by Tim Curran
With a sigh, Longtree turned away.
He'd killed more men in his time than he liked to think about. And each time, death left him feeling the same-empty, hopeless, physically ill. There was never anything to be gained from violent death, only pain and suffering and guilt. But that was the way of this land; it respected nothing else.
Longtree went up into the treeline and retrieved Gantz' horse. He slung the dead man over the saddle and roped a blanket over him. That done, he broke camp and packed up all his things and led Gantz' horse into town.
He wouldn't be coming back here again. Tonight he would stay in town and every night after. Next time when a gunman came after him, he might not be so lucky.
But, ultimately, it wasn't men that worried him.
39
"You should've known better than to be up there, " Sheriff Lauters said to Bowes. "You should've known better than to listen to that damn breed."
Bowes hung his head. "That's not important, Sheriff. Because what happened up there-"
"Enough!" Lauters snapped. "I ain't listening to your goddamn ghost stories no longer. Christ, Deputy! What's come over you? Before this you were the most level-headed man I knew!"
"I saw what I saw."
Lauters sighed and popped the cork from a fresh bottle of rye. He upended it and gulped, stopping only when he began to cough and gag. " I don't know," he gasped, "what you and that marshal are up to, but it had better stop. Monsters rising from the grave… shit!" Lauters pulled off the bottle again, his hands shook and he made gagging sounds, as if he could barely hold the liquor down.
"I'm sorry, Sheriff, that you think I'm a liar, but I saw what I saw. And the last thing I'm going to say on the matter is that these murders are more than we can handle."
"This country can't throw anything at me I can't handle," Lauters insisted. "Not a goddamn thing.''
There was a blast of cool air and both men turned to see Longtree standing in the door. "Nothing a bottle can't help you with, eh, Sheriff?"
"You sonofabitch," Lauters growled, his hand sliding down to his gun. "You started all this mess, you-"
"I wouldn't draw that unless you wanna die," Longtree said calmly. "Never met a drunk in my life I couldn't outdraw."
Lauters hand stopped. "You threatening me, breed?"
"No, sir, I'm warning you," Longtree said. "I'm warning you that if you ever again try anything as stupid as you did yesterday, I'll fucking kill you. And be within my rights."
Lauters clenched his teeth. "Maybe we ought to settle this out back."
Longtree opened his coat, fingers tapping the butt of one of his Colts. "If you've got the stomach for it, Sheriff."
"All right now," Bowes said, stepping between them. "None of that here. You're both lawmen and you're both doing the same job, so knock it off."
"What do you want here, Longtree?" the sheriff asked.
"A fellow by the name of Jacko Gantz tried to kill me today," Longtree announced.
Lauters just stared, his eyes bulging. A touch of color spread into his cheeks, then fled. He said nothing. He touched his tongue against his lips.
"That's the fellah you were telling me about, wasn't it?" Bowes asked.
Longtree nodded. "His body's outside."
Lauters licked his lips. "You killed him?"
"He didn't give me much choice."
Lauters pushed past him and went outside.
"If I didn't know better," Longtree said, "I'd think the sheriff was disappointed Gantz didn't succeed."
40
There was a light, cool mist in the air by the time Lauters made it out to Mike Ryan's ranch. Ryan had one of the largest ranches outside Wolf Creek and he was, without a doubt, the richest man in that part of the Montana Territory. He had some seven hundred head of cattle at present and twice that amount in another ranch near Bannack. He owned several hotels in Nevada and Virginia Cities as well as a variety of dance halls, saloons, and gambling halls. He was a major stockholder in several copper and silver mining companies and sat on the board of directors at the Union Pacific Railroad.
Ryan was waiting for Lauters as he rode up.
"What happened, Mike?" Lauters asked.
"Hell broke loose, Bill."
Ryan had dispatched a rider to fetch the sheriff. At the time, Lauters was at Spence's undertaking parlor with Longtree and his deputy, having a look at the man Longtree had killed. He was glad to be called away. He had an ugly feeling Longtree knew damn well that he'd had something to do with Gantz' attack.
