beer. “The man hasn’t said a coherent word since you hauled him out of that mine. If he’s your only backup, you gotta realize you’re in for a tough sell.”
Loco took a drink from his own mug and said nothing.
“Okay,” Murphy said, “tell me about the Anasazi.”
“Why would you be interested? It’s only superstition.”
“Humor me.”
Loco shrugged. “Like I said, Anasazi is a Navajo term. In English, it translates roughly into ancient ones or ancient enemy. Legend has it that they used to be an actual tribe, ancestors of the Pueblo people.”
“Used to be?” Murphy asked.
“They were here when the Apache, Navajo and Ute arrived,” Loco said, nodding. “As could be expected, there were disputes over land and hunting rights. The Navajo, in particular, did not get along with the Anasazi. The tribes were constantly warring with each other. Eventually, the Navajo began to get the upper hand in this struggle.”
“I’ve dealt with the Navajo on occasion,” Murphy stated. “They have a history of being fierce warriors.”
“Perhaps. But definitely inferior to the Apache,” Loco snorted. “In any event, the Anasazi found themselves facing defeat, if not total annihilation. In desperation, their leaders turned to Tse-che-nako, the Spider Grandmother, for assistance. The kachinas were sent to aid the Anasazi, who used the spirits to drive the Navajo back.”
Loco paused to take another swig of beer. Murphy took a drink of his own and studied the Apache.
“So, if the Anasazi won, then how did they end up inside that cavern?” the hired gun asked.
“I never said they won,” Loco corrected. “I said they were able to drive the Navajo back. But this was not enough for the Anasazi, whose hearts had been hardened by years of war and bloodshed. They became thirsty for vengeance and ordered the kachinas to destroy the entire Navajo nation.”
“And who were these kachinas, again?” Murphy interrupted.
“The kachinas are supernatural beings who live in the Lake of the Dead,” Loco clarified. “You Europeans would likely identify them as angels or demons. They are mostly benevolent, and each represents something in the real world. But they can be arrogant, and they are not accustomed to taking orders from mortals.
“The kachinas saw the darkness in the hearts of the Anasazi and decided to punish them for their insolence. With the blessing of the Spider Grandmother, the kachinas ripped the souls from the bodies of the Anasazi’s tribal leaders and imprisoned them in that cave for eternity as punishment for their indiscretions. The remaining Anasazi fled, eventually giving birth to the Hopi and Zuni.”
Murphy drained the last of his beer. “That’s some story,” he said. “Did it say what would happen if the spirits of the trapped Anasazi were ever freed?”
“It didn’t have to,” Loco replied. “The Anasazi were filled with bloodlust even before they were imprisoned. I’m pretty sure centuries of incarceration within that cave has done nothing to improve their disposition.”
“Okay, let’s just say I buy a penny’s worth of that tall tale,” Murphy said. “Even so, they’re ghosts. And ghosts—if they do exist—can’t hurt anybody.”
“You’re wrong on both counts, Coyote,” Loco stated firmly. “First, spirits can affect the living. And second, the Anasazi aren’t simply spirits. They’re souls looking for a body to inhabit. And warm bodies are the one thing Vulture Mine has in abundance. And that’s not even counting the town. The population here is growing daily as news of gold and steady work spreads throughout the territory.”
Murphy nodded. “I can see where that would be a problem—if there were any meat at all to that story of yours. But I’m sorry, Loco. I’m just not buying any of it. No offense to your superstitions and all.”
“That’s your choice,” Loco said calmly, apparently unperturbed by Murphy’s lack of faith. “You don’t have to believe me. You’ll see for yourself soon enough. But you might do well to keep this conversation in the back of your mind, at least.”
“Why’s that?” Murphy asked.
“So you won’t be so surprised when you wake up one of these nights and find one of those bastards gnawing your face off.”
Chapter Four
The moon was high in the sky when Albert Potter and Sully Grady stumbled back into the mining camp. Each man had spent a considerable amount of money earlier at the White Dog, and Sully had lost even more of his at the faro table. Though Sully was fairly certain he’d be pissed about that fact in the morning, he was presently far too inebriated to care one way or the other.
Most of the other miners had returned to the bunkhouse hours ago with the full knowledge that the following day’s shift would be hell on earth. Unfortunately, neither Albert nor Sully had been graced with any sizable amount of good sense at birth, and neither had accumulated much of it in the years since. They worked hard, but they also liked to play hard. It was a pitiful combination, and one that didn’t lend itself well to living much past forty.
As luck would have it, neither man would have to worry about making it anywhere near forty.
“Wait!” Sully said loudly as they approached the perimeter of the camp.
