Dead Soul

by James D. Doss

  She stared. Should I know this man?

  The stranger took note of the Ute woman and the dwarf; a wry half-smile passed across his face. He made a slight, formal bow to the visitors from the West.

  The shaman returned the bow, smiled. This was a good-looking fellow. And quite the gentleman. Daisy brushed a wisp of hair from her face, hoped she didn’t look too frowzy in the patched nightgown.

  The muscular horse snorted, stamped a hoof against the earth. Three times.

  The tall man comforted the animal with words that Daisy could not hear. The shaman looked down to consult with her power spirit. The dwarf had vanished.

  This was, as visions went, a rather pleasant one. She waited for the white man to speak to her, but the handsome stranger remained silent. Indeed, he now took no notice of the Indian woman’s presence. He gazed off into the distance, toward the great river. His eyes turned glassy. He was as one whose vision penetrates things present—to see another, more distant world.

  There was a slight puff of wind that dried her eyes. Daisy blinked.

  The white man was standing by a tripod-mounted surveyor’s transit. He waited until the suspended plumb bob had damped its pendulumous motions, then checked the compass and the leveling bubble. Apparently satisfied with the instrument, he squinted through the eyepiece. Marveled at what he saw so many years hence. The sighting done, vertical and horizontal verniers were consulted, angles and bearings duly noted. He consulted a map, inked numbers and symbols onto the lined pages of a small ledger.

  Again, the shaman blinked.

  The man was on his knees with a triangular trowel. He had already laid a sure foundation that rested on bedrock. Now he was setting the massive cornerstone.

  Daisy blinked a third time.

  Now the man was old and frail, his thinning hair white like lambs’ wool. He rested in a rocking chair, under the pleasant shade of a hawthorn tree. The matukach elder watched a great number of workers—far more than the Ute woman could count. They were raising many fine buildings. A great city of milky marble, black-peppered granite, fine red brick. Though weary from all his labors, the elderly man seemed pleased with the work on the foundation he had so carefully laid.

  This was, the shaman thought, a most pleasant thing to see.

  But in an instant, the air around her lost its fragrance. Wildflowers wilted, drooped their heads. There was a rumble of distant thunder, a flash of electric fire.

  The old woman felt a thrilling chill pass through her.

  The clouds turn coal-black. A cold mist of rain begins to fall. Not so far away, a crooked finger of lightning reaches out to touch an oak perched on a grassy knoll. Woody limbs explode with a flash of blue- white fire. Thunder shakes the earth. A white dove flutters in flight…falls from the sky.

  Daisy Perika heard herself whisper, “What does this mean?”

  Something is drawing near. Something wicked. A great horse appears, iron-shod hooves striking sparks on flinty stones, eyes demon-wild, insane with fury. The animal is the hot color of flames. It is mounted by a presence composed of sulfurous smoke. The sinister rider carries a heavy sword—the weapon is two-edged, and longer than a man is tall.

  The shaman watched in horror as horse and rider approached the old gentleman in the rocking chair. “Look out,” she croaked. “Look out….” She lost her voice.

  The fiery red horse—now within yards of the matukach elder—comes on at a hard gallop. The dark rider raises the edged weapon like a scythe.

  Daisy tried to rush forward to prevent the attack, but like the lightning-struck oak, her feet were rooted to the earth. And so she stood on the grass, mute and paralyzed. The seer tried to close her eyes, but could not. Neither could she turn her face away. The elderly white man remained in his chair, seemingly unaware of the approaching peril.

  The shaman tried to cry out. Again, the scream was smothered in her breast.

  The dark figure swings the blade in a long, flashing arc, severing human flesh and bone as if the tissues are warm butter. There is a guttural shout of victory from the shadowy assassin. With a final flash of lightning, blazing horse and murderous rider are gone.

  The decapitated head rolled across the wet grass, leaving a smearing trail of blood. The horrendous object stopped at the shaman’s feet; the pale face looked up at the woman. Tears flowed from the eyes. The lips moved. She could not hear his words. Neither did she know how to help him. Still unable to speak, she thought, Who are you? For a fleeting moment, something flickered in that dark closet where her memories were kept. She tried hard to remember, but it was like trying to recall a dream upon awakening. A hint of recognition was swept away like old cobwebs before a broom.

