A Tale From The Frontier by Xiphos
I remember it was extra cold that December in Tombstone Arizona, in the year of our lord 1886. I was across the street from the Courthouse when the Hunter road in. He came at dusk from out of the West just as the Sun dropped behind the ragged peaks of Dos Cabezas Mountain. The sky turned a shade of purple rarely seen and the usually bustling streets of Tombstone grew quite as the Hunter made his way.
On a street filled with hard eyed men with quick hands and even faster guns the Hunter stood apart. These men, who were filled to the hat line with a prickly sense of honor and pride, gave the Hunter a wide berth, for he carried the specter of death about himself. We were going to need that disagreeable part of the Hunters nature soon enough.
The Hunter was a tall, lean, raw boned man with eyes an unsettling shade of gray that seemed to always be measuring distances. The Hunter was just that, a hunter. I heard the County lords discussing him when they decided to hire him for this job. He had tracked and killed dangerous beasts and even more dangerous men in every corner of the world.
Mayor Winston said that during the great rebellion of 1862 the Hunter had stopped a Northern battalion with only a Sharps rifle and pure mile worth of guts. I don't know if that was true because Mr. Johnston, who owns the ranch near ours, said that the Hunter had stopped a Reb unit the same way.
I do know this, the infamous gun hands of Tombstone didn't even look in the direction of the Hunter.
I followed the tall man into the courthouse because I knew we were going to the same meeting. Usually, 15 year old boys, don't have business with the county lords but in my case an exception was made. I was the one who found the latest corpses and glimpsed something in the distance.
The Hunters business manager had telegraphed the County swells to have anybody with information present and to preserve the meat of the bodies if possible. The Sheriff immediately ordered the ice rink closed and put both bodies on the ice.
The Hunter glided silently into the Mayors office and all conversation stopped. Since nobody noticed me so I stayed. Mayor Winston smoothed his already slicked back hair, barreled forward with his hand out and a baby kissing smile on his fat face.
Winston was a politician through and through, he had no soul and his convictions lasted as long as the next payoff came. As he started in on the Hunter that cold, silent man just stared at him, which stopped Winston in his tracks.
This was a new experience for our August mayor. He truly believed everybody loved him and that he could charm the venom out of the fangs of a striking rattler. Winston was vain, stupid, vapid and shallow, so he was quite successful.
"Well, uh...sir, thank you for coming so fast. This is a problem for us here in Tombstone with all the carcasses turning up." The Hunter didn't say a word, Winston continued. "Anyways with the folks up in Prescott trying to run roughshod over all of Arizona we can't have issues like this. Everybody with an eye towards the future knows Tombstones is where fortunes lay." Winston looked nervously in the direction of the Hunter, all he saw there was that dead eyed stare.
Winston tried his famous smile that meant fortunes pass everywhere; it didn't work on the Hunter. That really made the Mayor uncomfortable. Winston could not comprehend anyone that did not worship gold, silver and paper money the way he did.
"Please, sir, if you could find this rabid Catamount and kill it as soon as possible we sure would be grateful. All the local hunters are good boys and know the area but this here cat; it's still smart even though it's got the rabies sickness."
For the first time, the Hunter spoke, his voice had the rusty patina of disuse. It was deep, low pitched and harsh; like it had been doused in whiskey, dragged through broken glass while being whipped with barbed wire he said "why is the boy here?" For my part, I jumped out of my skin.
"The boy there, he found the last bodies out near the Chirucaus Mountains and he says he saw something, but it was nothing", Winston added quickly. "Like I said, it's just a cat with the animal sickness and nothing more."
At the last statement Mayor Winston and his pack of prize toadies all laughed nervously. The Hunter told them to show him the meat bags.
As we tramped down the main thoroughfare of Tombstone to the ice rink Winston tried to speak to The Hunter of all the wonderfulness that Tombstone had to offer. To say that the Hunter was indifferent would be an insult to indifference. When we neared the rink the Hunter said for Winston and his bootlickers to wait outside and ordered me in with him.
The Hunter looked at the bodies and grunted at me tell my story. I was scared to say the very least. I started to stammer out something about a storm, fences blown down and a hunt for missing steers but he stopped me and said "Tell me the story that sorry pile of shit mayor didn't want me to hear."
