An abridged version of this story was produced for Silence & Starsong Radio and is available on YouTube here.
There was nothing special about that particular Friday morning. Sheriff C.R. Moultrie might just as easily have put off the task until the next week, but the part of him that said “Just go on with it” eventually won out over the part that said “There’s no big hurry.” Of course, it helped that the town’s only Deputy Sheriff, Deke Piebald—who also happened to be the Sheriff’s trusted friend—had arrived early to the clapboard building that housed the Bracton Sheriff’s Office.
“You’re dressed up mighty fine this morning, Sheriff,” he said as Moultrie walked through the door and hung up his hat. “Coffee’s percolatin’ and should be done in a minute.”
The Sheriff strolled over to his desk, rolled back the top, and retrieved a small, brown-paper package from one of the half dozen cubby holes. He leaned back in his chair and gazed out the front window, just being able to catch a glimpse of the back of Widell’s General Store over the roof of the post office.
Deke set up two tin mugs on the low table that held the coffee pot. He poured one steaming cup for himself and offered the other to the Sheriff, who took it and thanked him.
“But I gotta ask what’s with the duds,” Deke said after they’d both taken a couple sips. The coffee was strong, just the way they both liked it.
“Well,” Moultrie began, unconsciously patting the package he had set beside him moments before, “today I figure on going over to the General Store to have a little talk with Ethan Widell.”
“Oh, I see,” Deke said. He only half-suppressed the ear-to-ear grin that had started to spread across his face by raising his mug for another swig of his coffee. “But I don’t suppose I know quite what business we at the Sheriff’s Office have with Mr. Widell. Someone been thievin’ again?”
“You know durn well it ain’t that,” Moultrie merrily snapped back. “You were with me when I sent off the catalog order for what’s in this package!”
The Sheriff held it up and shook it at the Deputy. The folds of the silk scarf within ruffled softly against the brown wrapping paper. His plan had almost been uncovered a couple weeks before when the scarf came in at the post office and Connie Widell herself had been there checking on a delivery for her father’s general store. Fortunately, Moultrie had told the postmaster beforehand that he was expecting a package and wanted to keep it a secret. The three of them exchanged pleasantries for a minute or two before Connie left and the Sheriff could breathe a sigh of relief.
“But now that I get down here this morning,” the Sheriff continued, “I wonder if maybe I should wait ‘til next week. I just got back in town from that trial up at the capital and—”
“And nothin! If you meant to talk to her pa today, then by gum you better go an’ do it. If I know one thing about Clive Ransom Moultrie it’s that his mama didn’t raise no coward. If it’s a kick in the pants you’re wantin’ then I’ll be more than happy to oblige!”
“No, no! I’m going,” the Sheriff said, nearly spilling his coffee as he rose from his chair.
A few minutes later he stood outside the door of the familiar general store. The Sheriff had faced down everything from the town drunk to those uncanny bandits out at the sulfur springs and never hesitated, but that morning it took him more willpower than he’d expected to grasp the handle and push open the door.
Upon entering, he found Widell’s General Store in the exact condition it had been at his last visit some several days past. The barrel of raw peanuts sat in its usual place just inside the front door, the potbelly stove that kept the place warm during the coldest months still dominated the middle of the room, and the old scale that Mr. Widell used to meticulously weigh things out for customers was perched as precariously as ever on the counter. The only thing that seemed to be missing was any of the Widells. The Sheriff approached the counter and gave a gentle ring on the bell sitting there.
Several moments later, first Mrs. Widell and then Connie emerged from behind the screen that sat in front of the back hall. The matron of the establishment clutched a handkerchief and looked red around her eyes.
“Morning, Mrs. Widell,” he said. “I was hoping to speak with your husband, but … ma’am, is everything alright?”
Connie stepped forward and spoke up on her mother’s behalf. “Well, Sheriff,” she began, “to tell the truth it’s been a mite worrisome this morning.”
Moultrie hardly noticed that Connie had addressed him by his official title. In contrast to her mother, her eyes showed no signs that she had been crying, but the crease in her brow proved she too was burdened by something.
“Pa should’ve been back at least a day ago,” she continued. “He took the wagon down to the railhead at Clifton to pick up the monthly deliveries. It’s—”
Connie was interrupted as Mrs. Widell burst out with a sob. She put her arm around her mother and tried to comfort her.
“And it’s a day to drive down there, a day to load up, and a day to drive back here,” the Sheriff said, supplying the words that Connie could not. “When did you say he’d left?”
“Monday.”
Then, in fact, Mr. Widell would be two full days late by sundown, the Sheriff reckoned. Still, there could be a reasonable explanation for his tardiness; perhaps the train had been late or there’d been some other problem with the delivery that had required more time. But he could see that that was not the time to rationalize with a distraught wife and daughter.