  But the shaman did know something about the rider on the fieryred horse. The sword-wielding phantom who had decapitated the distinguished elder was a hollow, empty spirit. A dead soul.

  Chapter Three

  TWO-TOES

  THE SUN WOULD NOT SHOW ITS WARM FACE FOR ANOTHER HOUR, but Charlie Moon was already in the spacious kitchen, appreciating the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. He cracked three brown-shelled eggs into a cast-iron skillet where plump patties of pork sausage sizzled in hot grease. The radio was blaring a tearfully sad Hank Williams ballad. That fella could yodel a man to a pleasant death. He removed a pan of biscuits from the oven. Yes, sir—this will be a fine breakfast. And a fine day.

  The cattle rancher heard a booming knock on the parlor door. It had to be Pete Bushman. An ordinary cowhand who wanted an audience with the boss would not show up before first light, or bang so hard on the door. Moon frowned at the skillet. From the sound of it, Pete had something urgent on his mind. The Ute, still in his sock feet, padded out of the kitchen, across the dining room, through the parlor.

  Another heavy knock.

  “Hold on—I’m coming.” He opened the door to see his bewhiskered, bleary-eyed foreman. “Good morning, Pete.”

  Stomping past his employer, Pete Bushman grumbled that he was barely able to stomach these “Mr. Sunshines, who is filled to the gills with goodwill before they’s had a bite a breakfast” and made a beeline for the kitchen.

  Pete poured himself a half-pint of coffee, threw his head back, swallowed half the scalding brew in one gulp. He set the cup aside, wiped his whiskers on the sleeve of a denim jacket. Belched.

  Moon tended the eggs in the skillet, which were burning brown and brittle around the edges.

  The foreman helped himself to a biscuit, which he buttered. After consuming this delicacy, Pete began to drum his fingers on the kitchen table. This was a signal that he was ready to have his say.

  The boss pretended not to notice.

  The foreman drummed harder.

  Moon salted his eggs. Peppered them. “You want something to eat, there’s eggs and sausage.”

  “I suppose those as who don’t have to bother themselves about the bad troubles all around us can feed their faces. Me, I got to do the worryin’. So I’m not in the mood for grub.” He had another biscuit. With a large dab of butter, a generous helping of blackberry jam.

  Moon scooped eggs and sausage onto a platter, seated himself across the table from his employee.

  Pete Bushman realized that the boss was not going to ask what was wrong. “I hardly got me a wink a sleep last night.”

  “Sorry to hear it.” Moon didn’t look up from his breakfast. “A working man needs a good night’s rest.”

  Pete clicked his teeth. Like a hard case cocking his pistol.

  Uh-oh. Here it comes. Moon selected a biscuit.

  “Boss, we got troubles.”

  “All of God’s children have troubles.”

  “Not the kind that comes with a mouth fulla sharp teeth.” Like one about to announce the first installment of six kinds of apocalypse, the foreman affected a dramatic pause. “It’s ol’ Two-Toes.”

  The Ute speared a sausage with his fork.

  Pete sniffed. “I reckon you don’t know about him.”

 
The rancher did know. According to cowboy gossip, the fabled mountain lion had chewed his paw free from a bear trap. Taking the foreman’s gravity lightly, Moon frowned, as if puzzled. “This Two-Toes, he that new cowhand—the gimpy one from Carson City who can’t see good out of his left eye?”

  Pete went wide-eyed with astonishment. “Cowhand—Lord no!” How ignernt can a grown man get? “The new hire you’re thinkin’ of is Ben Schaumberg from down in New Mexico. He’s an ironsmith. Good man.”

  “Oh, yeah. Schaumberg.” Moon eyed his foreman. “I understand you’ve got him shoeing some quarter horses.”

  “He’s been welding a new drive rod on the Farmall tractor.” Bushman scowled at the absentminded Indian. “Two-Toes, he’s a full-size daddy mountain lion.”

  Moon took a sip of heavily sugared coffee. Enjoyed it.

