Terovolas Read online

  And I seen ‘em good, and I know now what they are, ‘cause Picker told me once about ‘em. About the people that come before the Tonks, and about how...

  Here the narrative is interrupted, but picks up again later in a steadier hand. There is evidence that Mr. Tyree’s state of mind was such that his train of thought was very easily distracted, and when his stream of consciousness was diverted, he did not often return to his original course easily. The ‘they’ hereafter referred to, is evidently not the same party which he had been describing earlier. - JS

  They just killed a man right out in front of my shack. I didn’t know the one that got kilt. He was an ugly son of a b----- with only half a nose. But I knew most of the others. Cole Morris was there, and Mr. Gridley, and the newspaperman, the one Picker don’t like. A man with a blond beard shot the ugly man. I seen it.

  I heard the man they shot (this was before they shot him) running outside, and I blowed out my light and sat in the corner and watched through the boards. He was tired, like he’d been running a good long while. I seen right off he had a pistol, so I didn’t make no noise. I figured he might be a murderer come a’killin.’

  Then I heard the horses, and I knew right away he really was a murderer and that a posse must be comin’ for him. He seen my shack then, and come a’runnin’ at it, fixin’ to bust in and hide, I guess. As soon as I seen what he meant to do, I got up and pushed hard on my front door, like with all my weight so when he come against it, the man that was about to be killed bounced back and fell. I think he lost his gun, ‘cause he went down to his hands and knees, and the way he was cussing was fearsome to hear. But it was too late.

  The horses come up the road, and they was spreadin’ out, and I could hear the men’s voices. Then the man with the blond beard on the big yallow horse come towards my shack, and when he seen the man he was about to shoot, he come over. He already had his rifle out.

  Then something happened that I don’t get. If I was that ugly man that was about to be shot, I would’ve got up and run, but when he seen the blond man come up, he just got to his feet real slow, and then he done somethin’ real dumb.

  He waved at the blonde man like they were friends.

  Well, then the blond man, instead of waving back, he put up his rifle and shot that ugly man right through the head. The ugly man bucked up against my door again when he fell, and since I wasn’t tryin’ to keep the door shut no more, he knocked it right open and fell half in my shack.

  The blond man seen me, and when I seen him, I waved, just like the ugly man done. And then, for just a minute, I got the idea the blond man was gonna shoot me down too. Maybe he didn’t like bein’ waved at.

  But then Cole and the others rode up, and they seen the dead man, and they seen me, and they seen the blond man pointing his rifle at me. And Cole told the blond man who I was, and not to worry ‘cause I was harmless. He said hey to me then, and asked me if I was doin’ alright. I just said sure I was, even though I felt like there was somethin’ I needed to tell him, or somethin’ I had to ask. I didn’t say nothin’ about it though, because something told me I had sworn not to say nothin’ about it. I think I swore to Picker...

  Picker! I shoulda asked him if he’s seen Picker... It is dark now. I don’t wanna go out. I think there’s something out there. That mountain lion. I can hear it howling down in the arroyo, just like that one night...

  Dear Lord I am scared.

  * * *

  From the Journal of Prof. Abraham Van Helsing

  23rd August

  My fears are doubled and I do doubt my own senses. How I wish John were here to confirm or to disprove the theory that is forming in my brain. I am not sure if it springs from the empirical evidence I have discovered or from the dementia that I have struggled against these past months.

  The sight of that jail rendered a slaughterhouse almost struck me inert. I tried to plunge into clinical work, thinking orderly thoughts to keep the random perversities from re-entering my consciousness, but I should have known better. Old fool! When a man seeks to abstain from alcohol he does not do so by submersing himself in a tub of spirits. If he does, then he must trust his will so implicitly that he believes he will emerge a teetotaler and a hater of libations and not succumb to drunken gluttony. Once I believe I commanded such a will. I do not think I do any longer.

