Drovers and Demons

by Scott Langrel

  ***

  “The sun’s almost gone,” Skillings remarked as he peered through the dusty window of the mining office. The foreman’s disposition had deteriorated steadily throughout the day to the point where he was now as jittery as a jackrabbit. He’d taken to pacing the floor between Northwood’s desk and the window, a behavior which was beginning to wear thin on the mine boss.

  “I can see that,” Northwood barked from behind his desk. “I have eyes, don’t I? Jesus, Alvin. Either stand still or sit down before I shoot you in the leg.”

  Skillings looked at his boss to see if the man was fooling about or not. The look he got back sent him over to the corner of the room where he plopped into a padded armchair.

  “That shaft is sealed up tight,” Northwood said. “Nothing’s getting in or out of there. We made damn sure of that.” Though his tone was authoritative, his nervous gesturing suggested he was trying to convince himself as much as his foreman.

  “What about Pete and Albert?” Skillings asked nervously.

  “What about them?” Northwood waved his hand dismissively. “Nobody’s seen hide nor hair of them. They’re either boarded up in that shaft or long gone.”

  “All I know is, there’s something in that mine,” Skillings said. “You heard those noises, same as me. And that smell! It was like fire and brimstone, I tell you.”

  “Just a pocket of sulfur dioxide, more likely,” Northwood said. “There could be some kind of volcanic activity going on under the mine. That might account for the noises we heard, too.”

  Skillings looked skeptical. “I don’t know about any volcano,” he said, “but I swear I heard voices.”

  “If you heard voices, it was Pete and Albert,” Northwood assured his foreman. “We called out. It’s not our fault if they’re sealed up in that shaft. It had to be boarded up for safety reasons. And there’d better be no mention of voices if anyone comes around asking questions. You want to swing for murder?”

  “It wasn’t them, anyway,” Skillings objected. “I couldn’t understand the words. Sounded Indian to me.”

  “The only Indian around here is the one with O’Bannon, and he’s present and accounted for,” Northwood stated firmly. “And I won’t have any talk about ghosts and spirits, either. We’d be out of business in a week. You keep quiet, and make sure the men do the same.”

  “Ford won’t shut up about it,” Skillings allowed.

  “Then shut him up,” Northwood fumed. “Pay him off or ship him out. Or both. I don’t care how it’s done, but this superstitious talk needs to be nipped in the bud. Are we clear on that?”

  “Yessir,” Skillings said, but he didn’t look too happy about it.

  “Good. Talk to Earheart first thing in the morning. In the meantime, go get some rest. A good night’s sleep will do wonders for you.”

  Hesitantly, Skillings rose from his seat and looked uneasily at the door.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Alvin!” Northwood spat. “It’s what? Twenty yards to your place? Grow a set of balls, man. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

  Shamed into finally moving, Skillings crossed the room and opened the door. In the dusk outside, nothing stirred.

  “Lock the door behind you,” Northwood said. Skillings flipped the latch and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

  Northwood leaned back in his chair and sighed. In truth, he didn’t know what he’d heard in that shaft the night before. Skillings was right; it sure as hell had sounded like voices. But sounds took on funny characteristics underground. It could have just as easily been an animal or even the wind blowing through one of the tunnels. More likely, it was the two lunkheads who were missing. They’d probably headed down to the shaft with a bottle or two. Northwood wasn’t sure about Pete, but Albert Potter was a first-rate lush. Which was fine, as long as the man pulled his weight in the mine every day. And Albert did. Well, had, anyway.

  In any event, the shaft was sealed up now. Though not common knowledge to anyone except Northwood and his partners, the Vulture was pretty much played out anyway. Another six months of mining, and they would either shut the mine down or find some tenderfoot from the Old States to sell the claim to. But if word leaked out that the mine was haunted, he’d play hell trying to find enough decent workers to last out the year, much less finding a rube to sell the business to.

  If he could keep a lid on the trouble of the past couple of days, he and his partners would be able to pocket the profits and unload the property, which would then become someone else’s problem. When O’Bannon returned, Northwood planned to charge the hired gun with maintaining security within the camp itself, and that included quashing any rumors about evil spirits and other such hogwash.

