Skinwalkers (3 page)

The bounty hunter swayed atop his plodding horse.
“So let me get this straight,
Professor.
We part ways and I trust you to see the cash delivered to me?“

“Indeed! You are quite perceptive in your grasp of my proposal!“

“Hmm. I don’t know. I’ll have to talk it over with my business associate.“

The bounty hunter turned in his saddle to face his pack mule.

“What do you say, Boss?“

Farnsworth scowled.

“Sir, you needn’t insult me with such tomfoolery! If you believe subterfuge my intention, then please simply confess as much.“

“Oh, I just thought I’d talk it over with the ass, seeing as
your intention
was to make one out of me.“

The men locked eyes for a moment, their wills battling in the open air between them.

J.T. looked away first.

As soon as the bounty hunter faced front, Farnsworth’s hateful gaze locked upon his captor’s back. They sat in silence for a time, trotting over red sand and sagebrush. Then Farnsworth began singing at the top of his lungs.

Oh I wish I was in the land of cotton!

Old times there are not forgotten!

Look away! Look away!

Look away! Dixie land!

The bounty hunter looked ahead to the horizon, pretending not to hear.

T
hey made camp that night at the base of one of the rock formations. The bounty hunter removed the irons around Farnsworth’s wrists only to use them to anchor his leg to the terrain. The bounty hunter built a fire and they ate a meal of beans and dried jerky without a word passing between them. Afterward, when the sky was dark and pin-holed, the bounty hunter relaxed on his bedroll with whiskey and a rolled cigarette.

“Sir,“ Farnsworth began, “might I inquire of you for a dollop of—?“

“No.“

“Perhaps, if you would be so kind, at least a pinch of that—?“

“No.“

Farnsworth crossed his arms and slammed his back against the rock face—pouting like a child.

“You know,“ J.T. said. “you astound me, sir!“

The bounty hunter cocked his eyebrows in mock interest.

“Here I sit, an innocent man, whom in all probability you are ushering post haste to his final moments, and—“

“I know a few folks who see things differently where the question of your
innocence
is concerned.“

Farnsworth leapt to his feet.

“Deceivers! Brigands! Destroyers who would see an enterprising young man like myself shot down like a dog for daring to stray beyond the bounds of the atrocity they themselves would construe to be justice!“

“You shot a man and stole his horse.“

“In self-defense, I assure you. The cad accosted me due to his frustrations at my unburdening him of a large percentage of his income throughout various sessions of gentlemen’s gambling.“

“In his own home? While you were in bed with his wife?“

“If his
shortcomings
in his marital responsibilities drove the man’s cherished one into mine arms, what blame can be laid upon my head?“

“And the horse?“

“Little choice did I have there also, what with his brothers misconstruing the unfortunate passing of their sibling as something I had association with. Immediate flight by means available proved my only option.“

The bounty hunter stared at Farnsworth in disbelief. Farnsworth stared back, his expression imploring. The bounty hunter sighed and tossed his captive his whiskey flask. J.T. smiled and took a greedy pull off it.

“You are a true compatriot, sir!“ Farnsworth said. “A veritable saint! Children shall take your name in honor for generations to come. I shall personally—“

The horse and mule whinnied and the bounty hunter was on his feet, revolvers drawn. Farnsworth crouched in indecision, not knowing whether to meet whatever peril lay in the darkness on his feet or curled in a fetal ball.

The bounty hunter peered into the night. Farnsworth could almost feel him willing his eyes to divide the pitch. Seconds crept by, minutes, eternities. Farnsworth strained his ears, listening for the slightest scrape of brush against pants leg—the smallest scrape of boot upon rock.

As a child, J.T.’s father had told him story of Billy Goat’s Gruff—of the troll who lived under the bridge, waiting to devour goats—
or even children
—too stupid or unlucky enough to travel into the monster’s domain. And nighttime was the domain of all monsters, wasn’t it? The realm of all things dead? Of things that scurry and slither, devour and destroy?

Thoughts of the bridge troll loped through Farnsworth’s mind. He saw the troll’s gnashing, rotted teeth—smelled the maggot-ridden flesh it reeked of.
 
Somewhere in the depths of his psyche, the fleeting, rational side of his mind asked what kind of lunatic would tell a person such stories—and what kind of lunatic would sit back and listen?

“Quiet,“ the bounty hunter whispered.

J.T. heard chains rattling and wished whatever coward was doing that would get a grip on themselves. When he saw it was his own trembling shackle causing the noise, he stilled.

Night. Silence. Abyss.

Then the slightest of
hoofbeats
upon rock, growing steadily louder with each passing second. Then they appeared—
Indians
—spectral riders on horseback who seemed to float past camp in the darkness. Farnsworth saw both horse and rider were painted. But, in the night, the dyed clay shone merely as varying shades of blue-black. The night seemed to devour the campfire’s light so that the Indians remained cloaked in skins of shadow.

Then they were gone as quickly as they came. Farnsworth knew if he and the bounty hunter made it through the night, the morning would reveal no tracks or other evidence the ghostly party had passed them by.

A few moments passed and, satisfied they’d gone, Farnsworth relaxed. He took a step back and bumped up against something—
against someone
. Farnsworth whirled around and an icy fist of terror seized his heart. J.T. gazed into the face of the troll. He knew it was the troll. Nothing else could be so wretched. In truth, the monster wore the face of an ancient native, but J.T. was not fooled. He knew pure evil when he saw it.

