Skull Moon Read online

  It was gruesome work.

  But it wouldn't be the first time Longtree had done such things. A man in his line of work spent a lot of time urging the dead to give up their secrets.

  The gun had been fired; only three bullets remained in the chambers.

  He set the arm and weapon next to the body.

  Mounting his horse, he rode into a little arroyo that was protected by a wall of pines. He tethered the black to a tree and gathered up some firewood with his hatchet. The wind was reduced to a gentle breeze in the gully and Longtree got the fire going right away. He would spend the night here. In the morning, he would drag the body into Wolf Creek and begin the job he'd come to do.

  He unhitched his saddle from the black and jerked the saddle blanket off, stretching it over some rocks to let it dry; it was damp with the horse's perspiration. Longtree curled up before the blazing fire and chewed some jerky from his grub sack.

  He dozed.

  22

  He didn't sleep long.

  Sometime after midnight he heard horses coming up the trail that cut down the slope below him and led in the direction of Wolf Creek. He heard at least a half dozen of them come within three-hundred yards of his position, the riders dismounting. They must've seen the smoke from his fire.

  He pulled himself free from his bedroll and swigged from his canteen.

  In silence, he waited.

  He heard them coming, stumbling through the snow to the pines that sheltered his arroyo. They were a noisy lot. Had to be whites. They stomped forward, chatting and arguing.

  Longtree strapped on his nickel-plated Colt. 45 Peacemakers and drew his Winchester from the saddle boot. Then he waited. They were coming down now. Longtree positioned himself away from the glow of the fire, leaning against a shelf of rocks, hidden in shadow.

  They came down together, six men in heavy woolen coats. They sported shotguns and pistols and one even had an ancient Hawken rifle. They plowed down, packed together. Very unprofessional. It would've been easy killing the lot of them.

  "You got business here?" Longtree called from the darkness.

  They looked startled, hearing a voice echoing, but unable to pinpoint it. They scanned their guns in every which direction. Longtree smiled.

  "Identify yourselves or I'll start shooting," he called out.

  The men looked around, bumping into each other.

  "Bill Lauters," a big man said. "Sheriff, Wolf Creek." He tapped a badge pinned to his coat.

  Longtree sighed. He knew who Lauters was.

  He stepped out of the shadows and moved noiselessly to them. He was almost on top of them before they saw him and then their guns were on him.

  "Who the hell are you?" one of them said.

  "Easy, Dewey," Lauters said.

  "Longtree, deputy U.S. Marshal," he said in an even tone, showing his own badge. "You were wired about-"

  "Yeah, yeah, I got it all right. I know who you are and why you're here." Lauters said this as if the idea were beneath contempt. "You can just ride right back out again far as I'm concerned. We don't need no damn federal help."

  "Regardless, Sheriff, you're going to get it."

  "Where the hell's Benneman?" the one called Dewey asked. "He's the federal marshal in these parts."

  "John Benneman got shot up," Longtree explained. "He'll be out of action a while."

  Lauters spit a stream of tobacco juice in the snow. "And we're really lucky, boys, cause we got us a special U.S. Marshal here," he said sarcastically. "I guess we can just hang up our guns now."

  Longtree smiled thinly. "I'm not taking over your investigation, Sheriff. I'm just here to help."

  "My ass you are," one of them muttered.

  "Nothing but trouble," another said.

  Lauters nodded. "We don't need your help."

  "Don't you?"

  "Ride out," Lauters said. "Ride the hell out of here."

  "Never happen," Longtree assured him.

  The guns weren't lowered; they were raised now, if anything.

  "I'm here to help. Nothing more." Longtree fished out a cigar and lit it with an ember from the fire. "Course," he said, "if you boys would rather stand around and argue like a bunch of schoolboys while more people are killed, that's your own affair."

  "Who the hell you think you're talking to here?" Lauters snapped, taking a step forward.

  Longtree stood up, pushing aside his coat and resting his hand on the butt of a Colt. They all saw this and he wanted them to. "I think I'm talking to a man with a strong like of himself."

