Hot Iron and Cold Blood: An Anthology of the Weird West

by Jeff Strand, David J. Schow, Jill Girardi, Ronald Kelly, Jesse Allen Champion

Genres: Westerns; Horror

Synopsis

Desperados and yellow-bellies be warned: These ain' t your typical westerns ... Herein find legendary masters of anomalous Western and Horror stories— along with a posse of budding word-slingers— who all bring you an electrifying and frightening collection of extraordinary tales set in the Old West and beyond...Within these pages, the improbable is made real: cowboys encounter a chimeric critter of the night; dinosaurs return as massive poltergeists; Chinese railroad workers are haunted by invisible frights; outlaws experience Cronenbergian body-horror; fallen-light stalks mother and daughter upon a wintry prairie; a headless horseman roams the badlands; otherworldly creatures hunt within our domain; screaming spectral birds nest within the damned; and gunslinging women with murderous skills annihilate foolish notions of a man' s world.These are just a handful of the offerings in this body of macabre lore.So, mount your saddle-horse and join this gang of rogue authors for a ride down dark trails of terror and unsettling thoroughfares that lead deep into strange, nightmarish territory. Here you gallop through places where law has no dominion and Death constantly deals a grim hand— and where the iron is red-hot and the blood drips ice-cold.Featuring stories by Joe R. Lansdale, Edward Lee, David J. Schow, Jill Girardi, R.J. Jackson, Vivian Kasley, Owl Goinback, Kenzie Jennings, Jeff Strand, Wile E. Young, and more.Edited by Patrick R. McDonoughWith an Introduction by R.J. Joseph

 

Read more

Release date: September 26, 2023

Publisher: Death's Head Press

Print pages: 306

Sample

Set A Spell, The West Has A Story To Tell: A Foreword

by RJ Joseph

The mere mention of the Wild West conjures romanticized images of open terrain and prairies, dotted with budding and established towns along the road to glistening riches. Strong and hearty people occupy these spaces, performing honest—and not so honest—work to build prosperity for themselves, while helping America fulfill its destiny as an expanded and evolved nation. Humankind wars with, and overcomes nature, breaking the wills of the domesticated animals that aid in these endeavors.

A closer examination reveals this is a vastly simplified picture of a time that included these ideals, yes, but which was also punctuated by sorrow, disease, and horrific living conditions. It is this inextricability—of prosperity and desperation, sorrow and joy—that paints a more accurate story of this space that ultimately mirrors the certainty of life and death.

The Wild West is more than drawls, leather, and ranches. Those of us who live here in the present day, realize other folks may cling to the romance of a time long past, desiring to emulate and report on our lives and culture. But many still do not completely understand what drives us. Those things for which we live and die. The things that bring us joy. The things that terrify us. To truly know a peoples’ story is to listen to their souls and hear what they hear, feel what they feel—and to then recognize their experiences as tied to the universality of the human existence.

To embody the Wild West is to revel in our expanses of space, rife with endless possibilities. To witness the spirits of the past permeating the elements, dancing intermingled with the breezes of today—to watch them dissipate into the ethers of tomorrow. The spirits are borne of strength, driven by loyalty, epitomized through tenacity, and bolstered throughout community. These foundational tenets of the Wild West are lain bare through the silence, whispers, murmurs, and clamoring of the stories in this anthology.

Silent strength.

We see just how strong a business owner must be to overcome the opposition when they fight dirty. This same strength must come from within, if one seeks to resist the comforting call of loved ones awash in a beckoning light. The tool of vengeance wielded by a cruel God may wish to deviate from that control, but instead calls on the strength of conviction to carry out obligations. And strength is the only thing left to rely on while steeped in abject loneliness, serving a tortured penance.

Whispered loyalty.

Loyalty and comfort in love supersede distrust and ultimate terror. We see men motivated by pure profit and loyal to gaining it for themselves, innovating to accommodate market demand for special services. A bandit

loyal only to self-preservation feels the sting of the spirits in their retribution. A woman and the dark angel sent from her God stand unwaveringly in the face of conflict, loyal to deeply held beliefs.

Murmured tenacity.

An unlikely attacker uses his tenacious cunning to prevail over his hunters. A woman holds true to waiting to enact the ultimate vengeance on her perpetrator. We see a person’s true self cling tenaciously through hardship to emerge on the other side. A woman devotes her life to a tenacious embodiment of ultimate power.

Clamoring community.

A group of immigrants finds a recognizable solution from their community to mitigate spiritual invasion. Strangers from the Old World seek community, death, and rebirth within one another. A community concerned about its reputation works to clean up for outsiders. Scientists commune with one another to seek answers to timeless inquiries.

