by Tim Curran
Because the sand was peopled now with lurching, angular forms that reached out for him, clutched at him. The wagon rocked and seemed to be pushed gradually by the force of the wind. Longtree held on, figuring it was his only link to the real.
The wind subsided a bit and he could see no forms through his squinted eyes…save for one.
In the maelstrom of raging, spitting sand, there was a shape-tall, skeletal, ragged. Bits of it flapped and shredded in the wind. It seemed to be looking in Longtree's direction and there was something about it that seized up his heart and made him want to wail like a child. It stood so still in that churning sand, impossibly still. Nothing living could withstand this, even the horses had been hammered down now.
Yet, it stood there, perfectly still and Longtree could almost feel its eyes on him, feel that remorseless, glaring hatred that ate through him like acid.
Then it was gone.
Gradually, almost casually it seemed, the shape stalked off into the wind and tornadic sands until it faded away and became part of them. A few minutes later, the storm abated. Longtree lay there, skin raw from the kiss of pulverized rock and sand granules. He pulled himself up, his legs and boots buried in dirt. Shaking himself off and seeing to the horses-they were all right, just frightened and skittish. He soothed them and dragged himself back to the wagon.
The clouds were gone.
The stars were out, the moon. But the crazy thing, the thing that stomped him down hard and would not let him up was the fact that he was miles away from where he last remembered. And not two or three, but twenty or thirty, possibly more. The landscape by moonlight proved it. Flat, empty desert. No mesas or cliffs or towers of sedimentary rock carved by ancient seas.
In the bed of the wagon, the box was open.
The chief was gone.
15
Longtree told Moonwind the story, realizing now that he had finished, he was shivering. Despite the blazing fire and Moonwind's warm body pressed to his own, he was shivering.
"You ask me if I believe in the supernatural," he said, rubbing his tired eyes. "And I guess I'd have to say yes. The white man in me conjures up all sorts of rational explanations for what happened that night, but none of 'em fit."
Moonwind held onto him, looked upon him with great compassion.
Longtree just shook his head. "I know what you must think-either that I'm totally crazy or that I pissed-off that ugly old chief and he taught me a lesson. And maybe you'd be right on both counts."
This elicited a short, but welcome laugh from her. "You weren't crazy. You ran up against a medicine so powerful it reached out from the grave. Such things are not unknown to our peoples, Joseph."
"I suppose. Since I came to Wolf Creek, I been thinking about that old chief and how they said he was part of some ancient race. It gives me pause to think. Food for thought, don't you think?"
But Moonwind pulled him down next to her and would hear no more.
16
The next morning, Dr. Perry spent an hour or so with the cadaver of Dewey Mayhew.
With forceps, scalpel, and post mortem knife, he urged the body to give up its secrets. What it told him was nothing he didn't know or suspect: Mayhew, like the others, had been killed by a large predator. He was, for the most part, less mauled and mutilated than the others, given the fact that the beast had been surprised as it plied its trade on him. Mayhew's abdomen had been opened from crotch to mid-chest, but none of the viscera were disturbed. Death had been caused probably from massive bleeding and trauma brought on either by the abdominal wound or the wedge of flesh and muscle bitten from his throat. And given such injuries, shock had played a major part.
"That's about it," he told Wynona Spence.
Wynona nodded and draped a sheet back over the body.
Perry packed his instruments back in their respective cases. He'd brought his microscope along for minute examination of fluids and tissue. This told him nothing new either. The only interesting, but not surprising, thing was the discovery of several coarse hairs lodged in the wounds. These matching the ones Perry had taken from Nate Segaris' house exactly.
"Tell me, Wynona," he said. "How is Marion getting along?"
Wynona looked at him, then looked away. It might have meant nothing…but it might have meant everything. "Oh, fine, just fine."
"She ever come down?"
"No, she prefers solitude. I tend to her needs."
Perry just nodded. He supposed it was none of his affair. "I see."
