Skinwalkers (2 page)

I shook my head, trying to regain my bearings. “How did you—?“

“The same way I’ve stayed alive for the past two-hundred-plus years, Bear.“
DeChance
leaned over the table. His dark eyes flashed with violet light and the room became a spinning top. “I’ve been looking for what’s now bound to your book ever since I came upon the remains of the ghost town you’ve written about.“

My head began to lower of its own accord. “The pie…you …you drugged me, you…sonofabitch.“

“Yes. But it was the coffee.“

DeChance
smiled. “I’d never ruin a good pie. And I only drugged your coffee because I had to. You exorcised most of the demon I came looking for when you wrote this book. But there’s still some of it lurking inside you. I can see it.“

My cheek touched the cool faux wood of the table top. “You’re…fucking …nuts.“

“Hush,“
DeChance
said. “Sleep now. I would spare you what comes next.“

And sleep I did.

But I dreamed. Nightmares coursed through my head. Visions of
DeChance
and something…something
other
…locked in a battle of life and death, the two of them laying waste to my apartment as the pages of my manuscript swirled around them.

When I awoke the second time, the efficiency was as right as it ever was, but
DeChance
was gone. So were my manuscript and research materials.

This note was left in their wake:

Bear,

I have defeated the demon. It will hinder you no more, provided you make no further attempt to tell the story of the ill-fated town of Perdition, New Mexico, or the horrors that once walked its streets.

Please heed my words. Do not unleash this tale of woe upon the world. It has claimed far too many souls already. If it were to ever be published en masse, I shudder to think of the havoc and destruction that would result.
 

But take heart. As I said, if you will put this book behind you, the demon will no longer dog your steps.

As for the other monsters residing in your heart, I’m afraid you’re on your own.

Sincerely,

Donovan
DeChance

PS – Glad you liked the pie.

I cursed and crumbled up the letter within the palm of my fist. I dressed and headed out for the lockbox I keep at the Regions Bank downtown. I got there and breathed a sigh of relief when I opened the lockbox and saw the copies I’d made of my manuscript and research materials.

I might not use a computer, but I’m no fool. Anyway, after my run-in with
DeChance
, I’m beginning to think a laptop and a
Dropbox
account might not be such a bad idea after all. But I digress.

Time to get back to right here, right now.

On that note, I’ve given you fair warning—told you what
DeChance
had to say about this book and its accompanying materials.

If you keep reading, it’s on you, and only you. Not me. Not David Niall Wilson. And certainly not the rest of the team at Crossroad Press.

Still here?

All right, then.

Strap on your six-shooters. We’re saddling up and heading out into the Weird West.

I promise you it will be one hell of a ride.

Giddy up,

Bear Hill

Chattanooga, TN

October 2012

From an Old West wanted poster …

$500 Reward!

We will pay five hundred dollars for the arrest and extradition of

J.T. FARNSWORTH,

Alias, THE PROFESSOR,

Five feet seven or eight inches high, 155 to 165 lbs. weight, 26 years of age, blue-gray eyes, dark, curly hair, usually clean-shaven, wears spectacles and bowler hat and suit. He claims he is a writer of books.

He is wanted on several counts of horse thievery and adultery. The above reward will be paid for his arrest and extradition to Santa Fe, New Mexico; previous rewards as regards him are withdrawn.

ANY INFORMATION LEADING TO HIS APPREHENSION WILL BE REWARDED.

Address

ALLEN PINKERTON

191 AND 193 Fifth Ave.

CHICAGO, ILLNOIS

Or

SHERIFF JOHN LADD

21 East Main St.

SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO

GHOST RIDERS

J.
T. Farnsworth was enjoying a five-dollar poke when he felt fingers of iron entwine his hair. Before Farnsworth could do anything to prevent it, the hand wrenched him from his paid company and slung him across the room.

“God damn it!“ The paid company in question yanked up the yellowed sheets of the bed, covering her slight breasts. “Wait your fucking turn! Christ Almighty!“

The hand that had held Farnsworth’s hair moved itself to his throat and lifted him to his feet.

“J.T. Farnsworth.“ The voice was a rockslide. “I’m here to collect the bounty on you. We can do this easy, or we can do this
hard
. Your choice.
Ain’t
no never mind to me.“

J.T. looked up and saw the biggest, meanest black man he’d ever laid eyes on. His assailant had a week-old beard and wore a large, weather-worn Stetson and Duster.

“My good sir,“ Farnsworth rasped, “there is no need for violence. I am your most humble servant.“

“Uh-huh,“ the bounty hunter said. “Don’t fuck with me,
Professor
. You behave yourself if I let go?“

J.T. nodded. The bounty hunter relaxed his grip.

“Get dressed,“ the bounty hunter commanded. J.T. stepped into his trousers, pulling the attached suspenders over his bare chest.

“I don’t suppose there is any chance we might be able to palaver on this issue as gentlemen?“ Farnsworth placed his bowler on his head and stepped inside his boots, “Perhaps reaching an agreement amicable to all parties concerned—?“

The bounty hunter snarled and shifted his duster to show Farnsworth the large black revolver at his hip. Farnsworth’s eyes ran the length of the bounty
hunter’s
torso. The revolver’s twin jutted from the opposite side of the bounty
hunter’s
gun belt, its grip facing outward.

