Drovers and Demons

by Scott Langrel

  “I’ve lived the last ten years as a hired gun,” Murphy said. “My moral compass may be a bit rusty for your taste.”

  “Nonsense,” Roop said dismissively. “I know what’s in your heart, Murphy. Maybe better than you do. I need people who won’t back down from a fight.”

  “Then I’m your man,” Murphy said. “What about my job at the Vulture?”

  “Take their money, same as Loco. It’ll be a benefit having two wranglers employed at the mine.”

  “Wranglers?” Murphy asked. “That’s the second time I’ve heard that term in the past few minutes.”

  “The job title,” Roop said, shrugging. “You know horse wranglers? Well, instead of horses, you’ll be wrangling…other things.”

  “Which brings us back to the Anasazi,” Loco said. “Now that Murphy’s with us, how do we go about stopping them?”

  “You destroy them,” Roop said offhandedly, as if the answer was obvious.

  “We can’t just put them back in the cave and seal it up?” Murphy asked.

  “Can you work magic?” the professor retorted.

  “Magic? No,” Murphy answered honestly.

  “Then you won’t be able to herd them back into their tomb, much less seal it up again. Your only option is to take them out.”

  “So they can be killed?” Loco asked.

  “With the proper weapons, yes,” Roop said. “You have knives that will do the job, but you’ll have to get close enough to use them. That could be dangerous.”

  “Wait a minute,” Murphy interrupted. “He has magic knives?”

  “I equip all my wranglers with the tools they’ll need for the job,” Roop confirmed.

  “No wonder you don’t carry a gun,” Murphy grunted, giving Loco a sideways look.

  Loco shrugged and suppressed a grin.

  “I’m not much of a knife fighter, myself,” Murphy said.

  “Then it’s a good thing what I’ve got for you isn’t a knife,” Roop said as he rose and walked over to his wagon. There was the sound of rummaging along with a few muffled curses. At length, the professor reappeared with what looked like a sawed-off rifle.

  “This,” Roop said with noticeable pride, “is the Exterminator. It’s a Winchester ’73 with a few modifications. As you can see, the barrel has been shortened to twelve inches and quite a bit of the stock has been removed. This makes the gun more maneuverable in tight spots. Also, the lever loop has been enlarged for easier access while wearing gloves. It was customized by Benjamin Tyler Henry himself.” He handed the gun to Murphy, who studied it at arm’s length.

  “It’s cute,” the hired gun admitted. “But it’s neither as practical as a full rifle for accuracy nor a pistol for speed and convenience. I’d be twice as deadly with my Frontier over this.”

  “Against human adversaries, perhaps,” Roop said with a knowing smile. “But your revolver can’t stop a demon or ghoul dead in its tracks. This weapon can.”

  Murphy examined the gun more closely. “Aside from the obvious customization, it looks like a regular ’73 to me. What’s so special about it?”

  “Cycle a round and take a close look at the bullet,” Roop suggested.

  Murphy worked the gun’s lever twice, being careful to notice where the ejected round landed. He picked the cartridge up and held it near the light of the campfire. Upon closer inspection he noticed tiny markings engraved in the lead of the bullet. They were almost too small to make out, and they appeared to glow faintly in the darkness.

  “What’s this?” he asked as he stared at the shimmering engravings.

  “Magical and religious symbols,” the professor answered. “Collectively, they give the bullet the power to damage most supernatural beings.”

  “This is a .44-40 round,” Murphy observed. “If it’s just the cartridge that’s special, why can’t I simply use them in my revolver?”

  “Keep an eye on the engravings,” Roop instructed.

  As Murphy watched, the glow began to fade from the markings. In less than thirty seconds, they produced no illumination at all.

  “There’s nothing special about the cartridges when they’re fed into the gun’s magazine,” Roop explained. “When you work the lever, it not only feeds a round into the chamber, but it also works a mechanism which stamps the symbols into the lead, imbuing the bullet with magical properties. Unfortunately, the power of the symbols fades quickly, so you can forget about stamping a bunch of bullets for future use.”

