Deadtown and Other Tales of Horror Set in the Old West

by Carl Hose

  “Where’s the church?” Frank asked. “The old woman that runs the hotel said I can find a silver cross there that’ll kill Silus.”

  “The old woman that runs the—what old woman?”

  “Silus’s momma.”

  “Son, that woman’s been dead half a year now. Silus killed her himself. That hotel ain’t been nothin’ but a place for them things to sleep since.”

  Not much surprised Frank. Vampires, zombies, none of it made a lick of sense to him. Why not add a ghostly old woman to the pot and stir the mix.

  “Show me the church anyway,” he said.

  The sheriff took him and waited outside. Frank found the spot the old woman had told him about. He pried up the wooden slats behind the pulpit and found the cross, just like the old woman said he would. He stuffed it up under his shirt and started to leave, pausing long enough to turn back to the pulpit and cross himself. He wasn’t sure how much good it would do, but he figured it couldn’t hurt none either.

  “Find what you was after?” the sheriff asked.

  “Found it,” Frank said, “but we ain’t got much time.”

  They went to see the blacksmith.

  “How fast you think you can melt this down and make some bullets?”

  “Pretty quick, I reckon,” the blacksmith said.

  “I need ’em by sundown.”

  The blacksmith nodded and took the cross. “See what I can do.”

  Elijah and two of his men were waiting on Frank and the sheriff when they came out of the livery.

  “You ain’t thinkin’ about hightailin’ it, are ya?” Elijah asked. “You don’t strike me as the kinda fella that’d run out and leave a lady in distress.”

  “I ain’t that kinda fella,” Frank said. “Where’s she at?”

  “You really ’spect me to answer that?” Elijah leaned to one side of his horse and spat on the ground, then he fixed the sheriff with a hard look and said, “A man would have to be crazy to turn on Silus.”

  “What do you think’ll happen when everybody in town is a bloodsucker ’cept for you and what’s left of your friends?” Frank asked. “You think Silus is gonna have any use for you then?”

  The two men flanking Elijah looked at him, expecting an answer that would make them feel a whole lot better about the situation.

  “He’s got a real good point there, Eli,” one of them spoke up.

  “Shut up,” Elijah said, giving the man a sharp glance before turning his attention back to Frank. “Silus needs me. He’ll take me with him when he moves on to the next town.”

  “There are men like you in every town,” Frank said. “He can get somebody new. You’ll be extra baggage.”

  Elijah’s confidence started to wane.

  “You tell me where she is, and after I kill Silus, you won’t need to worry about what I’ll do to you.”

  “Sounds like a winnin’ game,” the sheriff put in.

  Elijah shifted nervously in his saddle, considering the offer.

  “Time’s wastin’,” Frank pushed.

  “I’m with the drifter,” one of Elijah’s men said.

  “That right?” Elijah said evenly.

  He drew his revolver and shot the traitor dead, making up his mind to stick with Silus, then he leveled his gun at his remaining man. “You wanna back out on me too?”

  The man shook his head, eyes wide as silver dollars. He knew Frank had a good point, but he knew Elijah was itching to pull the trigger and seemed to be the more immediate threat.

  “You tell Silus it’s all over tonight,” Frank said to Elijah. “Downtown Sundown, me ’n’ him are gonna do us a little dance. Give him that message for me, and when I finish with Elijah, you ’n’ me are gonna talk.”

  “It’ll be your funeral when the time comes,” Elijah said.

  After Elijah and his partner rode off, Frank told the sheriff, “Look for the girl. If you find her, put her somewhere safe ’til this is finished.”

  “I sure hope you know what you’re doin’,” the sheriff said. “When Silus comes out tonight, he’s gonna be mighty pissed off.”

  “I reckon he will be,” Frank said with a grin.

  The sheriff rode one way and Frank the other. Frank ended up at the saloon. The barkeep set a bottle of whiskey out as soon as Frank came in.

  “On the house,” he said. “Word travels fast.”

  “Obliged.”