Demons of fire and shadow danced across the ancient’s scowling, wrinkled face. His long, platinum hair wriggled in the breeze like a bed of snakes. But that was not the worst of it.

It was the ancient’s eyes—those twin infinities of soul-swallowing cataract—a blind man’s eyes—
a demon’s eyes
—that made J.T. scramble backward and fall upon his ass as he screamed his mother’s name.

The ancient turned his empty eyes to the bounty hunter. Despite the native being unarmed, it was the bounty hunter who trembled in the other’s presence. The bounty hunter glanced down at his quivering weapons. When he looked up again, the ancient had been swallowed up by the night.

From
Black Bob’s Doom; or The Hounds of Perdition
, a dime novel by J.T. Farnsworth…

The noble gunslinger kicked in the cabin door and fired his weapons in the air as he announced his arrival in a most vociferous manner. “Be you either gentlemen or brigands, I am Daniel Sinclair. If the resounding of my psalm-like title does not chime the bells of memory within your cowardly heads, let me say that you may recognize my more titular appurtenance, that of
Deadshot
Dan!“

“
Deadshot
Dan of Arizona?“ One of the brigands seated at the cabin’s sole adornment, a roundish table, queried, his voice quivering as he gazed into the glistening, nickel-plated barrels of Dan’s infamous twin revolvers.

“Aye,“ Dan confirmed, a wry smile upon his lips, “the very same.
Deadshot
Dan of Arizona, the sultan of six-guns and the prince of
pistoliers
who, with the aid of my trusty revolvers, Death and Doom, hulled the town of Big Grit single-handedly of all ruffians and evildoers in defense of those too innocent of heart and meek of character to protect themselves! Make no mistake that I can
nere
do the same with the likes of this motley crew any day of the week and as many times on Sunday as the good book orders!

“But both good luck and lady fortune have shined upon you this day, gentlemen, for allow me to state that my quarrel and reason for being here is not with the likes of you, but rather with that fiend of fiends, the coal-skinned rascal known as Black Bob! He has apprehended my beloved Anna, and I must track down this black-hearted mongrel before he has the opportunity to assail her purity and leave her for dead in some dark hole within the earth! That is why I have come to palaver with the likes of you, known persons of ill character, for if anyone will have heard recent news of Black Bob’s whereabouts, it will be snakes like yourselves. Now talk or I’ll send every one of your treacherous outlaw souls over the river Jordan by the most direct ethereal line!“

The men surrounding the table appraised the gunslinger and found his words to be true. For who but
Deadshot
Dan could appear before six dangerous men such as themselves so strong of heart and steady of hand? However, an idea occurred to one of the more formidable among them, a dark-hearted rogue with a patch over his left eye somewhat learned of books who’d oft twisted the high morals of good folk to serve his evil plots and schemes.

“Sir, you have us at a disadvantage,“ the one-eyed man said in a voice full of feigned despair. “You ask us to reveal the comings and goings of Black Bob, a disreputable sort whom we freely admit is our leader, under the threat of meeting death at the end of your guns. And yet, if we are to comply with your request, surely the same fate awaits us when next we encounter Black Bob himself. This is hardly a choice to be presented by a man of supposedly high moral character and fair mindedness.“

“You do not fool me with your backward arguments,“ Dan exclaimed as he gesticulated dramatically with his infamous pistols. “Though that patch may hide your deformity, your deceit is as obvious and undeniable to me as the hills surrounding this cabin. However, I am intrigued. Please speak the thoughts which have peregrinated in your mind.“

“I propose this,“ the one-eyed man spouted in a most boisterous manner as he rose to his feet, “holster your most feared six-guns and let us match mettle for mettle in a bout of fisticuffs. Surely with the six of us, a band of rough and tumble brigands, against the revered
Deadshot
Dan, whose physical prowess is known far and wide in these parts, the odds would be near even.“

“I accept your proposal,“
Deadshot
Dan said, his face full of glee, for the only thing he liked more than dispatching villains with his guns was giving them their just desserts with his bare hands, “provided you swear before all that is holy not to draw your guns upon my own person.“

“Agreed,“ the one-eyed man said as he reached behind his back and placed his hand upon the knife he had stowed in the rear of his belt.

“Outstanding!“ Dan said as he holstered Death and Doom and then raised his fists. “Have at me, then, ye brigands! For justice awaits you on the bridges of my knuckles!“

PERDITION

“T
hat’s what I’m fucking talking about!“ Hank raked the pile of poker chips toward himself, his shit-eating grin raising the corners of his handlebar mustache so high it almost touched his eyeballs. “Hey! Hey, Robby! Give me some ’bow on that one, partner!“ Lacey, the youngest and slightest of the saloon’s prostitutes, giggled and slid her spindly arms around the lucky winner’s neck.

Robby removed his glass from his lips, wiped his rather impressive beard free of whiskey, and then touched his elbow to Hank’s.

“You sure did, Hank,“ Robby said, pronouncing “sure“ like
shore
. Then he lost himself once more inside his whiskey glass.

“God damn right, I did,“ Hank said, “This is
The Hank
you sons-ah-bitches are up against, here, boys. I can out gamble, out fight, out eat, out drink, and out fuck, any man north, south, east,
and west
, of the Mississippi!
Come on!
“
Hank let a large glob of spit and tobacco juice fly from his mouth to the floor.