Straight Outta Deadwood

by David Boop

  As was becoming common with this woman, her response was not what he expected, but what choice did he have but to trust her wisdom in the matter? She had been right before, and he hadn’t listened, and his people had paid the price for his obstinance. No, he would swallow his pride and heed her words this time.

  “Very well. Lead the way.”

  She had a pack already prepared, and her horse was out back, saddled and ready to go. She led them deeper into the switchgrass-dotted hills, which had gotten their name because of the blue-gray haze that hung over the bluffs and rock formations at sunrise and sunset, like smoke from hundreds of campfires. Father Grady wondered if it weren’t in fact the maji-manidoog bound to the land here by the crimes committed against them. Just a month before, he would have dismissed the thought as superstitious nonsense. Now it made him shiver.

  He followed as Morning Star Woman eventually led him into a ravine, still in shadow though the sun was nearing its zenith. Sandstone walls the color of new flesh rose above them, closing them in, funneling them toward darkness. Father Grady wanted to reach for the holy water in his pack, and was suddenly sorry that he’d given the last of the consecrated host he carried with him to the Petersens in the sacrament of Holy Communion. Carrying the body of Christ with him during this venture would have given him great comfort. He never carried the blood with him, as it was too easily spilt, and too easily absconded with, should he encounter thugs along the way, who would view it as just wine, and so drink it unworthily. And since the body, blood, soul, and divinity were present under both species, it was not necessary for his parishioners to receive or for him to travel with both.

  Still, even a sip of the unconsecrated wine would not go amiss right now.

  “We have arrived,” Morning Star Woman announced abruptly.

  Father Grady looked up from his musings to see that the ravine had ended in a gaping black hole surrounded by spindly yucca plants with leaves like well-honed knives. The horses whinnied and balked; it was clear they would not enter. Their riders would have to go on foot from here.

  He and the Indian woman dismounted. That was when he noticed the rifle she slung across her back, and the odd walking stick she grasped, sharpened at one end. What good would either of those things do against spirits, he wondered?

  She led him into the cave, which was several degrees cooler than it had been in the ravine. Father Grady shivered again, and told himself it was just from the cold.

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but Morning Star Woman stepped surefootedly through the gloom, as if she could see without the benefit of light.

  Or as if her moccasined feet knew this path well.

  A sense of foreboding filled Father Grady, but by that time the Indian woman had guided him through the curving tunnel into a wider cavern lit with torches. In the center, suspended between two pairs of massive stalagmites and stalactites, waited a man-sized wooden hoop.

  Morning Star Woman turned to him, dropping her walking stick and pulling the rifle off her back. She pointed it at him.

  “That’s far enough, Father.”

  He looked at her accusingly.

  “This is how you intend to fight?”

  “It is the only way to stop the maji-manidoog from preying on the people. It was by your actions that they were allowed to grow strong enough to do so. It must be by your action that they are pacified.”

  He wondered if he could grab the gun from her before she could get a shot off. He had no doubt the weapon was loaded.

  She must have seen his thoughts in his eyes, for she took a step backward, leveling the rifle.

  “I need you to go stand in the hoop, Father.”

  “And do what?”

  “You are to become the people’s dreamcatcher.”

  He didn’t know what that meant, but he’d seen the effects of what the asabikeshiinh had been holding back from his parishioners. He didn’t particularly want to face whatever caused those effects.

  “What if I refuse? Let you shoot me?”

  “I can shoot you and yet not kill you, Father. I would rather you did this willingly—the protection will be stronger then—but it will work even if I have to hang you up unconscious and bleeding.”

  The idea of being unconscious didn’t sound so bad. But she must have read that in his face, too.

  “You would not remain asleep for long, Father. Once the dreamcatcher is finished, you will be awake forever, enduring the horrors of the maji-manidoog so that your people no longer have to. You will be following in your Christ’s footsteps. A…martyr, I believe is the word?”

  What she said made sense. It would be his penance for bringing this plague on his parishioners in the first place. And it was his duty to protect them, and their immortal souls.

  Even at the cost of his?

  He thought again of Mary Rose.

  May God have mercy on him.