  I am no master detective, but I suppose the time I once spent with my colleague Hamish and his famous friend have impressed upon me a great deal of respect for the deductive sciences. I gathered my evidence from the torn body of Mr. Coleman’s foreman Early Searls, so badly disfigured as to be hardly recognizable as human. I dare not share what I believe with anyone, not even Dr. Ravell, who I think already suspects that I am unhinged. If I do, I fear I shall forthwith be committed in anonymity to some American institution from which I shall never emerge. That, or I shall find myself subject to whatever barbarities these Texans visit upon their deranged. If it is anything like the treatment they reserve for their criminals, I should think it cruel indeed. The body of Crenshaw is to be displayed in his coffin in front of the funerary parlor where children can gather to stare at it!

  No, I dare not even write of it. Not yet. I pale to think that Alvin should go snooping among my papers. They would see print as fast as he could manage it.

  We are to return to the ranch after the funeral. Alvin is working hard printing his paper while I smoke my pipe on the front stoop of his office, going in to assist him when he calls. I spent the night on a cot in the back. There are two broad Spanish matrons with pale and mop, laughing and talking in their quick tongue across the street. They have been hired to clean the blood from the sheriff’s office. Even the women of this country are hard.

  I am told by a glowing Alvin that Mr. Skoll, whom I have decided is the rancher to whom my friend Mdme. Terovolas is betrothed, is the one who killed the fugitive Crenshaw. Though his popularity has surged, and will only increase if Alvin prints half of the good will he suddenly feels towards the man, he did not remain long in town to share in the vigilantes’ triumph. Surely he is anxious to return to his new bride.

  But I must not think of her.

  In my idle time I read through the archived editions of the Sorefoot Picayune, and learned a great deal in regards to both the Skoll situation and the strained relationship that must have existed between Quincey and Coleman. It seems clear as day to me now what the source of ill will between the brothers must be. I thank the unabashedly candid method of Alvin’s reporting for making it obvious even to an outsider.

  Quincey seems to have been the favorite son of Sorefoot. He is regaled as a living hero in a great many articles, as is his father. Coleman is hardly mentioned anywhere. Even his ascension to master of the ranch is only a footnote in the obituary of his father. Yet his father seems to have surrendered administration to Coleman a full year before he died, around the same time that Quincey departed for South America, to pursue a South American woman he met on a business trip to Austin. The editorial describing the event actually closes wishing him luck! But did his departure not break the heart of his father, who had been until then grooming him as his heir apparent? What then, did it do to Coleman?

  That Quincey should have been so self-centered is disappointing to learn. But I think that I now understand Coleman a little better.

  That is, if Alvin’s reporting is to be trusted. I have found it to be inconsistent at times...initially referring to the dead man on Coleman’s property as being Mexican, stating that both his hounds were killed when we have seen living proof they were not. His archives are filled with retracted statements and amended reports.

  * * *

  Fugitive Murderer Shot, by A.N. Crooker

  (reproduced from the Sorefoot Picayune, August 23rd, 1891)

  Harley Crenshaw, the notorious bandit and murderer of Sorefoot’s beloved Sheriff G.B. Turlough and respected Q&M foreman Early Searls, was gunned down by a member of Deputy Rufus Shetland’s posse last night on the
old northwest road just south of Misstep Canyon.

  Credited with the deed, and deserving of this reporter’s sincere apology for many past insults directed against him and his employees in this very paper, as well as the gratitude of our entire community for the justice he has meted out, is Mr. Sigmund Skoll Esq., proprietor of the former Judson ranch.

  The posse of citizens, organized primarily by Deputy Shetland and Mr. Coleman Morris of the Q&M, set out yesterday afternoon. This reporter here must make humble mention of his own presence among the stalwart riders only to assure his faithful readers of the veracity of this account. Other members of the posse included Joseph Gridley, proprietor of Gridley’s Eatery, and one Professor Abe Van Helsing, late of Amsterdam.

  Despite some initial confusion over conflicting trails, the endeavor was soon brought in hand by the timely arrival of Mr. Skoll, who along with one of his men, met the posse on his way into town to pick up supplies. Upon learning of the vile deed perpetrated by our quarry, Mr. Skoll, in a well-spoken and righteous mode, declared his intent to join the punitive force and see that justice was duly served.

