Deadman's Crossing (17 page)

It started forward, but couldn’t step out of the circle. Not that
way. It wheeled to find the exit the horse had made, and as it did,
Reverend Mercer, now on his feet, fired twice and hit the thing in
the back, causing it to stagger through the opening and fall against
the line of rocks that had been there to protect the horse. Its head
hit the rocks and the creature cried out, leaping to its feet with a
move that seemed boneless and without use of muscle. Its forehead
bore a sizzling mark the size of the rock.

“Get back inside the circle,” the Reverend said. “Close it off.”

Norville waited for no further instruction. He bolted and
leaped into the circle and began to clutch at the displaced stones.
The Reverend put his right leg forward and threw back his coat
by bending his left hand behind him; he pointed the revolver and
took careful aim, fired twice.

Both shots hit. One in the head, one in the throat. They had
their effect. The horror splattered to the floor with the wet laundry
sound. But no sooner had it struck the ground than it began to
wriggle along the floor like a grub worm in a frying pan; it came
fast and furious and grabbed the Reverend’s boot and sprung
upright in front of him.

Reverend Mercer cracked it across the head with his pistol, and
it grabbed at him. The Reverend avoided the grab and struck out
with his fist, a jab that merely annoyed the thing. It spread its jaws
and filled the air with stink. The Reverend drew his remaining
pistol and fired straight into the hole the thing used for a nose,
causing it to go toppling backward along the floor, gnashing its
teeth into the lumber.

Reverend Mercer ran and leaped into the circle.

When he turned to look, the monster was sliding up the wall like
some kind of slug. It left a sticky trail along the logs as it reached
the ceiling and crawled along that with the dexterity of an insect.

The horse had finally come to a corner and stuck its head in it
to hide. The thing came down on its back, and its mouth spread
over the horse’s head, and the horse stood up on its hind legs and
its front legs hit the wall, and it fell over backward, landing on
the creature. It didn’t bother the thing in the least. It grabbed and
twisted the horse over on its side as if it were nothing more than a
feather pillow. There was a crunch as the monster’s teeth snapped
bones in the horse’s head. The horse quit moving, and the thing
began to suck, rivulets of blood spilling out from the corners of its
distended mouth.

The Reverend jammed his pistol back into its holster, bent and
grabbed the axe from the floor and leaped out of the circle. The
thing caught sight of the Reverend as he came, rolled off the horse
and leaped up on the wall and ran along it. As the Reverend turned
to follow its progress, it leaped at him.

Reverend Mercer took a swing. The axe hit the fiend and split
halfway through its neck, knocking it back against the wall, then
to the floor. Its narrow eyes widened and showed red, and then it
came to its feet in its unique way, though more slowly than before,
and darted for the bedroom door.

As it reached and fumbled with the latch, the Reverend hit the
thing in the back of the head with the axe, and it went to its knees,
clawed at the lumber of the door, causing it to squeak and squeal
and come apart, making a narrow slit. It was enough. The thing
eased through it like a snake. The Reverend jerked the door open
to see it going through the gap in the window. He dropped the axe
and jerked the pistol and fired and struck the thing twice before it
went out through the breach and was gone from sight.

Reverend Mercer rushed to the window and looked out. The
thing was staggering, falling, rising to its feet, staggering toward
the well. The Reverend stuck the pistol out the window, resting it
on the frame, and fired again. It was a good shot in the back of the
neck, and the brute went down.

Holstering the revolver, rushing to grab the axe, the Reverend
climbed through the window. The monster had made it to the
well by then, crawling along on its belly, and just as it touched the
curbing, the Reverend caught up with it, brought the spell-marked
axe down on its already shredded head as many times as he had the
strength to swing it.

As he swung, the sun began to color the sky. He was breathing so
hard he sounded like a blue norther blowing in. The sun rose higher
and still he swung, then he fell to the ground, his chest heaving.

When he looked about, he saw the thing was no longer moving.
Norville was standing nearby, holding one of the marked rocks.

“You was doin’ so good, I didn’t want to interrupt you,” Norville
said.

The Reverend nodded, breathed for a long hard time, said,
“Saddlebags. If this is not medicinal, I do not know what is.”

A few moments later, Norville returned with the flask. The
Reverend drank first, long and deep, and then he gave it to Norville.

