An Occurrence in Crazy Bear Valley
Author: Brian Keene
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Westerns; Fiction; Zombies; Splatterpunk; Novella; Dinosaurs; Weird West
Description: Strap on your six-guns and saddle up for a shoot-out against a horde of angry Sasquatch, zombies, dinosaurs, and more. The Old West has never been weirder or wilder than it has in the hands of master horror writer Brian Keene. Morgan and his gang are on the run--from their pasts and from the posse riding hot on their heels, intent on seeing them hang. But when they take refuge in Crazy Bear Valley, their flight becomes a siege as they find themselves battling a legendary race of monstrous, bloodthirsty beings. Now, Morgan and his gang aren't worried about hanging. They just want to live to see

DEADITE PRESS

205 NE BRYANT

PORTLAND, OR 97211
www.DEADITEPRESS.com

AN ERASERHEAD PRESS COMPANY
www.ERASERHEADPRESS.com

ISBN: 1-62105-048-3

An Occurrence In Crazy Bear Valley copyright 2010, 2012 by Brian Keene

Lost Canyon of the Damned copyright 2010, 2012 by Brian Keene

Cover art copyright © 2012 Glenn Chapman

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

Printed in the USA.

Acknowledgements

For this Deadite Press edition, my sincere thanks and appreciation go to everyone at Deadite Press; Richard Chizmar; Brian Freeman; Tim Lebbon; Steve Vernon; Tim Curran; William Schafer; Joe R. Lansdale; John Joseph Adams; Tod Clark and Mark Sylva; and my sons.

For Bryan Smith,
my fellow Prostitute...

AN OCCURRENCE IN CRAZY BEAR VALLEY

ONE

The following story is based on true events…

Morgan and his group heard the lumberjacks long before they spotted them. The noise echoed through the thick, shadowed forest—the heavy, monotonous thud of large axes striking wood, the honeybee-buzz of sawing, the crude, grumbled curses, snatches of conversation, grunts of exertion and loud gasps of breath. Morgan and the others simply followed the sounds, riding single-file around the bend in the swift-flowing river, until the woodsmen were in sight. The lumberjacks continued with their work, oblivious to the group’s presence. Morgan wasn’t surprised. With all the noise, the workers wouldn’t have heard their approach.

For the last twenty miles, Morgan and the others had ridden through the shallows and along the riverbank, rather than trying to lead the horses through the dense, choking undergrowth. The horses didn’t like the forest. It spooked them. In truth, it spooked Morgan, too, though he didn’t dare admit it to the others—he didn’t have that luxury. Display even the slightest amount of indecision or fear, and they’d be jockeying to take his place as leader of the gang. He kept his misgivings regarding the forest to himself. Ever since entering this vast stretch of cool, murky wilderness, he’d had the uncanny sensation that the trees were watching them. Before coming across the lumberjacks, he’d been unsettled by the lack of sound—there were no birdsongs, no squirrels barking, none of the usual things one heard in the woods. It was as if Mother Nature had decided to hold her tongue.

He squinted, surveying the locale. For the last several miles, the river had wound through a long but narrow valley. The lumberjacks had cleared a wide swath along the riverbank. The clearing stretched deep into the woods, ending atop a faraway hill covered with tall grass, broad ferns, and a colorful rainbow of wildflowers. Morgan smiled at the simple beauty, studying the various hues of red, yellow, blue, white and purple. In contrast, an ugly, crude bunkhouse sat on top of the hill. It had been fashioned from uneven pine slabs, sod, and rocks. It looked sturdy but drafty. Morgan guessed that the structure was probably cold as a witches titty in the wintertime. Smoke curled lazily from a chimney in the cabin’s roof.

Morgan halted his mount. One by one, the rest of the group fanned their horses out beside him and stopped as well. He nodded at each of the riders in turn—Tom Parker, tall and dour and pale, with an S-shaped scar just above one thin eyebrow and an ability to cheat at poker like none other; Henrik Gunderson, the mountain man whose perpetual scowl and tobacco-stained teeth both remained hidden beneath his thick, unkempt, salt and pepper-colored beard; Vernon Stephens, fat, bow-legged, and oily, his bulbous nose infested with blackheads and blue veins, gasping for breath as he sagged in his saddle; Eli Johnson, flashing missing teeth and bleeding gums as he smiled humorlessly, his pink and gnarled left hand, burned in a fire at a livery in Kansas City many years ago, clutching the saddle of his horse; and finally Clara, a refugee from a whorehouse in Wisconsin, riding behind Johnson, her long, wavy red hair spilling out from beneath her hat, her small, thin hands wrapped around Johnson’s waist. None of them spoke. They simply watched the workmen.

There were four lumberjacks. Two of them worked a massive handsaw, pushing and pulling it back and forth as the blade bit deep into a gnarled old oak tree. Both men were covered in sawdust and sweat, despite the cool breeze. Two more workers hefted heavy, cumbersome axes, chopping up the oak tree’s already-downed companion. They remained unaware of the riders. Stephens twisted in his saddle and farted. Gunderson noisily spat a wad of brown tobacco juice onto the ground. His horse whinnied. Finally, the woodsmen looked up, clearly startled by the unexpected newcomers.

Smiling with reassurance, Morgan raised his right hand in greeting. “Howdy.”

One of the men nodded, holding his axe cautiously in front of him.

“Howdy,” the lumberjack returned the greeting. “Where’d you all come from?”

“Back yonder.” Morgan nodded with his head. “My apologies. Didn’t mean to spook you or nothing. We were just passing through.”

“Well, you did spook us and then some, I guess. But it don’t matter.”

“Looks like hot work,” Morgan said. “Hard work, too. Damn hard.”

One of the men on the tree-saw nodded. “I reckon you could say that.”

Morgan let his hand slowly drop to his side, so as not to spook them any further. His smile remained.

“Well,” he said. “I’d imagine you boys could use a break. Am I right?”

The lumberjacks chuckled at this, visibly relaxing.

“Yeah,” a man with an axe said, “I reckon we could, at that.”

“We was just fixing to take one,” his partner agreed.

“Good,” Morgan said. “Please, allow me to help.”

“What’s tha—”

Still smiling, Morgan pulled his pistol and shot the man in the face. The worker’s nose, chin and teeth vanished in a wet, red spray. The man spun around and toppled over, still clutching his axe. Before the other three lumberjacks could even move, Gunderson, Parker, and Johnson had pulled their weapons and gunned them down. Giggling, Clara put her hands over her ears to block the noise. Stephens simply watched, blinking atop his overburdened horse like a squat toad. None of their mounts reacted to the gunfire. Like their riders, the horses had grown accustomed to it by now. The shots echoed through the valley and surrounding forest like slow-rolling thunder. Their ears rang from the noise. Acrid smoke hung in the air.

When the last lumberjack fell, Morgan’s smile grew broader. He raised his head, cupped a hand around his mouth, and shouted, “Timber!”

Laughing at the joke, the group dismounted and stepped into the clearing, examining the bodies of the lumberjacks. They rummaged through the men’s pockets, but found nothing useful.

“Shit,” Parker muttered. “They weren’t worth the price of the bullets we put into them, Morgan.”

“Reckon there’s any more of them up in that cabin?” Johnson asked, warily eyeing the ramshackle structure.

“I doubt it,” Morgan said. “If there were, they’d have started shooting by now, or at least come outside to see what all the commotion was about.”

Stephens, who’d been kneeling over one of the corpses, stood up quickly. His disfigured nose wrinkled in disgust. “Aw, goddamn it!”

“What’s wrong?” Clara asked.

“This one shit his pants when he died,” Stephens said. “I got it on my fucking fingers.”

Clara and Parker laughed.

Ignoring Stephens’ plight, Morgan pointed at the shack on top of the hill. “I reckon we might find something useful up yonder. At the very least, we can camp there for the night. Be nice to have a roof over our heads again.”

Johnson nodded. “If it don’t leak.”

Gunderson frowned. “You sure that’s a good idea, boss? Making camp here?”

“We need to rest,” Morgan said. “So do the horses. We keep pushing them the way we have, and they’re going to drop right out from under us. I don’t know about y’all, but I don’t cotton to the idea of outrunning the posse on foot.”

“I reckon,” Gunderson replied. “But what if the posse comes across us here?”

“I don’t think we have to worry about that,” Morgan said. “In truth, I don’t think they’re after us anymore.”

“How can you be sure?” Eli asked.

“This is wild country. There’s nothing out here but Indians, critters, and folks like these ones we just shot—lumberjacks and prospectors. Most of the men in that posse are city-born. Townspeople. They like their three meals a day served with silverware and cooked on a stove instead of around a fire. They like their books and music and sitting around of an evening, deciding who to vote for and discussing the problems of the world as if they could do something to change them. My point is, they’ve gotten soft. More and more since the end of the war. They’ve got big old bellies to go along with their big old wallets. They’ve been out here long enough that they’ll miss their warm beds and their women. They can’t go without their comforts. I don’t reckon they’ll want to stay out here too long before turning around and heading back, no matter how high the bounty on our heads is. But just in case, we’ll stay here in this valley just long enough to rest up, and then I reckon we’ll ride on.”

“And go where?” Stephens blasted another fart as he bent over on the riverbank and washed the dead man’s feces from his fingers.

Morgan shrugged. “Somewhere away from your sorry ass, I imagine. Damn, but you stink. Reminds me of the whores in that place we took Clara from. Their snatches smelled like your ass, Stephens.”

Laughing, the group started up the hill. Morgan turned back to Stephens, and nodded at the four corpses.

“Toss them bodies in the water, far out enough that the current will take them away. Make sure of that. We don’t need them attracting bears and what-not.”

“Actually,” Parker said, “maybe we ought not to. I mean, not to second-guess you, boss, but I dare say that my stomach could do with some fresh game. I’m a might tired of eating scraps on the run. These dry rations don’t make a proper meal. I bet the rest of you could do with some fresh meat, too. Am I right?”

The others nodded cautiously, glancing between Parker and Morgan.

“So,” Parker continued, “if we was to leave these bodies lying out, and a bear or wolves come sniffing around, looking to eat, we could bag one.”

Morgan paused, considering the suggestion. “I’m sure those lumberjacks have food up yonder in the cabin.”

“Yeah,” Parker said, making one more effort. “I reckon you’re right. But it’s probably all salted or dried. Same shit we’ve been eating for the past week. Wouldn’t you rather have something fresh between your teeth, boss?”

“I guess we could all do with some of that. Good idea, Parker.” Morgan turned back to Stephens. “String them corpses up, and ring the dinner bell. But not too close to the cabin, mind you. Just close enough that we have a good shot when something comes along to eat them.”

They walked up the hill towards the shack, leaving Stephens to grumble and moan to himself about always getting the shit jobs. Their pace was arrogant and leisurely. They moved without care—and without fear. They trod on the wildflowers as they walked, crushing the fragile petals beneath their dirty boot heels. Gunderson spat tobacco juice on green ferns. Johnson and Parker swatted at bees.

Now that the gunshots had finally faded, the ringing in their ears subsided and silence once more returned to the clearing. Morgan still didn’t like it. He preferred the wide open plains and deserts to these dank, shadowy woodlands. Here, the trees grew too closely together, and you never felt the sun on your face. You couldn’t see if someone was coming for you, and there was always the sensation of being watched.

They pulled their weapons again as they neared the cabin. None of them expected trouble. They were all in agreement with their boss that the shack was deserted. But each of them had survived this long by playing it cautious, and their actions now were part of a learned response, as natural to them as sneezing, chewing, spitting, or shitting.

Morgan nodded silently at Gunderson and Johnson, both of whom spread out and approached the porch. While Morgan, Parker, and Clara fanned out in front of the cabin, Gunderson and Johnson positioned themselves on either side of the door. Then, Gunderson opened it and peeked inside. When he wasn’t greeted with gunshots or screams, he stepped inside. Johnson followed him, clutching his weapon with his good hand while clenching his burned hand into a gnarled fist. They disappeared from sight. No sound came from inside the shack.

“All clear?” Morgan called out after a moment, mildly annoyed that they hadn’t yet reported back.

There was no answer.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered. “I swear, Johnson ain’t been right in the head since that mule kicked him back in Cheyenne.”

Clara grinned. “He might not be right in the head, but the rest of him still works fine.”

Scowling, Morgan cupped one hand over his mouth. “Johnson? Gunderson? You all clear or what?”

“We’re all clear,” Johnson shouted back, “but it ain’t deserted, boss.”

“What?”

“I said it ain’t deserted. Best come see for yourself.”

Morgan frowned at the others. “What the hell’s he talking about?”

He plodded up the stairs, followed by Parker and then Clara. Morgan paused as he stepped through the door, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. The first thing he noticed was the stench—sour sweat, wood smoke, feces, urine, unwashed blankets, and meals cooked atop the woodstove had congealed over time to form a permanent and cloying miasma. The smell made Morgan’s eyes water. He struggled with his gorge.

“Christ,” he gasped. “Let’s get some windows open in here. Damn place smells like Stephens’s ass.”

Morgan glanced around the shanty while Clara and Parker crowded in behind him. The shack wasn’t much. Describing it as ‘rustic’ would have applied too much charm to the interior. ‘Shit hole’ was much more apt, in Morgan’s opinion. The cabin consisted of a single centralized room that appeared to function as kitchen, living quarters, bunkhouse, and outhouse all in one. The floors and walls were built out of rough, uneven, un-sanded planks, and the cracks between them had been sealed with dried mud and grass to keep the cold out. A cast-iron cook stove occupied one corner. It was dirty and covered with soot, and the stovepipe leading up to the roof was dented and dinged. The lumberjacks had left the fire burning inside, and wisps of smoke snaked from the dents in the pipe. A few rusty pots and pans sat atop the stove. Spider webs hung in the corners and from the ceiling. A scattering of tiny wasp’s nests dangled from the rafters. Mouse and rat droppings dotted the floor.

The lumberjacks didn’t have much in the way of personal belongings. There were several crude cots with straw-tick mattresses, heaps of soiled blankets and bedrolls, and not much else. A dog-eared copy of the Holy Bible was lying atop a wooden chair. A kerosene lantern hung from a nail in a post. The kitchen table—nothing more than the sawed trunk of a massive oak tree—held a few tin cups, some bowls, and wooden utensils. Some meager food stores—sacks of grain, flour, and beans—occupied some rough-hewn pine shelving. A wooden potato bin sat next to it. Most of the potatoes inside of it were already sprouting thin, greenish-white tubers. A rusty, dented tin pail occupied one corner. Judging by the stench wafting from it, the lumber-jacks had been using the bucket to piss and shit in. There were very few weapons—just a shotgun, a long rifle, and some ammunition for both, along with a few knives of varying size and length. The only other items in the shack were the lumberjacks’ clothing, footlockers and some spare tools leaning against the walls.

Like a hundred other such places they’d encountered from El Paso all the way to Cheyenne, and Philadelphia to Kansas City, the cabin was wholly unremarkable. What was remarkable was the woman tied to a post in the center of the room.

Johnson and Gunderson moved aside, allowing Morgan to fully enter the cabin. Clara and Parker followed him inside.

“Jesus,” Parker gasped. “Would you look at her.”

Johnson grinned. “Like we said—it ain’t exactly deserted. Them lumberjacks was nice enough to leave us a present. She’s a real beauty, ain’t she?”

Clara frowned at this, but said nothing. Parker and Gunderson held their tongues, waiting for Morgan to speak. He didn’t. Instead, he simply stood there, expressionless, quietly appraising the captive. They’d all seen this look before. Morgan wore it when he was playing cards, sizing up an opponent, or getting ready to kill someone. Quite often, those things were one and the same.

The captive woman was young, maybe nineteen or twenty, and she would have been beautiful under better conditions. It was obvious to Morgan that her current situation had been less than optimum. She was nude except for a coarse, moldering burlap bag. Mold grew in sprawling patches on the fabric. Holes had been cut in it for her arms, head and neck. It stretched from her shoulders to just above her belly button. Her arms were tied above her head with bailing twine, and bound around a rusty nail sticking out of the post. Another length of bailing twine encircled her ankles. Her pale skin was covered with yellow-purple bruises and various scratches, cuts and scabs. Her long blonde hair was dirty and matted, the curls more like barbed wire than anything remotely feminine. The girl’s lower lip was split in the center. The wound looked fresh. Tiny traces of dried blood and snot crusted her upper lip and nostrils. She stared at Morgan and the others, her eyes wide and panicked.

