Skull Moon Read online

  Longtree felt a chill go up his back. "Who is the Skullhead?"

  Moonwind shook her head. "My father will speak no more. No white man may know of this. The Blood-Medicine is sacred to the Skull Society. The Skullhead has been summoned. He is among us now," she said, her eyes shining, "and getting closer."

  Longtree felt a certain uneasiness worm through him. His skin had gone cold now, his stomach stirring sickly. There was a veiled threat in her words.

  He was half-white, yes, and that half wanted to laugh at all this nonsense. Nothing but injun gobbledegook, ghost stories, old wives' tales. Crap handed down generation by generation. Just shit that had been dreamed up by some injun shaman blown clear into dreamland by peyote. But Longtree was also half-Crow. And that part of him was concerned. It knew better than to scoff at the medicine of the tribes. And it was commonly known that the Blackfeet were possessed of a very powerful medicine.

  But, damn, it was all a load of horseshit, right?

  He left Crazytail, knowing he'd get no more this night. He mounted his black and looked down at Moonwind.

  She watched him, her lips forming words silently. Under her breath, she said, "Beware, Joseph Longtree, for the Skull Moon grows full."

  Longtree rode off into the dead of night, shivering.

  7

  At around ten that night, Lauters-not drinking for the moment-decided to pay a visit on Dr. Perry. Anna, Perry's housekeeper, answered the door and led the sheriff through the maze of the surgery to the little study at the back of the house.

  "Didn't expect to see you this late, Bill," Perry said.

  "Couldn't sleep," Lauters explained. "I can never sleep worth a damn anymore."

  Unless you're dead drunk, Perry felt like saying, but didn't. He was sitting behind his desk, a brass microscope set out before him. There were other things there as well-a box of slides, a few dark corked bottles, several jars, an array of metal instruments. A dissection kit stood open, a scalpel and forceps missing from the felt-lined case. There were several tufts of fur laid out as well.

  "What are you doing, Doc?"

  Perry stroked his mustache. "A little detective work." He motioned to the tufts of fur. "You know what these are?"

  "Bits of animal fur," Lauters said, examining books in oak shelves, most titles of which he couldn't pronounce.

  "Not just any, though. I have pelts from grizzlies, foxes, coyotes, wolves. In fact, from all the known predators in this area," he explained. "I'm examining hairs from each with those of our mysterious friend here."

  Lauters sat down across from him. "And?"

  "And I've concluded what we already know. This tuft of fur is not from any of these creatures. Though," Perry confided in a low tone, "it shares similarities with human hair. But much more coarse."

  "So what does this tell us?"

  Perry cleared his throat. "Do you know what a mutation is, Sheriff?"

  "Haven't the foggiest."

  Perry studied him closely. Lauters' fingers were trembling. He was bloated and pale. The tip of his nose was purple from ruptured blood vessels and capillaries. Liver spots were numerous on his hands. He licked his lips constantly. These were the signs of the chronic alcoholic.

  "Doc?" Lauters said.

  "Oh yes, sorry. Getting old. My mind wandered."

  Lauters fixed him with a cold stare. "I'll just bet it did."

  "Anyway, Sheriff, a mutation is simply a variation in a known species. A physical change that occurs suddenly or slowly, either from environmental factors or hereditary factors or any number of reasons that science has yet to determine."

  "What does this have to do with anything?"

  Perry smiled. He knew Lauters understood very well what he was getting at. But the sheriff was a man who liked things explained to him in very clear language so there was no possibility of misinterpretation.

  "What I'm saying, Bill, is that we're dealing with a new life form here, an animal unknown to science."

  "I thought we already figured that."

  Perry nodded. "Yes. But what sort of animal walks upright like a man?"

  8

  Longtree made it back to his camp around midnight.

  He had been originally planning on spending the night in a hotel in Wolf Creek, but the warming trend changed his mind. Tonight would be a good night to sleep out under the stars by the fireside. He rode down into the little arroyo and tethered his horse for the night. After getting the fire going, he had himself a little supper of beans and salt pork from his grub sack and washed it down with coffee.

