Blood Riders

by Michael P. Spradlin

  She could not risk being discovered before Malachi was found. But Chee knew of her existence and the why and how of it no longer mattered. Shaniah crept along the beam until she reached the vent. She knew what she needed to do.

  “How do you know it’s a woman?” Hollister said. They were sitting at the table in the galley. It was morning but the sun coming through the high windows of the warehouse only dimly lit the interior of the train. Chee would be glad to be out of the warehouse, on the move, in the open air. Monkey Pete had made pancakes and bacon. Dog sat on his haunches next to the table staring at Jonas.

  “Does he want something?” he asked, the dog’s unrelenting gaze beginning to unnerve him somewhat.

  “Probably bacon,” Chee said.

  Hollister held up a strip of bacon and Dog snapped it out of his fingers almost faster than he could see.

  “Jesus!” Hollister said, wiggling his fingers.

  “He likes bacon,” Chee said.

  “I guess,” Hollister said. “So, what makes you think it’s a woman?”

  “Small feet. Too small for a man,” Chee said.

  “I’ve seen men with some awful tiny feet. General Sheridan had tiny feet. Monkey Pete’s feet ain’t huge either.”

  “General Sheridan was a small man, was he not?”

  “Exactly my point,” Hollister said.

  Chee was quiet, the look on his face made it seem to Hollister like he was struggling with something. He’d seen this look a thousand times on his men before. Usually when they’d disobeyed an order, or gotten into trouble off the post.

  “What is it, Sergeant?” Hollister asked. Try as he might to make Chee feel comfortable and less formal, the young man continued to address him as “sir” and “Major,” and Hollister addressed him by his rank to try to get him to relax and speak his mind.

  “I believe she was here last night,” Chee said.

  “What?” Hollister nearly stood up. “Details, Sergeant, starting with why you didn’t wake me.”

  “By the time I determined she was here, she was gone. There seemed no point in waking you.”

  “And how do you know this is a woman again? You said the person wore a cloak with a hood. Did she take down the hood or something?”

  Chee thought for a moment. He did not think Hollister would understand how the identity of the cloaked woman had come to him during his meditation. In the white world such a thing was not evidence. It would be difficult to explain.

  “I thought about it, Major. I tried to remember and concentrate on the way she acted in the street. The way she studied the windows, moved through the crowd and last night I tried to pull up details in my recollection and it came to me that her feet were small.” He looked away, realizing it was not a reasonable explanation. Luckily, Hollister chose to ignore it.

  “And you saw her here last night?” Hollister asked.

  “I . . . no . . . Major . . . I didn’t see her, but she was here, I’m certain of it.”

  “How the hell do you know that if you didn’t see her?”

  “Dog saw her,” Chee said.

  Hollister studied Dog, who stared back at Hollister impassively.

  “Say again?”

  “I heard a noise. Someone on the roof of the train. When we went outside, Dog alerted, looking up into the rafters. There was something up there or he wouldn’t have acted as he did. She was there, I’m sure of it.”

  Hollister turned his stare on Chee. The young man sat there, never flinching under his hardest gaze. He didn’t know Chee at all really, not yet anyway. In the army and on the battlefield he’d learned to make snap judgments about men. He trusted his instincts. It’s what he’d done in the yard a few days ago when Chee had faced down McAfee. There was something in the kid that Hollister recognized. Will. Strength. Courage. All those things, but something else beyond that, and in truth he wasn’t even sure himself exactly what it was. But he’d seldom been wrong about men like Chee before.

  “Sergeant, one of these days you’re going to explain all this to me,” Hollister said.

  “Sir?”

  “This,” Hollister said waving his hands around in the air for emphasis. “All of it. This dog. The crack shooting. The jumping in the air and kicking people in the face.”

  “Yes, sir,” Chee said.

  “Until then, if someone of interest shows up, you are under orders to notify me immediately regardless of the time of day, my personal bedtime or any other physical state, understood?”