“What?” Albert barked, stumbling to a stop where he stood swaying unsteadily back and forth.
“Gotta piss again,” Sully hissed drunkenly. He clumsily went about trying to undo his trousers. “And keep it down, for God’s sake. You wanna wake Skillings?”
The mere mention of the foreman’s name had the desired placating effect on Albert. He grew quiet and began to look about in the darkness, now both drunk and paranoid.
“No, sir,” Albert responded in a slurred whisper. “I don’t wanna wake that man. You can bet your money on that!�
��
“Ain’t got no money left,” Sully grumbled as he emptied his bladder on a flat rock. “Damn faro dealer took my last dollar. Cheatin’ sumbitch.”
“Shhh!” Albert cautioned. “Somebody’s comin’!”
“Who?”
“Shhh!” Albert hunched down, as if lowering his stature out in the wide open would do him any good. With some effort, Sully broke off his stream and listened intently. He heard nothing but the distant screech of a bobcat. The sound made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
“Nobody’s about,” Sully assured his companion, and resumed wetting the rock in front of him. “Only two drunks foolish enough to be stirrin’ around at this hour, and that’s us.”
“I heard footsteps,” Albert pouted, but he now sounded unconvinced.
Sully finished his business and buttoned his trousers. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s get to our beds. I need a few hours of sleep before ol’ Skillings shoves a pick in my hand.”
Albert straightened up and began to follow Sully past the dark and silent mine office and toward the pair of long buildings which served as bunkhouses. The night air was cold but still, offering not so much as the slightest breeze as they staggered across the hard, dusty ground. When they finally and miraculously reached the bunkhouse, Albert paused at the door.
“What are you waitin’ for?” Sully whispered. “Get inside.”
“I gotta piss now,” Albert whimpered. “Wait here. I’ll only be a bit.”
“You need me to hold it for you?” Sully asked crossly. “I’m going to bed. Come in when you’re done.” He opened the door gently and disappeared into the darkness inside.
Albert watched forlornly as Sully eased the door shut behind him. He normally wasn’t so lily-livered, but he’d been spooked earlier and he couldn’t shake the jitters. He should have drained his horse when Sully did and had it over and done.
There was no use beating the devil around the stump. The sooner he relieved himself, the sooner he could crawl into his cot and get some sleep. Dawn was a scant few hours away, and Albert knew he’d pay hell the following day in the mine. Wobbling unsteadily, he ambled a short distance away from the bunkhouse and began to water a burro weed shrub.
When he was finished, Albert turned back toward the bunkhouse, intending to call it a night. Before he could take the first unsteady step, however, he heard something move in the darkness off to his left. Thinking that maybe Sully had come back to check on him, Albert strode a few paces in that direction.
“Sully?” he whispered at the shadows. “That you?”
The desert night remained silent.
Albert’s heebie-jeebies returned in full force. He focused his bloodshot eyes and scanned the dimly lit landscape for any sign of movement. At first, he couldn’t make out anything that looked out of the ordinary. Then one of the shadows shifted ever so slightly, revealing the rough shape of a man. The figure was standing maybe twenty feet away, either watching Albert or silently staring up toward the mine entrance. Albert couldn’t tell which for sure, but he thought maybe the man was looking at him.
“Psst!” he hissed. “Who’s there?”
The dark man-shape said nothing. In the distance, the bobcat squalled again.
Albert started to call out again, louder, but suddenly thought better of it. If the person wouldn’t answer him, then they were either drunker than he was or up to no good. In any event, the best thing to do would be to go on inside and hit the hay. He was beginning to get a queer feeling about the dark stranger. Not quite scared, but not anxious to move any closer either.
As he turned back toward the bunkhouse, Albert heard the shuffling of feet and glanced around to see the figure fast approaching him. His first instinct was to run, but in his current inebriated state he didn’t trust himself not to go sprawling to the ground within the first couple of strides. Better to stand his ground and see how the cat jumped. Albert wasn’t a small man, and though drunk, he could probably hold his own if it came down to it.
The advancing figure drew close, and Albert breathed a healthy sigh of relief when he recognized the man’s dark features.
“Pete,” Albert rasped. “You damn near scared the life right outta me! What are you doing up at this hour? You feelin’ okay?”
Pete didn’t reply. He just stood there, looking at Albert as if he were nothing more than an interesting tree or rock. Albert didn’t particularly cotton to the way Pete was eyeing him, but at least it was someone he knew. Pete had gone through quite an ordeal earlier; Albert supposed the man deserved a little leeway.
“I was just going in to hit the sack,” Albert said softly, indicating the bunkhouse with a jerk of his thumb. “Maybe you ought to get back to bed too. You’ve had a rough day, friend.”
