Date: 2011-06-05 00:00:00+00:00
Description: Deadtown and Other Tales of Horror Set in the Old West contains 13 tales of bloody, gritty horror that includes werewolves, mummies, cannibals, zombies, ghosts, vampires, aliens, skinwalkers, and things that slither underground. A perfect reading experience for fans of authentic western action and gruesome horror.

Deadtown and Other Tales of Horror Set in the Old West

Carl Hose

MARLvision Publishing

© 2010 Carl Hose

Cover art © 2010 Marcella Hose

Most Wanted

These people who are due special thanks:

My beautiful wife Marcee, who brings so much love into my life that I couldn’t possibly begin to cover it all here. She is my heart and soul. She is the glue that holds our family together. She’s my lover, my best friend, and all I could ever want in a soul mate.

My children, Nick, Haley, Seth, Ethan, and Caleb, who bring joy into my life. I love them more with each day that passes.

My mom, Carolyn, who always encouraged me to be what I wanted to be.

My mother-in-law, Patience Stuart, who supports me in everything I do, who reads my work faithfully (criticizes it when she has to), and who edited this book with a keen eye. She probably knows the stories better than I do. I couldn’t ask for a better mother-in-law or a better editor.

To everybody who buys this book and takes the time to read the stories. I’d still write without you, but it wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying.

Introduction

Deadtown and Other Tales of Horror Set in the Old West is a title that pretty much speaks for itself. The stories in this collection take place in the old west, with the exception of the last story, which takes place partially in present time and partially in Civil War times. After you’ve read the story, I believe you’ll see why I included it.

There are three stories in this book featuring a character named Frank Talbott. The stories are similarly plotted. This is because Frank is a predictable character. You may not like that about him. If not, feel free to skip over the Talbott stories, I won’t mind.

Two of the stories in this collection have a different feel than the others. One is a ghost story, the other is a revenge story. Both have relatively happy endings, but I felt they were a good fit for this collection nonetheless.

The rest of the stories are full of supernatural terror and old west flavor. There are zombies, mummies, werewolves, skinwalkers, vampires, and things that sliter underground waiting for you between these pages. I enjoyed writing each these tales. I hope you enjoy reading them.

If you’re ready—and I know you are—take a ride with me back to those thrilling days of yesteryear. Walk with me through the valleys of darkness and the burning hot sands of the prairie. Let’s see how the west was really won.

—Carl Hose

It Rolled Into Town

What the hell you figger it is?” Barton asked, using his tongue to push a long-dead stump of cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.

“Damned if I know,” Kincaid answered. He tossed two cards on the table, then lifted his butt off the chair and scratched his ass. “Tell ya this, though, I aim to find out.”

“They got a man on it full time,” Barton said.

Kincaid took a card from the deck, studied his hand, then said. “I’m gonna take me a peek in back of that wagon, and you’re gonna give me a hand. I got me a little plan. . . .”

* * *

One guard leaned against the back of the wagon, cradling his Winchester. He pushed up straight when he saw Barton approaching from across the street.

“Hey, there, friend,” Barton chortled, coming up short when he saw the rifle aimed at his belly. “Ain’t no need to get tense, now,” he said. “Thought you might could use some company is all.”

The guard relaxed some but kept the rifle half raised. He gave Barton a suspicious once-over.

“Look like you could use a drink,” Barton said.

He reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a pint.

“Mighty nice of ya,” the guard said, still leery of Barton.

He accepted the bottle and took a quick swig, followed by four hard gulps that damn near finished it off. Kincaid was in the shadows. He waited for Barton to fully engage the guard before he dropped down to his belly and snake-crawled his way under the wagon.

“Say . . . you got any relief?” Barton asked in a friendly tone.

“It’s just me and the fella who owns the cargo,” the guard answered. “He breaks me every couple hours or so, but mainly it’s just me.”

“Don’t seem quite fair,” Barton said. “Don’t seem quite fair at all.”

“Well, the money’s good enough, and I ain’t got nothin’ better to do,” the guard said with a shrug of broad shoulders.

“Look, I got an idea . . .” Barton lowered his voice to a whisper. “How ’bout we slip over to the saloon and watch the girls dance?”

“Wish I could, but . . .”

“Come on,” Barton said, slinging one arm over the guard’s shoulders. “We can be over there and back before the boss knows you’re gone. You can whet your whistle and maybe somethin’ else while you’re at it. Won’t nobody be none the wiser.”

It was a good proposition from the guard’s perspective. He was awful tired and in need of a break. Another swig of the whiskey made up his mind for him. “What the hell,” he said. “I ain’t seen anybody around all day.”

The two men stumbled off like they’d already done more than a dog’s share of drinking. Kincaid scrambled out from under the wagon and climbed on board. A quick glance around showed the wagon was crowded as all get-out. Clothes, food supplies, a couple of rifles, and lots of bottles of cure-all tonic. Typical drummer’s fare as far as Kincaid could tell.

He was about to give it up when he found something of interest. It was buried under a stack of furs. He dug until he got a good look at it.

“I’ll be damned,” he mumbled, running his fingers around the edge of what was surely some sort of coffin. It had the shape of a man, leastways, and it was made out of fine wood and covered with big jewels.

Kincaid grabbed up one of the rifles and stuck it between the lid and the lip of the box. An awful shriek let loose as the lid came away.

“Well, son of a bitch . . .” he muttered.

Inside the coffin lay the likes of which he’d never seen. He’d heard a few tales, sure, but now the thing was right in front of his eyes, plain as the face of the woman that played the organ in church every Sunday.

This was one of those mummies, all wrapped up just like he’d always heard they was. Some famous pharaoh most likely. Maybe even that Ramey fella, whose name seemed to be popular when folks was talking mummies.

Kincaid shivered. He was about to drop the lid back down when he caught sight of a bag tucked down beside the mummy. He suddenly recalled another part of the story—something else folks liked to talk about when mummies were the subject. Seems them ’Gyptian fellas liked to bury loot with their kings. If that was the case here, Kincaid was sure he was in for a treat.

He stuffed the bag down the front of his pants and shut the coffin.

* * *

Barton and the guard were whooping it up back at the saloon. Kincaid entered and gave Barton a signal. Barton finished off his drink and slapped the guard on the back, saying he thought they should call it a night.

After the guard had stumbled back to his post, Barton met Kincaid out back of the saloon.

“You ain’t gonna believe this,” Kincaid said.

He pulled out the bag and opened it, showing Barton a load of fat red rubies.

“Damn me twice,” Barton said, right near in awe.

“Took ’em off one of them dead kings,” Kincaid said.

“A dead what?”

“You know, one of them mummies. There’s a mummy in the damn wagon.”

“You took those off a dead guy?”

“That’s what I said, ain’t it? Ain’t like he’s gonna miss ’em. You ’n’ me, we can set ourselves up real good, get the hell outta this no-account town and go somewheres where we can live the high life.”

Barton scratched the back of his head thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” he said. “Seems to me there’s a curse goes along with stealin’ from a mummy.”

“That’s hogwash and you know it. It’s just the way they get folks not to steal is all. Now let’s don’t waste time. We gotta go ’fore that guard gets wind of this.”

Kincaid sent Barton off to round up the bare essentials for their escape while he went to fetch a couple of horses. He was in the process of saddling a gelding when he heard a noise outside the livery.

“That you, Bart?” he called in a harsh whisper.

The figure that stepped into the open doorway was too big to be Barton. It blocked out the sliver of moonlight that had previously provided Kincaid with just enough light to work by.

Kincaid felt fear squeezing his belly.

“Who goes there?” he asked, his voice cracking with unease. Was it the guard? If it was, Kincaid would have to kill him. He hadn’t figured on doing any killing, but he wasn’t about to give up his chance at the good life.

The shape moved into the livery. Kincaid reached for his gun and realized he wasn’t wearing his belt. He searched for something he could use as a weapon. He spotted a poker made of heavy iron that would do just fine.

The figure advanced on him.

Kincaid went for the poker. He had to cross in front of the shadowy figure to get his hands on it. He didn’t make it half way before the shape lunged at him.

A big gray hand wrapped in torn bandages fell on Kincaid’s hand as he reached for the poker. The hand closed down so hard on Kincaid’s hand that his bones snapped like dry tender.

Kincaid groaned, not so much from the pain of having his bones crushed as from the fear of what he was looking at. His was a groan born of sheer terror.

To his credit, Kincaid tried to put up a fight. He twisted around to face the mummy and found himself staring at an empty eye socket.

The big dead thing yanked hard and wrenched Kincaid’s arm from its socket.

Kincaid peed his britches then. He thought about talking to God, but since he hadn’t been on speaking terms with Him in a long time, he figured it might make matters worse trying to slip in good at the last minute.

The mummy grabbed Kincaid by the throat and lifted him right off the ground. Kincaid’s boot toes thrashed above the dirt and kicked at the moldering thing, but the mummy held him effortlessly with one hand and plunged its free hand into Kincaid’s stomach. Its fist exited the back of Kincaid in a shower of slimy entrails and a portion of spine.

* * *

Barton checked to see the rifles were fully loaded. He cradled them under one arm and grabbed a burlap sack full of supplies. Kincaid was right about the curse. It was all hogwash. Nothing but stories made up to keep people from looting the tombs. Most people were dumb enough to fall for that sort of thing.

Barton noticed on his way to the livery that the drummer’s wagon was unguarded. It struck him odd. He wandered over to take a look. It’d be a damn shame if the guard had already discovered the missing loot. A thing like that would put a cramp in the whole plan.

Barton felt funny as he approached the wagon. He chalked it up to being in such close proximity to the corpse. He never did like corpses, and he especially didn’t like the idea of a corpse he was stealing from. Curse or not, it wasn’t good business messing with the dead.

He leaned up to look inside the wagon. He’d barely got his head inside when something walloped him good. Near as he could tell, he was airborne for ten, maybe even fifteen feet. He landed on his ass with an impact so hard he bit the tip of his tongue clean through.

The mummy emerged from the back of the wagon with the guard’s head in one hand. Barton shook his head to clear the cobwebs, then he lunged for one of the rifles that had skittered away when he’d hit the ground.

The mummy reached him before Barton could get his hands on a rifle. He felt the creature’s big hand wrap around his left arm and twist, snapping it at the elbow. Barton wailed in agony and then let loose with a series of curse words as he rolled sideways toward the nearest rifle.

“Come on, you son of a bitch,” he grunted, coming to his feet with his good arm bracing the rifle against his side.

The mummy lumbered after Barton, whose throat was as dry as the Arizona desert in a drought. Barton raised his knee for support and levered a round into the rifle’s chamber. There wasn’t going to be a another chance.

“Come on, you unholy devil,” he said through clenched teeth.

Barton drew a bead on the mummy’s head and fired. The heavy caliber bullet ripped through dirty wrappings and exited the mummy’s head from the rear. The mummy stumbled backward, started for Barton again, then fell face down in the dirt. For good measure, Barton stumbled over to the fallen sack of bones, levered another round into the rifle’s chamber, and blasted another sizable hole in what was left of the mummy’s head.

A crowd slowly began to gather.

“Shoot it again,” someone from the crowd called out, and then more of the onlookers joined in, hooting and hollering and calling for more action.

Barton didn’t see the point. The thing was as dead as it needed to be. He dropped the rifle and turned his back on it. The pain in his broken arm came on full force then. A piece of bone stuck up through the skin, wet and gleaming with dark blood. Instead of offering Barton assistance, the crowd surged past him and began to loot the wagon.

A couple wild boys from the saloon set fire to the mummy.

The owner of the creature tried pushing past the crowd and into the wagon, hoping to find the jewels.

Barton headed across the street to the livery. He had a pretty good idea what he’d find when he got there. He was right. It wasn’t at all a pleasant sight.

He retrieved the jewels he found next to Kincaid’s mangled corpse, and then he buried them someplace far away. He wanted no part of them now. It didn’t make good sense. Nope, it didn’t make good sense at all. . . .

* * *

A wagon bounced along a deeply rutted road. It’s passenger looked worried. “You sure this is the right way?” he asked.

“Little Creek ain’t more than a mile,” the driver answered flatly.

“My brother’s going to be real upset. He wanted those two kept together,” the passenger said, hooking a thumb toward the back of the wagon, where a sarcophagus jostled with every bump in the road.

Inside the sarcophagus, peering from a slit in her dirty wrappings, a queen mourned the death of her king. She waited patiently, for she knew glorious retribution lay just ahead. . . .

Deadtown

Frank Talbott looked out over the ridge. He could see a town down there, resting smack in the middle of the valley. Far as he knew, it was a town out of place, not on any map.

A town that wasn’t supposed to be there.

Not that Frank planned to complain. He’d been riding hard for three days across the hot Texas soil. What the hell did he care if somebody forgot to put the damn town on the map? It was all the same to him. There’d be food, women, and whiskey, and that was just about all Frank needed to make him happy.

He nudged his mare, keeping a tight hold on the reins to steady her down the rocky slope. She knew the comforts of a populated town too, and if Frank didn’t keep her from it, she’d most likely take a tumble in her eagerness.

A weather-beaten wooden post marked the town limits. As Frank approached the sign, he could make out the faint outline of the word  DEADTOWN in hand painted letters.

“Sure hope that ain’t a sign of things to come, girl,” Frank said, stroking the mare’s neck. “I was hopin’ for a little social activity.”

He nudged his mare forward, right down the center of main street. The Wet Whistle Saloon sat smack dab in the middle of town. It was Frank’s first stop.

The lively sounds of a piano tumbled from inside the saloon. Frank slid out of his saddle, took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of one hand, then tied his mare to a post. He slid his Winchester from its boot and canted it over his left shoulder as he headed inside.

The place was mostly empty. Frank stopped just inside the door and let his eyes slide from one side of the joint to the other. Two pasty-faced men sat at a corner table to his left, playing a game of cards. The piano player was directly ahead, completely still except for his fingers tickling the ivories.

A long wooden bar running damn near the full length of the place sat to the right of the entrance. The lanky barkeep was in the process of wiping a glass, his eyes cast in the direction of the piano player, not so much paying particular attention, just looking.

“Might be somethin’ to that sign after all,” Frank muttered. “These folks ain’t exactly whoopin’ it up.”

He sauntered to the bar, leaned his rifle against it, and reached into his pocket for the makings of a cigarette. The barkeep didn’t glance Frank’s way. He kept right on washing the same glass and watching the piano player.

Frank struck a match and fired up his smoke. A blue cloud of smoke briefly billowed around his face. He waved it away.

“Be nice if I could get a bottle down here,” Frank called to the barkeep.

The barkeep reached below the counter and came up with a bottle of rye. He slid it down the polished countertop to where Frank sat. He still hadn’t cast a glance in Frank’s direction.

“Whatta I owe ya?” Frank asked, digging into his pocket.

The barkeep didn’t respond. He kept right on working on the same glass, watching the piano player play the same tune.

Frank was about tired of the song as it was, and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it was about the tune that kept the barkeep in a trance.

“That the only damn song you know?” Frank called to the ivory tickler.

The man at the piano didn’t acknowledge him.

Frank poured a shot of whiskey and took a swallow. It left a trail of fire in his chest, but it was the best whiskey he’d ever tasted. He took another drink and wiped his mouth with the back of one hand.

“Got any suggestions for a good time?” Frank asked, directing his question at the barkeep and frowning when the man didn’t bother with an answer.

Frank looked around the saloon again before turning back to his whiskey. He glanced up just in time to see a piece of the barkeep’s ear plop onto the bar.

“Uh, you lost somethin’ there,” Frank said, but the barkeep went right on polishing his glass.

Frank shook his head slowly, at a loss. “Hope everybody in town’s as friendly as you,” he said to himself, knowing he was the only one listening anyway.

He tossed two bits on the counter, grabbed his rifle, and left the saloon.

His mare needed tending, so he took her to the livery across the street.

“Where’s the best place for a fella to get some food and a bed?” Frank asked the short, pudgy blacksmith, who wasted no time with his answer.

“Hanley House at the far end of town is your best bet,” he said, spitting into the dirt, then slurping back the drool that didn’t quite make the trip. “Best damn cookin’ you could ask for. Clean rooms too, so long as you got money.”

A talker. Frank decided to press on. “What about a woman?” he ventured.

“Red Rose is where you oughta look for that sorta thing. Sits right behind the saloon there. Ain’t a thing you can’t get at the Red Rose.”

Frank paid up, adding a tip to boot. “’Preciate the help,” he said.

The blacksmith glanced at the extra two bits in his palm, then leveled his eyes at Frank. “Give ya a piece of advice, feller?” he said.

“Reckon if ya feel the need,” Frank replied.

“Ride outta here fast as ya can, and don’t look back.”

Frank unfastened his saddlebags and slung them over his shoulder. “Well, now, I been ridin’ a long time,” he drawled, “I’m lookin’ forward to sittin’ a spell, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Your choice,” the blacksmith said. “Least ways, I’d hang on to that rifle everywhere ya go. Wouldn’t even answer Mother Nature’s call without it.”

“I ’preciate the warnin’,” Frank said. “You take real good care of my horse, you hear?”

The blacksmith nodded and turned away, taking the mare by the reins.

Frank left the livery and headed in the direction of the Hanley House. The Red Rose was second on his list. A warm woman sounded awfully appealing, but the thought of a thick beef steak and fried potatoes made more immediate sense.

He rolled a smoke on his way, taking his time, stopping off at the dry goods to treat himself to a supply of cigarillos. He ambled past the jail afterward, feeling his gut tighten as he waited for a lawman to cut him off at the pass.

Frank was a drifter. Folks didn’t take kindly to drifters, especially if those folks happened to be peace officers. More times than not, peaceful was a far cry from the way confrontations with the law turned out for Frank.

The front door of the jail was open. Frank peeked inside as he walked by. The man behind the desk was asleep. His hat was down over his eyes, his feet were propped on the desk, and his hands were clasped together on his round gut. The star on the man’s chest told Frank this sleepy fella was Deadtown’s law. The buttons on the lawman’s shirt seemed damn near ready to pop, and Frank had a feeling that even if the sheriff had the inclination to get up, his body wouldn’t follow suit.

Frank smiled wryly and continued on his way, crossing the street to get to the Hanley House. The place was a two-story building in much better repair than the rest of the buildings in town. In fact, it looked downright regal. Red with white trim, its front doors made almost entirely of glass so clean a man might accidentally walk through it. Neat hand lettering on the windows proclaimed the name of the establishment in fancy cursive style.

Frank found the same class act inside. The lobby was done up with lots of red velvet, and there were marble statues sitting on pedestals. Behind the sign-in desk was a skinny kid with freckles and teeth like a beaver. He was reading a yellowed newspaper. He yawned as he took notice of Frank.

“Evening, sir,” the kid said. “What can I do for ya?”

“I’d like a room,” Frank said. “Prefer one that faces the street.”

Frank believed in caution. He never kept his back to a door, he always took a room facing the main street, and he always slept with one eye open.

“You plannin’ to stick around for long?” the kid asked with some genuine concern in his voice.

“What is it with you people?” Frank asked. “You got a real funny way of makin’ a feller feel welcome.”

The kid shrugged and scooped up Frank’s money. “Top floor, all the way down to the end of the hall,” he said, avoiding Frank’s hard gaze.

Frank headed for the stairs but stopped when he caught the scent of food. The dining room was off to his right. He’d considered a hot bath first, but the smell of meat and gravy and fresh bread won out.

There were maybe ten tables in the dining area, each covered with red velvet cloth. In addition, each of the tables featured fine china and silver utensils. It was a little fancy for what Frank had in mind, but he was hungry. Still, he wondered how much of the sizable wad in his pocket the meal would set him back. The room had already set him back twice the going rate.

He took a table facing the street. A slip of a girl came to take his order. Her eyes were crystal water, her hair was shiny as new gold, and her skin had the glow of fresh cream. Whatever this meal set him back, it would be worth it as long as he got to take in an eyeful of the girl while he ate.

He ordered a thick steak, a bowl of chili, a basket of rolls, and a piece of apple pie. The girl scratched his order down without glancing up at him one time. When Frank finished ordering, the girl hurried off to the kitchen to place his order. Frank watched until she disappeared from sight, then he redirected his attention to the street outside.

Traffic was thin. He noted an occasional man or woman strolling aimlessly along the sidewalks. None of them seemed likely to frequent a place like Hanley House. Most of the few folks he saw looked pale, overworked, and poor. It didn’t seem right to have such a fine establishment as the Hanley House in a town that was essentially lifeless and poor.

The girl returned with Frank’s meal.

“You do much business?” he asked. “Here, I mean. I ain’t seen many folks look like they could afford to frequent the place often.”

The girl shifted her eyes nervously around the room, then she said, “The place belongs to the man who owns this town. Jacob Hanley. He don’t really need the money, and he don’t care what folks can afford.”

She looked like she might have something to add, but she clammed up suddenly and hurried off. Her skittish behavior struck Frank as odd, but he wasn’t about to lose his appetite over it. He finished his meal in record time, then lit a cigarillo and leaned back to enjoy it, once again turning his gaze out the front window.

The sheriff was standing outside now. Frank wondered if maybe the lawman had gotten wind of his presence and decided to come looking for him. Didn’t seem likely with the way he’d been snoozing at his desk.