Come, set a spell. Have a cool drink on the porch. Do not mind those voices It is only the restless spirits of the Wild West, channeling through their worthy mediums here. They just want to tell you a story or three…

 

—Rhonda Jackson Garcia, writing as RJ Joseph

Texas, September 28^{th, 2022}

Ruthless

by Jill Girardi

“GODDAMN IDIOTS!” RUTH SUTTON spat. She tied her roan to the hitching post, alongside several other horses. Across the dirt road, two soused cowhands brawled on the porch of Noonan’s saloon. One of the drunkards grabbed the other by the shirt, then hauled back and punched him so hard he flew backward over the steps. His back slammed on the ground with an audible thud, a thick syrup of dark blood streaming from his nose. The winner threw his arms above his head in a triumphant jig, then lurched to the side of the porch and vomited a stream of green bile into the dust below.

Ruth pulled down the brim of her straw hat to shade her face from the boiling East Texas sun. “This is the last settlement before the Llano Estacado and the Comancheria,” she muttered. “But these buffoons think whiskey makes ’em death proof.”

She stalked across the road, the toes of her cracked leather boots kicking up the dust and turning the hems of her breeches red. When she reached the saloon’s swinging door, she paused. She’d gone to the saloon to seek a favor from the proprietor, Billie Noonan. Ruth hated Billie now, as fiercely as she’d once loved her. The thought of having to grovel for help made her guts churn. She slammed her palms against the door, its rusty hinges squealing as it flew open.

The place was full from floor to balcony. Men gulped their gin at the bar, slipping their arms around the saloon girls as they passed, their trays loaded with glasses of Forty Rod and Red Eye. The room smelled of Figurado cigars and unwashed travelers.

“Qué cabrón!” A dark-eyed vaquero in a broad-brimmed black hat slapped his hand on the mahogany table, arguing with two men over a game of Three-Card Monte. He stopped mid-swear when Ruth entered, her silver-white hair streaming behind her. Soon the entire bar was in a hush, all eyes on the proud woman in the doorway.

Dennis Noonan glared at Ruth from behind the bar.

“You ain’t welcome here, woman.”

“I come to speak with Billie, and I ain’t leaving till I do it.”

“She’s in the store room. You got something to say to my wife, you can tell it to me.” Noonan accosted Ruth, sticking his face close to hers. He was a big man with a head the size of a blacksmith’s anvil. He could have picked her up with one hand and toss her out the door if he desired, but that didn’t intimidate Ruth. She leaned into him.

“I can smell the whiskey on your breath, Dennis.” Ruth fought the desire to move downwind. “I don’t blame you for gettin’ roostered. Gotta be hard to stand behind the bar while your wife’s off blowin’ the grounsils

with someone other than you.”

Noonan’s hand balled into a fist. Ruth’s blue eyes flashed in the glow of the chandelier like light refracting through a diamond. Her hand moved to the Colt revolver strapped to her side.

“You’re meaner than a wet polecat, Noonan, but don’t be a fool. You know I’ll put a dent in your pomade before your arm drops, make that bride of yours a widow.”

“Make yourself scarce ’fore I call the sheriff.”

“Let her talk, Dennis,” said a familiar voice.

Quiet as a phantom, Billie appeared beside her husband. Ruth’s heart slammed in her chest, driven by hate and sorrow. She’d aged some, the prettiness of her youth replaced by a hard beauty that still had the power to stop Ruth’s breath.

“Quit beatin’ the devil around the stump,” Billie said. “Say your piece and go.”

Ruth glanced around the room, her eyes resting on the vaquero, who watched her with his dark orbs. She shifted, her thumbs laced through her belt loops, reticent in the company of enemies.

“Florence is alive.”

Billie’s face blanched. Her eyes darted to her husband before she touched a hand to her forehead, then swayed as if she’d fall. The big man caught her, helping to steady her before glaring at Ruth.

“Who are you to come here upsettin’ my wife with your lies?”

Ruth ignored him. “I believed you were a good-hearted girl when I took you in,” she said to Billie. “A lost woman with an eight-year-old you couldn’t keep fed. I gave you a home, loved your daughter like she was mine. And you twisted a knife in my back.”

Billie sputtered in protest but Ruth put up a hand to silence her. “Then came the day the Penateka Comanche raided this fort. I was away, just started working for the Paulsons up on their horse ranch. Where were you when they slung your daughter on the back of a horse and rode off? Hiding in a thicket by the river, that’s where! You saved your own hide and let ’em take Florence. You’re the most spineless woman ever walked this earth.”

“The girl’s been dead more than twenty years,” Noonan growled.