Pete seemed to focus his eyes on Albert. He opened his mouth as if to reply, but no words came out. Instead, something that looked like small, black pebbles began issuing forth from Pete’s open maw. They fell to the ground and commenced to rolling about in the dust while making an audible clicking sound. Some of the pebbles stuck to Pete’s face. They began to crawl up the man’s cheeks and disappeared into Pete’s graying hair.
“What the hell?” Albert gasped. “Pete, you sick?” He leaned in closer to take a closer look at the pebble-like things.
Not pebbles. Bugs. Some sort of beetle, by the look of it. Albert watched in disgust and horror as one of the insects scampered out from underneath Pete’s upper lip and made a beeline for his left nostril, where it wiggled its tiny body inside and disappeared from sight.
Albert bent down and puked violently, splattering both his own and Pete’s boots. Without the alcohol in his stomach, he might have been able to fight it back, but he didn’t think so. Pete was in a bad way, maybe worse than bad. Albert had never seen the likes of this in his entire life.
Straightening up, Albert saw that Pete’s eyes had rolled back into his head, exposing only white orbs as the man continued to stand there with his mouth hanging open. A few bugs continued to crawl out, but there weren’t as many as before. As Albert watched, now terrified, Pete’s body began to twitch and tremble. His head tilted back slightly, and he began to make a low bubbly sound like someone trying to gargle molasses.
Albert had seen all he needed to see. He started to turn back toward the bunkhouse when Pete’s hands shot out, quick as lightning, and grabbed Albert by the shoulders. Trapped in Pete’s vice-like grip, Albert could only mewl in dread as Pete’s jaws began to spread wider than any man’s should, exposing what looked like rows of jagged and blackened teeth.
A good distance away, a bobcat in the midst of its nocturnal hunt paused as a frenzied scream pierced the night, causing the hair on the animal’s back to raise up.
***
When Murphy arrived back at the mining camp a little before seven, it was immediately apparent that something was up. The men were clustered together in small groups, whispering and casting furtive, suspicious glances at one another. An air of paranoia hung over the camp like a low-hanging storm cloud.
Murphy saw Loco standing off by himself near one of the bunkhouses. The Apache looked as if one shoe had already hit the floor and he was waiting for the other one to drop. Murphy ambled over and greeted Loco with a curious look.
“Something up?” he asked.
“Two men went missing sometime last night,” the Apache replied as he gazed nervously around the camp.
“They just up and disappeared?”
“It seems that way,” Loco confirmed.
“You know either one of them personally?” Murphy queried.
Loco nodded. “One was Albert Potter. He was at the White Dog last night. I saw him there with Sully Grady and a few others. They were still going at it hard when we left.”
“Maybe he’s still laid up roostered in town,” Murphy offered.
“According to Sully, they came back together. Sully went to bed while Albert stayed outside to take a piss, but he never came in. His cot
was untouched.”
“That’s peculiar,” Murphy admitted.
“Yes. And what’s even more peculiar is the name of the second missing man,” Loco said. “Pete Williams.” He gave Murphy an I-told-you-so look.
“I suppose there’s no chance they just decided to quit?” Murphy asked. “Men come and go at these jobs all the time.”
Loco shook his head. “Payday’s tomorrow, and they were each due wages. It’s not likely they would have simply walked off without collecting their pay.”
“No,” Murphy relented, “it’s not.” He glanced over his shoulder at the mine office. “Has Northwood said anything about this yet?”
“Not a word so far. I suspect he won’t. He’ll just send Skillings out to herd the workers into the mine.”
Murphy nodded. “I think I’ll go see what he thinks about this. Talk to the other men, see if anyone noticed Pete Williams acting strange last night.”
“I don’t talk to the men,” Loco said. “As far as they know, I barely speak English. I simply listen. You tend to find out more that way.”
Murphy shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ll catch up with you later.” He turned and strode toward the mine office.
Northwood was sitting behind his desk when Murphy walked in. The mine boss looked tired, like maybe he hadn’t slept so good the night before. Murphy could make out the traces of dark circles under the man’s eyes. Skillings was standing by the window, looking as dour as ever. Murphy didn’t think the man’s expression ever changed.
“Mr. O’Bannon,” Northwood said, looking up as Murphy entered. “I see you’re punctual. That’s a good trait for a man to have.”
“I’ve never seen the need for putting things off,” Murphy remarked as he removed his hat. He nodded back towards the door. “There was trouble here last night?”
“It’s nothing,” Northwood said, waving a dismissive hand. “Couple of workers decided to move on and left. It happens a few times a week. Turnover in the mining business is pretty steady.”
Drovers and Demons Page 3