“Gonna have to wait ’til I get me a nap, lawman,” Frank mumbled, collecting his rifle and heading upstairs.

First thing he did in the room was try out the bed. It was damn comfortable. He pulled his hat over his eyes. His Winchester rested against the wall right beside the bed and his gun belt hung over the post, well within easy reach should the situation call for it. With a half-finished cigarillo clamped between his teeth, he closed his eyes and let his mind wander.

He couldn’t let go of the things he’d seen in Deadtown so far. Something was wrong. Most of the folks he’d seen wandered aimlessly up and down the street in a glassy-eyed trance. If that wasn’t enough, a piece of a feller’s ear had fallen clean off. Frank had seen quite a few towns in his time, but not one of them ever struck such a sour note on his guitar as this one did. He’d planned on riding out at first light, but that sweet little girl downstairs had him thinking otherwise.

He finished his smoke and settled in for a short nap. He was just starting to doze when a furtive knock on the door brought him up out of bed.

The sun was all but gone. Frank snatched his gun belt and strapped it on before answering the door. He wasn’t expecting visitors and had no intention of being caught off guard.

The girl from the restaurant stood in the hallway, scared as all hell. She seemed more than relieved when Frank opened the door.

“Can I come in?” she asked in a nervous whisper, looking over her shoulder like she half expected someone to snatch her up.

Frank wouldn’t have said no under any circumstance, but he certainly wasn’t going to turn her away when she seemed desperate for his help.

He stepped aside and waved her into the room.

“If I get caught talkin’ to you, mister, I’ll be next.”

“Next for what?”

“Next to get the change.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“There’s only four of us left that ain’t been changed,” she explained. “The sheriff, Garv Potter, who’s the blacksmith, little Josh down at the front desk, and me. Well, Jacob Hanley ain’t been changed neither, but that’s ‘cause he’s the one that puts ’em the way they are. And he’s got a couple men that are still normal, but everybody else is dead and still walkin’”

“Are you plum outta your mind?”

“It’s true, mister. Can’t ya see it? People walk around, but they ain’t one of us no more.”

Frank frowned and scratched his chin.

“You gotta believe me,” she said, right on the edge of tears.

“Okay, I’ll play along,” he said, lighting a fresh cigarillo. “Everybody’s dead, ’cept for a few of ya, but everybody’s still walkin’ around. Have I got that right?”

She nodded. “It started a few months back. When people died, Jacob Hanley buried ’em out back of his building. They never stayed in the ground more than a few hours before they’d be right back in town, walkin’ around like they never died at all, ’cept you could see they were pale and not thinkin’ too clear anymore.”

“No disrespect, ma’am, but how’s somethin’ like that happen?”

“Some concoction Jacob came up with that was made for preservin’ the dead. I don’t know how it works, but when folks didn’t die fast enough, Jacob helped ’em. The only reason me and the others are still alive is because he uses us to keep the town runnin’. Dead folks ain’t much good with anything but eatin’ peoples’ brains and wanderin’ around. You gotta be real careful around ’em, though. If one bites ya, you might as well know you’ll end up the same way.”

Frank chewed on what she’d told him, then he said, “That’s surely the damnedest story I’ve ever heard, but I’m inclined to believe it.”

“It’s all true, mister, I swear.”

“Problem is, I’ve seen some weird folks in this town, but none I could rightly call dead. Close to it, I can vouch for that, but the ones I’ve seen look like they still got a little life left in ’em.”

“Those are the freshly turned. The ones that are long dead stay in the ground durin’ the day and come out at night.”

It was dark outside now. Frank looked out the window. There were people out there—dead ones, if the girl was right in the head—walking up and down the street, wandering in and out of buildings like it was business as usual.

“You’re tellin’ me those folks are dead?” he asked.

“Every last one of ’em, and they’ll be lookin’ for you next. Drifters always get turned into dead folks right away.”

“This Hanley feller, can he control the dead things?”

“They mostly do what he says. He’s destroyed a couple, but they mostly do what he tells ’em to do.”

“Why haven’t you gotten the hell outta here?”

“It ain’t that easy, mister. Those dead things patrol the outskirts of town. They’ll let you in, but there’s no way of gettin’ out.”

Frank chewed it over in his mind and decided to lend a hand.

“You let the kid know we’re leavin’. I’ll get word to the others. Meet me at the sheriff’s office soon as you can.”

“Thanks so much, mister,” the girl said, throwing her arms around his neck.

“Thank me when we’re long gone from this place,” Frank said, grabbing his rifle. “Right now we got work to do.”

* * *

The sheriff was behind his desk again when Frank barged into the jail. He seemed a little surprised to see Frank, and not all that interested in his presence.

“Let me guess, you expected me to be dinner by now?” Frank said.

“Sounds like you heard about our little problem,” the sheriff said flatly.

“You think maybe it’s your duty as a lawman to warn visitors about what’s goin’ on around here? Was ya just gonna wait for ’em to pick my bones clean?”

“What do you expect me to do about it? I’m grateful to be alive.”

“You can be a man and do your job. Get your big butt up off that chair and let’s go. Grab some guns. We’re gettin’ the hell outta town. You, me, and anybody else that’s still walkin’ around with a heartbeat.”

“I ain’t got no guns. I got nothin’, and if ya think we’re walkin’ outta here, you got another thing comin’. Those are zombies, fella. Walkin’ corpses, and they’re everywhere, and there ain’t a damn horse in town.”

“I got guns and I got a horse.”

“You got nothin’, son. The damn zombies done ate your horse by now, and if ya think you got enough bullets to blast your way out of here, you’re just settin’ yourself up to die disillusioned. You oughta let nature takes it course.”

“Dead folks walkin’ ain’t natural, sheriff, and if ya don’t lift your ass outta that chair, I’ll be fightin’ my way outta town one bullet shy.”

Josh and the girl rushed inside at that moment. The girl was trying to speak and catch her breath at the same time. Josh took over for her.

“They know somethin’s goin’ on,” he said. “When they saw me and Becky leavin’ the hotel, they started groupin’ up and followin’ us. They move slow most times, but they can move faster when they need to, and there’s a whole bunch of ’em. Won’t be long ’fore they circle us in.”

Frank looked at Becky. “You said Hanley had to destroy a few of ’em every now and then. How’s he kill somethin’ that’s dead already?”

“Hell, all ya gotta do is shoot ’em in the head and they stay down,” Josh chimed in. “Burn ’em if ya wanna be extra sure.”

“I’m goin’ to get fetch Potter,” Frank told the kid. “You know how to use this?” He thrust his rifle into Josh’s hands. “It’s fully loaded. I got more shells in my bags. If the sheriff don’t cooperate, blow his damn head off. You got that?”

“Got it,” Josh said, grinning as he leveled the rifle at the sheriff.

A small group of zombies had already gathered in front of the saloon. A couple of them looked Frank’s way when he came outside, but none made a move in his direction. He made a beeline for the livery. When he was just a few yards from the stable, two of the corpses staggered his way. They weren’t moving quick, but Frank readied his Colt just in case.

He smelled more than horse shit when he entered the livery. A kerosene lamp burned bright in one corner, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Something scuffled behind a stack of hay at the rear, beyond the stables. Frank crept toward the back of the building and detected the noise was coming from behind a stack of hay bales.

Three zombies were crouched in a semi-circle. One of them was a half-naked female, the other was one of the card players from the saloon, and the third was just a kid, no more than ten or twelve. Garv Potter lay on his back in the middle of the group, his stomach open and his entrails strung everywhere. The female corpse looked up at Frank with glazed eyes as she stuffed lengths of dripping red meat into her mouth. The other two continued feasting on Potter, not even paying a penny’s worth of attention to Frank.

Frank left the mess and went to find his mare. She was nowhere to be found. The damn things had probably already eaten her, which put a really damper on Frank’s plans for getting out of town.

The two zombies from the saloon finally staggered into the livery. They stood between Frank and the only way out. Behind him, the naked female zombie had given up on Potter in favor of fresher meat. She was Frank’s immediate concern. Her pasty tits sagged and jiggled as she lumbered toward him. Frank briefly noted that hers was the first pair of tits he’d seen in his whole life that didn’t appeal to him.

On that note, he dispatched her with a bullet between the eyes.

Now that Garv Potter was just about tapped out, the other two zombies turned their attention to Frank. He ignored them and blasted the two stiffs blocking his way out. Their heads exploded in a shower of chunky black slime.

“Gotta run,” Frank said to the last two zombies.

He shot the lantern in the corner and flaming kerosene spilled everywhere. The fire spread fast, licking at the hay and eating its way up the side of one wall, engulfing the fairly rotten wood in a matter of seconds.

Frank reloaded as he made his way back to the jail. Three more zombies limped his way. He paused long enough to drop them in quick succession.

A legless corpse clawed its way toward the jail. Frank didn’t feel the need to waste a bullet on it, but the thing grabbed hold of one of his ankles. A gurgling moan escaped its mouth, followed by a fistful of slimy green worms. Frank clobbered the squirming torso with the butt of his pistol, cracking its head like a ripe melon and scattering maggots over the walkway

Two shots sounded inside the jail, then Becky screamed. Frank shouldered his way through the door.

Becky was slumped against the wall. The sheriff was face down in his own blood. A corpse was laid out on the floor in front of Becky, a gaping hole in the back of its head that leaked chunky black goo.

“I had to shoot the sheriff,” Josh said. “That thing got in, and the sheriff tried to take my gun away.”

“You did good, kid,” Frank said. “Now pull yourself together.”

Frank kicked the twice-dead corpse aside, grabbed Becky’s hand, and pulled her to her feet in a not-too-gentle fashion.

“We head west,” he said. “Shoot any damn thing that moves.”

Once outside, the three of them stayed close together, the kid watching the left flank, Frank watching the right, and Becky protected between the two of them.

The town was alive with the undead. A cowhand with a neck slit so deep his head hung to one side ambled out from behind the jail. Josh turned at the waist, bringing his rifle to hip level. He squeezed off a round that took the cowhand’s head completely off.

“Damn good shot, kid,” Frank complimented.

They negotiated a gauntlet of grotesque gore. There were walking corpses of all sorts, some in fairly good repair, save for the pasty color of their skin, others sporting everything from knife wounds to gut shots. One of the corpses was an obvious hanging victim, with the snapped cartilage in his neck allowing his head to flop side to side.

Another corpse with one leg belly-crawled up to Frank. He pumped a bullet through the top of its head, then looked up in time to see a fat woman coming at him with her flabby belly hanging open, trailing what looked like butcher’s fare between legs the size of tree trunks.

Frank was in the process of reloading when she waddled up beside him, and thank God for the kid, because Frank would’ve been a goner if he hadn’t blown a hole through the fat lady’s quivering jowls.

The undead poured out of buildings and dropped from rooftops. They seemed to be multiplying. Corpses covered in grave dirt, their rotten flesh sloughing away, advanced on the trio.

“We got trouble,” Josh hollered, pointing his rifle to the west end of town.

“It’s Jacob Hanley,” Becky said.

Frank figured as much. The man standing at that end of town was lanky and dressed in black. He had silver hair hanging straight and greasy over his shoulders. Joining Hanley from north and south were thirty, maybe forty walking corpses, all of them maggot-infested and salivating for fresh meat.

“What now?” Josh asked.

He wiped his brow with the back of one hand, then wiped his hand on his trouser leg and took hold of his rifle again.

“Ain’t lookin’ real good, is it?” Frank said evenly.

“Not real good at all,” Josh agreed.

Becky squealed and pressed herself against Frank for protection. He shook her off so he could drop a lanky corpse with its ribcage exposed. Behind that one was another, this one missing an eye. Frank obliged him by taking out the other eye. “Now you got yerself a matchin’ set,” he chuckled.

“There is no place for you to run,” Jacob Hanley spoke with the voice of a fire and brimstone preacher. “My children are everywhere. If you’d like, I will permit you to shoot yourselves before the feeding begins.”

“Thanks for the hospitality, but I ain’t real taken with the notion,” Frank called back.

He drew a cigarillo from his shirt pocket. He took a deep pull on it, sucked the smoke into his lungs, and blew it out again, then he clamped the cigarillo between his teeth and thought hard about the situation.

“The only way we’re gettin’ outta here is to go straight through ’em,” Frank said. “If we make it to the other side of that mob alive, we can outrun the bastards. Anybody up for it?”

“I can’t do it,” Becky sobbed.

“Ain’t no choice, ’less you wanna stay here and be dinner,” Frank said.

He took a handful of bullets from one pocket and handed them to Josh. “That’s all there are,” he said. “Use ’em real wisely.” He loaded his Colt and said, “We ready, kid?”

Josh nodded and braced the butt of the rifle against his shoulder. Frank took the lead, grabbing Becky by the hand and dragging her along behind him. He shouldered his way through as many of the walking cadavers as he could, using his gun only when it was necessary.

“Keep movin’,” he said, shoving fresh rounds into the Colt’s cylinder.

Josh swung the barrel of the Winchester left and right, picking off lumbering corpses one after the other, making each shot count.

Frank was impressed with the kid’s skill under pressure, but there was no time for back patting now. The shambling dead horde seemed to draw their power from Hanley, so Frank set his sights on the lanky son of a bitch. The guy was too smart to stay in the open, though, so it wasn’t an easy task.

Frank stayed patient. He continued to dispatch the walking dead until he had a clear shot at Hanley, then he wasted no time. The first bullet slammed into Hanley’s chest, knocking him backward. Before Hanley hit the dirt, Frank put a bullet in his head for good measure.

The zombies quickly became disorientated and began to wander aimlessly, bumping into each other. After some hesitation, several of the rotting corpses fell on Hanley and began ripping into him.

Frank recognized the piano player from the saloon among them. He grinned and took aim. “This is for not playin’ a different tune when I asked,” he said, and then he squeezed a round between the ivory tickler’s eyes.

He grabbed Becky by the hand again. “Let’s go,” he said.

Josh took up the rear. There didn’t seem to be much threat left, so he relaxed. When he let his guard down, a walking corpse lunged at him and took a chunk from the top of his hand. Josh brought the butt of his rifle down against the bridge of the zombie’s nose, caving the dead thing’s face in like a ripe melon.

“You okay, kid?” Frank asked.

“I’m fine,” Josh said, though there was an edge to his tone.

“Hang in there, we’re almost home free.”

“We’re gonna make it, ain’t we?” Becky asked hopefully.

“Looks like it,” Frank told her.

Josh emptied his rifle just as they left the last of the corpses lumbering behind them. Ahead lay nothing but dark, open flatland. The next town was more than two days away, but it beat hell out of what they were leaving behind. They moved through the night, putting distance between them and Deadtown, stopping only when Becky finally collapsed and couldn’t go on.

Josh held his wounded hand against his chest. He’d taken off his shirt and wrapped it around the wound to soak up the blood.

“We’ll rest here for the night,” Frank said.

He rounded up some wood and built a fire, then he squatted beside the crackling flames and stuck a cigarillo in the hot ashes to light it.

Becky sat on a rock a couple of feet from the fire, hugging herself and rocking gently back and forth. She was still in shock.

“You all right, kid?” Frank asked.

“Fine,” Josh answered. “Tired is all. I’m real tired.” He was on his back, resting his head resting against a piece of deadwood. The rifle lay across his chest. “Didn’t think we was gonna make it for a while there,” he added.

Frank stood up and stretched, then he strode over and stood beside Josh. “We didn’t all make it, kid,” he said. “I’m real sorry.” He drew his gun and put a bullet in Josh’s forehead.

Becky screamed loud enough to wake the dead. Fortunately for everybody involved, Josh wasn’t getting up anytime soon.

“He got bit,” Frank said. “I’d’ve expected the same.” He dragged the kid to the fire by his ankles. “Best be movin’ on,” he added, flipping his cigarillo into the fire. “This is gonna make one hell of a stink.”

Fool’s Gold

Buck Tyler slid from the saddle of his Morgan, took a kerchief from his back pocket, and dabbed at the sweat running into his eyes, then he gulped water from a canteen.

Shade was what he needed. A nice shade tree, an overhang, any damn thing to take the edge off the heat. He’d been riding for two days now, and near as he could figure, Durango was still another day’s ride down the road.

He dropped to his haunches, took the makings from his shirt pocket, and rolled a cigarette. He was halfway through his smoke when he saw something glinting in the sunlight, quick and then gone again.

“What the . . . ?”

He took his horse by the reins and started toward a jagged clump of rock and dirt. It was near there that he’d seen the reflection. He was almost there when he saw it again, just a quick flash of light in the sun.

He let go of his horse’s reins and squatted to look around. A nugget of gold the size of his thumb caught his eye. He held his cigarette clamped tightly between his teeth and picked up the nugget for examination.

“I’ll be a son of a bitch . . .”

He rolled the nugget around in his fingers and stuck it in his shirt pocket, then he searched the immediate vicinity, turning up two more nuggets.

His fingertips felt funny, sort of tingly. The tips had developed a bit of a red rash, and they felt warm. He rubbed them together and felt the calluses flake.

He shrugged it off, flipped his cigarette away, and knelt on the ground, digging around the base of the rock formation. A section of earth gave way, uncovering a hole from which a burst of cool air drifted.

Buck began to dig in earnest, then. He dug as much as he could with his bare hands, then he took his Schofield out and used the handle to dig the hole wider. When he could fit his arm down inside the hole, he reached in and felt around, coming out with a handful of dirt, a few rocks, and another nugget of gold.

“I’ll be damned, I think we got us a mine down there,” he said aloud, as if maybe his horse could understand the importance of the statement.

He rolled another cigarette and thought about it. An old mine. How much more gold would he find down there?

He finished the cigarette, contemplating the odds of getting down inside the hole. Near as he could tell, all he had to do was clear the opening. For some reason the mine had been sealed, but hell, there might still be enough gold down there to make it worth his trouble.

“What do ya think, feller?” he asked, again speaking to his horse as if the animal could understand. A passerby would half expect the horse to respond.

He patted the Morgan and began taking items from the saddlebags. He continued to widen the hole. It took him the better part of two hours to get the job done. When he finished, he slid a lantern down through the hole, followed by his rifle and a sack of ammunition.

He thought briefly about his Morgan. It wasn’t smart to leave the animal unattended, but he didn’t have much choice. If he intended to explore the mine, he was going to have to risk leaving his horse and hope nobody happened by.

He dropped to his belly and crawled head first through the opening. It was a tight squeeze, but he made it nonetheless. Once inside, he got hold of his things and continued to crawl on his stomach until the passageway expanded enough to allow him to stand almost fully erect.

He struck a match and lit the lantern. He made it a point to always carry a lantern, and now he was glad for it. Without it, there would have been no way he’d be able to see a damn thing this far underground.

He held the lantern up and looked around. Not a whole lot of space to work with. He couldn’t fully stretch his arms without hitting the wall on either side. It looked like the passage opened up a little ahead of him and then started on a downward slope. That’s where he set his sights.

He held the lantern out in front of him and stepped cautiously, feeling the loose dirt and rock give way beneath his feet. He could hear the pebbles rolling down the slope as they disappeared into darkness. He tried to judge distance by how long he could hear the rattling of the pebbles before the sound stopped.

He paused part way down the slope to roll a smoke. The ground was starting to level off. That’s when he heard something up ahead. He knew the sound of water trickling over rocks, and damned if that wasn’t what he was hearing now.

He moved on until he came to a wide opening that had been shored up with heavy wood beams. He passed under the beams and into a wide-open space that looked as if it had once been a campsite. A stream ran along the wall on his right. Beside the stream were signs there’d been a campfire. Buck even found the charred remains of a boot in the ashes.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered, turning the boot over for closer inspection.

He set the lantern aside and went to work building a fire where the old one had been. There was plenty of kindling scattered around, and some nice timber as well, so it didn’t take long to get a respectable fire going.

Buck took some jerky from a pouch and chewed on it. He looked around, wondering what the odds were he’d strike it rich down here. He couldn’t for the life of him imagine the mine being sealed when there was still gold to be found. It just didn’t make a lick of sense.

Still, though, he’d look around. He hadn’t dragged his fool ass all this way down here just to turn around and high-tail it back again. Even if all he found was a few nuggets, he’d be ahead of where he was at the start.

He chewed a little more jerky, filled his canteen in the stream, and smoked another cigarette. After that, he set about sifting through the mud at the edge of the stream. His persistence was rewarded with a sizable gold nugget.

He continued to dig and found another nugget of gold, then another, both smaller than the first one, but nuggets all the same. He couldn’t figure out why the mine had been sealed. It obviously hadn’t been played all the way out. Even a group of inexperienced miners wouldn’t have left this much gold behind.

He listened, cocking his ear toward the back of the mine. Something was slithering around back there. The light from the fire only encompassed a few yards in the immediate vicinity. Beyond that was compete darkness. Whatever it was that slithered past, Buck wasn’t about to get a look at it from here. Wasn’t sure he wanted a look, truth be told.

He shrugged off the noise and started digging again. The fire would keep whatever was out there away. One thing he knew for sure, critters weren’t too keen on fire.

He sifted through more mud, squeezing it through his fingers, looking for more nuggets. Something moved again in the dark. He tried to ignore it, but this time it was closer, and it sounded like something pretty big.

He picked up his rifle and levered a round into the chamber. Whatever it was slithering around out there, he wasn’t about to keep his back to it. He hadn’t stayed alive thirty-three years by putting his back to trouble.

