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  Let Sleeping Gods Lie

  David J. West

  LET SLEEPING GODS LIE Copyright 2019 David J. West

  Digital formatting by: Hershel Burnside

  Cover by Carter Reid

  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. Some names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously others are historical and used for entertainments sake. 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.

  LOST REALMS PRESS

  For Bani Kinnison

  With your heart, art and smile gone

  The world is a little less bright without you

  Rest In Peace

  For the dark places of the earth are full of the habitations of cruelty – Psalm 74:20

  There’s gold aplenty, Forty-Niner,

  In the river and on the ground

  But don’t dig too deep, I’ve found,

  There’s a things down there, Forty-Niner

  — Anonymous, Ballad of the 49’er

  Chapters

  One Night in Murderer’s Bar

  No Respect For the Deceased

  A Stiff Corpse

  The Dark and Bloody Ground

  Death Dealer

  A Wild Man

  Ghost Horn Speaks

  God Loves Fools

  Lead is the Hungriest Metal

  Black Wings

  The Door into the Mountain

  Trails in Darkness

  Dwellers Of the Dead City

  The Sleepers Awaken

  Last Rites

  One Night in Murderer’s Bar

  Porter was realistic and always felt that the sixth commandment might better have been translated as “Thou shalt not murder.” Getting along in a place like Murderer’s Bar without killing, even just as self-defense, was awful hard, even for a man trying to walk the straight and narrow. Maybe he didn’t read the bible every day (or any day) but he did try hard to always do the right thing regardless. Life comes at you fast and plans don’t always turn out how you think, but you gotta keep trying to make the best of it. That’s what his Pa always said and other wiser men, too. But then, few people anywhere really believed Porter was walking that path of righteousness anyhow, and death has a way of always making another fork in the road for the living.

  The current fork, Murderer’s Bar, might just have been the most aptly named boomtown in the whole of the California gold rush. Cobbled together with the miners seeking their fortunes were wanted men from every foul corner of the earth, and death was a surer thing than the rising and setting of the sun.

  Porter was no stranger to such, having been wanted for a murder he didn’t commit in Illinois along with a few more he proudly did. Vengeance is a hard road, and once you take off down that way, you’d better keep your wits about you. Now that he was here in California, he had to be doubly alert, since a whole lot of men who would like to see him swing were working the gold fields all over the territory.

  This particular boomtown was named for a sandbar on the middle fork of the American River where one Thomas Bruckner came upon a plundered camp with a firepit filled with unburnt human bones. He carved Murderers Bar into a nearby alder tree, and the name stuck.

  Despite the bloody atrocities between the miners and local Indian tribes, the place was rich in gold dust and nuggets, so men persisted and populated the bar in short order. Ramshackle hovels, tiny cabins, and a few crooked boardwalks crowded along the river, acting like islands amongst a sea of treasure hunters. Numerous tents made up the rest of the town proper.

  After dark here and there, a red lantern was hung, snuffed, and shortly relit awaiting the next customer. Soiled doves were a rare commodity and thus the few hereabouts made quite a killing amongst the miners. And of course, sometimes, feelings of love and jealousy couldn’t help but interrupt business. A night without a few screams and shots fired would have seemed out of the ordinary.

  That’s why with the first cry of terror Porter hardly batted an eye. He scratched at his hound’s head, and the dog named Dawg leaned into the affection. Porter had learned an hour into panning that very first day there was more money to be gained from the miners’ pockets than there was from the river. No time to have a cabin framed, he opened the Round Tent Saloon as soon as he arrived not a few months gone. He drove a pack train and supplied the whiskey from Sacramento every week while his partner, Jack Smith, tended bar. It was a rough joint, but few wanted to tangle with either the proprietor or his help—including the dog. Jack was a good man in a fistfight and Bloody Creek Mary, a scar-faced native woman, didn’t come by her name without reason. She had killed a gang of bandit mestizos that had murdered her family. A big bowie knife was never far from her hand. And Dawg was big as they come, usually with a happy-go-lucky demeanor, though if Porter gave him a cold command, the unusually silent canine could become a monster.

  The second bloodcurdling wail made Port look up from counting the day’s take. He puffed on his cigar and squinted toward the darkness outside. Dawg braced his legs and sniffed at the darkness. He remained mute but for the rumble of his chest.

  Bloody Creek Mary stopped sweeping the hard-packed earth. “That was Susie, the blonde from Tennessee.”

  “You sure?” asked Porter, getting up from his chair. “Maybe Dawg and I better go check on her.”

  Bloody Creek Mary shook her head. “She is gone now.”

  Porter puffed on his cigar and looked at Jack who merely shrugged. “I still ought to check. One of these days, folks might want law and order and I can run for sheriff.”

  “Here?” scoffed Jack.

  “I’ve seen other towns sprout up like this before. Yeah, I’m making a killing with the saloon and the halfway house in Buckeye Flats, but I got to try and think long term. It can’t stay this wild forever, and what better way to keep the coin flowing than being the first one to shape this place up?”

