The Valley

by William Meikle

There’s someone alive down there.

  8

  An hour after the other three went up into the cave Frank Collins’ day went bad.

  It started when Eric Strang woke and threw up on the floor at his feet. Frank was out on the porch at the time, but he heard the sound loud enough, and soon the faint odour of it wafted out the door.

  That’s all I need.

  Pat was still tending to the horses, and all was quiet. Frank risked going inside the hut. The smell immediately got much worse.

  “Bastards,” Strang shouted as soon as Frank entered. “Let me loose or I swear I’ll bloody kill the lot of you. You ain’t got no right tying me up like this.”

  Strang didn’t look like he was in any danger. They’d taken the gag off him when he slept so that he wouldn’t choke and now that looked like a good decision. Vomit was caked down the youth’s vest.

  Frank smiled grimly.

  “It’s a good job we tied you up then, isn’t it?” he said. He showed Strang the Walker. “I was the one who saved you from getting your brains blown out last night. So don’t be getting uppity with me lad. I ain’t in no mood for it.”

  “Where are the rest of you bastards?” Strang shouted, but Frank was already on his way back out to the porch. “They’ve gone for the gold haven’t they? I’ll bloody kill you all.”

  Frank shut the door behind him, but the silence of the day was ruined. He could still hear the youth ranting even through the thick wood of the door. He got the workings together for a pipe and was thankful for the hot smoke dispelling the lingering smell of the puke. But he wasn’t given time to enjoy it.

  One of the wagon horses pawed at the ground, gouging a groove in the damp grass. It tossed its head in the air and snorted loudly, the noise causing the other horses to prick up their ears.

  Something’s got them right spooked.

  Frank checked, for maybe the fifth time that morning, that the Walker was fully load.

  Pat hadn’t yet noticed the rising commotion from the other horses. He was brushing down Jake’s stallion, whispering in its ear as he stroked a hard brush along its flanks.

  The horses tethered to the wagon whinnied. They tried to back away from the creek, pulling so hard that they dragged the wagon several feet through the mud before it came to a shuddering halt. A huge white claw came into view over the rim of the bank, clacking loudly as it opened and closed. Another rose up next to it, waving in the air, as if checking the surroundings.

  Soon after, ten yards to the west, another pair of claws clacked as a second creature climbed out of the riverbed. A thick muscular tail curved over the squat body, the barbed tip hanging almost over the front end of the creature.

  The horses stamped and kicked, high whinnying echoing in the hills above.

  Big Pat looked around, confused. He went very still as he saw what was climbing out of the creek.

  “Pat,” Frank shouted, the clay pipe falling unnoticed from his lips. “Get back here. Now.”

  Pat didn’t answer. He looked at the cabin, then at the horses. Even before he spoke Frank knew what the big man’s decision would be. Pat moved to stand between the horses and the creek, weapon-less save for the hairbrush in his hand.

  “Pat!” Frank called, pleading. But the big man stayed where he was.

  “Get away from them animals,” Pat shouted. “I ain’t gonna tell you twice.”

  Frank ran forward, pulling out his Colt as he went. The Walker was in his left hand, but too heavy to wield while running. He raised the lighter weapon. But he could already see he would be too late. The beasts had both turned towards where Pat stood.

  And they would reach the big man first.

  Frank raised the Colt, but Pat was in his line of sight, and even pointing the gun in that direction almost struck Frank immobile.

  “Pat. Get the hell out of the way.”

  Pat did the opposite. He walked forward until he could almost touch the creatures. He spoke to them, calmly, as if explaining something to a child.

  “You ain’t getting the horses,” he said. “So you can forget that. Get back down that creek where you belong.”

  Claws clacked angrily. Two large tails waved in the air, arcing above Pat’s head, swaying from side to side in long lazy sweeps. The big man ignored them.

  “I done given you fair warning,” he said. “If you come on, I’ll send you to join your friend from last night, just see if I don’t.”

  Frank was still several yards away when the tails bent backwards in the air. He’d seen almost the exact same movement before, in snakes.