He lit the lantern again and exchanged his rifle for his Schofield. He preferred the rifle, but he couldn’t comfortably use his lantern and rifle at the same time, and he wasn’t about to head further into the mine without the light.

More noises came as he made his way further into the mine. Something slithered across the ground directly in front of him. He panicked and fired. The shot reverberated off the walls, nearly shattering his eardrums.

A stench drifted up from somewhere in front of him. He’d smelled it once before, a long time ago, at an old farmhouse in Missouri. He’d stopped after riding for two days through a thunderstorm, hoping for a bite to eat. The smell had hit him right away, and he’d gone into the house to find its occupants gutted and spread out across their beds. He never wanted to see anything like that again, but here was that same smell, the putrid death rot from the farmhouse, and that could only mean one thing.

Suddenly the gold didn’t seem all that important. He started back the direction he’d initially come from. His toe caught something solid and he pitched forward, hitting the ground before he realized he was falling. He managed to keep the lantern from breaking, but he thought sure the flame would go out.

Its light spilled across the hard-packed floor of the mine. He sat half up and moved the lantern in a slow circle, looking for whatever it was he’d tripped on.

A human skull grinned back at him.

Buck held the lantern out to the skull for a closer look. A fat, oily gray thing came out of the dark behind the skull, its mouth yawing to display a wide circle of needle-like teeth. A viscous fluid hung from the top of its mouth to the bottom, glistening as the light of the lantern caught it.

Buck couldn’t stifle the scream that tore from his throat. He flung himself back away from the fat gray thing, but it lunged after him. He swung the lantern without thinking. It collided with the oily gray thing and broke. The creature burst into flames and began to make a high-pitched squealing sound that sent pain ripping through Buck’s head.

He still had his pistol held tightly in his hand. He’d been so gripped in fear by the sight of the thing that he hadn’t thought to shoot, but he did now, bringing the Schofield around to draw a bead on the flaming creature as it rose above him to strike.

He got off three shots and rolled out of the way just as the heavy slug crashed to the ground. Buck pushed himself to all fours, the pistol still clutched in his right hand. He was just about to stand when another one of the slugs came from his right side, wrapping around his gun hand.

Buck screamed as searing pain shot up his arm. The skin on his hand began to dissolve almost immediately, sloughing away like candle wax. The pistol fell from his grip and slid far enough away to be useless.

Buck managed to get to his feet despite the pain. He darted back toward the campfire, toward the exit, desperate to escape this maddening hell hole.

He never made three steps.

One of the creatures slithered in front of him, wrapping around his ankles. The thing tightened around him. Buck felt the searing pain again as his clothes and skin dissolved. He fell face first, arms outstretched, and another of the creatures slithered over his back.

His final scream wasn’t a long one. The things were everywhere. They crawled over him, wrapped around him, and slithered inside him. His screaming ended there, leaving nothing but the moist sounds of gray, oily, mottled creatures as they devoured him in the dark.

By morning, all was quiet again. The few bone fragments left over from Buck Tyler lay scattered about the floor of the mine, along with the nuggets he’d stuck in his pockets. One of the fat, greasy creatures took a nugget in its mouth and slithered up to the entrance of the mine. The slug slithered outside long enough to leave the gold nugget in view, then it disappeared into the mine again, waiting for another fool in search of gold . . .

End of the Line for the One-O-Nine

Garrett McCoy paused a moment to take in the sight of Dry Gulch. He nudged his gelding and headed down the main street of the bustling little town, keeping his eyes peeled for the train depot. He was a little late but expected Roy and Pete would still be waiting for him.

He found the train station at the north end of town. A short, fat man sat behind the ticket counter. Two women sat on a bench along one wall, luggage at their feet, waiting for the next train.

Garrett lit a smoke and went to the ticket counter. “Lookin’ for a couple friends,” he said to the ticket agent.

The man looked up from his newspaper. “Help ya if I can,” he drawled.

“One is a tall sorta fella with a beard and mustache, the other’s a little guy with big ears. You seen ’em?”

“I seen ’em,” the ticket man said. “Lit out of here ’bout half an hour ago, headin’ east, I make it. Askin’ about the One-O-Nine.”

“Why east, you reckon?” Garrett asked, though he had a pretty good idea.

“The One-O-Nine comes through the tunnel there. Made your friends real happy to know it. Up to no good, I figure. Told the sheriff, but he don’t care none. Says the One-O-Nine is gov’ment property, ain’t none of his concern.”

“’Preciate the help, fella,” Garrett said. He headed outside, tipping his hat at the ladies as he went. The women were flattered and went into a fit of giggling.

Outside, Garrett unhitched his gelding and climbed into the saddle. He pointed the horse east and nudged him in the flanks. Those two idiots weren’t about to bilk him out of his share of government gold. He’d shoot them and leave them for buzzard bait before that happened.

Nobody ripped off Garrett McCoy.

* * *

“Let me get this straight,” Pete said, leaning up to look over the edge of the bluff. “When the train comes outta the tunnel, we jump off here and land on it?”

“When I give the word, not before,” Roy said. “Dumb as you are, you’ll jump at the wrong time and get yerself kilt.”

Pete settled back, scratched his ass, and said, “You got a smoke?”

Roy dug out two smokes and handed one to Pete. They lit up. “I think we made a good decision to cut McCoy outta the picture,” Pete said.

“We didn’t cut ’im out, I did,” Roy said. “I got too much invested in this thing to share the pie with some show off like McCoy. Hell, I’m the one did all the settin’ up. How many days you figger I spent in Dry Gulch just gatherin’ up information to pull this off?” He scoffed. “No, I ain’t sharin’ with a no-account like McCoy, and you’re damn lucky I’m sharin’ with you. If you wasn’t my flesh ’n’ blood, I’d cut you out just the same.”

“I ’preciate it, Roy. I surely do,” Pete said.

“Then shut yer trap and look for the train, would ya?”

Silence hung between the two for several minutes. Finally they heard it, the whistle of a train in the distance. Roy checked his rifle. Pete followed suit. The train’s whistle grew louder.

“Remember, don’t do nothin’ ’til I give the word,” Roy said.

The train was in the tunnel below them now. Roy edged up and looked over the bluff. He saw the steam engine come out of the tunnel, followed by two box cars and a baggage car.

“Now,” Roy yelled over the clackity-clack of the train’s wheels.

He threw himself over the edge. Pete was right behind him. They hit the tracks one right after the other, their knees buckling under the impact.

Roy landed on his shoulder and lost most of his breath, but he managed to roll. Pete wasn’t so lucky. His legs twisted at obscene angles, with bone fragments peeking through the ripped flesh.

“Where’d it go?” Pete screamed, groping at his torn-up legs. “Jesus, I waited like ya said. I waited like ya told me, but there wasn’t no train.” He was bawling and blubbering like a baby now. “Oh shit, my legs, Roy, I can’t feel my legs.”

Roy’s shoulder felt like it was dislocated, but he was alive, and that was something. He used his good arm to push himself up. “Hold on, I’m—”

Then the train whistle drowned out Roy’s voice. The two men saw it coming from the mouth of the tunnel again, barreling straight for them . . .

* * *

. . . Garrett heard the train whistle as he slid from his saddle. He looked over the bluff and saw what looked like scattered raw meat. He looked up in time to see the tail end of the One-O-Nine. He recognized it by its government markings. Before he had a chance to think about what might have gone wrong, the One-O-Nine disappeared into thin air, even though Garrett could still hear its whistle blowing and its wheels clanging against the rails.

He worked his way down a sharp slope that came out at the mouth of the tunnel, then he crossed to the tracks and knelt to investigate some of the flesh and bone mess he found. Closer inspection revealed a shredded finger or two, a bunch of bloody teeth, and what looked to him like a man’s most prized possession.

“I’ll be damned,” he mumbled out loud.

Only one thing Garrett could do now and that was ride back to Dry Gulch. The One-O-Nine was long gone. The government gold was lost. He knew it just as sure as he knew he could shine a monkey’s ass in May.

He mounted up and headed for Dry Gulch, cussing himself the whole way for hooking up with those two fools. Roy had been the one to get the information on the gold shipment, but it was Garrett’s planning that made the whole thing possible. He should’ve cut those two out long ago. He didn’t much care they were dead now, but losing the loot hurt like hell.

He made plans on his way back to town. He could hit the bank in Dry Gulch. It was a small town. No way a bank job was going to make up for the lost gold, but it was better than walking away empty handed.

He drew his gelding to an abrupt halt at the town limits of Dry Gulch. His eyes had to be playing tricks on him. There was nothing left here but a ghost town. He nudged his gelding down what had once been the main street. Not much of it left now. A few burned-out dilapidated buildings and not a person in sight.

The train station he’d just left less than forty-five minutes ago was in the same state of disrepair as the rest of Dry Gulch. Garrett hitched his gelding and went inside. Dust particles floated on the last streams of daylight that filtered in through slatted windows. The planks of wood squeaked and buckled under Garrett’s feet as he moved across the floor.

An aged newspaper lay on the ticket counter. Its headline read: WOULD-BE OUTLAWS BUMBLE TRAIN HOLDUP. Garrett scanned the article, which stated that two outlaws had misjudged and jumped in front of the One-O-Nine in an apparent holdup attempt of a government train carrying a cargo of gold. The attempted hold-up would have been the third in the same area in a two-month period, and one of a hundred such incidents that year. The article also stated that the One-O-Nine had jumped rail, and that the United States Government would no longer use the route running through Dry Gulch.

A second newspaper, dated one month later, lay on the floor at Garrett’s feet. He picked it up and read the headline: DRY GULCH DRIES UP. The article cited the government’s decision to abandon the route running through Dry Gulch as the reason a number of other train lines chose to forgo the Dry Gulch route, which in turn created an unstable economy and forced Dry Gulch residents to abandon the once-thriving town.

“You still lookin’ for your friends?”

The voice startled Garrett. He turned and saw the fat ticket agent standing just inside the doorway, giving Garrett a curious look.

“What the hell’s goin’ on here?” Garrett asked.

“You don’t know?” the ticket agent asked.

“If I knew, I sure as hell wouldn’t ask you, now would I?”

“You’re dead,” the ticket agent informed Garrett.

“Dead? What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“The sheriff got ya. He found out about your plan, tried to stop ya before you got to the train, but you went for your gun. He beat ya to it, though. Always was a fast one with them six-shooters.”

“I never made it to the train?”

“Nope, you never did,” the ticket agent said. “Never made it outta Dry Gulch. No worry, though. Your friends didn’t get the loot either.” The ticket agent indicated the newspaper with a slight nod. “Guess you already know that, though. They jumped right in front of the train, and not too much further down, the One-O-Nine jumped track and went over the edge of the mountain.”

“How long ago?”

“Been two years now,” the ticket agent said. “You gotta let it go, Garrett McCoy. Two years ago was the end of the line for the One-O-Nine, and now it’s time you took your place beside her.”

“What about the gold?” Garrett asked.

“Gov’ment never did recover it all, I don’t guess. Not that it matters none to you—or me, for that matter. We’re both dead. It’s time to go.”

Garrett blinked and the ticket agent was gone. He held his hands in front of his face and watched as they began to shimmer and fade.

“This ain’t happenin’,” he said. “I want my gold. I didn’t come all this way to ride off with nothin’.”

Somewhere in the distance the One-O-Nine blew her whistle.

Garrett’s arms became transparent and then vanished. The rest of him started thinning and fading away, and as Garrett left this world behind, the One-O-Nine’s whistle vanished with him. . . .

Little Town of Aleone

Aleone was a bustling town in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but hills and gold mines. Frank Talbott rode into town early one afternoon. He left his horse at the livery, draped his saddlebags over his shoulder, and carried his Winchester loose at his side as he headed for the café.

The place was crowded. Frank took a table with a good view of the street. It was a habit he’d grown accustomed to in his travels.

The pretty young brunette who took his order was none too friendly. Her smile was forced and her manner was tense. It didn’t much matter to Frank, though. Small talk wasn’t his priority. After seven days on the trail eating dried beef and hard biscuits, all he cared about was a thick steak, fried potatoes, and coffee.

He ate his meal slowly, savoring each bite, laid his money on the table, then rolled a smoke. He finished his smoke with a second cup of coffee at a leisurely pace, then grabbed his things and headed over to the hotel to book a room.

The short, fat clerk behind the check-in desk barely glanced at Frank.

“Like a room facin’ the street,” Frank said.

He laid money on the counter. The clerk took it, returned some change, and said, “Second floor, first door on the right.”

Frank settled into his room, had another smoke, then made a trip to the saloon to quench his thirst. He found the place nearly deserted. Two old coots sat playing cards at a corner table, a pudgy man was playing piano, and the barkeep was polishing glasses behind the counter.

Frank ordered a shot of rye, threw it back, and paid for a second. He glanced back at the old timers playing cards and saw that they were watching him. He shrugged it off and enjoyed his second rye. People watching him was something Frank was used to. He stirred an uncertain edge in people wherever he went.

One of the old coots playing cards came over and sat on the stool beside Frank. Though Frank continued drinking his whiskey casually, he was aware of the close proximity of the old man, and not real happy about it.

“They’s beings from another planet here,” the old coot said.

Frank gave him a level look. “That a fact?” he asked in as conversational a manner as he could muster under the circumstance.

“They’s out in the mines and under the ground, and they got us workin’ to supply ’em with gold so’s they can use it for a power source,” the old coot pressed on.

“Sounds like a raw deal all the way around,” Frank replied, motioning the barkeep to bring the bottle back around.

“Don’t listen to ol’ Jed,” the barkeep said. “He drinks too much and don’t know what he’s talkin’ about.”

“You know that ain’t true,” Jed said. He turned on his stool and called over to the old man he’d been playing cards with. “Tell ’im about the space critters, Hank, will ya, so’s I ain’t lookin’ like a dang fool.”

“True enough,” Hank said, scratching his chin, still looking at his cards. “They came down from the sky coupla weeks ago.”

“You’re both out of your minds,” the barkeep said.

Frank threw back his last round of rye, set the glass down hard, and said, “I’ll leave the three of ya to hash this out. I need a nap.”

He was just about to leave when he saw the prettiest thing come out of the back room. She was blonde, with the palest blue eyes and the best smile he’d seen on a woman in a long time. She was doing her best to carry a wooden crate of whiskey bottles.

“Let me help ya with that,” Frank said, hurrying to relieve her of the crate.

They exchanged a quick look, then Frank carried the crate full of whiskey to the counter and set it down.

“Thanks, mister,” she said. “You just get here?”

“I did,” Frank said. “Name’s Frank Talbott.”

“I’m Mary.”

“Mary’s my daughter,” the barkeep put in.

Frank ignored him. “Good to meet you, ma’am.”

He tipped his hat and left the saloon.

Mary watched him go, unable to resist a slight smile. What she saw was a good-looking stranger who might have what it took to be the town’s saving grace.

The barkeep saw the smile on his daughter’s face and recognized it for what it was. “You be careful,” he said to her.

“Don’t you worry about me, Daddy,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”

* * *

Frank heard movement outside his door. He drew his Colt and opened the door quickly, set for a confrontation.

Mary fell into the room. Frank caught her before she hit the floor, swinging her around to face him. “What are ya doin’ creepin’ around?” he asked.

“I wasn’t creeping,” she said.

“Well, you weren’t knockin’.”

“I wasn’t sure you were awake.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“It’s okay. I got my rest.”

“I need your help,” she told him.

“My help? With what?”

He holstered his gun.

“There are things going on in this town,” she began, choosing her words carefully. “Things that ain’t right. What I mean to say is, we have visitors here from another world.”

Frank lit a cigarillo.

“You smokin’ the same wacky weed as the old coots?”

“I know it’s hard to believe,” she said, “but it’s true.”

“Your daddy don’t think so,” Frank said.

“My daddy is afraid of what will happen if we cause trouble,” she said. “Everybody is. Nobody will do anything. They’re all afraid.”

Frank drew smoke from his cigarillo, inhaled deeply, and let the smoke go as he thought over what she was telling him. “And where might I find these beings from another world?” he finally asked.

“Well, there are two that stand guard outside one of the mines south of here. Those are all I’ve ever seen, but then there’s something underground. Some kind of beast with tentacles. It comes up every so often to feed.”

“And just what in the hell does an alien being feed on?”

“Us. . . .”

* * *

Frank crossed the street to the livery. The stout Irishman who’d taken charge of his horse earlier was stacking hay bales.

“Need to speak with you,” Frank said.

Timothy O’Grady turned away from his work and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of one large hand. “How can I help you?”

“Mary tells me you got visitors in town . . .”

“That’s right.”

“She thinks I can help with the problem.”

“Best of luck to ya,” O’Grady said.

“I was hopin’ I could get your help,” Frank said.

“Won’t do any good.”

“You’ll sit here and watch people die. . .”

“Mister, let me tell you somethin’,” O’Grady said. “I tried, and when I did, I lost my wife for the trouble. That thing came out of the ground and swallowed her.”

“My condolences,” Frank said. Much as he could use the help, he could see the Irishman’s point of view.

O’Grady smiled weakly. “I’m sorry, really. I wish I could help.”

“It’s all right,” Frank said, laying a hand on the big man’s shoulder.

* * *

Frank slid from the saddle of his horse and peered around the side of the mine. Two of the creatures stood post, tall, scaly, with mottled green skin and no eyes. Each possessed two pair of tentacles. Their legs were short, with clawed feet. Damned ugly was Frank’s take on them.

He drew his Colt and stepped around the side of the mine, placing himself in direct line of the creatures’ sights.

He sighted in on one of the ugly critters and fired a round. The bullet struck the thing, but it kept coming. Frank fired two more shots, this time knocking the slimy green thing on its ass.

The second one almost made it to Frank. Its tentacles whipped toward him. Frank ducked one as it swished over his head. He came up quickly and emptied his gun. The alien staggered backward and landed beside its buddy.

“Good to see you all bleed the same as us,” Frank muttered.

He found a lantern at the entrance of the mine, lit it, and began descending slowly into preternatural silence. The surrounding cloak of blackness all but swallowed the meager light of the lantern.

Frank stopped when he felt a slight vibration beneath his feet. He listened. A low rumble came from somewhere ahead of him. After a moment, he continued moving ahead. The floor of the mine became steeper. He saw a pulsating yellowish-green glow ahead. The passage became more narrow and the roof of the mine dropped dramatically the further he went. He stooped and made his way deeper into the mine, moving toward the glow.

A light emanated from a narrow opening a few hundred feet ahead. The top and bottom of the mine nearly met, and Frank had to belly crawl to get to the opening. He looked through the aperture and located the source of the glow over the edge of a sheer drop. A massive lump of mottled green flesh glistening with a coat of slime sat dead center of the cavernous room. Around the base of the thing were thick tentacles burrowing into the rock floor. There were no eyes on the thing, but when it began to make a high-pitched wail, Frank knew it was aware of his presence and mighty pissed about it to boot.

The walls and floor of the mine began to vibrate more fiercely. Frank took notice of two stacks of wooden crates marked DYNAMITE down in the cavern, just to the right of the alien brain. That dynamite might be the only real chance he had. He figured he could work his way through the crack, then he could make it to the dynamite and blow the son of a bitch sky high.

The walls of the cavern were beginning to crumble. The alien brain was about to bring it all down, and there wasn’t much time. An explosion shook the ground behind Frank as an alien tentacle smashed up through the rock and came crashing down next to him. He rolled to one side in time to avoid being smashed beneath the slimy appendage, reaching for his Colt as he did. He managed two rounds. The tentacle jerked and slammed against the wall, causing a shower of rock and timber to come crashing down around Frank.

Both of Frank’s legs and one arm was pinned down. His Colt was just out of reach. It was a position he wasn’t too happy to occupy.

The tentacle slithered under the pile of rock and timber and circled Frank, wrapping itself around him. He felt it chest swelling and knew it wouldn’t be long before the thing squeezed the guts right out of him.

A gunshot exploded, followed by three more in quick succession. The tentacle fell away from Frank and slithered off, leaving him gasping for breath.

O’Grady stood a few feet away, his rifle still smoking. He came forward and knelt beside Frank.

“Happy to see you,” Frank said. “Think you can get this stuff off me?”

“Give it my best,” O’Grady said, then he set about grunting and pushing until he had moved enough rock and timber to allow Frank to slide out.

“I gotta get down there,” Frank said, indicating the narrow opening into the cavern. “There’s dynamite. I can blow this whole place.”

“I’ll cover you best I can,” O’Grady said.

Frank nodded and dropped to his belly, twisting and turning as he maneuvered himself into the opening.

The alien brain made a high-pitched screech that sent chills running through every inch of O’Grady’s body.

“What the hell’s down there?” he said.

“Somethin’ ugly,” was Frank’s response.

He was halfway through the opening, looking down the sheer drop to the cavern floor. He grabbed hold of a jutting slab of rock and pulled himself the rest of the way through, then he started down the side of the rock face, digging his fingers and the toes of his boots in wherever he could.

Another of the alien brain’s tentacles broke through the floor of the cavern and started up the side of the wall. It wrapped around Frank’s ankle. He pulled a knife from his boot and sank it repeatedly into the mottled green flesh. When the tentacle finally loosened its grip, Frank pushed away from the wall and landed on the floor of the cavern, rolling as he did. It hurt like hell. He thought for a second he heard bones snapping, but everything seemed to be moving the way it should.