She cleared her throat, fell into character. "I'll have to leave you now, Doctor," Wynona said. "I have an appointment to keep."
Perry badly wanted to ask with who, but he knew it wouldn't be polite. She was an odd woman, yes, but her affairs were her own business and no one else's. So he bit his tongue and said, "Go on, I'm pretty much done anyway."
Wynona grinned slightly. "If any of my customers get restless," she said, "do calm them…they've already been paid for." She laughed a morbid cackle. "It's my motto: 'No one gets out of here alive.'"
Perry just stared at her.
If anyone else had said it, he would have jumped down their throat. But Wynona? No, he couldn't bring himself to do it. He had known her since she was a baby. Her father had been one of Perry's few friends and one hell of a chess player. Wynona had always been a deadpan girl, buttoned up tighter than a corset. It was only in the past few years she'd developed this morose and aberrant sense of humor. Something her father always practiced so well. She was finally showing some life and Perry was not about to crush it. No, let her have that. Maybe, like her father, it made the grim nature of the business go down better. Merely human nature, he supposed. The same way medical students (even himself, once upon a time) made unwholesome and sometimes downright gruesome jokes about the cadavers they dissected.
Whatever it takes, Wynona, Perry thought, just do it.
"On your way, Wynona, you damn ghoul," he said.
She chuckled. "As you wish, sir."
Perry managed a smile himself, but it didn't last long. Too many things worried him these days. Just too many things.
Wynona hadn't been gone but a few minutes before Reverend Claussen came in, looking disturbed. "I think it's time we had a talk, Doctor."
Perry's drooping mustache seemed to droop a bit lower. "What could we possibly have to talk about, Reverend?"
"The well-being of our flock," Claussen said in all seriousness. "You tend to their physical wounds, I to their spiritual wounds and wants."
Dr. Perry wasn't a religious man. After his wife died during an influenza outbreak ten years before, he hadn't stepped foot in a church. "I'm listening."
"What do you know of the supernatural?"
Perry sat down, sighing. His eyes swept the shelves of chemicals and instruments. He didn't look too happy. "Not a damn thing."
"But you're an educated man," Claussen argued. "Surely you've read of such things."
"I have, Reverend, but it doesn't mean I know a damn thing about it. The supernatural is your province, not mine."
"Something is killing people, Doctor. Something inhuman."
"I'm aware of that, Reverend."
"Word has reached me that the Sheriff has decided to post a bounty on this beast," Claussen said. "To have it hunted down like a common wildcat. What do you think of this?"
Perry shrugged. "It's worth a try, I guess."
"I don't believe any hunter can hope to outwit this beast."
"I see." Perry pursed his lips and said, "You think we're dealing with something supernatural? Is this what you're getting at?"
"Yes. I believe this beast is no normal animal."
"I've already figured that much. But the damn thing's flesh and blood, Reverend. It's no ghost."
Claussen, a small and petulant man, stabbed a finger at Perry. "Ah, I never said anything of ghosts, Doctor. I'm referring to an old pagan superstition concerning the transmutation of man to animal." He stalked around as he said this, as if he we
re delivering a sermon. "Shapeshifting, it is called. The Indians believe in such things, it forms part of their pagan worships."
"Werewolf?" Perry said incredulously.
Claussen nodded. "That is the European term, I believe."
"Christ in Heaven, Claussen, have you lost your mind?"
"Not in the least."
Perry shook his head. "I'm a man of science. Men cannot transform themselves into animals. It's a physical impossibility."
"Regardless, Doctor," Claussen maintained, "history is full of the lore of shapeshifters. I studied the matter in some depth at the university. It forms a portion of the legendry of all cultures."
Perry grunted. "Of course it does. You're talking pagan religions, primitive peoples. Is it that odd that a man from a primitive society would consider himself in league with a creature he admires?"
"No, not at all. Unfortunately, we're not dealing with only backward cultures here, but advanced ones as well."
"I can't buy any of this." Perry just wasn't in the mood. His back was acting up and it felt like the muscles were knotted and tied. "It's ridiculous."