“Here’s what we’ll do, Eliza” Moultrie said, laying on as much lawman confidence as he could muster and hoping that his resort to her Christian name would ease some of the tension. “I expect he and the wagon will roll into town some time today, but if he doesn’t then Deke and I will saddle up and go fetch him back here. How does that sound, ma’am?”
He looked down at Mrs. Widell, who had seated herself on one of the stools behind the counter, not so much hoping for a direct answer as he was hoping to see that his words had kindled at least some small spark of reassurance in her face. She dabbed lightly at the corner of her eyes with her handkerchief and nodded. It was only a slight nod, but it was all the encouragement that the Sheriff needed.
Connie ushered Mrs. Widell to the back of the store and reappeared a few moments later, having helped her mother lie down on the bed to rest.
“I’m sorry you had to see her like that, Mr. Moultrie. I’m just as worried about Pa as she is, but I can’t see much sense in thinking the worst when we just don’t know anything yet.” Connie took a deep breath and let it out. “Was there anything you needed from the store today?” she asked.
The Sheriff placed his hand on the package he had brought, slowly slipping it from the counter where he had absentmindedly laid it. “No, nothing today. I was just stopping by to talk with your Pa for a minute or two.”
“Oh, I see.”
Connie placed a knuckle to her lips. It was a typical gesture for the lovely young woman, but one that the Sheriff had yet to decipher. She cast her eyes downward for the briefest of moments before she continued.
“Well, if you do need anything, Ma and I will be here all day today. When Pa gets here—and I’m sure he will—then he’ll need help unloading the wagon and storing things away.”
“Indeed, Ms. Widell. Good day to you.”
Back at the office Deke was pouring himself another cup of coffee when the Sheriff walked in.
“Back so soon? How’d it go?”
“Well, Deke, you’re probably not going to believe this …”
#
Even before Clifton came completely into view, Sheriff Moultrie and Deputy Piebald got a reminder that the town’s reputation as a rowdy den of assorted lowlifes, deadbeats, and thieves was well-deserved. The sound of gunshots echoed off the dusty hills that surrounded the town; Moultrie’s hand found its way to his gun belt before he even thought about it.
“Just about makes me mad enough to spit that we ain’t got jurisdiction here,” Deke said. “That Sheriff Penrod, he … well, it’s not really polite to say.”
How much longer the railroad would put up with that level of lawlessness—before they either pushed Penrod out of office and got a new sheriff more to their liking or until they picked up stakes and ran a spur line somewhere else—was anyone’s guess. It wouldn’t have surprised Sheriff Moultrie if either circumstance came to pass sooner rather than later. So when the duo made it into the town itself, their first stop was not the Sheriff’s Office but rather the large, barn-like building of Campbell’s Warehouse and Supply. A team of half a dozen men was busy hoisting heavy sacks of flour from a wagon to a spot just inside the large bay doors.
Moultrie had met the proprietor of the local warehouse only once before, but Thomas Campbell seemed to be the kind of man who never forgot a face. He greeted the Sheriff with a firm handshake and was very pleased to make Deke’s acquaintance.
“I hope it’s nothing too serious that brings you to Clifton, Sheriff,” the man asked. “Certainly nothing as bad as those bank robberies?”
“No, nothing like that. And we hope it’s nothing too serious either,” the Sheriff said. “I gather that you do a fair bit of business with Ethan Widell? He owns the general store over in Bracton.”
“Mr. Widell? Of course I know him. In fact, he had quite a large delivery come in on the train about a week ago. It’s not like him to leave it with me for so long; I know he tries to keep his storage costs as low as possible. Do you know when he’ll be coming in?”
Campbell looked from the Sheriff to Deke and then back again.
“You haven’t seen him, then?” the Sheriff asked.
“No, not since his last delivery. But that would have been a month ago at least.”
The men stood in silence for a moment. The reality of the situation pressed down on their shoulders like one of those flour sacks the workers had just finished unloading.
“Going to talk to Sheriff Penrod, then?” Campbell asked, breaking the uneasy lull.
Deke reflexively scoffed, then brought a hand to his mouth as if he had to cough.
“Yes, I suppose we’d better,” Moultrie said. “Can we see about hiring a wagon over to Bracton with the Widells’ goods? You can send the bill to my office.”
Campbell assured Deke and the Sheriff that he’d make the proper arrangements and bid them good day.
The walk to Sheriff Penrod’s office was a short one, a fact for which both Deke and Sheriff Moultrie were grateful. Paying Penrod a visit was a formality that due diligence required, even if the pair from Bracton had serious reasons to doubt it would be fruitful.
“Sheriff Penrod?” Moultrie called out as he knocked on the front door.