“You got a name?” Morgan asked.

The girl moaned. Morgan crossed the floor, grabbed her chin, and pulled her face up. He stared into her eyes.

“Name,” he said again. “Do you have one? Answer me, now.”

Boot heels sounded at the door. Stephens walked into the bunkhouse, paused, and glanced around the room in confusion. He gaped at the naked captive. His gaze darted down to her exposed lower half and then back up to her face.

“Who the hell’s this?” he asked.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Morgan said, turning to face him, the girl’s chin still cupped in one hand. “You take care of them bodies like I told you to?”

Stephens nodded. “Sure did, boss. I strung them up just like you said. Hung them in a little copse of pines on the edge of the clearing. I figure that way, we can shoot at whatever comes sniffing around from inside of here. No sense standing out there at night. I reckon it gets downright cold in these woods come nightfall.”

If Morgan heard all of this, he didn’t acknowledge it. He’d already turned back to the girl.

“I’ll ask you one more time. What is your name, girl?”

The girl licked her swollen lips. “Are y’all here to rescue me?”

Sighing, Morgan struck her hard with the back of his hand, simultaneously answering her question and demanding an answer to his own. The girl cried out as her head rocked to one side. She let her chin rest on her chest as she began to sob. None of the others moved. They watched, impassively. Morgan seized the girl’s chin and raised her head again.

“You want me to hit you again?”

“C-crystal,” she stammered. “My n-name is Crystal.”

“Crystal.” Smiling, Morgan released her chin and softened his tone. “Now that’s more like it, Crystal. Is that your Christian name?”

“I don’t know what that means. Please don’t hit me anymore.”

“It means was that the name you were born with?”

She nodded, sniffling. Tears rolled down her dirty, bruised cheeks.

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Crystal.” Morgan tipped his hat to her. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a faded handkerchief, and wiped her face and eyes. His nose wrinkled as he leaned close. Her burlap garments smelled musty, and the girl obviously hadn’t bathed in a while. Crystal winced when his fingers brushed against her lips and nose. Morgan shushed her, his tone apologetic, and finished wiping the grime and her tears away.

“My name is Morgan,” he said, and then motioned to the others. “These are my associates—Mr. Parker, Mr. Johnson, Mr. Gunderson, and Mr. Stephens. The lady is named Clara, except that her Christian name ain’t Clara, and she isn’t a lady. Unless you count lady of ill repute, that is.”

Clara threw back her head and cackled at this. The others snickered, their eyes flicking back and forth between their boss and the captive girl.

“Are you folks here to rescue me?” Crystal asked again, her voice hopeful.

Morgan frowned, as if considering her request. “Well now, I reckon that depends. Mind telling us who tied you up like this, and why?”

“O’Bannon and his boys did it. They keep me like this while they’re out working during the day.”

“And O’Bannon would be one of the tree jockeys down yonder?”

She nodded. “Is he…is he dead?”

“Well, I’m not sure which one he was, but yes, they’re all dead.”

Crystal’s body sagged on the hook. She sighed. Her expression changed from doubt and fear to one of relieved elation.

“They only let me loose at night, and then I had to… to service them.”

“Fuck them, you mean?”

She nodded. “Mostly. Sometimes I’d cook or clean, but mostly it was sex.”

“And did you mind doing that?”

Crystal shrugged. “I didn’t mind, I guess. It kept me alive. They kidnapped me from a whorehouse I was working in down near Big River. Not much of a difference.”

“Well,” Morgan said. “I reckon there’s no harm in letting you go, provided you do for me and my associates what you were willing to do for the lumberjacks. After all, it’s like you said—anything to stay alive. Am I right?”

She glanced at the others, studying their reactions, and then looked back to Morgan.

“No. I mean. yes. I don’t guess that would be too bad.”

“Good. Gunderson, you got your knife on you?”

“Sure do, boss.”

“Hand it here.”

Gunderson reached down, rolled up his pant leg and reached into his boot, withdrawing a knife from the side. He surrendered it to Morgan without a word. Morgan raised the blade. Crystal cowered, cringing as he sliced through the bailing twine around her wrists. Then, as she stood their rubbing her hands together to restore the circulation, he freed her ankles and handed the knife back to Gunderson.

“Thank you,” Crystal murmured.

“Don’t mention it,” Morgan said. His voice took on a sarcastic edge. “Lincoln freed the slaves. I reckon we should all live by that example.”

“Should I… start servicing you now?”

“Damn girl! I like your spirit.” Chuckling, Morgan shook his head and sniffed. “But no. Get cleaned up first. Enjoy your freedom. Make yourself at home. There’ll be plenty of time for thanking us later. We ain’t leaving here for a while.”

TWO

“You sure about the posse, boss?”

Morgan, Parker, Johnson and Stephens were seated around the table, playing a hand of cards with the lumberjacks’ deck and eating some of the dead men’s beans and potatoes that Clara and Crystal had cooked up. Clara now lounged on one of the musty cots. Crystal sat nearby, her eyes darting back and forth between each of them. Gunderson sat by the window, a long rifle in his hands. Although he was listening to the conversation, he kept his attention focused on the group of pine trees where Stephens had hung the bait earlier.

“Understand,” Parker continued, “I don’t mean to disagree with you or anything like that. I’m just nervous is all.”

“Nervous?” Johnson laughed. “I’d dare say scared is more like it. Ready to shit your britches at the thought of hanging.”

Parker’s ears turned red. “Fuck you, Johnson. I ain’t afraid of hanging.”

“You damn well should be,” Morgan said around a mouthful of beans, “because if they ever catch us, we’ll hang for sure. After all the shit we’ve done across this country? No doubt about it, boys. We’d hang. But I don’t think they will catch us. I think the posse has given up already.”

Stephens drew a card from the deck. “After what we did back in that last town? You really think they’d just let us go?”

“Of course not,” Morgan replied. “You don’t pull something like that and just walk away unscathed. We were wanted men before that. Now we’re twice as wanted. I reckon the law will double—maybe triple the bounty on our heads. Then they’ll put the word out. Hell, they probably put it out already. But like I told you earlier, I don’t think any of the folks in the posse will bother riding into these parts to hunt for us. They’re too soft. We’re hard men—harder than them—and they know it. What they’ll probably do is hire their own hard men to come after us. Ex-soldiers, bounty hunters and the like. Lots of fellas like that around these days, looking for a fight. Castaways from the war. So they’ll buy themselves some hired guns to come hunting for us. But that will take a few days—a few weeks, even. I reckon we’ve got time. And it ain’t like we’ve never had those types chasing after us before.”

“I sure hope you’re right, boss” Johnson said.

“Tell you what,” Morgan replied. “If I ain’t, and they do show up here, you can be the first one to shout out ‘I told you so.’ Fair enough?”

Johnson didn’t respond.

“Whereabouts do you reckon we are, anyway?” Parker asked.

Morgan shrugged. “I imagine we’re somewhere near the Humboldt Line. What they call Big Woods Country.”

“That’s an apt name,” Gunderson said from his seat at the window.

“It certainly is,” Morgan agreed. Then he glanced at Parker. “You ain’t cheating now, are you?”

Parker grinned. “I know better than to cheat this bunch, boss. And besides, this ain’t my deck, remember? Mine’s scattered all over that saloon back where we come from.”

“When has that ever stopped you before?”

Parker’s grin grew larger. He winked at Morgan. “Well, I ain’t had time to mark these cards yet.”

A search of the lumberjacks’ footlockers had turned up several rawhide tobacco pouches. It was stale but still smoke-able. After they had finished their meal, the men tamped tobacco into their pipes while Clara and Crystal removed the plates and utensils. Clara joked and flirted with each of them in turn, but it was clear that she favored Johnson. Crystal did her best to mimic the older woman’s behavior, clearly afraid of what would happen to her if she didn’t. Morgan watched her silently. The girl was smart. She’d obviously picked up on the dynamic between Johnson and Clara, so she paid special attention to him. When he ignored her advances, she turned her attempts to Parker, who seemed to appreciate them more.

Once their pipes were lit and flowing, Morgan dealt them another hand of cards. Then he leaned back, blew smoke, and sighed.

“It’ll do us good to stay here a couple of days,” he said. “We can rest up. More importantly, the horses can rest up. Damn things are nearly dead, hard as we’ve been riding them. Which reminds me. Stephens, head on out there and see to them. Rub them down, check their hooves, make sure they’ve got water and such. And tie them close to the cabin. We don’t need them wandering off in the night or getting eaten.”

“Me?” Stephens peered out over the tops of his cards. “I hung the bodies up like you asked, Morgan. Can’t someone else take a turn?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Did I stutter? Now go on and get.”

“Well, that don’t rightly seem fair, boss. Why can’t someone else do it?”

Morgan scowled at him. “Why not? I’ll tell you why not, you fat fucking toad. Because I goddamn said so. That’s why. Now if you want to skin on out of here and take your chances on your own, you be my goddamned guest. But as long as you ride with us, then you do as I say. It’s been that way since the beginning. Shouldn’t come as no big surprise to you now.”

“You’re right.” Stephens pouted. “I just…”

He glanced furtively at Crystal and then back to Morgan, who leaned back in his chair, propped his bare feet up on the table, and laughed.

“Oh, I see! Look here, boys. I’ll be damned if Stephens hasn’t got himself a crush on our new girl. Hear that, Crystal? He’s sweet on you. Trying to show off. Impress you by arguing with me. Prove he’s the biggest wolf in the pack. Is that it, Stephens?”

“No,” he insisted, standing up quickly. “It’s just that it’s getting dark outside and I’m tired and I thought someone else might like to take a fucking turn. On account of we’re all friends, like. I hear tell that friends do things like that for each other.”

“Sounds to me like you’re afraid,” Johnson said.

“Fuck you, Johnson.”

“Ain’t nothing out there to be afraid of,” Parker said. “You tell him, new girl. You’ve been living here with those tree jockeys. Ain’t nothing to be afraid of, right?”

Crystal opened her mouth to speak, but then hesitated.

“Bears,” Stephens said. “Or Indians, maybe. Bound to be some of both in these parts. Hell, that’s why we hung up them bodies—so a bear would come around.”

“But they ain’t gonna eat you.” Parker snorted. “Hell, Gunderson’s right there at the window with a gun. You know what a good shot he is.”

“Well, then you do it, Parker. You’re feeling so goddamned brave, you go ahead and volunteer to take my place.”

“I can’t, Stephens. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m busy playing cards. You know I take my cards very seriously. And besides, I recollect that the boss man told you to do it. Not me.”

“Go on now,” Morgan warned. “No more arguing, Stephens. Just get it done. There’s a good man. Sooner you finish, the sooner you can come back inside.”

Still sulking, Stephens pulled on his boots, farted, and then, without another word, opened the door and went outside.

There was a lull in the conversation after that. Morgan produced a bottle of whiskey and passed it around. Each of them took a long pull, even Crystal. Then Parker, Johnson and Morgan sat playing cards. Clara stretched back out on one of the cots and closed her eyes. Crystal sat on another cot. She appeared unsure of what to do next since no one was taking a particular interest in her at the moment. She alternated between watching the men play their game and watching Clara sleep. Gunderson, meanwhile, sat motionless at the window, staring out into the gloom, his rifle within easy reach should a target present itself.

About half an hour had passed before Stephens bustled back inside. He was squinting and his expression was twisted, as if he’d just bitten into a ripe lemon. He fanned his hand in front of his nose.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Johnson asked.

Stephens shut the door behind him. “Something stinks out there.”

“It’s probably your ass,” Parker said. “You been breaking wind again?”

This earned a round of laughter from everyone in the room. Even Crystal grinned nervously.

“No,” Stephens said as his cheeks flushed. “I ain’t joshing around. Something really reeks out there. Stinks to high Heaven, I’m telling you. Bad enough that it’s filling the whole valley.”

“Well, what does it smell like?” Morgan asked.

Stephens shrugged. “It just smells…wrong, boss. I don’t rightly know how to describe it.”

“Try. Because you’re starting to piss me off.”

Nodding, Stephens took a deep breath. “Well, it was pretty foul. Smelled sort of like a dead animal that’s been laying out in the sun for a few days, except stronger than that. A lot stronger. It had a sour tang to it. When I smelled it, I started breathing through my mouth, and I’m hear to tell you, boys, I could taste it on my tongue. Almost made me lose my dinner.”

Johnson leaned back in his chair. “You say it smelled like a dead animal?”

“Yeah. A ripe one.”

“Well, hell, it’s probably them lumberjacks’ corpses.”

Stephens shook his head. “No, it wasn’t them. I thought of that at first, too. But this smell was a lot stronger than what they’d be by now. And like I said, it fills the entire goddamn valley.”

“Maybe it was some other dead critter,” Gunderson suggested. “A deer or a raccoon or something, lying dead out there in the woods.”

“No,” Stephens insisted. “I’m telling you, it wasn’t a dead animal.”

“You just said it was,” Clara said. “Make up your damn mind, Stephens.”

“I said it smelled sort of like a dead animal. Sort of. But it wasn’t. Whatever I smelled was alive.”

Morgan frowned. “That doesn’t make much sense, Stephens.”

“I allow that it might not,” the fat man admitted, shrugging. “But I don’t know how to explain it any better than that, boss. This was like a musk. A scent. And whatever it was, it spooked me good. I ain’t fucking going out there no more tonight. Send Gunderson outside. He’s the mountaineer. Maybe he’ll know what it is.”

Crystal spoke up then, her voice so soft that they had to strain to hear her.

“It was one of the crazy bears.”

One by one, they slowly turned to her, their expressions mirroring their surprise.

“What’d you say?” Clara asked.

“The crazy bears. They smell just like what he’s describing.”

The group glanced at each other, and then at Morgan, waiting to see how he’d respond. He leaned forward in his chair, rested his elbows on his knees, folded his hands together in a steeple, and stared at her thoughtfully. One of his eyebrows was arched slightly. His mouth was a thin, tight line. He did not blink or speak. In the silence, it was hard to tell if he was even breathing.

“I-I’m sorry,” Crystal apologized. “I j-just thought…”

“It’s okay,” Morgan interrupted. His tone was soft and conciliatory. “Tell us more about this… what did you call it? Crazy Bear? Is he an Indian?”

“Not crazy bear,” Crystal explained. “Crazy bears. There’s more than one. And no, they’re not Indians. But that’s what the Indians call them.”

Stephens sat down at the table. The chair creaked under his weight. The others barely noticed him. Their attention was focused on Crystal, who now sat up straight in the bed, looking nervous.

“Go on,” Morgan said. “Tell us about them.”

“Well, I only know what O’Bannon and the others told me. They talked about them sometimes. I never saw the crazy bears for myself. I heard them a few times, late at night. And I thought I smelled one once. But that’s all.”

“What are they?” Parker interrupted. “Bears with rabies or something?”

“No,” Crystal said. “They weren’t animals. According to O’Bannon, they were these sort of… wild men, living together further up the river.”

Morgan frowned. “Wild men? So hey were Indians after all?”

“Not according to O’Bannon. He said they’d been here longer than the Indians.”

“How did he know that?” Morgan asked.

“Before the Indians left this area, O’Bannon and the others used to spend a lot of time in their village, trading and drinking and gambling and such. The Indians told them all about the crazy bears. The tribe used to take these large clay platters heaped with vegetables and raw deer meat to a cave several miles up river where the crazy bears lived. I guess it was like an offering or such. O’Bannon followed some of the Indians to the cave one night, and he saw the crazy bears for himself. He said they weren’t human.”

“But you just said they were wild men.”

“Men, yes. But not human men.”

She paused, studying them warily, as if expecting them to laugh. When they didn’t, Crystal licked her split bottom lip and then winced.

“Go on,” Morgan urged. “What were they, if they weren’t men?”

“Well, he didn’t rightly know. There were all kinds in the tribe—men, women, and even some young ones. The biggest was well over eight feet tall, and O’Bannon said that it must have weighed well over three-hundred pounds. And all of the crazy bears were covered in long hair. Different colors, though. Some of them had black hair. Others had reddish-brown. The only place they didn’t have hair were on their palms and their eyes—and on the females breasts.”