"It was four days ago sir. I was up near the box canyon on our spread which abuts the base of the Chirucaus. I saw some buzzards and thought one of our cows was down so I rode over. As I got near..." The Hunter broke in and asked how near. ..." about a mile or so but that's when I heard thunder echoing about the hills and I thought I saw a large, I guess bird, going over the rim." He nodded at me to continue. I was surprised; Winston and his council told me I was wrong, about everything.
"Sir, I don't know if you have spent anytime in Arizona but thunder in December never happens." The Leathery man cocked his head slightly and said "those bodies there, the Redman and the miner, they look like a cat got aholt of em?" I quickly glanced over and then away just as fast and softly said no.
Soft city folk from the East might think this is an odd question to ask a boy but not to a ranch kid from the Arizona Territory that lives in Apache country. Before I was ten I had seen all manner of death, both natural and man caused. I was in Tombstone the day The Earps, Doc Holiday and Clantons had their dust up. I had seen the remains of cattle, sheep and deer after cats, wolves and bears got done with them. I've seen what had happened to arrogant US Cavalrymen who foolishly thought the Apaches were weak savages they could ride over but these bodies spoke of something else.
There was a sense of darkness clinging to the corpses; the wafting stench of unspeakable evil arose from them. I did not want to look at the bodies again because I knew they would haunt me always. The Hunter said "The Redman, you know him?"
I was hard pressed to recognize who the Indian had been in life since the corpse lacked a head and much violence had been visited upon it. The miners' body looked like it had been used as food, it had been torn asunder. The lungs, stomach, intestines, all organs and the meat of both thighs were gone. One small blessing, the miner still retained his head. The features were frozen in a rictus of fear. The Apaches body looked like it had been used for sport.
I peered closely at the Indians body trying to see something that that might help me recognize who he had been in life. The clothes were missing, along with the head and the left leg from just above the knee. The intestines had been piled on the jagged edges of the neck where the head had once resided. The long bones of both thighs had been cracked and the marrow sucked out. The chest and rib cage had the most damage done to them.
It looked like something had smashed the bones over the heart to dust. One side of the rib cage was ripped off entirely and missing. The other side looked like each bone had been individually peeled back and away from the body. I had found the heart nestle gently on the top of a nearby barrel cactus.
As I searched the body closely for the first time I noticed something. An amulet had caught under the mangled bones of the chest. I fished the amulet off the body and held it close to the lamp. I knew who the Indian had been.
I heard a grunt from next to me, "Yep that was Tats-Ah-Das-Ay-Go." That was a name that struck fear on both sides of the boarder and Indian tribes up to Canada. In English, the name means Quick Killer
I thought back to a year before when the Quick Killer came to our ranch, it was right about the time my father disappeared. The Quick Killer had come with the Apache Chief Chato. My boyhood friend, Two War Ponies, who was now a part of Chato's war clan, rode in with that old raider.
Two War Ponies said that the Quick Killer was some special sort of warrior and nothing in this world or the next could stand against him. Pony said the amulet around the Quick Killers neck was a talisman bestowed upon him as he was an earthly representative of Old Man Sun.
I came back to the present and spun around when I heard the sound of a gun clearing leather. The Hunter stood there with a Colt leveled at my chest. In one swift motion, that I could hardly follow, the Hunter flipped the Colt around grasped the barrel and extended towards me.
That Colt was an amazing piece of work. It was gunfighters special so the trigger had been slicked up and worked over, the barrel cut down and the front sight lowered. The bluing on the steel was that strange shade of coloring gunsmiths call Belgium Blue, but it was a much darker, richer shade of that coloring. In the low light of the rink the Colt looked like it was wreathed in a cold, pale, blue fire.
The grips were made of a bone I couldn't place and there were delicate designs carved into them. As I looked at the frame, barrel, cylinder and back strap I saw that there were all sorts of symbols inlaid onto the Colt. Some symbols I knew were from different religions, most I didn't recognize. On the underside of the barrel, near the muzzle there was one I knew, it was the same as the Quick Killers amulet.
"Ya know what that symbol means boy?" No sir I said. "Yer daddy never tolt you No sir again popped out of my mouth, and then I screwed up my courage and asked the obvious question."Sir, you knew my father?"
"Yeah boy I did, he was a man that one, even if he was an eastern bred, college boy, from money. He had some sand in his craw and that's all that matters."
The Hunter stood up slowly, took off his hat, reached inside of his jacket and pulled out a flask. He took a heroic swig and offered me some. I took a small sip, coughed and handed it back to the old man. It was the first time I noticed the Hunters age.
