The Sons of Chaos and the Desert Dead Table of Contents
The Sons of Chaos and the Desert Dead
by Aaron Polson
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Sam Isherwood rode north of Santa Fe toward the rocky foothills of the San Juan Mountains. Late afternoon sun poured over the landscape, painting the hills in rich oranges, tans, and reds. Behind him, to the south, he knew the growing city of Santa Fe waited. But what lay ahead in the crevasses and folds of the mountains to the north? Fragments of pottery had been found in Corman’s house near the upturned cabinet. If it had anything to do with his murder, maybe the answer lay with the Pueblos. The nearest, according to Benton, was a good half day’s journey. The Pueblo was a start. Only a start.
The real question was who—or what—could have killed Corman? Two chambers held empty casings in the cylinder, and there were no bullet marks on the walls. He’d hit his target. Sam suspected Emmanuel Corman had been killed by something not quite human. Not quite human… The taint of the supernatural reeked of The Sons of Chaos. Nonsense, of course. Sam had hounded every hint of Sons’ activity from Kansas City to Denver since the horrors of Broughton’s Hollow. There was no evidence they’d meandered this far south. Sam shook his head, trying to dislodge the thought.
He pulled the reins and steered back toward Santa Fe.
#
Jonathan Cubbage’s ranch sat on the northern edge of Santa Fe. After leading his horse—one of Jonathan’s on loan—to the stable, Sam strolled across the yard toward the house. It didn’t have the flash of Corman’s, but it was a fine house in its own right. Its walls were stucco, a pale tan in keeping with the majority of local architecture. The floor plan followed a common Spanish layout with its large central courtyard. But unlike most Spanish-style houses in Santa Fe, Jonathan’s had a second story. The bedrooms were on the upper floor with a large, open living space and kitchen below. Sam’s feet ached, and he wanted more than just about anything to peel off his riding boots and let his toes stretch a little.
An eerie quiet hung over the ranch. The sounds of Sam’s boots echoed against the courtyard walls, sending an icy streak through his nerves. The late afternoon breeze rustled through dry cottonwood leaves. A troubling stillness greeted him.
After putting his horse in the stable, Sam opened the big wooden door to the main house, stepped inside, and called, “Hello.” No one answered. Inside, his boots knocked against tile floor, tic, tic, tic. He scratched the stubble growing on his cheek and felt the grip of his sidearm with the other hand. Footsteps sounded on the floor above.
“Sam?”
The surprise of hearing his sister’s voice shot a quick bolt of fear through Sam’s heart. Evangeline started down from the shadowed stairway opposite. She’d long since abandoned her wedding gown and now wore a dark blue house dress.
Sam’s shoulders slumped. “Holy God, Evie. I thought the place was abandoned. Where’s Jonathan? Where’s anyone, for that matter?”
“Gone. They just up and left earlier this afternoon. John got me in here, told me to stay put. Aren’t there any guards?”
“Guards? You mean those big fellas in black?” Sam shook his head. “You’re all alone, dear sister. The stable’s half empty.”
Evangeline descended and moved to a divan with floral print upholstery in the center of the room. Her face was pale, offset even more by the navy fabric of her dress. She shuddered slightly as she sat.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asked.
Her head wagged from side to side slowly. Her lips turned downward as though a dark realization was just starting to form in her brain. “When we were interrupted after the wedding—that man, Corman, murdered…. Well, John hasn’t said much to me since. Told me to stay put, like I said, and open our gifts to pass the time. Then I saw him leave from my bedroom window upstairs. It’s our wedding night, Sam. My wedding night.”
Worry settled in Sam’s chest. “He didn’t say were he was going?”
“No.”
“What about these gifts?”
“Said it would take my mind off the day, what had happened. Said he’d be back soon. Said something he needed to do. Urgent. But he wouldn’t say where or what.” She covered her face with her hands. “That man’s death…”
“Corman.”
“Yes. Corman.”
“John was a friend of his?”
Evangeline’s dark eyes searched her brother’s face. “Business partners. Corman was an odd man, an old widower. They’d done business together, though. Several land deals.”
Sam sat next to his sister and put his hand over hers. “Then you know John bought Corman out. All his holdings here in the territory.”
“What?”
“Found the deeds in his house. This is law business, but I’m also your brother. I feel like you should know. John cleaned him out.”
“Sam … John gave me a gift. Several acres of ranch land.”
“I remember. It was Corman’s.”
Evangeline shook her head. “It’s all so strange.”
“What can you tell me about Jonathan?”