“Well, that’s good to hear,” Johnson said. “Ain’t nothing worse than a hairy titty. I hate when that happens. Get a hair in your mouth—have to use it to clean your teeth with.”

Clara, Parker and Stephens laughed at this until a stern look from Morgan silenced them. As their laughter died, Morgan turned to Crystal and nodded.

“Please continue,” he said.

“O’Bannon said that they were all naked. He said their faces were human, except for their foreheads. And they didn’t have necks. Their big heads just sort of sat on their shoulders, all squat like. Y’all know what I mean? The cave stank—he described it just like the smell Mr. Stephens described earlier. But he said the crazy bears weren’t mean or nothing. More curious than anything else. Sort of peaceful.”

“Where did they come from, originally?” Morgan asked. “These crazy bears?”

“You’ll laugh at me.”

“No, I won’t.”

“The Indians told O’Bannon that the crazy bears came from the stars.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Parker exclaimed. “This is just like them two boys in Santa Fe that swore they’d seen a big, giant bird out in the desert—the Thunderbird. Ya’ll remember that?”

“I do,” Stephens said. “Them two fellas’ from the war. One was a Northerner. Weren’t they the ones who were also convinced that—”

“Shut up,” Morgan said quietly. “Both of you. You’re being rude to our new friend.”

Parker and Stephens fell silent. A moth fluttered around the kerosene lamp, attracted by the warm glow. Crystal’s gaze focused on that as she continued.

“The Indians said that long ago, a small moon came flying in over their village one night, and it hovered over the mountaintop like a giant eagle. A few men from the tribe went up the mountain to investigate, and when they reached the top, they saw the moon open up. The crazy bears walked out of the moon and stood there on the mountaintop, and then the moon closed up again and flew away.”

“Damnedest thing I ever heard,” Clara muttered.

Morgan rubbed his chin. “And you say you’ve heard them, but you’ve never seen one for yourself?”

Crystal shook her head. “No, sir. Don’t know that I’d want to, either.”

“Well, if you’ve never seen one, then how do you know that the lumberjacks weren’t just pulling your leg?”

She shrugged. “I don’t, I guess.”

“I heard tell of things like this before,” Gunderson said from his seat by the window.

They all turned to look at him. Gunderson appeared flustered by their attention. The normally-taciturn outlaw glanced out the window again and cleared his throat. Then he leaned back in the chair, met their glances, and continued.

“A preacher fella’ up near Spokane used to swear there were these furry giants living up in the mountains who used to steal salmon from the fishermen’s nets. Said they were over eight-feet tall and walked like a man. The Indians in that area called them skoocooms or some such nonsense. I’ve heard of similar creatures over the years.”

“Aw, it was probably just a bear with mange,” Parker said. “I seen a bear cub with mange once, back in Missouri. Looked kind of like what she’s describing. Patches of hair missing around its eyes and such.”

“But the rest of their bodies still had hair,” Morgan said. “And a group of bears wouldn’t let the Indians come into their cave, especially if there were young ones around. And that’s what Crystal says happened.”

She nodded. “O’Bannon said they weren’t vicious. They were just sort of like wild animals—but really smart.”

“I think O’Bannon made it up,” Morgan said. “Probably to keep you from running off at night.”

“Or maybe,” Clara said slowly, “she’s making it up now just to fool with us. Maybe she figures if she can scare us with this bullshit, we’ll ride off and leave her behind.”

Morgan grinned. “You wouldn’t do that now, would you, Crystal? You wouldn’t lie to me. Not after I set you free.”

“No, I sure wouldn’t.” Crystal’s eyes grew wide. “I swear, I’m not lying. That’s what O’Bannon always said. Every word of it is true, just like he told me”

Morgan stood up and slowly unbuckled his belt. His eyes never left hers.

“Well,” he said, still smiling, “whether the crazy bears are real or not, I reckon you’ll be safe tonight. You won’t get much sleep—but you’ll be safe.” Morgan walked across the shack and stood before her, his belt and pants undone. “Time to earn your keep, darlin’.”

Crystal hesitated for a moment, and then reached for him. Grinning, Johnson and Parker joined Clara on the other bed. Shaking his head, Stephens blew out the lamp and lay down to sleep. Gunderson sat by the window, alert and awake. He remained motionless, except to occasionally lean over and spit tobacco juice.

Night fell on the valley.

THREE

Gunderson shivered. It had been several hours since the cries, moans, creaks, grunts and smacks coming from the cots had finally died down, replaced with snores and the occasional muffled snatch of sleep-talk. The temperature inside the drafty cabin had dropped noticeably. He could see his breath in front of his face each time that he exhaled.

Farther down in the valley, the river sparkled and shimmered like polished glass in the moonlight. The forest had been quiet during the day, but it was alive now. An owl called out from a shadowed copse of pines, its cry haunting and melancholy. Insects buzzed and sang. The tree-tops swayed slightly, rocking in the breeze. It would have been enough to lull anyone else to sleep, but Gunderson had always been a night person. He felt more awake—more alive—after the sun went down, and the darkness, combined with the chilly temperature, kept him focused and alert now.

Rubbing his hands together, he shifted slightly in his chair and tilted his head from side to side, cracking his neck and back. The pops sounded very loud in the small shack. He glanced over at the others, but none of them stirred. When Gunderson’s stomach growled a few moments later, Stephens grunted in response and then went back to snoring. Otherwise, nobody woke. Gunderson breathed a sigh of relief. Morgan, especially, was a notoriously light sleeper. Gunderson could only assume that his prior activities with the new girl had worn the boss man out.

He glanced back out the window and tried to ignore the stiffness in his joints. Gunderson knew that he wasn’t a spring chicken anymore, but the pains had been growing worse over the last year, and that worried him. He hadn’t mentioned it to the others, but he knew that Morgan had noticed. The boss didn’t miss a damn thing. As if reading his thoughts, Morgan sighed softly in his sleep. Gunderson turned back to him.

Out in the darkness, the owl hooted again as Gunderson studied his sleeping companions. Parker had opted for one of the empty bunks after he and Johnson had finished with Clara. The man’s pasty white buttocks rose and fell in time with his breathing. Johnson and Clara were entangled on another bunk, legs entwined, breathing into each other’s face as they slept. Stephens was curled into the fetal position, his expression slack and content. Occasionally, he snored—a raucous, staccato sound that always left Gunderson wondering if the fat man was dying. Morgan slept on his back, pistol within reach. Crystal slept on the floor beside him. Morgan had been enough of a gentleman to give the girl a spare pillow and a thin, coarse blanket.

Gunderson had never slept with Clara. He’d never wanted to, not even when he was drunk. He seriously doubted that he’d get the urge to sleep with Crystal, either. It wasn’t that he didn’t like women. He’d certainly had his share—both the willing and the unwilling, especially during the war. But pussy had always been more of an afterthought to him, a way to wile away the time when boredom threatened to creep in. He’d much rather be out in the woods, hunting, than he would lying in some bed with whore-stink all over his pecker. Also, there was something about sticking his dick where other men had stuck theirs that just didn’t appeal to him. It seemed unnatural. Uncivilized. Turned a man into nothing more than a wild beast, rutting with whatever was in heat. That was no good for a hunter like him. As far as Gunderson was concerned, a man needed to be better than the beasts he killed. Superior.

He turned his attention back to the task at hand, peering out into the moonlight, ever watchful, waiting for something to take the bait. Another thirty minutes passed before that chance came.

Gunderson’s first sign that a predator had entered the clearing was the sudden overwhelming silence. The sounds of nighttime in the forest—the owl and the insects and all of the other creatures—ceased abruptly. One moment, a nocturnal cacophony. The next moment, the only sound was that of his sleeping companions and the muffled drone of the river. Even the horses were quiet.

Then came the stench. It wafted in on the night breeze, subtle at first, but quickly coalescing into an almost permeable cloud. Wincing, Gunderson reeled back in his seat, turning away from the window. His eyes watered and his nose burned. He reached in his back pocket and grabbed his dirty handkerchief. As he wrapped it around his nose and mouth, he wondered if he was smelling the same thing Stephens had reported earlier. It was acrid, nauseating, and somehow wet. He’d never experienced anything like it in all of his time in the wild. It wasn’t a skunk, or the musk of a bobcat or wolf in heat. And despite what Stephens and the new girl had said earlier, it wasn’t the stench of decay, either. Squinting, he blinked the tears away and looked out the window again.

A shadowed form moved in the moonlight, loping across the clearing. It walked upright on two thick legs. Two long arms swung by its sides. It paused, turning toward the horses, but then it resumed its stride again, heading straight for the corpses. Morgan’s idea had obviously worked. The creature was attracted by the smell of the bodies. From his vantage point inside the bunkhouse, Gunderson couldn’t see much else, but it was obvious that the animal was covered in fur, and even at this distance, its size was huge—easily well over eight feet tall.

That ain’t no bear, he thought, slowly reaching for his rifle. Its forelegs are too long and no wild bear could walk on its hind legs like that for so long.

He’d heard tell of gorillas—human-sized versions of monkeys—before, but he’d never seen one in real life. But from what he’d been told, gorillas were shorter, and used their forearms and hands to help when walking. The creature in the clearing walked more like a man, and it was very tall. It wasn’t a bear. It wasn’t a gorilla. It wasn’t a man. What else could it be? A crazy bear? Sure. Or at least, the source of the Indian legend. But what was a crazy bear?

Doesn’t matter what it is, Gunderson mused. In a second, the only thing it’ll be is tomorrow’s breakfast, lunch and dinner.

He raised the rifle, rested one elbow on the windowsill, and set the weapon’s stock between his shoulder and armpit. He swallowed his tobacco juice, rather than spitting. His stomach gurgled. Outside, the horse whinnied nervously. The worst of the stench dissipated as the animal drew further away from the shack. The creature approached the pine trees where Stephens had hung the corpses with a mixture of trepidation and eagerness. It darted forward, then stopped and sniffed the air, turning its bullet-shaped head from side to side. It glanced back at the horses once more, as if trying to decide which prey to go after. Then it ran forward again, heading toward the dead lumberjacks.

Gunderson took a deep breath, sighted, drew a bead, exhaled, and then squeezed the trigger. The rifle kicked against his shoulder. He saw the creature drop, and then its form was obscured for a moment by the gun smoke swirling around his head. Gunderson didn’t mind. It helped cut down on the animal’s stench. The explosion boomed through the cabin, shattering the stillness. The others were instantly awake. Gunderson didn’t have to turn around to know that Morgan would already be on his feet, pistol in hand, surveying the situation. The rest would be a split second behind him, reflexes sharp, reaching for their various weapons. The only one whose behavior he wasn’t familiar with was Crystal’s, but he assumed she’d be awake, too.

“God damn,” Parker groaned.

The ringing in Gunderson’s ears still hadn’t subsided but the gun smoke had cleared. Gunderson stared out into the moonlight. The crumpled form was still there, lying motionless at the feet of the pines. He spat a stream of brown tobacco juice and nodded in satisfaction.

“One shot,” he said. “I might be getting older, but damned if I ain’t still got the touch.”

“What’d you get?” Johnson came up behind him, tugging up his pants. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Not sure,” Gunderson said, turning around to face them. “Wasn’t like any animal that I’ve ever seen. One of them crazy bears, I suspect. Or at least, the source for the stories about them.”

“Was it a bear?” Morgan asked, crossing to the window and peering out.

“If it was,” Gunderson replied, “then it was a mighty strange one. Mighty strange. I couldn’t get a good look at it in the dark, but to tell you the truth, boss, it reminded me more of those gorillas you hear talk about at the zoos than any—”

A loud, anguished cry interrupted him. It echoed from some-where deep in the forest. A moment later, a second mournful howl joined the chorus. Then another and another, until there were dozens of cries.

“What the hell is that?” Parker gasped.

Morgan strode across the floor and flung the door wide open. He stepped out onto the porch and stared into the darkness. Gunderson, Parker, and Johnson joined him. Their breath clouded the air. The boards were wet with frost beneath their feet. Clara, Stephens and Crystal hovered in the doorway. Both women clung to Stephens’ side.

“That’s them,” Crystal said. “That’s the crazy bears! That’s what they sound like. But I’ve never heard so many of them at once. And not like this.”

Morgan turned around and glanced at her as more shrieks echoed all around them.

“What do you mean ‘not like this’?”

“They sound angry. They’ve never sounded like that before.”

Parker stepped forward. “You want us to go get the carcass and clean it, boss?”

“Not with all that damned noise going on, I don’t.” Morgan gestured towards the trees. “No telling how many are out there—or what they even are. Sounds like a cross between a bobcat and a bear, if you ask me. I’ve never heard anything like it in my life.”

“Me neither,” Gunderson said. “And I’ve heard lots of strange things in my time.”

“We could drag the carcass back here,” Johnson suggested. “If we’re quick about it, shouldn’t be no harm. We’ve got our guns.”

“Good luck dragging it back here on your own,” Gunderson said. “You boys didn’t see that thing when it was standing up. It weighs a good three-hundred pounds, I’d imagine. Maybe more.”

Johnson whistled. “Too heavy to move without the horses, then.”

Gunderson nodded. “I reckon it—”

A third volley of cries drowned him out.

“The hell with this,” Morgan said. “Everybody get back inside the shack. Ain’t no sense messing around with a pack of wild animals. The posse is enough to worry about. We don’t need this on top of it. We’ll wait till morning. Cold as it is out here, that meat won’t spoil before morning. Soon as the sun is up, we’ll field dress it and cook some up. Have ourselves a late breakfast. Then we’ll cure the rest, so we can take it with us.”

One by one, they hurried back into the shack. Stephens shut the door behind them. Parker volunteered to take over the watch for Gunderson, and Morgan had Johnson join him, so that neither man would fall asleep. Parker and Johnson took their positions as more howls and shrieks rang out. The others lay back down again, clearly disturbed by the noise.

“Hey, Gunderson,” Morgan said.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Good shooting out there.”

“Thanks, boss.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Eventually, the strange cries faded, but it was a long time before any of them slept.

FOUR

Despite their interrupted slumber, the group was up early the next morning. None of them spoke much. They grumbled and groaned, bleary-eyed and stiff. Crystal knew where some coffee was located among the lumberjacks’ stores, and she endeared herself to the others by making a fresh pot. The aroma filled the room—rich and bold, lifting their spirits. Once they’d woken up a bit, Morgan walked outside, tin mug full of steaming coffee in his hand.

The valley was full of early morning fog. It had risen overnight, after they’d all gone back to bed. He could hear the river in the distance but he couldn’t see it. Indeed, his visibility was limited to a few feet in front of the cabin. The trees, rocks, and wildflowers were all lost beneath the thick, swirling haze. He’d only seen fog this thick twice in his life—once on a boat in Louisiana, and another time on the battlefield. He shuddered, recalling that second time, when Union soldiers had come charging out of the mist with a horrible cry. A lot of blood had been spilled that day, and Morgan swore the fog had turned red.

The porch boards creaked as Gunderson walked out and joined him. The big man placed a fresh wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth, worked it around with his tongue, and spat off the side of the porch. Then he scratched his cheek and stared at the swirling mists. Morgan waited for him to speak, but he didn’t. Morgan waited a few moments, but Gunderson only cleared his throat and shuffled his feet.

“Got something on your mind, Gunderson?”

“Reckon we should wait for this fog to burn off before we do anything, boss?”

Morgan nodded. “That would probably be best. It’s already warming up out here. I can’t imagine it’ll last more than another half hour. Soon as its gone, take Stephens with you and gut that thing. Get it cleaned up and butchered. Meanwhile, I’ll check on the horses. Make sure they’re okay. They were spooked last night, but if something had got at them, I’m sure we’d have heard it.”

“What about Parker and Johnson?”

“I’m gonna let them sleep a bit, if they’ve got a mind to. They had second watch. Like I said yesterday, I don’t expect the posse to show up, but if they do, I want everybody rested up and ready to ride out—or shoot it out.”

Gunderson continued staring into the mist. “Is it the posse you’re worried about, boss?”

Morgan sipped his coffee. “That—among other things.”

“Me, too,” Gunderson said. “The crazy bears…”

“Hell of a name.”

“That it is. But it fits. I’ll tell you, boss, I ain’t never heard nothing like what we heard last night. To be honest, it downright spooked me.”