  He had a lot of thinking to do.

  Sprawled out on his bedroll by the blaze, a cigarette between his lips, he did so. First off, only the facts. Fact. There were seven murders in and around Wolf Creek. Fact. Same method used on all victims-they were torn apart as if by some wild beast, eaten, mutilated. Fact. All evidence would suggest the attacker to have been some animal, some large and powerful predator. Fact. Nearly all the victims had been armed and had shot at their attacker, either missing (which seemed unlikely given that two of the men had shotguns and they all couldn't have missed) or their bullets having no effect on said attacker. Fact. Though supposedly an animal, the creature attacked with an almost human rage.

  The facts pretty much ended there.

  Longtree took a long, deliberate pull off his cigarette.

  Now for the speculation.

  Speculation. The attacker is an unknown form of animal. Speculation. The attacker is somewhat intelligent. Speculation. The attacker seems to be targeting a certain group of people, but where their connection might be is unknown. Speculation. The attacker is tied up with the local Blackfeet tribe.

  That pretty much did it.

  Once the facts and speculations were done with, there were only more problems. If the Blackfeet were involved, then how were they directing the attacks of this wild beast? And what of Herbert Crazytail and his Skull Society and this mysterious other called Skullhead? Was it just a bunch of bull? Was the crazy old Indian allowing a bunch of savage murders to justify his own mythologies and visions?

  Longtree had no idea whatsoever. His mother was a Crow. He had Indian blood in him and as a boy in the Crow camp before the Sioux raiders had murdered everyone, he'd witnessed the spiritual and mystical side of Indian life. But he'd forgotten most of it in the Catholic mission school as Christianity was rammed down his throat. And later, with Uncle Lone Hawk, there'd been little mysticism. Lone Hawk was a Christian. He was a practical man, having little use for the supernatural. Yet, despite the fact that Longtree knew very little of Indian spiritualism and the assorted, complex myth cycles and legendry of the tribes, he wasn't above believing there were mysteries in this world. Things unknowable, things dark and ancient that white man's science or religion couldn't hope to explain.

  The world was a wild place.

  And though there was no one better than the whites at collecting information and dissecting it for truths, there were some things in the world that defied rationality and scientific realism.

  Longtree winced, knowing he was thinking like a superstitious man.

  But all men were superstitious at their core, it was the nature of the beast. Men thought certain rifles and knives were lucky. That wearing a particular coat or pair of boots would bring them good fortune or, at the very least, keep them alive in this hard country. In the army he'd known officers that were highly-educated men who would only put their boots on a certain way or carry lucky coins or pictures of their children as talismans.

  Superstition was everywhere.

  And that was the same now as it had been two hundred years before or would be two hundred years in the future.

  Longtree was confused about this thing with Crazytail, this talk of the Skullhead. Something was slaughtering people, something that left huge prints like those of some monster.

  Crazy?

  Perhaps. But he would've liked to have known something of this Skull Society and particularly this Blo
od-Medicine. It was, according to Moonwind's translation, the medium through which this Skullhead was called up like some Christian demon out of hell. But…Christ. Monsters? Demons?

  You're a lawman, he told himself.

  This was true. A lawman. A peace officer. A deputy U.S. Marshal. A special federal officer. He was a man of facts, not fantasy. He didn't deal in Indian superstitions or half-forgotten folklore.

  Yet, Longtree was scared.

  He would never have admitted it, but he was. There was a deep-rooted fear crawling in his belly and he couldn't shake it. After all the things he'd done, all the danger he'd faced, this scared him. He was frightened like he'd never been before.

  (beware for the skull moon grows full)

  The import of that unnerved him. Devils. Monsters. Primal beasts. There were names for things like this, for beasts that prowled the lonely countryside. Longtree was well-read, he knew something of folklore. Knew that even white European culture had their bogeymen, their haunters of the dark, their atavistic horrors. Bogarts and ogres and assorted flesh-eaters. Things with claws and teeth that stalked the dark forests.

  Enough, he thought, enough.