  “Enjoy it,” the barkeep added. “It’s prob’ly the last whiskey you’ll taste.”

  “’Preciate the vote of confidence,” Frank said.

  “Nothin’ personal. Anybody has a chance, likely it’d be you. I just don’t ’spect anybody can beat Silus, that’s all.”

  “Guess we’ll know soon enough,” Frank countered.

  He rolled a smoke and took his whiskey straight from the bottle while he watched the light drift away outside. When the sun was just about a quarter of an hour from saying goodbye, he went back to see the livery to pick up his order. The blacksmith had outdone himself. He handed Frank a smooth wooden box. Frank opened the box and shook six silver bullets into the palm of his hand. He jostled them a bit and inspected them, then loaded his gun.

  “Had a little extra,” the blacksmith.

  He handed Frank something wrapped in soft cloth. Frank unwrapped the object and the corners of his mouth made a crooked smile.

  “Figured a stake made outta the same cross might be a good idea,” the blacksmith told him. “Drive it into his heart for good measure.”

  “I like the way you think,” Frank said.

  He wrapped the stake again and slipped it into his back pocket. It was almost dark now. Time to dance with the devil, or whatever the hell a thing like Silus was.

  Frank stepped right out to the middle of the dusty street. The few townspeople that had yet to suffer death at the hands of the bloodsuckers were watching now. Some even ventured a touch of hope. Most of them stayed inside to watch the showdown, but a few had gone the mile and were milling about on the sidewalks.

  Frank allowed a quick look around, scanning rooftops, looking into shadows. Elijah and his partner approached on horseback, stopping just in front of Frank. Elija looked smug as ever.

  “Give ya one more chance to give me the girl,” Frank said.

  Elijah grinned. “Not on your life, which is what you’re about to be a little short on. Silus is on his way.”

  Elijah and his partner rode off, leaving Frank to do whatever the good Lord had brought him here to do.

  The wind began to blow. A swirl of dust rose at the far end of the street, thickening into what looked like a tornado. Frank could see nothing in its midst. The wind increased in volume until it reached an almost ear-shattering crescendo, and then came a silence so overpowering there was no doubt it was the calm before the storm.

  The dust settled, revealing Silus at the far end of the street, tall and thin, his black hair hanging below his shoulders. He wore a velvet cape, white shirt with ruffled sleeves, black slacks, and high black boots. He wore no gun, but Frank hadn’t expected him to have one either. A thing like that was its own weapon, and more dangerous than a cougar in a corner.

  Frank’s hand hovered over the butt of his Colt.

  Silus laughed a deep, guttural laugh that smothered the town. He raised both arms above his head, with his palms facing Frank in mock surrender.

  “You face me with such a primitive weapon,” he said, shaking his head with disgust and disbelief. “I had hoped for an opponent worthy of challenge, and you come to me like an insect.”

  Frank turned his head slightly to one side, keeping his eyes focused on Silus, and spit. He was tense. Every muscle in his body was charged and alive, ready to work in conjunction to give him the skills he needed to defeat Silus.

  “I will take great pleasure in tearing out your,” Silus said.

  “You need to work on your people skills,” Frank called back flatly.

  He moved suddenly and without warning. Frank drew his gun
in the split second it took Silus to cover the two hundred yards between them. He emptied his gun at the blur that was Silus. Several bullets found their mark, stopping Silus in his tracks. The head vampire’s eyes widened with something akin to surprise. Thick billows of smoke rose from the holes in his chest. Blood as black as night seeped from the wounds and fell to the ground, sizzling at Silus’s feet before the dusty earth soaked it up.

  Silus fell to his knees as smoldering flames began to erupt along his arms and legs. When the fire really took hold, Silus burst into a wicked bright ball of flame that held everyone in a trance.

  When the flames finally played out, Frank strolled over to Silus’s charred remains, kicked the blackened pile of ash onto its back, and said, “Just like mom used to make.”

  He reached into his back pocket and took out the wrapped cross. It didn’t seem necessary, but he removed the cloth anyway, and squatted beside Silus, plunging the stake into where he figured the heart should be.