  After rising from his seat and stretching his lanky frame, Northwood bent over the oil lamp on his desk, intending to snuff out the flame and retire to his quarters for the evening.

  As his hand reached for the knob on the burner, the screaming started outside.

  Chapter Six

  Murphy let Loco approach the wagon first, preferring to hold back and watch for signs of an ambush. Unlike his Apache friend, the hired gun was not as eager to go rushing in until he’d taken a few moments to study the lay of the land. An eager man often became a dead man, in Murphy’s experience.

  From a closer vantage point, the wagon appeared to have veered off the trail slightly, sinking one of its wheels in a deep rut. The pair of Irish Draughts pulling the van were struggling valiantly but vainly to get the wagon back on the trail. Unless the wheel was damaged, Murphy thought that he and Loco could use their mounts to help free the wagon easily enough.

  Loco whistled and motioned for Murphy to ride in, signaling that everything was above board. Still wary and mindful of his surroundings, Murphy goaded his horse into a trot and advanced toward the stranded wagon.

  As he rode closer, he saw Loco dismount and walk over to greet another man who had climbed down off the wagon. The stranger was an older, portly gentleman wearing a gaudy, colorful jacket and a stovepipe hat. The two men were smiling and shaking hands, suggesting that they were more than casual acquaintances.

  “Murphy O’Bannon,” Loco said as Murphy drew up and climbed off his horse. “I’d like you to meet Professor Archibald Roop.”

  “Professor Roop,” Murphy said, extending a hand which the paunchy professor shook with unbridled exuberance. “We were just talking about you.” He shifted his gaze to Loco. “What’re the odds?”

  Loco shrugged as if he had no idea what Murphy was talking about.

  “It’s very good to meet you, Mr. O’Bannon,” Roop said, finally letting go of Murphy’s hand. “I was just telling Loco what good fortune it is to have you two come along. I’m afraid I must have dozed off and wandered off the road. I must admit, my stamina’s not what it used to be.”

  “It happens,” Murphy said. He glanced at the words painted on the side of the van. Professor Roop’s Mystical Curiosities and Oddities. “Let me take a look at that wheel before we lose all the light. Wanna join me, Loco?”

  “I was just—” Loco began.

  “I might need some help,” Murphy insisted.

  “We’ll be right back, Professor,” Loco promised, and followed Murphy to the back of the wagon.

  “You want to tell me what the hell’s going on here?” Murphy hissed when they rounded the back of the wagon.

  “What?” Loco asked innocently.

  “What do you mean, what?” Murphy spat. “You tell me a story about this professor of yours, and the next thing I know he’s here blocking the trail? It’d be too far a stretch to call that coincidence.”

  “I told you earlier I asked the Great Spirit for help,” Loco explained. “Well, here it is.”

  “So, Professor Potbelly here is the answer to your prayers?” Murphy looked unconvinced.

  “There’s no need to be rude about it,” Loco replied, slightly miffed. “Give it a chance. By morning, you’ll see things in a different light. Trust me.
”

  Murphy looked down at the stuck wheel and sighed. “I hope so,” he said, “because it’s getting too dark to see much of anything now. We’ll have to wait until morning to get this cart back on the trail. Might as well set up camp for tonight.”

  “Agreed,” Loco said. He followed Murphy back to the front of the wagon, where Professor Roop was waiting patiently.

  “We can get you going again, but I’m afraid it’ll have to wait until morning,” Murphy said. “I hope that won’t inconvenience you too much.”

  “Not at all,” Roop assured him. “I’ll be happy for the company. Loco and I have some catching up to do. And I’m looking forward to getting to know you, Mr. O’Bannon.” He said the last part with a twinkle in his eye that left Murphy feeling a bit disconcerted.

  Though he wasn’t overly fond of making camp so close to the trail, Murphy knew there was no help for it. They couldn’t very well leave the wagon there; it would likely be stripped clean by sunup. He and Loco would have to take turns keeping watch just as they’d done on the previous night.