When his wind was back, and the sun was up, the Reverend
chopped the rest of the monster up. It had already gone flat and
gushed clutter from its insides that were part horse bones, gouts
of blood, and unidentifiable items that made the stomach turn;
its teeth were spread around the well curbing, like someone had
dropped a box of daggers.

They burned what would burn of the beast with dried limbs
and dead leaves, buried the teeth and the remainder of the beast
in a deep grave, the bottom and top and sides of it lined with the
marked rocks.

When they were done chopping and cremating and burying the
creature, it was late afternoon. They finished off the flask, and that
night they slept in the house, undisturbed, and in the morning,
they set fire to the cabin, using
The Book of Doches
as a starter. As
it burned, the Reverend looked up. The sky had begun to change,
finally. The clouds no longer crawled.

They walked out, the Reverend with the saddlebags over his
shoulder, Norville with a pillowcase filled with food tins from the
cabin. Behind them, the smoke from the fire rose up black and
sooty and by nighttime it had burned down to glowing cinders,
and by the next day there was nothing more than clumps of ash.

Salamander shall kindle,

Writhe nymph of the wave,

In air sylph shall dwindle

And Kobold shall slave.

—Goethe, FAUST

Reverend Jebidiah Mercer
smelled them before he saw them.
They came out of the brush along both sides of the trail. There
were four of them. One had a pistol, one a shotgun, the other two
were carrying digging tools, a shovel and a pick.

His hand went swiftly inside his coat, pulled his .36 Navy Colt.
Before the fellow with the shotgun could lift it, the Reverend shot
him right between the eyes, spraying blood and brains out the
back of his head in a mess that looked like vomited strawberries.

A pistol shot whizzed by Reverend Mercer’s head. He shifted
in the saddle and fired twice, aiming low and letting the revolver
buck. The first shot caught the shootist in the balls. The second
shot found a spot in the center of his chest and nestled there like a
horrible chest cold.

By that time the other two attackers were on him. As the one
with the shovel swung it, Mercer flipped backwards off his horse
and rolled on the ground. When he stopped rolling he could see the
man with the pick rushing toward him. From a kneeling position
he shot the fellow’s knee out, watched the screaming man’s hat fly
off, and then the man flipped into the bushes and twisted around
there like a snake with its head cut off.

The remaining man threw down the shovel, leaped on
Jebidiah’s horse, stuck his feet in the stirrups and started riding
away. Jebidiah stood up, laid his revolver over his left wrist and
fired, hit the rider in the small of the back. The rider didn’t stiffen,
didn’t jerk. He didn’t do anything but let go of the reins and fall.
He hit the ground hard, lay on his back moaning.

He walked over and checked the knee-capped man who was
rolling on the ground, screaming to high heaven.

“You done blowed my knee out,” the fella said.

“You are correct,” Jebidiah said, and leveled his pistol at the
man’s head.

“I done give up,” the man said.

“Yes, but I’m still in a riled frame of mind.”

Jebidiah shot the man through the mouth.

That’s five shells, he thought to himself. He walked over and
looked at the man who had the revolver. He was good and dead.
So was the shotgunner who lay sprawled over some rocks, his dead
eyes filling with sunlight.

Jebidiah found his last victim lying on the ground on his back,
squinting. Jebidiah’s shadow fell over the shovel man and the man
turned his eyes toward the preacher.

“I can’t feel my goddamn legs,” the man said.

“That is because I shot you in the spine, down low. You are
about to take the slide into hell. You boys should have taken up
another line of work. Robbing people doesn’t seem to suit you as
much as you might think.”

“We’re miners.”

“I hardly call what you were trying to do to me mining.”

“There’s goblins in the mines.”

“Goblins?”

“For God’s sake, please help me.”

“I will help you depart,” the Reverend said. “Tell me about the
goblins.”

“I’ll tell you nothing.”

“Then do not. But I’m not feeling too good about having to
chase down my horse. I can leave you here and let you bleed slow
and let the sun do its work. Way I shot you, you will leak out at a
dribble. The pain may not be much, but you won’t be able to move,
and by nightfall the coyotes and the wolves will come out, and if
you should make it through a cold night, tomorrow you got the
buzzards and the crows, and all manner of scavengers. Including
ants. You cannot even move your arms to push them off your eyes.
I was you, that would not be the way I would want to go on my trip
into the dark.”