Morgan frowned. Gunderson was one of his most unflappable—and loyal—men. He’d never once seen the big man scared, not even during the close quarters shoot out with the law back in Red Creek two years before—and that had been bloody enough and harrowing enough to even frighten Morgan himself.

“Well,” he said softly. “I reckon we’ll rest up today and tonight, and skin on up river come tomorrow.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Gunderson agreed. “Any idea where we’re headed?”

Morgan shrugged. “Somewhere other than this valley.”

“That’d be just fine.”

They both stared out into the fog, lost in their own thoughts, and when Johnson walked up behind them, neither man noticed. When he cleared his throat, they almost screamed.

FIVE

The sun rose higher and the day warmed, burning off the last wisps of mist. The valley came alive again, as did the surrounding forest. Both were bright and cheery, an entirely different contrast than the night before. The light breeze carried the almost maddening sounds of a thousand different birdsongs, along with buzzing insects, the melodic roar of the river, and the tat-tat-tat-tat of a woodpecker hard at work. Wildflowers strained their colorful panorama toward the sky, while bees and butterflies flitted amongst them. The sour stench that had permeated the clearing the night before was gone. The smell of sawdust returned, despite the fact that no logging had gone on in over twenty-four hours.

Morgan noticed that everyone’s spirits improved with the change in weather. As the day brightened, so did their moods—even Crystal’s. The girl had surprised him. After breaking her in last night, he’d speculated to himself that she’d go one of two ways—quiet submission, accepting her new master, or trying to kill him while he slept. Luckily for her, she’d chosen the first option.

“Maybe I was wrong about these woods,” he said aloud. “They certainly don’t feel spooky today. They feel downright welcoming.”

Morgan found himself whistling as he saw to the horses, and when a mosquito buzzed his ear, he barely noticed. His good mood lasted right up until Gunderson shouted for him across the clearing.

“Boss? Better come quick—we’ve got trouble!”

Unleashing a string of muttered curses, Morgan made his way to the spot where Gunderson had shot the animal the night before. He was surprised to see that the animal’s carcass was no longer there. The grass still held the corpse’s impression. Gunderson and Stephens stood around the empty space, staring in awe. Stephens held his hat in his hands, turning the brim round and round with his fingers. Brown droplets of dried blood spotted the green blades and the carpet of fallen pine needles, but the body was gone. Even stranger was the enormous series of footprints encircling the spot. Each footprint had five toes, just like a human, but that was where all similarities ended. Most of the tracks were over two feet long and about eight inches wide. Whatever had made the tracks had been heavy—the prints were sunk deep into the earth. It had also been barefoot—there was no trace of boot heel or a sole in the impressions.

“Those are some big feet,” Morgan said.

“What the hell do you think it is, boss?” Stephens asked. “What could have made this?”

“The more important question,” Morgan replied, “is how many of them there are. What do you think, Gunderson?”

“I figure at least four or five of them,” Gunderson said. “I ain’t for sure, though.”

“What do you mean, you’re not sure? You’re the best god-damned tracker I’ve ever met.”

“And I appreciate that, boss. I really do. But it’s hard to tell. A lot of these tracks are about the same size, but they’re made by different critters. It’s a might confusing. There were at least four or five of them. Maybe more.”

“And no body. Are you sure you hit it last night?”

“That’s the only thing I am sure of.”

“So it ain’t likely the thing got up and ran away.” Morgan scowled. “Did you find anything? Any clue at all as to where the damned thing went?”

“Just those drops of blood there,” Gunderson pointed, “and a few tufts of hair on yonder pine branches.”

He moved to the edge of the tree line, lifted a branch and demonstrated. Morgan stepped closer, squinting. Sure enough, several strands of long, black hair dangled from the tip of the branch. Several of the tufts had blood and tiny pieces of flesh stuck to them. A few squat, black flies buzzed around the grisly bits.

“It’s not human hair,” Gunderson said. “I checked. Indian hair ain’t even that black. And it ain’t from a bear or any other critter I know, either. Have to reckon that girl was telling the truth, boss.”

Sighing, Morgan ran his hands through his hair. “Looks that way, boys. Hard to believe, but it damn sure looks that way.”

Frowning, he turned in a slow circle, following the massive footprints. They seemed to come and go from various directions—the river, the forest, and the other side of the clearing. All of them converged on this spot. He raised his head and sniffed the air. The lumberjacks’ corpses had started to stink. Their reek almost overpowered the smell of pine.

“I don’t smell what we smelled last night,” Morgan said. “If they’d been here this morning, I would think the smell would still linger. Reckon they must have been here sometime after you shot it but before dawn.”

“Yes,” Gunderson agreed. “I reckoned about the same. The way I figure it, they must have heard the crazy bear cry out when I shot it. The other crazy bears knew it was in distress. Then they come here and removed the body. Don’t know where they took it, but if I had to guess, I’d say deep into the pines. The tracks seem to be heading that way.”

“And you’re sure it wasn’t a bear or a wolf or some other critter that could have carried the body off?”

“I doubt it, boss. If it had been, we’d see their tracks here, too. But there ain’t none. All there is are… those. And if wolves or coyotes had gotten at the corpse, there’d still be pieces left behind. They’d have scattered it all across the clearing.”

“We should leave,” Stephens said. “Skin on out of here before dark. That’s what I think.”

Morgan whirled on him. “I don’t remember you calling the shots. But for what it’s worth, I agree with you, Vern. We should leave. The problem with that is this—the horses are still exhausted. We ain’t gonna make it far if we don’t give them at least another few hours to rest. I dare say they didn’t sleep well last night, what with all the shooting and shouting. So let’s say we give them till noon. Let’s say we let Johnson and Parker sleep till noon, as well. Then everyone is bright-eyed and bushy-fucking-tailed. By the time we ride out and head up river, how far do you think we’ll get before the sun starts to go down? Do you really want to be out in these woods at night without a place to bed down and with… whatever made these fucking tracks… wandering around?”

Stephens paled. “No, I can’t rightly say that I do, boss. To be honest, I hadn’t thought of that.”

“That’s why I’m in charge. I’m guessing these things are nocturnal. Crystal said she’d only heard them come around at night, and from what we saw last evening, I’d say that’s about right. I say we hole up another night. We wake Johnson and Parker up and we fortify that god-damned shanty. Make it like a fort—so strong not even the Calvary could break in.”

“You really think that they’ll attack us?” Stephens asked.

“I’m not for sure, no. But it doesn’t hurt to take precautions, now does it? If these things are as Crystal said they are, then they might have a hankering for vengeance. They might want to get even with the folks who killed their friend. I’d rather we were ready for them, just in case.”

Gunderson stroked his shaggy beard. “It’s a good plan, but what about the horses?”

“We’ll move the horses inside too,” Morgan said, “if there’s room. If not, then we’ll just have to figure something else out.”

Stephens opened his mouth to respond, but then shut it again.

“Then we’ll bed down,” Morgan continued. “We’ll sleep in shifts and wait it out till morning. Soon as first light comes around, we’ll skin on out of here. That way, we can find another safe spot well before dark tomorrow. Sound fair?”

Nodding, Stephens plopped his hat back on his head. Gunderson said nothing. His expression was dour. He continued stroking his beard.

“What’s got your goat?” Morgan asked. “You disagree with the plan?”

Gunderson looked up, surprised. “Oh, no, boss. Like I said, I think it’s a fine plan. Sorry. I was just thinking.”

“What about?”

“Oh, nothing important. I was just looking forward to some fresh meat this morning. I’m just sorry the carcass is gone—no matter what it really was. I reckon even a crazy bear would taste better than our rations right about now.”

“Well, take your rifle and see if you can scare us up some game. Don’t go too far, though. Stay in earshot. And don’t be gone more than an hour. If you can’t find anything, then we’ll just have to make due. Eating rations ain’t killed us so far. I don’t reckon they’ll harm us for one more day.”

“Can do.” Nodding, Gunderson trotted off toward the cabin.

Stephens and Morgan stared a few minutes longer at the tracks. Stephens placed his foot in one of the prints. The impression seemed to swallow his boot whole.

“I’ll tell you, boss” he whispered. “I’ve got to agree with you.”

“About what?”

“Those are some damned big feet.”

“Come on,” Morgan said. “Enough of this horseshit. We’ve got work to do.”

They woke Parker and Johnson, and informed them of what had occurred. Incredulous and lethargic, the two men were convinced that the others were all playing a joke on them, so Morgan had Stephens take them down to the site so that they could see for themselves. Clara and Crystal tagged along, as well. When they came back, the women’s faces were pale and nervous, and the men were no longer laughing.

“Beats all I’ve ever seen,” Johnson muttered.

“Hell,” Stephens said, “it beats all any of us have ever seen.”

After a quick, demoralizing breakfast of dry rations, during which none of them spoke much, Morgan put the group to work fortifying their defenses. He instructed Johnson and Parker to begin cutting up logs with the lumberjacks’ tools, and ordered Stephens and the women to haul rocks up from the river. While they did this, Morgan slowly walked the perimeter, studying everything from the layout of the land to the construction of the cabin. Then he went inside the cabin and searched it top to bottom, probing for weaknesses and mentally taking stock of any-thing that could be used as a weapon. When he was finished, he went back out onto the porch and saw that Stephens, Clara and Crystal had already made progress with the stones. A large pile of them had been stacked next to the stairs, and the three were on their way back with more.

“Come across a big old rattlesnake down there by the water’s edge,” Stephens panted. His clothes and face were soaked, and he was sweating profusely. “Damn thing must have been five feet long if he was a foot. Saw another set of them tracks, too.”

“Were they coming or going?” Morgan asked.

“They come across the river this way. I didn’t see any tracks heading back over. In truth, I was more worried about the snake. Didn’t want the girls to get bit.”

“You kill it?”

“Yeah.” Stephens wiped the sweat from his brow. “Dropped a big old rock on it. Squashed the fucker flat. Ordinarily, I’d have just shot the fucker, but I figured I shouldn’t be wasting bullets on account of whatever made them big footprints.”

Morgan nodded. “That’s good thinking.”

“Thanks, boss!” Stephens seemed surprised at the unexpected compliment. “I sure do appreciate it.”

“That snake will make for a good supper tonight.”

Stephen’s expression fell. “I tossed the carcass out into the river.”

“What the hell did you do that for?”

“I guess I just wasn’t thinking, boss.”

Morgan shook his head. “I guess not.”

“A-anyway, you think that will be enough rocks?”

“We’ll need more than that, but I’ll give you a hand carrying more. Should go quicker with four of us doing it.”

Stephens and Clara stared at each other in disbelief.

“Oh, don’t look so goddamned surprised,” Morgan said. “The longer the two of you stand there, the longer it will take to secure this goddamn bunkhouse. Now come on.”

As they walked toward the water, a distant, muffled shot echoed out of the forest.

“Gunderson,” Morgan said.

“Sounds like he got something,” Stephens replied.

They paused, waiting for more shots, but the woods were quiet.

“Guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Clara said.

They made several more trips to the river and the pile of stones grew. By then, Johnson and Parker had begun to drag logs over to the cabin. When Gunderson returned from the forest with a small deer slung over his broad shoulders, Morgan called for a break. The others gratefully collapsed to the ground, breathing heavy and groaning from their labors. Gunderson dropped the deer near the porch. It had already been field dressed—the belly slit open and the white and brown fur matted with sticky blood. More fluid oozed from the empty cavity. Flies buzzed around the carcass.

“Got us something to eat,” he said. “Found a well-used deer path and waited for a spell. Then this little spike buck come strolling along and obliged me. Looks like ya’ll have been busy, too.”

Morgan nodded. “See anything while you were out there?”

“A few more of those queer footprints, but I couldn’t read them well enough to learn anything else. I’ll tell you one thing, though—that forest is spooky. It’s not like the other places I’ve been, and I’ve been to a lot. I don’t like it. It’s too quiet.”

“Awfully noisy here,” Parker pointed out. “I’ve been hearing birds and such all damn morning. Giving me a headache.”

“Maybe so,” Gunderson said, “but it’s dead quiet under them trees. Feels like the forest is staring at you. I was damned glad to come across this deer.”

“Good job,” Morgan replied. Then he turned to the others. “Clara. Crystal. Get this thing cut up and cooked. Come sundown, I don’t want any cooking fires—nothing that will attract attention. So do it up now and we’ll have venison for lunch and supper.”

The men cheered this news. Johnson even did an impromptu jig, dancing and leaping in a circle while the others clapped and laughed. Soon after, their cheers turned to groans again as Morgan ordered them back to work.

“There’s only two ways into that shack,” he told them. “The front door and the window. We’re going to reinforce the walls as best we can, using the stones and the logs and whatever else we can find. There are places in those walls made out of nothing but sod and rocks. One of these critters could tear through that pretty easy. Hell, a man could too, for that matter. So we’ve got to take extra care to block those good. Then we’ll all go inside, and bar the door. We’ll use logs for that, too. We’re going to keep the window open for as long as possible. That way we can shoot at them if they come. But if things go bad, I reckon we can flip some of those beds on their side and block the window with them.”

“What about the roof?” Gunderson asked.

“I don’t know,” Morgan admitted. “That’s the one part I can’t figure out. The tree jockeys used heavy timbers for it, and lashed them together with thick rope. They nailed them down good and all, but I don’t know if it’s enough, and I can’t see of any way to reinforce what’s there. Ain’t nothing on top of the timbers but tar. Any of you got an idea as to how we could make it stronger?”

They shook their heads. Parker raised his hand. Morgan nodded at him.

“What about the horses, boss? What are we going to do about them?”

“I’d hoped we could move them all inside with us,” Morgan replied. “But the cabin just ain’t big enough. There’s enough room for the smallest—Stephens’ horse—but that’s all. The rest of them will have to take their chances.”

“Stephens’ horse?” Johnson frowned. “Well, hell—that little pony ain’t worth the trouble. It ought to be one of our horses. They’re faster and stronger, and can carry more weight.”

Morgan grinned humorlessly. “Tell you what, Johnson. We’ll bring your mount inside with us, too. You can sleep outside with the rest of the horses. How would that be?”

Johnson stared at his boots. “I don’t think that would be too fine, boss. No, I don’t cotton to that at all.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say, cocksucker. We ain’t got room for them all. I don’t like it any more than you, but that’s how it is. Stephens’ horse is the smallest. It comes inside. The others don’t.”

Johnson and Parker’s expressions were sullen, but they didn’t reply. Stephens stayed silent, as well, but the grin on his face spoke volumes. Gunderson merely loaded another wad of chewing tobacco into his mouth.

Morgan glanced up at the sky and noted the sun’s position.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s get this finished while we still can.”

Sullen, the others went back to work. Gunderson waited until they were out of earshot and then approached Morgan.

“Boss, I got an idea about them horses, if you want to hear it.”

Sighing, Morgan nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Well, I reckon if I was to take an axe and a saw and sharpen up some logs on one end, they’d make some pretty formidable pikes or spears. Then we could tie the horses up against the cabin, so that the wall has their backs, and encircle them the rest of the way around with the pikes. The horses wouldn’t be able to wander out, and these crazy bear things would have a hell of a time getting to them.”

Morgan paused, considering the suggestion. He glanced at the horses and then back at the burly woodsman.

“How long do you figure it would take you to do that?”

Gunderson shrugged. “If I can get some help digging the holes once I’ve sharpened the logs, I reckon it wouldn’t take more than two or three hours.”

“Okay. Do it. I’ll make sure you have the help.”

Nodding, Gunderson walked away. After a moment’s hesitation, Morgan called out to him.

“Gunderson?”

The big man stopped and turned. “Yeah, boss?”

“It’s a good idea, but do you really think it will work?”

Despite the seriousness of their situation, Gunderson grinned.

“Hell, Morgan. I don’t know. You reckon any of the other stuff we’re doing will really work?”

“You’d better fucking hope so. For all our sakes.”

Gunderson spat a stream of tobacco juice and walked away. Morgan stared up at the sky, and watched the sun continue its trek to the west. The breeze picked up and rustled through the pines. For a moment, it almost sounded as if something was walking amongst the trees. Then the wind died down again. When it did, Morgan shivered.

Other than the sounds of their labors, the forest and the clearing had gone silent again.