  They’re getting ready to strike.

  He had to make a quick decision. He went for the left, aimed and fired in one movement. He had fired too quickly and his aim was off. He missed by some distance. But it got Pat’s attention.

  The big man turned -- a look of puzzlement on his face.

  “You done shot at me Frank. What you go and do that for?”

  Frank threw himself at Pat just as the beasts struck, grabbing him at the middle and wrestling him to the ground. The two men fell aside. The tails struck the ground with loud thumps. They hit almost exactly where Pat had stood a second before.

  Frank rolled onto his back, bringing the Colt up, expecting an attack.

  It didn’t come. The beasts ignored the men and headed straight for the horses.

  Pat was already pushing himself up.

  “Now look what you’ve gone and done,” he said. Before Frank could stop him he was up and running, once more heading straight for the creatures.

  The horses snorted and whinnied, kicking out at the wagon, and at each other.

  A muffled shout came from inside the cabin.

  “Hey. What’s going on out there?” Strang shouted. “What’s all that commotion?”

  One of the creatures turned and started to head towards the hut. The other kept going towards the horses.

  Sound. They hunt by sound.

  The horses went wild as the creature approached them, stomping and rearing, their whinnies and snorts filling the air with noise. Claws clacked eagerly and the muscular tail swished back and forth as it scuttled across the muddy ground.

  It had almost reached the horses when Pat caught up with it. He grabbed the tail with both hands. The beast swung the tail violently from side to side, lifting Pat from the ground at each end of the swing. The big man held on tight. At the low point of the tail’s arc he was able to dig his heels into the mud and pull. He was doing just enough to keep the clacking claws away from the horse’s legs.

  The other beast reached the cabin door. It tore frantically at the wood with its claws. Strang wailed… a wordless cry of fear that carried high into the night. Splinters flew in the air and wood cracked like gunfire. Strang wailed louder. The beast gouged ever harder at the door.

  Frank decided that the door would hold longer than Pat’s grip on the tail. He ran to the big man’s aid. When the beast swung Pat to one side he fired the Colt.

  The recoil sent a jolt all the way up his arm, but the shot blew a hole the size of a small plate in the shell. The tail suddenly lost some of its strength and Pat got his feet firmly on the ground. The big man wasted no time. He put his back into it and dragged the scorpion backward, leaving a deep track on the grass.

  The creature scuttled around, turning in a tight circle in less than a second, away from the horses -- but facing Frank.

  The claws reached for his face. Frank got a good close look at the razor sharp serrated edge before he put another shot into the body, aiming for where he guessed the eyes would be.

  The beast didn’t slow. A claw clacked less than an inch from Frank’s nose. He leapt aside, rolling and firing the Colt in the same movement to put another shot into the side beside the left front leg.

  The leg blew apart and the beast lurched over, almost falling to the ground before righting itself, but it had given Pat time to make a move. He heaved the creature upright, showing Frank its belly.

  F
rank put two more shots into where he thought the brain might be. Bits of shell and viscous liquid flew. The air was suddenly full of an acrid stink like a wet cow pat on a hot day. Thick yellow fluid poured from the bullet hole.

  “Shoot it again Frank,” Pat shouted.

  The Colt clicked down empty. He dropped it aside and raised the Walker, struggling with the weight of the weapon. He put a shot from the Walker near the last one from the Colt. The hole it blasted was as large as a dinner plate. The beast’s innards started to leak through it, yellow-green organs glistening obscenely as they slithered to the ground. Frank saw Pat lean to one side to throw up. But he didn’t let go of the beast.

  “Again Frank,” Pat shouted.

  Frank shook his head.

  “You can let it go Pat. It ain’t going nowhere.”

  Pat dropped the beast. It fell with a wet thump to the ground and lay still.

  Frank’s heart thudded in his ears and his breath came in hot hitches.

  “Well, that weren’t too bad now, were it?” Pat said, putting out a hand to help Frank up. “Is it deaded?”

  Frank kicked the shell. Then again. There was no movement.