  “Yes, Major,” he murmured quietly.

  “Eat up. We’ve got a long day ahead of us,” Hollister said.

  Chee attacked his breakfast and gave the leftovers to Dog.

  “Get your gear, we’re headed to the mining camp today. Monkey Pete has us provisioned but I want you to pick out a couple of those special rifles Winchester brought us. I’ll be taking the Ass-Kicker.”

  A short time later, they left the warehouse and the train behind. The day was sunny and Hollister carried the gun down along his leg and hidden in the folds of his black duster. He was dressed all in black: hat, boots, shirt, riding pants, and gloves. Chee carried two of the rifles over his shoulder, apparently unafraid of being noticed. With his two-gun rig riding low on his hips, he looked especially lethal as he walked, with Dog loping along beside him. They were on their way to the livery stable to pick up horses. Monkey Pete had spent the previous day combing Denver for suitable mounts.

  “Chee, don’t you think you might be scaring folks, with all the ordnance in plain sight?” Hollister said as they walked along the street.

  “I hadn’t really thought about it, sir . . . I think . . .” His words trailed off.

  “What is it? Speak your mind,” Hollister said.

  “I believe there is going to be trouble ahead, sir, and worse, I think the danger is coming from many places. I would like to be prepared for the trouble and make others aware I am prepared for it as well. My grandfather always said to let your enemy know their aggression will be met in kind. It often stops trouble before it starts,” he said.

  “Your grandfather really say that, Chee?” Hollister asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Chee answered.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re on my side, Sergeant.” Hollister laughed.

  A few blocks away from the warehouse and they picked up their first tail. Hollister recognized him as one of the men who had been with Slater in the alley the previous night.

  “Major?” Chee said.

  “I see him. One of Declan’s men. Probably under orders to watch us and report back to Slater.”

  They kept walking, a brisk pace as if they had somewhere to be, avoiding people and not making eye contact with anyone. Before long they reached the livery.

  “Any sign of the woman?” Hollister asked.

  “No, sir,” Chee said.

  “She worries me more than Slater and his men for some reason,” Hollister said.

  “Yes, sir. I believe she is far more dangerous,” Chee said.

  “Great. Just what we need. A whole passel of blood devils, a bunch of Declan’s gun thugs, and now a dangerous woman,” Hollister muttered.

  “Is there any other kind of woman, sir?” Chee asked.

  Hollister laughed. “Well put, Chee!”

  Monkey Pete had made arrangements with the livery to have the horses saddled and ready for them. They’d been purchased outright and Hollister made a note to compliment the man on his knowledge of horses the next time he saw him. His mount was a beautiful sorrel mare, strong in the hindquarters and thick through the chest. Hollister thought the horse would do well in the mountains.

  He took off his duster and wrapped up the Ass-Kicker, tying it to the back of his saddle. His attention was diverted by Chee, who was muttering quietly to his horse, a fine-looking black mustang with a white star on the forehead and two white socks on its rear legs. Hollister watched in fascination as Chee stroked the horse’s forehead and talked softly to it.

  “Chee,
sorry to interrupt, but what are you doing?” Hollister asked.

  “We’re talking, sir. I had to ask him his name,” Chee said.

  “His name? Your horse has a name?”

  “Yes, sir, but I needed to ask him if he was willing to reveal it to me,” Chee said.

  “I see. And did your horse tell you his name?”

  “Yes, sir. His name is Smoke.”

  Hollister was genuinely perplexed. “Chee, I’m sorry, but you give your horse a name, but call your dog just plain old ‘Dog’? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “I did not give him the name, sir. It was his all along. Dog is a dog and not a horse. Horses are much more open with people about their true names than dogs, sir,” he replied, as if that explained everything.

  “Uh-huh. Well, that is right interesting, Sergeant Major. What about my horse? Does she have a name?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what is it?”