  With decisiveness worthy of Solomon, Mr. Skoll soon regained the fugitive’s trail, and by nightfall led the group to within a few minutes’ ride of Misstep Canyon.

  It was mutually decided that we hunters should spread out so as to better the chances of ensnaring the cowardly manslayer. Near seven o’ clock, Mr. Skoll spotted Harley Crenshaw attempting to force his way into the shack of Buckner Tyree, a resident hermit who keeps a shack near the rim of the Misstep.

  It is reported that Crenshaw turned on Mr. Skoll like the cornered coyote that he was, and fired upon him without any word of warning other than a curse as the shot from the weapon he had pilfered from his victim flew wide—perhaps aided in some preternatural manner by the ghostly hand of his poor victim, our lamented Sheriff.

  If it was so, that vengeful spirit may well find his eternal rest now, for without further hesitation Mr. Skoll took up his rifle and blew the craven villain straight to the abyss of eternal torment prepared for him and his ilk.

  The body of the murderer was borne back as a prize antelope, and may now be seen on display in front of Undertaker William Cashman’s Embalmery and Funeral Parlor, where it is to remain for the next two days prior to being interred beside its closest relative, Jack ‘Two-Step’ Cashman, lately gunned down in the act of robbery by Aurelius Firebaugh. Let it be a lesson of the most direct sort to any who would enter Sorefoot fostering malice and villainous intent in their assassin’s breast.

  In closing, this reporter, at the risk of sounding idolatrous, would like to give special praise to the man responsible for ending the reign of terror of one of the worst killers and malefactors ever to plague this county. Moreso, I would draw attention to the sterling character that Mr. Skoll has displayed. He has taken his place unbidden on the side of law and order, even though it meant standing elbow to elbow with his rival and those who have in the past most reprehensibly and undeservedly maligned his reputation. There are many besides myself who if they but look into their hearts, will realize that if they consider themselves of any honor at all, they should upon setting this article aside, proceed forthwith to Mr. Skoll and bid him and his countrymen welcome with the firm hand of friendship and the admittance of any past wrongs and the full abolition of all supposed grievances. If they do not, then shame on them.

  Funeral services for Sheriff Turlough and Mr. Searls will be held at two o’clock today at the aforementioned Cashman’s Embalmery and Funeral Parlor. The inauguration of Rufus Shetland as Sorefoot’s new sheriff is expected to follow soon after.

  CHAPTER 6

  Professor Van Helsing

  23rd, August (Later)

  The funeral of Mr. Searls and Sheriff Turlough is ended. Deputy Shetland is now Sheriff Shetland. The somberness of the ceremony was alleviated somewhat by the attendance of Mr. Skoll.

  His is a commanding presence. He is quite tall, with broad shoulders and a severe Nordic face. Like the ideal of his race, he has shining blue eyes and hair like threaded gold. His ample beard with its long sweeping mustache completes the image of an earthbound Thor clad in the mundane trappings of civilization. Though he wore a stylish suit for the occasion, he seemed to me more suited to skins and horned helm. His man Helgi, who met Mdme. Terovolas and I at the train platform, was with him, as silent as ever, yet his bride did not appear.

  The gathered mourners were much diverted from their grief by the appearance of the rarely seen Norwegians, all except Mr. Coleman, whose gaze remained riveted to the plain wood coffin of his friend. His regret at the loss of his foreman was plainly inscribed upon his face. I wondered if perhaps he was doubly burdened by the knowledge of the death of his brother, or if the rift between them was too great. Maybe in his grief over Early Searls, he has found the expression of that which his pride will not allow him to give in the name of his estranged brother.

  The memorial service was conducted by Judge Krumholtz, who had arrived too late to dispense justice in the civilized manner and could now only preside over the leavings of vigilantism like a cur late to his master’s table. He is an elderly, frightening looking gentleman, and throughout his vague and meandering eulogy his shaking hand kept going to his breast pocket, where a squarish bulge showed that he kept the cure for his ailment close to his heart.

  When it had ended, we retired to the eatery for a brief lunch before we would return to the ranch. We found Mr. Firebaugh there at a table, eating ham (which he speared on his hook and nibbled) and reading the day’s edition of the Picayune, which was so fresh that the ink had rubbed off on his fingers.

