A Fistful of Horror - Tales Of Terror From The Old West (27 page)

Just as the sheriff rose to his feet, a local prospector named Arthur Kraig ran excitedly into his office. “Sheriff! Sheriff Davis! Ned Carter’s daughter has gone missing!” Bolting across the wooden floor boards and down the three step porch outside, the two men ran into the open air. “Let’s get George first!” the sheriff exclaimed, “then we’ll pick up Sam and Jeremiah and see if we can find out what’s going on here!” The two men then boarded the sheriff’s coach, snapped the riding crop and headed South toward Baker Ranch on which George Blackhawk worked.

As the coach rumbled through the dusty, uneven and rough road, the two men observed the despair and fear that held a grip on Willoguesby. Normally cheerful young women who would smile and wave enthusiastically now stared downward. Men standing in front of the town’s sun bleached buildings merely tipped their hats to the sheriff but said nothing. The riders began to imagine that even the demeanour of the sheep herd as it was being guided up the road seemed solemn.

After a 20 minute ride, the coach pulled up to the rough hewn fence that surrounded the Baker Ranch. The wind whipped up as though it were a warning of bad tidings to come. Tumbleweed and bits of wood chips brushed against the legs of the sheriff and his riding companion as they walked toward the main barn of the ranch. Upon seeing them, George nodded wordlessly and joined them on their walk back to the coach.

The trio then boarded for a trip back to the main road and the general store of Samuel Stevens. They found him standing on the long wooden porch of the general store with a medium sized crate at his feet. “I figured we’ll be needing some lamps if we’re going to go down in those mines,” he spoke in an even, almost monotone voice. “Yeah, good thinking,” agreed the sheriff, as Sam lifted the crate and walked toward the coach. The men then went into the general store and retrieved six large metal basins and filled them with water from the well at the store’s right side. As the horses lapped at the store’s front trough, the five men plotted the best route to reach the mine area.

The ride into the desert was hot, long and tiresome for all parties. Aside from Arthur grunting out an occasional, “We need to start heading toward the right,” or, “we’ve got another couple of miles to go,” very little was said. The horses became more jittery and stubborn as the journey went on. Some believe that an animal can sense a bad situation instinctively. Toward the end, it was all the sheriff could do to make them take a few hesitant steps before halting once more. At last Art declared, “all right, the mines start right about here, sheriff.” After disembarking from the coach, Samuel helped the sheriff wrap the horse reins around the base of a medium sized granite rock while George placed one of the two last remaining basins of water and placed it in front of the horses. Taking a lantern, shotgun, full canteen and a flask of oil, Arthur meanwhile began walking in a Westerly direction. He used his rough hand to shield his eyes from the setting sun while looking for tell tale signs of a claim. The other three men retrieved a lamp and flask each, filled their canteens and followed his lead minutes later.

The search party wandered a bit with Arthur in the lead. It took them just over ten minutes to find their first clue. “Sheriff, look here!” Arthur exclaimed while holding up a bit of stained cloth. “Doesn’t this look like that shirt Henry Knox was wearing that day?” Taking it in hand, the sheriff noticed that the cloth piece had been violently torn as though by a very strong man or beast. Clumps of sand and silt clung to the material. The men continued onward in a state of shared nervousness. Before they had walked another 200 paces, they came upon a lone, dark brown leather boot laying slightly to their right. The spur was bent and, as was the case with the piece of shirt, the boot was splashed with a red stain. The men looked down at the boot but did not pick it up. Arthur shook his head and continued walking as George and Jeremiah looked at each other for reassurance.