  The gloomy foreman propped his elbows on the table, leaned forward. “When that cougar was young and fulla piss and vinegar, he used to do his killin’ next door on the BoxCar range. That was when the BoxCar was a workin’ ranch and had some stock for the big cat to pull down.” Bushman snorted. Senator Davidson had ruined a perfectly good cow operation. Turned it into a sissy tinhorn spread. “But nowadays I guess Two-Toes figgers the pickin’s is better on the Columbine.”

  The Ute looked across the table. “He killed any of our stock?”

  Pete reached for another biscuit. “Not that I know of. But he’s been a-slinkin’ around.”

  Moon’s eyes twinkled merrily. “A-slinking around where?”

  “Over by the Misery range. Mostly at the bottom end of Dead Mule Notch.”

  “As long as this cougar don’t bother the stock, we’ll leave him alone.”

  Bushman buttered the biscuit, eyed several jars of sweet stuff, selected a spoonful of apricot preserves. “That might be a mistake.”

  “How so?”

  “Some of our cowhands say Two-Toes has been stalkin’ ’em. And there’s those two horses we lost last year.”

  Moon thought about it. The carcasses had never been found. It was most likely sickness. Or some trespassing city hunter had mistaken the horses for elk. But it could have been the mountain lion. “You figure that big cat has developed a taste for our riding stock?”

  “I expect Two-Toes is pickin’ his teeth on whinny-bones and belchin’ up horseshoes.” The foreman shot a grim look across the table at his boss. “And maybe for dessert, he’ll swaller a couple of our cowboys whole.”

  A decision was necessary. “Till we can sort out this cougar business, issue these orders. Nobody works by himself.”

  Pete’s head bobbed in agreement. “Right.”

  “The best marksman in every work crew will carry a rifle—and I don’t mean a twenty-two.”

  The foreman wiped at his mouth with the edge of the cotton tablecloth, got up from the chair. “I’ll see to it.”

  “And one more thing. I don’t want anybody taking potshots at mountain lions for sport. First cowboy who does can find himself a job with another outfit.”

  Pete Bushman made a halfhearted salute. “I’ll tell ’em.”

  Chapter Four

  THE CYCLIST

  TWILIGHT’S DIAPHANOUS MISTS HAD BEEN INHALED BY NIGHT; THE sky was streaked with puffy wisps of feathery clouds. The moon had not yet made its silvery appearance, but there was sufficient starlight to keep the nocturnal wanderer from bumping into signposts, brick walls, or trunks of trees—if the night traveler knew his way around the campus.

  Wilma Brewster knew her way around. Without using the ten-speed bicycle’s small headlight, the young woman slipped confidently along the back lanes and unlighted byways of the virtually deserted grounds of Rocky Mountain Polytechnic University.

  The part-time campus police officer, full-time undergraduate student was in high spirits. The last of her final exams had been completed. Two As, if you please, a respectable pair of Bs, and a single C. Not bad. And rookie officer Wilma Brewster was determined to enjoy a glorious Christmas vacation.

  Being delightfully young, recklessly fearless, she had no thought whatever of personal safety. The well-oiled bicycle seemed an extension of her lithe limbs. Darting across empty parking lots, flitting silently along bricked sidewalks, careening around blind curves—it was all absolutely intoxicating. The hum of thin rubber tires was the only sound in her small universe. The rider leaned, made a careening left past the domed football stadium, zipped along Moab Avenue.

  A hundred yards ahead, under the branches of a maple, Wilma thought she saw something move. Jarred by this intrusion into her private world, she brought the sleek ten-speed almost to a halt, held her breath. Is this my imagination? Another flutter of movement. No. There’s really something there. Probably an animal. Stray dog, maybe. Or a coyote. It moved again. No, definitely not a canine creature. This something walked upright. And so in her mind, the shadowy thing became a man. Probably just an insomniac taking a late-night stroll. But there had been several cases of vandalism in this area. Only last week, some bonehead had broken a half-dozen windows in the new preschool. Better call it in. Wilma reached for the small holster on her belt. The radio transceiver wasn’t there. Oh, dammit! She had checked it in just before signing off duty. So what do I do now? The answer was obvious. I’ll keep an eye on this guy. Find out what he’s up to.

