Straight Outta Tombstone

by David Boop

  The most recent telegram had arrived yesterday.

  HAVE RETAINED SERVICES EXPERT REGIONAL FOLKLORE WILL CONTACT IN CHEYENNE CHENOO EXTREMELY DANGEROUS USE UTMOST CAUTION RAYMOND —S

  Strangely enough, Scholar was about the only person around who still used Bubba’s birth name. Even his sainted mother had given up on Raymond years ago. Bubba paused to drink his whiskey, which wasn’t half bad since it had been imported all the way from Tennessee. The Union Pacific rep had made no mention of any knowledgeable types in town, so he could only assume the man hadn’t arrived yet. Sometimes the so-called experts were right about monster vulnerabilities, and sometimes they were wrong, but it usually beat flipping a coin.

  He heard boots on wood, and turned to see that one of his men had returned to the hotel. Balthazar Abrams had been one of the first of the professional killers, hired because he’d been quick enough with a knife to leave a ghoul in pieces in a New Orleans alley, and proven indispensable ever since.

  “Telegrams? You heard from the Scholar, Boss?”

  Bubba motioned for him to take the stool next to him. “Things we’re hunting are called Chenoo. Used to be men, but their hearts turn to ice. I doubt that’s a metaphor.”

  “Things used to be men, they’re the worst. So these Chenoo alive, dead, or atwixt the two?”

  “I don’t rightly know, but Scholar’s sending us an expert.” The proprietor had heard the conversation and come wandering back in from the kitchen. “Bartender, another whiskey, and one for my friend here.”

  The bartender paused when he saw Abrams, and a look of surprise came over his face. “This is an upscale establishment, Mr. Shackleford. We don’t cater to his kind here.”

  Abrams had been born a slave, but he’d been a free man for over three decades, and was as good at killing monsters as his best white man—who happened to be Irish—and frankly Bubba didn’t care what some pencil dick thought about any of his crew.

  “Pour or I’ll come over that bar and pistol whip you to within an inch of your life.” He used the coldly casual tone he normally reserved for contract negotiations or ordering executions.

  “What? I’ll get the sheriff!”

  “Tell him he’d best bring friends.”

  The way Bubba stated that must have made it abundantly clear that he meant every word. The bartender swallowed hard, fetched a bottle and another glass, poured them both a—very shaky—shot, and then fled to the back room.

  Bubba took another drink. “I cannot abide a man lacking in hospitality.”

  “I swear, you’re going to pick a fight that gets us killed one of these days,” Abrams muttered.

  “More than likely.” He passed the telegrams over so that Abrams could read them. Every man in his crew was literate, and if they weren’t when he hired them, they were expected to learn fast. Abrams was a sharp one and, since he was good at ciphering, even trusted to balance the company books. For the rest, he didn’t care if they could read the Bible, but they’d at least be able to decipher the instruction manual for an unfamiliar explosive device and retain their fingers.

  “When the Scholar is warning you to be careful, you know it’s bad.”

  “The fat man from the railroad told me some stories about what happened to their workers. Something’s been prying up track to derail trains. A work crew went out, got attacked. Only a few made it back alive, but the town doc never seen the like of what happened to those. The curse starts with a chill they just can’t shake, then it crawled in them, deeper and deeper. Settles in the heart, they say. The afflicted act like they’re freezing to death, always shivering, like they needed to get something warm in their belly. They tried hot soup, whiskey, but they only got crazier and meaner, insisting that the only thing would make them warm again was drinking hot blood, and then most couldn’t talk at all. They became nothing but animals.”

  “Unfortunate,” Abrams said as he unconsciously shifted his stool a little closer toward the fire.

  “By the time they get the look of a man froze to death, they’d turned pure evil. Most of them lost their minds, killed some folks, and fled. They’re still out there. One barely kept his mind, saw what he’d done, got down on his knees and begged for death. They put nearly forty bullets in him ’fore he expired.”

  “And that one asked for it. Imagine what the ones who don’t want to die are like.”

