by Jeff Strand
″There′s more where that came from, if you will come.″
″You could buy an army with this. Why′s it need to be me?″
″Bullets can′t kill this monster.″
″Course not,″ said Porter. ″What am I supposed to do? Grin it to death?″
″Everybody in these parts knows that Porter Rockwell can′t be harmed by bullet nor blade. That a holy man blessed you like Samson of old. Your long hair and you lead a charmed life. You coming with me is our only hope of killing what can′t be killed.″
Port admired the nugget again asking, ″Am I supposed to keep this for the job?″
The boy nodded. ″It′s to pay you to believe and have a little respect.″
Port glanced at the rustlers behind. ″Two-Toes, Red Cap, Saw-Tooth and you others, if I let you boys go...you leave the territory and I never want to see you again. Do we understand each other?″
The rustlers who knew they were facing a hanging, all nodded. Porter cut the bindings on the lead rustler and then the rest.
″You′re gonna listen to this kids tall tale and leave us out here? What about our horses?″ grumbled Two-Toes.
Port wheeled. ″You ain′t got horses anymore. Get going fore I change my mind.″
″You′re a gonna abandon us without guns or horses? Why that′s practically a death sentence.″
″I could use you up right now Turley, ″ Port snarled, emphasizing the slang for killing.
″We ain′t forgetting this.″ The rustlers shook their heads and begrudgingly started walking.
Whether they meant that in a positive or negative light Port no longer cared. The nugget was big enough to be worth twenty bounties and if Two-Toes and the others tried any more rustling, he would just snag them again for possibly a higher bounty. Things have a way of working themselves out.
Porter ushered the pack of horses after the kid down toward the southeast. They rode the better part of the day, all the while Porter asked the kid for more information.
″So why don′t bullets work?″
″We′ve tried shooting it, cutting at it, nothing penetrates the skin. Uncle Hezekiah lit some bonfires a couple nights back. It stays away out from the fire but the box canyon don′t have much wood left. And when the fires die down it comes back and feeds.″
″Feeds?″
″It′s a murderer, a cannibal, its eaten seven men and one woman,″ said the kid, looking away to wipe a tear. ″A monster killed my pa!″
″Your pa?″
The kid nodded. ″I wanna kill that bastard so bad, but there′s nothing I can do...yet.″
″Alright, answer me this. Why not just leave?″
″You saw the nugget. My uncle and the others won′t leave. They keep pulling the gold out of a fissure the river must have cut open this last spring. Uncle says by next year the river may change and we′ll never get back. He′s rich and crazy as Midas. Me? I just want revenge on that murderer.″
Port nodded, ″Can′t say I blame ya.″
As Port watched his back trail he saw the little antlered creature away out in the distance and this time he was sure there was no brush or shrubs to give illusion to the diminutive abomination.
The kid looked back and grinned.
″You seen those before?″ asked Port.
″Jackalopes? Yeah, some reckon they are lucky, others say an omen of death.″
″What do you think?″
″I know they are.″
They reached Lee′s Ferry on the Colorado river by late afternoon. Porter arranged for his newly acquired herd of horses to stay there while he and the kid would be ferried to Deacon′s camp across the river. Once across what was known as Pariah′s Crossing, they followed a narrow trail upriver, half of the time in the river it seemed. Porter marveled at the stark canyon walls, they were carved deep red, streaked black and burning orange like fire in stone.
″I′ve been here before kid and there ain′t no canyon like you′re telling me.″
″There is. You just have to know where to look. It′s not far now.″
Sure enough, just around a long bend in the river a wide wet sandbar opened up along the cliff face and tucked into the slanting golden shadows of this grand canyon was a slot canyon no wider than six feet. It reached up hundreds of feet to the mesa above. The closer Port looked, it didn′t seem to be a force of erosion, instead it was a great crack in the high desert tableau; the birthing pains of an earthquake not long ago.
Beneath the musky scent of the river, Porter smelt the stink of death. This unhallowed natural hall reeked of grim loss and decay. The horses threatened to bolt and each rider was forced to dismount and lead.
