Cold Slither: and other horrors of the weird west (Dark Trails Saga)

  COLD SLITHER

  AND OTHER TALES OF THE WEIRD WEST

  DAVID J. WEST

  Cold Slither Copyright 2016 David J. West

  Cover design/art by:SelfPubBookCovers.com/Dmick27

  Digital formatting by: Hershel Burnside

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owners and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  LOST REALMS PRESS

  For Bear

  Contents:

  Cold Slither

  Black Wings in the Moonlight

  Soma for the Destroying Angels Soul

  Rolling in the Deep

  Tangle Crowned Devil

  Fangs Of The Dragon

  Garden of Legion

  Red Wolf Moon

  Killer Instinct

  Right Hand Man

  Striding Through Darkness

  Afterword

  About the Author:

  “In his build he was a gladiator; in his humor a Yankee lumberman; in his memory a Bourbon; in his vengeance an Indian. A strange mixture, only to be found on the American continent.”

  — Fitz Hugh Ludlow on Orrin Porter Rockwell

  Cold Slither

  “There was also the snake story, reported by the early explorers, both Spanish and American, and believed ever since: that this tribe was peculiarly addicted to snake worship, that they kept rattlesnakes concealed in their houses, and somewhere in the mountain guarded an enormous serpent which they brought to the pueblo for certain feasts. It was said that they sacrificed young babies to the great snake, and thus diminished their numbers.”

  — Death Comes for the Archbishop ~ Willa Cather

  1. Son of Thunder

  Stark white mountains rose jigsaw against an ashen sky. The frozen valley was mute but for hooves crunching against the shallow ice covered snow. The pale horse, its nostrils fuming out like dragon’s breath, stepped carefully across the untrustworthy ground. The rider, a dark clad man with exceptionally long hair, brooded in the saddle, listening. So far as he knew, he—Orrin Porter Rockwell—, could very well be the first white man in this high mountain valley. He had studied the maps of Jim Bridger, Jedidiah Smith and even Father Escalante and this valley was not upon any of their charts. If not for the freak blizzard shooing him off course, Porter might not have found it himself.

  “Whoa Hoss,” Porter whispered, tugging a halt on the reins. He ran a frostbitten hand over his beard shaking away some of the webbing of ice.

  The horse stamped impatiently.

  Somewhere beyond the thick wall of frosted pines, a scuffle came filtering through. A muffled cry and the equine scream of a horse in distress.

  Porter readied his pistol. Something was coming this way.

  An emaciated pony, half frozen to death with ice and blood on its snout, burst through the tree line and bolted past Porter.

  In the opposite direction, a man cried aloud as a wild shot rang out. Porter gave spurs to his mount, and its hooves stomped through the gleaming snow as he sped toward the danger.

  Breaking through the barrier of woods and snow, a pair of shots echoed almost simultaneously through the frozen valley. Porter responded in kind to this leaden welcome.

  Charging while holding the reins in his teeth, Porter’s .44 Colt Dragoons were alternately belching smoke, fire and lead.

  Two men in their very last moments—had each fired from a pair of old flintlock’s. They had missed by a mile and Porter wasn’t about to let them loose their arrows at this point. He shot them down quick as anything when they reached for their more primitive weapons.

  Steam issued from their grievous wounds like spirits passing into the next world.

  Porter eased up, careful-like, on a trio of dead men. All three were Indians. Two desperate horseless Shoshone and the other a curiously foreign looking man.

  What happened was apparent enough to a skilled tracker like Porter. The Shoshone had been after the foreigner’s pony and supplies. They shot him as he came riding through the opposite tree line. Likely they were so impatient and cold that in their haste to rob the man; the pony had escaped in the ruckus and ran for its life down the valley. Porter was so cold himself, he wasn’t sure he wanted to pursue the starved animal either.

  He looked again at the dead foreigner who was surely no Ute nor from any other semi-local tribe. The exotic and strange clothing made even the well-traveled Porter curious as to where the dead man was from. Ornaments of copper and a leopard skin were terribly out of place here in the Territories. Snake-like tattoos covered his exposed neck and arms along with an incredible heap of scars all over his hands and face. He also had severe frostbite burns.

  “Wheat! Son of a bitch has been through a whole lotta pain,” Porter muttered, to his horse as much as to himself.

  The animal was looking over his shoulder at the rising steam from the dead men’s bodies. Maybe it really was their spirits passing on.

  Reaching inside the foreigner’s bulging leather bag, Porter found a large jade idol that weighed perhaps twenty pounds. Intricately carved, its body looked like a voluptuous woman, yet with snakes in place of her hands, feet and heads. The head of the thing, or rather both conjoined heads, were serpents looking either way Janus-like. The figure was perched on a thick grooved rectangular base of white quartz that sparkled despite the grey overcast sky above.

  “This is the damndest idol I’ve ever seen,” he said, again to his horse. It neighed, welcoming the company as well.