Claussen pressed his fingertips together, undaunted. "Are you aware, dear Doctor, that our own local Blackfeet tribe has a religious order called the Skull Society?" the Reverend asked. "This is true. An old prospector told me of this. He said that the initiates believe they can transform themselves into monsters."
"Forget about this, Reverend," Perry said calmly. "There are no monsters, no werewolves. If you start spreading this crap around, you're going to stir a lot of people up. Too many people in this town are looking for scapegoats for the murders and I don't want to see a lot of harmless Indians getting killed for some damn fool reason. There's been too much of that already."
Claussen looked insulted. "Harmless Indians?" he said. "Those savages? They've done their share of murdering I might remind you. They've caused dying-"
"There's been a lot of dying on both sides, Claussen," Perry interrupted. "Trust me, we've done more damage to the Indians than they'll ever be able to do to us. We don't need your ghost stories stirring up more trouble."
Claussen looked as if Perry had slapped him. "You, sir, may dwell in your ignorance. I will not. If Hell has unleashed its terrors upon the living, then let no man stand in my way." He nodded curtly to the doctor. "Good day, sir."
Perry watched him leave and sighed. "Damn fool," he said under his breath. "Goddamn pious fool."
17
The sun was well up when Longtree finally woke.
Moonwind was gone and the day was bright, the world warming. He crawled out into the cold and got his fire going again. He had a quick breakfast of coffee and tinned biscuits with jam. Around him, the countryside began to wake, to shake loose the ice and snow and greet the day. He heard birds singing and animals foraging. It was a good thing to wake to, feeling fresh from a night spent outdoors. Maybe it was his mother's blood in him, but he enjoyed sleeping outside.
He wondered when Moonwind had left.
She had heard his tale and seemed to believe it. Which was good because sometimes Longtree wasn't sure if he did. He had experienced it, but still it just seemed impossible. But had Moonwind scoffed at him…it would have been hurtful. Not only because he was developing strong feelings for the woman, but because he'd never told a soul that tale.
No matter.
Wolf Creek was a distance away through the hills, but already he could hear it, smell it, feel the presence of other men. He fed and watered his mount and wondered what this day would bring. Something told him nothing remotely good.
And he believed it.
18
"I guess I never expected to see you alive again," Deputy Bowes said when Longtree walked into the jailhouse later that morning. "I thought I'd be forming a posse one of these nights to retrieve your body."
"I didn't have any trouble with 'em," Longtree admitted. "Where's Lauters at?"
"At home, I suspect. Haven't seen him yet this morning."
"Good."
"Those injuns tell you what you wanted to know?"
Longtree took off his hat and set it on the desk. "You know a fellow up there by the name of Herbert Crazytail?"
Bowes nodded. "You could say that. His people got themselves a little worked up about a year ago after his son was lynched. Vigilantes forced themselves into the jail, overpowered the sheriff, and strung the poor bastard up." Bowes looked as if this was something he'd rather forget about. "Things got a little tense after that."
"How so?"
"Crazytail's son-Red Elk-was accused of raping and killing a local white girl, name of Carpenter." Bowes pursed his lips. "You can imagine how folks around here felt about that. Well, Red Elk swore he was innocent. Vigilantes didn't believe him, I guess. After the hanging, trouble started." Bowes stared into his cup of coffee. "A few prospectors were killed out in the hills, a schoolmaster by the name of Penrose was murdered. A few other killings followed. Retribution by the Blackfeet, I suppose. A few Indians got shot. It looked like all hell was about to break loose. Goverment sent an Indian Agent down here. He smoothed things out with the tribes and business settled down. But I'll tell you something, Marshal," Bowes said, giving Longtree a warning look, "only a damn fool goes up into Blackfeet lands now. They never had much use for us whites and they have a lot less now after that thing with Red Elk. I think that goes both ways."
Longtree chewed on this for a few moments. "Were any Indians arrested for those murders?"
