Terovolas

by Edward M. Erdelac

From the Pen of Alvin Crooker

  27th Aug

  I need to get back to the goddamn printing office.

  The Q&M boys came in from the south forty, where they’d been rounding up the cattle all night. Somebody had cut the wire and stampeded the herd. It took them all night to rope them all back in. They said they saw the fire, but were too far out to do any good.

  They were luckier than poor Pepperbelly. Ranny found the Mexican lying in the yard. He had been caught in the stampede and run over by so much beef he had to be pried out of the dirt.

  All those hooves made it pretty impossible to tell for sure who did this, but everybody is hell-bent on riding straight for the Skoll place and getting answers. It looks like there’s going to be a heap of trouble.

  Van Helsing keeps going on about his murder cult. Can’t believe he’s serious. A hide shirt, some hoe gloves and a pair of pointed dentures isn’t enough to make me believe in wolf men, especially when the best testimony comes from a fella we found howling around a campfire in the middle of a canyon at night. At least he has shucked his wolf getup into his war bag in favor of traveling clothes. As for his story about Picker...well, I don’t know. I still think it was this Plenty Skins that killed Buckner. Hell, the tracks led right to him! And anyway, who’s to say that wolf shirt and the teeth and the rest of that stuff he claims he got from Picker aren’t his?

  Cole wants to ride into town and get Shetland and the Judge to go with us to Skoll’s, so as to keep a lid on things. He is one cool customer. If that were my place burned to match sticks, I’d be hollerin’ for blood right about now.

  * * *

  From the Journal of Abraham Van Helsing

  August 27th

  My worst fear was that the receptacle containing Quincey’s ashes had been lost in the fire, but when I made this regret known to Coleman, he told me candidly that he had dashed Quincey’s ashes among the graves of his parents early yesterday morning without fanfare. This was a great relief, as much because Quincey’s ashes had not been lost, as because they had not been disdained. Technically, my initial purpose is complete. Quincey Morris now rests with his family, even if his ancestral home has been destroyed.

  But there is a greater task ahead now, and I believe that God has put me here in this place in this company and under these circumstances to once again mete out His will. I do not think of myself as a crusader, but I must admit it is rather strange that I should find myself again in such odd circumstances, facing such deliberate and naked evil. Perhaps I am being given an opportunity to make reparations for the sins I have committed in my younger days.

  Before we rode out I asked Coleman what he intended to do. He is remarkably composed for one who has just lost all that he cherishes to the fire. Yet I fear that this composure is but a half-fixed stopper for some unguessed rage which may yet pour over into brash violence. We must not approach Skoll without a carefully devised plan of attack.

  “I’m just going to ask the man some questions,” was all Coleman would say. And in that instant I thought that I was hearing Quincey.

  As I went to my horse, he called me back to him, and looking me in the eyes, asked me plainly if I believed in everything the Indian had said.

  As he looked at me, I was struck by his resemblance to his brother. Although at a distance they are clearly not the same, when close they seem very much alike, especially in their eyes. Yet in looking at Coleman, I did not see in his gaze the angry denial I had seen in Quincey’s the night I told them all the truth about Miss Lucy Westenra. In Coleman’s face there was a more honest expression. Quiet, reasonable. I understood then that Coleman Morris was a man more honest than even Quincey had ever been. He did not raise his voice without good cause, and he never drew attention to his fear.

  And why then, should I lie?

  “Yes I do,” I whispered to him. “Quite assuredly.”

  Coleman watched me for a moment, studying my face; then he leaned close from his saddle.

  “So do I.”

  “And now, may I ask you something?”

  Coleman paused. I could see he was anxious to go.

  I asked him about the tracks of the lion around Buckner’s shack — why they had bothered him so.

  In answer, he held up one of his hands, pointing to it with the other.

  “These lines on my hand...” he said.

  “Papillary ridges?”

  He shrugged. More of my ‘flourishments,’ as Alvin would call them. I had learned the term on my adventure with Hamish and the Great Detective.

  “You ever heard of an animal havin’ ‘em?”

  I have not, unless it was a great ape. And they are noticeably scarce on the Texas plains.