  The bag also contained a bit of jerky, some roots Porter didn’t recognize, a pipe and some dried herbs likely for smoking during a ceremony. But the real find was a magnificent obsidian dagger that was as much a work of art as a weapon. The gold handle looked like a crouching man embracing a bolt of lightning or perhaps a snake for a blade. It was a vicious looking thing and testing it out, Porter cut clean through a thick leather strap like it was butter.

  “Sharp as slander,” said Porter. For the sake of curiosity, Porter decided he would keep the items in his saddle bags and show them to someone soon as he got back to civilization. Wouldn’t hurt to have the strange things to barter for later on, he figured.

  The ground was too frozen to bury the dead and Porter wondered if any more Shoshone might be in the vicinity. Unlikely, as these two had been horseless but it wouldn’t do to sit still and invite trouble. The ringing sound of the gun fight bounced off the mountain peaks relaying location vibrant as any smoke signal. He covered the dead men with the foreigner’s multicolored blanket. It was the best he could manage in the circumstances and as much as he figured the bushwhacking Shoshone deserved. Too bad about the alien looking Indian, but not much else he could do in this bitter cold. If he didn’t find shelter soon, he would be joining them in the happy hunting grounds.

  A babbling stream ran d
ark and serpentine, cutting a path down the valley. Porter let his horse drink a moment before urging her on. The wind suddenly whipped up; a phantom robber tearing at Porter’s woolen coat. Shivers reached inside sprouting goosebumps before he could pull the flaps closed again.

  A mournful crow cawed from a dark pine branch.

  Porter’s revolver flew from his pocket at the unexpected sound. “Wheat bird! I almost killed ya!” Chuckling, he returned his sawed-off Colt Dragoon to its preferred pocket.

  He felt foolish for still being jumpy but an uneasiness hung over him, akin perhaps to a predator knowing when it is being stalked by another.

  Porter watched his mare’s tracks, wary of the ice cutting her forelegs. Like it or not, he had to admit to taking an unplanned route in the storm. He was never lost. He had just never been here before.

  The tallest peak to the north resembled the semi-familiar Mount Nebo, but this angle gave Porter pause. He must have traveled farther afield than expected and was now likely well within Ute territory. This in itself was no worry, Porter was on friendly enough terms with Chief Walker and the Utes—but that was always with an interpreter, his friend George Bean. Porter himself didn’t speak Ute, he hardly knew more than a few key words. Still, perhaps he could communicate with someone and learn the quickest route from the high valley before his horse became crippled and they were both in danger of freezing to death.

  The snow was coming down again in big flakes, swirling about like a serpent squeezing the life from a man. Porter wondered about someone following his back trail in the aftermath of the fight but didn’t feed the idea too much worry. Soon enough, his trail would be invisible. He did have to find shelter, though. The blizzard was a lot more likely to kill him than any unseen stalker. Sure, he had been blessed by a holy man that no bullet nor blade could ever harm him but what about a simple snowflake? Those tiny white bladed stars could eventually cut through any man alone out here without shelter.

  Porter prayed aloud at what he ought to do and where he ought to go. He heard nothing but the eerie moaning of the wind in return. The sound raced across the snows like a banshee and didn’t grant no comfort.

  “Thanks’ a lot, Lord,” he grumbled.

  Then he saw a wispy string of smoke rising from a hillock not a few miles south.

  “Forget my complaint. I’m just a fool, a learning your mysterious ways,” he said, before making his way for the wavering gray finger, cautious as ever.

  2. Keeper of the Sacred Flame

  It was nigh on dusk, by the time Porter made it to the big rounded hill. Wisps of smoke still rose from some small fire, but were swiftly carried away by the north wind. Looking about for a teepee, Porter was surprised to spot smoke issuing from a cave high on the south cliff-face. Like a skulls gaping socket, it was ominous and foreboding, and like an eye, the flickering lights of flames inside promised life within. But cold as that night’s storm promised to be, he had to find shelter regardless, so Porter pressed on.

  It took him a few moments to carefully guide his horse up the windswept slope. Just to the leeward side, the rock gave way to a short cliff with fingers of granite reaching up from the snows.

  “Hello in there,” Porter called out, wanting to be sure he didn’t startle anyone, even if they did not speak English. Wouldn’t do to take a bullet just from spooking somebody.

  Porter peered into the orange splashed gloom, wondering if it was now unoccupied, when a wrinkled gray-haired Indian stuck his head out the cavern’s opening. He looked as if he were eagerly expecting someone, but seeing only the black-bearded white man, he made a crude gesture for Porter to leave.

  Porter beckoned at the rapidly darkening sky and made his own show of force, if not his willful stubbornness known. “Come on Chief, ya crotchety old bastard,” he grated, through his teeth. “It’s mighty cold.”

  The old man again shook his weathered face.

  “I’ll share my whiskey,” said Porter, dangling the bottle outward. “Name is Porter.”

  The old Indian took another look up at the charcoal shaded clouds and buffeting snowflakes again before finally giving Porter a reluctant nod.

  The cavern’s mouth was just large enough to guide Porter’s mare inside after them, and the old Indian did not seem opposed to letting the horse in.