"No," Bowes sighed. "As far as the prospectors went, they're always getting themselves killed jumping each others' claims. No proof there. And that schoolmaster…again, no proof, just a lot of hearsay."
"But you think the Blackfeet were guilty?"
"It seems mighty coincidental," Bowes said. "But…hell, who knows?"
Longtree poured himself a cup of coffee. "The night the vigilantes raided the jail, Lauters was alone here?"
The deputy looked pained. "Yeah. I was delivering a prisoner to Virginia City. I didn't get back till early the next morning." Bowes reclined back in his seat, locking his fingers behind his head. "What does any of this have to do with why you're here?"
"Maybe nothing, maybe everything. I have to look at this business from every side."
"Are you thinking these murders might be some revenge by the Blackfeet?"
"It's a possibility I can't overlook." Longtree sipped his coffee and asked the question that was really nagging him. "Who was this prisoner you took to Virginia City?"
Bowes scratched his beard. "Fellah by the name of Carson. He was a miner, worked at one of the silver camps. Word reached us he was also wanted for murder in Deadwood, Dakota Territory. We took him in. Marshals Office wired us, said to deliver him to Virginia City and lock him up there until one of their men came by train to take custody of him."
"Was there any urgency in getting him to Virginia City?"
Bowes narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "You asking why I took him that night and not another?"
"Yes."
"Sheriff told me to. That's all. There was no hurry. Jail wasn't crowded, that marshal from Dakota Territory wasn't expected for a week or so. Sheriff just up and told me to deliver the prisoner one morning. Nothing more to it than that. Just what are you getting at?"
Longtree swallowed. "I just want to know what was so urgent about getting that prisoner to Virginia City, is all. Why that night?"
"You're thinking the Sheriff was involved in that lynching, aren't you?" Bowes asked pointedly. "Well, if that's the case, Marshal, I'd say you're listening to too much local gossip. I would think after all this time them rumors would've died out."
"Rumors about Lauters being mixed up with the vigilantes?"
"You know what I mean."
Longtree suppressed a grin. If nothing else, their little talk here had established the basic facts of what Moonwind had said: Red Elk had been lynched and there were rumors about Sheriff Lauters' complicity.
Bowes fixed him with a lethal stare. "I'll tell you something, Marshal. I'll tell you something right here and now. I'm loyal to Bill Lauters and I don't want to hear that kind of talk. You investigate these murders all you want and I'll gladly help you all I can, but I don't want to hear you insulting that man. He might not look like much now, but once, once he was a fine lawman."
Longtree nodded. "Don't get yourself upset, Deputy. Nobody's insulting him. You have to remember that my job is to look into every possible motive for these killings. And if I start thinking the Indians are involved, I have to ask myself why?" Longtree told him sincerely. "And if you tell me this Red Elk was lynched and there was bad blood following that business and rumors flying around, well then, I'm going to get suspicious. I wouldn't be worth a shit as a lawman if I didn't."
"Okay, Marshal, I understand. And I think you understand me."
Longtree studied Bowes with narrowed eyes. "Tell me about these cattle rustlers."
Bowes laughed. "Damn. Not too much you don't hear about is there?"
"It's my job."
Bowes shrugged. "Nothing much to tell. In the past three, four years, during the warm months, we've had some rustling. No one was ever caught, few were questioned. No leads, no nothing. Just a lot of hearsay."
"Tell me the hearsay."
"Folks say there's a ring involved here, a group of men who are responsible. Some say they're based here in Wolf Creek, others say Virginia City or even Bannack. Take your pick. Nothing's ever turned up, I'm afraid. Folks in these parts call 'em the Gang of Ten. I don't know why. That's it."
Longtree was listening to this and remembering all Moonwind had said about the vigilantes being the rustlers and Lauters being involved. He was also thinking that if it was this Gang of Ten that were the vigilantes, that possibly eight of their number had been murdered. There was no proof of this Skullhead or that the Indians were out for revenge, but Moonwind had certainly wanted him to think so.