He rolled toward the dynamite just as a tentacle landed where he’d been only a moment earlier. He broke open a crate and grabbed a handful of the explosives, stuffing as much into his pockets as he could, then he started back up the wall, digging into the rock until his fingers started bleeding.

He made it back to the top, dodging whipping tentacles as he went. Carrying the extra bulk of the dynamite made getting through the opening tricky, but with O’Grady tugging, he managed to squeeze through the opening in time to avoid a curling tentacle.

Frank lit a stick of dynamite, then touched off a second with the first stick and the third stick with the second, tossing each through the opening. He just barely managed to get the third one through when the first exploded, followed closely by the next two explosions.

The mine shook as the cavern began to implode. The roar of falling rock was deafening, and above that roar came the horrendous screeching of the alien.

“Did you get it?” O’Grady asked.

Smoke and dust hung heavy in the air. Frank couldn’t even see where the Irishman was standing. “Don’t know,” he responded.

He lit two more sticks of dynamite and rolled them through the opening. More explosions, more falling rock, and more of the godawful screeching.

“We have to go,” O’Grady said. “It’s going to collapse.”

“I can’t,” Frank replied. “Not until I know that thing’s dead.”

He was choking on the smoke. Black grime clung to his sweaty features and he had to wipe sweat from his eyes just to get a look through the opening.

“Startin’ to clear,” he finally said.

He could make out the remains of the alien brain through a haze of smoke.

“Blew it to hell and back,” he said.

O’Grady gave a big sigh of relief. “Thank the—”

As Frank was pushed away from the opening, a tentacle slithered through and wrapped around him. The tip of it opened wide, a big black mouth ready to devour. Frank felt his ribs cracking and the breath leaving him fast.

He fumbled the last stick of dynamite out, lit it, and stuffed it into the mouth of the tentacle, then he began clawing at the mottled flesh to pry himself free. “Dammit, get it off . . .”

O’Grady leveled his rifle and fired a round into the tentacle, then levered another into the chamber and fired again. The bullets slammed the flesh with a dull thud, spewing greenish-yellow pus all over the place.

The dynamite was nearing the explosion point when the tentacle fell away, allowing Frank his freedom. He moved as fast as he could to get as far away from what was about to happen as was humanly possible. O’Grady was hot on his heels.

The blast threw the two of them forward. They continued to race to the top of the mine while everything crumbled around them, finally emerging in a billowing cloud of smoke and mine dust, gasping for breath as the mine finished collapsing behind them.

* * *

“You won’t consider staying?” Mary asked. “We could use a hand rebuilding.”

“I’d like to do that, but I ain’t good at stickin’ around,” Frank said. He swung himself up into the saddle. “Might happen through again, though,” he added. “Like to get to know ya better if I do.”

She smiled. “I’d like that.”

O’Grady, who had kept a polite distance up until now, stepped up and extended his hand. “We can’t thank you enough,” he said.

“And I can’t thank you enough for savin’ my ass,” Frank shot back.

“I should have never hesitated in the first place.”

“Yeah, well, it’s understandable,” Frank told him.

He looked around at all the grateful faces that had showed up to see him off, including Mary’s daddy. He tipped his hat at Mary and nudged his horse, putting the little town of Aleone behind him.

Prairie Guts

Blistering sun beat down on the wagon train as it began a slow trek westward. John Barclay rode up alongside Cole Kellerman, the scout, who paced himself well in front of the lead Conestoga.

“Five wagons gone,” Barclay said.

“You sure about that?” Kellerman asked.

“I know how to count. We had seventy-five last night, seventy this morning. That makes five wagons gone, you agree?”

“Maybe they turned back,” Kellerman suggested, ignoring Barclay’s sarcasm.

“This far along, and in the middle of the night?” Barclay said. “Ain’t likely. Besides, one of the missin’ wagons belongs to Jacob Haines, and believe me, old Jake wouldn’t have turned back on his own for nothin’.”

“What else you figger?” Kellerman asked.

Barclay shook his head. “I ain’t sure, but somethin’ don’t feel right.”

Kellerman leaned off to the side and spat on the ground. “Gotta agree, I guess,” he said, straightening in his saddle. “Wagons don’t just up and disappear.”

“You got that right,” Barclay said. He looked around, then turned back to Kellerman. “Somethin’ happened to ’em, though.”

“You want me to backtrack, see if I can pick up a trail or somethin’?”

“Be a waste of time,” Barclay said. “Your duty’s to the rest of these folks.”

Kellerman nodded in agreement. “Just thought I’d make the offer.”

“I appreciate it.”

It was a hell of a job moving wagons across the prairie. Barclay had been doing it for going on three years, but this was the first he’d heard of anything like wagons disappearing in the night, right under his nose. He couldn’t figure it out. He’d started this trip with more than a hundred wagons, now he was down to seventy, with nary a single explanation to be had.

“I want round the clock watches,” Barclay said. “I don’t want a minute of the night to go by without eyes on this train.”

“I’ll round up a few men and set up shifts,” Kellerman said. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to another goddamn wagon on my watch.”

The two men didn’t notice when the dry, hard-packed earth began to rise and crack open in the wake of the wagon train. Something underground rose to the surface and followed, keeping a good distance behind the last wagon.

Fifteen miles fell away with grueling effort before Barclay finally brought the wagon train to a halt for the day. He saw to the circling up of the wagons while Kellerman rode a wide perimeter to make sure everything was in order.

After supper, Kellerman organized the first watch and set about positioning them in key locations. He was damn set on having seventy wagons when they moved out in the morning.

Barclay hitched his horse to the chuck wagon and took out a smoke. Pete Evans, who was in charge of the cooking, filled a tin cup with fresh, hot coffee and handed it to the wagon master.

“Just what the doctor ordered,” Barclay said, gratefully accepting the coffee.

“Can’t help notice the crease in your brow,” Pete said.

“It’s those damn missin’ wagons.”

“Yeah, I seen we was light again this mornin’.”

Barclay nodded. “We’re keepin’ a closer eye on it now. Never seen nothin’ like it, not in all my time on the trail. Seen a few wagons turn back before, but that ain’t the case here. Not as many as we’ve lost.”

Kellerman came riding up hard then. He pulled back on the reins of his horse and turned to the side, angling his head so he was looking directly at Barclay. His face was etched with stress and worry.

“What is it?” Barclay asked, handing his half-finished cup of coffee to Pete.

“We’re missin’ the Oggermans,” Kellerman said. “I just did a visual ten minutes ago and accounted for everybody, now I can’t find the Oggermans nowhere. Me and the boys rode the circle twice.”

“Their wagon?”

“Right where it’s supposed to be. There’s a fire burnin’ next to it. Looks like they was ready to snug down for the night. Bedrolls laid out and everything.”

Suddenly the earth began to vibrate beneath their feet. A low rumble began somewhere off in the darkness.

“What the hell is that?” Barclay said.

He cocked his head and listened.

Pete began licking at his lips nervously.

The rumbling, which seemed at first distant, gradually rose in volume, as if something were heading their way. Just as suddenly as it began, the noise vanished and the night was once again still and silent.

* * *

Daylight came without incident. Breakfast was eaten quickly, the wagons loaded up, and the westward trek once again underway. As usual, Kellerman rode point. Barclay started at the rear and rode alongside the train, all the way to the front, doing a visual inspection of each wagon.

Since the Oggermans never did turn up, Barclay got one of the boys from the Smith party to drive the Oggermans’ wagon. He could see no reason to leave a perfectly workable wagon behind.

“What you figure happened to ’em?” Kellerman asked as Barclay drew up alongside him.

“Doesn’t make sense they’d wander off on foot, all three of ’em, so your guess is good as mine.”

They rode in silence for a while, both men deep in thought, until they began to notice a steady shaking of the ground, and then the horses and mules began to get agitated. One team of horses went wild and took off, dragging its wagon away from the rest of the train.

“What the—”

Barclay angled his horse in the direction of the runaway wagon. Kellerman followed, and the two of them chased after it.

Barclay was just about next to the wagon, preparing to jump on board, when the earth split wide open in front of him. Something massive rose out of the fissure. The thing was big and alive, mottled and grayish-pink, with thick blue veins pulsating under its oily flesh.

Barclay’s horse reared up and tossed him on his ass. Kellerman’s horse did the same. The big grayish-pink mass of pulpy slime wrapped itself around both of the horses in one sweep and they were gone, sucked into its pulsating bulk.

“What in God’s name is that?” Kellerman hollered, his voice rising a notch or two in pitch.

The quivering slime spread wide at the tip and fell over the runaway wagon, sucking the wagon and its entire team of horses into the black void of its mouth.

“Jesus!” Barclay squealed.

The thing was already a good twenty feet above ground, and that wasn’t yet all of it. The hard-packed earth continued to split and crack as more of the creature rose up to tower above them.

Barclay and Kellerman clamored to get away.

The monster curled and lunged forward, slamming back down on the ground again. It tore down into the dirt and made a beeline for the wagon train like a sea creature breaking waves. When it came up out of the ground again, the slimy beast curled around two wagons and swallowed them whole.

Barclay and Kellerman drew their guns and opened fire, emptying twelve rounds of ammunition into the pulsating mass. Bullets hit the mottled pulpy flesh with no more effect than if Barclay and Kellerman had spit on the creature.

While the men hurried to reload, the beast swung around to face them with what must have been the head, though no features distinguished it as such.

“Aw shit,” Kellerman groaned.

They opened fire again. The gray-pink pulp flung itself at them. Barclay dove to one side and Kellerman to the other. The thing hit the ground between them, causing ripples in the ground that shook what was left of the wagon train.

Men, women, and children jumped from the wagons and scampered off in every direction. Mothers tried to gather their children, some of the men were bringing up rifles and taking shots at the quivering beast while others simply dropped to their knees and prayed God to save their worthless hides.

“What the hell is that thing?” Kellerman asked, although he certainly didn’t figure there was an answer to the question.

“Looks like the prairie’s guts you ask me,” Barclay said.

The guts slammed into the ground again, burrowing deep, and came up beneath one of the wagons, tossing it through the air. The occupants of the wagon were thrown free—all except for an old woman who clung on for life, only to be crushed beneath the wagon when it came crashing back to the ground.

The throbbing pink and gray mass circled the wagon train and made one lunge after another, sucking up horses and oxen and mules, swallowing the Conestogas as if they were pebbles, and slurping up people left and right.

Everybody scattered away from the wagons, but the jelly-like beast spread out, its glistening flesh washing over everything within its massive radius. Kellerman and Barclay were still putting up a pretty good fight when the slimy, throbbing mass of tissue rolled over them too.

When the dust finally settled, there was not a single shred of human life, not one physical piece of evidence that a wagon train had been on this trail westward. It looked as if a groundhog of mammoth proportions had been by recently, but that wasn’t the case at all.

The bowels of the prairie had been disturbed . . .

. . . and something evil was regurgitated.

Six-Guns and a Silver Bullet

Jake looked out the window and caught sight of a full moon hanging above the timberline. It cast pale light on the hard-packed snow-covered ground outside.

It was silent snow, but Jake knew it was only the calm before the storm. Tonight it would happen, and it was a good night for a showdown.

He turned away from the window and crossed the short distance to where a pot of coffee sat warming on a potbelly stove. He poured a cup of the strong black liquid and gulped most of it down in a swallow. He’d need plenty of it. Sleep was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

His eyes fell on the gun belt hanging on the single chair at his kitchen table. There was only one chair because Jake never had company. He had no friends to speak of, nor did he care to make any.

He’d have company tonight, and those guns were going to be the welcoming committee—a pair of Colts he hadn’t used in more than five years.

He put the gun belt on and did a quick draw, whipping the Colts from their holsters almost faster than the eye could see. He was a little rusty. In the old days, the eye wouldn’t have seen a thing. The gunslinger on the other end of Jake’s Colts would have found himself full of holes and dead before he hit the ground.

Twelve cartridges lay on the table. Jake scooped them up and weighed them in the palm of his hand. They weren’t standard load. These cartridges had cost him his life savings and then some.

He loaded his pistols.

A wolf howled in the distance.

Jake set his coffee on the table and moved to a side window. He could see the corral from there. His cattle were moving about in an agitated fashion, sensing the predator closing in on them.

Jake drank more coffee. He paced back and forth, looked out the window, and drew his guns a couple more times. This would be the last time he used them. He held them in his hands, feeling the familiar weight of the weapons he’d used so many times in the old days, back when he was a gunslinger to beat all.

How many showdowns had there been? How many lives had he taken? He always walked away the winner; tonight would be no different. Tonight would be one more victory for him.

He looked out the window and saw that the moon was high. A full moon casting pale light over frozen earth.

And the wolf was at the door.

Jake sat down at the kitchen table. He slid the Colts from their holsters and laid them on the table, then he dropped his face in his hands and said a little prayer before he confronted the slavering beast.

There wasn’t a lot he could tell you about werewolves, except he knew silver bullets were the only way to kill them. He had plenty of those on hand. Twelve all told, though he expected one would do the trick.

The first spasm wracked his body. Jake did his best to recall the attack in the woods one cold, early morning. He’d been hunting all day when the wolf came at him, foaming at the mouth. He remembered getting off a shot with his Winchester and hitting the beast dead center between its eyes, but it kept coming. It lunged at him, ripping a chunk of bloody flesh from his shoulder.

Jake ran a hand over that same shoulder now, feeling the rise of the scar the wolf had left behind. He felt his muscles twitching beneath his skin and his bones beginning to crack and shift. A scar wasn’t the only thing the wolf had left behind.

It wouldn’t be long now.

Timing was everything. He had to do it when the change was complete, but it had to be done while he had enough of his human will left to make the decision. Once the beast was in control, Jake’s chance to end it all would be lost.

He put his hands on the guns, curling his fingers against each trigger. It was beginning to feel comfortable again, almost like going home.

The bones in his hands cracked, shifted, and reformed. Course dark hair began to grow, his fingers lengthened, and razor claws broke through the flesh.

His face shifted and morphed into something canine. His clothes tore and fell away as his body expanded. Sharp canine teeth broke through his gums.

His sense of smell grew sharper.

The scent of blood was in the air.

The beast was alive.

Jake lifted his six-shooters and held them to his head, one on each side. He felt the struggle within himself. He fought to hold on to his sanity. The beast was alive and kicking, almost in control.

Jake’s fingers (what was left of Jake, anyway) tightened on the triggers.

The wolf howled as it emerged with a vengeance.

The Colts exploded. A silver bullet ripped into Jake’s skull from both sides, smashing through bone and tunneling through brain matter.

The wolf slumped on the table, its thick, hairy arms dangling over the edge.

The Colts fell to the floor.

Blood oozed from the open skull and spread to the edge of the table, dripping onto the floor like syrup.

Outside, the moon hung heavy against a black, cloudless sky.

A wolf howled in the distance, then the night was still again. . . .

Skinwalker

Jim Reed sat up in the darkness, disturbed from his sleep by the sound of barking dogs and agitated livestock. He looked at his wife asleep beside him. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake up.

Jim got out of bed, clad only in his long johns, fetched his rifle from its resting place above the fireplace, and went outside.

A full moon rose high in the night, casting a pale glow over the small farm that Jim had worked ever since bringing his family to Arizona. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to support his family, and by God, he was going to protect it with every last bit of breath in his body.

He held his rifle waist level, caressing the trigger with an itchy finger. Tonight he’d get the son of a bitch that had been coming around to steal his chickens and kill his livestock. Whatever it was, the bastard was sneaky, but tonight Jim would put a stop to it once and for all.

Inside the barn, the horses were going wild, kicking at their stalls. The thing—whatever the hell it was—was still in there.

“Got you now,” Jim muttered.

He took a deep breath and gave the barn door a shove, bringing his old rifle up into firing position.

A coyote crouched just inside the door, snarling, its teeth bared and dripping thick, foamy saliva. Before Jim had a chance to react, the coyote lunged at him, shape shifting in midair, becoming a wickedly advanced version of the beast,  complete with oily black fur and eyes the color of fresh blood.

Jim managed to get off one shot, but the bullet went high and tore a hole through the roof of the barn. The oily beast landed on top of him, its weight forcing him down to the ground. His rifle fell from his hands and skittered away, too far for him to reach it.

He did his best to fight the creature off, pushing against the monster with two hands, but the thing was bigger and stronger than any coyote Jim had ever encountered, and he’d shot quite a few of the chicken-stealin’ bastards in his time.

This one was demonic. Its teeth found purchase in Jim’s neck, and with a single jerk of its head, a chunk of bloody meat came away from Jim’s throat. The coyote from Hell chewed, swallowed, and went back for seconds, this time biting off a good portion of Jim’s face.

As the coyote devoured what was left of Jim Reed, a strange thing began to take place. The oily, slobbering beast took on Jim’s features, its bones cracking and shifting, its fur falling away until a perfect rendition of Jim Reed took its place.

* * *

The Jim-Reed thing stumbled back to the cabin completely naked. Jim’s wife was still asleep. The Jim-Reed creature climbed into bed next to her and began to grope around between her legs.

“Jim . . .” she protested, moving his hand away as she stirred from her sleep.

The Jim-Reed creature made a noise in the back of its throat—a deep guttural sound that frightened her. His hand returned to its previous post and his fingers began to invade her there, pushing in with no concern for her comfort.

“Jim, please . . .” she insisted.

He crawled on top of her, forcing her legs wide as he took her violently, pushing himself all the way inside her, grunting as he thrust himself in and out.

Emily lay silent and still, letting him have his way with her. This wasn’t like Jim at all, even when he’d had too much to drink. She’d talk it over with him later, but she was afraid she’d wake the children if she made any further protests.

Finally the Jim-Reed duplicate rolled off her. Emily lay sobbing in the dark.

The creature rose and left.

Emily listened. She heard him come back into the bedroom not long after.  Her back was to him, but she felt his eyes boring holes into her. What was it he wanted now? Was he back for seconds?

She rolled over and was about to say as much, but she saw him standing beside the bed with his rifle pointing at her.

“Jim, no . . .”

His face was expressionless. He pulled the trigger, and Emily’s head exploded in a shower of blood and skull fragments.

“Daddy!”

The creature jerked its head toward the loft where the children slept. The oldest, Mark, just this week ten years old, was looking over the edge of the loft, panic stricken.

The creature swung the rifle around and fired. The bullet caught little Mark in the chest and sent him sprawling backward, right next to his sister Bethany, who was just starting to come out of a sound sleep.

The Jim-Reed thing climbed the ladder to the loft. Bethany was kneeling beside her brother, sobbing. Her doleful eyes met the glazed eyes of the creature in Jim Reed’s skin. Her chubby tear-stained cheeks were framed by pigtails.

The creature shot her.

* * *

“Real mess what happened out there,” Roy Patterson said, chugging the last of his beer. “Never woulda thought ol’ Jim Reed would do somethin’ like that.”

The barkeep drew another round and set it in front of Roy. “Yeah, damn shame,” he said. “Sheriff said he found Jim nekkid with his family layin’ all around him. Real sick stuff. Place stank like coyote piss. Figure he’ll be swingin’ from a rope by the end of the week.”

“Ain’t soon enough, you ask me,” Roy said.

“Nobody’s askin’ you,” the sheriff said, sidling up to the bar beside Roy. “And don’t go gettin’ any ideas about takin’ the law into your own hands.”

Jeremiah Steele had been sheriff of Gila City for five years. He was well over six feet, wide shouldered, and tough as his name implied.

“Now, Sheriff, you know I ain’t a fightin’ man . . .” Roy drawled.

“I sure do know that, Roy,” Jeremiah said. He confiscated Roy’s full beer. “Tell ya what else I know. I know you got a big mouth, and while it’s true you don’t like to do the dirty work, you got a knack for stirrin’ up other folks ’til somebody does it for ya, and that ain’t gonna happen either.”

Jeremiah drained Roy’s glass of beer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, set the mug back in front of Roy, and said, “We clear on my meanin’?”

Roy nodded dumbly. “Un-huh,” he muttered.

Jeremiah left the saloon. He felt better now that he’d had that little conversation. Last thing he needed was Roy stirring up a lynch mob, which was exactly what would’ve happened if he’d let nature take its course.

“Sheriff Steele,” came a voice filled with quiet urgency.

Jeremiah was just about to step into his office. He paused, his hand halfway to the doorknob, and looked around. An Indian stood at the corner of the building, out of sight of anyone who might pass by on the street.

“Help you?” Jeremiah asked, sizing the Indian up.

“I am Manaba,” the Indian said. “You have a man in there?” He indicated the sheriff’s office with a nod.

“What do you know about that?” Jeremiah asked.

“Only that he is not what he seems,” Manaba replied.

“That right?” Jeremiah asked. “And just what the hell is he?”

“He is demon with coyote blood—what we of the Navajo people call a skinwalker. I know this because he is my brother Dezba.”

“Your brother, huh? He don’t look like a redskin to me.”

“Take my word, Sheriff. To keep him will only bring grief. Let me take him off your hands.”

Jeremiah took tobacco from his shirt pocket and began rolling a smoke. “You’ve plum lost your mind if you think I’d hand over a white man to you, even if he is a cold-blooded killer,” Jeremiah said.