  A fire burned at the far end of the oblong cavern, right beside another small tunnel leading further on into the gloom. The smell inside was disagreeable but better to endure that than the storm. Weird pictographs of cinnabar and ochre were splashed across the walls. They looked like visions of serpents entwined and inhuman horned men in communion with one another. The cave floor itself was littered with debris and char, the remnants of eons of continued use. A wide variety of tokens, herbs, fetishes and what Porter knew were sacred medicines hung on the walls. This was a sacred place. He tried to remember the Ute words for horse and apologies but slipped over himself like fresh cow pies on a rainy spring day.

  “I speak Mericat, plenty good,” said the old Indian, using the Ute term for Americans. “Horse is fine.”

  “Well, thanks much, Chief. Looks to be a cold night and I didn’t want to—,”

  “I did not say to keep talking, Mormonee,” snapped the old man.

  Porter scowled but went silent, figuring the old man would talk when he was ready. Besides, he obviously knew at least a little about Porter being in this territory, what with the Ute term for the Mormon’s being handed out like that.

  Instead of saying anything more, the old Indian proceeded in taking stones and walling up the doorway-like tunnel at the far side of the cave. He pounded tiny wedges and sticks into the spaces further tightening his stone handiwork. He then plastered mud over the whole of it making it nearly invisible. When finished, he fed the fire again and took a branch of sage, let it take light until it smoked and wafted the incense about the cave while muttering a chant Porter couldn’t hope to understand. He then sat down staring at Porter.

  Quite some time passed and Porter watched the storm roll in and cover the white land outside with darkness. Wind tore inside but the cave stayed tolerable thanks to the old man’s fire.

  Finally, Porter had enough of the silent treatment. “You know Chief, we could keep a bit warmer if we moved that fire a little more central. Away from the entrance and your sealed tunnel there.”

  “Sacred fire must stay where it is.”

  “What’s in there anyway? Some kind of Indian treasure? Not that I have interest in what’s yours,” said Porter, holding his hands up.

  The old man narrowed his gaze at Porter. His eyes were like seas of flint, dark and mysterious. “You should not be here,” he said, accusingly.

  “Yeah, I get that a lot. But here we are. You want any of that whiskey yet, Chief?”

  The old man gave him a cross look but reached for the offered flask and took a swig, then another and another and finally said, “At daybreak you must leave. Forget this place.” He took another few swallows. “Go back to your children and wives.”

  “Ha! Chief, you get a little more neighborly with a square drink in ya,” laughed Port. “And you speak Mericat awful good. Better than some pukes I used to deal with in Missouri.”

  The old man gave a sarcastic half grin and took another swallow of whiskey. “I have spoken to your brother, Isaac Morley, many times and learn from him of your language and customs.”

  Porter capped his hands together. “Well that’s real good, we have friends in common then.”

  The old Indian held his hand up to silence him. “I only allow you to stay the night because of the storm. In the morning, you must leave and forget this place.”

  “Why? Is it cursed or something?” Porter laughed, but the deadly serious look on the old Indian’s face gave him pause.

  The old man took a bit of sage and again let it catch flame and wafted the holy incense about the chamber. “The curse contained here is more deadly than any storm.”

  “Curse? That why you’re tendin
g this fire instead of being with Walkara and the tribe?”

  “I am no Ute. I am Mexica. What you Mericat’s and Mormonee call Azteca. I have tended the sacred fire of Coatlicue for many moons, as my fathers before me. The goddess must stay here. She must be allowed to sleep.”

  “She must be some gal.”

  The old Indian stifled a laugh, shook his head and took another drink of whiskey.

  Pointing at the sealed tunnel, Porter asked, “What’s in there? What are you afraid of?”

  “I fear I am the last,” the old man said, taking another swallow.

  “The last what?”

  “To keep the sacred fire burning and to keep the Blood Gods asleep. I am old and await the coming of the next shaman who shall tend the sacred fire. I fear he will not come. Those who remember the old ways dwindle and those that respect them—even fewer.” He then gave a soft laugh, born out of sadness not mirth. The whiskey was taking hold and a solitary tear came rolling freely down his face.

  “That reminds me, Chief,” said Porter, as he pulled the jade idol from his pack. “The next shaman, did he carry this?”

  The old man’s savage eyes opened wide in a rage at sight of the idol. His gnarled hand wrapped around the knife hilt at his belt. Shouting incomprehensibly, he launched himself panther-like at Porter.

  In a contest of strength, the old man would be no match for a human grizzly bear like Porter, but the sacrificial obsidian knife carried a thousand years of respect.

  Porter dodged the first few wild slashes, then as the old man over extended himself, Porter struck like unchained lightning. The powerful blow sent the old man flying—releasing his grasp on the volcanic knife. The black blade shattered as it struck the cave wall.

  Struggling to his knees, the old man wiped at the blood oozing across his swollen lips and nose.

  “Sorry ’bout that Chief, but you need to listen afore you try that again. I didn’t kill the man who carried this. Shoshone horse thieves did. I took this damnable idol so that I might find out who he was.”