She rubbed her hands together, her eyes cast down. “What’s there to tell? We met in Denver. At a dance. He was very charming, always was. Ambitious, too. He seemed like a man who knew what he wanted. And then he asked me to marry him, said he was coming down here. Said he could see big things in New Mexico…. A beautiful painted desert.”
“Denver.” Sam pulled at his lip. “You met in Denver.”
“Sam, I’m scared. What if John’s in trouble?”
The tremor in his sister’s voice touched a block of ice to Sam’s stomach. He took a deep breath. “I don’t really like any of this. You here, alone.”
“Being alone isn’t a problem. I’m not sure I like those guards, anyway. I don’t like being a kept woman.”
Sam nodded. “You always had that spark.”
“It’s John who worries me. Do you expect he’s safe?”
“Of course. Of course. He has those hired thugs with him, doesn’t he?” Sam’s gaze rose to a clay figure on a small table opposite the divan. The tan surface mimicked the fragments found on Corman’s floor. “Where did you get this statue?”
“It was a gift. The only one I ended up opening. I think the Indians call it a Koshari—a clown of some sort.”
Sam went to it and touched the cold, round surface. “It’s interesting.”
“Heavy, too. I’ve seen a hollow one at the market, about the same size, but this one feels solid. I think they bring them from up north. Tesuque.”
Sam glanced at his sister. His hand rested on the figure. A uncomfortable braid of doubt wound slowly up his spine. “I’m sure John’s fine. But why has he left you here? That’s my question.”
“Something’s happened,” she said. “Is that what you mean? We need to look for—”
“No.” He stood and peered into the darkening courtyard. “Not tonight. Too dark to do anything. Where’s the keys to the main door?”
“I’ve got a spare in the bedroom. Why, Sam? What are you going to do?”
“I’m locking us in for the night. I’ll keep watch. In the morning, we find the sheriff and figure out what’s happened to that husband of yours.”
“Some wedding night.”
“I don’t think he’s coming home. Not tonight, in the dark. You need protection.”
“I told you I don’t like being a kept woman.” Her hands rested on her hips.
“I just want you to be safe. Please, Evie.”
After a moment, her scowl softened. “Sure. Yes. I’m sure John and the boys will be around before long. I’m sure they just needed to sort out whatever it is.” She stopped, searched her brother’s face. “Am I being foolish?”
“I don’t know, Evie. I don’t know about all of this. I’ve seen things…things I would have never believed. Maybe bandits murdered that man, Corman, for a land grab, or did it to scare your husband. Maybe that’s all.”
“Maybe. Thanks, Sam.” Evangeline stooped and picked up the clay figure. Her face turned red as she lifted it.
“Quite heavy?”
“Surprisingly so. Funny me taking this hunk of pottery to bed on my wedding night. A clown. Maybe it’s somebody’s idea of a joke.”
#
A lone coyote pierced the dark New Mexico night with a mournful howl. Sam Isherwood shifted on a wooden chair outside his sister’s bedroom. An oil lantern rested on the floor at his side. Shadow puppets danced on the wall as his fingers worked a rag into the barrel of his revolver, cleaning and polishing. He gnawed a splinter of wood between his teeth, finished his cleaning, and holstered the gun.
His hunch had been right: John and company hadn’t returned, and now, well after midnight, Sam began nodding off. The cannon-shot suddenness of breaking glass tore him from the gray land between dreams and wakefulness. He nearly knocked the chair over as he stood. One hand found his pistol. The hard grip pressed tightly against his sweating palm. Someone was in the house. Downstairs. Sam listened, holding his breath, until he felt his lungs would explode. Thunk. A heavy object fell, somewhere below, landing against the tile floor.
Sam glanced at Evangeline’s bedroom door. After a moment’s hesitation, he started downstairs, leaving the flickering lantern next to the chair. The gun guided him, a blue-steel arrow in the dark. Windows rattled as wind rocked the house. Sam crouched near the bottom of the stairs and peered into the darkness of the expansive first floor. Shadows moved. A subtle moaning rose from somewhere in the dark, a mockery of the coyote’s howl.
Sam’s mouth opened. The urge to call out crawled through his brain, but he hesitated. Remaining in a crouch, he descended the final steps and moved into the grand room. Heat lightning flashed outside, blinding him. He rubbed his eyes. A shape lunged, and Sam felt the brunt of its assault like a boulder, lost his balance, and struck his knee against an end table. He lashed out with the gun, using the butt like a club, connecting with something dry and ashy which gave with the blow. Sam’s nostrils filled with a stale, musty stench. He scuttled backward over the table and accidentally dropped the pistol. The shape shambled away, toward the stairs.
Another flash of heat lightning painted the monster against the wall of the stairwell, black and hunched. Almost human.