He stuck the cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and took a long drag, letting the smoke trail from his mouth as he continued. “I suggest you ride outta here and leave the law to me.”

“It’s your funeral, Sheriff.”

Manaba turned and disappeared behind the building.

“Crazy-ass Injun,” Jeremiah muttered, going into his office.

* * *

Deputy Haggard sat at his desk, feet propped up, his hat pulled over his eyes. His hands were folded neatly in his lap and he was snoring.

The skinwalker sat silently watching from its cell. The creature wanted to leave this body, wanted to eat and become new again. The beast picked up a tin cup full of water and hurled it at the bars of its cage. The clattering caused Haggard to nearly fall from his chair as he sprang up.

“What the—”

The skinwalker grinned at him.

“You sum bitch,” Haggard said. “I’ll come in there and kick your ass ten ways to Hell if ya pull that shit again.”

“Fuck you,” the skinwalker said.

Haggard sat up straight. “What the hell did you say?”

The skinwalker didn’t respond.

“Answer me, you sum bitch,” Haggard demanded. “Don’t make me come in there, you hear me?”

The skinwalker moved to the bars of the cell, wrapped its hands around them, and stared directly at Haggard, who suddenly felt uncomfortable. He scratched his chin and tried to hold the gaze of the man he thought to be Jim Reed.

“Why’d you do that to your family?” he asked.

“Same reason I’ll do it to yours,” the skinwalker said. “I felt like it.”

“You sick sum bitch,” Haggard bellowed, drawing his Schofield as he lunged at the cell. “I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off.”

He shoved his gun through the cell bars and jammed it up under the skinwalker’s chin. The skinwalker reached through the bars and latched onto Haggard’s balls. Suddenly Haggard saw the world spinning around him. He tried to scream but no sound came out. A flash of white light exploded in his eyes.

The skinwalker snapped the Schofield from Haggard’s hand and let Haggard fall to his knees. The creature reached through the bars and grabbed Haggard by his hair, dragging him close. He shoved the Schofield through the bars and into Haggard’s mouth, pulling the trigger almost at once. The bullet exited the back of the deputy’s skull in a spray of blood and bone fragments.

The skinwalker retrieved the ring of keys from Haggard’s belt and let itself out of the cell, stepping over the deputy’s lifeless body.

The only sign of life outside came from the saloon across the way, where piano music and drunken shouts drifted into the night.

That was where the skinwalker needed to be.

A man came stumbling out of the saloon, nearly falling down the steps leading to the street. He saw who he took to be Jim Reed crossing the street, heading in his direction, and did a double take.

“Ain’t you supposed to be—”

The skinwalker reached the man before he finished his sentence. The creature grabbed him by the throat and squeezed until the drunken man’s eyes bulged out of their sockets and blood ran down his face.

The skinwalker tossed the dead man aside and continued into the saloon, shape shifting into demonic coyote form as it went through the batwing doors.

Inside the saloon, men drank and played cards, loose women danced, and the barkeep kept the beer and whiskey flowing freely.

The skinwalker, now in demonic coyote form, stalked into the saloon, snarling viciously. Most of the patrons were too drunk to notice the stench of the animal, and only a handful even saw the beast.

Frank Mason was the first to take notice. He drew his pistol and took a shot. The gunshot rang out above the noise. The piano player stopped playing. There was a brief moment of silence before chaos broke out. Some men drew their guns, the dancing girls ran for cover, and the barkeep ducked behind the bar and came up with a sawed-off shotgun.

The coyote lunged at Frank, taking him to the floor, sinking its incisors into Frank’s jugular vein.

“Somebody shoot it,” a female yelled above the ruckus.

More than a dozen gunshots exploded in the saloon, but mainly the men ended up shooting one another. The demon coyote moved quick, taking a chunk of Frank’s throat with it. The creature whipped around to face the crowd of drunks, licking its bloody snout as it surveyed its surroundings.

The demon coyote lunged, moving with preternatural speed, tearing through one man after another. Its teeth worked with precision, ripping through flesh, tearing out throats, and leaving a trail of bloody carnage in its wake.

More gunshots rang out. People scattered for cover, some managed to get outside. Three men moved in a semi-circle around the beast, but the creature lunged and snapped one man’s knee in half. The other two made a dash for the door. The beast lunged and caught one of them, severing a good portion of the man’s face with its powerful jaws.

Silence.

The skinwalker stood amid the carnage in triumph . . .

. . . and then a gunshot shattered the silence.

A bullet grazed the coyote’s flank. The demonic coyote jerked around in the direction the shot had originated from. One of the blonde dancing girls stood on the stairs leading to the second floor, a tiny Derringer clutched in her hand. A thin wisp of smoke drifted from the gun’s barrel.

The coyote went after her. She dropped the gun, turned, and hurried up the stairs. A narrow hallway ran the length of the second floor, rooms on both sides. The blonde ran into the first room and tried shutting the door. The coyote threw its weight against the other side. The impact of the beast crashing into the door sent it flying open, knocking the girl back.

The beast leaped into the room and sprang at the girl, knocking her on the bed. The wild animal threw itself on top of her. She struggled with the creature while it tore at her clothing, until she lay nearly naked on her stomach, pinned beneath the snarling creature’s weight, clutching at the bed sheets in an effort to drag herself out from under the beast.

The creature had its way with her. Afterward, it began to feed on her, ripping her flesh with its powerful jaws, slopping her blood with its tongue, eating until its coyote form began to change again . . .

* * *

Jeremiah knew something was terribly wrong the moment he rode back into town. He’d ridden out to the Ridgeway farm more than an hour ago to see about some missing cattle. He didn’t expect they’d ever be found, but the trip was worth it just to get a home-cooked meal from old lady Ridgeway. He’d never been one to pass up good food for any reason.

As he neared the saloon, which should have been alive with loud-mouthed drunks and loose party girls, he dismounted and drew his Peacemaker.

A nearly-nude female stumbled out of the saloon. Jeremiah gawked at her, suddenly forgetting why it was he was standing in the middle of the street with his gun in his hand. Standing in front of him, tempting as all hell, was the second thing he wouldn’t pass up for any reason.

Jeremiah recognized the woman as Annabelle Wellington, known simply as Annie when she was shaking her wares and plying her trade on Saturday night.

“Annie, what in God’s name—”

She walked over to the sheriff, not the least bit ashamed of her naked breasts. Jeremiah stood stock still, half confused by her behavior, half ready to fuck her right here in the street, trouble be damned.

Annie lifted her breasts and squeezed them in her hands, twisting and pulling her erect nipples.

Jeremiah was already horny as a cactus, and Annie playing with her tits sure as hell didn’t help matters. He slipped his gun back in his holster and grabbed her tits, kneading the soft flesh and thumbing her hard nipples.

He felt her tits moving beneath his palms, and when he looked at her face, he could see something was moving beneath her pale, creamy skin. He heard the sound of her bones cracking, saw them shifting and reforming. Her arms twisted and began to elongate, stretching into something else—something definitely not human. Her face distorted and seemed like it was melting away, then razor-like incisors grew in her mouth as a snout formed. Course black hair began to cover what had once been smooth, supple female flesh.

Jeremiah stumbled backward, groping at his holster. Its transformation complete now, the demon coyote attacked, swiping one huge paw at Jeremiah, ripping through his shirt and leaving a bloody gash in his chest.

“Dezba,” came the booming voice of Manaba, who stepped from the darkness forged between the general store and the livery.

The Indian wore a headdress of flame-red feathers, adorned with horse hairs. Layers of tanned hides covered his body, and heavy strings of colorful beads were draped across his chest. At his side, lashed to his left arm, was a shield fashioned from bone, wood, and animal hides. In his right hand he held a tomahawk.

Dezba, still in coyote form, faced Manaba, snarling and foaming.

Manaba advanced on the demon skinwalker.

“You have danced with evil, my brother . . .”

Dezba continued snarling and snapping, thick saliva whipping from his mouth. Manaba held his ground, showing no fear of the beast.

“I have come to finish this,” Manaba said, speaking in a tone that suggested he was talking with someone who might be reasoned with.

The coyote crouched and then sprang, throwing itself at Manaba.

A gunshot erupted. The bullet struck the coyote in its side. It fell to the ground, stumbled to regain its balance, and turned on Jeremiah, who had his pistol sighted in on the beast for another shot.

The skinwalker attacked.

Jeremiah rolled sideways. The coyote landed beside him and turned quickly, its jaws snapping. Before Jeremiah could aim again, the skinwalker caught his wrist and bit down with crushing force, causing Jeremiah to let go of his gun.

The coyote swung back around to face Manaba. The brothers locked eyes for a long moment, man against beast, and then the coyote took off at a full run, lunging with force at Manaba.

Manaba stepped aside and swung the tomahawk, grazing the coyote’s side as the beast sailed past him. The coyote’s blood dripped from the sharp edge of the tomahawk blade. Manaba brought it high over his head and gripped the handle in a two-fisted hold. He planted his feet firm and waited for another attack.

The coyote lunged again. Manaba brought the tomahawk down in a slashing arc that caught the creature at the back of its neck. The heavy blade sliced through flesh and bone. The coyote’s head and body separated, slamming into the ground like sacks of dirt.

Manaba stepped over the decapitated corpse and knelt beside the head, which had already taken on the form of Dezba.

“You were once a proud warrior, my brother,” Manaba said. “You should not have given in to evil. You should not have forsaken peace. You should have let go of the greed, for greed eventually turns you into something beyond human. . . .”

Jeremiah lay on the ground not far away, a bandana wrapped around his damaged wrist. Manaba went to him and took a pouch from his waist. The pouch held a magic powder. Manaba sprinkled some into the palm of his hand and spread it over the sheriff’s wound.

“Stupidity has cost you many lives,” Manaba said to Jeremiah. “You will heal, and perhaps one day you will even learn to listen.”

Manaba rose and gathered the remains of the skinwalker. He tucked Dezba’s head under one arm, slung Dezba’s body over his shoulder, and headed back to where his people awaited his return. . . .

Hang ’Em High

Willie Boy McGee thought sure he had to be crazy to set foot in a town with a name like Hang ’Em High, what with his penchant for trouble and all, but what else could he do? He’d been riding for three days, and if he didn’t get some decent food and whiskey soon, likely as not somebody would up and find his bones scattered all over the prairie.

He felt eyes all over him as he made his way down the dusty main thoroughfare. These folks could smell trouble a mile away, no doubt about it, and most of them were already fitting him with a noose. Willie Boy damn near had second thoughts about making himself to home, but the hunger and thirst he felt was all the encouragement he needed to keep him going.

A saloon sat across the street at the far end of town, right along with all the whorehouses and gambling joints, and that was where Willie Boy belonged. He dismounted,  tethered his horse, and went inside.

The saloon was crowded and smoky. Piano music filled the room in a honky tonk pattern, someone played a banjo right along with it, and a couple of bar whores danced for card-playing men who didn’t seem the least bit interested.

Willie Boy sidled up to the bar. “Hey, barkeep, gimme a hard shot,” he said.

The barkeep gave Willie Boy a sour look, reached under the bar, and came up with a glass and a bottle. He was about to pour when Willie Boy stopped him.

“On second thought, bring the whole damn bottle,” he said.

The barkeep set the bottle and glass in front of Willie with a thunk and went back to his business, which, near as Willie Boy could tell, didn’t amount to nothing more than polishing a few glasses and giving unfriendly looks to his patrons.

Willie Boy filled his glass and threw back the drink. He turned around to watch one of the women dance her way over to him. He patted her ass through her dress. She gave him a flirty wink. The name of the town might have given Willie Boy the heebie jeebies at first, but he was feeling a whole lot better about it now.

He took another gulp of whiskey and dug in his pockets, pulling out a few crumpled bills, which he held out to the woman, jerking his head in the direction of the stairs. Willie Boy was accustomed to joints like this, and he knew full well what sort of rooms were upstairs.

She took his money and headed off. Willie Boy followed her. The sounds of the saloon grew muted as they climbed to the second floor and went into one of the rooms where business was conducted.

“You sure are a pretty one,” Willie Boy said.

She smiled and took off her clothes. Willie’s eyes grew wide at the sight of her firm, pale breasts, pink nipples, slim waist, and the thick tangle of dark blonde curls on her womanly mound. Food and whiskey wasn’t the only things he’d been deprived of, and after Willie Boy pumped the well the first time around, he went back for a second round, then he helped himself to a third.

It was more than two hours later when Willie Boy stumbled out of the bar. He felt good. The whiskey and women part of his needs were satisfied. Now all he needed was a good meal and he could be on his—

“Where the hell’s my goddamn horse?” he asked, dumbfounded

Willie Boy looked left and right. He walked to the spot where his horse had been tethered, as if standing there would make the animal reappear. “Where’s my goddamn horse?” he said again, this time raising his voice so everybody on the main street could hear him.

Two drunks stumbled out of the saloon. One of them bumped Willie Boy.

“My goddamn horse is done been took,” Willie Boy hollered at the drunk.

“I didn’t take ’er,” the drunk slurred.

Willie Boy huffed and took off walking, heading back down to the main section of town. Strange, he noticed as he stomped right down the middle of the street, but there was nary a horse in sight.

He found a plump sweaty man working at the livery, standing next to a fire, beating hot metal into the shape of a horseshoe, which didn’t make a whole lot of sense to Willie, seeing as how there weren’t hide nor hair of a horse anywhere in the barn either.

“You ain’t got no horses?” Willie Boy asked, perplexed.

The blacksmith shook his head as he continued forming the horseshoe. “Ain’t a horse in town,” he said, all casual like.

“I had me a horse,” Willie Boy said. “I rode in on one, and now the dang thing ain’t nowheres to be found, and it’s startin’ to piss me off.”

The blacksmith shrugged.

“You ain’t seen my horse?”

The blacksmith shook his head.

“And you ain’t got a horse I can buy?”

The blacksmith gave Willie Boy a look that made him feel halfway to ignorant. Willie Boy didn’t know what else to say, so he turned and high-tailed it out of there, making a straight line for the sheriff. Surely there was something the law could do about a situation like this.

The sheriff was a bald man with more gut than anything. His head looked too small for his body, and he had eyes like a ferret. He was sitting behind his desk, lazy as all get out, and he looked agitated when he saw Willie.

“My goddamn horse done got took, Sheriff,” Willie Boy said. “You aim to do somethin’ about that?”

The sheriff leaned back in his chair, laced his hands on top of his round belly, and shook his head slowly.

“No?” Willie Boy said with disbelief. “You got a horse thief runnin’ around and you ain’t gonna do nothin’?” Willie Boy took off his hat and scratched the back of his head in frustration. “Well, then, just suppose I take the law into my own hands? Huh? How would that be, Sheriff?”

The sheriff shrugged his shoulders and took a thin brown smoke from his shirt pocket. He stuck it in his mouth and chewed on it without lighting up.

Willie Boy just shook his head in astonishment and stormed out. If he had stayed around, he might have throttled the lawman, and the last thing he needed was to be locked up in a cell for the night.

Outside the sheriff’s office, Willie Boy glared at everybody he saw. They all looked like horse thieves to him, men, women, and children alike. He made his way down the street and into Sam’s Sundry, taking off his hat to wipe his brow as he examined the cluttered store.

“Help you?” the round-faced man behind the counter asked.

“Not unless you got a horse,” Willie Boy said.

“Pardon?”

“Just never you mind,” Willie Boy said. “I’m hungry. You got anything to put a dent in my belly?”

“Matter of fact, I have something I think you’ll enjoy.” The store clerk unscrewed a glass jar on the counter and offered it to Willie Boy. “I make the best dried meat west of the Mississippi.”

“Jerky?” Willie Boy said, wrinkling his nose. “I’ve ’bout had my fill of jerky. I need somethin’ good and hot. There somethin’ in here that comes close to that?”

“You’re new in town,” the clerk noted, a look of interest coming over his face.

“And soon to be on my way out if I can figger out where my horse went,” Willie Boy confirmed.

“Missing a horse, are you?” The clerk scratched his chin and thought a moment, then he said, “I’ll make you a deal. You try my jerky and tell me what you think of it, then we’ll ride out to my farm for a hot meal. You can get a good night’s rest and ride out in the morning, on a horse I’ll be happy to furnish you free of charge.”

Willie Boy narrowed his eyes at the man. “You wanna tell me why you’d do all that for a stranger?” he asked.

“Because, my boy, I make the best jerky west of the Mississippi, and the way I see it, you look like a man who moves around a lot. It seems good business to get you all fired up about my jerky, don’t it? You’re likely to spread the word.”

Willie Boy thought about it. It made sense to him, and besides, it was the best offer he’d had since his horse went missing. “Alright,” he said, “I’ll try the damn jerky, but only ’cause I need me a horse. I ain’t stickin’ around this godforsaken town a day longer ’n I have to.”

The clerk took a big piece of greasy meat from the jar and handed it to Willie Boy, watching carefully as Willie Boy took a bite. He didn’t seem the least bit surprised when a big smile spread over Willie Boy’s face.

“Did I speak the truth?” the clerk said. “Isn’t it the best you ever had?”

Willie Boy nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll be damned, this is about as good as anything I ever ate,” he said.

He tore off another piece, chewed, and swallowed in a hard gulp.

“It’s closing time,” the clerk said. “I’ll lock up. We’ll be on our way.”

While the clerk went about securing the store, Willie Boy finished his jerky and helped himself to another piece. He thought sure he’d had his fill of dry meat on the trail, but damn him if he couldn’t eat this stuff all night.

“Name’s Franklin,” the clerk said. “My horse and buggy are out back.”

“Sign says Sam’s Sundry.”

“Sam sounds better than Franklin, don’t you think?”

“I reckon,” Willie Boy said, following Franklin out of the store.

Willie Boy was more than a little relieved when they were on the skinny dirt road leading out of town, heading west. Willie Boy hated the bumpy ride, but he’d stomach it for a free meal, a horse, and more of that jerky. He had to admit, it really was the best jerky west of the Mississippi. Hell, it was the best he’d tasted anywhere, come to that. He figured he’d talk the dumb-ass clerk into loading him up with some jerky by convincing him it would be good for business.

It was near dark when they finally arrived at a little white house west of town. Franklin started a fire and made coffee. He fixed up a pot of hot stew and served it with hard biscuits. Willie Boy dug in. His stomach rumbled as it worked to digest the grub.

“Get a good night’s rest,” Franklin said when dinner was finished, “You can set off in the morning with a fresh horse and plenty of jerky.”

“’Preciate the hospitality,” Willie Boy said in between bites.

Franklin showed Willie Boy to a back room furnished with nothing more than a small bed and a little table. After long nights riding the trail, Willie was more than grateful for the comfort. He shucked down to his red long johns and climbed into bed, and before he could count five, he was out cold, with visions of the sweet whore at the saloon shaking her titties in his face.

Something woke him not long after. He wasn’t sure, but he reckoned it was a scream. He got up and stumbled over to look out the window. It was dark as a tit in a well out there. He bobbed and weaved, trying to see through the pitch black.

Another sound came to him then. A dull sort of pounding. He made his way through the dark, unfamiliar house, out to the front porch. Pale moonlight cast shadow and light patterns over everything. Willie could hear the pounding a little louder now, though he had a hard time figuring out what direction it was coming from. He cocked his ear to locate its direction, then stepped off the porch and followed the noise around to the side of the house. There was a barn out yonder, yellow-orange light flickering inside. The pounding came from there, no doubt about it.

Willie Boy made for the barn. What in hell is somebody doing out this time of night? Willie thought. He decided to check it out, and while he was at it, maybe get a look at the horse he’d be riding out on in the morning. He hoped it was a good one. Beggars couldn’t be too choosy, but—

Willie Boy’s lights went out as soon as he entered the barn. When he came to, he saw Franklin looming over him, aiming a Spencer rifle dead between his eyes.

The man who made the best jerky west of the Mississippi was grinning from ear to ear. “I’m sorry you walked in on this before I was ready for you,” Franklin said, waving one hand around the barn to indicate what he’d been up to.

Willie Boy made a half-hearted effort to stand. His head throbbed and his eyes felt like they were crossed and stuck that way. He shook it off and was able to make out the shape of a table beyond Franklin, and something on the table that looked like a lump of—

“Holy God,” Willie Boy said, suddenly hit with the sick realization that what he saw on the table was a human corpse skinned right to the bone.

The missing strips of flesh were laying off to one side, slapped in haphazard stacks and still dripping with blood and fat strings.

“You’re plum outta your gourd, fella,” Willie Boy said.

His stomach lurched and he swallowed hard to keep down the vile worming its way up his throat.

“Found myself a decent business, my friend. Horse and human meat blended and spiced just right. I make the best jerky there is.”

Willie rose slowly to his feet. “I’m gettin’ my ass—”

Thwack.

The butt of the rifle caught Willie Boy in the forehead. His knees buckled and he collapsed. His vision went blurry. He fought to stay conscious. Did his very best, in fact, but he was fading fast. He caught a glimpse of Franklin before he went out. The man was grinning and sharpening knives.

Knives with long blades.

Willie Boy was about to become legend.

He was about to become some of the best jerky west of the Mississippi.

* * *

The sun rose high and hot. Another scorcher in Hang ’Em High. Franklin rolled up his sleeves and started dragging crates of raw meat out behind the barn, where he was in the process of hanging strips of flesh over lengths of rope stretched between wooden posts he’d fashioned specifically for the job.