  “Fine. I’ll do it. Willingly.”

  Morning Star Woman did not lower the rifle.

  “I need you to go stand in the hoop, Father,” she repeated.

  He did as she asked.

  “Now stand with your arms and legs spread so they are touching the hoop, as if one limb is pointing toward each of the four winds.”

  He did as she instructed, wondering how she was going to bind him to the hoop. Surely she’d have to put the rifle down to do so? He could still escape then, if he chose. He didn’t have to commit to this path, after all.

  But she did not put the rifle down. Instead, he felt a tickling sensation at both wrists. Glancing to his left, he was appalled to see dozens of hairy black spiders swarming over his hand, weaving webs to hold his arm in place. Looking to his right, he could see there were spiders there doing the same, and others at both ankles. Then he could feel the scurrying of their legs across the back of his head and neck as they wove a loop around his throat, connecting his head to the arc above him. Other spiders were at his waist, attaching it to both sides of the hoop, and still others at his groin, attaching that to the bottom of the hoop. When they were finished, he was anchored to the circle at eight points, and could not move, like some bizarre parody of the crucifixion. Webbing stretched between the anchor points, sticky and glistening in the torchlight.

  “We are almost done, Father,” Morning Star Woman said.

  She slung her rifle over her back and picked up her walking stick.

  “There is still the matter of the hole, to allow the good dreams through.”

  So saying, she took the sharp end of the stick and plunged it into his abdomen, pushing it through until it protruded out his back. Father Grady screamed in pain.

  He screamed again when she pulled it out. As blood flowed, he thought again of Christ on the cross, pierced by the Roman soldier’s spear.

  “The maji-manidoog will be coming soon, drawn by your blood. I must go.” She paused for a moment, regarding him with dark eyes. “This is a good thing you do.”

  She turned and walked from the cavern then, leaving him alone in the flickering light of the torches. As he waited, unable to move, the pain in his midsection consuming him, he thought he saw movement on the edges of his vision. His eyes darted left, then right.

  Nothing.

  In the distance, he heard a faint rumbling. It took him a moment to realize the Indian woman must have sealed off the entrance to the cave.

  He would never be rescued. Never be found.

  Except by the maji-manidoog.

  When they came, he was not ready. They appeared as dark shapes, a few at first, then dozens, then hundreds, walking through the cavern walls toward him, their eyes glowing red, like in his dream. Some seemed human in form, but others seemed like animals, and others yet were amorphous.

  The first one reached him, hesitated. He could feel hunger radiating off it like heat. It wanted his blood. Wanted him. But it was wary of the webbing.

  Finally, its hunger overcame it and it stepped forward. As the blackness touched the g
listening white web, it dissipated, and a memory of being violated at the hands of Cheyenne braves washed over Father Grady, pain and terror and horror and shame rocking him to his core.

  Then another shape moved forward, and he became a Wyandot boy running in blind fear from white soldiers who had just killed his parents. When the bullet tore through his back, Father Grady felt it, and then again when the soldiers guided their horses over the boy’s body, trampling him to death. Father Grady experienced every shattered bone, every burst organ.

  Then another shape moved forward.

  And then another.

  And another.

  There were so many, an endless number, some hundreds of years old, some as fresh as last week. Some were distinct memories, some just raw emotions, nothing but fear and rage and hatred.

  Before each spirit stepped forward, there was a pause, as it weighed its hunger versus what it had seen happen to the spirit before it. A few turned away.

  During those times, Father Grady thought of Mary Rose and imagined the good dreams getting through, dreams of her growing up carefree and happy, with several siblings, in a home where there was always enough to eat and tragedy struck but rarely.

  A home where there was a dreamcatcher above every child’s bed.

  In the midst of his pain, Father Grady smiled.

  It was good. It was right. It was as it should be.

  Onizhishin.

  EL JEFE DE LA COMANCHERIA

  Mario Acevedo

  April 1886

  As bounty hunters, Malachi Hunter and I live on a financial diet of feast or famine. Presently, we’ve got two nickels and a quarter between us, and it’s only the middle of the month. Working as partners, I figured that him with his smarts and me with my vampire powers, we’d always be flush with cash, but that’s seldom the case.