“Cynthia Parker seen her,” Ruth said.”

The crowd gasped, then began whispering among themselves.

“Nobody’d believe a word she says,” Billie piped up. “She’s crazier than a rat in an outhouse. Keeps trying to run back to her captors.”

“Tom Paulson spoke with her at Parker’s Fort last week,” Ruth intoned, her eyes narrowed into slits of cold blue steel. “She wasn’t any prisoner. The Comanche raised her as a beloved daughter. She married a chief, bore children with him. He got himself killed fighting the Rangers when they tried to take her back. Protecting her! What’s more, some hunters sighted a group of Penateka on this side of the Brazos, a three-day journey from here. They seen a blond-headed woman with ’em. That’s our Florence, I know it is.”

“All right, so she’s alive,” Noonan said. “Nothin’ we can do about it. Now that Sam Houston’s got his peace talks, he won’t send the Rangers out on any more rescue missions. And just ’cause they sighted a group a week ago don’t mean they’re still there. You know they move camp every few days. Now that you’ve told your news of the world, you can get the hell out of my establishment.”

“It’s more my saloon than yours. Was my gold paid for it.”

“What are you after, Sutton? You want your money back, is that it?”

“It ain’t for me. I need it to go after Florence.”

“You going alone?” Noonan laughed. “You’ll end up with an arrow in your gut for your trouble. And nobody’d mourn you but that old mare you rode in on.”

“I’m going in peace, asking them to let Florence come home. Smallpox has ravaged entire tribes. We gave it to ’em and now the government won’t let them have the vaccine. We’ve killed more than they ever have. I need that money to pay some men to travel with me—I ain’t crazy enough to go alone. Now, I didn’t come here expectin’ you to give up the gold for nothing. I’ve got four beautiful Morgan horses over at Paulson’s, only six miles from here. They’re worth two hundred dollars apiece, but you can have ’em for half.”

“We got no use for those swaybacks you breed. Paulson needs workhorses. Go do your barterin’ with your boss.” He turned away, dismissing Ruth.

“We’ll go with you.”

The well-dressed vaquero stood and walked toward them, his long hair hanging loose under his hat. Ruth wasn’t fooled by his dandified appearance. She knew these horsemen could dead-aim a target from the back of a Mustang without even breaking a sweat.

She regarded the two men who now stood, flanking him. One of them was no more than twenty-one, youthful blonde curls edging from the brim of his poblano. He grinned at the nearest bar girl, who swooned into the arms of her giggling friends. The other man was shorter, stockier, with hard, shifting eyes and a Remington lodged on each hip.

“I don’t have money to pay you,” Ruth said.

“We’ll take those Morgans as our fee.”

“You’re insane, Castillo,” Noonan interjected.

“You sound just like my ex-wife,” Castillo said, winking at Ruth. “This handsome boy next to me is Dallas Walker. My mysterious friend here goes by the name of Sang Jopah. We’re on our way to seek work at Paulson’s ourselves.”

“Settle your score and meet me there,” Ruth replied. “We leave at dawn.”

She walked out of the bar without looking back, striding across the road to untie her Roan. Her mind still roiled over the confrontation with the Noonans. Beneath the glowing embers of her hatred, she’d still had some hope, after all. Hope that Billie might have some love left for her daughter—and for her.

“Ruth! Wait!”

Billie dashed out of the saloon, holding up her skirts. Ruth watched her trip across the road in her patent-leather heels. She stopped in front of the Roan, panting as she pressed a hand to her chest.

“I’m goin’ with you!”

Ruth let out a mirthless laugh. “You lost your breath running twenty feet. Get on

back inside before your man locks you up with the rest of his livestock.

“I don’t give a damn what that big meat bag says, and I don’t give a goddamn rat’s tail what you say, neither. That’s my daughter. Come dawn, I’ll be with y’all.”

“When’s the last time your feet were on the ground before noon?”

Ignoring the insinuation, Billie spun on her heels and ran back to the saloon.

Filled with inexplicable sadness, with her heart sinking into muddy rivers of despair, Ruth mounted her horse and rode toward Paulson’s.

 

***

 

They’d been traveling a day and a half, heading into open territory toward the Rio Brazos. The land this close to the Trinity River was lush, lined with sycamore, pecan, and oak trees. The peaks of the distant hills poked over the treetops like curious birds. Castillo and Ruth took the lead, their horses laden with saddlebags filled with supplies. Ruth armed herself with her revolver and Tom Paulson’s Carbine.

Dallas and Billie trailed behind them. Billie had ridden into Paulson’s on the back of Dallas’s Pinto. Ruth let her use the Roan for the journey. She and the others took the Morgans.