A ranch hand brought the two men mugs of steaming coffee as they walked through the grounds. The ranch was like a little city. Ryan's huge white house sat serene and omnipotent on a hill overlooking everything, its great carved pillars and fancy latticework gleaming in the weak sunlight. Below, was a sprawl of buildings-bunkhouses for the men, livery barns, log barns, outbuildings, a fine insulated ice house set in a low hill, a smithy's shop, a cookhouse twice the size of Lauters' home, and an intricate network of working corrals stretching off towards the horizon.
It was all very impressive.
"Tell me what's been happening in this town, Bill," Ryan said. Ryan had only arrived back in Wolf Creek the day before after some six weeks spent touring his various holdings.
Lauters laid it all out for him. About the killings and the inhuman nature of them, putting special emphasis on who the murdered men were. He spoke of Longtree and Bowes and the death of Gantz.
"That injun's gonna be trouble, I take it?" Ryan said.
"More than you can imagine, Mike."
Ryan nodded. "A federal officer, too. That could make things difficult for us. He's not some sodbuster no one will miss."
Lauters nodded, knowing this all too well.
"But every problem has its solutions." Ryan said this with total conviction.
They came to a corral near the house and Lauters saw the reason he'd been called…or one of them. This was where Ryan kept his racing horses. These animals had been, once upon a time, his pride and joy, but now…now they were so much meat. Lauters was looking at the slaughtered remains of some five thoroughbred horses. They had all been disemboweled and decapitated, the flesh stripped down to muscle, the hides ripped free and draped on the fence. They were partially eaten, but food didn't seem to be the primary reason for this carnage. The heads lay in the frozen mud, staring up with bulging eyes.
"I loved these animals," Ryan said calmly. "I truly did. Much as a man like myself can love. Whatever did this…is as good as dead."
"Looks like the work of an animal, but…"
"But with a man's twisted intelligence behind it," Ryan interrupted. "An animal will kill for food, to protect itself, but only a man kills for the sport of it. Only a man does something like this."
"Longtree's got it in his head that we're dealing with something that might be a little of both, so I hear."
"Tell me," Ryan said. He wasn't asking, he was demanding.
Lauters told him everything Bowes had said, even the bit about what they'd seen up at the burial ground. "A load of crap, if you ask me."
"Deputy Bowes doesn't strike me as the sort of man who makes up tales."
"Yeah, but-"
"But nothing, Bill. Longtree might be a pain in the ass, but he's right about one thing-we've got ourselves a monster here."
Lauters just stared.
"Don't look at me like that, Sheriff," Ryan snapped. "The evidence speaks for itself. I was in Virginia City last night and…that thing must have come for me. When it couldn't get me, it got what I loved best-my horses. Tonight it'll probably come again, maybe for me, maybe for you."
Lauters swallowed. These were things he had thought about quite a bit, but had dismissed as fantasy. Hearing another man say them made it all that much harder to brush them aside.
Ryan turned away from the bitten, clawed horses. "It came last night…and no one heard a thing." He threw his mug of coffee into the snow. "I have nearly a hundred men here, Bi
ll, and no one heard a goddamn thing. I've heard horses die, I've heard the sounds they make when a hungry wolf pack sets on them…it carries for quite a distance. Anything that can slaughter five horses and do it silently, is no mere animal, no man."
Lauters looked skeptical. "But a monster…"
"Look," Ryan said, leading the sheriff into the corral. There were prints in the mud and snow. "It was warm last night. Our beast left tracks that froze hard this morning."
Lauters examined them carefully. The prints were huge, splayed out. Exactly like the ones in Nate Segaris' house: immense, unnatural, triple-toed like a lizard with a thick spur in the back.
"Physical evidence, Sheriff. We need no more proof." Ryan crossed his arms and glared at the mountains in the distance. "Eight men are dead, Bill, and not just any eight men. I don't have to tell you what you and I and those men have in common, now do I? This creature is killing selectively, very selectively. And, if my memory serves me, exactly one year since that injun was lynched."
