Hawthorne: Tales of a Weirder West
The Big Adios
, May 2013
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www.beattoapulp.com
CONTENTS
Part One
:
The Rider in Gray
Part Two
:
Mud, Blood, and Rain
Part One
:
Husbands and Other Butchers
Part Two
:
Hell on Wheels
Part One
:
A Reckoning
Part Two
:
The Tree of the Moon
Part One
:
The Scarred Man
Part Two
:
The Sisters
INTRODUCTION
Robert E. Howard created the Weird Western genre more than eighty years ago by merging horror elements with the traditional Western yarn in classic stories such as "The Horror from the Mound," "The Man on the Ground," "The Dead Remember," and "Old Garfield's Heart." Although some might claim that dime novelist Edward S. Ellis was the first to introduce fantastic elements to the Western in his
The Steam Man of the Prairies
(1868), I consider that more science fiction than horror.
The Weird Western continues to be popular today in movies and video games as well as fiction, and Heath Lowrance is one of the leading practitioners of the form with his series about Hawthorne, the deadly, laconic, enigmatic gunfighter with a cross-shaped scar on his forehead. Hawthorne makes his debut in "That Damned Coyote Hill," which includes a classic supernatural menace. "The Long Black Train" veers more into grisly psychological horror but is equally effective. The supernatural angle returns in "The Spider Tribe" and "Bad Sanctuary," and "The Unholy; Or, How the Gowan Gang Died" is a vividly described, dialogue-free piece that gives the reader more insight into Hawthorne's character.
In all of these stories, Lowrance skillfully combines the grittiness of the Old West, the bleak nihilism and graphic violence of modern horror, well-written action, and a genuine creepiness reminiscent of Lovecraft and other old masters of the genre. He's also been careful to reveal only bits and pieces of Hawthorne's history, creating a fascinating character and making the reader want to discover more about him.
Most of all, though, Lowrance has crafted a series of tales that are hugely entertaining on their own while at the same time serving the purpose of a larger story. I have a feeling that Hawthorne is going to be with us for a long time, and the stories in this collection are where his saga begins, at least for now. Whether you're a fan of traditional Westerns, a reader of horror, or anything in between, I'd advise you to jump on this particular long black train while you've got the chance.
But be careful. Sharp things lurk ahead.
Part One
-
The Rider in Gray
Don't go to Coyote Hill
, they'd told him in the last town.
They got they-selves some black magic out there. It ain't natural. They's things that hunt out in that desert, demons and what-not. And they don't care none if it's beast or man they kill ...
He had listened to the warnings, nodded, saddled up his horse and rode.
And now it was raining, a hard nasty rain that turned the world grim, and the red hills in the distance were muted under a haze of mist. Mud slid under the hooves of the horse, and the rain pounded down on the rider. He wore gray, except for the dirty white shirt under his coat and the slash of a red tie. His gray hat was pulled low over pale gray eyes, and his narrow jaw was gray with stubble.
He rode in silence and the rain was relentless. It smelled like a corpse.
Over a ridge slick with mud, the horse nearly stumbled and the rider pulled back on the reins. He caught movement to his right, something quick and black in the rain.
He pulled in tight, one gloved hand going to the Smith & Wesson Schofield .45 on his hip.
About a hundred yards away, a coyote stared at him. It was the biggest coyote he'd ever seen—so big that for a moment he thought it must be a wolf. But no, the long snout and thin body were unmistakable. The thing stared hungrily, muscles bunching along its narrow back.
The rider frowned. The coyote was five feet tall at the shoulder, at least. Impossible.
He pulled the revolver, wheeling the horse around to face the beast. The coyote yelped once, a yelp that was at once deeper and more savage than any coyote he'd ever heard.
And then the thing stood on hind legs. It stood like a man, towering at over six feet.
"... the hell ..." the rider said, his words washed away by the rain.
For a long moment, beast and man stared at each other, and the rain slanted between them and the world went deathly still and silent.
The beast turned, dropping again to all fours, and loped off into the hills.
The rider stared after it, a chill playing along his spine that had nothing to do with the rain.
He spurred the horse along toward Coyote Hill just a little faster.
* * *
"Planning this goddamn fight all goddamn week," the fat man said, "and then what happens? Goddamn rain."
"Don't worry." Dan Bowman peered out from underneath the tarp. Rain continued to pour down, turning the street to mud, but on the covered porches of the storefronts up and down the street people huddled, waiting. Mostly men, cowboys come into town from the Triple E and the Curly Nail Ranches, but some womenfolk too, all dainty and pretty in their gingham dresses, with little children lurking around their hems.
The cowboys jostled and shouted at each other, the usual rowdy behavior. But the townsfolk ... they all just stood there, not moving or talking. They looked like sad pale ghosts in the rain. Bowman felt a chill looking at them. Coyote Hill was a right-weird place, no question.
He shook himself out of it and said, "Don't worry. Lookit all them people. They ain't gonna let a little rain get in the way of their fun. Ever'body come to see some fights, and that's sure as hell what they gonna see."
Bowman and the fat man had set up the big tarp over the ring to keep the fighters dry, but everything surrounding the make-shift ring was flooded. Even if it stopped raining, the spectators would have to stand in mud up to their ankles. Not a problem for the cowboys, but the townsfolk weren't quite as rugged as all that.
Still, it looked like everyone in town had shown up anyway. Coyote Hill was clearly starved for entertainment.
The fat man looked at the silent waiting audience. They were creepy as hell, this lot, but even creepier was the old Indian he spotted, hanging back from the crowd, shielded under the awning of a doctor's office. He looked like an Apache, but that couldn't be right. Apaches weren't exactly renowned for being sociable with whites, not in this part of the state. And the way the Indian stared at him, like a hungry man eyeing a fat cut of beef.
Even standing there under the tarp, doing nothing, the fat man's breathing was hoarse and heavy, and Bowman couldn't help but think the bastard was due to die from a heart attack any day now. The fat man said, "You see that old Indian?"
"Yeah, I seen him. To hell with him. We got work."
The fat man shook his head, tried to push the weird Indian out of his head. "Well, I reckon you're right at that. Just, we got a lot of money tied up in this."
"And we'll see a helluva return, don't you worry none. My man ain't gonna let you down."
"We'd better," the fat man said. "It ain't gonna be good for us to stick around here too long. That bastard's still trailing us, I can feel it."
"You're crazy," Bowman said. "We ain't seen hide nor hair of him in months, Card. He done give up."
The fat man shook his head. "No. I don't think so. I ... I don't think he's the kinda fella that'll give up. Not the way I heard it."
Bowman smiled and slapped the fat man on the neck. "Listen, Card. Even if he did catch up to us, you think my man over there can't deal with him? We got no worries, I'm telling you."
Bowman's man waited at the other corner of the ring. He was big, about 6'2", and stripped to the waist. His arms and torso were corded thick with muscle, which he flexed and displayed proudly.
Bowman grinned at him and said, "You good over there, Bunker?"
The big man nodded, grinning back. "Let's commence with the slaughter, huh?"
* * *