SIX

Supper that night was deer meat, potatoes, and thin gravy. They washed it down with water from the river. Morgan forbid any of them to drink liquor—reminding them that they might need their wits about them later on. Conversation was sporadic and muted during the meal, other than a few compliments to Clara and Crystal on its preparation. Clara responded to the attention. Crystal’s reaction was less enthusiastic, but simultaneously, she was careful not to offend the men.

When they were finished, the men relaxed long enough to smoke on the porch and watch the sun go down. There was no card game or bullshit session or taking turns with Clara or Crystal. They watched the sun’s descent in silence, and as darkness fell, so did their mood. The temperature outside dropped with the sun. The wind blew in off the river, cold and savage. Soon, their breath fogged the air, even inside the cabin.

“Well,” Morgan said, “now we’ll see. Now they’ll come.”

Johnson frowned. “Never thought I’d say this, boss, but I sure do hope you’re wrong.”

“Me, too,” Morgan agreed. “Me, too.”

The others didn’t respond.

Morgan assigned first watch to Johnson, Parker and Clara. They were to wake up Gunderson, Morgan and Stephens for the second watch. Only Crystal was allowed to sleep through the night. If the others saw this as a sign of Morgan going soft on the girl, they didn’t mention it. The only complaints centered around Stephens’ horse, which stood between the kitchen table and the bunk area, looking mournful and forlorn.

“Jesus,” Parker moaned, fanning his nose, “that damned horse smells almost as bad as you do, Stephens.”

“Considering how much time Stephens spends farting,” Johnson said, “the horse has probably done absorbed it all.”

“I just hope it don’t shit in here,” Clara said, her nose wrinkling. “Who’s going to clean it up if it does?”

“I reckon you are,” Stephens said.

“With your face, maybe,” Clara shot back.

The comment earned a round of laughter, but they quickly fell silent again. Johnson, Parker and Clara blocked the front door with logs and bags of grain, and then took their positions near the window. The others lay down in their bunks, fully-clothed except for their boots. All of them kept their weapons within reach. Morgan blew out the lamp, plunging them into darkness except for the soft, orange glow from the tip of Parker’s cigarette.

The night was still and sullen, and it passed slowly. There were no owls or insects. No birdsongs. Even the wind seemed to have died down, and the sounds of the river were muted, distorted by the darkness.

Eventually, Clara fell asleep in the chair, her head drooping low until her chin rested between her ample cleavage. Her breathing became soft and shallow. Occasionally, her nose whistled. After a brief consultation, Johnson and Parker elected not to wake her until it was necessary.

It became necessary soon enough. Slowly, the musky stench of the crazy bears filled the clearing, wafting in through the window. Parker, who had been hunched over in front of the window, clutching a long rifle in his hands and staring into the darkness, sat up and winced.

“God damn,” he said, fanning his nose. “That stinks to high Heaven.”

Johnson had been pacing the floor, walking in slow circles around the table in an effort to stay awake and alert without disturbing the others. He’d patted the horse on the nose each time he passed it. Now, he paused in mid-step and sniffed the air.

“Shit.”

Parker raised the rifle. “Yeah.”

Johnson nudged Clara’s shoulder. She jumped, startled, and then glanced around with wide eyes.

“What is it,” she gasped. “What’s wrong?”

“They’re here.” Johnson turned to the others and raised his voice. “Up and at them, ya’ll. We’ve got company.”

“Light the lantern,” Stephens said, jumping to his feet.

“No,” Morgan countered. “Leave it out. Ain’t no sense attracting even more attention. We can work in the dark. We’ve done it many times before.”

Morgan, Gunderson and Stephens rolled out of their bunks and quickly put on their boots, weapons in hand. Crystal woke as well, her expression terrified. She stared at the others’ pistols with obvious envy.

“Can I have a gun?” she asked, her voice timid.

Morgan arched an eyebrow. “Do you know how to use one?”

She nodded emphatically.

“Okay,” Morgan said. “I reckon we could use you. Stephens, give her your pistol.”

The fat man gaped. “Well, then what the hell am I supposed to use, Morgan?”

“I want you to use the lumberjacks’ shotgun.”

“They’ll have to be awfully close for me to hit anything with a shotgun, boss.”

“Don’t fucking argue with me you cocksucker. Just do as I say, or the crazy bears will be the least of your worries!”

Stephens gave the girl his pistol with obvious reluctance and consternation. He made a big show out of drawing the weapon from its holster and handing it to her. “Don’t shoot your nose off,” he said, and then reached for the shotgun leaning against the wall. “Hope those tree jockeys took care of this thing.”

Morgan moved toward the window, followed closely by Gunderson. Parker was hunched over at the window, long rifle up and at the ready. Morgan placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned close.

“You boys sure they’re out there? You’re not just jumping at shadows?”

“Take a deep breath, boss,” Parker muttered. “You’ll see for yourself.”

Morgan inhaled through his nose and scowled. “Christ almighty. I reckon you’re right.”

“Smells like the inside of a Grizzly bear’s stomach,” Johnson said.

Morgan strode to the center of the room. His shoulders were squared, his muscles taught and tense, his eyes awake and alert.

“Okay, boys,” he said. “Ya’ll know what to do. Gunderson and Stephens, get that door unblocked. Clara, I want you and Gunderson at the door, so we can shoot at them if they come in the perimeter, but be ready to barricade it if they break through our defenses. Parker and Johnson—you’ve got the window. Stephens, you hold back with that shotgun. If they get in too close, the others will holler out. Then you rush in and blast them. Everybody clear?”

The group nodded. Their expressions were grim, but none of them seemed terrified now that the danger was at hand. Gunderson and Stephens quickly moved aside the blockade in front of the door. Then, while Gunderson and Clara stood ready with weapons pointed at the door, Stephens opened it. Gunderson knelt on one side of the doorway. Clara stood on the other side. Stephens backed up and stood between them. All three peered out into the darkness. With the door open, the stench grew stronger inside the cabin.

“What about me?” Crystal asked Morgan. “What should I do?”

“You just stay close to me, darlin’. If they get inside—and let’s hope they don’t, but if they do—then don’t you hesitate to start shooting. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Morgan turned to Parker and Johnson who were staring out the window. “See anything?”

“No,” Parker whispered. “It’s too damned dark out there. Maybe ol’ Gunderson might be able to spot something, but I can’t see shit.”

“Wait,” Gunderson murmured, still down on one knee. “There’s some clouds over the moon. They’ll pass in a minute. Then we should be able to see better.”

Clara glanced at him. “What if—”

THWUMP

Something struck the roof of the cabin hard enough to send dust and dirt drifting down from the rafters. Crystal and Johnson both screamed. Parker teetered backward in surprise, nearly falling off his chair. Clara and Stephens both jumped. Only Gunderson and Morgan remained calm as they gazed upward. Morgan held a finger to his lips, signaling the others to be silent.

THWUMP THWUMP THWUMP

Crystal screamed again. Wheeling around, Morgan clamped a hand over her mouth and pulled her close.

“Quiet,” he whispered in her ear.

Moving quickly but quietly, Gunderson crossed the floor and closed the door, even as more blows rained down on the cabin’s roof. Each one shook the rafters, spilling more dirt and dust down on them. A long splinter of pine cracked overhead as yet another crash vibrated through the timbers. The bunkhouse trembled.

Parker jumped out of his chair and backed away from the window.

“What the hell is it?” Johnson yelled. “Just what the hell is going on here?”

“Shut up,” Morgan shouted. “All of you! Listen, goddamn your eyes. And watch that window.”

Johnson and Parker reacted as if Morgan had slapped them across the face. They stood for a moment, frozen, and then returned to their place at the window. The two men peered out into the darkness. Clara leaned over them, gazing out, as well. Seconds later, she reeled back with a gasp, her hand fluttering to her throat.

“Oh Lord…”

Shoving Crystal aside, Morgan rushed forward. Gunderson followed right behind him. Crystal spun, teetering. Stephens reached out and grabbed her elbow, steadying her as the others crowded around the window.

The clouds were gone, and moonlight streamed into the clearing. The river sparkled like diamonds in the distance. At the water’s edge and standing all along the tree line on both sides of the clearing were dozens of dark, man-like shapes. All of them were well over seven feet tall, and covered with thick, coarse hair, except for around their eyes. The hair varied in coloration—everything from jet black to reddish-brown.

“Sweet Jesus,” Gunderson whispered. “I’ve never seen nothing like that in all my life.”

“You just saw one last night,” Stephens pointed out.

“Not in this kind of lighting. This is worse. One thing’s for sure, though. They ain’t bears, and I dare say they’re not apes, either.”

“This ain’t good, ya’ll,” Johnson moaned. “This ain’t good at all.”

As more clouds dissipated and the moonlight grew brighter, the group inside the lumberjack shanty glimpsed further details of their attackers. The naked, hulking creatures had large, low-set foreheads with pronounced brow ridges. The tops of their heads were crested and round. Their arms were long, dangling almost to their knees. Insects hovered around them like smoke. One of the creatures raised its head and sniffed the air with a flattened nose that almost resembled a humans’ nose, except for the width of the nostrils. Then it opened its maw, revealing a mouth full of teeth, including long, sharp incisors that were anything but human. It raised one enormous hand in some sort of signal. The thing’s leathery palm was hairless. When it swung its arm down again, the moonlit figures began pelting the cabin with stones again.

Kneeling side-by-side, Parker and Gunderson leaned through the window and opened fire. The bunkhouse was filled with the noise of gunshots. A mug crashed to the floor. Crystal clung to Stephens, and he to her. Neither spoke, knowing they wouldn’t be able to hear one another. Morgan and Johnson waited behind Gunderson and Parker. Then, when the gunmen paused to reload, they took their places, unleashing a second volley.

The roar of the gunfire was loud. The roar of the crazy bears was louder.

Another bombardment of rocks shook the cabin. A watermelon-sized river stone crashed through the ceiling, leaving a gaping hole in its wake, and slammed into the floor, barely missing Clara. Then the creatures withdrew, disappearing into the darkness until only their stench lingered.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Clara shrieked. “Please, Morgan! I can’t stand it. We’ve got to ride out now!”

“We’re not going anywhere,” he said, stepping back from the window. “There’s more of them than there are of us. We leave now, they could surround us before we reached the river.”

“What did he say?” Stephens asked Crystal. “I can’t hear nothing through this ringing in my ears.”

Shrugging, she shook her head.

Gunderson waved gun smoke away from his face and peered intently into the clearing. “Looks like we dropped a few of them.”

“How many?” Morgan asked.

Gunderson paused, counting. “Five. Maybe six. The last one is lying in the shadows. Not sure if it’s a tree stump or one of those things…whatever they were.”

“They were Indians,” Parker said. “I mean, they had to be Indians. They just had to. Ain’t no animals like what we seen out there. It was nothing but a bunch of goddamned Indians, dressed up in bear and buffalo skins and playing tricks on the white men.”

“No,” Crystal said. “The Indians left this area a year ago. They headed north.”

“Well,” Parker replied, “they’re back now.”

“Those weren’t men,” Gunderson said with conviction. “And it certainly wasn’t somebody wearing a costume.”

Parker frowned. “How do you know for sure?”

“Because of their smell. That musk. And because of the way their muscles moved. If it was someone wearing skins, you wouldn’t see the muscles working like that beneath the fur.”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell you what, Parker.” Gunderson pointed outside. “Why don’t you go out there and take a look at one of those corpses for yourself. Satisfy your curiosity. Then you come back and tell us what it is.”

An eerie, warbling cry rose on the wind from somewhere within the pines. Stephens’ horse whinnied in fright and swished its tail back and forth. Crystal whimpered.

“No thanks,” Parker said. “I reckon I’ll stay here with you, Gunderson. I don’t much care for the company outside—whatever they might be.”

“There were giants in the Earth in those days,” Morgan muttered.

The others turned to him.

“What’s that, boss?” Stephens asked.

“That is from the Good Book, Stephens.” Morgan smiled. “Specifically, the Book of Genesis, chapter six, verse four. There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bore children to them, the same became mighty men who were of old.”

“Amen,” Gunderson whispered.

Despite the peril lurking outside, the rest of the group was slack-jawed, staring at their leader as if they’d never seen him before. In the forest, the howls and cries increased in both volume and intensity. After a moment, Johnson cleared his throat nervously.

“Those are some real pretty words, boss. I don’t much know what they mean, though, or how they’ll help us now.”

Morgan smiled. “A lot of folks say that the sons of God were fallen angels led by a fella’ the name of Shernihaza. Supposedly, Shernihaza got his fellow fallen angels to sleep with the human women, and got them pregnant. But instead of having little baby half-angels, they gave birth to a race of ferocious giants—wild, hairy, savage creatures, more like beasts than men. The giants ruled over mankind until the good Lord sent the Great Flood, and then remnants of the giants were cast into the wilderness.”

“If that’s so,” Parker said, “then how did they survive the flood? I daresay, when I was sitting on my Grandmammy’s knee and learning about the Bible, I don’t remember talk of giants onboard Noah’s ark.”

Morgan shrugged. “I don’t know. Only reason I know that much of the story is because my Daddy was a preacher. When he wasn’t taking the razor-strap to me or my little brother, he was drunk on whiskey and quoting bible verses. He used to quote other things, too. The Book of Enoch. The Book of Giants. Texts left out of the Bible when ol’ King James put it together, I reckon. But my Daddy knew them. He knew them… and other books.” A strange expression crossed Morgan’s face, and for a moment, he seemed lost in a memory. The others stared at each other, unsure of what to say.

Clearing his throat, Johnson glanced at the window and then back to Morgan. “And you think them critters out there are these giants?”

“Hell, no.” Morgan laughed as the cries drew closer, encircling the cabin once again. “It just occurred to me now, so I quoted it.”

“Well, what are they, then?”

“Does it matter, Johnson? I don’t care what those goddamn things are. Indians, animals, or goddamn crazy bears. What’s important is that they can bleed and die, just like we do. We’ve proven that already. Now look sharp. Judging by the smell and the sound, I’d hazard a guess that they’re going to have another go at us.”

“Gunfire didn’t scare them off,” Gunderson said. “They’re either stupid, brave, or already familiar with firearms.”

“Or hungry,” Clara added, her eyes wide.

Parker readied his rifle. “Well, let’s see how they like the taste of a second round of lead, then.”

He seemed almost disappointed when the creatures failed to attack again or throw another volley of stones. They did not reappear in the moonlight. The group could smell and hear them close by, but the beasts remained safely hidden in the shadows of the forest. Parker fingered his trigger but Gunderson stopped him before he could fire a shot.

“Don’t,” the mountain man told him. “Ain’t no sense wasting all our ammunition. Wait until you can see them. Then choose your shots wisely.”

Parker nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”

They huddled close to one another, Parker and Gunderson at the window, Johnson and Morgan just behind them, and Clara, Crystal and Stephens standing next to the nervous horse. Outside, the sounds of siege continued. The crazy bears roared their disapproval of the cabin’s inhabitants, but still did not show themselves. The stench grew stronger, and the night colder.

“Maybe they’ll give up,” Stephens said. “Maybe they’ll figure we ain’t worth the bother and they’ll just go away.”

Morgan turned to Crystal. “That ever happen before?”

“They never attacked us like this before,” she said. “They never even came close enough that we could see them clearly. Like I told you earlier, I’ve only smelled and heard them. It was never like this. I think you folks must have made them mad.”

Morgan’s expression darkened for a moment, and Crystal flinched. But instead of striking her, he merely turned back to the window.

Suddenly, the horses—which had been tethered outside—began bellowing in a wild, frenzied mixture of terror and pain. These weren’t the frightened equine nays the group was familiar with. It almost sounded as if the horses were screaming. Then, as abruptly as the sounds had started, the terrified animals’ cries ceased—followed by the sounds of several heavy bodies falling to the ground. The bunkhouse shook, sending dirt drifting down from the rafters..

“What the hell?” Parker leaned forward and stuck his head and shoulders out the window, so that he could look to the side and see what had befallen their mounts.

“They killed the horses,” Johnson shouted. “Goddamn it!”

Gunderson spat tobacco juice. “They must have snuck around from the back and hugged the wall, so we wouldn’t see them. Damn things are smart. I’ll give them that.”

“They killed our horses,” Johnson repeated. “How the hell are we going to ride out of here now?”

“Shut up,” Morgan snapped. “Gunderson, get Parker back inside.”

“Parker?” Gunderson reached for the gunman, who still had his head out the window. “Get in here, you fool.”