Lauters shook his head. "This is all crazy."
"Yes, it is," Ryan admitted, "but it's happening all the same. That injun was lynched and now his people have called up something to take revenge."
Lauters looked beaten. "What can we do?"
"First, we take care of Longtree."
"How? Hire gunmen?"
Ryan shook his head. "No, this is something you and I have to do. We don't want anyone to wag their tongues about this down the road. We take care of that marshal tonight and plant him somewhere he'll never be found." Ryan grinned. "And then we'll take care of Red Elk's clan."
Lauters looked suspicious. "We'll need a lot of men."
"I have thirty men right here that have done jobs for me in the past, all of them handy with guns. I can raise another thirty from the mining camps, men who need money and are just looking for a reason to spill injun blood."
Lauters nodded. "Tonight, then."
"Your man Gantz failed, Sheriff, but I guarantee you, we will not."
41
Longtree was with Moonwind again at the Blackfeet camp. They were in the lodge of Herbert Crazytail. Longtree had rode into camp and requested a meeting with the old man. And after some wait, it had been granted.
"My father says you are wasting your time," Moonwind translated.
Longtree was a stubborn man and he fully intended to get what he came after: answers. He didn't bother bowing his head in respect to the medicine man, because he no longer had respect for him. Crazytail sat on a bed of dried grasses covered with buffalo hide and tended the fire. He was wrapped in a Hudson's Bay blanket, his right arm and shoulder uncovered. Strips of buffalo meat were cooking on wooden spits. Crazytail was gnawing on bits of pemmican.
"Tell your father to stop the Skullhead," Longtree said. "If the killings continue, soldiers will come. His people may be killed."
It was a lie, but neither the old man or his daughter knew it.
Crazytail turned the spits in the fire, mumbling something.
Moonwind said, "It is too late. What has been set into motion cannot be stopped. Even soldiers cannot stop the Skullhead. He has been called."
"Who called him?" Longtree asked pointedly.
Moonwind translated, but the old man just shook his head.
"I don't think he wishes to talk any longer," Moonwind said.
"He doesn't have a choice," Longtree said angrily. "If these killings aren't stopped, soldiers will come and your people will be killed. Those that aren't will be taken off to prisons and distant reservations. They will never see this land again. Tell him that."
Moonwind, sighing, did so.
For the first time since his arrival, Crazytail looked at the marshal. There was hatred in his eyes, the hatred of an entire race. He began talking loudly now, jabbing his finger at Longtree.
"He says our people have a right to vengeance, we have been wronged. The whites must be taught a lesson." Moonwind cleared her throat. "He also says he is sorry you have involved yourself in this, that you will die also. He says if you are wise, you will leave this place before night falls. The Skullhead will not stop killing."
"Tell Crazytail that I want to know where the Skullhead is. I can stop him."
Moonwind translated. "He says no man can stop what has been set into motion. Once the Skullhead is called, he cannot be put down."
Crazytail, the fire reflected in his narrow eyes, began speaking again.
"After the guilty ones are killed," Moonwind translated, "the Skullhead will begin killing indiscriminately. So we have nothing to fear from the soldiers, for the Skullhead will take us all as sacrifices. Our fate is sealed."
"And after you've all died in vain," Longtree said, "then what?"
Moonwind, looking very unhappy, translated: "Then the Skullhead will go down into the town of the whites and kill everyone."
PART III
Lord Of The High Wood
1
Longtree had himself a room now at the Serenity Hotel in Wolf Creek. It wasn't much, but the bed was comfortable and there was a livery stable across the street for his black. There was a saloon just off the lobby and the food wasn't bad. The door bolted from the inside and the window was painted shut; it was very unlikely anyone could sneak up on him whilst he slept. And while he was awake, he didn't see that as a problem. All things considered, it beat the hell out of sleeping outside…particularly when there were men trying to kill you and maybe something worse. He enjoyed the outdoors, found it spiritually refreshing, but the white man in him often yearned for material comforts.