  Lauters' face went slack and then tight in the blink of an eye. "Listen, you sonofabitch!" he barked. "I don't need your goddamn help! I'm the law in this town! Not you, not the U.S. Marshals Office! If you're coming into my town, then you do what I say when I say to do it! Understand?"

  Longtree remained impassive. "All I understand, Sheriff, is that you've got five dead men on your hands and if you keep this up, you'll have more." Longtree let that sink in. "Maybe if we work together, we can stop these killings."

  There was no arguing with that.

  "You just keep out of my way, Longtree. I don't need your damn help."

  Longtree nodded. "That's fine, Sheriff. That's just fine. I'll do my own investigation. But I sure would appreciate your help."

  Lauters gave him an evil stare. "Forget it. We don't need outsiders making any more of a mess of this."

  "Sheriff," the one called Dewey said calmly. "We got six murders, here, for the love of God. If he can help-"

  "Shut up, Dewey." Lauters turned his back on all of them and started up out of the gully.

  "Who's the sixth?" Longtree asked.

  "Nate Segaris," one of the men replied. "Got killed right in his house."

  "Ripped to shreds," another said.

  Longtree took a drag off his cigar. "Before you boys head back," he said, "you ought to know there's a seventh."

  Everyone stared at him.

  And in the distance, a low mournful howling rose up and died away.

  PART II

  Old Red Eyes

  1

  The good Reverend Claussen, scarf wrapped around his throat, fought through the biting wind to the undertaking parlor. He paused in the street outside of a peeling gray building. A wooden, weathered sign read: J. SPENCE, UNDERTAKER. It was barely readable. Too many seasons of harsh winters and blistering summers had faded the black lettering to a drab leaden color.

  Clenching his teeth against the elements, Claussen went in.

  He went directly into the back rooms where the bodies were prepared.

  In there were Wynona Spence, Sheriff Lauters, and Dr. Perry.

  The reverend eyed them all suspiciously. "Why is it," he said in his New England twang, "that I wasn't told of another death? Why must I learn these things by word of mouth, by rumor?"

  "Keep your shirt on, Father," Lauters said. "I-"

  "I'm not a Catholic, sir. Please address me accordingly."

  Lauters scowled, fished a plug of tobacco from his pouch and inserted it in his cheek. "What I was trying to say, Reverend, was that this here is Curly Del Vecchio. Or what there's left of him. Curly wasn't what you'd call a religious man."

  Claussen, his close-cut steel-gray hair bristling, said, "The dead are granted certain considerations, Sheriff. By the grace of God let me give this poor man spiritual absolution."

  Dr. Perry, standing next to the sheeted form on the table shrugged and pulled the sheet away.

  Reverend Claussen paled and averted his eyes.

  "Not very pretty, is it?" Wynona Spence said, her pursed lips pulled into a thin purple line which might have been a smile. "But beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

  Claussen glared at her. He saw no humor in death.

  Wynona Spence inherited the business from her ailing father. Being a female, she was a rarity in the business. But truth be told, she was the perfect undertaker. God molds men and women for certain tasks in life, the reverend knew, and
she could have been nothing but what she was. Cadaverous, tall, bony with tight colorless flesh and bulging watery eyes, she was the very image of her father. Only the drab gray dresses and the tight bun her colorless hair was drawn into marked her as a woman. Her voice was deep and velvety, her face hard and narrow. Unmarried, she lived in rooms above the funeral parlor with another woman…and the gossip took off from there.

  Claussen went through the ritual over the body almost mechanically.

  The words flowed from his lips like wine with the perfect intonation and breath control, but he was not aware of them. He saw only the plucked, slit, and hacked thing laid out before him staring up with blanched, bloodless eyeballs.

  Claussen completed the ritual with a few prayers and an "amen". He turned and faced Lauters with a bizarre species of contempt on his rosy features. "The members of my congregation want something done, Sheriff. They demand resolution."

  Lauters stared at him with unblinking, dead eyes. "We're doing all we can."

  "Do more! Do it in the name of our Lord!" the Reverend exclaimed piously. "The dead deserve justice! The living, protection!"