  She shifted to low gear, followed the dark figure that was now moving along the sidewalk toward the preschool. This might be the vandal, getting ready to heave a few rocks through the undamaged windows. Wilma was confident that she had not been seen, but fear rippled along her limbs. There was something oddly familiar about the way this person moved. Could he be someone I know?

  Presently, the figure paused at the campus preschool, leaned against a chain-link fence enclosing a small playground. For a spine-chilling moment, she was certain that the phantom looked back. At her.

  Wilma guided the bicycle behind a bushy shrub, gripped the handle-bars, waited. Not a sound. He didn’t see me—it was just my imagination. I hope. Stretching her neck to look over a branch, the campus police officer thought she spotted her quarry. So what are you going to do now? There was no movement for almost a minute. Doubt began to gnaw at her. Maybe I’m looking at something else. Maybe he’s gone. Or maybe he’s doubled back and he’s behind me now and—There was a creaking sound as the dark figure opened a gate in the fence. She watched the shadow-person move onto the playground, pass by a set of miniature teeter-totters, a slide, a sheet-metal assembly resembling an enormous beetle. The amorphous form stopped under an elm. Sat down.

  What on earth is he doing? From somewhere deep in her brain stem, an urgent message surfaced. This voice of her most basic instincts was simple, imperative: Danger. Stay away. For a full five seconds, she heeded the stern warning. But curiosity overcame the young woman’s underdeveloped sense of self-preservation. I need to get a closer look. She got off the bicycle, pushed it closer to the boundary of the preschool play lot. Wilma stood behind a mulberry tree, squinted toward the spot where she had last seen movement.

  The moon showed its brow over the snowy crest of a round-shouldered mountain.

  Whoever it was, was still there. She could see this person more clearly now, sitting in a place where, during the daylight hours, small children played. Wilma squinted. The shadowy figure was doing something quite peculiar. Technically, it appeared to be a matter of theft. Petty theft, to be sure. But why on earth would anyone want to steal—This thought was interrupted when the shadowy form paused in its work. Looked up. No doubt, this time—invisible eyes stared directly at her. Wilma’s heart hammered against her ribs. The campus police officer found a voice that squeaked with fear. “Hey—what’re you doing on the playground?” She could see precisely what this strange person had been doing. The question was why.

  The figure was now erect. Moving toward the young woman. Again, there was something hauntingly familiar about the way the dark form moved.

  “I’m Officer Brewster, Campus Police. Thi
s is a lawful order—stop right where you are. And identify yourself.”

  The shadowy trespasser did not stop.

  Even as the young woman’s joints rattled with fear, she reminded herself about duty—and standing one’s ground. As she entertained these virtuous thoughts, the urgent message from her brain stem fairly screamed, Run! Run!

  Duty was forgotten, ground surrendered. In a wild panic, Wilma mounted her bicycle, kicked off the ten-speed, pumped the pedals until her legs ached.

  By the time she was half a mile away, her face burned with shame. I’m behaving like a silly, frightened child. The righteous thing to do was turn the bike around, return to the preschool playground, confront the trespasser. Or at least go back to the campus police headquarters and report the incident. But there would be no one at the playground by now. Best to forget the matter. Everything will be fine when I get home.

  Not so. Once inside her small apartment, she could not dismiss the peculiar incident from her troubled mind. Like a deranged serpent, the poisonous thought coiled in a tight circle, fastened teeth on tail. A hoop with no beginning, no end. Over and over and over.

  It’s too late to do anything now.

  I can’t report what happened—how could I explain running away?

  I’ll just have to forget about it.

  It’s too late to do anything now….

  The young woman looked at trembling hands. This is crazy—what is wrong with me? And then it hit her. Did I take my meds today? She tried hard to remember. I’m sure I did. But she was not sure. She hurried to the tiny bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, removed the brown bottle. Perphenazine. I’m supposed to take two pills every day, whether I need them or not. She stared at the bottle shaking in her hand. No, I’m sure I took them this morning. I don’t want to overdose. She put the pill bottle back in the cabinet. For the short term, something else was called for. Distraction. I need to get out of this apartment for a while. Have some fun. Her holiday vacation had just begun. Maybe I should take a trip somewhere.