  Later

  Fool that I am! Why did I not have Alvin or Mr. Firebaugh accompany me to the telegraph office? It was very nearly a lasting regret.

  I had thought to send a message to John, presuming that he must be worried as I had assured him I would do so upon my arrival. So, as Coleman and his men went to see Sheriff Shetland, and Mr. Firebaugh and Ranny went to purchase supplies for the trail (and ammunition, I am sure), Alvin hurried to his press and I to the telegraph office.

  I paid for a short wire to London assuring John and Lord Godalming of my safe arrival, and that I had met with Coleman. I did not make mention of anything that is now afoot, for fear John would find a way to have me shipped back to Purfleet.

  When I emerged from the telegraph office, I was confronted by none other than red-headed Ivar Vulmere, glaring at me from around his yellowing, misshapen nose, as he had at the party. Behind him was the tall one called Walker, and he was armed with a pistol. They both stood on the plank walk before the door, waiting for me as had the Crenshaw brothers.

  My first instinct was to fly like a rabbit from those hateful eyes, but I fought my urge to cower and stood my ground, even going so far as to speak well before he had the chance.

  “I know what you are,” I said, clenching my fists at my side to keep them from shaking. Strange that I, who had faced an immortal and countless madmen and dangers both manmade and alien to this realm of being should be so unnerved by this one. “And I know what you’ve done.”

  Vulmere smiled, and with his grotesque nose and evil, purplish eyes it was like a grimace.

  To further illustrate my point, I took from my pocket the curved canine tooth, and let it fall to the boardwalk between us. I watched Vulmere’s eyes alight on it, and then flash up at me with naked hate. He cocked his head slightly, and the expression was distinctly bestial. All of this confirmed that it did indeed belong to him.

  Walker stirred at his side, but I was not as frightened by the giant as I was by this little sharp-eyed man. There was a pent up fury about him. How had he ever become an attorney?

  “Who are you, Van Helsing?” he hissed in Danish, sucking in spittle.

  “What matters is I am coming for her,” I answered back, in kind.

  His shoulders shook slightly.

  “Do you know what you’re facing, old man?”

  “I know what you think you are.”

  “You have no idea what we are,” he said, and there was a fierce pride in his feverish eyes. “How can you?”

  “You claim you are men of The Sleipnir. Wolf-Coats. Odin-Worshipers. Odin was a god of slaughter, but he also sought wisdom. There, I think you fall utterly short. You are lunatics at play, like children in their grandfather’s clothes.”

  Vulmere took a step forward, his face turning to match the fading dark rings under his eyes.

  “Take care, old moon. And be afraid. The wolves are at your heels.”

  “You have shown you have the courage to kill. Do you have the courage to die?” I said, savoring the irony of the words, for they were foretold as the words Tyr would say to Fenrir at the end of days. Of course Vulmere knew them too, and his nostrils flared at their intonation. “Tell your master if she is harmed, I will lay him lower than stones,” I added.

  I thought my taunt w
ould induce him to strike at me. With no help, I feared I should not give much account of myself against a man younger and stronger and with the conviction of a lunatic.

  But then a voice from nearby said:

  “Red Hair!”

  Vulmere and I both turned at that, and there stood Plenty Skins, leaning against the clapboards. The Indian had followed me without a word and waited outside. Only now had he made himself known. I wasn’t certain which of us he had called. Beside Vulmere, my fading hair was a pale gloaming to his raging flame. Then I saw that Plenty Skins did not look at me.

  Vulmere and Walker both seemed dumbstruck by the appearance of the Indian. He was not in his wolf skins anymore, and seemed comparatively tame in a plain blouse, jeans and blanket. He was unarmed but for the knife in his belt, and yet to my surprise, both brutish men seemed to shrink before the Indian’s hard look.

  “Not red like the east,” said Plenty Skins, suddenly at my side. “Red like blood.”

  Nothing further was said. Vulmere and Walker backed away as from some unseen menace and went to their large horses, tied at the post. They mounted up and rode off without a word, though Vulmere spared the Indian a lingering stare.

  Plenty Skins watched them go.