  Murphy and Loco tended to their horses while Roop unhitched the two Draughts for the night. When the animals were taken care of and secured, the three men gathered around a small fire Loco had built. Roop produced beef and potatoes, as well as coffee, and set about cooking the meal while Murphy and Loco arranged their bedrolls. When the food was prepared, they ate heartily while Loco and Roop engaged in lively conversation, mostly concerning Loco’s exploits since the two had last seen each other. Murphy remained relatively silent, speaking only when asked a direct question.

  With the meal consumed, each man sat beside the fire with a tin cup of stout coffee. Roop, who had been jovial up to that point, assumed a serious demeanor and regarded Loco.

  “So,” he said, “the Anasazi have escaped their prison.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Loco confirmed, nodding. “As usual, the owners were greedy. They dug too deep. The tomb was breached before I knew what happened.”

  “You know about these Anasazi?” Murphy asked Roop.

  “Of course,” the professor replied. “I’m the one that asked Loco to keep an eye on things at the Vulture. I expected this might happen.” Roop eyed Murphy closely. “What I didn’t expect, however, was your arrival, Mr. O’Bannon. I must say, it’s a fortuitous turn of events.”

  “Call me Murphy,” the hired gun insisted. “And I suppose it depends on your point of view as to how fortuitous it was.” Murphy was still too wary to go counting his four-leaf clovers just yet.

  Roop surprised Murphy by laughing. “That may well be true, Murphy. But it might startle you to know that I’ve been anticipating meeting you for quite some time. I have to admit, I was becoming a bit impatient, in fact.”

  “Why would you be looking forward to meeting me?” Murphy asked suspiciously. “I’d never heard your name until Loco mentioned it. What could you possibly know about me?”

  “More than would make you comfortable, I can guarantee that,” Roop said. “The incident with your sister, for starters.”

  Murphy dropped his coffee and sprang to his feet as if a scorpion had just stung him on the ass. “The hell? That happened over twenty years ago, and the only other people who know about it are sleeping in the bone orchard.”

  “Apparently not,” Loco said, looking quizzically between Murphy and Roop.

  “Calm down, Murphy,” Roop said soothingly. “We’re all friends here. No need to get your feathers all ruffled.”

  “You and Loco might be friends,” Murphy said, “but we’ve only just met. And you’re telling me you know something about my past that I’ve kept to myself since I was a kid?”

  “Yes, just as I knew all about Loco when I met him in that stable in Pinos Altos. Go ahead, ask him. I’m sure he’ll confirm it.”

  Loco nodded. “It’s true. Professor Roop knew about my trouble with the tribe as well as my dependence on liquor.”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible,” Murphy said, staring at Roop through squinted eyes.

  “It’s not necessary that you understand,” Roop said impatiently. “But it is imperative that you believe. To that end, let me spell it out for you. When you were eleven, your family left Virginia to stake their claim in the western frontier. Your family consisted of you, your parents, and your younger sister. Her name was Kate. Your destination was the Kansas Territory. Shall I continue?”

  Murphy said nothing. He simply stood there looking at Roop, his expression unreadable.

  “Something happened along the border between Kentucky and Missouri,” Roop went on. “Your camp was attacked one night, and your sister was taken. She was never found. Your father maintained that it had been an Indian attack until his death several years later. But you never believed that, did you, Murphy?”

  “I know what I saw,” Murphy mumbled softly. “And it wasn’t any Indian.”

  “Then what was it?” Roop asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s not quite true, is it?” Roop prompted.

  Murphy was silent as a wave of long-suppressed memories flashed before his eyes. Kate, small and terrified and screaming, being dragged into the woods by something which resembled a monstrous half-decayed deer walking on two legs. Murphy had wanted to run after it and save his sister, but he’d been nothing more than a frightened boy, and he had frozen with fear. By the time his Ma and Pa had emerged from their bedrolls, frantic and confused, Kate was gone.

  It was if she’d never really been there at all.