He and Deke had found the door open, perhaps to let in a breeze or just as likely left open by accident. They stepped inside and were instantly struck by the reek of a spittoon that must have required emptying some several days past. Sheriff Penrod was not to be found at his desk in the front room.
The back hallway of the Clifton Sheriff’s Office led to a rear exit and the town’s only jail cell. Moultrie and Deke found the cell door open and a pair of boots set just inside it. Splayed out on the cell’s meager cot was Sheriff Penrod himself, fingers of his left hand grazing the floor, snoring almost imperceptibly.
Sheriff Moultrie gave the cot a swift kick. It wasn’t enough to knock Penrod onto the floor, but it proved more than ample to rouse him from his slumber.
“What’s that!” he cried out, scrambling for the gun belt he had laid on the floor. “Who’s there?”
“It’s Sheriff Moultrie from over in Bracton. I came over here with my deputy to ask after one of our town’s residents—that is, if we’re not imposing on your time.”
“My time,” Penrod said, as if the very concept confused him. “Well, of course not, I’m sure. Come to my office?”
“No need for any formalities, Sheriff. We can just as well talk here as anywhere,” Moultrie said. For all the man’s ineptitude, Penrod been one to stand on ceremony as long as Moultrie and Deke had known him.
To the chagrin of the Bracton men, Sheriff Penrod had nothing to tell them, useful or otherwise. He could not recall any man fitting the description of Ethan Widell or even having heard the name. In contrast with Sheriff Moultrie, who felt a certain obligation to keep up with who was coming and going from Bracton, his counterpart in Clifton did not labor under any such assumption. Even if he had, Moultrie supposed, there were far more people coming and going from the rail town than from Bracton; of all the various ways in which Penrod was derelict in his duties, perhaps that was the most excusable.
“I do apologize, gentlemen,” Penrod said. “I’m sure it must be some miscommunication, but I assure you I shall do my best to pass along information about the man’s whereabouts should I come to any.”
Deke’s face took on a pinched look, the kind of thing Moultrie expected to see when the Deputy was literally biting his tongue.
“That’s kind of you, Sheriff,” Moultrie replied. “Good day.”
That bit of due diligence performed, sheriff and deputy made their way to the little chophouse a few doors down, owned by a barrel-chested man who went by the name O’Leary. As far as Moultrie was concerned, O’Leary’s eating establishment was one of the few redeeming qualities of Clifton. They sat down for a light lunch and plied both the proprietor and the other customers for any information about Ethan Widell. One of the men recognized the name, but only because he sometimes worked for Campbell at the warehouse; he didn’t know Widell by sight, and so could not say whether he’d been in town. Throughout the afternoon and all over town similar inquiries by Deke and Moultrie were unavailing.
“I’m runnin’ out of ideas, Sheriff,” Deke said when they rendezvoused back at Campbell’s Warehouse where they had left their horses. “If he’d been here, someone would’ve seen him, right?”
Moultrie nodded. “I can’t make much sense of it either. Clifton’s a dead end.”
“Then …” Deke hesitated. Neither of them cared to put their thoughts into words, lest by saying them out loud they would somehow become real.
“Best start retracing our steps then. I hate to think that we missed something but …” He removed his hat for a moment to rub his fingers across his brow. “There’ll still be plenty of light left if we head out now.”
A few minutes later they were back in the saddle, ready to make for Bracton along the well-traveled trail they had followed earlier in the day, when something caught Moultrie’s eye. O’Leary was standing just inside his front door, talking to a young woman. The Sheriff’s jaw dropped when they got closer: it was Connie.
“Ms. Widell?” the Sheriff said, drawing in his reins and dropping to the dusty street with a thud. “What are you doing here?”
An emerald flame of exasperation momentarily lit up her eyes. She recovered herself and gave the Sheriff a pleasant smile before saying, “Why, Mr. Moultrie, I’m doing nothing more than you yourself. Certainly you don’t expect a daughter to listen to the clock tick on the wall at home while her father is missing?”
Moultrie knew she could be high-spirited at times, owing in no small part to the Irish heritage that her mother mentioned any time she was given the occasion. Deke jumped in, perhaps seeing a chance to smooth things over.
“Well we understand that, ma’am, of course. But you’ll understand us when we say that Clifton is no place for a lady—not an honest one, leastways.”
“Well, I’m here now,” she protested. “I won’t get in your way if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“It’s too late for that,” Moultrie said. There was an edge to his voice that he hadn’t intended. “We’re heading back to Bracton and you’re coming with us. It’s getting late in the day and I’d sooner lock lips with a rattlesnake than leave y— err, any woman in Clifton overnight.”
By that time, Mr. O’Leary had started to back himself inside the door, a look of worry on his face. When Connie stepped down into the street, approaching the Sheriff, O’Leary closed the door entirely.