  Dr. Perry folded his arms and turned away, hiding a smile.

  Wynona leaned forward, lifeless eyes examining a new type of insect.

  "We're doing our best," was Lauters' only comment. He was visibly trembling, not the sort of man who liked to be told his job.

  "One would think your best isn't good enough," Claussen said dryly.

  Lauters face went red. "Now, listen here, Reverend. My mother taught me to respect the clergy. God knows I do my best. But don't you dare tell me my goddamn job," he said, finger stabbing the air. "I don't tell you how to pray, so don't you tell me how to run the law around here."

  The reverend, electric with religious zeal and self-imposed holiness, stepped forward. "Perhaps someone should."

  "Listen, you little sonofabitch, I've had all I'm going to fucking take-"

  "Your profanities fall on deaf ears. Such talk is the work of a weak mind."

  Lauters grabbed him by the arm, not too roughly. "That's it, Claussen. March your holier-than-thou butt right out the door before I kick your teeth so far down your God-loving throat that you-"

  "Sheriff," Perry said, flashing him a warning look.

  Claussen, his eyes bulging in fear, rushed out the door like something was biting his backside.

  Wynona giggled. "My goodness."

  Perry sighed. "Not a very good idea, Bill. If you make him angry he could turn his whole congregation against you."

  Lauters bellowed with laughter. "He's already turned one of them against me," he said sourly. "My wife."

  With that, he turned and left.

  "My, what excitement!" Wynona exclaimed as best she could. "We never have this much excitement here. I feel as though I've stepped into a dime novel. Tsk, tsk."

  Perry said, "You're a strange one, madam."

  And she was. Perry could never understand a woman wanting to be an undertaker. But he honestly couldn't picture her doing anything else. Even her movements-the slow stiff motions of her skeletal fingers, that slat-lean face pulling into a skullish grin-bespoke a worker of death and graves. Wynona Spence looked much like the bodies she prepared for burial and was only moderately more animated. Whereas most women boasted of perfume, Wynona always smelled vaguely of chemicals and dry flowers.

  "I still don't understand what attracts you to this profession," Perry said, shaking his head. "But I suppose, given your particular talents, you're well-suited."

  Wynona smiled as if it was a compliment. "The sheriff really should control his outbursts, though," she said sincerely. "Not good for a man his age."

  Perry lifted his eyebrows. "He's not even fifty yet, madam."

  "He looks seventy," Wynona observed. "One of these days, I fear he'll be here as a customer." She sighed, looking at the corpse of Del Vecchio. "Well, we'll be glad to have him, won't we?"

  Perry scowled. "He's not in the best of health. In the past year he's gone downhill. Must be the job."

  "Stress. It takes the best of them. You can take my word for that."

  "Ever since they lynched that Indian," Perry said, "he just hasn't been the same."

  2

  Joe Longtree came to the undertaking parlor less than an hour later.

  Wynona saw him come in and her first thought was that the man was a shootist. He wore a black flat-crowned hat and a long midnight blue broadcloth coat, unbuttoned, that went to his knees. He carried a buffalo coat over one arm. The spurs on his black, scuffed and scraped Texas boots rang out with each step. There were twin Colt pistols slung low on either hip like a gunman would wear them.

  "Can I help you?" Wynona asked.

  "Joe Longtree," he said, turning the lapel over his heart inside out. There was a badge pinned there. "Deputy U.S. Marshal."

  "Ah, yes. The Sheriff said you'd be coming."

  Longtree smiled. "I'll just bet he did."

  Wynona was unsure what was meant by that. Lauters said this federal man would show up and begin nosing about. Lauters also said to beware of him. Longtree, he'd said, was pushy, arrogant, and mouthy. Wynona was expecting the very worst. She had no earthly intention of opposing this man in any way; he was, after all, a federal marshal and carried a certain amount of weight because of it. That and the fact Longtree looked dangerous. His eyes were deep, fathomless blue. Very intense. They were the eyes of a man that killed for a living. Had she been moved by such things, she would have found him exciting.