It was a time-consuming process but worth it. Two special kinds of meat and his own blend of spices and seasonings, along with slow drying in the sun. That was the only way to do it. The best jerky west of the Mississippi didn’t just happen overnight. It took time, not to mention pride in your work, and by God, Franklin had plenty of both. . . .

Downtown Sundown

Frank Talbot rode into Sundown early morning on a Sunday. He dismounted outside the Bloody Mary Saloon, grabbed his Winchester, and went inside. The saloon was empty except for the barkeep, who looked at Frank with minimal interest as he went about polishing the bar counter.

Frank gave a slight nod. “Kinda parched,” he said, leaning his rifle against the bar. “You wanna set me up with a bottle?”

The barkeep reached under the bar and brought out a half-full bottle of rye. He set the bottle in front of Frank and went back to his task.

“Not much trade on a holy day, I guess,” Frank said, trying to strike up a conversation.

“Not much,” the barkeep responded in a flat, disinterested tone.

“Guess God ain’t real good on the economy.”

The barkeep shot Frank a look that said he wasn’t much for idle talk. Frank took the hint and concentrated on his bottle. He finished off two shots of the rye and laid money on the bar. “You keep the change,” he said, and after a slight pause, “Any suggestions where a man might find a meal and a room?”

“Red Velvet Inn at the end of town. They serve food ’round the clock. Don’t get real busy ’til after dark. I was you, I’d take the meal and skip the room, though.”

“That so?” Frank mused. “I’ll take it into consideration.”

He picked up his Winchester and headed outside, stopping long enough on the porch to roll a smoke. His eyes moved along the opposite side of the street, taking in the buildings there—dry goods, a livery, and the law office.

Frank dropped his horse at the livery and paid in advance. “Be leavin’ early in the mornin’,” he said. “Obliged if you’d have ’er ready then.”

“I can do that,” the blacksmith said.

Frank left the livery and headed in the general direction of the hotel. He tensed a little when he passed the law office. The law never took kindly to him. Not that Frank went out of his way to find trouble, but more often than not, trouble seemed to find him.

The sheriff, a stocky long-haired fella, was sitting behind his desk when Frank gave a wide birth to the open door of the law office. Frank glanced in and gave a curt nod, but he didn’t let up his stride, and he sure as hell didn’t need to turn back to know the sheriff had stepped outside to look after him.

“Hold up,” the sheriff called.

Frank turned around slow, careful not to make any sudden moves the sheriff might mistake for a threat.

The lawman approached Frank, stopping about a yard shy. “You ain’t from around here,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“That’s about the truth of it,” Frank replied.

The sheriff gave him a long, hard look. “Might be wise if you kept on ridin’,” he said. “Sundown’s a right ugly place to be after dark.”

Frank took a quick look around and sighed.

“Reckon I seen worse,” he replied evenly.

“I highly doubt that, son,” the sheriff said. “Heed my advice and get out while the gettin’s still good.”

“I ’preciate the concern, Sheriff, but I think I’m gonna stick around ’til mornin’ leastways. Been ridin’ a long while.”

The sheriff locked eyes with Frank for a long, challenging moment, then he relaxed and shrugged. “Suit yourself, but don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

With that, he went back to his office, leaving Frank to continue on his way to the Red Velvet Inn.

Except for an old woman who sat behind the check-in desk, the lobby of the hotel was deserted. That’s a witch woman, Frank thought. She had long, straight hair the color of silver, and her eyes were corroded with milky cataracts.

“Like a room for the night,” Frank said, overlooking her sheer ugliness.

“Be a dollar,” she said.

“You tryin to rob me, woman?” he said.

He put the money on the counter anyway. She replaced the cash with a key. “Room faces the street,” she said. “Just the way ya like, am I right?”

“Yes, ma’am, just the way I like ‘em.”

He started across the lobby but didn’t get far before the smell of bacon hit him full force. The dining hall was nearly deserted, he noted, but it wasn’t company he needed. His belly rumbled like thunder. He took a booth facing the street. A pale, skinny girl came out to take his order, skittish as a newborn colt.

“Set me up with strong coffee to start,” Frank told her. “Follow that up with a stack of flapjacks, some bacon, maybe a bowl of sweet oats.”

She scribbled his order and hurried away.

Frank rolled a smoke and looked outside, noting the lack of activity. He watched a couple old timers slip into the saloon and saw three woman walking down the sidewalk dressed in their Sunday best, but that was the extent of it.

He couldn’t have been more grateful when the food arrived. He paid the girl a little extra and watched her hurry off again. Odd as her behavior was, it was none of Frank’s concern. What concerned him was the chow. He hadn’t eaten a good meal in more than a week, and this one was shaping up to do nicely. Strong coffee, flapjacks drowning in maple syrup, crisp bacon, and oats that leaned heavy on the sugar and cream. There wasn’t a lot more a man could ask for.

He had a smoke after his meal, which was custom, then went upstairs to his room. He hung his gun belt on the bedpost, leaned his rifle against the wall beside the bed, then took off his hat and dropped it on the nightstand. Satisfied everything was in place, he stretched out, still fully clothed, and shut his eyes.

Sleep always came easy but light for Frank. He never went too deep into it. Staying alert was another custom, even in rest mode. A man never knew what might come up at any given moment. It was his way of thinking that kept Frank alive.

When the doorknob rattled, he bolted up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and slid the Colt from its holster. It was all a series of moves that came natural to him. He moved quickly to the door, gave the knob a sharp turn, and pulled hard. The door flew open and the pale, skinny girl from downstairs tumbled into the room, falling face down on the floor.

“What the hell you doin’ outside my door?” Frank asked.

She was on her knees, looking up at him, and he could tell by her wide-eyed look that she was real scared. “I-I need your help,” she stammered. “I need you to get me away from here.”

“You don’t like your job?”

“Not away from the inn. Away from Sundown.”

“Do me a favor and get off your knees,” Frank said. “I hate when a woman begs. It ain’t becomin’.”

She got up. Frank closed the door and holstered his gun.

“How ’bout you take a seat and tell me what you’re goin’ on about,” he said, eager to get to the bottom of things.

She sat on the edge of the bed. Frank dragged a chair across the floor, turned it backward, and straddled it. He took out the makings and began rolling a cigarette with the precision of someone who’d done it numerous times before, then he struck a match, lit the smoke, and tossed the match over his shoulder.

“Speak to me,” he said, finally giving the girl his attention.

She took a deep breath. She was scared, no two ways about it. When she finally spoke, her words were thin and shaky.

“You ever heard of vampires?” she asked.

Frank chuckled. “Sure, I know the tales,” he said.

“Not just tales, mister. Sundown’s full of ’em.”

Frank eyed her suspiciously. “Look, I didn’t catch your name . . .”

“Jenny.”

“Jenny, I hate to break this to ya, but vampires ain’t real. I can see somethin’s got ya real edgy, but it ain’t bloodsuckers.”

“Oh, they’re real alright, mister. As real as you ’n’ me, and they’re all around us. Did you notice there aren’t many people out and about?”

“Yeah, matter of fact, I did.” Frank allowed.

“That’s how it is in the daytime. There ain’t many of us left that don’t drink blood. Those that do only come out when the sun goes down.”

“The vampires?” Frank reckoned.

“That’s right, the vampires,” she said. “Silus—he’s the head vampire—and all the folks that used to be normal around here, they’ll feed on the rest of us and then move on to another town.”

“If you’re so fired up worried about these vampires, why ain’t you left already? What’s keepin’ you from lightin’ outta here durin’ the day?”

“Elijah and his bunch. There’s six of ’em, mister, and they stay alive because they keep watch for Silus while him and the rest sleep.”

“That a fact? Where are they now, Elijah and his friends?”

“Most likely ridin’ the outskirts of town, makin’ sure nobody tries to get away. If they catch you tryin’ to escape, they turn you over to Silus, and he takes special pleasure in killin’ anybody that tries to get away.”

“Don’t know as I cotton to all this bloodsucker business, but I’ll tell ya what I’ll do. You stay here and let nose around. Never let it be said that Frank Talbott turned away a lady in distress, even if she was half nuts. Don’t open the door to nobody. I’ll knock two times, wait, then three more. You’ll know it’s me.”

He hooked his gun belt around his waist, grabbed his hat and rifle, and headed downstairs. The old woman behind the desk was asleep. Frank ignored her, crossing the lobby with long, firm strides.

“They’re gonna get ya if ya ain’t careful,” the old woman croaked.

“What’s that?” Frank asked, turning to look at the old woman.

He was sure he hadn’t imagined the old woman speaking, but her eyes were closed, and she was snoring loud as a steam engine.

Frank shrugged it off and went outside, wincing as the heat of the sun smacked him in the face. He took a moment to let his eyes adjust, then he headed for the sheriff’s office.

The sheriff was at his desk when Frank barged in. He was drinking coffee and puffing a fat stogie, not the least surprised to Frank.

“See you didn’t heed my warnin’,” he said.

“You left a little somethin’ out, Sheriff,” Frank shot back.

“What might that be?”

“The bloodsuckin’ things livin’ in your town.”

“Not sure what mean,” the sheriff said. He fixed Frank with a mock-curious look. “You sayin’ we got vampires in Sundown?”

“I believe that’s what I’m sayin’,” Frank said.

The sheriff grinned. “Place is crawlin’ with ’em.”

“What about Elijah and his bunch? Why ain’t you done somethin’ about ’em? You just lettin’ those boys run rough shod over you?”

“What is it you expect me to do?” the sheriff asked.

“Your job,” Frank said. “You are the law.”

“This badge don’t mean shit. Silus is law around here.”

“You spineless . . .”

Frank’s arm shot out across the desk. He got hold of the sheriff by the shirt and jerked him half out of his seat, jamming his Colt under his chin.

“Works like this, feller,” Frank said through clenched teeth. “You’re gonna help me round up Elijah and his boys—kill ’em if we need to—then we’re gonna get your sorry ass, and anybody else who’s human, outta this godforsaken town before the bloodsuckers wake up for breakfast. Any questions?”

The sheriff was sweating like a whore in church. He nodded his head real slow like, suddenly realizing Frank wasn’t someone to be toyed with.

When Frank let him go, the sheriff dropped back in his chair with a sigh of relief. He smoothed his shirt and straightened his shoulders. “It ain’t gonna work, but I’ll be more than happy to give you a hand, seein’ as how you asked so nice.”

“Real good decision,” Frank said. “And don’t think about turnin’ stupid on me, or it ain’t the bloodsuckers you’ll need to worry about.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” the sheriff said.

He went to his gun cabinet, took out a Winchester, and stuffed his pockets with extra rounds, watching Frank the whole time.

“You know where to find Elijah?” Frank asked.

“Same place as always. Patrolling the outskirts. It’s what they do”

“That’s good,” Frank said. “We’re about to put a stick up their asses.”

* * *

Three of Elijah’s men were sitting just outside the north end of town, drinking whiskey and playing cards. Frank and the sheriff got the drop on them. One of three made the mistake of reaching for his gun. Frank blew a hole in his head, convincing the other two they were better off with their hands in the air.

“You with us or against us?” Frank asked conversationally.

“We ain’t helpin’ ya,” responded the shorter of the two. “Even with that gun on us, you ain’t as dangerous as Silus, and when he gets hold of ya, I’m gonna laugh while he sucks the blood right ou—”

Frank’s Colt belched and the fat man dropped.

The last man was nervous now. “Look, I ain’t fixin’ to die here. You can walk right on by me. I ain’t gonna do nothin’.”

“Where’s Elijah?” Frank asked.

The sharp edge in his tone made it clear he meant to get an answer.

“I don’t know,” the outlaw said.

Frank pointed his gun at the man’s forehead. A bead of sweat formed on the side of the his head and began a slow trek down his weather-beaten cheek. “I swear I don’t know,” he said. “I’d tell ya if I did.”

“Well, now, feller, I just don’t know that I believe that,” Frank replied, then he slammed the butt of his gun against the man’s head.

“What now?” the sheriff asked.

“Now we find Elijah,” Frank said.

“You ain’t got far to go,” Elijah said.

Frank and the sheriff turned around slow.

“Damn,” Frank muttered. “This is a real pickle.”

There were four men total. Frank picked Elijah out right away and fixed him with a hard look.

“Drop your weapons real slow,” Elijah said. “You breathe heavy and my boys drop you where you stand.”

Frank let his gun fall to the ground. The sheriff followed suit.

“Looks like you hurt some of my boys. I don’t like that, but unfortunately for me, I gotta let ya be.” The last part he directed at Frank. “I brung a message from Silus. Tonight, downtown Sundown. Be there.”

Elijah signaled his men to lower their rifles. “Don’t think about shootin’ us in the back,” he warned. “We got that little girlfriend of yours put away, and if the three of us don’t get back to town, can’t say what might happen to her, but you can bet it’ll be none too pretty.”

Frank’s jaw twitched as the outlaws rode away, but other than that, he showed no sign of the anger seething just below his surface.

“It’s over for you now,” the sheriff said. “Me too, I figger. Silus ain’t gonna like the fact I sided with you.”

“It ain’t over yet,” Frank said, climbing onto his horse. “Not ’til the fat lady sings, and I ain’t seen a fat lady yet.”

The sheriff looked at Frank like he was completely out of his mind, but he climbed on his horse anyway, and the two headed toward Sundown.

* * *

“You wait here,” Frank told the sheriff, who still seemed to think Frank was out of his mind for even getting involved.

They were outside the Red Velvet Inn.

“What the hell ya gonna do in there?” the sheriff asked.

“Just keep a sharp eye. Any sign of trouble, fire a shot, I’ll come runnin’.”

The sheriff looked uneasy but nodded in agreement. Frank went into the hotel, making a beeline for the stairs leading up to his room.

The old woman behind the desk said, “You ain’t gonna find her. They done come and took her away.” This time she was awake. “Come here,” she said in such a way that Frank couldn’t very well refuse.

The old woman leaned close to him¾closer than he would’ve liked under other circumstances. Her milky eyes seemed incapable of sight, but she fixed him with her intense gaze just the same. “You listen to me, boy,” she said. “You listen real good, pay close attention, maybe you’ll save a life or two. If you don’t heed my advice, Silus’ll kill you in less than thirty seconds. Unless, of course, he wants you to suffer, which is most likely what he aims to make happen.”

“I’m listenin’,” Frank said.

“You need holy silver. The church outside town, in the floor behind the pulpit. There’s a silver cross there. Fetch it. That’s the only way to kill Silus. If you kill Silus, the rest of them bloodsuckers die right along with him.”

“A silver cross, floor behind the pulpit?”

“That’s what I said.”

He started to turn away. The old woman’s bony hand snapped out and her fingers clutched his wrist. Her grip was stronger than Frank would have imagined it to be.

“Avenge me, boy,” she said.

“Avenge you?”

“He’s my fault. I brought ’im into this world. You help me see him out.”

“You’re his momma?”

She nodded. “Sorry as I am to say it.”

“Well, I guess, ma’am, I’ll refrain from callin’ him a son of a bitch.”

The old woman scoffed. “You call ’im anything ya want, just make sure ya call ’im dead before the night disappears.”

She released her grip on him. He tipped his hat and left. The sheriff was still waiting, but he was pacing like a cougar and happy to see Frank.

“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.

“I know my job,” Calvert said, leaning over the side of his horse to deposit a thick ball of spit on the ground.

“Then I suggest you do it,” Hank said. “We ain’t gettin’ paid to jackass around. Stay where you belong.”

John Reno was the only man Hank didn’t need to worry about. He was the outrider in the outfit. A good man for the job too. He never let the cattle wander, never gave no trouble, and always put in a good day’s work for the pay. He was out there now, a little south of the herd, his head down against the wind with his eyes tilted up to maintain coverage of the herd.

Calvert watched Hank move to the front of the herd. He drew his Bowie knife and licked the blade. “I’ll kill that bastard when this is all over,” he said, then slid the knife back in its sheath.

“Cain’t wait for it,” Angus agreed, grinning at the thought. “Sum bitch ain’t been nothin’ but a pain in my ass since we signed on.”

The wind howled as it increased intensity, kicking up violent bursts of dust. The cattle began to scatter and the crew fought to keep them in line.

“Head ’em up—”

Hank’s words were swallowed in the storm.

* * *

Sarah heard it again, a dull thump just outside the door. She told herself it was only the wind. There was a storm heading this way.

She hoped that was all it was.

She kept a Sharps at arm’s length just in case. She wasn’t one for violence, but she was a woman who could pull a trigger if it had to be done.

She needed a strong cup of tea. Tea would take the edge off her nerves. A damn shame, getting all worked up over wind. She’d seen enough storms in her lifetime to know what to expect.

She fetched water for the tea and put it over the fire to boil. She sat to work on a quilt she’d been meaning to finish for some time.

A sudden pounding on the door made her jump. She let the quilt fall from her lap as she moved to grab her rifle.

“Who’s there?” she called out, aiming the rifle at the door.

“Name’s John Reno,” came the voice outside.

“Means nothin’ to me,” she said, letting her finger tighten on the trigger. “What business do you have with me?”

“I’m wounded, ma’am,” he answered. “I’m a cattle herder. Got separated from my outfit in the storm.”

Sarah threw the bolt on the door and stepped back. She leveled the rifle at the door again, and said, “Come in, but do it slow. I got a gun.”

The door squeaked open on its hinge. Reno stepped cautiously into the cabin, his hands raised. He came up short when he came face to face with the business end of the Sharps. “Ain’t no need for that,” he said.

“You don’t look hurt to me,” she said suspiciously.

“Got a real good size bump on the back of my head you could take a look at, if that would ease your mind,” he said.

She didn’t respond. She kept the rifle trained on him as she thought about her next move.

“Look,” he said, licking his dry lips, not taking his eyes off the big fifty she had in her hands, “I hope you ain’t about to use that thing on me, but if you’re plannin’ on it, I could use some chow before you do.”

He gave her an easy smile that made her relax.

“Besides,” he added, “I don’t yet know your name.”

She couldn’t help letting a tiny smile escape, warming to his easy manner and sense of humor. She lowered the rifle. “I have chipped beef and beans,” she said. “And my name’s Sarah.”

“Couldn’t ask for better than chipped beef and beans,” he told her. “And Sarah’s a right pretty name.”

“I was makin’ tea for myself, but you look like coffee would suit you.”

He nodded. “If it ain’t too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” she assured him.

She moved around the tiny cabin quickly, setting coffee to boil and putting food on the stove to warm. Reno watched her for a moment, then he helped himself to a chair at the little kitchen table.

“How does an experienced cattle man get separated from his cattle?” she asked in a conversational tone.

“Like I said, ma’am, there was a storm. Would’ve been able to hold my own, ’cept my horse got scared and threw me. I hit my head on somethin’ real solid. I was alone when I woke up. Lucky I found my horse, or I’d still be walkin’.” He paused to watch her work, then said, “You alone here?”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, holding a ladle of chipped beef between the pot and the bowl. “I’m alone,” she finally answered. “My husband died a while back.”

He nodded, took the makings for a cigarette from his shirt pocket, and said, “You mind?” as he held the tobacco up for her inspection.

“Go right ahead,” she said.

He rolled the cigarette, stuck it between his lips, then struck a match on the table. “Sorry to hear about your husband,” he said. “Pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be alone.”

“I prefer you don’t refer to me as a pretty little thing, Mister Reno,” she said. “And as far as my husband goes, you didn’t kill him, so you have no reason to be sorry.”

“Didn’t mean no offense, ma’am. Just makin’ conversation is all.”

She set a piled-high plate of steaming food in front of him. He leaned over it, inhaling the intoxicating aroma. Sarah took a chair across from him, watching as he forgot his manners and began to shovel food into his mouth.

“How do you plan to find your outfit?” she asked.

“They’re takin’ the Cox Trail straight into Oklahoma. I reckon I can ride through the night and catch ’em in Dry Creek by sun up.”

“With the storm right behind you?”

“Ain’t like I never done it before,” he said.

She took a minute to consider, then said, “You can bunk in the barn. It isn’t much, but you’ll get a good night’s rest.”

“’Preciate it, ma’am, I really do, but I believe I’ll be on my way when I finish the meal. You got any bread?”

“Not fresh,” she said. She retrieved a plate with two hard biscuits on it. “This will have to do.”

“I’ve eaten worse,” he said, breaking off a piece of biscuit and stuffing it into his mouth alongside a forkful of beef.

After he cleaned his plate, Reno drank two more cups of coffee, smoked a cigarette, then stood to leave. Sarah offered to make him coffee for the ride. He declined. “Can’t thank ya enough for the meal,” he said. “Much obliged for the barn offer too.”

“You can still change your mind about that,” she said.

“Can’t afford the lost time, ma’am, but like I said, I appreciate the offer.”

She walked him to the door and watched him disappear into the thick darkness. Long after she lost sight of him and the sound of horse hooves had faded away, Sarah stood in the doorway. It was only when she realized she was freezing cold that she clutched her shawl around her shoulders and went back inside.

* * *

It looked different to him in the light of day. Reno eased his mare to a halt and dismounted, leaving her to graze on a clump of grass.

He approached the cabin, half expecting Sarah to come out and greet him. He saw the door was slightly ajar. He called Sarah’s name and got no response. His gut was tight. His nose for trouble was kicking in now.