  And then out in the moon-washed countryside he heard it. A low, awful, evil sound that perfectly punctuated his thoughts: a mournful, drawn-out howling. He bit down on his lower lip, his head suddenly filled with nightmare imagery, terrible things that stalked the wind-swept shadows of cemeteries and burial grounds. Impossible, red-eyed horrors with long claws and sharp teeth that waited on frosty, forgotten lanes for wayward travelers…

  He shook it clear from his head.

  A monster of Indian myth given life, hunting enemies of the tribe. That was insane.

  And the night went silent, even Longtree's horse dared not breathe. An eerie abnormal hush had taken the world now, enclosing it in folds of midnight satin. A heavy breathing stillness.

  Then the howling began again.

  9

  Sheriff Lauters was on his way back to his office when he heard the screams.

  He had half a bottle of rye in his desk drawer and the thought of it warming his belly and lulling him into an easy sleep was all he cared about. He didn't pay any attention to the miners he saw fighting in the streets outside the saloons and gambling halls. He didn't pay no mind to the lewd behavior exhibited by a few ranch hands outside the parlor houses.

  He saw nothing but the bottle and the sweet release it offered.

  Then he heard the screams.

  They stopped him dead.

  He'd heard men cry out after being shot, knifed, and even scalped. But this was like none of those. This was a bloodcurdling screech that went right up his spine like spiders. And gave him about the same sense of aversion. It sounded again. Weaker now. It was coming from behind the smithy's shop.

  A few others were running in that direction now, guns drawn.

  Lauters raced by younger men and elbowed aside men and women alike. There was no time for courtesy here. When he rounded the shop and made it to the alley out back, people were already turning away in disgust. Rikers, the blacksmith, had a lantern going and what it revealed was a horror.

  Lauters knew it was Dewey Mayhew.

  Somehow, in the back of his mind, he'd suspected it.

  Mayhew was lying in the hard-packed snow, blood sprayed out in every possible direction. He was curled up, fingers trying to press his internals back in through the ragged incision in his belly. He was open in half a dozen places and blood ran from all of them. The left side of his face was stripped clear down to the meat. His legs were broken and twisted out at odd angles, bone pushing through the tears in his pants. The left side of his neck was ripped open, a great chunk of flesh missing. He bled from nose, mouth, ears-too many places to count.

  But he wasn't quite dead yet.

  He was trying to talk.

  Lauters kneeled next to him, trying to hear what he said. Blood gurgled from his mouth, his lips shuddering, his remaining eye staring off into space.

  "What?" Lauters said softly. "Tell me."

  Mayhew kept trying to talk. Lauters put his ear to the man's bloody, torn lips.

  "…those eyes…" Mayhew sputtered. "…those red eyes…"

  His body shook with spasms for a moment and went still.

  "All right, goddammit," Lauters said, climbing to his feet. "The man's dead. All of you clear out of here. Now."

  Slowly, the onlookers vacated the scene, leaving only Rikers and Lauters. Lauters went up to the man who, despite his powerful physique and girth, was trembling, the color gone from his usually ruddy face.

  "You find him?" the sheriff asked.

  "Yeah," Rikers said slowly. "I…I heard the screaming…lit the lantern and came out… Jesus, oh sweet Jesus…"

  Lauters turned him away from the body. "What did you see?"

  "Something…something running…I don't know…"

  "Think man, dammit," Lauters commanded. "This is important."

  Rikers swallowed. "It happened so fast…I'm not sure…"

  "What? Tell me." He was shaking the man now.

  With a look of anguish, Rikers broke free. "A shape…a shadow… gigantic…Christ, I don't know…something moving away fast, down the alley."

  "What did it look like?"

  Rikers' eyes were glassy, staring. "The Devil."

  10

  The body was taken over to Wynona at the undertaking parlor in the back of a farm wagon. Wynona was her usual cadaverous self, not disappointed in the least that a new customer had arrived despite the hour.

  Always room for one more, she was fond of saying.

  "I seem to be seeing a lot of you, Sheriff," she said. "I never really thought I would until-"

  "Shut up, Wynona," Lauters snapped.