  “There’s always a catch,” Murphy said, eyeing the gun with a newfound respect.

  “That’s the way of the universe,” Roop shrugged.

  “So magical weapons can kill the Anasazi in any form?” Loco asked.

  “Assuming you can hit them with either bullet or blade, then yes,” the professor replied. “Of course, killing one of them while they are in possession of a person’s body will also kill the person in question, so discretion is definitely advised.”

  “Surely they can be expelled by a rite of exorcism,” Loco remarked.

  “Oh, they can,” Roop agreed. “But, as you know, that rite takes time and preparation. You can’t simply snap your fingers.”

  “So, there’s a good chance that innocent people are going to die,” Murphy reasoned, reading between the lines.

  “Innocent people die all the time,” Roop said, shaking his head sadly. “That’s also the way of the universe. But sometimes a few must perish in order to save many. I know you boys will do the best you can.”

  “Well,” Murphy said, “we can take this up again in the morning. We’re going to have to get some rest if we’re going to get your wagon back on the road and make it back to the Vulture before noon. I can take the first watch.”

  “There’s no need for a watch,” Roop assured him. “Nothing will disturb our camp this night. You have my word on that.”

  Murphy started to object, but fell silent as Loco crawled into his bedroll with no complaint. Unconvinced, but not wanting to offend the professor, the hired gun settled into his own bed, certain that sleep would not find him before dawn.

  Ten minutes later, he was sawing logs to beat the band.

  Chapter Seven

  The sun was peeking over the eastern horizon when Murphy awoke. He felt uncharacteristically groggy, as if he’d spent the previous night painting his tonsils with the cheapest rotgut in the territory. The first thing he noticed when he was able to focus his eyes was that Loco’s bedroll was empty. The second thing he noticed was that Professor Roop’s wagon was gone. A small fire was burning in the pit they’d used last night.

  Groaning, he managed to get himself into a sitting position. Checking beside his bedroll, he saw that the Exterminator was lying where he’d placed it before turning in the night before. That, at least, proved that the whole conversation with Roop hadn’t been some kind of sketchy dream. Which was what it felt like, truth be told.

  “I see you’re finally awake,” Loco called as he sauntered back from his horse, where he’d retrieved a pouch of coffee from his saddlebag. “I thought I might have to start kicking you to get you to stir.”

  “If that’s the same coffee from last night, I don’t want any,” Murphy mumbled as he ran his fingers through his hair. “I feel like I’ve been on a three-day bender.”

  “It happens when you meet Roop for the first time,” Loco commented, bending to pour the coffee into a pot of water hanging over the fire. “It gets better each time after that. I feel fine this morning.”

  “You got the wagon unstuck already?” Murphy asked.

  “Nope,” Loco replied, shaking his head. “It was gone when I woke up. Roop comes and goes at his leisure. I figure he must have been done talking.”

  “That wheel was stuck pretty good,” Murphy argued.

  “Was it?” Loco asked. “Or did you just see what Roop wanted you to see?”

  “My head hurts,” Murphy complained. “And it’s too early to be talking in circles. Quit barking at a knot and spit out
what you mean to say.”

  “I’m not trying to say anything,” Loco responded indifferently. “You had a lot piled on your plate last night. You’d best take some time to digest it all. After that, if you have any questions, I’ll answer them best I can.”

  “For the love of God,” Murphy groaned, rubbing at his forehead. “Just make the damn coffee so we can pack up and get going. I’d like to make it back to the Vulture by lunchtime.”

  “I hope your disposition improves dramatically,” Loco mumbled. “Otherwise, it’s gonna be a long ride back.”

  Breakfast was not nearly as extravagant as supper the night before, consisting only of cornmeal mush and coffee. When they had finished eating, they loaded their bedrolls and resumed their journey back to the mine. Within half an hour back on the trail, Murphy had shaken most of the cobwebs from his brain, allowing his mood to brighten somewhat.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said to Loco. “This is a pretty sweet deal you’ve hooked me up with.”