“You can carry the rest of your clothes. Put these on.“ The bounty hunter tossed Farnsworth a pair of rusted irons.

Farnsworth snatched them from the air with one hand as he massaged his throat with the other.

“Hey, God damn it!“ the girl said, “He still owes me money, you fucking cock—!“

Farnsworth took advantage of the distraction to sling the irons at the bounty
hunter’s
head.
 
The black man dodged right to avoid the projectile, leaving J.T. an open path to the room’s door. Farnsworth bolted through and made for the stairs leading down to the saloon. He was about to make his descent when he felt the pointed toe of a boot separate his ass cheeks. The kick sent J.T. tumbling down the staircase, his bowler hat lost somewhere along the way.

Farnsworth smacked the saloon’s sawdust-covered floor and the wind left his lungs. Before J.T. could catch his breath, he felt well over two hundred pounds of bone and muscle digging into his back and yanking his arms behind him.

The cool irons clamped over J.T.’s wrists, tearing his skin. The pain helped Farnsworth find enough air to yell.

“Get up.“ The bounty hunter jerked Farnsworth to his feet, all pretense of civility gone. The bounty hunter shoved Farnsworth’s clothes back into his cuffed hands.

The saloon’s patrons watched in silence as the bounty hunter dragged Farnsworth to the establishment’s swinging doors.

“Sir,“ Farnsworth said, “if you intend to continue in this course of action, I’m quite afraid I shall be forced to take—!“

“Shut up,“ the bounty hunter said without breaking stride.

“Very well. Let the consequences be upon your head, sir.

“
Fifty dollars to whoever rids me of this Pinkerton errand boy!“

The bounty hunter struck Farnsworth across the back of his skull. “I said,
shut up!
“

Farnsworth shook his head, clearing it. “One hundred dollars. Gentlemen, I beseech you! I am an innocent man!“

A fat, bearded prospector who’d been drinking himself into a stupor for quite some time traded sidelong glances with his fellow card players. The prospector began to rise from his seat. The bounty
hunter’s
revolver appeared and took a bead on his nose.

“
Don’t
,“ the bounty hunter said, his voice ice.

The prospector sank back into his chair.

“Fucking nigger,“ the prospector mumbled. “You don’t tell me nothing.“

“And you,“ the bounty hunter said, putting the gun’s nozzle to his captive’s temple, “any more of that shit and I’ll say ’To hell with the bounty,’ and splatter your goddamn brains all over this fucking saloon!“

The pair edged the remainder of the distance to the saloon’s entrance in silence and backed out through the batwing doors. Moments later, they were slogging through the wet mud of the main thoroughfare toward the bounty
hunter’s
animals—a pack mule and a large Quarter Horse with a champagne coat. The bounty hunter hoisted J.T. to sit atop the mule, the action taking surprisingly little effort for the large black man. He was about to mount the Quarter Horse
when the prospector burst out the saloon’s entrance brandishing a pistol and screaming at the top of his lungs.

There was a loud blast of gunfire and a chunk of wood along the saloon’s hitching post splintered into the air. The red-faced prospector continued to advance, firing his pistol and hitting everything but that at which he was aiming.

Farnsworth recoiled as a bullet buzzed his ear, trying to shrink his spindly frame to its smallest possible size.

“Great Godfrey, man!“ he yelled. “Shoot him before he kills us both!“

The bounty hunter just stood, watching the prospector run at him like a Viking berserker.

“Come on,“ the bounty hunter whispered. “Shoot me.“

Not fifteen yards now separated the bounty hunter from the howling prospector. But still the bounty hunter stood, an obsidian monolith rising out of the muddy street.

“Shoot me, God damn it. Shoot!“

With less than ten feet between them, the bounty hunter drew his revolver and fired. The prospector went silent as the top half of his head disappeared in a pulpy, red mist. At the same time, his body was yanked backward into the street by an invisible rope.

“Jumping Jehoshaphat on toast!“ J.T. said. “I know I called the ruffian to the task, but have you taken leave of your fucking senses?“

The bounty hunter stood in silence, looking at the dead man spread-eagle in the mud. The corpse’s eyes were open and pointed upward in search of its missing cranium, a silent question etched upon its mustachioed lips.

T
he bounty hunter turned and, without looking at Farnsworth, secured the reins of his pack mule to his saddle. Then he mounted the big
Quarter Horse
and spurred it into a trot, heading out of town, Farnsworth and the mule in tow, the dead and the gawking in their wake.

“S
ir, I implore you to reconsider,“ Farnsworth pleaded. “I assure you my father is a man of vast means. Whatever paltry bounty you hope to collect on my head would shrivel and fade in comparison to the leagues of wealth you might procure simply by endeavoring in a singular act of kindness—a token of good faith on your part that would provide you riches beyond imagining! Simply release me from captivity and I shall venture to the nearest telegraphing establishment to have father wire the money to the locale of your choosing.“

They’d traveled the length of the day. The sun was setting ahead of them, its glorious corona shining from behind the gigantic, red-rock formations splitting the purple horizon in the distance. The landscape was breathtaking, but the bounty hunter was unmoved.