Sheriff Davis saw a flash of grey to his left. With an instinct born from nearly 20 years of law enforcement, he turned just as the form of a wolf darted behind a large cluster Yuccas. Reaching for his pistol, he fired a shot at the beast but missed. The wolf disappeared into a cloud of tan dust. Convinced that they were on the trail of the beast who had killed their town folk, the men set off in pursuit. The wolf ran to a nearby rocky hill, narrowly escaping two more shots from the sheriff. By the time the search party reached the hill, the wolf was nowhere to be seen. George and the sheriff climbed cautiously up the hill while the others remained at the bottom. The rock’s surface was rough and the edges were extremely sharp. With George just ahead of the sheriff, the pair had almost reached the top of the 30 foot peak when sheriff Davis let out a yell. Loosing his footing, the sheriff tumbled down the steep surface of the rock hill, landing in some scruff vegetation. Rushing to his side, the men helped the sheriff to his feet. “My gun!” he declared. “I’ve lost my gun!” As Arthur cocked his shotgun and stood guard silently, the remaining four men searched for the pistol to no avail. Reasoning that it must have dropped between one of the rock hill’s many narrow crevices, the sheriff told Arthur to keep watch as the search party began walking with Arthur once more in the lead.

With no sign of the wolf, the men split into two groups with Arthur and George in one and Sheriff Davis, Jeremiah and Samuel in the other. As the last of the daylight began to fade, the sheriff heard a call from around the other side of a grove of cactus. It was Arthur hollering that he had found a mine entrance. After retrieving the other two men, the three fellows followed the voice until they found Arthur standing only a few feet from a covered entrance in the desert floor. “Here,” Arthur volunteered, “if you gents would get those lanterns going, I’m going to crawl down there and see what’s what. Sam, help me pull a few of these boards loose, will you?” As Samuel and Arthur pried the boards from the small earthen cavern, the other three men filled their lanterns and took a few sips of the remaining water. Moments later, Arthur entered the mine with his lantern held high in front of him and his shotgun in his left hand. “Give me a few minutes, friends,” he declared as his form faded into the darkened cavern. “I’ll give you the word if I see anything.”

“Art, I think I should go in there too,” sheriff Davis spoke up. “After all, this is my town that I’m sworn to protect and…”

“There’s only room in this mine for one man at a time, sheriff,” Arthur replied in a voice that began to take on an echo like quality. “I do this line of work for a living so I have a good idea where I’m heading.” Reluctantly agreeing, the sheriff waited outside with the other men.

Five minutes passed, then ten. After nearly fifteen minutes had gone by, the group began to grow restless. “Sheriff, maybe you…well,
we
…ought to go down there and see.” Samuel spoke up in a tone that betrayed a distinct sense of nervousness. “If there’s any bodies down there, he should have found them by this time…”

“We don’t know how deep the mine goes,” the sheriff replied. “He might have fallen, or someone might be down there already and…” George Blackhawk’s voice trailed off at the ominous sound of his own words. “I’ve never been in a mine before,” Jeremiah spoke in a nervous tone. Walking slowly to the mine’s entrance, the sheriff called out to Arthur three times but received no reply. After several moments of silence, he told the men he was going in to look for Samuel. The pair then followed closely behind with Jeremiah in second place, George behind him and Samuel at the very end.

The trail led first down on a slightly rightward angle before curving back a bit to the left for the next 60 odd feet. From there, the tunnel began to descend at a rather sharp angle and the men felt their footing slip a bit on the pebbles therein. Feeling a bit unsure of himself by this point, sheriff Davis called to Arthur once more. Before any reply could come, however, Samuel looked down to find a small piece of torn cloth that matched the plaid shirt Arthur was wearing. Taking a step forward and shining his lamp across the dusty path, the sheriff saw a larger piece of the shirt. It looked as though it had been put through a meat grinder and was soaked in a bright crimson liquid. For the next several seconds, the four men stood silent and still.

The sheriff reached apprehensively for the tattered shirt only to stumble and fall into a shallow pit that appeared to be a trap. As the remaining two men assisted him in getting out, the familiar voice of Arthur Kraig bellowed, “Get your hands up or I’ll finish you all off here and now!” Shocked, the men looked up and saw the shirtless prospector levying his cocked shotgun at them. He grinned malevolently as the sheriff stammered in disbelief, “Wha…Art…why…what are you…?”

“Come on a little further and I’ll show you, sheriff!” he replied. “And you boys too, come on! Just keep your eye on this shotgun, gents!” George turned in a desperate attempt to run only to find himself staring down the business end of Samuel Stevens’ pistol. “George, meet my partner Sam!” Arthur chuckled with a grim smile. As Samuel waved his pistol menacingly from the rear, the caravan of men proceeded onward.