“Clive Moultrie,” she began, the indignation in her voice raised to the sharpest pitch. “If you think for even one minute that—”
“No more of that,” he said calmly, peering downward into the eyes that he found so endearing. “It’s not fittin’ and you know it. And if Deke and I don’t bring you back, your mama would surely have all our hides, and this little badge on my chest won’t make the least difference.”
Connie sank back on her heels, both she and the Sheriff realizing only at that moment that she had been standing on her toes, craning her neck in a seeming effort to stare him down and bend his will to hers. In the crucial moment, however, she found herself compelled to submit.
“Well,” she said. “I suppose … well, when do we leave, anyway?”
#
Sheriff Moultrie, raised a Tennessee boy, had never quite acclimated to the way the sweltering heat of the day so quickly transformed to bone chilling cold at night. Even before the sun was down he found himself pulling up his collar and longing for a suitable place to stop for the night and kindle a fire. Just ahead of him on the trail, riding between himself and Deke, Connie had paused, looking off to one side. The Sheriff had figured on not completing the journey that night, especially with a woman along, but if she were going to insist on stopping there, at least they could get warm that much sooner.
“What is that?” Connie asked. She gestured without letting go of the reins.
Moultrie dismounted. Deke too had circled back to Connie’s position and was peering down into the mouth of a narrow gully off to the left of the trail. Connie’s horse seemed a little antsy and the Sheriff took hold of the bridle, steadying the beast.
“Yeah, I think I can see something down there, Sheriff” Deke said.
It was hard to make out, but with the last faint glows of the desert twilight, the Sheriff could just make out the shape of a wagon, badly damaged and lying on its side. He stole a glance at Connie; perhaps the horse felt some of the worry that was written on her face.
“Deke and I will go check it out. It’s probably … well, we’ll know after we get down there.
Connie took charge of the horses and led them to the other side of the trail. The men started to help one another scramble down the steep walls of the ravine, which turned out to be deeper than it appeared from the top. A minute or two later they reached the wagon, discovering that it had wedged itself at a point some twenty feet from the bottom of the crevasse.
Deke struck a match, driving away the shadows, and revealing the words painted on the wagon’s side: “WIDELL’S GENERAL STORE.” A frenzied search in, under, and around the wagon turned up no trace of Widell himself, however.
Another match briefly illuminated the bottom of the gully. The faint light revealed the mangled corpses of Widell’s two draft horses, their necks and limbs contorted into grisly, unnatural positions.
“Looks like the vultures already had themselves quite a feast,” the Sheriff said.
“That weren’t no vultures, you can be sure. Coyotes, most like, but even those rascals … strange, that’s all. They always go for the spots with the most meat, but this …”
“Let’s head back up, Deke. If there are any tracks to follow we’d be as likely to tramp them away as follow them. Nothing we can do here right now.”
It took them quite a bit longer to climb out of the ditch than it had taken them to get down. By the time they emerged the sun had long since fallen below the horizon and the full moon was well on its way across the sky.
“Camp here?” Deke asked.
“Yeah. If there’s somethin’ to be found, it’ll be easier when we have some light. No sense in riding all the way back to Bracton.”
Connie had anticipated that they’d go no farther and in just the few minutes that had passed, had already done half the work of setting up camp. The horses were tethered, she’d cleared a smooth place on the ground, and was busy gathering kindling when the men approached.
“You gentlemen care to help a lady out?” she asked. “And while we get this fire going you can tell me what you found in that gully.”
“All right,” the Sheriff said. He put a hand on Deke’s shoulder and gave him a shake of the head. Neither of the men cared much for delaying unpleasant news, but it was sure to go better for Connie if they got more or less settled for the night. Before long they were crouched around a modest fire, sharing some of the jerky and crusty bread that O’Leary had supplied them.
Connie didn’t react the way that the Sheriff had feared. Far from erupting into hysterical tears, she seemed irritated, almost angry.
“So you’re sure it was Pa’s wagon, but there was no sign of him. None at all?”
“Well, now, no sign of him that we could see, Miss Connie,” Deke said, for what felt like at least the third time. “The Sheriff will tell ya I can just about track a sand flea in a dust storm, but it’s too dark to do anything tonight.”
Connie’s eyes narrowed as she stared across the dancing flames toward the Sheriff. Whether she was squinting because of the smoke or glaring because of her companions’ caution was impossible to tell. Huffing out a deep sigh, she pulled her blanket around her shoulders then lay down with her back toward both the blaze and the men. Her exhaustion made itself manifest only a few minutes later when her breathing fell into a heavy, regular pattern.
“Want me to take the first watch, Sheriff? Oughtn’t be anybody around for miles, but better to be sober and vigilant I say.”