Sam scrambled to his feet and groped for the gun. Finding it, he turned.
“Stop!”
The thing didn’t hesitate.
Sam took aim and squeezed the trigger. The shockwave rocked his arm. The shape lurched, but continued upstairs. Upstairs. It was heading for the second floor.
Evie. It was going for Evie.
Sam raced for the stairs and took them two at a time. The pistol wavered in his right hand. His fingers trembled. At the top of the stairs, just feet away from the monster, he aimed again.
“Stop, God-damnit!”
This time, the black thing turned, and, lit by the flickering lantern light, revealed its face. It had been a man once, but now it was a mass of blackened skin and ropey sinews. Its stared at Sam with black, eyeless pits. The remnants of teeth snapped together in a nightmare jaw. A ruined breechclout and britches clung to cadaverous hip bones.
Sam fired twice. One bullet struck the monster in the shoulder, sending tiny bits of black debris into the air. The other thudded into the monster’s chest. The rotten face and spoiled teeth mocked a grin. A raspy moan slipped from the mouth.
It turned to the door, grabbed the doorknob with its char-bone fingers, and started twisting.
“Sam?” Evie’s voice sounded through the door. “Sam, what’s going on?”
Sam lowered his shoulder and charged the monster. It staggered, bared its yellow teeth and snarled. Black, claw-like hands latched on to Sam’s arms. Sam tried to force the gun into the thing’s mouth, but its grip was too strong. The two grappled as Sam staggered backwards. He lost his footing and tumbled down the stairs. Pain shot through his hip and elbow, but he wrenched his body around, aimed, and fired his final three shots.
The monster lifted itself from the landing and lumbered back toward Evangeline’s door. Sam tried to stand. Pain forced him to a knee. There was a scream followed by a loud pop and burst of orange light. A body tumbled down the stairs, shrieking and gibbering, a smoldering, animated corpse.
“My God, Sam. Get out of the way!”
Sam scooted and his back hit the wall. The burning thing toppled from the last step and collapsed on the floor. Evangeline rushed past her brother, holding second a lantern in her hand. The flames flashed in her eyes.
“Evie, stay back!” Sam reached out.
She raised the lantern above her head and hurled it at the burning heap. The glass shattered and kerosene ignited, whump, in a ball of yellow heat. Brother and sister shielded their eyes while the monster burned. Its arms jerked and its legs spasmed until, finally, the black skeleton shuddered to a halt. A smoke haze began to fill the room. Sam and Evangeline were frozen, locked in an impossible moment, until Sam broke away and scrambled up the stairs. He returned with two heavy blankets, smothered the flames, and beat the remaining embers until the last sparks faded. Then he sank, panting, to the floor.
“My God. What was that?”
Sam shook his head. He rubbed his stinging eyes with the backs of his hands. “I don’t know. I don’t know. But I think … I think it killed Emmanuel Corman last night.” A memory of shattered pottery and broken furniture flooded Sam’s brain. His eyes lifted to the table across the room, searching for the ceramic figure. The table was empty. “Evie, where’s the statue—the clown.”
“Clown?”
“The big ceramic statue—the wedding gift you showed me.”
“Oh. I took it to the bedroom, remember. Just before you locked me in. It’s upstairs, in my room. Why, Sam?”
#
Sheriff Benton sat behind a big desk, his worn boots propped on top. He pinched tobacco from his snuff pouch and tucked it under his lower lip.
“Let me get this straight, Isherwood. You want me to believe some kind of monster attacked you last night? Some kind of vampire?”
Sam shook his head. “No. Not a vampire. It was different, a dead man. He—it–was dressed like an Indian.”
“An Injun?”
“It was wearing a breechclout.” Sam indicated the clothing with his hands. “A pair of long britches, leather. They once were leather.”
“Once?”
“It was all decayed. No, that’s not right. It wasn’t rotten. Kind of like leather. The skin of the thing was almost black, but smooth. Not like a rotting body at all. Like it had been dried out or preserved. Like a mummy. Those dead kings the British like to dig up in Egypt.” Sam shook his head. “Didn’t have eyes, either.”
“A blind mummy?” The sheriff snorted. “Marshal, that’s a bunch of bullshit. You want me to believe you killed an Indian mummy last night.”
Sam’s back stiffened. The fresh bruises on his thigh and arm ached. A hint of smoke clung to his nostrils. Would he believe such a wild story had he not lived it? “Its ashes are still lying on the floor of Jonathan’s house, Sheriff. This isn’t a fairy story or some make-believe adventure. I unloaded my revolver on the monster and it never stopped.”
