SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror

Blank White Page (Songs in the Key of White) James A. Moore

Lucas Slate sat astride his dark horse and stared into the sprawling affair with little or no expression on his gaunt face. He looked upon the collection of hastily assembled buildings and well-used tents with eyes half-lidded. An unwary sort of soul might have thought he wasn’t paying attention, but he was.

“It occurs to me, Mister Crowley, that this place looks too much like other areas we’ve both seen in the past.”

The air had a hard bite to it. The wind was dry and cold and cutting. Winter was well and properly on its way and the people in the small town knew it. They were shilling their goods with a sort of cheerful desperation that said at least a few of them could think of better places to be. He wondered if any of them would succeed in finding those better places before the winter came properly.

Jonathan Crowley, who was riding his own horse and sitting only a few feet from Slate, allowed himself a small smile and shook his head. “And, what, exactly, is it that you think we’re going to find here, Mister Slate?”

Slate did not bother turning to the sound of Crowley’s voice. He knew what he would see. The same lean, plain features and brown hair, brown eyes. Same offensive smirk on the man’s longish face, though at the moment it was hidden behind almost a month’s worth of beard growth. They’d ridden across half the Arizona territory, riding past patrols of Cavalry and Indians alike, because something inside of Lucas Slate told him he had to be here, but he had no idea what that something was.

He just knew it chewed at him.

Only a short time ago he’d been quite a different man. His hair white, and his skin was as pale as snow, same as always. He was an albino, after all. But beyond that there was remarkably little that was the same.

When he’d lived in Carson’s Point, Colorado he’d stood at least eight inches shorter and he’d been told more than once that he had the face of a woman. True, a few of the folks who’d made that claim had been drunk and desperately lonely, but he knew that his face had been different, as surely as his body had changed.

Slate stood over six and a half feet now, and while he still sported the same hat he’d taken to wearing as the local undertaker — a fine old hat that served him well and looked somber enough for funerals — he could no longer fit in his old suits and had been forced to buy new shirts and new pants as well; rawhide in this case because the damnable cold would have sunk through anything less.

He had always been thin. Now he was gaunt, and his muscles were cords of leather under skin that had long since stopped being supple and soft. No one would ever mistake him for a woman these days. Instead they’d contemplate whether or not someone sharing his old profession should have buried him. He was not dead. He just looked the part.

He had always been soft spoken, but these days his voice was lower and seldom seemed to want to come out as much more than a whisper. The only thing that had not changed was the cultured southern drawl that moved through his words. “I’m intending to find answers, Mister Crowley.”

Crowley nudged his horse closer. Slate looked toward the man and considered the beard he was growing. Jonathan Crowley did not look like a man who should have a beard to him. It didn’t seem to fit his long face. “I am very fond of answers, Mister Slate. But I have to ask, what, exactly, is the question?”

He looked at Crowley. The man was dressed in fine clothes. A cotton shirt, a charcoal, pinstriped suit with a vest, and over that a great duster that kept the cold and wind from touching anything under it. He sported a gambler’s hat on the top of his head, and a heavy wool scarf of a dark, somber red hue.

Slate offered a thin-lipped smile of his own. “I believe the question is the very one you’ve been contemplating since we started riding together. What, exactly, am I becoming?”

Crowley nodded. “That is a question worth answering.”

“Indeed it is, sir.”

You could hardly call it a town, really. More a collection of shops and brothels all shoved together and becoming a town already called Silver Springs, Arizona. The place was an assortment of thieves and whores and criminals, as could be expected in a boomtown. The rumors of silver had driven herds of people into the area and the fortunate few who had struck solid claims guaranteed they’d stay. There were white folk, red folk and black folk, all of them in the same area. Crowley imagined if he looked around he’d even see a few Chinese as well. That seldom happened in places that were properly called civilized. There were too many who considered the other races as enemies for that. Here, where money was more important than opinions, there was less need of being selective.

Crowley rather liked that part of the situation. He’d never much cared for the need to believe one people were better than another. One on one, most of them seemed all right. It was only when you gathered any of them in groups they tended to be stupid.

The ground was as dry as the air, which is to say most of the folks in the area would be getting their water from wells, or from the barrels a few enterprising people were bringing with them. It was a commodity. The Verde River was a few hours ride from the area, and he had already seen a group of men at the edge of town working on figuring the best way to get the water from there to here. What they lacked in equipment they seemed to make up for with enthusiasm.

He could see that Lucas Slate was tense. Slate, who seldom seemed bothered by much of anything since he’d begun changing. Slate, who calmly and methodically followed through with some very grisly work, was currently as taut as a bowstring.

“We have traveled through Indian territories and been shot at several times, Mister Slate. Who do you think is most likely to be of assistance to us in this situation?”

The two of them were still at the edge of the crowded area. Someone, somewhere, had claimed they found silver in the area. A week later the first building seemed old. Now? Now the crowds kept coming and the buildings kept popping up like mushrooms after a rainstorm.

