Where Angels Fear to Tread
Vegas. January 1886.
"There's been another one."
Sheriff John Sheppard mulled over the unwelcome words as he slouched back in the chair. The saloon was dim, dusty, and full of cantankerous drinkers, gamblers and whores. In other words it suited him just fine. The steady susurration of conversations around him was lulling him into a pleasant doze. He had his long legs stretched out, his boots propped up on a chair across from him. Spangles of sunlight glinted on the silver spurs.
"Didja hear me, Sherriff? There's another one."
John scowled. He opened his eyes. His fingers brushed against the half-empty bottle of whiskey. He touched his empty glass. He had only had a few drinks before the unwelcome interruption. He tipped up his hat to reveal his handsome, scruffy face. His green eyes squinted against the sunlight as if unaccustomed to daylight. "Ya don't say?" he drawled.
Deputy Evan Lorne matched his boss's scowl with one of his own. He was accustomed to the sheriff's rather lackadaisical manner but at times it would get on his nerves like it was doing now. He hooked his thumbs into his gun belt. "I do say. Out yonder near the old mine. Same as the last one." He waited, but the sheriff hadn't moved. "You coming?" he prompted.
"Yeah." John straightened abruptly. He moved to his feet with alacrity, adjusted his gun belt and hat before following the deputy out of the saloon. "How long?" he asked, wrapping his coat around him to ward off the winter's chill.
"Jes a few hours accordin' to the doc. He's out there examining the body before we bring it into town. It ain't pretty."
"They never are."
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Along the line of the foothills a group of men were gathered, talking in disgruntled tones. All were grubby, clutching their rifles and muttering as they stood apart from where the body was sprawled in the newly fallen snow like some offering.
Doctor Carson Beckett was kneeling near it, shaking his head and shoving his hands into the pockets of his gray overcoat. There was little he could do here now. Still his keen blue eyes scanned the corpse, searching for clues as to the nature of the man's demise. Hearing a sudden cessation in the conversations behind him he moved to his feet, turning to see two men approaching.
"Doc," John greeted with a nod. His breath plumed out in the cold, cold air. He eyed the corpse as the doctor obligingly stepped aside for him.
"Just like the last one, sheriff," Carson informed. His Scottish burr was harsh in the winter chill. "Total exsanguination without any marks except for that curious one on the chest cavity with the addition of extreme and rapid aging. My best guess is that the time of death was sometime early this morning before sunrise."
"He was a miner. Richard Wright. He was only twenty," Evan added with a glance at the men gathered near. They were clutching their tools and their guns, watching.
"That's a hard twenty," John commented dourly. He let his gaze rake across the body.
"Sheriff! Whatcha gonna do about this?"
John turned at the irate voice. The other men were nearing, angry red faces confronting him, but John saw the fear in their eyes and that was more dangerous than any anger. "I'm gonna find out what's happenin' here. Any of you see anything?"
"No. We were in separate camps, spread out to mine what's left. We found him like that this morning," one answered. There were nods of assent in the group.
"We didn't hear nothing either," one added.
"It ain't natural," another stated. His words froze on the air, making the long shadows of the hills appear darker and more threatening. A wind whistled low through the scrubby pines.
"I am certain there is a scientific explanation for all of this," Carson assured, keeping his own bafflement to himself. "But I can tell you it is no disease or contagion."
"Then what did that? And don't tell me it was a mountain lion!" one challenged, shaking his gun.
"Tweren't no bear either!" another stated. An ugly mood was festering among the men.
With a graceful yet tense move John flicked back one side of his long black coat to reveal his own gun holstered at his thigh. The motion was enough to still the men's outrage. The sheriff's proficiency with the weapon was well known. "We'll find out what did this and deal with the—"
"And it ain't no man either! It's not of this world, sheriff!" The men muttered in agreement, crossing themselves nervously.
"The Devil's come to town," one added.
"Stop that!" John ordered sternly. "It ain't no devil whatever it is. I won't have you spreading talk like that to upset people. We will find whoever or whatever did this and put it down."
"Like you done so far, sheriff?" one sneered.
John frowned. His fingers played across the hilt of his Colt. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that, Bates. Now git outta here and be about your business! GO!" he bellowed. As the men dispersed he turned to Evan. "Let's get this loaded up on the cart and back to town. Doc, give us a hand here, will ya?"
"Those men are right, sheriff," Carson said as the men moved to lift the body. "No animal did this. Certainly no man did."
"Then what did? The Devil?" John sneered.
Evan crossed himself, glancing around the shadows. "Whatever it was, those men are right. It ain't natural." He looked up to see an owl watching them, silent and almost invisible in the trees.
"Whatever it is we gotta hunt it down." John stepped away from the body. Something had caught his eye in the snow. Amid the trampled footprints of the men who had found the body there was a faint, faint track. The tracks were almost lost amid the new snowfall that led away from the body and into the hills. One small, small drop of blood marred the white; a circle of crimson amid the snow.
John squatted to view the tracks. They were ordinary; boot tracks that could have been anyone, any man…but were definitely human. He squinted against the brightness of the snow to view the hills beyond, the pine trees that shadowed all in gloom and secrecy. Anything could be hiding in there, or anyone.
He followed the tracks, walking carefully next to them. His feet sank heavily into the newly fallen snow. He shoved his bare hands into the pockets of his heavy coat. His breath plumed in the air as he began a gradual ascent. He stepped past abandoned mining equipment; the remains of a tent; a rifle broken in two; the remains of a banked fire.
He reached a stream. It was mostly frozen but some water had thawed to course speedily across the rocks and twigs. It was wide enough that John would have to step on the rocks to cross it. He noticed that the snow on the rocks was untouched. Yet the tracks continued on the other side of the river, a clear but fading line in a smooth motion, as if whoever had left them had either stepped across the river or jumped across it without breaking stride.
John stepped on the rocks and crossed the river. He resumed following the tracks as his sense of unease was growing. His fingers played across the hilt of his gun. Its weight was reassuring as was the touch of cold steel.
He paused. The old mine rose ahead of him. It was a like a black mouth in the hills waiting to devour him. Most of the gold and silver had been excavated years ago and the mine was mostly tapped out, but there were always hardy and desperate souls who chanced their luck every year. The entrance had been shored up with timber and was limned with frost like a cadaver's teeth. Long icicles hung above it, shining blue when the sun caressed them.
John wondered what could be lurking in that blackness.
He blinked. For a moment he thought he saw a flash of gold, or silver, like the eyes of an animal catching the light, but then it was gone and John assumed it was an illusion of the sun on the snow or his own imagination.
There wasn't a sound. It was utterly still and silent, cold as the grave and not even the slight breeze made a noise in the pine trees. He couldn't even hear the faint burbling of the river behind him. A shiver coursed up his back.
Normally John was not a religious man. Nevertheless his fingers dug in deep to his pocket to finger a small cross that was always there. He could have sworn he was being watched.
"Sheriff! You ready?"
John nearly jumped at the voice. He turned to see Evan a few feet away, eying him quizzically. "Yeah." With a shrug he glanced at the mine again, turned and headed back towards the scene of the crime.
He shrugged off the feeling of eyes on his back, attributing it to the spooky location.
He didn't glance back.
He didn't see the reflection of the face in the icicles.