  “I guess so big man. But I ain’t never killed nothin’ like this before, so I can’t be exactly sure.”

  At the same moment there was a crash.

  Shit. I forgot the other beast.

  The cabin door fell in. The second beast headed straight for where Strang sat screaming, still bound to the chair. The scorpion lifted the door in one claw and tossed it aside as if it was a piece of paper. Its tail hit the door-jamb on the way through. A fine spray of poison fell all around it.

  Strang screamed louder. The claws clacked eagerly.

  Frank started to run. He brought up the heavy pistol, but he couldn’t guarantee not hitting Strang, and at this range, a shot from the Walker could kill a man outright. He was just going through the door when the beast reached Strang.

  The youth threw himself backward, toppling the chair to the floor with a crash. The beast lunged, claws closing on the wood of the chair’s legs and crunching them to kindling in a second. Strang screamed again, howling like a teething babe.

  The claws clacked, loud as whiplashes.

  “Help me for pity’s sake,” Strang squealed. “Get me out of this fucking chair.”

  The right claw reached towards the sound of his voice.

  He screamed louder.

  “For pity’s sake, keep quiet,” Frank said.

  But Strang kept screaming.

  Frank threw himself along the full length of the beast, grabbed at the left claw for balance, and put two shots into the area where he’d done so much damage to the one outside. Bits of shell and gore flew. The beast bucked but Frank held on tight and pulled the trigger again, and again.

  Finally it clicked down empty.

  The beast wasn’t nearly finished. The left claw crushed the last remains of the chair to pieces and closed on Strang’s right ankle. There was a loud snip. The foot fell away as steaming blood sprayed in an arc over the beast. Frank tasted it in his mouth and almost gagged.

  Strang screamed and kicked, with both legs. The stump flailed and the air filled with more blood spray as Strang tried to struggle upright. At the same moment the beast brought its tail round. It hit the side of the youth’s head with a wet slap. The barbed tip lodged in his neck just above the shoulder and stuck there. The tail swung to one side, dragging the screaming youth across the room. He left a trail of blood behind him.

  Frank rolled off the shell into a crouch. Strang squealed like a stuck pig.

  “Help me Jesus. Help me.”

  I don’t think he’s listening son.

  Frank started to move forward, looking for an opening, intending to use the pistol as a club.

  Pat had other ideas. Frank hadn’t seen the big man since the cabin door fell open, but Pat had used the time well. He ran screaming into the room brandishing a large wood axe.

  With one swipe he cut the flailing tail in two.

  Strang fell heavily to the ground, taking the end of the tail with him. The other half sprayed gouts of yellow-white fluid around the room as the beast scurried frantically in all directions, looking for escape from this new threat. Pat weaved past the swinging tail and jumped onto the beast’s back. He swung the axe, first to the left and then to the right. Pieces of shell and gore fell in chunks. The smell was almost too much to bear.

  “Die,” Pat shouted, “Die. You killed my horse you son of a bitch. Die.”

  Finally, it did. Its legs gave way beneath it and it collapsed with a wet muffled thud.

  The room went quiet apart from the heavy hissing of the men’s breath. Frank’s chest felt tight with tension, and he had to force his hand to relax to let go of the pistol.

  Strang moaned.

  He’s still alive. But only just.

  The barbed tip of the tail stuck in his neck. The skin around the wound had already turned red and inflamed. His eyes rolled up showing white. A foamy mix of blood and spittle bubbled at his lips. The flow of blood at his ankle had slowed to a viscous trickle but there was enough blood on the floor to tell Frank the prognosis wasn’t good. He’d seen enough dying men to know there was little hope.

  Big Pat still stood over creature, hacking and slashing until there was little left but a pool of thick liquid and parts of broken claw and shell.

  The tail part that was stuck in Strang’s neck twitched. Pat hit it with the axe, again and again until it too was still.

  Frank put a hand on Pat’s shoulder as the big man raised the axe again.

  “Enough Pat,” he said softly. “Let’s get the lad out of this charnel-house and see if we can do anything for him.”