“Makes sense, Deke. Wake me when it’s my turn, but just be sure not to wake Connie. She’s been through a lot the last couple days.
“Don’t worry ‘bout that. Get some shut eye.”
Moultrie settled in with his head against the saddlebags, pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes, and drifted off to sleep. He had expected Connie to appear in his dreams, yet instead he was taken back to the top of a sun-baked mesa where he had saved Deke’s life with a curious revolver and a silver bullet. The yellow-eyed giant was there too; it bellowed the same deafening cry as before, but then it began to shrink, to shrivel up like fruit left out in the sun. Moultrie found himself gliding across the landscape to see just how small it had become, when he was jolted awake by a tapping on his leg.
“You’re up,” Deke whispered. “Heard some coyotes about an hour ago, but they’re far off and gettin’ further. You sleep good?”
“‘Bout as good as can be expected,” the Sheriff said as he sat up and rubbed his eyes a bit. “Fire’s gettin’ low, but I’ll take care of it. Is Connie …”
“Sleepin’ like a log. Now I intend to do the same.”
The Sheriff chuckled to himself as Deke pillowed his head and quickly began to snore ever so lightly. He stoked the coals and added a couple branches to the fire, then adjusted his saddle and the bags so that he could lean up against them while he watched and listened.
The images of the dream had faded considerably by that time, leaving him in a state of vague disquietude. Then his thoughts drifted to Mr. Widell, what they would do to find him, and what would become of his wife and daughter if they failed. Deke would have had a prayer for just such an occasion; the best Moultrie could do was to ask, “Lord, help us find him, no matter what it takes.” He wanted to continue in that same vein, but did not realize just how much he too was mentally and physically fatigued. In spite of himself, his eyelids grew heavy, drooping uncontrollably, and soon all three members of their little bunch were sound asleep.
The Sheriff awoke with a start some time later. Exactly how long he had slept he could not tell, but the eastern sky had begun its transit from the deep darkness of night to the tell-tale gray that preceded dawn. A moment later he realized that it had been a sound that had awoken him, a shuffling and rustling from somewhere in the underbrush that dotted the landscape in every direction. It was probably nothing more than a jackrabbit or some other varmint, but then it moved again. Too big for any jackrabbit the Sheriff had ever seen, he thought as he carefully slid his hand toward the gun belt lying just to his side. If it was a coyote come in this close, he could be sure it was hydrophobia; nasty stuff, but nothing a little lead couldn’t cure.
Before he could start to roll over in the direction of the sound, Connie let out a dreadful scream. Moultrie flopped over, gun raised, just in time to see Connie sliding away into the darkness, dragged feet-first by some unseen force. Without pausing to think, the Sheriff rose up on his elbow, trained his sight on what he hoped would be a safe distance above Connie, and fired off three shots in quick succession. A cry of shock and pain leaped out of the darkness, but whatever it was, Moultrie was sure it was no coyote, hydrophobic or otherwise. The grating shriek had hardly faded before Deke dove into the underbrush in a blur, hunting knife raised and poised to kill.
“Help!” Connie whimpered. “Oh help, Clive!”
The Sheriff rushed over to where the woman lay on the ground. Her face was squinched with pain, her eyes tightly shut. He expected to find that one or both of her legs was a bloody mess, but found no such injury. Instead, it seemed that she had slipped her right foot out of one of her low-cut boots.
“It’s my ankle,” she moaned. “It got my ankle.”
The Sheriff helped her over beside the remains of the fire and tried to bring the glowing embers back to flame. Moments later Deke returned to the camp.
“It’s gone, whatever it was.”
When they’d put a little more wood on the fire, they had just enough light to try to look at Connie’s ankle.
“Careful,” she said, still not ready for the carnage she expected to find if she looked down.
“Well, I’ll be …” Deke said. “What’s to make of that?”
The Sheriff examined the tender, pale flesh of her ankle, tamping down his embarrassment for the sake of necessity. There were no teeth marks, scratches, or blood. Instead, there was the unmistakable pattern of a human hand, larger than an ordinary hand and the fingers somewhat out of proportion in length, but a human hand nonetheless. It looked almost like a burn mark; Connie’s skin reddened where the fingers must have grasped her. Yet very faintly—so faintly that Moultrie nearly missed it in the dim light—there was a gray outline at the edges of the burn mark. If it was a burn, it was like no other burn that he or Deke had ever seen.
“Let’s see if you can put some weight on it,” the Sheriff said.
With Moultrie under one arm and Deke under the other, slowly Connie rose to her feet. She gingerly lowered her foot to the ground, trying its strength.
“It still burns a bit, but it’s not broken,” she said. “I can walk at least.”