The sheriff was made to hold his lantern aloft as Arthur slowly backed up several steps while keeping the men in his sights. Eight paces later, the group turned a sharp corner and found themselves at the entrance of a large alcove. Lanterns and candles from within flickered and beckoned them eerily. “Come on in, boys,” Arthur spoke once more. “Don’t make me shoot the sheriff here by running off or trying anything stupid!” Reluctantly, the men stepped into the alcove. The sight before them made the sheriff, Jeremiah and George shudder with fear of the inevitable. They knew at this point it was the end for them.

Against the cavern’s North wall were hung the butchered and cleaned remains of John Baringer, Henry Knox and Clarita Parker. Their corpses had all been beheaded and preserved with rock salt. The torsos had all been opened, gutted and washed like so many deer carcasses. Their clothing had been folded and placed against the opposite wall. “But…Sam, Art…” the sheriff began, “Wha…what about the little Carter girl! Where…where is she?” Laughing, Samuel replied, “I guess she’s home and in bed by now, sheriff! She never was missing in the first place, you old fool! That was just a ruse to get you out here! See, Sam and I have been watching you, sheriff! We saw how you were on the missing persons case like sand on wagon wheel and we knew that soon, most likely real soon, you would have thought to look in these old mines. That’s when our little hiding place would have been discovered. So, rather than try to hide, old Art here beat you to the punch and suggested it himself! And by the way, a bit of red dye with a drop or two of black dye makes for some convincing blood when its sprinkled on old clothing, don’t you boys think so?" Arthur nodded and grinned as Jeremiah spoke up.

“But…what about George and I?” Shaking his head, Sam replied ruefully, “afraid we’re going to have to kill you too! We can’t very well just let you run out of here now, can we?”

Sheriff Joshua Davis, Jeremiah Craven and George Blackhawk were all made to strip and lay down at that point. The three shots that rang out echoed from the old mine shaft and into the desert but were heard only by the vultures flying nearby.

***

General store owner Samuel Stevens’ store was abandoned the next day as was the desert claim staked out by Arthur Kraig. Neither man was ever seen or heard from again. The very next week, a man named Zack Cramer and his partner Chuck Kurts set up a general store in the town of Beachwood some 25 miles North of Willoguesby. In addition to the usual items such as corn, soap, tea, potatoes and canning jars, the store had a small amount of blacksmith material for sale as well as some boots and spurs that were said to have been sold to them by a rancher. The two horses they offered sold on the first day. Some carriage wheels were sold to the local parson a few days later and a 12 year old boy loved that real-looking sheriff’s star that his dad bought him for a nickel. Most of all, however, the town folk really enjoyed the cured meat that was sold at the store. In fact, they soon found out that it was to die for!

LAST CHANCE SALOON

Cameron Johnston

“The Devil walks into a bar and orders a whisky – never a good sign when the Devil turns to drink.”

The Australian barman, Brett, turned and slipped on his practiced amiable smile. On the opposite side of the counter a man with long dark hair wearing an expensive black Italian suit slid onto the bar stool and flicked out a twenty-dollar bill, held between two fingers.

The neon cocktail sign blinked lazily above the shelves of liquor, casting a lurid blue and pink across the bar. A mix of classic rock and country music cycled though the retro-styled juke box in the corner. The chrome fan behind the bar droned on, keeping the place cooler than the dusty summer air outside.

Brett smiled. “Whisky is it? Sorry mate, what were you saying? Is this one of those old road stories about meeting the Devil?”

The man smiled and rubbed a pale circular scar in the middle of his forehead. “Scotch…and yes, this story is something like that…”

***

Pastor John sat in the corner of the saloon staring down into his whiskey. The need was upon him; the urge to drown his sorrows in the amber nectar. He fought the need, the Devil’s urgings into debauchery. He would not succumb this time. He fought the need frequently, and frequently lost.

He felt a vile sort of kinship with the Last Chance Saloon: both of them were slowly decaying, drowning in misery and neglect.