  People tend to look askance at a human riding with one of me. And when I’m among my kind, they wonder why I bother palling around with a mortal. Truth is, Malachi and I were tight as brothers years before I was turned, and nothing about my undead existence could ever undo the confidence we have in one another.

  Today we were riding our horses at a slow trot along the Rocky Ford–Pueblo Trail, musing where our next paycheck would come from. A crow circled overhead. Its stuttering movements told me this was no living bird, but a messenger. When it approached, Malachi and I tugged on our reins. The crow landed on the pommel of my saddle in a flutter of wings black as obsidian. Gears inside the crow’s mechanical body clicked and purred, and when it opened its beak, out slid a rolled-up piece of paper.

  The instant I took the paper, the crow catapulted into the sky in an explosion of artificial feathers, wings stutter-flapping once more until it soared out of sight.

  I unfurled the note. The message was in loose script written with a dip pen: Ambrosio Zamora. Lagrimas Mine, Huerfano County.

  Ambrosio was a con artist who had cheated and defrauded people from El Paso to Deadwood, Kansas City to San Francisco. Catching him was like catching smoke.

  I read the note aloud, then turned it over. “Doesn’t say who sent it.”

  “Obviously someone expects us to settle a score with Ambrosio,” Malachi replied. “But that’s all right with me since the marshal in Santa Fe is offering a five-hundred-dollar bounty on his head. Let’s get to work, Felix.”

  We trained our horses toward Huerfano County.

  * * *

  Just as the note had promised, we cornered Ambrosio in the Lagrimas Mine. Thanks to another stroke of luck, we found his wife’s horse tied up next to his in a nearby arroyo. Though Elsa wasn’t on the arrest warrant, she’d been partner to plenty of his schemes, so I figured hauling her in meant an extra bump in the reward.

  Malachi and I took cover behind boulders outside the mine entrance, and we pulled our revolvers. He shouted, “Ambrosio, we know you’re in there. There’s a warrant for your arrest and—”

  “Like hell I’m going!” Ambrosio hollered, his voice echoing from inside the mine. He unleashed a barrage from his gun, its muzzle flashes bursting in the dark tunnel.

  Bullets whistled past us. We fired back, aiming for the mine’s ceiling since we wanted to take him and his wife alive. Our bullets cracked and whined as they ricocheted inside.

  Ambrosio answered with another volley.

  “I’ll keep them occupied.” Malachi fired another shot. “You flush them out.”

  We’d scoped out the mine beforehand and discovered a chimney vent about a hundred feet up the hill. The vent was just big enough to crawl through since it doubled as an escape in case the entrance collapsed.

  Being a vampire and possessing superior night vision, I had the task of shimmying down the hole. After I reached the vent, I crouched over the opening, peered into the darkness, and saw nothing but chiseled rock all the way to the bottom. I let my kundalini noir—the supernatural force that animates us vampires—unwind so it could sense the air like an antenna.

  Ambrosio’s whisper rose from the tunnel below. “Elsa, they got us trapped.”

  Then silence.

  “Elsa?”

  More silence.

  Feet scuffled across rocks but I couldn’t tell if it was Ambrosio, or Elsa, or the two of them, or someone else.

  Time to earn my share of the bounty. Sprouting my fangs as I climbed down the vent shaft, my kundalini noir buzzed with uncertainty. Stealthily as a spider, I made it to the tunnel’s ceiling and paused. To my left, Ambrosio mumbled, “Elsa, goddammit, where did you go?”

  I let myself drop as quietly as I could, the dirt floor muffling my boots. A shadow cut across the light spilling from the entrance. Drawing my Colt Navy, I tucked myself against the wall and sidestepped toward the shadow until I reached Ambrosio hiding behind a pile of crushed rock.

  So where was Elsa? Scanning the tunnel, I caught no sign of her.

  At least I had Ambrosio. I aimed my revolver over his head and fired, the report sounding loud as a cannon. He spun around, only to find himself face-to-face with the muzzle of my gun. But it was the sight of my fangs that made him wither in fear.