The Sheriff had never seen Connie like this before. It may have taken the apparent disappearance of her father to bring it to the surface, but the woman had just the kind of hard-nosed resolve that it took to survive on the frontier. But that would only make it harder for Moultrie to do what he had to do next.
“Now when it gets lighter, Ms. Widell,” he began, returning to the formal mode of address, “I need you to stay here while Deke and I—”
“Oh, like fun you are!” Connie interjected. “You’ll catch me running down Main Street in my nightshirt, before you leave me here with the horses again.”
She cast an icy glare first at the Sheriff and then at Deke. Both men furrowed their brows; Deke went so far as to remove his hat and rub at his forehead.
“You’ve got to see reason, Ms. Widell. It’s just that—”
The Sheriff’s words were cut short once more, but not by Connie. Somewhere off in the distance a piercing, angry cry that could only have come from the thing that had been lurking in the underbrush shattered the early-morning calm.
“Was that moving away or toward us, Deke?” the Sheriff asked.
“Not sure. Hard to tell when the land’s this rugged. The gullies will play tricks on your ears sometimes.”
“What does that mean?” Connie inquired, her voice was resolute while her face betrayed uncertainty.
“It means,” Moultrie said, letting out a sigh and glancing at Deke for affirmation, “that we’d best make sure that … thing isn’t going to come after us. If we get to a dead end in one of these gorges and … well …”
“It don’t mean nothin’ good, that’s for sure,” Deke added.
The Sheriff nodded. Short of tying her up, he wasn’t sure how he’d keep Connie from trying to come with them. He could never bring himself to do that and clearly he had reached the limit of his power of persuasion in this instance. It went against all his instincts and the sense of manly duty that his father had ingrained in him from his youngest days, but he saw no way around it. Connie would have to come with them.
Breaking down their little camp was a simple matter. Within minutes they were in the saddle, riding cross country. In its frantic departure, the trail that the thing had left was so obvious that for some time even Connie had no trouble following the signs. It curved in a wide arc, eventually crossing back over the well-worn trail that led between Bracton and Clifton. The land sloped moderately upward in that direction, so that eventually a honeycombed network of gullies and ravines came into view off to their right. They crisscrossed and looped around one another so intricately that it was often impossible to tell where one ended and another began.
After they had ridden on the small rise for a while, Deke came to a stop near the mouth of one of the deep hollows that sliced up the landscape. He had ridden ahead for a few minutes and then came back to that point on the faint trail.
“What is it?” the Sheriff asked, reining up next to him. Connie was close behind.
“Sign dries up here and there’s nothing further up ahead. Near as I can tell, we have to head down there.” Deke nodded toward the high, narrow walls of the gulley.
“Shouldn’t be far before we can tell whether we lost the trail?” Moultrie asked, peering at Connie out of the corner of his eye.
“You know me, Sheriff.” Deke gave his characteristic grin in spite of himself.
The horses made it down without too much trouble and before long Deke assured the others that his initial hunch had been right: the thing’s trail indeed led them into the bottom of the gully. The walls were too close for them to ride abreast, so Deke took the lead, Connie rode in the middle, and the Sheriff brought up the rear.
With only a sliver of the sky visible, it became difficult to judge time, but after a while the narrow passage widened out just enough for the three riders to come alongside one another.
“Now that’s better,” Connie said.
As soon as words had left her lips an uncanny howl, part shriek and part roar, burst out from somewhere ahead of them. Without stopping to think, Sheriff Moultrie spurred his horse and the beast plowed ahead with reckless abandon; Deke instantly followed suit. The passageway narrowed again, forcing the riders to curtail their pace and resume a single line. But in no more than a minute the tight walls of the ravine opened out into a basin. The far side of the depression, no more than a few hundred yards away, was bordered by a line of jagged hills. An unnatural, black square was cut in the side of the hills and it was then that Moultrie and Deke realized where they were: this was Cyrus Daniels’ abandoned copper mine.
When they reached the foot of hills another ghastly shriek echoed around the basin, but the source of the noise became clear: it was coming from inside the mine.
“That sounded … different, didn’t it, Sheriff?” Deke asked.
“Yes,” was all Moultrie said in reply. The look they exchanged was all that either of them needed to read the other’s thoughts; that time the howl of the thing was intermixed with something that could only be human. The men assumed that Connie must have sensed it too, because this time she lodged no objection to remaining outside with the horses while the men ventured inside the hill.
“Just … well, just be careful, Sheriff,” Connie said.
The Sheriff nodded.
“Promise me?” she added.
“I will.”
Moultrie ventured inside the mine’s timber-framed opening, going only as far as the light slanted in after him, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. His foot bumped something, but he pushed it to the side. A few moments later Deke entered, carrying the trusty kerosene lamp he always had with him when he thought he might have to sleep under the stars.