“Dennis tried to stop me,” Billie explained, touching the purple welt under her eye. “I put a dose of laudanum in his tonic. It’ll be hours before he wakes up.”

Dallas provided a steady stream of tall tales of the gunfights he’d won on his travels, brandishing a pair of pearl-handled revolvers, custom-made back East. He handed one of the guns to Billie, who received it with gratitude. The younger man’s incessant chatter was a welcome distraction from her anxieties.

Jopah brought up the rear, ever alone, alert for any sign of danger. He preferred it that way. A Comanche family had adopted him after his blood parents died of Malaria. He’d lived with them for fifteen years, learning to hunt and shoot, until Texas Rangers wiped out their camp on a supposed peace mission. Now he worked for himself.

Ruth took a long swig from her canteen, enjoying the feel of the cool water rushing down her parched throat.

“Hot enough to burn the bristles off a warthog,” Castillo said, removing his hat. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then glanced back at Billie, who appeared to be wilting in her saddle.

“You think she’ll make it?”

“She might outlive us all,” Ruth replied. “When I first met her, she wasn’t but eighteen, wandering outside the settlement begging for alms. No one knows what she went through out in the wilderness. But she deserves every bit of it for what she done to her daughter.”

“Is that why you hate her? Because she didn’t fight back when they took her daughter?”

“That among other things.”

“She stole your gold?”

“Yep, and my husband, too,” Ruth replied, eyes pointing straight ahead. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Tell me about Florence.”

The ghost of a smile fluttered about Ruth’s lips. “She was as sweet as honey, but nobody could make her do a thing if she didn’t think it was right.

She wasn’t disobedient, just different. Times were, I’d come outside searchin’ for her, and damned if it didn’t look like she was talking to my horses. She had a strange connection to nature—it was a sight to behold.”

They plodded onward, talking less as they passed endless sandstone mesas bordered by emerald green pines. Night fell, and they took shelter in an oak grove. Ruth hunted for jackrabbits, shooting one clean through the head with the carbine. After they ate, the men took turns keeping watch while the others slept. Ruth lay in her bedroll near the flames while Billie curled up next to Dallas.

Their giggling bothered Ruth. She remembered the nights she’d stayed awake, waiting for Billie’s goodnight kiss. Those secret kisses, so abundant at first, soon stopped altogether, only to begin anew with her husband while she was working on the ranch. When he died a year later, Ruth found he’d left her penniless, conned out of their savings by his paramour. Now, Billie had returned, slicing open old wounds against Ruth’s will.

A lonely howl echoed through the hills, mirroring Ruth’s melancholy.

“Hear that wailing?” she heard Dallas whisper to Billie. “That ain’t no coyote. That’s the war cry of the Nonape, the Little People. They’re more fearsome than any gunslinger, with their giant eyes glittering like polished onyx, and teeth sharp as a honed ax. If they catch you, they’ll flay you—and eat you while you’re still alive! BOO!”

Dallas grabbed Billie and hugged her to him. She squealed, her eyes shining with desire for the handsome grifter.

“You’re only trying to scare me,” she cried. “That ain’t nothing but an old wives’ tale.”

“They’re all around us,” Dallas continued as the haunting cries filled the air again. “They’ll only let you see them at the last minute, when they’re already on you with their spears.”

“It’s forbidden to speak of them!” Jopah snarled. Dallas ceased his playful talk, chastened by the first words the man had spoken since morning.

Ruth remembered the tales she’d heard as a youth. Folks said the Nonape lived in the caves dotting the hills. These were supernatural doorways they crossed through when called by powerful medicine.

An hour before dawn, Ruth awoke and stoked the fire to heat the last of the jackrabbit. Still on watch, Castillo came to sit beside her.

“You know he’s following us?”

Ruth nodded, focusing

on her cooking. “I heard him skulking behind the trees last night.”

“Reckon he’ll be trouble?” Castillo clutched his revolver, running a thumb over the barrel like a lover’s caress.

“Noonan’s madder than a rabid hound, a fool chasing his fool wife across treacherous country. Might be he gets himself killed and spares us the bullet.”

At daybreak, they began the final leg of their journey, reaching the Brazos when the sun reached its zenith. Castillo and Jopah tracked the area, finding signs of a party passing through a few days prior. They followed the trail down into a clearing at the river bottom.

A Penateka lodge rose before them—a conical tent made of buffalo skin, within a ring of cottonwood trees. A string of deer hooves hanging from the door clacked a lonely song in the breeze. Otherwise, an eerie stillness cloaked the solitary dwelling.