At one point Port looked back and saw the jackalope again. He guessed it had to be a different one because there was no way such an animal could have crossed the wild Colorado. He wasn′t superstitious but he started to wonder about omens.
They walked through the serpentine canyon for only a few hundred yards when it opened up to the oblong size of a few square acres. Sunlight only touched down from the high canyon walls in a few spots. The ground was river rock and sand. A variety of tents, makeshift huts and lean-to′s were scattered throughout and a few mangy horses stood in a dilapidated corral made of rope and driftwood. The men looked worse. Haggard and hollow-eyed, like beaten dogs they watched Port fearfully.
Port′s gut told him they were up to no good but considering few if any wore gun belts, he didn′t figure they could be much danger.
A man with yellow hair fading to grey came forward to take his nephew in his burly arms. He then faced Porter. ″I′m Hezekiah Deacon, I want to thank you for coming.″
″′Lo, but I haven′t done anything yet.″
Deacon smiled saying, ″But you came. I was telling the men about that incident in Murderer′s Bar and I told 'em you were the only man who could take care of this.″
Port looked shrewdly at Deacon. ″How do you know about any of that?″
″Bloody Creek Mary told me, after you left following the incident with Boyd Stewart.″ He grinned at that, knowing full well it was more than just an incident. Porter narrowly escaped being hung following a thousand dollar shooting match — which he won.
″Don′t tell me you′re friends with that polecat Stewart.″
″No, but Bloody Creek Mary said you killed some monsters. Scariest things she ever saw.″
Port grimaced, recalling the event brought no pride or joy, just nightmares. ″I was in the wrong place, wrong time. We were blessed to escape alive.″
″I take it my nephew told you what we need here?″
Porter′s eyes caressed the hollow, taking in every feature where something could hide. He had suspected a trap, but the broken look of the men and stink of death spoke that this was no trap for him.
″He told me enough. When can I see this thing for myself? Has it got a lair?″
″It must, but we′ve never seen it. Lives somewhere up the canyon, possibly up top, we don′t really know. No one has dared follow the beast.″
″So it′s a dumb animal?″
Deacon′s face went serious as the grave, ″It ain′t dumb, Lord no, this thing thinks and it hates and it relish′s what it does. It′s an evil spawn of Cain himself.″
Porter rubbed a broad hand over his forehead and adjusted his hat. His hand instinctively felt for his pistol and the deadly comfort it gave. He had never heard of a beast that couldn′t be harmed by flying lead, though the creatures in California were damn close. What could this be? ″If I take care of this...beast...?″
Deacon wrinkled his face. ″Didn′t the boy give you the nugget?″
″He did, but I wanna hear it from you.″
″You′re right, if the monster can be killed. You deserve more. We just aint been able to mine more because of that thing.″
Port folded his arms nodding, then pulled his Valley-Tan from his duster. ″What makes you think I can take care of this?″
″You�
��ve got a charmed life, especially for a gunfighter and lawman. Word is no one can harm you with a bullet or blade, you′re a modern-day Samson. If anybody can face this thing it′d be you.″
″I been hearing that a lot lately, though I′ve had some folks trying to test that.″
Deacon grunted and shook his head. ″Straight up that wash, is where we think the beast is. Night will be the best time to try and trap it for you to kill...somehow. It only comes out at night″
″I only use the same tools as any man,″ said Port gesturing to his navy-colt and bowie. ″But sometimes you need a steady hand at the wheel.″
″You certainly do.″
″I am tuckered, wouldn′t mind a bit of shut eye before twilight.″
Deacon showed Port to his tent and said, ″We′ll holler when we′re ready.″
All of it made Port uneasy but he was dog tired from scoping out the rustlers all night and he truly wanted to make things right for the Worrell kid. Why did that name seem familiar? He drifted off to uneasy dreams and the heat seemed to climb making him sweat more than he should have this time of year. Jackalopes danced in his dreams, slapping their feet against the naked desert. A warning that something was coming?
Specters haunted his sleep and something stole over him until...