  Jack spit and shook his head. “This place is a flash in the pan. Besides, you’re a wanted man yourself. Anybody else ever finds out you’re the Mormon triggerite and you’ll have a noose around your neck.”

  Porter nodded. “That’s why I’m Mr. James B. Brown, but I could be Sheriff Brown!”

  Bloody Creek Mary shushed them, saying, “Someone is coming.”

  Dawg padded toward the tent flap.

  “We’re closed, come back tomorrow,” Porter barked at the emerging figures. A shuffling of feet continued closer. Ragged shapes took the form of men looming out of the darkness.

  The hound made ready to spring. “Easy Dawg,” commanded Porter.

  A trio of Asian faces entered.

  Porter recognized the men. He asked inquisitively, “Fei Buk? What’s going on? Is your man wounded?”

  Two Chinese men struggled inside carrying a semi-conscious man between them.

  “You have trouble?” asked Jack.

  Bloody Creek Mary did her part, not in helping make the men more comfortable but in stepping just outside the tent flap to see if anyone wanting to make trouble had followed them.

  “Is no trouble with men,” said Fei Buk, moving his hand up warily as Dawg gave him a sniff and lick ac
ross the palm.

  “Is È guǐ,” argued his companion, Wong, as he patted Dawg’s head.

  “What?”

  “Hungry ghost,” said Wong.

  Fei Buk erupted a string of angry Chinese at Wong, who rattled back his own train of mean-spirited retorts.

  “Come again?” interrupted Porter.

  “He is sick. His gall bladder has exploded,” said Fei Buk. “That’s all, no other trouble. Can you help?”

  Porter rubbed at his bearded chin then pulled out a knife. The sharp edge glittered in the lamplight. “I ain’t never done that kinda thing, but I reckon I can try my hand if you fellers can give me some tips.”

  “No, no cut open.” Fei Buk waved his hands back and forth. “It too late for that. Just make him comfortable. Whiskey, maybe. He is going to die. Then we take his bones back to China. We need help getting home. Want to buy a wagon and horse.”

  Wong looked to argue but remained silent with a glare from Fei Buk.

  Porter said, “Sorry boys, I can’t sell the team I’ve got, but I’m heading to Sacramento day after tomorrow, you can ride in the wagon with me that far, I guess.”

  “No time, Gweilo. We need sell the metal book and go, quick, quick. Now!” insisted Fei Buk.

  Porter chewed at the edges of his beard. “I might have a mule and cart I can part with. But it won’t carry three men, maybe a one.” He cast a sidelong glance at the moaning man.

  “We pay for that and get cash money too,” said Fei Buk, pulling out a small bag of gold dust. “The rest with this.” He dropped a heavy satchel onto the rough-hewn table. It clanked as it hit the hard wood. A long, white bone came partially tumbling out. Dawg padded closer and sniffed at it. Wong snatched it up and put it in his own sack.

  Porter squinted and asked, “What the hell was that?”

  “Not a man,” said Fei Buk. “Not a man.” He waved his hands in the air as if that might cloud the vision of what they had just witnessed.

  “I could see that. It was too big. But what was it?”

  Fei Buk and Wong looked sidelong at each other.

  “We found something special,” said Wong.

  Fei Buk narrowed his gaze. “Dragon bone. We take that back to China. That not part of deal, though. We keep.”

  “Fine. What the hell would I do with a dragon bone, anyhow,” said Porter, “cept maybe give it to Dawg.” The big hound’s tongue lolled out hungrily.

  “Not dragon bone!” gasped Fei Buk.

  Jack’s brows raised with interest as he asked, “That other thing, the book. That what I think it is?”

  “Is not gold,” snapped Wong. “But still valuable.”

  Jack rolled his eyes.

  Porter asked, “You said you wanted to sell a book?”

  Fei Buk pressed for an answer. “Is valuable to you, yes? You pay now. We go on foot if we have too. But I want to buy horse or cart now.”

  Porter frowned. “You little bastards are rude, and I don’t know what kind of a market value you think I can get you on a Chinese book. Hell, I can’t even read English.”

  A rat-faced man named Thorne poked his head in the tent. “Evening! You boys still open?”

  “We’re closed, come back tomorrow,” barked Porter.

  “Alright, alright,” said Thorne, ducking back out and vanishing into the night.

  The two Chinese muttered amongst themselves a moment, signaled for the tent flaps to be closed and waited until Jack complied and drew the tent flaps shut, shrugging.

  Fei Buk reached into the heavy satchel and drew out a thick, square, greenish book. “It is not Chinese but of the Old Ones. We found it when digging. Is key to another place.” He demonstrated that the book could be swung open on a big corner axis point, granting a near twelve-pointed flower or star design. Engraved upon the copper plates were a curious collection of hieroglyphs, none of which could be understood by those present, so alien was their form.

  Porter answered, “It ain’t gold. It’s just some worn out copper alloy.” But he opened it and gazed over the many thin plates covered by a multitude of bizarre characters and weird drawings. He twisted it back and forth to get a good look at the central hinge point. It was like a great big rivet, smooth on one end but on the opposite side a little longer and countered, flaring to wider and slimmer sizes within fractions of an inch. He had never seen anything like it. “Puzzling.”