Castillo cast a glance at Ruth, unspoken questions between them. Why was there only one lodge when the Penateka traveled in numbers? A lone shield rested on its tripod outside the tent. They dismounted their horses and huddled together, tense and waiting, all ears tuned for any sound coming from inside the tent.

A feral cry tore from the lodge, reverberating through the river bottom. Seconds later, a woman stumbled out, her eyes darting back and forth, her blonde hair unkempt. She fell to her knees, not appearing to notice the group before her. Tears burned Ruth’s eyes.

Something wasn’t right.

“Florence!” Billie rushed forward, abandoning all caution at the sight of her daughter.

“Wait!” Ruth called. “Billie, stop!”

The pounding of hooves clipped behind them. Dennis Noonan thundered over the ridge, screaming obscenities as he came. Billie was steps away from Florence. She gaped at her mother, and threw up her hands to fend the woman off.

An arrow whistled through the air, piercing Billie’s right eye as it drove into her brain. Blood spurted around the feathered shaft embedded in her eyeball. She swayed for a long moment, then fell, twitching on the earth.

“Billie girl!” Noonan leaped from his horse, landing on his feet. He charged the lodge

like an angry bull. Florence’s hand shot out, seizing the revolver from Billie’s holster. She aimed and fired. Noonan’s chest exploded. He fell backward, his body throwing up a cloud of dust as it hit the ground. Spooked by the gunshot, his horse bolted over the ridge and disappeared. Ruth’s well-trained horses remained calm.

A Penateka man lurched out of the lodge like a drunkard, bow in hand, his black hair flying behind him. He attempted to nock another arrow but fumbled it. Ruth drew the gun from her hip and shot. The bullet hit him in the temple, exiting the back of his head. A geyser of bright red blood, brain matter, and splinters of bone sprayed the front of the lodge before he went down. Florence let out an unearthly scream, firing until the empty chamber clicked. She dropped the revolver. She threw herself over the bowman’s body and sobbed on his chest.

Castillo trained his gun on Florence, sidling up to her with swift steps. Jopah pulled several strips of rawhide from one of his saddlebags and joined him. Florence gazed at the two men as if dumb, her eyes clouded with anguish. She came alive when they grabbed her, kicking and thrashing as they pinned her to the ground. They bound her hands and feet with the rawhide while she hissed a stream of bitter Comanche words.

Dallas kneeled beside Billie, taking her wrist to check for a pulse. After several seconds, he dropped her arm and blessed himself. He looked up at the group, grim-faced, and shook his head. Ruth steadied herself against her horse as her legs buckled beneath her. The stench of death and gunpowder filled the air. Ruth stared at the mass of gore and blasted flesh that was once Dennis Noonan’s chest. There was no need to check for a pulse.

With his gun held before him, Castillo disappeared inside the lodge. Moments later, he poked his head out and beckoned to Ruth.

It was dark and cool inside the lodge. Ruth realized the tent was a home like any other, a jumble of cooking utensils, clothing, and other goods strewn about a central fire pit. Castillo pointed to a corner. At first, it appeared to be a large pile of buffalo pelts. When Ruth looked, closer

she saw someone lying atop the pile, wrapped in a large fur blanket. It was a skinny boy about twelve years old, stone dead, his body covered with so many huge red welts they almost concealed his skin.

Ruth pivoted toward the doorway. Outside, Jopah and Dallas were bending to examine the dead man. Behind them, a bound Florence sat on the back of the roan, weeping softly.

“Don’t touch him,” she screamed. “Smallpox!”

Horrified, the men retreated. Ruth and Castillo left the tent, taking a trowel to dig a grave for the four who’d died. As they passed the bowman, they could see a few small welts on his bare chest. Now, it was clear why the others had abandoned their brethren in this lonesome place. They’d left them there to prevent the spread of infection.

***

 

It wasn’t clear if Florence had contracted the disease. She slumped on her horse, silent and lethargic. She wore no adornments except for a necklace from which hung a large owl feather. From time to time, she raised her bound hands and stroked the token, almost as if she was praying to it.

They continued until evening, camping at the familiar oak grove. The men tethered the horses and built the fire while Ruth hunted. They settled Florence on a log a few feet from the flames. Dallas skinned the rabbit Ruth caught, his face twisted in disgust as he gutted and cleaned it, then used Ruth’s hatchet to chop it into small pieces. Ruth tossed the chunks of flesh into the kettle and stewed the meat.

Still riled from the horrors of the day, Dallas forgot the hatchet near the fire. No one noticed Florence edging toward it inch by inch. She lifted her legs, concealing the hatchet beneath her moccasins. When Dallas went to untie her for supper, she snatched the weapon. Dallas was near enough to slash his throat, but she didn’t cut him. She slammed her hand flat against the rough log, raised the hatchet, and with a wild cry, hacked off two of her fingers at the joints. Ruth tackled her, wrestling the blade from her grip.