″Mr. Rockwell, its time.″
Port roused himself and felt for his gun belt, it was gone! As was his bowie knife.
Nothing to do but meet this challenge head on.
Stepping outside dusk washed blue black to the horizon that barely retained a shade of blood. Stars like serpent eyes blinked overhead and Port could swear that he didn′t recognize the constellations for a brief moment.
A handful of small fires blazed in a wide circular pattern and Port wondered at the devious mannerisms of Deacon and his men. ″What′s all this?″
″We′ve called out the beast to take care of you.″
Port furrowed his brow. ″Did I hear you right?″
″You did murderer!″ accused John Worrell, his voice almost cracking to splinters.
It was then Port looked at the ground and where the fires were placed. A great pentagram was drawn out on the ground surrounding him, alien glyphs written in blood were spaced between the dark stars points and Port was in the dead center. Alone.
″Now we′ve all heard the tales on how you cannot be harmed by bullet or blade. I never believed them myself, but hell we′ve been taking shots at you for three weeks now and haven′t been able to hit you once,″ laughed Deacon as if it were all in good fun.
″What′d I ever do to you?″ said Port stalling for a moment as he eyed the canyon walls watching for a way out.
″You killed my Pa! Frank Worrell!″
Port rubbed his chin. ″Yep. Got him right in the belt buckle. Thought your name was familiar.″
Deacon continued, ″And we can all see now you′re unrepentant son of a bitch too. No remorse for your killing!″
Port chuckled, ″I ain′t never killed anyone who didn′t need killing. Frank got what was coming to him. Everyone always does.″
He might have taunted them further waiting for an opening to make good his escape when an unnatural chill fell on him like the mantle of winter itself. It was a cold full to the bone and it drained any love of life Port held. Only a dim recollection of what he cared for remained, drowning in a sea of emptiness and despair.
Then he saw the eyes.
Eyes crimson and full of hate, crowned with sharp tangled antlers.
From out of the ethereal abyss the demon jackalope stood before Porter with a wide twitching nose. His matted fur was a slain brown and long black claws hung from his paws. An orange aura hung over the demon looking like flames about ready to boil over in stark contrast to the overwhelming cold emanating from this forgotten specimen of hell.
″The Zuni′s call him Átahsaia, and we decided that if you couldn′t be killed by mortal means we would summon a demon to do it for us.″
″Jackalope demon, that′s diabolical.″
″Indeed it is,″ confirmed Deacon. ″I was able to summon and control him through this book of black magic I stole from a man name of Godbe. I reckon I′ll get better use of it than that Brit.″
″You make a deal with the devil you′re gonna pay more in interest than you ever bargained.″
″Don′t lecture me murderer. We got you! And you′re gonna be the one to pay!″
″Want your nugget back then?″ Anything to buy some time, Port hoped even angering them might give him something to work with, but not this time.
″Átahsaia destroy him!″
The monster lunged and Port dodged, but the wicked claws still tore his jacket to shreds. Trying to roll away, Port was slammed to the ground, the air bursting from his lungs under the titanic pressure.
Port swept a leg out to trip the demon, but it merely hopped over his attack.
The treacherous men laughed at the spectacle calling out Átahsaia to slay their hated foe.
The Jackalope dropped down on all fours and tried to gore Porter with its hideous antlers, but Port grabbed the furthest one out and used the momentum against it, driving the monster into the ground.
Back legs kicked out sent Port reeling. Before he knew it Átahsaia was on top.
Turning blue from the pressure of a bear-sized creature on top of him, Port dazedly thought he saw a small typical enough jackalope slapping the ground with its big foot. No, it was scraping its foot along the ground, clearing a fresh trail of earth over the old. And Port understood.
Crushed down, Port′s boot cut across a portion of the pentagram′s circle. A whirlwind rushed through the gap and the monster sensed freedom turning its attention from Port to its unbidden masters outside, those foolish mortals who had dared try to command it.
″Now you boys messed up. I know the secret!″ Port wiped clean a wide swath of the blood-soaked ground opening the door.
Like slick lightning Átahsaia was through the gap.