Up close you could see the miles as well as the years etched into his stony visage. He took another mighty slug from the flask, fired up a cheroot and took a deep, soul satisfying drag, looked me up and down and began to speak.
"Yer daddy, me, and others around the world belong to a special group. We protect mankind from evil. There are things out in the dark just waiting to collect mens souls. They are the elder beast from the outer darkness and none too many of them get through to earth, but if they do, we kill 'em." I looked at the old man like he just ate a whole bushel of Loco Weed. "What on Earth are you talking about?"
The Hunter took another drag from the cigar, nipped from his flask and said "Around the time the Romans hung the Catholics God off the cross, all the leaders from the known world religions had a big Pow Wow and put all their dirty laundry on the table. They 'fessed up about beasts, devils and such. They all knew something had to be done or mankind would get rolled over, so they came up with a consecrated band of killers to deal with the problem."
"Our numbers are no more then a hundred at a time, all blessed by the big muckity mucks of all religions. All our weapons are specially made and blessed; they are all that can kill these things." The Hunter took another swig "Ever since that first meeting, when new peoples are found, their holy men are made part of the group and their blessings are bestowed upon us so saintly killers." The Hunter drew out the word saintly like it was the first time that word ever crossed his lips. It was also the first time I heard that word have such a dark meaning to it.
"See, boy, that's why the Quick Killers body was so torn up. That thing knew he had come for it and was more then happy to send his soul to the Redman's hell."
He took another long swig from the flask which drained it; he shook it, eyed it wistfully, and placed it back in his jacket.
"Son, yer daddy was a stand up fella; do you have the same kinda grit as him? Yer Daddy always talked you up, one of the things he done tolt me was that you know the Chirucaus about as well as any white man can, plus you savvy Apache and I need those skills right about now. I was going to work with the Quick Killer but things must have gone sideways, fast, around these here parts if that careful old boy lit out after that thing alone."
"Plus, you saw it didn't yew?" My eyes snapped to the Hunter, "Yep, you saw it. Congratulations boy, you lived. I think you're the first." My mouth hung open and the dark man said "close your mouth boy, a squirrel will make a nest in that hole"
I must have become disoriented at this point because, much to my shame, I used the Lords name in vain. "Goddamn it! What was that thing?" I screamed at him "You know what it was boy, it was the Thunderbird"
I just stared at him; I couldn't understand what he was talking about. The Thunderbird, the Indian legend I thought The Thunderbird is a protector, a sky warrior and an important part of Indian myths.
The Hunter chuckled; at least I think it was that, all I know was that it chilled me to the bone. "Relax boy it wasn't a real Thunderbird, the last one of them died a few hundred years ago. It's a devil that decided to look like the Thunderbird. These damned things, they're evil, every which way a sumbitch like this can be evil but they do have a sense of humor sometimes. I gotta give 'em that one."
"No", I said "it can't be...What I mean...What. Are. You. Saying?" I didn't like the sound of my own voice; it had a whinny quality that I found to be down right disagreeable.
"Evil beasts? The Thunder bird? This can't be true!" I yelled at him. "I was too far away to say anything about what I saw!" He gave an indifferent shrug and said "It was gigantic right? It was a bird with at least a forty five foot wingspan?" Yes I mumbled.
"How many birds are that large?" None I mumbled. "Didn't you just get done telling me that there's never no thunder in Arizona in December?" I turned sullen and just nodded my head. "So, gigantic bird, sound of thunder, and I saw how you shied away from the bodies because the damage was so evil looking and scared yew. What would you say it was a rabid cat?" A sardonic laugh came from the old man. "So, boy, wanna hunt with me?"
I was dumbstruck. This was a lot of information to throw at somebody and now the man was asking me to go hunting with him. "I won't lie to you son, you could die, probably will but I need your help. Plus you might have some fun before you kick over." The Hunter wasn't too adept at selling. I did listen but I wasn't ready to buy. The thing is this, I knew something the Hunter didn't and now was the time to deal him in.
"Sir, I don't think you have to go up into the Chirucaus to kill this thing. See I've been keeping track of the killings on a map. I mark, with pins, where the Apaches have said Indian bodies were found along with the white and Meskin bodies. The pins show a track along the spine of the Chirucaus Mountains coming up from Mexico. The path had been driving in one direction, North."