  “From the way that whole Army patrol disappeared, I’d say they’re stridently opposed to the idea. Locals think this is Plague of Crows’ doing.”

  Abrams gave a low whistle at that name. Everybody in their field had heard of her. She’d raised unholy terror in this region when the railroad had first come through. It had taken a lot of blood and treasure to stop her the last time. “You renegotiated our pay, right?”

  “Damn right I did.”

  A young lady walked into the room. It was a bit odd to see a girl of such an age, probably not even twenty, out at this late hour of the night, unescorted. However, from the way she was openly and brazenly wearing a gun belt and matching Colts over her skirts, she didn’t seem the type inclined to be chaperoned.

  She spotted Bubba, took a moment to compose herself, and walked toward them wearing a look of intense concentration. She was a dark haired, big boned, solid country girl. Bubba nodded politely. “Ma’am.”

  “Mr. Shackleford, sir.” Apparently she had done her research. She stopped before them, cleared her throat and spoke loudly, as if she was giving a prepared presentation. “I’m Hannah Stone.”

  “Are you our regional folklore expert?” Abrams asked.

  “Huh? No.” That question seemed to throw her off of her prepared remarks. “What?” The poor girl looked rather nervous. “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Drink?” Bubba offered, because that seemed the gentlemanly thing to say, and Southerners had a reputation to keep up.

  “No thanks. Makes the hands shake, can’t shoot as good.” She took a deep breath before blurting out, “I’m applying to join your gang.”

  Bubba shared a look with his perplexed associate. “Gang makes it sound like we’re here to rob the bank.”

  “I know what you do! I’ve seen monsters. I know they’re real.”

  He had entertained variations of this conversation a hundred times. Would-be monster hunters were constantly knocking on his door looking for work—he turned most of them away, probably doing them a favor—but he always kept an eye out for talent. Only this was his first ever employment petition from a lady.

  It was inconceivable. It was one thing having a man’s death on his conscience, but he couldn’t imagine sending a girl to her doom. “I’m sorry. We ain’t hiring now.”

  But she was a determined sort. “Word is that you’re always looking for sharpshooters. I’m the best shot you’ll find in this state and I need the work. I figure a man who’ll hire Negroes, Mexicans, and Irish might hire a woman.” She looked at Abrams. “No offense.”

  “None taken.” Abrams seemed rather amused by the whole thing. “Our Irishman’s not so bad.”

  “I’ve done men’s work before. I used to work for Buffalo Bill Cody. Mr. Cody said if a woman could do the same work as a man, no reason she couldn’t, and get paid for it too.”

  “Buffalo Bill? Wait…Hannah Stone. I’ve heard of you!” Abrams clapped his hands with glee. “We’re in the presence of a celebrity, boss. Annie Oakley taught her to shoot.”

  “Mr. Cody made that up for the show. I already knew how to shoot when I got there and I was a much better shot than her.” It was obvious Hannah was not fond of her supposed mentor. “But she was more famous and popular because she was better at the talking part…and show business…and generally liking people.”

  Well, she certainly wasn’t a cup of sunshine. Bubba remembered her story now. It had been in the papers all over the place.

  “Way I heard it told is you got fired from Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show because there was an accident and your partner got hurt.”


  Hannah thought about how to phrase her response for a long moment. “The events which occurred could be described in such a manner.”

  “You were supposed to quick draw, shoot from the hip, and knock a cigarette from out of this fella’s mouth at ten paces.”

  “Twenty. The crowd always loved that trick. We did it plenty of times. Last show there was some…extenuating complications.”

  “That’s some mighty big words to say you blew his lips off.”

  “Well, in my defense, Mr. Shackleford, Bob was being awful shaky that day. I’d warned him not to skip breakfast.”

  Bubba didn’t know what to say. Hannah remained standing there, awkwardly. She tried to smile. It looked painful. He felt bad for her. But not bad enough to give her a job that would just get her killed. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Stone, but truly, you’ve been misinformed as to my company’s intentions. Good luck in your endeavors and good night.”