Instead of answering, Parker’s body went stiff—his muscles taught as steel. The rifle slipped from his hands and he began to scream. His legs jittered and thrashed, kicking the floor. He was jerked forward. Gunderson and Johnson grabbed his feet to keep him from being dragged into the darkness.

“Pull him in,” Morgan yelled, standing over them with pistol in hand. “For God’s sake, pull him back in here.”

Gunderson and Johnson struggled with the thrashing man. Parker’s screams turned into one long, high-pitched wail, and then became distorted and muffled. His body was like quivering stone beneath their hands. Grunting, Gunderson and Johnson tugged harder, placing their feet against the wall for support.

“Come on,” Johnson hollered. “Come on, you son of a bitch!”

Gunderson glanced back at the group, and shouted, “Help us, y’all! Goddamn your eyes, lend us a—”

Parker’s body suddenly went limp. His cries turned into a wet, hissing gurgle. They yanked him back into the cabin and when he raised his head to look at them, Johnson shrieked. Stunned, Gunderson released the injured man and backed away, his expression distorted with shock and fear. Parker reached for him, arms flailing.

“Oh, Jesus,” Stephens moaned. “Oh sweet Jesus, look what they did to Parker. Look what they’ve done to him!”

Parker slid to the floor and raised one hand, silently begging for help. Half his face was missing. Something had torn off his lower jaw, an ear, and one of his cheeks. A portion of his tongue was missing, too. The red, spurting stump lolled around his mouth, flicking against shattered, broken teeth. There were deep claw marks on his throat and forehead, and part of his scalp had been flayed open. A flap of skin and hair hung down the back of his head. Blood soaked his clothing. Parker tried to speak, but all that came out of the ruined hole in his face was a pitiful mewling noise.

“Just hang on, buddy.” Johnson knelt by his side and grabbed Parker’s hand, squeezing. “You just hang on, now. We’ll ride on out of here and find you a sawbones and get you taken care of quick. You hear me, Parker? Just hang on. You’ll see. Get you all fixed up.”

Morgan pushed past Gunderson and nudged Johnson with the toe of his boot. Johnson and Parker both gazed up at him. Johnson’s cheeks were wet.

“Step aside.” Morgan motioned with his pistol.

Johnson gasped. “Oh, boss. You can’t be thinking—”

“I said step aside, Johnson. You mind me now. Look at Parker. He knows I’m right.”

Parker nodded his head emphatically as his blood turned his shirt red. Biting his lower lip, Johnson gave his friend’s hand a final squeeze. Then he stood up and moved aside. Clara rushed to him, pulling him close. Johnson shuddered against her.

Parker closed his eyes. Morgan placed his gun barrel against Parker’s bloodied forehead. He didn’t apologize. Didn’t offer a prayer. His trigger finger said it all.

The gunshot was almost lost beneath the sudden cacophony of howls and growling from outside.

Morgan stepped over Parker’s body. Smoke still curled from his pistol. He glanced out the window and fired another shot.

“They’re rushing us,” he shouted. “Everybody get ready! We’ll have to—”

The barrage drowned out the rest of his command. Thunderous, savage blows shook the cabin. The creatures hammered at the door and the walls, trying their best to break inside. They surged toward the open window, and were held back only by the steady roar of the guns. Morgan and Gunderson fired until empty. As they reloaded, Clara and Johnson took their place. The four worked in tandem—one pair replacing the other with speed and efficiency. Their guns weren’t silent for even a second.

Stephens’ horse suddenly reared up, knocking the table over with its hooves. The table crashed to the floor. Stephens and Crystal narrowly avoided being kicked as the frightened animal danced around the shack, snorting and whinnying in terror, its teeth bared and ready to snap at anything in its way.

“Get that goddamned thing under control,” Morgan hollered without bothering to turn around.

Stephens fumbled with the bridle, trying to calm his frantic mount. He tugged, whispering soothing words, but the horse pulled away from him and kicked the wall. The cabin shook. More roars echoed from outside. Stephens glanced over his shoulder and hollered at Crystal to give him a hand.

Clouds of gun smoke filled the bunkhouse as the others fired volley after volley. The clearing was littered with furry bodies, but for each creature they killed, two more sprang forth to take its place. Between the rapid gunfire, the cries of the horse, the relentless blows hammering the shack, and the roars of the crazy bears, speaking soon became an impossibility. The group resorted to hand signals and instinct.

The door trembled and shook, and then began to splinter. Clara waved at Crystal to see to the barricade, but Crystal merely shook her head. Cursing, Clara dashed across the room and reached the door just as it stopped shaking. She turned to the others and grinned.

“Bastards can’t get through,” she yelled. “I guess we showed them, huh?”

The wall next to the door imploded. Clara instinctively threw her arms up to protect her head as the wall collapsed inward, showering her with rocks, shattered timbers and hunks of sod.

Groaning, the ceiling sagged. Clara stumbled backward as two hulking beasts leaped through the opening. They were so tall, their heads brushed against the ceiling. Their stench was incredible, seeming to roll off their hairy bodies in noxious waves. The creatures lumbered through the wreckage and quickly glanced around the room. Roaring, one of them charged toward Stephens and Crystal, while the other seized Clara’s arm and pulled her into its embrace.

“Clara!” Johnson shoved past Morgan and Gunderson, weapon in hand. Then he stumbled to a halt, aghast.

Despite every thing they had seen and done together, each of them paused momentarily, horrified. Each of them had witnessed—and in some cases participated in—numerous atrocities. Morgan and Gunderson had both seen men butchered during the war; they’d seen amputated limbs stacked like firewood and men blown in half by cannonballs. Stephens had experienced the horrors of Fort Grant during the Apache uprising, and had seen terrible things on both sides. Johnson had once stumbled across the remains of a man who’d been tied behind a horse and dragged across twenty miles of desert and sagebrush. All of them were hardened, but none of them were prepared for what happened next.

Shrieking, Clara beat at the creature as it spun her around and crushed her to its chest. She stamped on the beast’s huge feet, but the monster didn’t loosen its grip. As Clara opened her mouth to scream again, the crazy bear thrust one hairy hand into her mouth, stifling her cries. The helpless woman’s eyes went wide as the monster made a fist inside of her mouth. Then, Clara’s eyes rolled up, flashing whites, as her attacker yanked her tongue out by the roots. Blood gushed from between her lips. Grinning, the creature tossed the gruesome morsel aside and grabbed her jaws with both hands. Then, it began to pry her mouth open.

Clara’s tortured screams became a muffled gurgle, fading to a sigh as the thing ripped her jaws apart. There was a grating crunch, followed by a sickening pop, audible even over the gun-fire and the screams of the rest of the group. Then Clara’s lower jaw came off in its hand. The beast threw the jawbone at the wall.

Enraged, Johnson fired two shots at the killer. The first shot hit Clara instead, right above her breast. She sank to the floor, her eyes still showing white. The second shot slammed into the beast’s neck. Arterial blood sprayed all over its fur, Clara’s unmoving form, and the surrounding walls. Johnson started to shoot again, but Morgan pushed his weapon aside and pulled him close, hollering in his ear.

“Help Stephens and the girl! Ain’t nothing you can do for Clara or Parker now.”

“Morgan,” Gunderson shouted from behind them. “I need someone on this window. They’re rushing us!”

Morgan spun around and ran back to him, already firing. Johnson glanced between the window and the others. Stephens and the girl circled around their horse, keeping it between them and the enraged crazy bear. The creature eyed them warily, not approaching any further, but not backing down either. It seemed cowed by its partner’s death.

“Don’t just stand there,” Stephens yelled over the explosions. “Shoot the goddamn thing!”

Nodding, Johnson blinked sweat from his eyes and raised his gun. Before he could draw a bead on the attacker, a boulder crashed through the roof, smashing the table to splinters. Crockery and playing cards flew across the room. At the same time, the door burst open, and two more beasts charged into the shanty.

The creature menacing Stephens and Crystal glanced toward its brothers. As it did, Stephens saw an opening, raised the shot-gun, and blasted it in the head. His horse grew frenzied, spinning in a circle and lashing out at anything within reach of its hooves. It kicked both the crazy bear and Stephens. Both fell to the floor, Crystal narrowly sidestepped a kick and shot one of the new intruders. A second later, Johnson’s gun roared in accompaniment.

“It’s getting a might crowded in here,” Stephens shouted. “We need to do something, boss!”

Hairy corpses littered the ground outside the window, but with only Gunderson and Morgan to cover it, the creatures were gaining ground. As both men stopped to reload, the beasts rushed them again, racing forward with a collective howl.

“Shit.” Morgan hurried to reload. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit…”

“Get back, boss.” Gunderson jumped to his feet and pulled Morgan away from the open window, spitting tobacco juice as he did. Then he picked up the splintered remains of the table and shoved it against the hole. He glanced around hurriedly. “Find me something to hold it up with.”

Nodding, Morgan clambered to his feet, not even bothering to comment on the fact that Gunderson was now giving orders.

More creatures rushed through the open door and the hole in the wall. Another bounded down through the space in the roof. Johnson and Crystal held them at bay while Gunderson and Morgan barricaded the window. Five more crazy bears fell dead. The panicked horse neighed and kicked. Stephens lay in the corner, unmoving. The shotgun lay by his side.

“I reckon Stephens was right,” Gunderson said. “It is getting crowded in here.”

“I’m empty,” Johnson hollered. “Somebody give me some more bullets.”

Crystal backed away, moving toward the center of the room. “I’m empty, too.”

“Form a circle,” Morgan commanded. “Everybody stand back to back.”

The bunkhouse began to tremble and shake as more of the creatures converged on it from every side. Sod and stones tumbled from the ceiling. The walls buckled. The crazy bears poured into the shack, leering and hooting with glee. Gunderson, Morgan, Crystal and Johnson formed a circle and faced them down.

“I need more ammunition,” Johnson repeated. “Anybody got some?”

“Use your knife,” Morgan told him. “We ain’t got time to find more for you now. Gut the fuckers instead.”

The beasts approached them cautiously. One lashed out at the horse, swatting at it with an oversized, clawed hand. The horse reared up on its hind legs and struck back. The crazy bear leaped aside, and the horse turned and charged toward the wall. It crashed through the weakened structure and ran into the darkness. Immediately, a dozen furry forms flung themselves at it, crushing the poor animal to the ground as they clawed and bit and tore.

“Run for it,” Johnson yelled. “It’s our only chance. Everybody skin out.”

“No,” Morgan hollered. “You won’t make it ten feet if you—”

Above them, the roof groaned. The bunkhouse shuddered as if a tremor had passed beneath their feet. Even the marauding beasts slowed, glancing upward in sudden confusion.

“Oh, hell,” Gunderson whispered. “Boss, I think Johnson might be right. I reckon we out to go.”

Morgan opened his mouth to respond, and then, with a thunderous crack, the roof collapsed on them, burying man and beast alike. They didn’t even have time to scream.

SEVEN

When Crystal opened her eyes, she didn’t realize it at first. She couldn’t see anything. Alarmed, she wondered if she’d been struck blind. Then she wondered where the others were. She listened, but it was quiet. She heard something far away that might be a bird, but no frightened voices or groans of the injured. No growls or roars, either.

“H-hello?” Her voice was hoarse, her mouth dry. It came out more like a rasp than a shout. Working up some spit, Crystal tried again. “Hello? Is anybody there?”

No one responded.

“Anyone? I need help.”

Crystal paused, suddenly afraid as the possibility occurred to her that the crazy bears might still be lurking. If so, her cries might attract or alert them. She fell silent, and waited. After a few minutes, she decided to take a chance.

She tensed, expecting pain when she moved, but there was none. Other than her sore throat, she seemed fine. She flexed her fingers and then her feet. Finding her arms and legs unbroken, she wiggled back and forth, and then realized why she couldn’t see. There was something lying atop her face. She reached for it, and her fingers brushed against something soft and sticky. Hair? Fur? Crystal gasped, expecting it to be a crazy bear. But when she yanked it free of her face, she saw that it was nothing more than a bloodied scrap of blanket.

The daylight was so bright that it hurt her head. She sat up, blinking, and shielded her eyes with her hands. Then she looked around her in bewilderment. The entire cabin had collapsed, burying them all in a mound of debris. One of Morgan’s legs stuck out of the wreckage. A shard of bone poked from the swollen flesh. Of the others in the group, there was no sign. Neither was there any sign of their attackers.

Crystal didn’t bother to see if Morgan was alive or not. Instead, she searched amongst the rubble and scavenged what she could—food, a blanket, a knife, and a few other items, along with a bloodstained burlap bag to carry them in. When she was finished, she limped out of the wreckage. The horses all lay where they’d been slaughtered, their torn corpses already drawing a host of flies and other insects. None of the bodies of the creatures remained, although bloodstains marked where many of them had fallen.

The clearing was filled with enormous footprints—dozens, perhaps even hundreds of them, leading in every direction. She stared at the tracks, trying in vain to decipher them—trying to determine where the surviving creatures had gone. Then she decided that it didn’t matter. She knew which direction she was going, and it was a place they couldn’t follow.

Crystal limped down the hill. The forest echoed with birdsongs and other signs of wildlife, but the valley’s beauty had been tainted. The wildflowers and other plants had been trampled beneath many big feet, and what remained was withered and brown. The only color still prominent was the occasional splash of red where blood had been spilled the night before.

She reached the shore, knelt, and splashed water on her face. Shivering, she cupped her hands and drank. The cold water soothed her sore throat. She splashed more, washing the blood and grime from her face, arms, and hands. Then, when she was finished, Crystal clutched her burlap bag tightly to her bosom and waded into the water until only her chin remained above the surface. Closing her eyes, she went limp and let the river carry her away. As she drifted from sight, silence returned to the valley once more.

STORY NOTES

An Occurrence In Crazy Bear Valley was written for a collection of weird western novellas published by Cemetery Dance. The book was called Four Rode Out and also contained stories by Tim Lebbon, Tim Curran, and Stephen Vernon (name checked here as the character Vernon Stephens). Four Rode Out was published as a signed, limited edition hardcover, and is long out of print.

I’ve always wanted to write a story about Bigfoot, and when I was asked to come up with a weird western novella, I figured this was my chance. I’ve been a Sasquatch aficionado since I was about six-years old. Over the years, I’ve amassed a number of books on the subject, and have even spent a considerable amount of time driving through the heart of Bigfoot country in the Pacific Northwest, hoping to catch a glimpse of one.

I drew upon that background lore during the writing of this tale. The disclaimer at the beginning of the book states that this novella is based on true events, and it is, in as much as a group of mystery hominids (which is what we serious Bigfoot researchers refer to them as) attacked the cabin of a bunch of lumberjacks after the lumberjacks killed one of the beasts. The rest of the story is fiction.

Or is it…?

Anyway, here’s another weird western story for you on the next page, complete with cowboys, zombies, and dinosaurs.

LOST CANYON OF THE DAMNED

The desert smelled like dead folks.

The sun hung over our heads, fat and swollen like that Polish whore back in Red Creek. It made me sweat, just like she had. The air was so thick, it felt like we were breathing soup. The heat made the stench worse. Our dirty handkerchiefs, crusted with sand and blood, were useless. They stank almost as bad as the desert. Course, it wasn’t the desert that stank. It was the things chasing us.

We’d been fleeing through the desert for days. None of us had a clue where we were. Leppo knew the terrain and had acted as our guide, but he died of heatstroke on the second day, and we shot him in the head before he got back up again. We weren’t sure if the disease affected folks who’d died of natural causes, but we figured it was better to be safe than sorry. Since then, we’d been following the sun, searching the horizons for some-thing other than sand or dead things. Our canteens were empty. So were our bellies. We baked during daylight and froze at night.

All things considered, I’d have rather been in Santa Fe. I knew folks there. Had friends. A girl. From what we’d heard, the disease hadn’t made it that far yet.

Riding behind me and Deke, Jorge muttered something in Spanish. I’ve never been able to get the hang of that language, so I’m not sure what he said. Sounded like, ‘There’s goats in the swimming pool’ but it probably wasn’t.

I slumped forward in the saddle while my horse plodded along. My tongue felt like sandpaper. My lips were cracked and swollen. I kept trying to lick them, but couldn’t work up any spit.

“They still back there?” I was too tired to turn around and check for myself.