The Sheriff happened to glance down and realized what he had brushed up against with his boot; the pale, yellow light of the lamp revealed the unmistakable shape of a human hand, stripped of all flesh, yet still retaining the thumb and three fingers.
“Sheriff,” Deke said. “You know what we’re gettin’ into?
“We’re already neck deep in it, I’d say,” he replied. “Nothin’ to do now but see it through to the end.”
Part of the reason that Daniels must have abandoned the mine became apparent as they ventured further in: not far past the entrance there had been a partial collapse. At one time there must have been a junction of two branches, but the side corridor was completely blocked. Above them a single crossbeam bowed under the weight of only heaven knew how much rock and earth.
“Let’s be quick then,” Moultrie said. As they passed under the beam he reached up, brushing it with his fingers, and finding, as he had suspected, that the wood was rotten. He prayed silently for a miracle: “God, please just let it hold until we’re out of here.”
The main passage of the mine stretched back into the depths of the hills much farther than either of them had imagined. Looking back after a dozen strides more, the opening behind them seemed like a mere pinprick of daylight poking through the blackness. Another side passage eventually opened up to their left. The Sheriff’s stomach started to turn at the sounds that emanated from that dark corner, low rumblings and crunchings that reminded him of nothing so much as the sound of chewing.
The sound hardly had time to register in his brain before it was interrupted with another scream—a scream of horror and pain that was quickly snuffed out before it reached its full strength. Moultrie plunged down the side corridor before Deke could go ahead with the lamp.
The Sheriff crouched as he came to the edge of a large, hollowed-out space; he could feel a subtle change in the air that he took to indicate the presence of a ventilation shaft. Deke caught up with the lantern and illuminated a grisly scene. On the far side of the chamber, with back turned to them, was the thing that had ambushed their camp mere hours before. The source of the aborted scream then became apparent as the thing savagely dismembered and devoured its unknown victim. The Sheriff could feel his gorge beginning to rise when a low moan crept out of the darkness near his feet. Deke swung forward with the lantern to reveal another human hand; this one, however—though caked in dust and dried blood—was still attached to its owner. Crouching down, the Sheriff and Deke peered further into the alcove where the poor soul had been laid. Moultrie nearly let out an audible gasp when the light shone on the face of the man: it was Ethan Widell!
The pair of lawmen began to move quickly after that; years of working together communicated more than words could have, allowing them to move quietly. It helped that Widell seemed to be barely conscious and making very little sound himself. They hoisted him out of the alcove, straining to keep his limp weight from dragging against the tunnel floor. After clearing the narrow mouth of the recess and standing the unfortunate store owner up, Deke stationed himself under one of Widell’s arms and the Sheriff took the other. Ethan seemed to be waking up, but not nearly enough to walk on his own; he could make only one step on his own for every three or four paces that Deke and the Sheriff made. The faint dragging sound of Widell’s feet couldn’t have been much more than a whisper, but it rang in Moultrie’s ears like a freight train. Yet the horrifying thing that remained somewhere behind them in the dark seemed too focused on its grisly meal to have noticed them.
They could nearly see the entrance when Widell’s feet snagged some rut on the tunnel floor; he went down in a heap, nearly taking Deke with him. The thought was just beginning to form in the Sheriff’s mind that they were too far away for the thing to have heard the noise, when in practically the same instant, Ethan Widell suddenly shot back into full consciousness. In the lamplight, Moultrie saw the man’s eyes burst open, wide and bloodshot. He cried out, “Eliza! Connie! Help! Oh, help!” before slumping back to the ground.
Then they heard it. A shrieking, inhuman roar echoed down the corridor, followed closely by tramping footsteps as loud and as fast as the biggest stallion the Sheriff had ever heard. The thing was coming for them and coming fast.
“Get him outside!” the Sheriff shouted.
“But—” Deke started, cutting his own protest short. With a grunt, the trusty deputy hoisted the store keeper up to his feet and then slung his limp body over his shoulder.
As Deke sprinted for the exit, Sheriff Moultrie looked around. He had only the lamp and his revolver. An idea formed in a flash. Afraid that he might try to think better of it, thus losing the little remaining time he had, he hung the lamp from a rusty nail that protruded from the rotting cross beam and ran back thirty paces or so.
On a clear, calm day, Deke would brag that the Sheriff could shoot the eyestalk off a locust at that distance, but there was nothing clear about the dusty, abandoned mine, and the Sheriff was anything but calm. He glanced down to check that all six cylinders were loaded, but doubted there would be time for that many shots in any case. Raising the gun, he aimed just to the right of the lamp, smack in the middle of the cross beam. Beyond the sharp, metal point of his gun’s front sight he finally saw the creature’s lurid form begin to emerge from the shadows. He squeezed the trigger.