  “Well,” he said. “I can’t say I’m too put out over that jackass Turlough, but I am sorry about Early. He was a good old boy. I guess I’m sorry for Crenshaw even. Sorry it wasn’t me that took him out. Feel sorta like I owed the son of a bitch. Sorry I wasn’t there. Cole.”

  Mr. Coleman dismissed his apology and we joined him and ordered ‘vittles.’

  Alvin fell immediately to praising Mr. Skoll for appearing at the funeral, and seemed to be trying to get Coleman to agree with him. Coleman would have none of it. He drank his coffee when it came, and brooded.

  Alvin went on about Skoll. It amuses me that a man who so professes his dislike of foreigners can take so strongly to one of that very stock, apparently because he exhibited skill with a firearm. I wonder if the bitterness that seems to curl Alvin’s lips whenever he refers to me as a Dutchman would have been quenched had I killed Harley Crenshaw with my first shot, instead of merely clipping his nose. I wonder too if this is a Texan trait or something peculiar to his system of values.

  I do not mean to downplay Mr. Skoll’s attributes. He has done all the things for which Alvin has vociferously praised him of late. Yet I cannot help but wonder. When I spoke to Mdme. Terovolas on the train from St. Louis, I detected no flutter of excitement in her tone when she spoke (and only in passing mention) of her fiancé. But, perhaps I am only an envious old man.

  “I wish your golden boy’d try his hand at flushin’ out that goddamned mountain lion,” said Alkali. “He ripped up a coyote on my property pretty good. I worry about my horses.”

  “I’ll be out there to help you just as soon as I can get the ranch straightened out,” Mr. Coleman said. “I expect I’ll have to choose a new foreman.”

  The talk turned to livestock and the merits and failures of Coleman’s various ranch hands and a foaling mare of Alkali’s who was due to give birth soon. My own thoughts lingered on Early Searls, now buried, and the foreign object I had taken from his body, which now rests in a fold of paper in my coat pocket.

  On the ride back to the ranch alone with Mr. Coleman, I gave a great deal of thought to Mdme. Terovolas and her husband. Too much, really. Partly to relieve myself of the burden of my thoughts, I spoke to Mr. Coleman.

  “Your foreman, he was a good friend?” I asked him, though I knew well the answer.

  “He was,” sai
d Mr. Coleman. “We grew up together. His pa was my daddy’s cook. Beef made an orphan of him when the chuck wagon rolled over his pa during a stampede. I wouldn’t say daddy adopted him, but he was a brother to me anyway.”

  “And did Quincey feel the same towards him?”

  Mr. Coleman did not answer at first, but then said;

  “Quincey never had time for that sorta thing. Time to drink, time to go gallavantin’ all over hell’s half acre, time to dally with women, but no time for that sorta thing.”

  By ‘that sorta thing,’ I wondered if he also meant brotherhood.

  Later at the ranch, I remarked off-handedly about the condition of the one-eyed hound, who looked as mournful as ever when it greeted our return. I asked whatever had happened to the poor animal.

  “He had a tussle with that damn wildcat,” Coleman said. “It killed the other one I had. I found this one huddled up under the porch same day Early found the Norgie lying out back. Damn thing’s no good as a watchdog anymore. Scared of his own shadow. Useless. That’s what Pepperbelly’s been calling him. It fits.”

  I asked about the dead man found on his property.

  “Other than the fact he was naked and full of bulletholes, there’s not much to tell.”

  “And it was never discovered, who did this thing?” I asked him.

  “I guess most people figure it was the Crenshaws. They might’ve been in the area at the time.”

  “But why would the Crenshaws steal his clothes?” I asked.

  “Why would the Crenshaws do anything they did?” He shrugged.

  Why indeed.

  After dinner, I gathered together Quincey’s personal effects. His rifle, the Bowie knife that had rested in the breast of Dracula, a gold watch, revolver, and the parcel containing his ashes. I still didn’t think it prudent to speak of how he had died, but I presented Mr. Coleman with these things half hoping that he would ask.