“Still there, Hogan,” Deke grunted. “Reckon they don’t need to rest. Don’t need water. Slower we go, the closer they get.”

I wiped sweat from my eyes. “We push these horses any harder and they’re gonna drop right out from under us. Then we’ll be fucked.”

Behind us, Janelle gasped at my language. I didn’t care. According to the Reverend, it was the end of the world. I figured rough language was the least of her worries now.

“The good Lord will deliver us,” the Reverend said. “Even you, Mr. Hogan.”

“Appreciate that, Reverend. Give Him my thanks the next time you two talk.”

Deke rolled his eyes. I grinned, even though it hurt my lips.

We were an odd bunch, to be sure. Deke and I had come to Red Creek just a month ago. We’d bought ourselves a stand of timber there, and were intent on clearing it. Jorge had worked at the livery. The Reverend was just that—had himself a tent on the edge of town and gave services every Sunday. Terry was just a kid. Couldn’t have been a day over fourteen. No hair on his chin yet. But he shot like a man, and I was pretty sure that he was sweet on Janelle. It was easy to see why. Women like her were hard to find in the west. Janelle was from Philadelphia. Come to Red Creek after marrying a dandy twice her age. Don’t know if she really loved him or not, but she’d certainly carried on when those corpses tore the old boy apart in front of the apothecary like a pack of starved coyotes.

Red Creek wasn’t a big town, but it was large enough that none of us had known each other until we fled together. Except for me and Deke, we were strangers, thrown together by circumstance. That made for an uneasy ride.

The first any of us heard of the disease was when a man stumbled into town one night, feverish and moaning. There was a nasty bite on his arm, and a chunk of flesh missing from his thigh. The doc took care of him as best he could, but the poor bastard died just the same. Before he did, he told the doc and his helpers about Hamelin’s Revenge. That’s what folks back east were calling it, on account of some story about a piper and some rats. They say that the disease started with rats. They overran an Indian reservation back east, which wasn’t a surprise, as far as I was concerned. I’d seen the conditions on those reservations, and figured those people would be better off sleeping at the bottom of an outhouse. It was a terrible way to live. The thing is, these weren’t no ordinary rats. They were dead. Guts hanging out. Maggots clinging to their bodies. But they still moved. And bit. And whatever they bit got sick and died. Mostly, they bit the Indians. The Indians took ill and died off, and the government didn’t seem to care—until the Indians came back and started eating white folks. But by then, it was too late.

The man told the doc about this, and then died. Doc got some of the town bigwigs together, and while they were having a meeting about it, the dead fella got back up and ate the doc’s helpers. Then they came back and started eating folks, too.

Hamelin’s Revenge spread fast, hopping from person to person. Other species caught it, too. Before we hightailed it out of Red Creek, I saw dead horses, dogs, and coyotes attacking townspeople in the streets. And lots of dead people, of course. By then, there were more corpses stumbling around than there were live folks. Lucky for us, the dead moved slowly. Otherwise, we’d have never escaped. Even then, it wasn’t easy. They swarmed, trapping us inside the saloon. We had to fight our way out, and we burned most of Red Creek down in the process.

How do you kill something that’s already dead? Shooting them in the head seems to work. So does smacking them in the head with a hammer or a pick-axe or a length of kindling. You can fire six shots into their chest and they’ll keep on coming. You can chop off their arms and legs and they’ll keep wriggling like a worm on a hook. But get them in the head, and they drop like a sack of grain.

I glanced up at the sky, squinting. The sun hadn’t moved. It felt like we hadn’t, either. Our horses shuffled through the sand, wobbling unsteadily. Janelle coughed. I turned around to see if she was okay. She fanned her hand in front of her nose. When she saw me looking at her, she frowned.

“They’re getting closer, Mr. Hogan, judging by the stench.”

“I know.”

“Well, what do you intend to do about it?”

I looked past her, studying the horizon. There were hundreds of black dots in the distance. Each dot was a dead thing—the population of Red Creek, and then some. Every infected animal had joined in the pursuit, too. I’ll give the dead one thing—they’re determined sons of bitches.

“I intend to keep moving,” I told her. “Stay ahead of them. We don’t have enough bullets to kill them all, and even if we did, I reckon they’re out of range. Ain’t none of us gunslingers. Even if we were, nobody’s that good of a shot—not even your boyfriend there.” I nodded in Terry’s direction. The boy blushed.

Scowling, Janelle stuck her nose into the air. I turned around again, trying to hide my grin. Deke chuckled beside me.

“She’s taken a shine to you,” he whispered.

I shrugged. It took a lot of effort to do so. I was trying to work up enough energy to respond, when something ahead of us caught my eye. The flat landscape was broken by a smattering of low hills. It looked like God had just dropped them right there in the middle of the desert. Jorge must have seen it too, because he jabbered and pointed.

“Look there.” Deke patted his horse’s flank. “We could hole up atop one of them hills. Make a stand. Shoot them as they climb up.”

“Until we run out of bullets,” I reminded him. “Then we’d be surrounded.”

“We could drop boulders on them.”

“Don’t know about that, but I reckon we’ll make for those hills, anyway. Maybe if those things lose sight of us, they’ll give up. Or maybe there’s something on the other side.”

“Water?” Terry’s tone was hopeful.

Before I could answer him, the sky got dark. We glanced upward. Janelle screamed. Jorge made a kind of choking sound. Deke and Terry gasped. The Reverend muttered a prayer. I just stared in shock.

The sky was full of dead birds. They moved like they were still alive, circling and careening as one, but slow. Parts of them kept falling off. They stank. The flock headed right for us, dropping down like hail.

“Ride!” I dug my heels into my horse’s sides, hoping she had more energy than I did. Apparently she had some reserves, because she took off like lightening, stirring up clouds of dust beneath her hooves. Deke’s mare did the same, keeping pace with us. The others rumbled along behind us. I looked around for some cover, but there wasn’t any.

“Head for them hills,” I shouted. “Might be some trees or a cave.”

I glanced over my shoulder to make sure that Jorge under-stood the plan, and what I saw stopped me cold. Janelle sat motionless, face upturned, gaping at the flock of dead birds. Her horse danced nervously beneath her. Terry held onto her horse’s reins and kept his own mount in check. He was urging Janelle to flee, but if she heard him, she gave no sign.

As I rode up to them, Terry fumbled with his shotgun. His hands were shaking and he was having one hell of a time freeing it. I grabbed his arm. He looked up at me and I saw the fear in his eyes. It echoed my own.

“Don’t bother,” I said. “All you’ll do is waste ammunition. Skin on out of here.”

He glanced at Janelle. “But Miss Perkins—”

“I’ve got her. You go on and ride.”

He stared at me, clearly reluctant to leave Janelle’s side. I reckon he had visions of coming to her rescue and then she’d repay him by sharing his bedroll if we ever found a safe place to make camp, but I went ahead and crushed those dreams. We didn’t have time for nonsense.

“Go on, now.” I slapped his horse on its rear. “Get!”

It took off after the others, and I turned to Janelle. I seized her horse’s bridle and gave it a tug. The mare whinnied, baring her teeth. Janelle did the same thing. I hollered at them both as the birds drew closer. I don’t reckon Janelle heard me over the terrible racket the dead birds were making.

Frustrated, I turned my horse around and kept a grip on Janelle’s mount, too. My other hand clutched my Colt. I knew it was pointless as a defense against the birds, but having it in my hand made me feel better. I squeezed my mount with my legs and prodded her on, hoping Janelle’s mare would keep up with us.

She did—for about the first two hundred yards. Then fatigue, heat, and thirst took their toll. She stumbled, snorted, and then sagged to the ground. She didn’t fall. If she had, that might have been it for Janelle and I both. Instead, the horse sort of eased down. I snatched Janelle from the saddle and plopped her down behind me. She slapped my shoulders, pulled my hair, and insisted we go back for her horse. I ignored her. Gritting my teeth, I spurred my mount on even harder.

I only looked back once. What I saw made me glad and sad at the same time. Screeching and squawking, the dead birds fed on Janelle’s horse, covering it from head to toe, pecking at its eyes and flesh. But they weren’t chasing us anymore, now that they had easier pickings.

Deke and the others waited for us. I shouted at them to go on. Wasn’t any sense in wasting our momentary advantage. The birds would strip that carcass soon enough. Then they—and whatever was left of Janelle’s horse—would be back after us again, along with all those other dead things loping along behind us.

We caught up with them and I found myself in the lead again. Deke and Jorge flanked me. Terry and the Reverend rode along behind. I kept my eyes on the foothills and said nothing, but I noticed the wounded, hurt look that Terry gave Janelle and me.

The day grew hotter. I wished it would rain.

***

We lost Jorge’s horse before we reached the hills. The rest of our mounts were stumbling badly, the last of their strength spent. Jorge wept as he took a hatchet to the poor animal. I wondered how he managed the tears. I was so dry, I couldn’t spit, let alone cry. We all dismounted, leading our horses the rest of the way. I didn’t much cotton to the idea, but it was either that or let them keep dropping out from underneath us. Janelle complained about having to walk, but none of us paid her any mind, except for Terry, who offered to carry her. He blushed, withering under her scornful glare while the rest of us chuckled at the image of Janelle riding piggyback on his shoulders across the desert.

The terrain changed, becoming rockier. Soon enough, we reached the foothills. Deke stopped us, shading his eyes with his hands.

“Ya’ll see what I see?”

We looked where he was pointing, and I whistled.

“I’ll be damned.”

There was a narrow canyon entrance wedged between two of the hills. The landscape seemed to arch over it, and for a moment, it almost looked like a door. Then I wiped the sweat from my eyes and looked again. Nope. No door. Just sloping canyon walls, shadowed and probably a lot cooler than where we were standing.

“Let’s make for that,” I said. “At the very least, it’ll get us out of the sun for a spell, and give us a place to hide. Might even be a stream or a pool.”

The others seemed to brighten at this. They picked up their pace. Even the horses seemed to sense that our luck was changing. They trudged forward with renewed strength. I looked back the way we’d come. There were a few birds circling in the haze. From that distance, I couldn’t tell if they were dead or not, but they weren’t heading in our direction. There were, however, three small objects limping across the desert. Judging by their size and movements, I figured them for dead dogs or coyotes. They were too far away to be any real danger, but I figured we should put some distance between them and us.

We made our way into the canyon mouth, and again, I was reminded of a door. We went single file—Deke and me in the lead, and Jorge and Terry bringing up the rear. A cool breeze dried the sweat on my forehead. I smiled. Despite everything we’d been through, I suddenly felt better than I had in days. Underneath those sloping cliff walls, the sun couldn’t touch us. With luck, the dead wouldn’t either.

The passage narrowed. There was a slight but noticeable downward descent. It went on like that for a while. Then the walls pressed closer. I was just starting to doubt that we’d be able to squeeze the horses through it when the canyon rounded a corner and opened wide.

I stood there gaping, half-convinced that what I was seeing was a mirage, until Deke cleared his throat behind me.

“Get a move on, Hogan. What’s the hold up?”

“See for yourself.”

I moved my mount aside so that they could come through. One by one, they walked out of the narrow fissure and stopped, sharing my reaction.

“This sure ain’t on no map I’ve seen,” Deke whispered.

“No,” I agreed. “I don’t reckon it is.”

Spread out before us, from one horizon to the other, was the biggest damned valley I’ve ever seen. It was filled with all kinds of trees and plants—things that had no business growing in the desert. The lush, green foliage was quite a shock after the barren wasteland we’d just crossed. A broad, clear stream ran through the center of the valley—not quite a river, but too big to be a creek. The air in the valley was different. It smelled just like the aftermath of a thunderstorm, and it was more humid, but not as hot as the desert had been. Although we couldn’t see any, the trees and bushes echoed with the sounds of wildlife—deep-throated rumblings and shrill bird-calls like nothing I’d ever heard before. Understand, this wasn’t just some desert oasis. This was an entire hidden valley, nestled between the surrounding canyon hills. The terrain was unlike the rest of the desert. I couldn’t figure out how such a thing could be.

The Reverend must have been thinking the same thing, because he said, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was back home.”

“Why’s that?” Terry asked.

“Because it reminds me of the forests back in Virginia. But that can’t be right.”

“It’s an oasis,” Deke said. “Has to be.”

“Too big for that,” I told him. “It’s a whole valley.”

Janelle stared at the treetops, swaying in the breeze. “How is this possible? Wouldn’t someone in Red Creek have known about this?”

“Does it matter?” Deke shrugged. “Whether they knew about it or not, we’re here now. I reckon the Reverend ought to thank God for us, cause as far as I’m concerned, our prayers have been answered. We’ve got shelter, shade, food, and water. These trees will hide us from those dead birds.”

We led the horses down to the stream. The thick undergrowth slapped our legs and brushed against our faces. Clouds of mosquitoes and gnats buzzed around our eyes and ears, but we didn’t pay them any mind. Unlike the dead, the bugs only ate a little bit.

The horses drank eagerly. We did the same, laughing and splashing. The water was cold and clear, which struck me as odd. There’d been no snow atop the hills. Running in from the desert, the stream shouldn’t have been so frigid. Drinking it made my teeth hurt, but I didn’t care. I gulped it down until my stomach cramped. Then I threw up and drank some more, splashing water across my face.

Whooping, Deke plunged into the stream and waded out until the water was up to his waist. Terry, Jorge and I stripped off our gear and followed him. I turned back to Janelle and the Reverend, who were watching us from the bank.

“Come on in,” I said through chattering teeth. “The water’s fine.”

“I doubt that.” Janelle smiled. “Your skin is turning blue.”

“Hell,” Deke laughed. “My damn balls are shriveling up.”

We all chuckled at that, even Janelle. Terry and Jorge splashed each other. Deke ducked below the surface and came up sputtering. I motioned to Janelle and the Reverend.

“Seriously, ya’ll should come in.”

“I’m fine here,” Janelle said. “It wouldn’t be ladylike.”

The Reverend shook his head. “I’m afraid that I can’t swim, Mr. Hogan.”

“It ain’t that deep,” Deke told him.

Before the Reverend could respond, Jorge interrupted.

“What’s he saying?” Deke asked.

Jorge put one finger to his lips and cupped his ear with his other hand.

“I don’t hear nothing,” Terry said.

The bushes along the stream bank rustled. The horses whinnied and glanced around, stomping their feet. I reached for my pistol, realizing too late that I’d left it on the shore with the rest of my gear. Then the undergrowth parted and Janelle and the Reverend both screamed.

I was expecting another dead thing—maybe a horse or a person—but what charged out of the bushes was no corpse. It was the biggest damn lizard I’d ever seen—and it was alive. It stood on its hind legs, towering over the horses, about fifteen feet long from head to tail and probably weighing a ton. Despite its size, the thing moved fast. Arms outstretched, it ran on two legs towards Janelle and the Reverend. Each hand had three fingers. The middle fingers were equipped with claws the size and shape of a grain sickle. It had a big head and an even bigger mouth full of arrowhead-sized teeth. Its tongue flicked the air as it made a hissing, throaty sort of roar.

Shrieking, Janelle dove into the stream. The Reverend ran after her. I noticed that he’d pissed his pants. He paused, glancing back and forth from the water to the lizard, as if trying to decide which one he feared the most.

The creature slashed the throat of Terry’s mount. Spraying blood, the poor horse took two faltering steps and then fell over. The other horses scattered. As they did, three more giant lizards emerged from the bushes and attacked them. The cries the horses made as they were slaughtered was one of the worst sounds I’ve ever heard.

We hurried to the far side of the stream while the lizards busied themselves with their kills, tearing and ripping, sticking their snouts into the horses’ abdomens and rooting around. I glanced back and noticed that the Reverend had waded into the water up to his knees. He stood there trembling, watching in horror as the lizards feasted.

“Come on,” I shouted. “While they’re distracted!”

He shook his head.

“Somebody has to help him,” Janelle said. “One of you get back over there.”

“The hell with that,” Deke said, wading onto the shore. “I ain’t even going back for my gear. You think I’d go back for him?”

Janelle gasped. “He is a man of God.”

“Then I reckon God will keep him safe,” Deke replied. “Either that, or he’ll meet God real soon.”

“I’ll get him.” Terry splashed into the stream.

Cursing, I jumped in after him.

“Hogan,” Deke yelled. “Where the hell are you going? Get back here!”