  Strang started to convulse, the foam at his mouth becoming more blood than spit, his one remaining foot drumming hard on the floor.

  With Pat’s help Frank dragged the youth out to the cleaner air on the porch, but by the time he bent to try to stem the blood flow in the leg, Strang was dead; pale eyes staring, unseeing, at the sky.

  Not again. Please Lord, not again.

  Frank stood and walked away.

  He was back at the field of Shiloh, with powder smoke in his nostrils, the taste of blood in his mouth and dead men that he should have protected behind him.

  I did it again. I failed them again.

  Tears coursed down his cheeks but he didn’t notice. His head was full of the sound of screaming and gunshots; the sight of dead eyes and blood. He could see and hear nothing else.

  He might have kept walking if Pat hadn’t tugged at his arm.

  “Frank? You okay Frank?”

  Pat pulled Frank round to face him. At first Frank only saw Strang’s dead eyes staring back, but the hurt and confusion on the big man’s face brought Frank back to reality.

  Pat was wide eyed, and looked close to panic.

  “What are we gonna do now Frank? What are we gonna do?”

  Frank forced the despair away. He knew it would be back.

  It always comes back.

  He put an arm round Pat’s shoulders and spoke quietly.

  “You go and see to the horses Pat. They need calming. The smell of death is putting a fright into them.”

  Hell, it’s putting a fright into me.

  Pat calmed noticeably, his eyes clearing at the very thought of the horses.

  “I can do that,” he said, persuading himself. “Yep, I can do that.” His eyes took on a pleading look that Frank had only ever seen before in a scared dog. “Just don’t make me go back in the cabin Frank. Please, say you ain’t gonna make me go back in there?”

  “I promise,” Frank said. “You go see to the horses. I’ll see to the cabin.”

  Pat turned to head for the wagon, but Frank stood for a long time looking at the cabin, and the dead body lying near the door. Several minutes passed before he could make himself walk.

  Strang’s dead eyes watched, accusingly, until Frank bent and closed them. />
  Ain’t got no pennies son. But I doubt you’re going anywhere where you’ll need them.

  He took one look inside the hut. The creature’s fluids were already starting to harden, forming a thick crust overlaying the blood spray. The smell brought gorge to Frank’s throat and he backed out fast. The last thing he spotted was the amputated foot, still with a boot on, lying in a pool of blood and gore under a broken chair.

  He stepped back out onto the porch, slammed the door shut and gulped air until he felt he could breathe without throwing up.

  “You okay Frank?” Pat asked again from over by the wagon.

  Frank waved him away.

  He looked over at the wagon, then up at the cave mouth on the hill.

  Keep walking Frank, a voice in the back of his mind said. But something had hardened in him. Maybe it was killing the beast that did it, or maybe it was just that the bloody foot had thrown him over the edge of what he was prepared to suffer.

  “Get some provisions together Pat,” he shouted. “We’re heading up the hill to give Jake a hand.”

  9

  Jake found tracks along the side of the stream; not made by men, but by more of the scorpions. The tracks both ascended and descended from the dried pool above. They followed it for a hundred yards. The tracks followed the course of the stream. By the time the deer track veered away the three of them were leaving the only visible marks on the slushy snow.

  The beasts don’t move far from water. It was the same at the creek.

  “Let’s take the high road,” he said. “We don’t want to meet any more of them scorpions if we can help it.”

  “Amen to that brother,” the Squire said. The Pastor gave the Englishman a disapproving look that did no good at all.

  Jake kept his eyes on the thin column of smoke. It came from a dark cave mouth and he hoped against hope that one of the settlers, maybe even George, would appear there and wave cheerfully up at them.

  But I gave up believing in fairy stories back in Nevada.

  Down below on the valley floor a spiraling column of eagles soared, catching a thermal as the sun began to warm the air. They came up the side of the cliff slowly. It was only as the birds rose to almost eye-level that Jake realized how big they were. These were no mere eagles. Each wing was longer than the Pastor was tall.