  Hannah’s eyes narrowed to a determined squint. “Well fine then.” She stomped away.

  Abrams waited until the surly young woman was gone before he picked up his whiskey and chuckled. “Women hunting monsters? Imagine that. Next thing you know they’ll want to vote!”

  * * *

  When Bubba finally retired to his hotel room, he nearly shot the Scholar’s expert on regional folklore.

  He’d used a key to open the door, walked into the darkened room, paused…and immediately drew his Colt and leveled it at the shadows in the corner. He thumbed back the hammer. He couldn’t see her, but it was a woman’s voice that came out of the darkness.

  “How’d you sense I was here?”

  Bubba never knew. It was just instinct, but it seldom led him astray. And right now his instinct was telling him whatever was in the shadows of his room was very dangerous. “Come out where I can see you.”

  “I don’t belong in the light. You pull that trigger and you won’t live long enough to regret it.”

  “Lady, if you think I’m the one who’ll be regretting matters, you must be unfamiliar with how bullets operate.”

  “Do not test my patience, Raymond Shackleford. I have been asked to help guide you. I am not your enemy. The one you call Scholar and I have made a deal.”

  “Well, ain’t that something?” Any monster hunter worth his salt learned not to make deals with voices in the dark. His eyes were adjusting, and now he could barely make out a narrow female shape, but his gut was telling him this wasn’t no normal woman. Only Scholar hadn’t let him down yet, so he held his fire. “Who are you?”

  “Mohtahe Okohke. The white man calls me by a different name.”

  “Plague of Crows,” Bubba muttered. Witch. Necromancer. She’d sacrificed the living, raised the dead, scourged the plains, and terrorized both settlers and Indians both. “Plague of Crows died.”

  “Briefly. Only do not fear. My war is over. I’ve made peace with your kind for now. The death that’s upon this people is not my doing. Not too far from Granite Springs there is a new mine dug. Inside, a Stonecoat slept, until they blasted into his home. He made the ice hearts, and their curse will spread until his anger is spent.”

  He kept the Colt on her. “What’s a Stonecoat?”

  “A spirit of deep earth and cold streams, with skin like rock and slush for blood. Bad medicine, Raymond Shackleford.”

  “How do I kill him?”

  “Even if you make it through his Chenoo, you can’t kill a spirit. And you will probably die in the attempt.”

  “If it was easy, they wouldn’t need someone like me.”

  “There have always been warriors like you, Raymond. The Stonecoat may no longer recognize this world, but he will recognize you, if you are brave enough. If he sees there is still worthy strength in this world, the spirit can return to his rest.” Two glowing white orbs appeared in the shadows. Her eyes were too unblinking and round.

  “That’s all?”

  “It is enough. Now my part of the bargain is done. I go to collect what is mine.”

  Suddenly there weren’t just two lights, but dozens of glowing eyes from head to toe. A terrible screech filled his ears, a rush of air, and then he was surrounded in beating wings. Talons scratched him as the stream of thrashing birds poured past, through the open door, into the hall, and down the stairs. Bubba heard the proprietor scream incoherently as the flock of crows burst out the front door and into the night.

  Damn it, Scholar. What have you gotten me into?

  Bubba Shackleford lowered the hammer, holstered his gun, brushed the black feathers off his bed, and went to sleep.

  * * *

  The professional monster killers set out early the following morning.

  It wasn’t until Bubba got dressed that he realized Plague of Crows had scratched two words into the hotel room’s wall for him. The proprietor was going to love that. The witch had also left him a present. It was a stick. It had been colorfully painted and had some beads and feathers on it, but it was still just a stick. He pondered on the short message for a bit, took up his fancy new stick, and went downstairs to get some coffee.