  He crossed himself and slumped against the rocks. “Vampiro sicario.”

  “Guilty as charged.” I snatched the pocket revolver from his hand before I booted him to the entrance. I shouted, “Malachi, I’ve got Ambrosio.”

  “What about Elsa?” Malachi shouted back.

  I poked Ambrosio in the back. “Where’s your wife?”

  “I dunno. Has to be down the mine. Where else?”

  Malachi approached, his boots crunching over the tailings leading to the entrance. I tossed him Ambrosio’s revolver and said, “I’m going to get Elsa.”

  Ambrosio and Elsa made for a fine pair of swindlers. He planned the scams while she lulled the victims into relaxing their guard. Besides her feminine wiles, Elsa had another ace up her sleeve—when cornered, she had a way of slipping out of the tightest noose. Had she done that now?

  Not likely. Malachi and I confirmed the mine had only two exits. Out the front and up the vent, and she hadn’t left either way. If she wasn’t still inside, the only explanation had to be a secret escape route.

  Regardless, I had no choice but to proceed deeper into the mine. My kundalini noir hitched in trepidation. As an undead bloodsucker, I didn’t fear much, but the thought of being buried terrified me. Even if crushed by tons of rock, I’d still survive for months—years even legend has it—but in agony as a smear of goo until I eventually starved to dust.

  Dank air pulsed from the depths as if the hill was alive and breathing. I caught the sooty odor of burnt lamp oil, indicating that Elsa had gone this way. The tunnel leveled off and forked. Fresh shoeprints—Elsa’s I was sure—left a trail in the dust going left. In the distance, a lantern’s glow fluttered across the rough rock walls, rounded a corner, and disappeared.

  I shouted, “Elsa, give it up.” I quickened my pace, remaining alert in case she was luring me into a trap.

  Down and down we cont
inued, ducking under timbers shoring up the ceiling, scrambling over rocks from cave-ins, as we descended into this gloomy labyrinth. Water dripped on me, and timbers whispered frightful groans like those of a tortured beast.

  The corridor made a sharp right, and a faint green light spilled from around the next bend. My kundalini noir tripped an alarm; something unexpected and powerful waited ahead. Gun in hand, I hugged the corner.

  The lantern stood on the floor of an empty cave. Her cape lay discarded in a puddle of water. Opposite from me, an oblong spot of lime-green light on the rock wall faded.

  I didn’t want to believe what I knew just happened. Elsa had walked into the wall and disappeared. I’d heard about similar magic—beings sucked through solid rock and getting whisked to someplace else. I kept my distance from the wall. If I got sucked in, who knew where I’d end up?

  Just in case this was a trick, I studied the chamber for a hidden door, but finding none—and the way my kundalini noir kept insisting that I hurry out of there—confirmed that Elsa had used a supernatural getaway. This hocus-pocus did a lot to explain how she’d been giving her pursuers the slip all these years.

  Retrieving her cape and lantern, I trudged back to the entrance. When I emerged outside, Ambrosio was on his knees, hands tied behind his back, stripped of his boots and barefoot. Dirt stained his white shirt. Strands of sweaty hair hung over his handsome face. At the moment Ambrosio appeared thoroughly defeated, but he had a habit of turning a bad draw into a winning hand, so I stayed wary.

  Malachi had retrieved Ambrosio’s and Elsa’s horses and searched their saddlebags. His eyes lifted in my direction. “Where’s Elsa?”

  “She escaped.” I waved her damp cape at Ambrosio. “Anything you want to share?”

  “I don’t know,” he yammered. “I swear. She’s never told me how she does it.”

  “Does what?” Malachi asked.

  “Disappears,” I answered, then explained what I’d seen.

  Whenever Malachi found himself confronting a mystery, he lit a cigar. A self-educated man, he was also deeply religious, ready to quote Scripture as quick as Shakespeare and Sir Isaac Newton. Despite what he believed of science and theology, he also sided with me, the embodiment of all that is supposedly impossible and evil. He was there years ago when I was turned. In fact, he carried me—mortally wounded—to a chamán who saved me from oblivion the only way he could, by making me into a vampire.