"That was until the ten bodies back, and then the path took a westerly turn. These last five it looks like the Bird found a place to land." The Hunter gave me quizzical look and said "Where do you think the bird is son?" I replied "at the ranch south of ours sir owned by a strange European man. I think he may be French."
The old man hawked up mighty lunger, spat across the room, threw me a sly glance and said "This European is a tall dude, right? Nearly seven feet tall, rail thin probably wearing some Nancy boy robes with lots of designs on it?"
With everything I learned this night I had thought I was beyond being able to be amazed, I was wrong. "His head was shaved bald? Pointed at the top with big over sized ears sticking out of that giant head? Let me guess also he had big hands with long fingernails like a girl, smelled sorta funny right? Like rotten eggs and mud?" I nodded yes.
"Boy, that ain't no Frenchman. He's from what's called the Trans-Caucasus Mountains and he's a practitioner of black sorcery. He called for that demon I reckon and it come a running like a dog to its kennel."
"You know him?" I asked about the sorcerer "I know him alright; I thought I kilt that sumbitch dead two years ago in Morocco. I done guess it didn't take.
Boy, you know a back way to that ranch?" I thought a moment and told him about a deer trail that skirts the back side of Sheep Hill that would bring us to the wadi that runs by the back pasture of the ranch.
"How much cover does that Wadi give us?" I pictured the ranch in my head and said that the wadi would cover us due to the terrain around the back pasture being uneven and that the bed of the wadi was fairly deep. I thought if we came in low, on foot, we could make the barn easily enough and then launch a raid on the house.
The Hunter made some sort of indistinct sound in the back of his throat and said "You learned a bit from the Apaches dinja boy, ya'll got any weapons wit ya?" I told the Hunter I had a side by side .12 gauge scattergun and a .44 Schoefield.
"Well then, let's go a visiting to yer neighbor, we got us some bidness to attend too. Lead on son and like some fancy pants Englishmen once wrote, be dammed he who first cries hold"
We held up in the rocks on the lower slope of Sheep Hill. The Hunter used his long glass lens to eyeball the land. We already had a problem, there was a large fire going on. Around it, figures gyrated in fantastical leaps and bounds.
I asked the Hunter if he wants to skirt the party fire and attack the house directly.
In response the tall man snaked his way down the slope towards the horses so I followed. When we got there the Hunter opened up a saddle bag and took out a case and handed it to me. It was filled with twelve gauge shot shells, I looked a question at the Hunter and he said "Son, them things down there jumping around that fire, they ain't human no more. They was once, but they done sold their souls to the sorcerer and are now some sort of undead creature. Sorta like an indentured servant of death. See boy, that's what they do, they kill and eat anything that comes around the ranch at night. That's probably where some of your cattle went. Right down their gullets"
He stopped for a moment then said "We can't leave those things behind us.
We have to take them down, or by god, they will take us down. Your hog leg and scattergun won't kill those things with the ammo you have, use these shells, it'll blast them things straight back to perdition."
The Hunter searched his saddle bags again and came up with a passel of .44 slugs and handed them to me. He said they might come in handy later.
The Hunter was looking at me as an errant shaft of moonlight crossed his eyes and I noticed, for the first time, some emotion in them. "Boy, it's going to get hairy from here on out. This is mans work and killing is the job. If it looks like things are going south cut and run ok? Yew can lose them in the mountains and I would bet the Apaches might like to lend a hand in some killing."
What about you I asked. "Don't worry none about this old boy, just light out. I've done this dance before I'll be okay. Here wear this mask." The Old man pulled out a black silk mask from his jacket and handed it to me and said "wear it so nobody recognizes yew." Then he shucked his jacket, checked his weapons and swung up into the saddle of his tall roan stallion and said "Let's go boy, its nut cutting time."
"Wait!" I said "can I ask you a question?" A long sigh, "Boy, this ain't no box social it's time to hunt!" Please, I said, and the man gave me a single slow nod. I asked him if he really took on a battalion of soldiers all by himself with just a rifle. A fleeting smile played across his mouth quickly then disappeared and the Hunter told me the story.
"Nope, not a battalion of soldiers, it was a company size contingent of devils dressed like Yankees. It wasn't just a rifle, there was dynamite and a Gatling gun involved. They fair work I reckon. A story was spread about me, a battalion and a rifle so nobody was the wiser about what really happens in the world. Can we go now?"