  I breathed deeply and expressed to Plenty Skins my gladness at his arrival. I had thought I might be accosted or worse had the encounter been prolonged, and I had foolishly left my revolver in the saddlebags of my horse.

  “I’m glad too,” Plenty Skins said. “I thought I was here to kill you.”

  This took me quite by surprise, and after I had found my voice, I asked why.

  “In my vision I seen Picker killed by a wolf with blood red hair, who came out of the east. When I saw you, I thought I found him. But your hair wasn’t the right color red.”

  He smiled, and it was oddly disconcerting to see his teeth. He clapped me on the shoulder like a drunken crony.

  “Walk with me, and we’ll talk,” he said.

  Then, on the walk back to Alvin’s printing office and the jail, the Indian disclosed to me through the recitation of his dream a great deal about what he believed to be his purpose.

  “After Picker was et up by the red-haired wolf there was a big howling all about, as of many wolves. In my dream I killed Red Hair, but his pack rose up to tear me apart.”

  He must have mistaken my pursed lips for concern, as he smiled.

  “Don’t worry. The she-wolf took pity on me, and I was safe. But a great hunter saw her and wanted her pelt. I was wounded, and couldn’t interfere. I wished I could’ve thanked her, but I couldn’t. You thank her for me, Professor.”

  I could not fathom what he was talking about, nor what he wanted of me. Prophecy is often vague, sometimes by nature, other times by deliberation. Before I could determine which style Plenty Skins practiced, he went on.

  “Things will be harder now that I’ve shown myself to Red Hair.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He turned to me, and there was a gravity in his eyes that was superb if it was pretended and harrowing if it was not. I saw why Vulmere and his man had turned away.

  “We’ve seen each other before, Van Helsing. In a dream. I dreamed him and he dreamed me. But now that we have seen each other in the real world, not even hell will keep us apart.”

  I asked for clarification again, but he only said;

  “I can’t tell you what you have to learn for yourself. Just quiet your thinking. That way when it does speak to you, you’ll hear.”

  Then who should we see, gesticulating to us from the doorway of the very same pub in which the late Pepperbelly had debased himself on our last trip to town, but Alvin.

  I saluted him, asking him why he was not at his press.

  “Get over here, you dumb buzzards, and fast!”

  Plenty Skins and I exchanged wary looks, but obeyed, ducking into the dim of the drinking house.

  It was hardly after noon and the patrons were few. The paint was peeling off the only painted wall, and a thin man with a waxed mustache was seated on a stool behind the bar obscured behind a yellow copy of the Picayune. As we came in, he looked over the lip of the paper with mild interest.

  There was a frightful air to Alvin’s face, and his hands were shaking.

  “They arrested Cole and Ranny!”

  I couldn’t believe what I heard.

  “Listen to me, old man. Shetland arrested ‘em both on Skoll’s orders.”

  “Skoll’s orders? But they burned his house to the ground! Did he not...”

  “Skoll says he has proof Cole killed that man Thorsen. And that ain’t the half of it. When Rufus tried to place Cole under arrest, that dumb pup Ranny took a swing at him, so Rufus had to buffalo him upside the head with his pistol. The Q&M boys went plumb loco, and there was nearly a shootout. Cole yelled for ‘em all to skin out. Now Skoll says he’s afraid they’re going to head to his place and make a grab for his wife. Krumholtz has deputized most of Skoll’s men, and they’re headed out after ‘em right now!”

  Skoll’s men had been empowered to legally hunt down what force we had mustered, and Coleman and Ranny, our field marshals, were imprisoned all in the space of half an hour.

  “Where is Mr. Firebaugh?”

  “Right here,” said a gruff voice from the end of the bar.

  Firebaugh stood coolly dispensing a glass of whiskey, his gaff hand hooked lazily on his broad belt, his one eye slightly glazed. I hadn’t seen him there in the gloom.

  I was at something of a loss. Could the law be so misconstrued and our situation made so irreparable so quickly?

  “How can this be? Shetland...”

  “Is scared,” Firebaugh said. “And with good reason. Them damn Norgies outnumber him. They were heeled like a goddamn militia. Rifles, shotguns, and mounted on them monster horses. Rufus ain’t got no choice.”