  “I don’t know what it was,” Murphy reiterated, “but it wasn’t an Indian. It was some kind of—” His words trailed off as he realized he had no way of completing his sentence without sounding completely addle-headed.

  “A monster?” Roop finished for him.

  “I reckon that’s close enough,” Murphy admitted.

  Roop took a loud slurp of coffee and leaned his considerable frame back against a large rock. “The creature you saw was a Wendigo,” he said. “I’m sure it’s of no comfort to you now, but there was nothing you could have done to save your sister, Murphy.”

  “If I’d been older,” Murphy protested. “If I’d had a gun—”

  “No normal bullet forged by man could have harmed a Wendigo,” Roop explained. “Like the Anasazi, the Wendigo is an evil spirit. There are other wicked and iniquitous creatures roaming this world as well. That’s why I need good, fearless men such as Loco and yourself—to help offset the danger that these monsters represent to humanity.”

  Murphy eyed the professor uncertainly.

  “You’re wondering if I’m crazy as a loon,” Roop guessed correctly.

  “I was pondering on it,” Murphy confessed.

  “Then you’ve never seen or heard anything else you couldn’t explain?”

  “Of course I have,” Murphy replied. “Quite a bit, in fact. That’s why I was willing to believe Loco’s story. But none of this clarifies how you managed to know so much about me.”

  “Show Professor Roop the hat,” Loco said.

  “What?”

  “The one that fell out of the sky,” Loco clarified.

  “Oh,” Murphy said. He rose and went to his saddlebag to retrieve that straw hat. Walking back to the small campfire, he proffered it to the professor, who took it and gave it a cursory inspection.

  “That’s one of McCoy’s,” Roop said, grinning. “He’s always losing those damned things. Good thing they’re cheap where he comes from.”

  “China?” Murphy asked. “I say that because it mentions China on a little tag inside the hat.”

  The professor laughed a good spell at that remark, causing both Murphy and Loco no little bit of confusion.

  “McCoy’s from Virginia,” Roop explained when he could finally catch his breath to talk. “I doubt he’s ever stepped a foot in China.”

  “You’ve never mentioned this McCoy before,” Loco said. “Is he a wrangler too?”

  Murphy glanced at Loco,
wondering about the Apache’s sudden interest in horse tenders. He decided to keep quiet about it.

  “He prefers the term handler,” Roop said, “but it’s the same difference. A pretty good one, too.”

  “Sounds like someone I’d like to meet,” Loco said.

  “Hang around about a hundred years and you can,” Roop said, then abruptly changed the subject. “Now, back to you, Murphy.”

  “I’m just wondering where I fit in to all of this,” Murphy said truthfully.

  “Let’s just say that there are only a few individuals in this world who interest me,” Roop said. “I make it my business to know all that I can about them, because I need to decide which ones to recruit and which to leave be.”

  Murphy bent over the coffee pot and refilled his tin cup before finally sitting back down. He took a sip and looked the professor in the eye.

  “So, which one am I?” he asked.

  “You’re definitely someone I want on my team,” Roop replied without hesitation. “I happen to believe you’d fit in rather nicely. But the final decision is up to you. I can’t decide for you any sooner than I could catch a weasel asleep.”

  Murphy shook his head and grinned. “It might help if I knew exactly what I was signing up for. You haven’t been exactly clear on that point.”

  “Really?” Roop asked. “I thought I had been. I want you to hunt and kill the things that go bump in the night. I want you to help rid this world of monsters like the one that took your sister, and I want you to protect and save innocent people in the process. That’s the basic job description in a nutshell. If you accept, you’ll be partnered with Loco. Most of my people work in two-man teams, but I seem to be a man short at the moment.”

  “You have someone quit on you?” Murphy wondered.

  “In a manner of speaking. The job pays eight hundred dollars a month, plus any additional expenses incurred.”

  Murphy spat a mouthful of coffee into the fire. “Eight hundred? That’s a lot of money.”

  “Fair compensation,” Roop said, “considering you’ll be habitually dealing with creatures which will kill and eat you without hesitation. Most people, however, aren’t in this business solely for the money.”