  “How so?” Loco asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Eight hundred dollars a month for killing things that need killing anyways,” Murphy replied. “I’ve killed my share of men, but I never felt especially good about it, not even when they really deserved it. Maybe I have been looking for some kind of redemption after all, and maybe this is it.”

  “I’ll remind you of this conversation the first time we’re knee-deep in a brood of vampires,” Loco said dryly.

  “Those things really exist?”

  “Quite a few things exist that you wouldn’t believe. Listen, Murphy, this is serious business. The odds of someone in our line of work living to see old age are slim to none. That gun Roop gave you? You think it’s just been lying around waiting for you to come along? Odds are someone was using it last week, maybe even yesterday. Whoever it was, they’re buzzard food now. Eight thousand a month wouldn’t begin to cover the risks you’re going to be taking.”

  “You seem awful jaded,” Murphy said reproachfully. “Seems to me this is a rather noble calling.”

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t noble. I’m merely pointing out the danger involved.”

  “My life has been nothing but danger since I turned fifteen,” Murphy commented. “The only thing I can say for myself is I’ve never backed down from anything, not even when I should have. And I’ve never forgotten the thing that took my sister and tore my family apart.” He patted the Exterminator, which was secured firmly between him and the pommel of his saddle. “Roop gave me the tool to square that sorry affair, which I aim to do the first chance I get. Until then, I’ll do whatever he asks of me.”

  “So it’s not just about the money,” Loco observed. “It’s about revenge, too.”

  “You’re an observant man, Loco. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  “Revenge is often a fool’s errand,” Loco remarked.

  “Life is a fool’s errand,” Murphy said, and fell into the silence of his own thoughts.

  ***

  Aside from being abandoned, the Vulture looked as though a sizable twister had swept through it. Tools and other implements lay scattered all over the ground, along with more than a few abandoned rifles and pistols. For the most part, the buildings appeared to be structurally sound, though very few of the glass window panes had survived intact. One of the bunkhouses had partially burned and was still smoldering, sending thin tendrils of black, sooty smoke streaming into the arid afternoon sky.

  “Damn!” Murphy spat as he and Loco rode cautiously through the camp. “This whole place is a bag of nails. Looks like we definitely missed the action while we were away.”

  “You were the one who insisted we leave,” Loco reminded him, unable to hide the irritation in his voice.

  “So? If you’d been here, you’d be dead or missing right now,” Murphy argued.

  “You don’t know that,” Loco countered.

  “So, what? You would have been able to take on all the Anasazi with a couple of knives? And that’s assuming you weren’t ambushed in your cot. You heard Roop. We’d need magic to seal the Anasazi back up, and we ain’t got magic.”

  “Roop asked you if you knew how to work magic,” Loco corrected. “I can work magic. Before I was drummed out of my tribe, I was on the path to becoming a medicine man.”

  Murphy pulled his horse to a sudden stop and looked at Loco. “So you can banish the spirits back into the cave?” he asked.

  “No,” Loco admitted hesitantly. “I don’t have that kind of power. But I can certainly protect myself, if it comes down to it.”

  “Bully for you,” Murphy said. “What we need, however, is to shut down the Anasazi before they begin to spread, if they haven’t already.” He looked around the camp tentatively. “Let’s see if anyone’s still here hiding about.” He dismounted and retrieved the Exterminator from his saddle.

  Not trying to conceal his annoyance, Loco nonetheless followed suit. Unsheathing a long blade with various symbols etched into the metal, he followed Murphy over to the mine office. The building’s front door was standing ajar, and the office’s window had been smashed from the outside. Droplets of something red were splattered across the wooden steps leading up to the door. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what the crimson substance was.

  They paused at the door, each listening for the slightest hint of movement inside the building. No sound escaped through the open door; either the office was empty, or its occupants were unable or unwilling to make a sound. Nodding to Loco, Murphy gripped the Exterminator and eased the door fully open. It creaked on its hinges, making a sound like a dying, rattling breath.