“You fool, girl! What the hell did you do that for?”

She swore as she grabbed the mangled, bloodied hand and inspected it. She cleaned the wounds, then bound the stumps with cloth ripped from the hem of her shirt. As Ruth retied her wrists, Florence sat, listless, her eyes once again glazed over as she moaned with pain. When the food was ready, Ruth offered her a plate. Florence set her mouth in a grim line, refusing to eat.

Trembling with rage, Ruth tossed the meat into the fire. “Billie Noonan wasn’t a good woman,” she shouted. “She wasn’t anything close to a good mother, but she died trying to bring you home. And you’re just like her—another ungrateful bitch.”

Florence stared into the flames as if hypnotized. Ruth lunged at the woman, her hands balled into fists. Castillo caught her by the arms, drawing her backward.

“The Penateka raised her from childhood,” he whispered in her ear. “Did you see how she cut off her fingers? That’s a Comanche mourning ritual. They’re her family. You must try to understand that.”

Castillo released her.

Ruth stalked off to see the horses, pressing her face against their sturdy, warm flanks for comfort. She wasn’t sure if Florence had understood her words, not having spoken the English language in over twenty years. Her heart overflowed with pity, all her love for the girl flooding back.

Funny how I still think of her as a girl, Ruth thought as she walked back to camp. Almost like I thought we were rescuing an eight-year-old child. She’s a woman who’s lived a lifetime outside civilization. And we don’t know each other anymore.

She got out her bedroll and set it in front of Florence—a sacrificial peace offering. The woman ignored her. Ruth shrugged and took the blanket back.

“In time, you’ll adjust to our ways again,” she said, softer now. Florence turned, regarding her mutely, a hint of recognition in her eyes.

Then it vanished.

 

***

 

Bored of keeping watch alone, Dallas stood and stretched. He looked over at Florence, who sat across from him with her back straight as a ramrod. He began to feel unsettled by her relentless stare. Now, through the haze above the flames, he saw her edge her tied hands up her skirt. She tugged at something and drew out a small, black medicine bag. With a thumb and forefinger, she pulled out a pinch of black powder. She leaned forward and blew it into the fire. A cloud of thick, black smoke billowed upward, sweet-smelling and heady, a mixture of cedar and cinnamon.

By the time he realized what was happening, Dallas had already inhaled the smoke. He felt woozy, clutching the side of the log to steady himself. Florence began shimmering in and out of focus. Her head stretched and rounded into a sphere while her nose curved outward, hardening into a beak. Feathers sprang across her face, their brown, white, and gray colors resembling tree bark, with two tufts standing like horns on the crown of her head.

Florence rose from the log, the rawhide strips slipping from her wrists and ankles. Dallas watched, mesmerized, as she began removing her clothing. First, the doeskin top went, exposing her breasts, followed by the fringed skirt. The flames illuminated her body as she stood naked before Dallas. He found himself gazing at the voluptuous body of a human woman with the head of an owl.

She turned and headed into the forest, looking back over her shoulder. Her eyes, elongated and yellow like those of a cat, lured Dallas to follow. He trailed behind her flickering shape, licking his lips hungrily, fully aroused and fueled by animal lust.

They reached another clearing cut off by rock. Moonlight reflected on a small waterfall embedded in sandstone, which opened into a pool. The owl woman climbed the rocks and slowly stepped into the water. She turned to Dallas, starlight dancing on her wet body. He removed his clothing, and scrambled into the pool after her.

Dallas kissed her neck where feathers met flesh, running his hands down her breasts and over the length of her body. She cried like a bird, fueling his desire further. Crazed with lust, he pressed her against the rock, the waterfall soaking their entwined bodies.

An unearthly howl ripped through the night. Dallas reared back. The owl woman laughed at him in a warbling voice, more avian than human.

“Nonape!” Dallas cried. “You called the—”

The spear hit him in the back, its barbed point bursting out of his chest. Senseless with pain, Dallas grabbed the shaft and tried to pull it out of his body. He felt the burning of poison coursing through his veins, quickly paralyzing him. The water soon turned red with his blood. The owl woman threw her head back and screeched.

Dozens of small, dark shapes scuttled out of the trees. They swarmed the pool, their silver spearheads glinting in the moonlight. Through a lens of terror, Dallas watched, petrified, as the Little People converged on him, gazing back with their great black eyes, soulless and starving. The men were two feet high, with round paunches jutting above their deerskin loincloths. They chattered in their shrill voices as they struggled to drag their prey from the water. They pulled Dallas over the grass, binding him to a tree in a sitting position.