In the stifling darkness of the mineshaft, the blast of the firearm seemed to broadcast something near to daylight up and down the passage, though only for an instant. The sound in that confined space was amplified to deafening proportions. The last thing the Sheriff remembered was seeing the lamp going out and thinking Dagnabbit! I missed.
#
Raising his eyelids took about as much effort as hoisting one last fifty-pound sack of flour at the end of a long work day, but Sheriff Moultrie forced his eyes open anyway. His whole body ached and he couldn’t remember how he’d arrived in the soft bed in which he lay.
“Don’t try to move. I’ll go get the doctor.”
Moultrie didn’t need to crane his neck to verify the owner of the voice: it was Connie. Peering out the corner of his eyes and through the window to his left, he realized he was in the bedroom that sat atop the Widell’s store, overlooking the street below. It was a fine day; what he judged to be the mid-morning sun flooded the room.
Connie returned a few minutes later, with a retinue larger than Moultrie had expected—both Mr. and Mrs. Widell, along with Deke, crowded as best they could into the little room—much to the consternation of Doc Gallagher, the only sawbones within a day’s ride.
“Mornin’ Doc,” the Sheriff said, managing to muster more cheerfulness in his tone than the pain on the side of his head would have indicated.
The doctor poked and prodded for a few minutes, frowning all the while. When his examination was complete he announced, “He’ll live, I suppose,” before admonishing the little crowd not to linger long, so that the Sheriff could get his much-needed rest. “I’ll check in on you again tomorrow morning,” he said, before stomping back down the stairs.
Deke was the first to speak: “If you feel like you look, wellsir, you must be doin’ pretty poor.”
Moultrie wasn’t quite sure how to take that until Deke’s familiar grin started to spread across his face. The Sheriff started to chuckle until a sharp pain shot all over his midsection. He winced and Connie flew to his side.
“It’s those ribs,” she said. “That’s why I told you not to move before.”
“I’ll be fine,” Moultrie whispered, doing his best not to move or breathe too hard or even think too much. Only when most of the pain had subsided did he notice that Connie had placed her hand on his.
“Sorry, Sheriff,” Deke said. He had his hat in his hand, nervously rubbing the brim.
“Never mind that,” the Sheriff continued. “I’m fine. But won’t somebody tell me how I managed to get here? I remember … the abandoned Daniels mine … I got off one shot, I think. Then …”
“Perhaps the memory will come back to you with time,” said Mr. Widell. Though bruised a little around the face, and perhaps a little pale, he seemed well enough. He ran his fingers over his wispy hair before Mrs. Widell ushered him to the room’s only chair in the far corner.
Deke took a step closer to the bed. “Course, I can’t say what mighta happened in that tunnel, but I know what we found.”
The Sheriff pushed himself up ever so slightly with his elbows. He ignored the twinge of pain; it paled in comparison to the shock from a few moments earlier.
“At first we were sure we’d lost you,” Deke continued. “A tunnel collapsing like that … well, it almost never turns out good. It was Connie that saw your hand, stickin’ out of the rubble, almost like you were reachin’ for somethin’.”
Moultrie carefully turned his head toward Connie. She was looking down and toward the foot of the bed, but then lifted her head slightly, showing that her cheeks had begun to flush with the first hints of color.
“It was a heckuva job diggin’ you outta there, just me and Connie, but we managed it somehow. Providential, I suppose, that it was that joint beam landed over you; it was holdin’ back a whole mess of rocks and such that … well … you get the picture.”
“What about … you know,” the Sheriff asked cautiously. He wasn’t sure how much Mrs. Widell knew, or how much her husband remembered, but referring to “the thing” would only open up a can of worms that he had no desire to clean up afterwards.
“No worries on that account, Sheriff. I saw to it myself,” Deke said. “It ran out of copper a long time ago, but now nothing’s gonna come outta that mine ever again.”
“Good,” Moultrie breathed out in a sigh of relief.
Mrs. Widell cleared her throat. “We shouldn’t stay much longer, but while we’re here I wish we could talk about something more pleasant.”
“I agree,” Mr. Widell said. “My wife and daughter tell me you’d come by the store to see me before all this. Is that right, Sheriff?”
Moultrie’s memory was a bit foggy, but after a moment’s reflection he remembered his trip to the general store on that sunny morning, what seemed like years before.
“Yes, yes that’s right. But, well, I had something with me that day and—”
“You mean this?” Deke piped in. He was gently waving a small item wrapped in brown paper and wearing the most mischievous smile the Sheriff was sure he’d ever seen.
“Right. The package—if you’ll permit me, Mr. Widell—is actually for Miss Connie.”