Slate looked slowly over the area and then finally shook his head. “I’m sure I have no idea.”

Crowley smiled. “Look around us, Mister Slate, and tell me what’s different about the people here?”

“Nothing that I can see.” He spoke even as he once more scanned the crowds. “Ah. I see it now.”

“What do you see, Mister Slate?”

“The Indians. They’re more afraid of me than they are of you.”

Crowley chuckled. “Well now, don’t you think that deserves a bit of investigation?”

Slate took off his hat for a moment and ran long, pallid fingers through his long, thin, white hair. “Indeed I do, Mister Crowley. Indeed I do.”

They rode forward at a leisurely pace, two men who scared most people without even trying.

Silver Springs wasn’t old enough to be on any maps. The town had been hastily assembled and that tended to make navigating the structures challenging. There were no rules, really, except the ones people managed to force on each other. Most of the folks who saw the strangers eyed them warily, rather like one might contemplate a substantial rattlesnake that was minding its own affairs but was looking at you with one ophidian eye.

To be fair they struck quite a few notes that qualified them as unusual. The gaunt man rode on a pale grey horse that didn’t seem to breathe. It did not snort, nor did it whinny. The beast seemed oblivious to most of the other animals in the area, though the same was not true in reverse. A good number of dogs made it a point to be elsewhere when the horse got too close, and they made certain to bark their dissatisfaction just as soon as they were far enough away to assure the great horse could not easily get to them.

The man riding with him seemed of particularly good humor, with an eager smile that did not sit well. More than a few of the faithful crossed themselves when they saw his broad, even teeth. When Crowley was not smiling he was hardly remarkable, but there was something inherently wrong with his grin. There was something about the way he moved, the way he looked at folks, that left them a mite worried that he could just possibly take note of them. His horse was only remarkable in that it did not run from the larger grey beast the gaunt man rode.

Both men sported weapons, but that was hardly unusual in this area. The gaunt man had a long rifle draped across his saddle, held in place by the weight of his hands. A shotgun rested near his leg, and a careful eye would make out the two Colt Navy revolvers tucked into saddle holsters. There was a knife hilt at the top of each boot and at least one large blade strapped to his hip. He carried enough weapons to promise mayhem, even if his deathlike face and grim pallor hadn’t already advertised a penchant for destruction.

Crowley slipped off his horse with an unsettling grace. He didn’t bother stretching or adjusting his posture as so many did. Instead, he seemed perfectly relaxed and comfortable. Lucas Slate dropped down with substantially more difficulty and looked around the area with hooded eyes.

“You’re not feeling well, Mister Slate?”

“Something’s wrong. I don’t quite know what, or why, but I’m feeling decidedly ill at ease.”

Jonathan Crowley adjusted his wide brimmed gambler’s hat and looked around carefully. “In the time I’ve known you I’ve run across remarkably little that put you under the weather.”

“Indeed, sir. It is a rarity.” Slate’s soft southern drawl was more pronounced. “And one I daresay I do not enjoy.”

“Close your eyes, Mister Slate.”

The man did as Crowley suggested.

“Now, tell me what you feel both in your body and outside it.”

To most, the conversation would have seemed foolishness, but Lucas Slate knew better. He was changing and his changes included some very devilish alterations to his senses. He could often see past the lies that presented themselves to most people, and he could occasionally feel much more than he should have been able to consider.

“Well now…”

Crowley said nothing, but he watched the man very carefully.

Slate turned his head slowly to the left and tilted his ear higher, as if trying to catch a sound. “Well now,” he repeated. “That’s something, isn’t it?”

“What might that be, Mister Slate?”

“I can hear something. Sounds almost like music, but nothing that makes sense.”

Crowley nodded slowly. All around them people were going on about their business and giving a wide berth to the two of them. “Then I might suggest you investigate. Shall I come with you?” He made the offer already knowing the answer.

“Not at this time, Mister Crowley. Though perhaps I could count on you to remain within shouting distance.”

Crowley nodded again. “I expect I can make myself available to you, should the need arise.”

Crowley turned his horse away and started on a parallel course. The smile dropped from his face as he merged with the people moving about the bustling area.

Crowley knew that if you sit long enough, people tell the most amazing stories. It wasn’t hard to find a place that was selling food, but finding one where the food wasn’t dubious was more of a task. Still, Crowley managed well enough.

There was a tent not far from the first stable that had slices of roast beef, a thin gravy, and potatoes for a few pennies. A single penny bought a plate of beans from a pot that looked diseased. The establishment also had a bar, and that almost always guaranteed conversation. Crowley bought his food and settled in to listen.

Most of the people were talking of only two noteworthy things. The first was the silver in the area — amazing how many wanted it and how desperately they were willing to search for instant wealth. The other major topic of conversation was the ongoing Indian wars.

War might have seemed too harsh a word for some, but Crowley didn’t think so. There were soldiers moving through the area, and they were there for the main purpose of pushing any red men they saw onto the reservations they had set aside.