  The wind kicked harder as Frank rose. What was left of Silus was a pile of ashes. The wind whipped down Main Street with a howl, sweeping those ashes into the night.

  Frank watched it all with calm distaste, reloading his Colt as he did. There was still one more thing to take care of. Elijah was standing on the walkway in front of the saloon, already aware his time was up.

  “I want the girl,” Frank said.

  Elijah was a changed man. “I’ll get her,” he said agreeably. “She ain’t hurt.” Then to his partner, “Go get her, you idiot. Hurry it up.”

  Elijah shifted nervously from one foot to the other, on the verge of shitting his pants. “You ain’t gonna shoot me, are ya?” he asked.

  “I’m thinkin’ about it,” Frank said.

  Elijah’s partner returned a minute later with Jenny safely in tow.

  Frank gave Jenny a quick once over to make sure she was in one piece, then he said to Elijah, “Looks like your lucky day. I believe I done about all the shootin’ I intend to do for the time bein’.”

  Elijah sighed with relief. He glanced at his partner and jerked his head to indicate it was time to leave. He wasn’t waiting around to be told.

  “Shoulda blasted his ass,” the sheriff muttered, then he gave Frank a hearty slap on the back. “We can’t thank ya enough,” he said.

  “No need,” Frank replied. “And, Sheriff, ’preciate you comin’ around.”

  He extracted the makings for a cigarette and began to roll one.

  “What’cha gonna do now? Jenny asked, her eyes filled with hope.

  “Figure I’ll be on my way,” Frank said. “Movin’ on is about the only thing I know how to do right.”

  Jenny hesitated, then she flung herself at him and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him hard on the mouth. Her soft breasts pushed against his chest. His knees went weak.

  “I wish you’d stick around,” she told him.

  Frank took a deep breath to clear his thoughts. “Maybe I could stick around a little longer,” he said. “I’m plum tired of ridin’ off into the sunset.”

  With that, he pulled Jenny to him for another kiss.

  * * *

  Jake Willis was in an abandoned mining town somewhere inside Nevada. He slid from the saddle of his mare and held his hurt leg out while he knotted a kerchief around it to stop the flow of blood.

  Darkness came. He figured he might as well settle in for the night. He’d get started again at first light. What he needed now was rest.

  He made coffee and settled back with his leg propped up on his saddle bag, trying hard to forget about the throbbing pain.

  Silly the way he got himself cut like that, turning his back on an injun when he knew better than to let his guard down around one of them savages. The kerchief was soaked through now. He took it off and tossed it aside, then leaned up to examine the wound.

  The dusty earth beneath the bloody rag began to writhe as it came alive.

  Thirsty dirt.

  Dirt mixed with a bit of scattered ash.

  Death was temporary, darkness eternal.

  Beneath the earth, Silus tasted the elixir of life.

  He would rise again.

  Legend of Falling Rock

  Winter, 1857

  Eight Cheyenne children disappeared without a trace. Some of the elders believed evil spirits had claimed them, but the warriors blamed the white man. Enraged, they warriors demanded a war council. Chief Kettle Foot opposed the drastic measure. The warriors grew restless and angry. Kettle Foot could not dissuade them.

  Falling Rock was a small boy at the time. He cared deeply for his people and did not wish to see them thrown into a battle against the white man. Too much blood had been spilled already. Now was the time for peace.

  Little Falling Rock, the grandchild of Kettle Foot, slipped away from his village late one night. He rode the pony given to him by his grandfather. He’d decided to go in search of the missing children, for he knew it was the only way to avoid bloodshed between his people and the white man.

  That night, while Falling Rock searched desperately for his young friends, a blizzard tore across the Badlands. The young Cheyenne rode on, battling his way through ice and snow, bowing his head against wind that whipped around him without mercy.

  Kettle Foot found Falling Rock gone the next morning. The warriors, blaming Falling Rock’s disappearance on the white man as well, became angry. Now there would be no delay. A war party would ride out immediately. They would attack the white man relentlessly. They would steal the women and children away, and burn their homes to the ground.