  “I said it not gold,” snapped Wong.

  “Any of that gold?” asked Jack.

  “No,” grumbled Porter.

  “Still valuable to your people, yes? They like old books found in the earth, yes?” Fei Buk picked the book up off the table and handed it to Porter, who then gauged the weight in his hands. “Maybe you use key and dig for gold there yourself.”

  The semi-conscious man wailed loudly before passing out once again.

  Jack swallowed. “Port, we need that. Could be worth a lot to the right people.”

  Porter played it a little cooler. “I don’t know. You want just the thing’s weight in cash? And you said you had to sell it tonight. You boy’s steal it?”

  Wong shook his head. “We found it up Wu Li canyon. We dug it up under a great old log and stone structure.”

  Jack guffawed. “Who what canyon? No such place.”

  Fei Buk persisted. “You call it Scorched Devil Ridge. We dug there and found it under pile of stones. But we sell and return home to China tonight.”

  “You found it under a marker cairn?” asked Porter.

  Wong nodded.

  “Someone’s property marker?” asked Jack.

  Porter shook his head. “Nobody but the Chinese were digging on Scorched Devil ridge. I heard that old Nisenan Indian, Ghost Horn, said it was haunted.”

  “Oh, I know that spot. Williamson’s flume runs right by there doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it does,” said Porter.

  “We go now,” insisted Fei Buk.

  Porter scratched at his beard. “What’s the rush?”

  “Hungry ghosts,” said Wong, voice rising into a high-pitched warble.

  “You dug this up and now bad stuff is happening?”

  Fei Buk and Wong looked to one another. Their companion moaned once loudly but said nothing more.

  “Whiskey please, then sell you book, and we go.”

  Bloody Creek Mary interjected, “They fear they have disturbed the Old Ones; they fear for their lives.”

  The Chinese men muttered in their native tongue while the sick one moaned again.

  Fei Buk pressed. “You want book or not? Is worth much to you. Only one found in whole country here abouts.”

  Jack and Porter chuckled at Fei Buk trying to use American slang.

  “You sure you heard I’d be interested?” Porter asked.

  Fei Buk nodded and looked to Bloody Creek Mary.

  Bloody Creek Mary said, “They thought you would also be interested because you people collect such things.”

  “What do you mean, you people?” asked Jack.

  “Mormons,” answered Bloody Creek Mary.

  “Does everybody know I’m a Mormon?” asked Porter.

  “Too many for comfort, it seems,” replied Jack.

  Now Porter looked worried. “You all need to keep that quiet ‘round here. Boggs is Alcalde of Sonoma now and would love nothing more than to string me up.”

  “But you are interested?” asked Fei Buk.

  Porter nodded. “How much do you want?”

  “How much do you have?”

  Porter rubbed his forehead knowing full well he couldn’t gauge the strange book relic’s value. He had no clue to go on other than knowing that mummies taken from Egypt had cost the paltry sum of several hundred dollars. And this book had to be worth a whole lot more than mummies. “I can get you a mule and cart for your man along with two hundred dollars for that bag of gold dust and the book.”

  “Agreed.”

  Porter was glad he hadn’t mentioned the other seventy-five dollars he ha
d been willing to bargain up to. He had played poker a long time and didn’t let his interest for the strange book show. He had been interested in such things since he was a boy growing up in Massachusetts.

  “You sure this thing is real?” asked Jack.

  Porter held out the book, saying, “Look at that verdigris. It’s solid, and Fei Buk did not craft this. It’s legitimate.”

  “You pay and we go now,” insisted Fei Buk.

  Porter doled out two hundred dollars while, without asking, Bloody Creek Mary fetched the cart and mule and had it waiting out front. They helped load the sick man into the cart and gave them a bottle of whiskey for his pain. Dawg followed them a pace and licked the dying man’s hand. He reached through the slats of the cart and gave Dawg a gentle pat on the head and whispered something in Chinese ever so softly. Wong placed the sack with the dragon bone beside the dying man.

  Porter pulled open a small hidden compartment on the front of the cart. “You can hide goods in there if you need to.”

  Fei Buk nodded gratefully and placed the wallet of money he had received from Porter inside the compartment.

  Porter asked, “You in that much of a hurry? You could probably wait a few hours, a day at the most, and just bury your man here. Save you the trouble of traveling slower.”

  Wong shook his head. “His bones must return to Siyup. Or he will never find rest.”

  “Wherever that is,” said Jack.

  “In China.”

  “You can still do that after he passes in a day or so. We can make him comfortable till he goes. What is your dad-blasted rush?”

  Fei Buk glanced at Wong who nodded. “We do Feng Shui and look at stars. The stars are right here soon for the Old Ones. In two days. What good for them and opens wide is very bad for us. They wake soon. We go now!”

  “All right then, take care,” said Porter, handing Fei Buk the reins of the mule.

  The Chinese left in a hurry, the two men leading the mule since the cart could not hold the three of them.

  Dawg looked wistfully after them as if he wanted to go with them.

  “Look at that,” said Jack. “He wants to go with them.”