  Chee suddenly looked uncomfortable. “I . . . they don’t . . .”

  “What is it?” Hollister asked.

  “Horses aren’t as particular about their names, sir. But I would still have to ask her permission first.”

  “By all means, Chee, please do.”

  Hollister watched in amazement as Chee repeated his exercise with Hollister’s mare. A few soft pats on the withers and some quiet murmurs and Chee looked at Hollister.

  “Her name is Rose, sir,” he said.

  “Rose and Smoke. Well, I’ll be,” Hollister said. The young man who stood before him might be the strangest person he had ever met. But still, Chee’s presence made him feel more at ease. He’d seen what these creatures could do, what they were, and it had been proven to him firsthand the world was full of strange things. Whatever you wanted to call it, Chee had a connection to this strangeness, and having him watching his back gave Hollister a measure of relief.

  Without further talk, they mounted the horses and in minutes had left the streets of Denver behind and were heading west for the foothills of the Rockies.

  Before they had left the train, Hollister had memorized the trails they’d need to follow to reach Torson City. He’d always been good with maps, and two hours out of town, they stopped on a small bluff to study the trail behind them.

  “Somebody there?” Hollister asked Chee, who studied the land to their rear. He pulled a small set of binoculars from his saddlebag, scanning the area they’d just ridden through. He saw nothing. The man who had been tailing them had disappeared once they reached the livery stable and Jonas had no doubt he had scurried off to his bosses to report on their movements.

  “Yes. Six, maybe eight men, they’re staying back, they know where we’re going. And someone else . . .” Chee stopped.

  “The woman?” Hollister asked.

  “Maybe. I’m not sure. I know we’re being watched,” Chee said, his gaze slowly moving over the surrounding terrain.

  “Could be Indians. There’s Utes and Arapahoe around here. Neither one of them is too happy with the miners, or whites in general,” Hollister said.

  “Yes, sir,” Chee murmured.

  “Dog. Ahead. Hunt!” Chee said. Dog had been lying on the ground resting while they were stopped. At his master’s command he leapt up, loping west ahead of them.

  “If someone is watching us or waiting, Dog will find them,” Chee said.

  Hollister nodded. “Excellent. It’ll be noon in another three hours. We should be in Torson City by then. I want to get there with plenty of daylight. Let’s try to avoid anyone who might get in our way.”

  He turned his horse and Chee followed, wondering how it was that the major was able to keep his fear in check.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Ain’t much of a city,” Hollister said. They sat on the hillside above Torson City, studying the small deserted camp below them. There were approximately ten buildings and a few tents, most of them having partially fallen down in the weeks since the attack, the canvas flapping and making a snapping noise in the breeze. Chee sat astride Smoke, not paying attention to the ground below them, instead studying the surrounding woods and mountains.

  “They around?” Hollister asked.

  “Yes, sir, no more than two miles back,” Chee said. “The same group.”

  “Where’s Dog?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Chee said quietly. “Still hunting I expect.”

  “I hope whoever is following us didn’t catch him or shoot him or something. I’m starting to grow fond of the critter,” Hollister said.

  Chee shook his head as if such a thing was impossible. Dog would not be caught by Slater and his men or by any Utes or Arapahoes. Had it been Comanches or Kiowas, Chee might have had a moment of concern. Comanches and Kiowas were crafty and not likely to let a mutt sneak around and spy on them. But he wasn’t worried about the others.

  “Hmm. Well. Whoever is following us knows where we’re headed. No reason for us not to check it out,” Hollister spurred his horse and loped down the small rise, entering what would have been the main street if it had been a real town. They rode slowly, Hollister felt jumpy, like something might spring from one of these buildings and grab him. They tied off the horses in front of the general store and walked inside.