  "I'll be glad to help the law in any way," Wynona told him.

  "I'd appreciate that, Miss Spence…you are J. Spence, aren't you?"

  "No, unfortunately not. J. Spence was my father, Joshua, dead these past seven years. I'm his daughter, Wynona," she explained in a flat voice. "Do you find it strange for a woman to occupy herself in such a profession?"

  Longtree shrugged. "Family business, I guess. Most natural thing in the world for your father to want his kin to carry on things. As long as you're happy with it."

  "Oh, I am."

  "Then you don't need my approval."

  Wynona found herself staring at him, finding him a remarkably enlightened man. It only added to his air of mystery, made him seem exotic somehow. Interesting. Wynona figured she would've fallen in love with him years ago. But not now.

  Longtree said, "I don't know what Sheriff Lauters told you, but I can assume it wasn't good. He's taken an instant dislike of me. I'm only here to look into these murders, not take over his job or bully anyone into confessing to the crimes."

  Wynona sighed. "Of course not." Longtree had an easy way about him. He seemed well spoken as if he were educated, sincere, honest. He seemed to be the kind of man it would be easy to like, easy to trust. "Would you like to see the body?"

  Longtree shook his head, pulling up a chair. "No, I got my fill of that last night. I want to talk about the others."

  Wynona sat down. "Very well." She seemed almost disappointed.

  Longtree lit a cigar, pulling out a little notebook and pencil.

  Wynona watched his every movement, somehow fascinated by him. He was maybe an inch under six feet, muscular without being stocky or massive. His face was clean shaven, rugged, handsome, the skin nearly as dark as that of an Indian, yet the features-long jaw, high cheekbones, aquiline nose-were clearly European in origin. His hair was long, black, a lustrous tinted indigo like that of an Indian. It was pulled back tight and tied with a leather thong.

  "My mother was a Crow," Longtree said, reading her thoughts.

  Wynona blushed a bit. "My Lord…how did you know I was thinking that?"

  "In my profession, mind-reading comes in handy."

  Wynona swallowed. "Yes, I imagine it would. So you are an Indian, then?"

  Longtree just smiled. "Not too many people ever guess. They think my skin is darker from too much time spent in the sun and wind."

  The glow faded from Wynona's cheeks, her skin now sunless aga
in. "No, I don't imagine too many do. The study of physiognomy is something of a hobby of mine. I often try to guess from skin coloration, features and the like where a man's point of origin in the world might be. Do you know, Marshal, that the Indian has dark skin not only because of heredity but because of his lifesytle? If the white race were suddenly to take to the plains and live out in the elements like the Indian, within a few hundred years or so we'd probably look much like them."

  "I don't doubt it. My father was English. In the summer he was dark as any Indian. Only in the winter did his skin pale."

  "Fascinating," Wynona said sincerely.

  "Did you examine the other bodies?"

  Wynona nodded. "Yes, sir, I did. In some depth."

  "Tell me what you found."

  Wynona spoke in some detail of the victims. She gave Longtree very detailed information not only on the physical remains and their condition, but on the men themselves. Their habits and lifestyles as best as she knew them.

  "Abe Runyon, Cal Sevens, Charlie Mears, Pete Olak, George Rieko, Nate Segaris, and finally Curly Del Vecchio," Longtree read from his notebook. "All men. Odd that this beast hasn't gotten a woman or child. It's almost like its killing selectively."

  Wynona raised an eyebrow. "I doubt that. We're dealing with a beast here, Marshal, not a reasoning being."

  "I'm not so sure of that."

  "You don't…I mean, you don't think a man is responsible for any of this?"

  "No, not a man, I don't think."

  "You mean a beast which… reasons?"

  Longtree did not comment on it.

  Wynona considered it. Yes, all men…but it had to be a coincidence, right? It could be nothing else. The idea of a creature that selected its victims…now that was frightening. She'd never even contemplated such a thing. But now that she had, she feared it would never leave her brain.

  "Well," Wynona said, "you've certainly given me food for thought. Dark food, at that."