He leaned against the trunk, crying out for help though he knew it was futile. They’d wandered too far from the others—they’d never hear him. He breathed in ragged gasps as the little men waddled about on their short legs, gathering bits of wood to build a fire.

When it was ready, the owl woman trilled, a signal to begin the festivities. The Nonape began their ritual dance around the flames. Their stumpy bodies leaped and whirled as they screeched their death song. They jigged close to Dallas, nicking him with their weapons. Each time one of the tribe members cut him, the others cheered in a grotesque celebration, shaking their spears in the air.

Their chief stuck the tip of his spear in the fire, heating it until it glowed red-hot. Tottering over to Dallas, he drove it into his naked thigh. Dallas screamed as searing pain ripped through flesh and muscle like a firebolt from the heavens. The leader sawed a chunk of meat from

Dallas’ leg, the young man’s agony driving him to the point of hysteria. Then the others were on him, stabbing and cutting as they harvested every inch of flesh from his body. Dallas watched as they tore open his stomach like cheap fabric, ripping out his innards like wild dogs fighting over offal. Then darkness washed over everything.

***

Jopah woke with a splitting headache. His internal clock always roused him at the right time, and now it was his turn to keep watch. He sat up and rubbed his temples, looking around for Dallas, who was nowhere in sight. It was just like the pretty boy to go wandering off instead of protecting his companions. The others were sleeping, except for Florence, who had returned to the fire.

He watched her for a moment as she moved her lips in a silent chant. They’d have been better off leaving her where they’d found her. If he were a speaking man, he could have told Ruth a thing or two about spirit medicine. But why should he tell the hotheaded woman anything? He’d keep silent and take the Morgan as payment. Once they finished the job, he’d put two bullets in Castillo and Dallas and take their horses, too.

Jopah walked out of sight to relieve himself. As he loosened his breeches, he heard a chittering sound coming from his left. He whipped his head around, peering into the darkness of the trees. The noise sounded again, this time from his right. He drew his Remington and walked toward the sound, scanning for any sign of an intruder. Seeing nothing, he assumed he’d heard a night bird calling for its mate. He relaxed and returned to his business.

A short, sharp chitter came from the oak above him. Jopah looked up and saw a small figure squatting on a branch, grinning at him with pointed teeth. There were others, too, at least fifty of them. Jopah recognized the creatures for what they were. Although he knew his gun would do no good, he pointed it upward and fired anyway.

The bullet struck the Nonape in the shoulder. It hissed and rocked backward, almost falling off the branch. Then it hurled itself through the air, snarling as it landed on Jopah’s shoulders. It sank its teeth into Jopah’s throat. A wet gurgle of a scream escaped from Jopah as blood jetted from his severed jugular. He whirled, giddy with pain, only to come face to face with the owl woman. She raised her hands, her fingers transformed into six-inch claws, and slashed him from chest to navel. His entrails bulged and then slopped out of his body as he crashed onto the ground.

The owl woman poked her beak through the gaping hole in his stomach, pulling out a fat, wormlike organ. The other little men sprang from the branches, using their incisors to tear the man to pieces. One Nonape bit deep into Jopah’s nose, wagging its head from side to side with relish, until its sharpened teeth crunched through cartilage.

***

The shriek of an owl on the hunt ripped through the air, along with cacophonous cries that sounded like the high-pitched shouting of children. Torn from sleep, Castillo’s eyes darted from side to side. He raced in the direction the sounds had come from.

Using the trees as cover, he crept toward the commotion. He almost yelped when he stuck his head around the bend, rubbing his eyes in disbelief.

The Little People had gathered for a spirited game of Shinny. Two teams raced across the field with L-shaped sticks, trying to bat an object into their opponents’ goal. Castillo saw what looked like a large, misshapen ball flying across the clearing. The spectators worked themselves into a frenzy, shouting and slapping their thighs as they cheered. One man slammed the object into the goal, then gyrated his hips in a victory dance. The crowd roared. A fight broke out among them but soon stopped when the players began another round.

The moon peered from behind a cloud, revealing the object they batted across the field. Castillo drew back in horror.

“That’s… that’s Jopah’s head,” uttered Castillo.

Something heavy leaped onto his back. It held him with a mighty grip, slashing the nape of his neck into meaty ribbons. Castillo threw himself down, rolling on the grass until the animal released him. He staggered to his feet, his back in bloody tatters, and found himself standing before the owl woman.