  This would be the Season of Blood.

  “Put aside your anger,” Kettle Foot pleaded with the warriors.

  Gray Cloud, who was the greatest and most feared of the Cheyenne warriors, was angered by Kettle Foot’s words. “Our Great Chief has grown weak,” he said. He demanded all true Cheyenne warriors ride with him on his mission of retribution.

  “Abandon your quest until the storm has passed,” Kettle Foot commanded.

  “Enough,” Gray Cloud spat.

  He raised his fist and gave a war cry, then he rode off, followed by his band of renegades. Kettle Foot watched with sadness in his heart as the warriors disappeared behind a curtain of snow, their war cries lost in the howling wind.

  * * *

  Falling Rock let the Great Spirit guide him. Hungry and freezing, he fought his way through the blizzard, never losing his faith and courage. As the storm grew more violent, Falling Rock hugged his pony’s neck, protecting himself from the biting ice and bitter wind. He did not see the snow-filled pit. His pony stumbled. They fell into the pit together, one over the other, tumbling for what seemed an eternity. When Falling Rock tried to move, he found his arms and legs twisted and broken.

  His vision began to fade.

  Later, when he awoke, he realized his pony was dead. A great mist filled his eyes. He curled up next to the pony and tried to stay warm. Time passed. Darkness swallowed him. Just before he slipped away forever, he recalled the words sung by the elders of his tribe:

  I have seen the rivers flowing.

  I have heard the children cry.

  Now the buffalo are going

  Far away to die with pride.

  My heart cries out to live in freedom.

  Freedom is one breath away.

  My heart grows cold, for I am dying.

  I am going far away.

  The storm was gone by morning. Sun glistened on the snow-packed earth. Gray Cloud and his warriors were approaching the village from the north. They were on foot, leading their horses, upon the backs of which rode the missing children. Kettle Foot and the rest of the tribe gathered at the edge of the camp to greet them all. Gray Cloud immediately knelt before the chief and begged forgiveness for his previous act of insubordination.

  With a solemn nod, Kettle Foot granted forgiveness.

  In the native tongue of his people, Gray Cloud spoke: “The white man had nothing to do with the disappearance of
our children. The children wandered too far from the village and found themselves lost in the storm. The Great Spirits provided protection for a time, but soon the children were hungry and cold and near death.

  Young Falling Rock appeared to them. The young brave led them to me through the blizzard. My cold heart, and the hearts of my warriors, were warmed by the story of that little brave leading his people to safety. His strength and courage was that of the greatest warrior.”

  After a long silence, Kettle Foot asked the question, “What has become of my grandchild?”

  “He sleeps long,” Gray Cloud answered.

  The warrior looked north and lifted his gaze toward the highest bluff.

  The Cheyenne people followed Gray Cloud’s gaze and saw Falling Rock sitting proudly upon the pony given to him by his grandfather. The child brave waved to his people one final time and then vanished forever.

  I wrote this story based on something my father used to tell me when I was a boy. Every time we saw one of those signs in a rocky area that read “watch for falling rock,” he told me Falling Rock was a little Native American Indian boy who got separated from his tribe. That concept always intrigued me, so I decided to write Falling Rock’s official story.

  A Lady’s Honor

  “Goddamn wind might kill us ’fore it’s over,” Hank said, drawing up alongside one of his point riders. “Keep ’em movin’.” He raised his voice to be heard over the thunder of cattle they were driving west.

  Charlie nodded understanding and urged his horse closer to the herd.

  Hank rode to the back of the drive, thankful to have the wind at his back for a change. The drag rider, a drifter named Wil, was rounding up a couple of stray calves.

  “Doin’ okay?” Hank asked, straining his voice once again over the wind and the cattle.

  Wil brought one of the calves back in line, gave a nod, then set off to bring the other one back.

  Calvert and Angus were supposed to be riding flank, but Calvert had ridden too far out to do any good. Hank rode out after him.