We hit the gaggle of undead at the gallop bowling over a pair of the hairless grey skinned things. The churning hoofs of our horses ground up two more. The Hunter was calmly hitting head shots one handed left and right with his Colt, which I now saw did glow with a bright, pale blue flame.
The first undead I nailed got both barrels of my shotgun. Its head exploded like dynamite had gone off in it. I turned my horse to the left, cracked the barrels, ejected the spent shells and reloaded on the run. Then I set about to methodically kill things not entirely dead.
One of the things made a fantastic leap at me but the Hunter blew him out of the sky. I kicked another one in the head and shot in the chest with one barrel of my shotgun. It exploded in a purple flame showering the area with guts and blood.
One of the things jumped on the back of my mare, which caused her to rear up. Good thing too because it was going for my throat with the long razor sharp nails on its fingers. It snagged my shirt and managed to pull me out of the saddle. We hit the ground together and it came for me again. I smashed its jaw with the butt stock of the shotgun then ventilated it with a .12 gauge round.
I whistled up my mare, grabbed the saddle horn as she ran by and swung myself into the saddle. Being on the ground in this fight meant death and I had other plans. I shucked my .44 and started shooting.
From somewhere the Hunter had produced an extra large Bowie knife that glowed with an orange flame of righteousness. Each blow he landed with the knife, one of the things combusted.
The Hunters stallion was like one of the famous war horses of history which I've read about. He was rearing, biting, and crushing skulls with his hoofs. His equine challenge roared out over the battle. The Hunter wasn't even using the reins; he controlled the stallion with knee pressure only.
The Hunter reminded me of Alexander the Great and his stallion was the mighty Bucephalus. They were but one beast with a single mind. They where death to their foes.
We fought for what seemed like hours but really was only a few moments. The initial charge won us the day. The things were overwhelmed.
"Well I reckon that was some bad bidness son." The Hunter spoke as he wiped his brow free of blood and goo. "I hope the main house didn't hear it." I told him the sound probably didn't carry since the wind was blowing out, the uneven ground and distance would act as a barrier.
"Show me where the wadi is boy. We done got a heavy load of killing left to do. It's best you keep a weather eye out for that bird, if that thing catches us before I kill the sorcerer we'll be fucked but good"
Why's that I asked. "It's because, boy, I don't think my weapons will kill it dead. Sure, they'll hurt it, but see I was going to work with the Quick Killer and his weapons were blessed by the Apache holy man, so they'd kill that devil because it took the form of a Redman legend. Mine I'm not so sure. I never got the Apache blessing."
Why not I asked, The Hunter dryly said there was a thing and I sensed that was all the answer I'd get.
"This sorcerer" I asked "he have a name?" The Hunter ruminated for a moment and said "he goes by lots of handles but we think his birth name is Grigory Rasputin. He comes from a family of black arts practitioners but he's by far the best of that sorry lot. The rest are just barely above being slicksters." Just then we heard the crash of thunder in the distance.
"DAMN IT!! The Hunter grabbed my shirt pulled me close and whispered that I was to hide in the stand of cactus as quietly as possible. Then he cleared off his horse, pulled out a rifle from the off side scabbard and ran towards some rocks.
From my vantage point I could see the Hunter take up a solid prone shooting position and we both waited for the Thunderbirds' arrival, it didn't take long.
Besides the beating of wings and the large volume of displaced air that washed over me the thing I noticed was the stench. The air reeked of rotting meat. I looked up slowly, without rotating my head so I didn't attract attention and got a good look at the beast as it flew over.
The beast was about fifteen feet long and just about as wide. The body consisted of large bones and muscle but in a squat, unpleasant configuration. The head sat atop a thick, long neck and was dominated by two up curving fangs. The eyes were a baleful color of red like fresh spilled blood on snow and the face looked like somebody stretched out an owls. It had about a six foot long tail with spikes on it.
The wings were about forty five or so feet long and at the end of each was a giant hand which looked human. I think that was the worst part of the whole deal, the hands, because they looked so human. Of course I was wrong, again, because that was when the demon spoke.
The devils voice was powerful yet there was an undercurrent of decay and corruption about it. Its laughter boomed out over the area like a marching band of hate as the bird circled and looked for a place to land.
The bird set down on a shelf of rock, it said, "I can smell freshhhhh meattttt...Mnnnn Dinnerrrr on the hooffffff." Then it sniffed the air "Ahhhh.....I smellllll a calffffff...tenderrrrr and freshsssss.....