He’d seen shapeshifters like this as a boy in Mexico, those who could morph into predators. He drew his gun, aiming it at the demonic woman. She flew at him, slamming him onto his raw, pulpy back. He cried as her talons slashed his eyeballs and blood streaked down his cheeks like red waterfalls. The creature perched on his chest, the breastbone cracking from the pressure. She plucked a crushed eye out of its socket with her beak and threw her feathered head back to let it drop down her throat. Then she went for the other one.

The blind man screamed again. The sound alerted the Nonape, who stopped their game and shuttled over to take part in the carnage. It was, after all, the more entertaining sport.

***

Ruth stirred in the chilly air. The damp grass seeped through her bedroll. She heard someone moving about, but didn’t open her eyes. Her head felt as heavy as lead, struggling to lift it from the blanket.

The aroma of roasting meat teased her nostrils. She opened her eyes to see Florence, a woman once again, leaning over the fire. She held a sharpened stick, onto which she’d impaled a dark slab of liver. She pulled the stick back, blowing on the meat to cool it, then bit into it with relish. Alarmed, Ruth sat up too fast. She fought off the feeling of vertigo as the world spun.

“Who untied you?” she shouted. “Where’s Castillo and the others?”

Florence didn’t appear to hear her. Then she turned her head, juices running down her chin. She spoke in Ruth’s language, the abject hatred in her voice chilling the woman to her very marrow.

“They’re all dead.”

“What do you mean?” Ruth stammered. She backed up several feet.

“I am Death. I am Vengeance. I am the Cannibal Owl.”

Her nose curved into a beak and feathers sprouted around her raptor’s eyes. The head of the Great Horned Owl rotated in a full circle, returning to glare at Ruth again. She cawed, a piercing call that reverberated off the trees. From out of the shadows, the multitude of tiny figures creeped forth. They surrounded the owl woman, their spears ready for the kill. Florence raised her arms, holding them back with the mysterious power she had over them.

The Nonape bared their fangs and hissed at Ruth, their small bodies rife with tension.

“I gave up everything I had to bring you home,” she told Florence. “We were a family, once. Don’t you remember?”

“You killed my family.”

Ruth’s heart sank as the meaning of the words dawned on her, her heart filling with sorrow and regret. Her ignorant beliefs had brought death upon them all.

“By God, you were married to him, weren’t you? The boy in the lodge—he was your son.”

The owl blinked.

“Forgive me,” Ruth continued, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “All these years, I’ve been living on hope, believing you were still alive somewhere—that you wanted to come home. I thought I was saving you—”

The owl woman threw her arms out, releasing the Nonape. They shot forward, speeding toward Ruth so fast she had no time to retreat. She screamed as they tore into her legs with their teeth, climbing on each other’s backs to reach her higher appendages. A little man clambered onto her shoulder and hung upside down, chewing her bicep. Others danced from foot to foot, awaiting their turn to feast on her flesh. The owl woman circled her, hooting in her animal language as she watched the carnage. They’d devour Ruth within minutes, leaving nothing but bone and gristle. Her only hope was to make it to her revolver, which she’d tucked into the foot of her bedroll.

With a mighty effort, she heaved herself forward, dragging the little men who clung to her body by fang and claw. She bent and seized the gun, then whirled to face the owl, who stood before the fire screeching orders to her servants. Ruth knew there was only one way to stop the Nonape. She raised her gun, her arm heavy with the creatures clinging to it.

“Florence!” Ruth wailed.

The gun sang.

The bullet dug a hole between her glowing eyes. She reeled, stumbling backward over the ring of stones outlining the fire pit. She fell on her back, screaming as the flames ate her flesh. The acrid smell of burning skin, hair, and feathers filled the air.

One by one, the Nonape loosed their grip on Ruth. They leaped away from her, shuffling over to the fire to watch the life leave their master’s eyes. Her blackened flesh pulsed with torturous pain. Ruth limped forward. The burning body of her beloved girl—whose face had once again returned to human form, tore every tear from her eyes.

The Nonape gathered around Ruth. She raised her gun again, prepared to fight to the death. But the chief only bent and placed his spear at her feet. He kneeled before her, acknowledging her as his new master. The others followed suit, bowing on one knee in reverence to their

queen.

“Not on your life,” Ruth growled. “Go back to hell!”

She collapsed.

The Little People bound her wounds with strips of cloth torn from her bedroll. She’d survive the attack but would bear the scars for the rest of her life, both in body and heart. As the sun peeked over the hilltops, the Nonape disappeared, melting like shadows into the soil.

Ruth remained where she was, weeping for Florence as she kept vigil over her funeral pyre.

The smoke spiraled upward, carrying the girl’s spirit to the heavens. ...