He'd gotten a pint of rum from the bar and lay on his bed now, sipping from it. He'd come to Wolf Creek under order from Tom Rivers. As a special deputy U.S. Marshal, he had no actual territory to call his own. He was merely sent wherever Rivers thought he was needed, where his skills as a lawman and former scout and bounty hunter would come in handy.
And Rivers had thought Wolf Creek needed him.
But Longtree wasn't so sure.
There'd been nothing but trouble since he'd arrived-with Lauters, with Gantz. And even without those two, this entire situation was well out of his experience. As a bounty hunter and then lawman, he'd brought in nearly every man he'd been sent after. There were few who'd escaped Joe Longtree. He brought them in alive, dead, and nearly dead. He was a hunter of men and he played this hand well. There was no one better at it. He'd taken in murderers, robbers, renegade Indians, road agents, bootleggers, and even entire gangs in his time. Longtree'd had some of the most vicious men (and women) in the west come at him with guns, knives, hatchets, clubs, even their bare hands. He'd been in a hundred near scrapes with death and escaped every time. Oh, he'd been shot several times, stabbed, beaten, and even hanged (that injury still pained him some, but he'd survived). As a scout, he'd even been tortured for three days after capture by a Cheyenne war party.
But this…this business was too much for even him.
It was a complicated affair. First there was the Gang of Ten, the rustlers, of which he was pretty certain only two still lived and Lauters was one of them. He was sure of this now. He even suspected Lauters had something to do with Gantz trying to kill him…but there was no proof. The rustlers, Longtree was sure, had been found out by Red Elk and before the Blackfoot could speak his piece, he was blamed for the murder of that Carpenter girl. But Longtree didn't think Red Elk was guilty…one of the rustlers had been. Arresting Red Elk and then lynching him killed two birds with a single well-thrown stone: the real murderer could go free and Red Elk's tongue would be forever silenced. The rustlers were probably pretty proud of themselves at the time for how easily they'd covered their tracks…until a year later.
Longtree took another drink, the rum filling him with warmth.
And what had happened a year later? Longtree wasn't entirely sure. The Blackfeet had sought revenge via the Skull Society which had called up some beast to kill the vigilantes. Longtree wasn't sure what this beast was, not really. According to Moo
nwind, some primeval monster that had once been worshipped by the Skull Society centuries and centuries before. Bowes and he had seen something like it at the burial ground that night. But the one on the loose was no zombie, no hulking mummy, but a creature very much alive…or something like it. Now Crazytail said that once the guilty parties were all killed, this Skullhead would continue killing. So who, Longtree wondered, were the real victims here? Red Elk and his people or all the innocents that would suffer because of the actions of a group of criminals and resultant actions of some blood-hungry Indians?
There seemed to be only one course of action: find out who all the members of this Skull Society were and arrest them. One of them had to know where this beast was…and if not? Well, then more problems. But Longtree couldn't arrest any Indians on suspicion of something like this. The Indian Agent in the district would go crazy. What did you arrest them for? he'd ask. Because, Longtree would tell him, one of them is harboring a monster.
It was ludicrous.
There was, really, nothing he could do. Nothing at all. His only hopes were to find this beast and destroy it. And when that was done, he was putting Lauters under arrest, too. If he could convince Tom Rivers to issue the warrant, that was.
Longtree corked the bottle. Enough drinking. He strapped his guns on, donned his coat and hat, and left his room, 1873 Winchester. 44 in hand. The sun was setting and the beast would be active again.
Time to kill it or be killed.
Outside, Longtree got his horse, saddled it, and rode out of Wolf Creek. Crazytail had said the beast would come after him, too, and the marshal was inviting it to. He started riding up to the Blackfeet camp.
He'd been riding about twenty minutes when he heard galloping hooves. The light was fading fast and he was approaching a little ridge that marked the end of the little valley he was in. He swallowed down hard, knowing it was trouble, and one hand snaked down and slipped the Winchester from its boot.