  As cautious as a cat, Murphy stepped inside, allowing the muzzle of his gun to lead the way. Loco followed, pausing intermittently to glance over his shoulder in case someone or something was trying to sneak up on them from behind.

  The interior of the office was in shambles. Both Northwood’s heavy desk and chair had been violently overturned, and papers and other small items were scattered across the floor. Of Northwood himself—or anyone else, for that matter—there was no sign. There was, however, more blood on the floor, but only enough to suggest a minor wound, not a mortal one.

  “The door was forced open,” Loco whispered as they stood in the middle of the room. “Northwood probably tried to barricade himself in here.”

  “For all the good it did him, by the looks of it,” Murphy concurred. He motioned to a set of stairs leading to the second floor. “His room is up there, I think. Guess we’d better check it out.”

  “I’ll go first,” Loco offered. “White man make too much noise.”

  “You’re off your nut,” Murphy replied, but he allowed Loco to slide past him and take the lead up the stairs.

  “Blood trail’s leading up,” Loco observed, pointing to the small, intermittent stains on the tread. “Someone came this way.”

  Murphy nodded, his fingers inside the Exterminator’s lever, ready to chamber a round. Slowly, he followed Loco up the stairs and onto the landing of the dimly lit upper story. The top of the staircase emptied out into a sitting room of sorts, with several doors leading off to what were probably bedrooms or studies. Two of the doors stood unopen, but a third had been busted off its hinges. Loco moved toward the room with the ruined door, Murphy close on his heels.

  “What the hell is that smell?” Murphy hissed, scrunching his nose.

  “Soured blood would be my first guess,” Loco answered. “You don’t have a weak stomach, do you?”

  “Never bothered me before,” Murphy replied. They drew up on either side of the busted door and looked at each other. “Come on. We might as well get this over with.”

  They went through the doorway together, weapons held at the ready. In the dim light beyond the threshold lay a bedroom, probably the one Northwood slept in nightly. It had a lived-in feel about it, or it would have, had it not been for the recent bloodbath which had taken place in the room.

  “God Almighty!” Murphy gasped, rais
ing a hand to shield his nose and mouth. He looked around, unbelieving. “I’ve been in slaughterhouses that looked cleaner than this.”

  “You see any sign of Northwood?” Loco asked.

  “I get the feeling maybe he’s all over the place,” Murphy said. “There’s a piece of a finger over here by the foot of the bed.”

  “Shotgun’s over here on the floor,” Loco said, stooping to examine the weapon. “Both barrels have been fired. He put up a fight, at least.”

  “Not much of one, just from looking. Come on, let’s get the hell out of here. The walls are starting to close in on me.”

  Loco offered no argument as he followed Murphy out of the room and back down the stairs to the main floor. They didn’t linger inside the building, instead exiting to the parched, still surroundings of the camp outside. To Murphy’s eye, the other buildings no longer seemed deserted, but simply devoid of life. He suddenly had no doubt that the bunkhouses were occupied; it was just that the men inside them had taken their final breaths hours ago.

  “We have to check them out,” Loco said as if reading Murphy’s mind. “If nothing else, we have to make sure there are no Anasazi still hiding here.”

  “And if there aren’t?” Murphy asked.

  “Then they either retreated back into the mine or they’re in the town,” Loco reasoned.

  Murphy looked toward the mine entrance and frowned. “Then let’s get it over with,” he said. “If we have to go in that mine, I want to do it well before dark. Seems like that’s when the Anasazi are most active.”

  They walked to the closest bunkhouse and tried the door. It opened as far as a crack before it jammed up against something inside which blocked its path. Murphy leaned his weight against the door to no avail.

  “Something’s been pushed up against it,” he grunted. “They must have been trying to barricade themselves in.”

  “Might as well check the windows then,” Loco suggested. “There’s not a lot of glass left, anyway.”