That voice took me to a place beyond fear. That place where survival was all that mattered. My sense of time, place, all my emotions and every part of me that was human was exercised that instant from my mind. I only had one primordial thought, kill it before it kills me and takes my soul.
I could see that the demon was shrouded in an ebony black aura. The darkness that surrounded the body chased moonlight away like a stampede was coming. The Thunderbird was a dark, inky shadow in the night's blackness. As I began to slowly shift around to get at my Schoefield a rifle shot rang out and split the night.
The Hunter must have been using some large caliber like a .45-70 because the boom of the rifle sounded like Gabriel's Horn on Judgment Day. It was an amazing shot the Hunter hit. It looked to be about 250 yards inclined and the Hunter nailed an oblique angle. If that demon had a heart it was now shredded to a pulp. I saw a chunk of something blow out its back, maybe part of the spine.
A scream of raw anger and hate pierced the night sky. The Thunderbird launched itself into the air ready to wreak its vengeance upon anything that had the temerity to challenge it. The first victim was my poor paint mare. The Demon struck her with the talons on its feet.
Those talons ripped out the whole left side of my beautiful mare and I saw her trip over her own guts. The demon pivoted adroitly and took on The Hunters stallion.
I think the stallion knew his race was run so he stopped, reared, and tried to fight. The stallion managed to land one crushing blow to the demons right leg but the Thunderbird decapitated it with one swipe of its tail. I smiled grimly when I noticed that the ax sharp hooves of the stallion drew blood. The Hunter used this opportunity to deliver his next shot.
This hit was even more incredible then the first. He struck a flying beast that was twisting and turning every which way with a quartering shot that destroyed the other half of its chest cavity. How the Hunter made these shots in the darkness I have no idea.
The Thunderbird screamed out again and beat its wings furiously to gain some height. Maybe it needed to get some space, maybe to look over the area, but as the old saying goes, the third times the charm. The last round from the Hunters rifle really nailed the demon and the large bore bullet knocked it out of the sky.
The Thunderbirds body slid to a stop, nearly on top of me, I could see it was just stunned. The brilliant shooting from the Hunter was on full display with this final shot. He had put a round across the juncture of the demons head and neck vertebrae at the base of the skull. That's what had stunned it but stunned it only.
The Hunter was running toward us but the Demon was already starting to stir and he was far out. I looked left and right for something to use on the beast. That's when I saw one of the Hunters saddle bags, and more importantly, I could see what had spilled out of the bag, Dynamite.
I sprinted over to them while fishing out the matches I keep in my shirt pocket. I grabbed two sticks of dynamite ran back towards the beast while lighting them in order to let the fuse burn down.
As I came up on the Thunderbird it groggily started to rise, I took one stick of lit dynamite, reared back my right arm, damn near to Mexico, and buried that stick in the beasts left eye. The other stick I threw at its feet and ran, counting the time down to detonation. When I thought time ran out I leaped behind the stallions' body.
That dynamite, it must have been special, because it blew up in a way I've never seen before nor ever again. First, there was a blinding white light that accompanied the explosion. Secondly, a green fireball reached nearly to heaven and it filled me with a serene sense of well being, and lastly I swore I heard a celestial choir. The Demons body evaporated, all that was left was some sulpher on the ground.
The explosion knocked me for a loop, even cowering behind the big horses' body.
When I was finally able to see straight, The Hunter was standing over me with a lopsided grin on his usually dour face. "Yew think the main house heard that one?" He reached his hand down and helped me up.
The old man dusted me off, looked me over, and grunted "I reckon you'll live but we got to rush the house, no choice now. We go in hot, hard and heavy no quarter asked nor none given, understand boy? I nodded yes "you still got some of those .44 rounds I gave yew?" I nodded again not trusting myself to speak or to remain standing. "Load em up that hog leg of yours will come in right handy. Here load up this one too."
The Hunter handed me the most plain, dire looking Smith & Wesson I ever did see but it was a .44. The Hunter knelt by his saddle bags, rummage around in it for moment, and came up with the twin of his Colt, it also glowed with life.
"We'll hafta foot it from here on out boy, dead sprint to the house, if something moves kill it." With that The Hunter started towards the house. I grabbed my shotgun and lit out after him.
The trek to the house will always live in my memory as an almost forgotten bad dream. My head was still scrambled from the explosion but I think, more importantly, what occurred between the pasture and the house was so grim my mind had to protect itself.