He tried to chalk his sense of dread up to the fact that he’d found most of his outfit dead not long after leaving Sarah, but he knew it wasn’t all due to that fact. There was something wrong here. Something that may or may not be tied to the deaths of the men he’d been riding with.

“Sarah,” he called again, pushing the cabin door open to look inside.

The crack of a rifle shot rang out. Reno jerked his head back just in time to avoid having it blown clean off. The heavy bullet bit into the wood frame of the door right where he’d been a moment earlier.

He drew his Colt and rammed the heel of his boot hard against the door, dropping to his knees inside the cabin, more than prepared to blow some unlucky fool’s head clean off his shoulders. His eyes darted this way and that, searching the cabin for any threat.

Sarah was alone. She looked a mess, her back against the stove as she pointed a rifle at him. Her hair, just last night all shiny and beautiful, was in tangles. Her face was puffy and near turning blue. Her pretty dress dangled from her body in tatters, leaving most of her private parts in clear view.

“You alright?” Reno asked, slipping his gun into his holster.

Sarah responded with a glazed look that seemed lost to the world.

“What happened here?”

Reno moved to her side, knelt, and gently eased the barrel of the rifle toward the floor. Sarah loosened her grip enough to allow him to take the rifle from her hands.

He helped her to her feet and led her over to the table, then he retrieved a ladle full of cold water from the spring room and made her drink some. He poured a little of the remaining water on a cloth and dabbed away the dried blood on her forehead.

Dressing her was the next order of business. He found a chemise in a wooden stand by her bed and brought it to her, laying it on the table. “I’d appreciate if you’d save me the embarrassment of havin’ to put this on you.”

She looked beyond him, staring at the cabin door. He sighed and lifted her to her feet again. He walked her to the bed and had her sit, then he retrieved the nightshirt and held it out to her again, still hoping she’d be the one to put it on. When she didn’t respond, he said, “Suit yourself,” and removed the remains of her dress, doing his best to keep his eyes averted.

His hand brushed one soft, full breast. He felt guilty for the pleasure it gave him. “Damned sorry about that,” he said, quickly pulling the nightshirt over her head and laying her back on the bed. “I’ll be right over there if you need me for anything.”

She curled into a fetal position and closed her eyes.

Reno pulled a thick blanket over her and left her to sleep.

* * *

Reno woke to the smell of bacon. His back hurt from a long night in a wooden rocker. He pushed his hat up from his eyes, stood up and stretched, then reached for his cigarette makings.

Sarah was at the stove, working on a meal. “You hungry?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Starvin’” he said, taking a seat at the table.

She set a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him.

“Eat,” she said, then went back to the stove and poured coffee.

“You didn’t have to go to the trouble,” Reno said.

“It was no trouble,” she replied. She pulled out a chair and sat across from him. “I can’t thank you enough for last night.”

“No need,” he said.

She smiled. There was that easy manner and sense of humor Reno remembered from his last visit.

“Why did you come back?” she asked.

“Ran into some trouble. Found four of my outfit dead.” He washed a mouthful of food down with a gulp of coffee, measured his next question carefully, and said, “What happened here?”

She lowered her eyes. Reno allowed her time to gather her thoughts. She finally looked up again, speaking slowly as she recounted being raped.

“Anything about those two men that stands out?” Reno asked.

He pushed his empty plate away and started rolling another cigarette.

“The only thing that really stands out is that one of them kept playing with his knife, touching me with it, telling me he was going to cut my throat . . .”

“Did you happen to catch any names?” Reno asked.

“The one who had the knife, he called the other man Angus, I think. That’s what I remember. He called him Angus.”

“Angus and Calvert,” Reno said.

“You know them?”

“Afraid I do,” Reno answered. “Those are the two I didn’t find dead when I found my outfit. Pretty well figgers who did the killin’, don’t it?”

Sarah refilled Reno’s coffee cup. He checked the cylinder of his weapon. Two of the chambers were empty. He slipped a bullet into each, put the Colt away, and stood to leave.

“You’re riding out again?” she asked, concern edging her voice.

“Afraid so,” he said. “Got two good reasons to go.”

She followed him to the door, taking hold of his arm as he started out.

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

Their eyes met for a long moment. She wanted to ask him to stay, but she knew what his response would be. His eyes had changed. They were cold, hard eyes—the eyes of a man bent on revenge.

She watched him ride away from her for a second time, once again fighting the urge to go after him, afraid that once he was out of her sight this time, she would never see him again.

* * *

They had a good lead, but Reno figured on catching up with them in Dry Creek. There was a saloon and a whorehouse there. The temptation to take advantage of booze and whores would be too much for the two men to resist, and Reno knew they’d be too full of themselves to suspect they were being followed.

Reno was not a violent man by nature. He preferred to keep to himself, earn a living, and steer away from business that didn’t concern him. A man could only be expected to overlook so much, though, and this business of cold-blooded murder and rape was where Reno drew the line.

He rode hard through the night. His body ached by the time he reached Dry Creek a little after sun up. He dismounted in front of a home-style eatery, rolled a cigarette, then wandered inside for a cup of coffee, taking a table facing the street so he had a good view of everything outside.

The smell of bacon and eggs made his stomach rumble. Reno hadn’t realized just how hungry he was until now. He signaled a pretty young waitress, ordered breakfast, and wolfed it down within minutes of being served, then he took his horse to the livery. He paid in advance to have her fed and rubbed down, then he took a room at the Denton Hotel, top floor and facing the street. Angus and Calvert were probably already in town, but if not, they’d show up sooner or later. When they did, Reno would be ready.

His view of the narrow, deeply rutted street was good. Directly across from him was the restaurant. To the left, a little further down the street, was a saloon. Above the saloon was where all the whores plied their trade. A general store sat beside the restaurant, and at the south end of town, another hotel, smaller than the one Reno had picked to stay in.

He thought of Sarah. The sooner he made it back to her, the better off he’d be. He figured there was a chance for something with her¾the possibility of a better life, maybe. He’d never been the settling-down type, but that woman stirred something deep inside him. It embarrassed him to think it, but he felt like he was already in love with her.

He laid on the bed and slipped his Colt under the pillow. Tired as he was, he could only toss and turn, anxious to put all this business behind him. He lay there for maybe fifteen minutes before he got up and looked out the window again. The street wasn’t crowded. A group of men were playing cards on the sidewalk outside the store. Another two men were leaning against hitching posts outside the saloon, smoking and carrying on an animated conversation.

No sign of Angus or Calvert.

Reno went downstairs and conned the desk clerk into a look at the registry. Only four rooms in the Denton were occupied. One of them held a married couple. Two of the rooms were rented to single men, neither of whom matched the description of Angus or Calvert. Reno himself occupied the last room.

He was on his way to check the other hotel in town when he saw Angus and Calvert. They were coming down the sidewalk, heading right for him, probably on their way to the saloon, smoking and joking like they didn’t have a thing in the world to worry about.

Reno stood his ground, casually leaning against a post, rolling a cigarette. He never took his eyes off the two. It pissed him off to see them so cocksure of themselves, two son of a bitches who thought they could get away with rape and murder.

Reno wondered if he should involve the sheriff and thought better of it. Angus and Calvert had been in jail before, on more than one occasion. They were mad dogs. Jail wouldn’t change them. A dog foams at the mouth, you shoot it dead. Far as Reno was concerned, these two were drooling dogs.

Reno took his time with his smoke after Angus and Calvert went into the saloon. When he finished, he flipped his cigarette butt away and started across the street, bent on taking care of this business once and for all. As he made his way to the saloon, he sensed the gradual slowing down of the people he passed, each of them stopping to watch him. Quick whispers went from one man to the next as they passed the word that trouble was about to break out.

Word moved so fast that Angus and Calvert were watching the swinging doors when Reno came through them.

“Damn, it’s good to see you, John,” Calvert said to Reno. “Thought you went down with the rest of the boys.”

Reno moved up to the bar and asked for a whiskey. The barkeep set a glass in front of him and poured, his eyes darting back and forth between Reno and Calvert.

“Damn shame the way we was ambushed back there,” Angus said. “Me ’n’ Cal, well, we barely got outta there alive.”

“Lucky for you,” Reno said flatly.

He stood at a slight angle, watching the two of them from the corner of his eye. He finished his whiskey in a gulp, then set his glass on the bar. “Gimme another,” he said.

Angus and Calvert moved apart, making it tougher for Reno to do what he’d come to do.

A little man with a weasel face hurried out of the saloon.

“We don’t need any trouble here,” the barkeep said.

Reno ignored him. Much as he wished he could promise there would be none, there was no way trouble could be avoided.

“Let us buy that drink,” Calvert said.

He took a step in Reno’s direction.

“That’s more ’n’ close enough,” Reno said.

“I don’t know what you think happened—”

“You killed my friends,” Reno said. “And you raped a woman.”

Calvert looked offended. “She wanted that,” he said, then he went for his gun, realizing Reno wasn’t going to be reasoned with.

Reno moved fast, snapping his Colt from its holster in a blur. He fired once. The bullet hit Calvert dead center of his forehead. Calvert flopped back like a sack of wheat.

Angus managed to get his gun out while Reno was occupied with Calvert. He fired twice. The first shot zipped past Reno, shattering the mirror behind the bar. The second shot grazed Reno’s arm. Reno dropped to one knee and got off two shots of his own. The first bullet slammed into Angus’s stomach, the second tore into his neck before he hit the floor.

The sheriff came through the batwing doors then, followed by the little man with the weasel face. Both men took in the sight of the two corpses on the floor. The sheriff leveled his Henry at Reno.

Reno got to his feet, laid his gun on the bar, and said to the barkeep, “You think I could get that second whiskey now?”

* * *

The witnesses backed up Reno’s story. The sheriff didn’t much care for Reno, but he had no just cause to hold him. In fact, he didn’t want to hold Reno at all. He insisted instead that Reno ride out of town immediately.

Reno did.

He had a lot of time to think as he headed back to Sarah. There would be no more trails, no more dirty towns, saloons, or cattle. The road he was about to take could very well be as tough as the one he was leaving behind, but it damn sure wouldn’t be as lonely.

Dead, White, and Blue

“You sure you know where you’re going?” Justin asked.

Justin Reynolds, who was sitting in the passenger seat of the SUV, shifted nervously and looked out at the dark, narrow dirt road ahead.

Beau Shelton was behind the wheel. He glanced over at Justin, agitated. “Man, how many times do I have to say it? I know what I’m doing, okay? Just shut the fuck up and let me drive.”

The road was barely wide enough for the SUV, filled with giant holes and littered with rocks and tree limbs, making the ride uncomfortable.

Beau reached into his shirt pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes, then punched in the cigarette lighter.

“How do you know this old man isn’t loony tunes?” Justin asked.

“Do I look like somebody who can’t tell a nut case when I see one?” Beau responded, lighting his cigarette.

He took his eyes off the road for a split second, about to continue giving Justin a piece of his mind. Something darted from the tree line, right across the path of the SUV.

“Watch out,” Justin screamed.

Beau swerved, narrowly missing the ass-end of what looked like it might have been a wild dog. The animal disappeared through the tree line on the opposite side of the road as Beau brought the SUV back on track.

“Jesus, you trying to kill us?” Justin said. “Pay attention to the road.”

Beau tried to play it cool, but it was clear from the tense expression on his face that he’d scared the shit out of himself as well.

He stopped the SUV and shut off the engine. “Grab a flashlight,” he said. “We’re walking the rest of the way.”

“Walking?”

“This is as far as the road will take us. The old man lives way up in the woods. He’s one of those hermit types.”

Justin reluctantly got out of the SUV with Beau.

“Okay, listen,” Beau explained. “The old man’s a little spooky, but he knows his shit, so let him talk. If half of what he says is true, we’ll be rich and famous before this is all over.”

The woods on either side of the narrow footpath were dark and dense, even with the flashlights. After walking for nearly twenty minutes, they emerged into a clearing at the top of the hill. A small cabin sat dead center. A single flickering light burned in one window of the cabin. A dark, vague shape rocked back and forth on the porch, and as the two college boys drew nearer, the shape began to take on human definition.

Beau stopped at the foot of the stairs, and Justin ran into him before he realized they weren’t going up onto the porch.

“It’s me,” Beau said. “I brought my friend.”

A moment of silence followed, then the sound of a match striking. A small flame flickered in front of the old man’s face, highlighting his gaunt features as he lit his Chesterfield. He puffed a cloud of smoke around his head, kept the cigarette clamped between his lips, and said, “Well, come on up and cop a squat. Let’s get on with it.”

Beau and Justin climbed the rickety stairs and stood in front of the old man. Neither made a move to sit.

“Dang it, I ain’t gonna bite,” the old man barked. “Got a crick in my neck and cain’t be lookin’ up at ya whiles I talk. I told you’ns to cop a squat, now go on and do it.”

The boys dropped to their haunches in front of the old man, who continued rocking steadily in his wooden rocker, sizing them up like he might be reconsidering their worthiness of his tale.

Beau took out his cigarettes, fumbled out his lighter, and lit up.

“Bad habit, that one,” the old man said. “Cain’t say much about it, though. I was ten years old when I lit my first one. Ancient now, and still smokin’. Like my beer to boot. Ain’t nary a one of ’em done me any harm.”

He looked out at the woods. “Nice night, ain’t it? A little chilly is all, but nice just the same.” He paused a thoughtful moment, then said, “Well, I promised you boys a story, didn’t I? Good a time as any to get to it.”

But he didn’t get to it right then. He puffed his cigarette silently for another minute, still rocking to and fro, staring out at the woods. When he finally did get around to speaking, he took his time with the words. He wanted the facts laid out just so, and rushing him wasn’t part of the process.

“The old rock house outside of town, that’s what you’re wantin’ to know about, ain’t it? She’s a fine bit of history, that one. Been standin’ since before the Civil War. You boys know about the Civil War, am I right?”

“Some,” Beau said.

The old man gave him a reprimanding look. “Some?” he bellowed with indignation. “Why, that was only the most disgraceful time in our country’s history, that’s what it was. Brother against brother, blood spilt right here on our very own soil, fightin’ betwixt and between ourselves like a buncha damn savages. They don’t teach it that way in the schools, do they? No, they pretty it up for the books, but it weren’t pretty at all, I can tell ya that.”

The old man leaned over the side of his rocker and spat. “Don’t teach it that way at all, no sir,” he went on. “I’m gonna give you kids a lesson ’bout the Civil War you’ll never forget. Lotta good men died in that war, Americans one and all, Union and Confed’rate alike.”

“What does the war have to do with the old rock house?” Beau asked.

“It’s got everything to do with it, boy,” the old man snapped, annoyed by the interruption. “You show me a little goddamned patience and maybe you’ll learn somethin’.”

Beau shifted uneasily, lighting another cigarette off the butt of the first.

“Like I said,” the old man continued, “that old stone house you’re so fired up about has been around since way before the Civil War, but it weren’t ’til the war came along that the house took on any special meanin’.”

The old man reached up on the windowsill and took down three bottles of beer. He kept one for himself and handed the other two bottles to Beau and Justin. “Drink up, boys,” he said. “Wet the whistle while I illuminate your minds to some hard facts.”

He made a scratchy noise in his throat as he pulled up a wad of phlegm, which he washed back down with a slug of beer. “Durin’ the war, ya see, you had yer Unions and yer Confed’rates. Call ’em North ’n’ South, call ’em Blue ’n’ Gray, hell, you can call ’em Billy Yank and Johnny Reb if you’re of a mind. It don’t matter what name ya give ’em, fact is, they was all Americans, ever damn one of ’em, and they was killin’ each other off.”

“Why?” Beau asked. “I mean, what was the point?”

“Diff’rence of opinion is what it boiled down to,” the old man responded in his infinite wisdom, coughing up more phlegm. “Always pans out that way, don’t it? Everybody thinkin’ they got the only goddamned answer there is.”

The old man fell into silence once again, returning his attention to the woods as he lit another Chesterfield. An occasional skittering noise came from the darkness as some wild animal or another moved around out there. Beau and Justin sat in tense silence, waiting for the old man to come back from wherever it was he’d gone off to.

He finally did.

“Guess I best be gettin’ to the part about the old stone house,” he said. “That old house served ’er purpose durin’ the war. She’s got lots of history behind her, that’s a fact. Mostly, though, she’s just got the ghost, and I reckon that’s the part you come all this way to hear about.”

Beau and Justin nodded in unison, eager to hear about the ghost. The old man took a pull on his cigarette and followed it with a coughing fit, then he continued in the same careful manner as before.

“That old house was the finest of its kind in those days,” he said. “Yep, finest of its kind.” His eyes came alive when he talked about the house. “A grand sight it was, owned by a young couple. They owned it before the war broke out, right on up to the tragedy. I’m gettin’ ahead of myself, though.” The old man shifted in his rocker and said, “I’m gettin’ too old for my own good. Too damn old.”

He dropped into another silent lapse, and when he returned this time, there was a sparkle of tears in his eyes.

“That young couple, Henry and Emma Sinclair, got themselves in mighty steep durin’ the war. Missouri, ya see, swung both ways, as you young folks like to say these days, but there was folks like the Sinclairs that chose up a side and stuck right to their beliefs. Henry and Emma was Union all the way.

“Henry, ya see, was a river man. Spent a good deal of his life on the Mississippi, he did, and durin’ the war he took to helpin’ them negro slaves escape to freedom. Him and Emma, they smuggled them negroes through a tunnel in the basement of the old stone house, took ’em right down to the river. Near three miles of tunnel that kept ’em outta sight ’til they was on a boat and headin’ for freedom.”

“Is that tunnel still there?” Justin asked.

“Bet your bottom dollar it is,” the old man said. He cleared his throat and glanced at the windowsill. “Could use me another beer.” He shot Beau a look. “Maybe you could run into the cabin and grab us all another. Little fridge right inside the kitchen there. Cain’t miss it.”

Beau went into the cabin and returned with three more bottles of beer. He passed them around and sat down again, ready to get on with it. He was grateful when the old man didn’t hesitate.

“Yep, ol’ Henry took them negroes right down to the river and put ’em on that boat. A damn noble effort it was, but foolish as all get out.”

“What happened to Henry?” Beau asked.

“Slow down, now,” the old man admonished. “Let me come to it natural. I still gotta tell ya ’bout the light at the top of the house. Back in those days it was a workin’ light, don’t ya know. Whenever Henry was out on the river, Emma would go up in that little room and shine the light ’til he came home. One night, ol’ Henry and two of them negroes sneaked off through the tunnel, and that was the last time Emma ever saw Henry.

“She kept that light shinin’ a full week before a whole troop of them Confed’rates showed up on her doorstep, fixin’ to take her away. It was the 4th of July, Independence Day, and she knew she’d never see Henry again, so before Johnny Reb could lay hands on ’er, she strung up a rope in that light room and hanged herself. Tomorrow’s the 4th of July, boys. The hunert ’n’ fortieth anniversary of her untimely demise, and if you boys was of a mind, you could do a whole lotta good by helpin’ ’er get ’er independence again. You could help ’er cross over to the other side by bringin’ Henry back to ’er, and here’s exactly how you can do that . . .”

* * *

The two-story stone house stood on a hill, surrounded by tall grass and lots of weeds. Ivy grew so thick over the exterior that its faded white stones were not even visible in some places. The windows of the house were boarded up with two-by-fours long since gone to rot.

“That’s just creepy,” Justin said. “I’m not so sure I want to go in.”

“Don’t be a pussy,” Beau told him. “This is our shot at the big time. We can get us one of those reality ghost shows.”

“I’m not a pussy. I’m just a little apprehensive about disturbing the dead. And besides, the place doesn’t look safe.”

“You heard the old man,” Beau said. “It’s been around for more than a hundred and forty years. It’s not about to crumble now.”

“How are we going to get inside?”

Thick slabs of wood had been criss-crossed over the front door and nailed down with nails nearly as big as railroad spikes. Getting in that way seemed out of the question, but Beau set his sights on the windows.

“It shouldn’t be too hard to break the wood away from a window,” he said. “That stuff looks ancient.”

They circled the house until they found a window they could easily reach. It was in the back of the house. The boards were loose, and although they were rotten, it took Beau and Justin working together to tear away enough of the boards to allow them to crawl through.

Justin went first. Beau gave him a lift up to the windowsill. Justin clutched the frame and dragged himself through the narrow opening. When he was in the house, he leaned out and extended his hands, dragging Beau up and through the window.

They found themselves standing in what appeared to be the kitchen. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling like curtains. An old iron stove sat against one wall, a couple of busted wooden chairs sat on the other side of the room, and a table missing two legs sat lopsided in the middle of the room.

They went through a door at one end of the kitchen. It led to a long, narrow hallway. At the end of the hallway was the front door. To the right of the front door was a big, empty room with a fireplace. To the left of the front door was another room and a set of stairs leading to the second floor of the house.

On the backside of the stairwell leading upstairs was a small door. It was nailed shut. Not just little nails either. The same big nails someone had used to secure the front door.

“This is probably what we’re looking for,” Beau said. “Now all we have to do is get in. I knew we should have brought some tools.”

Justin thought for a second, looked around, then disappeared into the room with the fireplace. He came back with a rusty metal object.

“Fireplace poker,” he said, grinning as he jammed the end of the poker between the door and frame.