“Our guns are over there,” I told him. “We’re going to need them.”

That was my excuse, anyway. Deep down inside, I wondered if I was doing it for Janelle, instead. I waded after Terry. We made it about halfway across the stream before pausing. The lizards were still eating. So far, they’d ignored the Reverend. He stood there, glancing back and forth between them and us. His chin quivered and his legs shook.

“Come on, Reverend.” I waved at him, trying to keep my voice low. The movement attracted the attention of one of the lizards. It raised its bloody snout and snorted, cocking its head sideways and studying Terry and me. I’d been charged by a bull once, while crossing a pasture. The lizard had the same look in its eyes as the bull right before it charged.

“Terry,” I whispered, “don’t move. Just stay still.”

He nodded. The color drained from his face.

“Reverend,” I said, keeping my voice calm and steady. “You need to get in this creek right now. It don’t matter if you can’t swim. Terry and I will carry you. But get your ass over here.”

Nodding, he inched forward. The water rippled around his knees. His lips moved in silent prayer. His eyes were closed.

“That’s it,” I whispered. “Easy now. Nice and slow.”

I glanced at the lizards. All four of them watched us now. They stood stiff and tense, ready to spring. One of them was missing an eye. The left side of its face was a mass of scar tissue leftover from some long-ago fight.

“Giants in the Earth,” the Reverend muttered. “Leviathan.”

It was hard to hear him over the churning water. “What?”

“It’s a Bible verse, Mr. Hogan. There were giants in the Earth in those days.”

“Only verse I know is ‘Jesus saves’. Reckon I’ll take your word for it.”

He stopped, gasping as the water reached his crotch. One of the lizards crept towards the stream.

“C-cold,” the Reverend stammered. “It’s so cold.”

“That’s okay. We’ve got you. Terry, give him a hand.”

“Hogan,” Deke called.

“Little busy right now,” I said.

The lizard on the bank lowered its head and sniffed the spot where the Reverend had been standing. The other three turned away from us and stared into the forest. I followed their gaze and saw why. The three dead coyotes I’d noticed earlier had followed us into the canyon. Now they stood under the tree line, watching us with blank, lifeless eyes. One of them was missing an ear. Another’s broken ribs were sticking through its fur. They didn’t pant. Didn’t growl. They just stared. Flies hovered around them in clouds.

“Oh hell,” Terry said.

The Reverend’s eyes grew wider. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He started to turn around, but I stopped him.

“Never you mind. Just give Terry your hand. Let’s get out of here before they decide to have us for dessert.”

As Terry reached for the Reverend’s trembling hand, the lizard on the bank leaped into the stream, splashing water over our heads. At the same time, the dead coyotes lumbered into the clearing. The other three lizards went for them. The one with the missing eye seized a coyote in its massive jaws and shook the corpse back and forth.

The Reverend and Terry both slipped, sinking below the surface. They came up sputtering and flailing. The Reverend clung to Terry’s shoulders, almost dragging him back down again. The lizard surged forward, squealing. I splashed water at it in an attempt to scare it off, but all I did was make it swim faster.

“Let go,” Terry choked. “Can’t breathe…”

Sobbing, the Reverend clutched him tighter. They both went down again, and then the lizard was on them, close enough that I could feel its breath on my face. It smelled like rotten meat. Its jaws closed around Terry’s head and lifted him out of the water. His legs and arms jittered, and I could hear him screaming inside its mouth. The creature gutted him from groin to neck with one of those sickle-shaped claws, while holding the Reverend beneath the surface with its hind legs. Terry’s guts splattered into the water.

On the far shore, Janelle, Deke and Jorge screamed. I backpedaled, unable to take my eyes off the slaughter. The lizard was busy with Terry and the Reverend, and paid me no mind. Neither did the other three. They feasted on the horses and coyotes.

I stumbled out of the stream and shouted at the others to run. Without looking back, we plunged into the forest, panicked and terrified. Soon, the greenery swallowed us.

***

We made camp inside of a hollowed out tree. I’d never seen anything like it before, though I’d heard tell of some big trees out in California, and reckoned this might be like them. It was large enough for the four of us to sit inside comfortably. The top had snapped off at some point, but the trunk was still standing. We were able to fashion a crude roof using leaves and branches. There were bugs inside—beetles and ants and such—bigger than any I’d ever seen, but harmless. Janelle was afraid of them, but she was more afraid of what might be lurking outside.

All we had was what had been in our pockets—a bit of paper and a pencil, Deke’s compass, a pouch of chewing tobacco, Janelle’s frilly lace handkerchief, some money, and other odds and ends. It got cold after the sun went down. We had no matches or flint. We huddled together for warmth. Janelle fell asleep with her cheek resting on my shoulder. When she breathed, her breasts rubbed against my arm, soft and warm. That made every-thing we’d been through almost worth it.

A few lizards passed by, close enough for us to see them. None of them were like the ones from the creek. One was the size of a cow, with a long neck and even longer tail. It sniffed around the base of the tree, but was more interested in eating leaves than it was in us. Another one, a baby judging by its size, had a bill like a duck. One of the creatures shook the ground as it lumbered by. Trees snapped, crashing to the earth. We saw its legs and hind end, but not the rest of it. Some of the lizards had feathers. Most didn’t. Right before sundown, the forest got real dark as something flew overhead. I poked my head out and looked up. Through the branches, I caught a glimpse of a flying creature with a fifteen-foot wingspan. It reminded me more of a bat than a bird.

We stayed there all night. We didn’t talk much. When we did, it was in short, hushed whispers so we wouldn’t attract attention. Janelle and Deke slept. Jorge shut his eyes, but opened them every time there was a noise from the forest. Deke cried in his sleep, but I didn’t mention it to him. After all, I cried, too. Only difference was my eyes were open.

***

“What are they?” Janelle asked the next morning.

“Big damn lizards,” Deke told her.

“I know that. But where did they come from?”

“I’ve got an idea,” I said. “Ya’ll know about these big bones in the rocks that folks dig up out of the ground, right?”

“Sure,” Deke replied. “There’s rich people who collect them.”

Janelle nodded. “They’re called fossils—all that remains of the dinosaurs.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s the word. I reckon these lizards are living versions of those fossils. They’re dinosaurs.”

“The Reverend might have disagreed with you on that,” Deke said. “He seemed to think they were something out of the Bible. I don’t remember any dinosaurs in the good book.”

“Well, the Reverend’s dead. I don’t reckon he’ll be any more help.”

Janelle frowned. “You should be more respectful of the dead, Mr. Hogan.”

“I usually am. But our recent experiences with the dead have soured me a bit. It’s hard to be respectful of something when it’s trying to eat you.”

“But the Reverend wasn’t like those dead.”

“No, he wasn’t. I reckon he was one of the lucky ones.”

“You’re forgetting one thing,” Deke said. “I thought dinosaurs were supposed to be extinct.”

“Somebody forgot to tell them that.”

Jorge glanced at each of us as we talked, clearly trying to follow the conversation. His expression was desperate. I smiled at him. He smiled back and then pointed outside.

“I’m with him,” Deke said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“We need to find our way back to the desert,” I agreed.

“But the dead are still out there,” Janelle said.

“They’re here in the valley, too,” I reminded her. “But there aren’t any dinosaurs in the desert. Given a choice, I’d rather take my chances with just the dead, rather than worrying about them both.”

Deke rubbed the whiskers on his chin. “You remember how to get back to the canyon entrance?”

“No.” I shook my head. “I got all turned around when we ran. I was hoping one of you knew the way.”

Neither Deke or Janelle remembered, and when we tried asking Jorge, he just stared at us in confusion and pointed outside again.

“Try your compass,” I told Deke. “Let’s get a bearing on where we are, and which direction we’ll need to go.”

He pulled it out, wiped condensation from the lens, and then stared at it.

“What’s wrong?” Janelle asked.

“Damned thing ain’t working,” Deke muttered. “It’s just spinning round and round, like it can’t find north.”

“Let me see.” I tried it for myself. Sure enough, the needle just kept spinning in a circle. I handed it back to him. “How much did you pay for that?”

“Five cents.”

“That was five cents too much.”

“It worked in the desert.”

“Well, it ain’t working now.”

Jorge pointed outside again.

“We can’t just go stumbling around through this valley,” Deke said. “We’ll get eaten.”

“That might be so,” I agreed, “but we can’t stay here, either.”

“Then what do you propose, Hogan?”

“I say we head for high ground. The valley is ringed by those hills. I say we get to the top of one of them, and then work our way back down to the desert. Should be easy without the horses.”

“That’s another problem,” Deke said. “With no mounts, how do we stay ahead of the dead once we make it out of here?”

I shrugged. “They’re slow. And judging by the shape those coyotes were in yesterday, I’d say the desert has been harder on them than it was on us. Long as we keep moving, we should be able to outpace them. With any luck, they’ll fall apart before too much longer.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Janelle asked.

I didn’t have an answer for her. None of us did.

***

Soon as it was light, we crept outside and held our breath. When nothing charged out of the undergrowth, we relaxed. I shimmied up a tree and got a fix on our location. The hills were there on the horizon, ringing the valley. Pale clouds floated above them, almost touching their tips. I saw a few dinosaurs—long-necked, soft-eyed things with square, blunt teeth, chewing on the treetops. They reminded me of cows. Just a lot larger. I shuddered, watching them warily. Big as they were, they could have reached me in no time. Luckily, they paid me no attention.

We set off on our trek through the valley. I took the lead, followed by Deke and Janelle. Jorge brought up the rear. We went slowly, communicating with each other through hand gestures. The forest was full of animal noises, but they weren’t sounds that I recognized. There were croaking, raspy grunts and long hisses and chirps that sounded almost, but not quite, like bird-songs.

The first sound we recognized was a tree snapping—a loud crack, like a schoolmarm’s paddle smacking someone’s behind. We couldn’t tell which direction it was coming from. Then we heard it crash to the ground. The forest floor vibrated with the impact. Another tree snapped. We caught a glimpse of the thing—a tail as long as a stagecoach and hind legs taller than a barn. It was walking away from us. We hurried straight ahead, not wanting to attract its attention. We moved so fast that we didn’t see the dead dinosaur until it lurched out of the undergrowth.

Janelle’s shriek echoed through the valley. Deke and I dove to the side. Jorge stood there gaping as it towered over him, staring down at him with one good eye. I recognized the lizard right away. It was the same one we’d encountered the day before. The missing eye and the scars on its face were unmistakable. When we’d last seen it, the dinosaur was still alive. Apparently, the dead coyote it had eaten hadn’t agreed with it, because now it was dead—infected with Hamelin’s Revenge. It already stank. A swarm of flies hovered around it. Its movements were sluggish, but it was still quick enough to catch Jorge. He tried to run, but it swiped at his back, plunging its talons into his skin and lifting him off the ground. Jorge jerked and jittered like a drunk at a square dance. He opened his mouth to scream and vomited blood instead. The lizard’s claws burst through his chest. Then the dinosaur ripped him in half.

I grabbed Janelle’s hand and forced her to run with me. Deke was at my side, breathing heavily. His cheeks were flushed. I wanted to ask him if he was all right, but couldn’t spare the breath. We plunged through the greenery, heedless of where we were going or what was around us. One-Eye lumbered after us. We couldn’t see him, but his steady, thudding footfalls kept pace.

The ground started to slope upward. The trees tilted forward, then thinned out. Janelle stumbled and fell, but I scooped her up in my arms and continued on. Deke’s face turned beet red. He was drenched with sweat.

“Not much further,” I panted. “Just keep climbing.”

They nodded. Janelle tapped my shoulder, indicating that she wanted down. She was wobbly when she first tried to stand, but soon regained her footing. We scrabbled upward. The vegetation thinned to scrub, and the soil turned rocky. Huge boulders thrust from the earth. I glanced back down into the forest and saw treetops swaying back and forth as One-Eye passed beneath them. Then he lurched into sight. Without pausing, he started up the hill, thundering toward us.

“It’s no use,” Deke sobbed, mopping his brow with his shirt-tail. “That thing’s dead. It won’t tire. It’ll just keep coming until we tucker out, and then get us.”

“I ain’t gonna let that happen,” I said.

“Well, how do you reckon you can stop it?” Deke glanced back down at the dinosaur, creeping closer but still a long way off. “We ain’t got any weapons.”

“Sure we do.” I smiled, patting the boulder next to me.

“Hogan, you’ve lost your damned mind.” Deke stumbled to his feet. “What are you gonna do? Spit at it?”

“No. When it gets closer, I’m gonna drop this rock on its head. That was your idea yesterday, remember?”

“Will that work?” Janelle asked.

I shrugged. “I reckon that depends on whether I hit him or not.”

We waited for it to get closer. Janelle got nervous, but I calmed her down, assuring her that my plan would work. And it did. When the dinosaur was right below us, close enough that we could smell it again and hear the insects buzzing around its corpse, Deke and I rolled the boulder out over the ledge and dropped it right on the lizard’s head. There was a loud crack, like the sounds the snapping tree trunks had made. One-Eye sank to the ground. The boulder tumbled down the hillside. After a moment, the twice-dead dinosaur did the same.

Cheering, Janelle and Deke both hugged me. Then, before I even realized what was happening, Janelle kissed me. Her lips were blistered and cracked from the sun, but I didn’t mind. I pulled her to me and kissed her back. We didn’t stop until Deke cleared his throat.

“We ought to get going,” he said. “I reckon there will be more like him coming along shortly.”

“You’re probably right,” I agreed. “Let’s go. I’ll race you both to the top.”

We scrabbled to the summit, laughing and talking about our good fortune. It occurred to me that we should feel bad about Jorge and the others, and I did, of course. But at that moment, I was just happy to be alive, and even happier about that kiss. I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

That sensation crumbled when we reached the summit. We stood there, unable to speak. Janelle began to cry. Instead of desert, spread out before us was more forest—an endless sea of green treetops swaying as things passed beneath them.

“No,” Deke whispered. “This can’t be right. This ain’t on any of the maps.”

I put my arm around Janelle. “I don’t think we’re on the maps anymore, Deke.”

Deep in the valley below, something roared. I glanced over my shoulder. Another dinosaur emerged from the forest. Its head was as big as a full-grown buffalo and its teeth were the size of tent pegs. It was obviously dead. It might have escaped extinction, but it couldn’t escape Hamelin’s Revenge. Death is funny that way. In the end, it gets us all.

As we ran, I wondered if one day, folks would dig our bones out of the ground like they had the dinosaurs, and if so, which kind of dead we’d be.

STORY NOTES

“Lost Canyon of the Damned” came about after Joe Lansdale asked me to write a story for an anthology he was editing for Bill Schafer at Subterranean Press. He wanted something “fun and retro-pulpy.” I wrote him this. Unfortunately, my story was too long, and there wasn’t room for it in the book. Joe and Bill were nice enough to recommend the story to John Joseph Adams, who was editing an anthology of zombie stories called The Living Dead 2. John contacted me and the story found a home. And now it’s appearing here, as well.

Although this story takes place in the Old West (or, at least, it does until they step through that dimensional doorway and end up in a world of dinosaurs), the virus that causes the zombie outbreak is the same as the one from my novels Dead Sea and Entombed. Consider it an alternate reality where the zombie apocalypse happened during the days of the Old West.

BRIAN KEENE is the author of over twenty-five books, including Darkness on the Edge of Town, Urban Gothic, Castaways, Kill Whitey, Dark Hollow, Dead Sea, Ghoul and The Rising. He also writes comic books such as The Last Zombie, Doom Patrol and Dead of Night: Devil Slayer. His work has been translated into German, Spanish, Polish, Italian, French and Taiwanese. Several of his novels and stories have been developed for film, including Ghoul and The Ties That Bind. In addition to writing, Keene also oversees Maelstrom, his own small press publishing imprint specializing in collectible limited editions, via Thunderstorm Books. Keene’s work has been praised in such diverse places as The New York Times, The History Channel, The Howard Stern Show, CNN.com, Publisher’s Weekly, Media Bistro, Fangoria Magazine, and Rue Morgue Magazine. Keene lives in Pennsylvania. You can communicate with him online at www.briankeene.com or on Twitter at @BrianKeene

Table of Contents

AN OCCURRENCE IN CRAZY BEAR VALLEY

LOST CANYON OF THE DAMNED