Benton whistled. “Ain’t it bad enough we’ve got the Kid and his private war up in Lincoln County? Now you’re feeding me full of sheep dung about monsters. I’ve heard stories about some cave out in—”
“What stories?”
“Easy. There’s a legend about some Pueblo burial ground out in the mountains. They packed their dead in caves, ‘sposed to look over the Pueblos and protect them. Child’s stuff.”
“One attacked Jonathan Cubbage’s ranch last night.”
“You’re letting your imagination lead you out into the desert, Mr. Isherwood. Nothing dead was wandering around John’s place last night—not until you unloaded on it.”
“Ride out and see for yourself.” Sam’s jaw set. He narrowed his eyes.
Sheriff Benton leaned forward and rapped his knuckles on the desktop. He blotted sweat from his forehead. “We’ll take a ride up there, Marshal. We’ll take a look. If I’m right, you put a whole load of lead in a burglar. Maybe even tagged the sorry son-of-a-bitch who got Corman. No trouble for you there, since whoever it was trespassed.”
“Six rounds, Sheriff. Evie can testify as to the truth of my story.”
The sheriff rubbed his forehead and spit a brown streak of tobacco into a brass spittoon on the floor behind his desk. “What about John? What’s he got to say about all this?”
“John? John rode off with his hired thugs and left my sister alone last night.”
“Alone?” Sheriff Benton’s eyes widened. “On her weddin’ night?”
“Two of those big men in black led them away after the wedding—just before I met you at the Corman house. They escorted them to the ranch. Evie said John left with his men about an hour later, while you and I were staring at bits of pottery on the murdered man’s parlor floor. The gates of John’s place were open. The doors unlocked.”
“Are you suggesting—well, sounds like you’re supposing John laid his wife out for bait. He’s been a respectable piece of this community for the past six months. Spread a good deal of wealth around, too.”
Sam sighed and tried to rub a little of the long night’s stiffness from his neck. “This isn’t a formal accusation, Benton. I’m hardly glancing in John’s direction. Maybe he’s in trouble, too. What is clear, if you don’t mind my saying, is that something’s held him up. How about those deputies of yours, John’s men?”
Sheriff Benton stood up, hitched his belt over his bulging belly and walked across the room, heading for the window. Outside, a carriage rattled past on the rutted street.
“Sheriff?”
“Haven’t seen one of them since sending them out looking for the Burton place.” The sheriff didn’t turn around as he spoke. “All except that fella who was with us yesterday afternoon. Granger said he vanished once the undertaker came for Corman’s body.”
“The Burton place? You know where the gang holes up?”
“Not exactly. We have a few solid guesses, though. They’re either hiding out in one of two caves up north, in the foothills or in the old mines.” Benton moved to his desk while talking, opened a drawer, and pulled out a rolled map. He flattened it on his desk. “They would’ve started with this one, here, and traveled to the west.” As he spoke, a pudgy finger indicated three dark circles on the map.
“You’ve been able to narrow down the possible hideouts of a potentially dangerous band of outlaws, but did nothing about it?” Sam leaned over the map.
“This ain’t Kansas City, Marshal. It ain’t Denver, either, even though things are a little rough up there. This is open spaces. Mountains and desert. Half the population is Mexican, the most of the rest lives up in those Pueblos, and what’s left is trying to squeeze blood from the stones. There’s only so much a man can do. It’s not like we’re talking about Billy the Kid. Pat Garret has his hands full with him, and I’ve got to manage the rest the best that I can.”
Sam’s gaze swept the room. There was one door in the back which led, he assumed, from the outside of the building to a small stockade. Other than that, the sheriff’s office was simple: two desks and a brass spittoon. One gun cabinet leaned against the wall to the right of the front door. Six months of desert dust lay thick and undisturbed in the corners of the room. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I suppose there is. What about Granger? Or any other deputies?”
“Granger’s at the undertakers, getting the details on Emmanuel Corman’s final acts as it were. He should be coming around soon. Actually expected him a while ago, but Harlan Granger’s not one to go speeding around and doing his job at too much of a clip, if you catch my meaning.”
Sam fingered his belt. His eyes flitted to the window.
“Nervous, Marshal?”
“Just thinking. Anyone else?”
Sheriff Benton cocked his head and peered at Sam from the corner of his eye. “Thinking can be dangerous. Thinking about heading out into the hills, Marshal? That why you need an extra man?”
“Alone… I’d ride out alone. I just wanted someone out at the ranch with Evie. After last night, I’m not counting on a locked door.”
“Where’s she now?” Benton asked.