  There were small patches of dried blood that had soaked the wood floor. The stains had turned a dark brown but Hollister had seen enough of it in his day to recognize it. He didn’t know why, but he kept his hands on his pistol. The town was empty, he was sure of it, but instinct told him to be ready for trouble. They moved from the store to the saloon and each of the buildings in turn. There were kicked-over tables and chairs, and supplies and canned goods knocked about, indicating a struggle. But only a few bloodstains—not enough blood for the number of men who had been killed.

  “Chee, when these things attacked us in Wyoming . . .” Hollister started to say.

  “Yes, sir, you said they drank the blood of your men. It would appear that is what happened here. For a dozen men to be killed, in this small area, there would be more blood. It should be everywhere. Yet it is not,” he said.

  Chee stepped off the board porch in front of the saloon, studying the ground in front of the general store.

  “What is it?” Hollister asked.

  “Something. Tracks. A few days, a week old at most. They are mixed in with the hoofprints and footprints of the miners. It must not have rained here in a while. But someone was here, after the first attack by the creatures. Those tracks are too fresh. It was three, maybe four men,” he said. He didn’t mention the small footprints in the ground. Those, he was sure, belonged to the woman who had been following them. He lowered himself to the ground, peering at the marks, determining that the smaller footprints got heavier and trailed around the side of the building. Whoever had walked this path was carrying something heavy.

  He followed the tracks to where they led to a small shed behind the store. Someone had made several trips back and forth from the front of the store to the shed. Maybe for firewood? Could this be where the miners kept their gold dust? He doubted that. It wasn’t the most secure place. For a reason he could not yet fathom, someone had returned to the scene and used the shed for something. He knew Declan had sent Slater to check out his son’s story, but he did not see Slater’s tracks anywhere. In town he had taken notice of the boots Slater wore and he saw no matching tracks. Slater would have been careful not to leave sign behind. He likely rode his horse along the shallow stream until he reached the camp, and then stayed on the wooden walkways, where he would leave no evidence of his having been there. It is how Chee would have done it if he had been asked by Hollister to perform a similar task.

  The shed had a broken padlock.

  “Major, over here,” he said.

  Hollister felt compelled to draw his Colt. “What are you looking for, Chee?” he asked.

  Chee didn’t answer, but threw away the padlock and pulled open the door on the small windowless building. He recognized the
stench right away and jumped back a bit as the first body fell forward, landing in the dirt at his feet.

  “Holy shit!” Hollister said, startled and taking a step back himself.

  Two other bodies lay inside the shed. Chee looked at the major, wondering what he should do.

  “Let’s get them out here, so we can have a look at them,” Hollister said, pulling his bandana over his mouth and nose to block out the smell.

  Together they laid the corpses side by side on the ground. They had been dead a few days and were starting to decay, but the shed had saved them from the harshest elements. One of the men was badly burned, another had a large stab wound in the middle of his chest, and the third man had a broken neck.

  “You don’t think these are miners, do you, sir?” Chee asked.

  Hollister shook his head. “If we go by what young Mr. Declan told us, he’s the only one who survived that night. And these aren’t . . . I don’t think they’re . . . they don’t look like . . .”

  “I don’t think they’re Deathwalkers either, sir,” Chee said.

  Hollister felt an enormous surge of relief. “The question is, what and who are they?” he said. “And furthermore, how did they end up dead here?”

  “And why hide them? If they came to loot the place, or surprised other looters, why would someone go to the trouble to hide their bodies?” Chee asked.

  “Good question,” Hollister said. And he had no answer. At least not one that made sense.

  Hollister stood, straightening his back. He looked up at the mine shaft, which was dug into the side of the hill to the west of the camp, about three hundred yards away.

  “Let’s see if we can find some torches around here,” he said. “We might as well check out the mine.”

  “Really, sir?” Chee asked. He didn’t like closed-in spaces. The thought of venturing into the dark mine gave him an uncomfortable feeling.

  “Sure,” Hollister said. “Why wouldn’t we? We need to be thorough. Then he noticed. “What’s wrong, Chee?” he said.