  “Then what shall we do?” I asked, suddenly wary.

  “I been sittin’ here thinkin’ on that. I figure it won’t be long before Skoll or that red headed son of a bitch figures out a way to get us in the calaboose.”

  “The what?”

  “So we’re getting out of town,” he went on. “Now.”

  He slammed back his whiskey, smacked a dollar hard on the bar top, and went without a word to the rear exit.

  One and all, we followed. What else was there?

  CHAPTER 13

  From the Journal of Alvin Crooker

  27th Aug

  I am drunk.

  Gloriously, uproariously, stentoriously drunk.

  Have to be. When the world is not what we have been taught to believe, it is best to be drunk. I would say it is a necessity.

  Van Helsing was right about everything.

  We got the hell out of Sorefoot quicker than a politician through the back door of a whorehouse. Just in time too. Two of Skoll’s men came looking for us. Vulmere and that big son of a bitch Walker. They chased us for about three miles, but their big horses couldn’t hold up against our quick Q&M ponies (which Cole had bought from Alkali). We ran those horses ragged though, and had to rest them flat on the ground like Alkali showed us.

  If Alkali had not stopped into the Sunup for a snort of whiskey as soon as we got into town, he might’ve gotten himself arrested like Ranny and Cole. God Himself only knows where we’d have been then. That old sourdough has kept us safe and in our skin strictly by the lessons he learned on the owl-hoot trail.

  We stayed off the road, but kept it in sight. Slow going. Had to ride and stop, ride and stop, ride and stop. Every time we heard a horse we flattened. Figured the only safe place to head was for Alkali’s place, but it is way out past Cole’s. We heard gunshots on the plain around four o’clock. It might’ve been the Scandinavians and the Q&M boys swapping lead. We were in no condition to risk a gander, so there is no way of knowing.

  As we lay there waiting for it to end so we could move, the Injun fished a sharp looking hatchet out of his war bag. It looked as old as he was. A lot o
f good a tomahawk was going to do us, I wanted to say. I’m glad now that the need for silence kept me from eating my words later.

  Night came on quicker than I would’ve liked, but Alkali kept us moving. He had to stop us and get down on his belly to check our direction more than a few times, as the sky was overcast with no stars. It was like those Scandinavians had belched out black breath across the sky to mire us. We didn’t get turned around, though. Old Alkali kept us going. He knew where he was headed at all times. At least, if he didn’t, he never let on.

  When we got to his spread it was near eight-thirty and black as a dog. I could just make out the roof of his stable.

  “Hate to leave my horses in the dark so damn long,” Alkali whispered. “‘Specially with a new colt...I tell you Bernice dropped her colt, Alvin?”

  I couldn’t have cared less about Bernice’s colt. I was dead tired and saddle sore, and the night had turned cold and my arm was hurting.

  But it wasn’t me that told him to hush, it was Plenty Skins.

  Damn Injun hadn’t said a word the whole long ride, and it sort of made me mad to hear him speak so to Alkali, even though I myself had been harboring the notion.

  I could hardly see him in the dark, but I turned to the direction of his voice and whispered back;

  “Hey, you red devil, don’t you...”

  But that was all I got out. There was a growl out in the dark somewhere, as low and mean sounding as a temperance woman’s admonition. Something shuffled, and the horse underneath me started to fidget.

  I heard Alkali and Van Helsing pulling out their guns. I had left the shotgun Cole had loaned me leaning against my desk at the Picayune. In my mind I thought it must be the mountain lion. Damn fool. I guess there never was a mountain lion.

  None of us said a word. Alkali got down from his horse and crouched in the tall grass, listening, and pushed the reins of his horse into my hands. Then he went off into the dark, quiet as a rabbit, despite having to contend with a wood leg.

  We waited there, listening hard and not being rewarded with anything for our effort other than the night breeze through the grass. Or was it? Maybe they moved when the breeze blew, and the sound they made was indistinguishable from the swaying weeds. Maybe that was why we didn’t hear them. They moved like...wolves.