It took some work, but he was eventually able to pry the door open, revealing the pitch dark beyond. Justin shined a flashlight into the darkness, illuminating a set of rotted wooden stairs leading to a small area that had probably served to cool food in the old days.

Beau got a Digital Hi-8 from his backpack. The camcorder’s night-shot light made Justin’s flashlight obsolete, so Justin let Beau take the lead. Beau eased down the weak, shaky stairs. When he reached the bottom, he panned the dark basement with the camcorder.

“Beau and Justin on our first ghost outing,” he said.

A rat scurried along one ledge, knocking bits of dirt and pebble onto the ground, causing the two of them to jump.

“Fuckin’ rodents,” Beau muttered.

The basement was cool, damp, and thick with the smell of wet dirt. Cobwebs dangled from the ceiling, hanging nearly all the way to the floor.

“Tell me again what we’re doing here,” Justin said.

“Fame and fortune,” Beau told him enthusiastically.

“Okay, let’s get this over with,” Justin said.

He turned his flashlight on and moved around the basement until he came upon a boarded-up opening in the wall.

“Beau, look,” he said. “I think I found the tunnel.”

Beau filmed as Justin went to work on the boards. Justin grunted and strained with the effort, ripping away the boards one by one. It took several minutes to expose the dark, foreboding mouth of the tunnel.

“Let’s do it,” Beau said.

He was first to enter the tunnel, holding the camcorder in front of him to capture as much footage as he could. As far as he was concerned, he and Justin were about to make history. If, of course, everything the old man had told them was true. If not, well, maybe he could make a documentary for the History Channel. Either way, he planned on making some money from this little venture.

The walls of the tunnel were made of the same white stone as the house. The tunnel was just wide enough to allow Beau and Justin to walk comfortably side by side. The ground beneath their feet was a mix of mud, rock, and puddles of black water that smelled like sewage.

The boys slopped through the mud, occasionally slipping on a wet rock or losing traction in the sludge. Cold, dank water reached their ankles, then gradually deepened until it was waist deep.

“This shit is probably infested with snakes,” Beau said, and no sooner than he finished the sentence, he felt something slither around his ankle. He jumped back, almost knocking Justin down, then quickly regained his composure. It wouldn’t do to let Justin see him freaking out.

The two of them sloshed through the water. It grew even deeper, reaching several inches above their waists before it began to recede. The walls in this part of the tunnel were dark, wet, and slimy. The boys couldn’t have been more relieved when they rounded a curve in the tunnel and saw a light beckoning them.

They stumbled from the tunnel. The sun was just beginning to set, streaking the sky with pinkish-purple light. It was a beautiful sight, and Beau fell to his knees, sucking in gulps of fresh air. Justin leaned against a tree and bent over, coughing the last of the sewage fumes from his lungs.

“That was awful,” he said.

Beau stood up and looked around, trying to determine where they were. “Which way to the river?” he asked.

Justin walked to where the ground ended in an abrupt drop off. Looking over the edge, he saw the wide, brown Mississippi River flowing steady and strong in the distance. “There it is,” he said.

Beau joined him, and together they looked down at the imposing river. “Looks like we’ve got some walking to do,” he said.

Before they could set off, a sound began to build somewhere in the distance, faint at first, then growing louder, until there was no mistaking the thundering sound of horse hooves.

The two hurried to the mouth of the tunnel. Beau scampered up an incline beside the tunnel opening, his feet slipping in the loose rock and dirt. He hauled himself up and looked over the top of the hill.

“Oh shit,” was all he managed to say.

He lost his balance and fell back, sliding down the hill, arms flailing as he tried to grab hold of anything that might stop his fall. Justin caught him at the bottom of the hill and pulled him to his feet.

“What was it?” Justin asked. “what did you see?”

“Shhhh, don’t talk so loud,” Beau whispered. “You wouldn’t . . . Jesus, you gotta take a look.” He was shaking and glancing over his shoulder, looking up at the top of the hill, pointing. “You won’t believe it . . . a bunch of soldiers . . . zombies . . . all dead. . . .”

Justin looked at Beau as if he’d lost his mind.

“Take a look if you don’t believe me,” Beau said. “Go on, take a look.”

Justin climbed the rocky slope and peeked over the top of the hill. It didn’t seem at all possible, but Beau was telling the truth. There was a group of Confederate soldiers riding in their direction, but the part that caught Justin’s attention was the state they were in. Thirty, maybe forty soldiers and horses, all of them in various stages of decay.

Justin eased back down the hill on his ass, digging at the ground to slow his descent. He pushed himself up and brushed his hands on his jeans. It wasn’t the time to be thinking about a little dirt on his hands, and he didn’t know why he felt the need to dust them off, but it was all he could reasonably think to do at the moment.

Beau was pacing in circles, ringing his hands, mumbling to himself. “What the hell are we going to do?” he said.

“We’re getting out of here,” was Justin’s answer. “I’m sure as hell not sticking around.”

With that, Justin made his way to the tunnel entrance, but as soon as he tried stepping inside, a brilliant flash of white light exploded around him, knocking him on his ass.

“Aw, shit, you okay?” Beau asked.

He knelt beside Justin, who half sat up, shaking his head. “That hurt,” he said. “An electric charge of some kind.”

The soldiers were closer now, making their way toward the river. The one in the lead wore the uniform of a captain. His gray flesh dripped down one side of the face, exposing the glistening bone of his jaw. The dead soldier looked straight ahead, one eye unmoving, the other rolling in its socket, ever watchful.

The rest of the soldiers followed single file. One horse’s ribcage was exposed fully. A trail of bloody intestine rolled from its belly, dragging along behind it. The soldier sitting on that horse was skeletal, with only a few flaps of leathery skin clinging to his bones.

“Shit, we gotta hide,” Beau said.

He scrambled for cover behind a fallen tree that hung over the edge of the drop off. From his vantage point, he was able to track the progress of the rotting dead Confederates as they wound their way toward the river.

Justin belly-crawled over beside Beau. The boys could see a small boat coming up the river, still a ways off, so it was hard to make out any details.

They turned their attention back to the zombie Confederates and watched them round a curve that took them on a downward slope toward the bank of the Mississippi.

“What do you think they’re up to?” Beau asked.

The boat was their obvious target.

“Looks like they’re setting a trap,” Justin answered.

“And we’re right in the middle of it,” Beau said.

“Don’t forget, this was your idea. Rich and famous, remember?”

“Damn,” Beau said. He suddenly remembered he was still holding his video camera, but he hadn’t been catching any of this on tape. He angled the recorder at the shambling Confederate troops.

“Are you out of your mind?” Justin asked.

“You expect me to let this go? If we make it out alive, I want something to show for it. Dead Civil War soldiers. It don’t get better than this.”

He filmed the rotting gray corpses as they took up positions at river’s edge. One of the things looked his way, causing Beau to nearly crap his pants. The soldier’s face was framed perfectly. Its teeth were nothing more than rotted yellow and black stumps, its flesh was as gray as clay, and its tongue hung limply from one corner of his mouth. Beau couldn’t be sure, but he was almost positive the dead soldier had seen him, even though it was doubtful at this distance.

He dropped down behind the fallen tree again, just to be on the safe side, but he kept the video recorder up high enough to keep the scene filming. “You’ll thank me later,” he said when he saw Justin roll his eyes and shake his head in disbelief.

“Sure thing,” Justin said.

“Look,” Beau said, pointing at something moving along a trail on the east side of the woods, directly opposite the dead Confederates.

“What is it?” Justin asked.

Beau swing the camera around and took a look. Three men were making their way down an incline. Two of them were African-American. The third was Caucasian, dressed in dark trousers, a jacket, and a sailor’s cap.

“Henry Sinclair,” Beau said. “I’d bet my left nut.” He jockeyed for a better view. “You remember what the old man said, right? We can release Emma Sinclair’s spirit if we bring Henry home. I bet that’s the only way we can get through the tunnel without getting knocked on our asses too.”

“How do you propose we do that . . .” Justin asked, throwing a thumb over his shoulder . . . “with them around?”

Beau glanced at the soldiers, then over to where Henry and the two big black men were nearing river’s edge. “They don’t see the soldiers. We’ll have to stop them before it’s too late.”

“Again, how do we do that?”

Beau handed over the video recorder. “You keep filming. I’ll try and reach them before the Confederates see them.”

“How are you going to get Henry to come back with you?”

Beau shrugged. “I’ll figure it out.”

He bolted off, cutting through dead brush, jumping over fallen tree branches, and tearing through patches of bramble. He made a lot of noise, but it couldn’t be helped. He only hoped the sound didn’t carry to the Confederate troops, and if it did, that they wouldn’t pay attention.

Henry turned in Beau’s direction just as Beau burst through a stand of trees. Before Beau knew what was happening, he was face to face with the business end of Henry’s Colt.

Beau threw his hands in the air. It was the first time he’d looked down the barrel of a gun, and he didn’t like the feeling.

“I’m a friend,” he said quickly, praying silently that Henry didn’t shoot him where he stood.

“You don’t look like no friend,” Henry said.

Beau was a good salesman. Everybody said so. He always knew just the right things to say. “Emma sent me,” he said now, thinking on his feet.

Henry’s arm went slack. He lowered his gun. “What are you talkin’ about?” he asked, not fully dropping his guard.

“She wants me to bring you home, Henry,” Beau told him.

“Home?” Henry said. “She knows where I am, and she knows I’ll see ’er when I’m done here.” He wrinkled his brow. “How do you know my name?”

“I told you already, I’m a—”

“Beau!”

Justin’s voice carried across the distance between them. Beau turned and saw Justin was standing in plain view, waving his arms frantically.

Henry brought his Colt up again, pointing it at Beau.

“They’re coming,” Justin yelled. “They’ve seen us.”

“Who’s comin’?” Henry demanded.

“The Confederates,” Beau said. “Come with me now, back to the tunnel. We don’t have time—”

It was too late. Three dead Johnny Rebs came over the hill on horses. The beasts limped along on narrow, half-rotted legs. They weren’t moving fast, but they were coming at a steady pace.

Henry followed Beau’s line of sight and brought his Colt up and around. He didn’t ask questions before he fired at the Grays. He hit one in the chest. The soldier tumbled backward from his horse, but he was up on his feet almost at once, shambling in Henry’s direction.

“What the—” Henry started, his words ending abruptly in confusion.

“The head,” Beau said. “You have to shoot the fuckers in the head.”

Henry fired again, hitting the walking Confederate soldier between the eyes. The soldier’s head exploded in a spray of maggot-infested flesh.

“Let’s go,” Beau screeched. He started back the way he’d come.

Henry took aim at another one of the rotting soldiers. This time he went for the head right off, and sure enough, the soldier rolled off his horse and didn’t get up again.

Henry went after Beau, waving for the two black men to follow. Beau was halfway up the hill to Justin when Justin started running down the hill.

“Stay there,” Beau yelled to Justin, but Justin kept coming. Pretty soon, Beau could see why. A whole bunch of dead Confederate grays were chasing behind Justin, effectively cutting off their path to the tunnel.

“Shit,” Beau said. “What the hell are we going to do? We have to get back inside that tunnel.”

Henry came to a grinding halt next to them.

“You boys mind tellin’ me what we’re up against here? Those Confed’rates look a little gray, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

“That’s because they’re dead,” Beau said. “And you’re dead too. Only difference is, you’re a ghost and they’re stinking, rotten corpses that don’t know how to stay down.”

“You wanna say that again?”

“There’s no time for chat,” Beau said. “We need to get to the tunnel. You have any more guns?”

Henry shook his head no, but then he pointed to the boat Beau and Justin had seen earlier. “There’s guns on the boat,” he said. “They’re s’pposed to be pickin’ these fellas up and takin’ ’em somewhere safe.”

The boat was just a little ways offshore now.

“Think we can make it?” Justin asked Beau.

“It’s our best bet,” Beau said. “If we can get our hands on guns, we can fight our way back to the tunnel.”

A twig snapped behind them. A Confederate corpse on a tattered horse came up over the top of a beaten trail. He was slumped forward, a glinting saber clutched in his bony fingers.

“Blast the son of a bitch,” Beau said.

Henry shot once and hit the zombie in the shoulder, spinning him sideways and off his horse. The soldier’s horse continued its advance. Thick, bloody strands of black mucus rot dripped from the animal’s mouth. One eye dangled from its socket, flopping against the horse’s face with every step. The beast’s chest cavity gaped wide, exposing a mass of fatty red flesh and squirming maggots.

“Damn me,” Henry muttered. “I never saw the likes of such a thing.”

“Lordy,” one of the negroes exclaimed. He looked skyward and began to sing a soothing hymn, hands linked together in pleading reverence.

Henry squeezed off two shots at the horse. One of the bullets struck the big mare in the head, thank God for that blessing. Her knees buckled and she fell on her side, hopefully dead for the long haul.

The negro who wasn’t singing began to scream. The corpse Henry had blasted off the horse was up again, and it now the putrid thing had hold of the negro, biting into his neck and tearing away a chunk of flesh.

Beau picked up the saber the dead soldier had dropped. He felt the weight of the blade as he raised it in a two-handed grip and swung with all the strength he could muster, slamming the business end of the blade through the zombie Confederate’s neck. He hadn’t expected the blade to go clean through the zombie’s neck and the negro’s neck too, but that was exactly the way it happened.

“The boat’s leaving,” Justin pointed out.

“Pilot musta saw the soldiers,” Henry said.

“Speaking of which . . .” Beau added, pointing to a line of the Confederate corpses making their way from the tree line.

Henry reloaded. “Guess we’re makin’ a run for it,” he said.

The Confederates were well armed, dead or not. Some carried Enfields or Remingtons, a few carried Springfields.

Gunfire erupted. Miniballs whistled through the trees and kicked up dirt all around Beau, Justin, Henry, and the remaining negro.

Beau, armed only with the confiscated saber, charged into the fray, swinging the heavy blade like a madman. He swiped the head of one horse completely off. The animal traveled another few feet before tumbling to the ground and pitching its zombie rider off. Before the zombie reb could get up, Beau slashed the blade of his saber down the middle of the dead soldier’s head, embedding the blade in its skull.

The boat was back again, unloading several men who were now engaging the dead Confederate troops. More gunfire erupted. The Confederate forces seemed to be growing. Pretty soon the men from the boat began to fall, and the zombies closed around the fresh meat, ripping their bellies open and dragging out bloody entrails that looked like raw sausage. They occupied themselves for the time being by stuffing the steaming human meat into their gaping, rotting maws.

Justin relieved a fallen Confederate of his Griswold and Gunnison. The pistol felt good in his hand. He checked the cylinder. Only two bullets remained. He searched the corpse and found three more rounds.

“You boys wanna give me a hand?” Henry said, pausing between shots. “Them things are comin’ at us mighty damn quick now.”

Confederates corpses were everywhere. Justin loaded his pistol and joined Henry. The two of them dispatched as many of the walking dead as they could, but the dead troops seemed to multiply with every shot.

One dead soldier came ambling toward Henry and Justin, almost all skeleton except for a few bits of tattered, leathery flesh. The remnants of intestine slithered between the Confederate’s ribcage. The soldier walked with a limp and tried several times to raise his gun, but his mangled gun arm was only hanging by a thread of stringy flesh, so all the thing could manage to do was shoot itself in the foot.

Justin didn’t see the zombie until it was nearly on top of him. He had two shots left. He fired once and hit the bony Confederate in its ribs, spilling lumpy entrails onto the ground. He fired again, this time with the zombie arm’s-length away. The corpse’s skull exploded in a shower of dry, dusty bone fragments.

The mouth of the tunnel was close. Beau was in the lead, still swinging the saber, dispatching one rotten corpse after another. Henry and the negro were close behind, with Justin bringing up the rear.

“Damn Confed’rates know where the tunnel is now,” Henry said.

Beau tossed the saber and pushed Henry into the tunnel, intent on getting away from the bloody nightmare as fast as possible. The negro followed right behind Henry, with no prompting, but as soon as he was in the tunnel, his body stiffened and screamed. Something happened to his skin then. It began to rot away, dissolving and dripping away from his bones until all that remained was his skeleton. The bones dried up soon after, cracking and crumbling to dust.

Justin went into the tunnel next, pausing long enough to look at the spot where the negro had been only moments earlier, then he turned back and called for Beau to hurry up.

Beau took one last look at the Confederate zombies, then turned and disappeared into the tunnel. It dawned on him that he no longer had his video recorder or his backpack, but it was too late to worry about that now. All that footage was lost. No fame and fortune. Who would ever believe this story without proof?

The corpses were outside the tunnel now. Beau didn’t wait around any longer. He took off down the tunnel, his feet slipping on wet stones as he plunged through black, stinking water. Henry and Justin weren’t too far in front of him. He could hear them sloshing through the water. He ran faster, falling in and out of the nasty-smelling water, but giving it everything he had left to get as far away from the other end of the tunnel as possible.

Something brushed his face . . . Oh, Jesus . . . spider webs, that was all.

There was a flash of light ahead. He wondered if it was Justin’s flashlight. Why wasn’t Justin waiting for him? He made a mental note to kick his ass when this was all over.

He stumbled out the other end of the tunnel, back in the old stone house. Justin and Henry were there too.

“Let’s get Henry upstairs,” Justin said.

Henry was looking around. He recognized his house, but its state of disrepair confused him.

“What’s going on here?” he asked.

“No time for explaining,” Justin said. “Follow us up to the light room.”

Henry didn’t follow anybody. He led the way. It was his house, after all, and as far as he was concerned, nothing had changed since his departure earlier that morning. Nothing except the fact that his home looked like it had been abandoned for a very long time.

“Emma,” Henry called, rushing toward the stairs leading to the light room. “Where’s are you, Emma?”

The door to the light room was padlocked.

“What now?” Beau asked, sighing with frustration.

“Let’s bust it down,” Justin said.

“That door’s solid,” Beau replied. “There’s no way—”

“It’ll take the three of us,” Justin said, then to Henry, “Listen, Emma is in this room. She’s going to hang herself unless we get inside.”

“Emma?” he said, tears welling in his eyes.

Together the three of them rammed the door. The wood was old and weak, which was a blessing. It groaned and cracked under the impact of their forceful weight. After several attempts, the hinges ripped away from the frame, and the door flew open in a shower of splinters.

Emma Sinclair’s ghost stood on a chair in the center of the room, reaching for the rope she would put around her neck. The same rope she’d used one hundred and forty years ago. The same rope she’d used every year since. The same rope she would use until she was reunited with Henry.

“Emma,” Henry said, calm now, as if he finally understood.

Emma turned toward Henry, tears forming in her ghostly eyes. Henry entered the light room, now oblivious to the presence of Beau and Justin. He held out his hand and Emma took it, allowing her husband to help her down from the chair.

“I knew you’d come back,” she said.

“Don’t I always come back?” Henry said.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. The rope that hung from the ceiling vanished, then the chair disappeared. Henry and Emma began to fade away too, until only a mist hung in the room.

Beau and Justin stood for a long moment afterward.

“Guess we should go see the old man,” Beau finally said.

“Yeah, I guess we should,” Justin agreed.

* * *

The cabin was dilapidated and unlived in. It appeared to have been that way for many years. Beau and Justin climbed what was left of the stairs. The porch was collapsing. Some of the boards were missing altogether. The front door was hanging at a slant, attached by only a few nails.

“I don’t get it,” Justin said.

Inside, the cabin was barren and dusty, decorated with cobwebs. Mice scampered across the floor and disappeared behind the walls.

Beau’s foot fell through the floor, over near where he remembered seeing a potbelly stove when he’d gone to fetch the beers. He tugged his leg out of the hole in the floor and reached inside. He withdrew a book made of bound in leather, worn with age. The pages inside were fragile and yellow. The writing was big, bold cursive, barely readable.

Beau and Justin skimmed the pages together, each at his own pace. They read the personal account of a man who had been captured by Confederates while trying to lead slaves to freedom. They read how the man had escaped, only to return home to find his wife had hung herself.

The years following those tragic events unfolded on each yellowed page—lonely ramblings of an old man who took a small cabin near the stone house he’d shared with his wife. The old man hadn’t been able to go on living in the stone house, yet he couldn’t bear to be far from it either.

“The old man . . .” Beau mused, his mind just short of grasping the facts.

“Was Henry Sinclair’s ghost,” Justin said.

Beau closed the book and held it in front of him, feeling its weight in his hands. The video recorder was gone. The journal was all that was left to account for what he and Justin had witnessed.

It was the only proof they had to offer.

* * *

“That should do it,” Beau said, driving the last nail into the final two by four covering the entrance to the light room.

Henry’s journal was in there, hidden beneath the floor boards, resting now in the hands of Henry and Emma Sinclair.

No one would ever believe Beau and Justin anyway.

Besides, Henry and Emma had spent too much time apart. They had much catching up to do.

Henry’s journal bridged the gaps; it belonged with them.

Table of Contents

- Copyright
- Most Wanted
- Introduction
- It Rolled Into Town
- Deadtown
- Fool’s Gold
- End of the Line for the One-O-Nine
- Little Town of Aleone
- Prairie Guts
- Six-Guns and a Silver Bullet
- Skinwalker
- Hang ’Em High
- Downtown Sundown
- Legend of Falling Rock
- A Lady’s Honor
- Dead, White, and Blue