  "Ah, well," the undertaker said, pulling the tarp back from the ruin of Dewey Mayhew, "life goes on. Unfortunately." She smiled at her morbid joke as was her habit and gave the body a cursory examination. "And whatever did you get into?" she asked the cold, staring face. "Don't worry, I'll fix you up."

  "You give me the willies, Wynona."

  Wynona lifted one eyebrow. "Simply because they're dead doesn't mean they're not people, Sheriff. I'm sure they enjoy my chit-chat in their own way. People treat them like bags of meat, sides of beef. I treat them like people. I offer them the same social graces I would in life. Isn't it what you would want?"

  "Just get on with it, you damn ghoul."

  Wynona inspected the corpse with more attention now. Checking each wound and abrasion. She shrugged. "There's nothing I can tell that you don't already know, Sheriff."

  "Which is?"

  "This man has died from massive loss of blood. He appears to have been attacked by some sort of animal."

  Wynona looked up as someone came in. The corners of her thin lips twisted up a bit in a smile. "Reverend Claussen," she said, expecting trouble and relishing the idea.

  "In the flesh," Claussen said.

  Lauters rubbed his eyes. He looked disgusted. "Evening, Reverend."

  "But what sort of evening, Sheriff?" Claussen asked. He'd brought a crucifix and prayer book along with him. "An evening of murder and mayhem, I would think. An evening not fit for decent folk to walk the streets without fear for their lives-"

  "That'll do, Reverend."

  Wynona was still smiling, enjoying this exchange to no end. Carefully, she snipped the bloody garments away from the body.

  Claussen held his prayer book over his heart. "Oh, dear Lord," he said, "an evil is amongst us. A savage and unholy beast. We pray for your guidance, for your deliverance from-"

  "Oh shut the hell up," Lauters snapped.

  Claussen looked as if he'd been slapped. "You, sir, are a heretic."

  "No, I'm just dead tired and don't want hear any of that Jesus-crap right now."

  "How dare you, sir!"

  Wynona stopped snipping.

  "You know where I'll be if you need me, Wynona," Lauters said, stomping off. "I bet
ter get out of here before I make the dear reverend here into another customer for you."

  "At the jailhouse?" Wynona asked.

  "No doubt the nearest tavern," Claussen said bitterly.

  Lauters clenched his teeth. "Shut your goddamn mouth."

  "Your words, sir, again fall on deaf ears. The Lord will protect me from violent men with weak minds."

  But Lauters was already gone. Weak mind or not, there was a lot on it.

  11

  The moon was up now.

  It was a fat, yellow orb that painted Wolf Creek up in a grim, pale illumination that reflected off snow and ice and hard earth. Wynona Spence stared out the window at the town from her rooms above the undertaking parlor. She was thinking of Joe Longtree and what he had said, wondering, wondering.

  Could any of that be possible?

  A beast with the mind of a man?

  Unthinkable.

  Wynona turned from the window. Candles were lit, spread out almost strategically. They cast a sickly orange light and fed shadows into flesh. As she moved, they danced and swayed and stalked. She had a bottle of whiskey set out. Good whiskey, too, all the way from Baton Rouge, imported via Ireland. Label was even written up in Gaelic. Not the cheap swill they served up in Wolf Creek. Fermented goat piss is all that was. Good enough for the ranch hands and hardrock miners who only wanted to get drunk, fight, and fuck, but hardly satisfying to the discerning palate.

  A love of good whiskey, like mortuary science, was something Wynona had inherited from her father. The dead did not frighten her. They were old friends and childhood playmates. She grew up with their staring, gray faces and empty eyes. Spent hours at her father's side while he stitched and sewed, gummed and glued, snapped and twisted bodies back into something vaguely human that could be cried over at a funeral. In a town like Wolf Creek, there were always plenty of dead bodies. Plenty of shootings and knifings and beatings and the occasional hanging. Then there were the mines, the inevitable quarrels between rival ranching combines. None of that even took into account death by natural causes. Yes, in the end, all roads led to the mortuary.