Taking a precious breather for the moment, Port marveled at the look of shock and fear wafting over Deacon and his men like palpable smoke.
The monster took one of Deacon′s men by the neck and throttled him. Another was impaled by the antlers and flung away, jets of blood spraying the already tainted ground.
Gunshots fired birthed in chaotic abandon, but nothing harmed the demon.
Porter scuttled out of the damnable pentagram toward the canyon wall where the little brown jackalope had been. It was gone, but Port sensed it had stood there for good reason. Sure enough his bowie knife, gun belt and cartridges were lying there.
He checked the revolver, loaded and prepared to take whatever presented itself.
But all was now silent and gone. Deacon, Worrell and their handful of haggard men were all on the ground, bleeding out from voracious wounds.
Átahsaia was nowhere to be seen, but that vile cold still filled the camp.
Shadows moved out in the gloom and Porter prepared to give it his all against the devils jackrabbit.
Things swept in, surrounding. Chuckles and haunting whispers came and dread footfalls washed over the blood soaked sands. Voices crept and the dying hellish flames only made Port blind to the encroaching mass. A figure moved into the half-light.
″Told you we wouldn′t forget,″ said Two-Toes with a jutting grin.
Port then saw Red Cap leveling his Sharps rifle and Saw-Tooth his scattergun, the others close behind. ″I never doubted you Turley.″
″How′d you kill all these feller′s? And where is that nugget I saw and more? Speak or Red Cap and Saw-Tooth are gonna open you up.″
″You boys should run.″
Two-Toes Turley gave a charity chuckle. ″You ain′t immortal. You can′t use us all up.″
″No, but he can.″
Átahsaia loomed behind Two-Toes and rammed his blood-red antlers into the rustlers back. Rearing up, it flung his body away into the night. Red Cap′s Sharps rifle sang out once b
efore he died but Saw-Tooth only screamed. The others full of terror ran gibbering a brutal moment before Átahsaia bound after them silencing them swiftly. The bone-crunching savagery lasted but a few seconds.
Porter held his ground, waiting for the demon to return, all went still and though the darkness was hard as obsidian, nothing materialized and the feverish cold vanished.
Looking down, Porter saw the little jackalope beside his leg, standing on its hind quarters. He reached down to its eye level and said, ″Thanks.″
***
The next day as Porter gathered his horses from the corrals at Lee′s Ferry, old Lee called out, ″Will you take a look at that?″ He cocked his rifle and took aim at a jackalope standing out on the flats beside the river.
Port put his hand on the barrel. ″Oh no, John. That′s a friend that is and good luck to boot. Don′t ever try and shoot one and that′s the God′s truth.″
MILES AND MILES STILL
ERIC S. GRIZZLE
″DO YOU NEED HELP getting up the steps?″ Lexi asked her ten-year-old son.
Alex shook his head. His mother shifted the infant in her arms that gurgled, and pumped her fists, raging against the raw day.
The OverTrail bus, its sides painted with a broad swath of grey and accented with a horizontal zigzag of yellow, and a light blue line cutting through a faint orange setting sun, waited for the three of them to board. Passengers shifted in their seats, in the aisles, and their silhouettes were a waving mass of darkness behind the tinted windows.
″Are you sure?″
″I′m fine, mom,″ Alex said.
He smiled at her to show that he could maneuver up the steps with his walkers. It wasn′t easy having cerebral palsy and having others always looking at him, laughing and snickering. So what if sometimes he talked funny and had difficulty walking? Sometimes, he hated that he wasn′t normal. Both children and adults could be cruel when they didn′t understand. But he was determined to always be strong.
″Really,″ he said. ″I can do it.″
″You know that we really had to get away for awhile, right?″
Alex looked up at the great, strange Texas sky, wondering if this would be the last time he′d see it. He loved it here. Thin clouds huddled far above, masking the sun′s full brilliance, and the sun was a bright halo in a dim sky. Spring often brought changes to El Paso, the only city Alex had known during his ten years, but morning seemed exceptionally unusual. It was almost disheartening, but he was going to be strong.