“A friend’s place here in town. She wouldn’t—”
The door opened, interrupting Sam’s thoughts. Deputy Granger stole through and offered a nervous smile when both men sized him up.
“Sheriff?”
“Granger. Damn, but you have good timing.” Benton spit another string of tobacco juice. “Mr. Isherwood here wants somebody to head out to John’s place and keep an eye on his sister. He’s worried about vampires and goblins and maybe even a couple of Indian ghosts.”
Sam’s shoulders tensed.
“Sure thing.” Granger pulled off his hat, dusted his trousers, and glanced from Sam back to Benton. “Something I need to tell you about Corman, boss.” His eyes again fell on Sam.
“There ain’t no secrets in Hell, Granger. Marshal Isherwood is our guest and a damn fine lawman, I’d reckon, even if he is a tad imaginative. You can cough it up right here.”
Granger shifted his feet. His fingers worked the edge of the hat. “Well, the undertaker…he’s told me something I figure you’d want to know. Something rotten about the body. He wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget.” One hand reached into a back pocket and produced a folded sheet of paper.
“I’ll take it straight from you, Harlan. I don’t need Woodhead’s scribbles to tell me what your mouth can. Out with it.” Sheriff Benton straightened his back and hooked both thumbs in his belt.
Granger glanced at the paper and back to the sheriff. “It seems something was missing.”
Sam stepped closer. “Missing? From the house?”
“No.” Granger shook his head. “From Corman’s body. Mr. Woodhead explained he couldn’t find a heart or liver in that mess. Said it looked as if someone had ripped them right out of the body.” He held out the paper.
Sheriff Benton snatched the note and scanned it quickly, then closed his eyes and pressed the heel of a hand against his head. “I’m getting too old for this. Maybe, Mr. Isherwood, you ought to show me that body you were talking about before you ride off to get shot by the Burton gang.”
#
Sam Isherwood and the sheriff approached the Old North Mine from the southwest, the direction of Santa Fe, trailing a dust-clouded path from Jonathan Cubbage’s ranch. Sam Isherwood rode slightly in front, close enough to hear Sheriff Benton call directions. As they approached the final rise before the hill dipped toward the mouth of the mine, Benton pulled back on his horse’s reins.
“Whoa, Marshal.”
Sam guided his mount to a stop, turning to face Benton. “Close?”
Benton nodded. One finger crossed his lips. “Just over the hill. Keep it down from here,” he said, lowering his voice just above a whisper.
Both men dismounted. Feeling the midday heat, Sam shook out of his riding coat and draped it across the saddle. He touched the stock of a Winchester ’73, a loaner from the Sheriff’s armory, but decided against the rifle. A show of arms wouldn’t send the right message, anyway–not when the men aimed to parlay with the Burtons, should they be around. They scuttled toward the rocky crest of the hill at a crouch, Benton wide and waddling. Dry, scrubby grass rustled in the lazy breeze as their boots crunched against the packed earth. One of the horses neighed and kicked.
Sam was the first to press his body against the dirt and gravel, crawling the final few yards on his belly. Benton joined him, panting and sweating.
“Do you think it’s possible the Burtons know we’re here?” Sam asked.
“If they’re around, I suppose. Look, Sam, I just want you to know I’ve always tried to be a steady lawman,” Benton said. He wiped sweat from his forehead. “After seeing that damn thing out at John’s. Hell …”
“Hell has nothing to do with this, Sheriff.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Benton frowned. “I’ve tried to do my best, Marshal. Just wanted you to know, that’s all. What happened to Corman…. I’m not fit to be law in this place anymore. Too old. The railroad’s brought so much—too much, too quick.”
“Don’t worry yourself any, Sheriff.” Sam swallowed hard, remembering. He knew all about jobs too big for abilities. His first month in Broughton’s Hollow had been full of horrors brought by the Sons of Chaos. He motioned for quiet and peeled off his hat, peering over a blond rock. Below, at least two hundred yards away, the black mouth of the Old North Mine stood out against the painted yellows, reds, and tans of the hillside.
“Anyone?” Benton asked.
Sam began shaking his head, but stopped and held up a hand.
At the edge of the entrance, a shape moved, not much more than the edge of a shadow. Sam tumbled back as a spray of rocks erupted a few feet from his face. The rifle report echoed through the valley a split-second later.
“Don’t move, gentlemen.”
The voice came from behind, a deep, rough, and familiar voice.
Abraham Reaver.
Ah, our old pal (and the first RPP cover boy!) Reaver. How we’ve missed you. I’m getting the feeling poor Marshal Isherwood isn’t quite so happy to see him, though. Come back next Friday to see whose side he’s on, this time around.