The first thing the Hunter killed looked like a cross between a goat and a spider. It was probably one of the more normal looking things we slaughtered. Shoot, run, reload, shoot, run, reload that was the cadence of the gauntlet we ran. I killed undead men, beasts and things I had not the vocabulary to describe.
The last two shotgun rounds I had dropped a beast with the head of an African elephant but was attached to the body of perfect nude women. The elephant woman was the last magical thing on the picket line, we had busted through on pure concentrated violence and the house was in view.
The Hunter stopped, threw me his rifle, and said to cover the side of the house and in three long strides he crossed the yard and took down the door. The Hunter became an unstoppable force of nature then, a two gun wielding twister of vengeance. He was dispensing .45 caliber justice with the heaven blessed genius of Mr. Samuel Colt's fine invention. The sorcerer's acolytes were cut down like summer wheat under a farmers scythe.
A stool came crashing through the window opposite of where I was standing and I thought I saw something follow it out. It was a hazy, indistinct something but it might have been a body. I palmed my .44 and cut loose with that smoke wagon. I was rewarded by a shout of pain and out of nowhere I saw a body pin wheeling across the ground and it came to rest against the trunk of a Palo Verde tree. I crossed the yard and stood over the Sorcerer.
For a large man, Rasputin had a high voice like a girl and a heavy accent he was muttering "how did you see me, I vahs clo-ked?" I didn't I told him. "Den how did you man-age to chute me?" Luck I said, then I noticed he was moving his hands and fingers oddly and talking low in a language I didn't know.
I heard the sound of a man coming up on us. I pivoted to my right so I could keep the sorcerer in sight and saw The Hunter moving fast. He came up and kicked Rasputin in the side of the head and the sorcerer went down like a bale of hay thrown off a wagon. "Good thing I got here boy. That jackass was a trying to put the hex on ya. Here, help me bind up this bad boy." He reached inside of his shirt and unwound a couple of long strips of leather, grabbed his boot knife, and made some bindings. I saw that the leather was covered with religious symbols. We quickly bound up Rasputin from boot sole to mouth which the Hunter stopped with his kerchief. "Go round up some horses or get a wagon, I got me a train to catch" I went off to do the Hunters bidding.
In the distance we could see the steam from the train as it puffed up the hill to the siding where we were waiting. We jumped off the buckboard and pulled down Rasputin from the bed. "This is the last bit of it." The Hunter started to say. "We'll turn this pus bag over to the clean up men and they'll stash him. We got a place for evil shit piles like Rasputin here." The Hunter idly kicked the Russian in the ribs.
"What's a clean up crew?" I asked. The Hunter got another cheroot going and said "Them suckers come into a place after we're done and clean up any messes, kill anything we missed, plant lies, legends and false stories, usually though the newspapers. They keep folks ignorant of what really goes on after dark."
The old man took a deep hit off the cheroot, exhaled a cloud of smoke and then a grin split his face he said. "Wait till you get an eyeful of these birds, them clean up fellas, they're odd." The all black train stopped by the platform we were standing on.
The Hunter was right again, the clean up men were odd. Four of them got off the train, two headed straight for us, and the other two peeled off and went towards the horse carrier. The clean up men were as alike as peas in a pod. Both were tall, thin men, clad all in black from head to toe. They even had blacked out eyeglasses on. Both men had a grey pallor to their skins like they never went out into the sun.
One of the clean up men pointed at the trussed up body and the other one rasped out in an oddly accented, haltingly unpleasant voice "Is...Ra-spot-in...Thirsts?" The Hunter nodded. The other man picked up Rasputin with one hand and headed to the train.
The other pair of strange men brought the Hunter his new stallion. It was a beautiful Palomino. I helped The Hunter rig out his horse while the black clad men walked towards town. He made a few adjustments to the saddle, put on his coat and climbed up the stirrups onto the horses back.
I guess I had a funny look on my face staring up at the Hunter, so he leaned down and cuffed me on the back of my head. "Git them baby goo goo eyes off of me, you're a man now. You done stood up and did the job. I won't call you boy no more."
I asked The Hunter if he was a saint. "Jeremiah" he called me by my given for the first time "There ain't no such thing as saints. If there was, they'd be nothing more then a sinner that keeps on trying" He shook my hand, turned his horse towards the west and rode off.
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