  Outside the men prepared. Despite the governor’s admonition to keep things quiet, their two armored war wagons always attracted some attention. The odd-looking combinations of wood and sheet metal were far lighter than they looked, mostly because—to the contrary of what most bystanders assumed—they weren’t designed for stopping bullets, but rather were to provide emergency shelter from tooth and claw. He had built a war wagon heavy enough to stop rifle bullets once, but it had been such a pain in his ass on the one hunt they’d tried it on—they’d spent so much time getting it stuck in the mud and exhausting horses—Bubba had abandoned it in a Mississippi field to rust.

  Each wagon was pulled by a full hitch of sturdy Clydesdales. It appeared that they’d made the long trip just fine, and were eager to get to work. Bubba always used his own horses, and never counted on local stock. Most horses weren’t worth spit when monsters started howling and blood started flying, so he stuck to animals of a proven calm nature. The rest of the men were on horseback, of various breeds, but all of sound temperament. Bubba hated losing animals almost as much as he hated losing men.

  In addition to the small crowd who had gathered around to poke at the war wagons and ask questions his men weren’t likely to answer truthfully, he spied the young sharpshooter, Hannah Stone. She was down the street, sitting on a horse and watching them. She was wearing a big hat, a duster, men’s trousers—no awkward side saddle for her—and appeared outfitted for a long journey, which immediately gave Bubba a bad feeling. So he wandered over.

  “Good morning, Ms. Stone.”

  “Mr. Shackleford.”

  She was wearing at least two revolvers he could see, there appeared to be a whippet gun hung from a rope beneath her coat, a Winchester repeater in a scabbard on one side, and a longer buffalo rifle in a scabbard on the other. There were shells poking out of every pocket. On the balance it was enough lead and steel that he felt bad for her horse.

  “That’s an awful lot of firearms upon your person this morning, Ms. Stone.”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure which ones I’d be requiring today, Mr. Shackleford, so I brought an assortment. I’m going for a ride.”

  “To where?”

  “Wherever the wind carries me.”

  More like wherever the Chenoo carried her off to eat her. The obstinate little girl intended to follow them looking for monsters. “There’s dangerous things out there right now, Ms. Stone. I wouldn’t advise such a course.”

  “I’ve killed a monster before.”

  “I don’t doubt that, but did you go looking for it?”

  “Well…” That gave her pause. “No. It was self-defense. But I’m still going out today.”

  “I ought to make you stay.”

  “And how do you think you’re going to do that, Johnny Reb? I’m sure the good folks of Cheyenne would love to watch some stranger try and carry off a local girl on his b
ack like some manner of barbarian. Or you going to have me arrested for riding my horse on a public street?”

  She had him there. “You are remarkably stubborn.”

  “I prefer the term steadfast. Like a rock.”

  Like a pain in my ass. “Suit yourself.” He went back to the wagons, wondering how guilty he was going to feel when she got herself eaten by Chenoo.

  * * *

  Garlick was driving the lead wagon, and Pangle was manning its potato digger. Hagberg and Abrams were on the second wagon and its gun respectively. Bubba, Skirmish McKillington, Hub Bryan, and Mexican George were on horseback. Two always ahead of the wagons, and two behind, taking turns eating trail dust. Four trained hunting dogs ranged about, chasing rabbits, happy to not be on a train. One sharp whistle would bring the dogs back and put them to work. They had spare horses, spare guns, enough ammunition to hold a small war, and every totem, trinket, and supposedly magical whatsit you could think of, from half a dozen faiths, some of which might even be helpful.

  As the wagons rumbled along the dirt road, Bubba pondered on using his growing wealth to purchase one of those newfangled “automobiles” with a gasoline engine that he’d been reading about, just to see what kind of weapons and armor he could mount on one to see if it was any good for monster hunting. He was an innovative sort like that.

  He had a map, the directions were clear, and there was easy road the whole way. Even with the lumbering war wagons, Granite Springs was a leisurely day’s ride. They would arrive a few hours before sundown. Taking their time would ensure the horses were recovered from the train ride, and his men from their hangovers.

  So they rode until the afternoon, found an abandoned homestead that made for a good defensible position, and parked the wagons in front of it. From the dried blood and scraps of clothing inside the cabin, the Chenoo had already taken the previous residents.