Crowley had no idea why. Until a little over a year earlier he’d made a very strong point to stay well away from human beings in general, and while he was once again obligated to deal with people, he had no desire to get involved in their politics. One thing hadn’t changed in his time on the planet: people got together and made messy political situations and then other people came along and tried to fix them. In the process there was normally a great deal of bloodshed. He didn’t worry about politics. He worried about the things that tried to break into the world and take it for themselves.

A man standing a few feet away from him was speaking. The man was short, stout, and stank. He needed a bath far more than he needed a whiskey, but the drink was what he was after and what he was enjoying.

“Big as a bear,” Stinky said, “and white as snow, and looking around like he’s waiting to kill something.”

Crowley could guess whom the man was speaking about.

The man pouring whiskey was taller, leaner and looked about as friendly as an executioner. Still, he nodded and poured and listened.

“Thing is, all the Indians is looking at him like he’s gonna kill ‘em and cook them up for dinner.” The thickset man smacked his lips noisily and slurped down his whiskey like it was water. His mustache, desperately in need of a trimming, trembled as he spoke. “Far as I can see that would be an improvement.”

Crowley kept his tongue. Ultimately, he didn’t much see a need to involve himself in the discussion. Still, it was interesting to hear.

When the bartender finally spoke it was softly, but with an edge. “Don’t much care for the Indians, but I’m just fine keeping the army out of here, too.”

“Oh to be sure,” Stinky said. He had a sloppy smile on his face and he nodded his head so hard Crowley wondered how it managed to stay attached. “Any ways you look at this situation, I prefer to avoid having a hundred soldiers coming along and shooting the hell out of everything again. I already had that problem in Maryland, Virginia, and in Alabama. I’m done with men in uniform.”

Crowley snorted at that, not even trying to suppress the noise.

Stinky looked his way. His brow knitted. “You think soldiers are a good idea, mister?”

“No. I just don’t think men in uniform will ever go away.”

“How you figure?”

Crowley cut a piece of beef and chewed on it for a moment before answering. “You have silver mines here. People are staking claims and digging and some of them are making money. Those people are going to want to protect what is theirs, so they’ll either hire men in uniforms to protect it, or they’ll demand men in uniforms to protect it. Either way, you’re going to get men in uniforms. Then you have your Indians, who maybe don’t care about the silver and maybe do, but either way probably don’t like getting pushed from place to place. They’re going to get upset sooner or later and they’re going to push back, and sure enough, more men in uniforms will come along to stop that from happening. I believe that’s why you currently have men in uniforms heading in this direction.”

Stinky looked at him for a long moment and then a smile broke on his face. He had a good smile. It made his face round and cheery. “Mister I like you. Let me buy you a drink.”

“By all means,” Crowley said. “But I’d ask you to do me the kindness of standing downwind. I’m still eating and you have a ripe odor on you.”

Might be that some people would have taken offense to that, but stinky did not. Instead he laughed. “It’s been a long few days riding to get here. Haven’t found the baths yet.”

The bartender pointed. “That way. Three doors down.”

Crowley finished his meal and Stinky, who had forgotten all about the offer of a drink, went to get himself cleaned up. Really, that was better for everyone involved.

Captain Henry Folsom looked around the settlement and glowered from under the brim of his Hardee hat. The men with him were tired and hungry and they needed supplies. He wasn’t overly fond of the way the place looked, but they would simply have to work with what they had available.

There were Indians moving among the people in the camp and he didn’t much care for that. His job was to make sure the Apache stayed where they belonged and that was a task he took very seriously.

“Sergeant Barnes.” Folsom spoke clearly, with a hard, barking note in his voice that perfectly matched his disposition. “Find stables and a spot upwind from this filth.”

“Upwind, sir?” Barnes asked.

Barnes was one of those people Folsom always found offensive: they’d all been on the road just as long, but Barnes was neat and clean and not a hair was out of place.

“I have no desire to smell the people here if they reek as badly as the area looks.”

Barnes snapped off a hard salute and broke away from the men.

When Folsom slid from his horse’s saddle and landed, it was with remarkable agility. “Sergeant Fowler?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Take your squad and ride a circuit around this cesspool. I want to know how many Indians are here and why they are here.”

“Yes, sir!”

A moment later the commander of the Seventh Battalion strutted toward one of the only solid structures he could find in the town. It was two stories of wood rot and sagging boards, but it was an actual building and that had to stand for something. The man who walked beside him was not Indian, yet he was not a proper white man, either. He said he was from China. All Folsom knew for certain was that Chi Chul Song was a better tracker than anyone else he’d met and that the fellow worked hard for a small wage. He did not speak to Song and the Chinaman returned the favor, but Folsom was happier with the man beside him than he was without. Song stood next to him with his muscular arms crossed over his broad chest and continued to say nothing while Folsom commandeered the Silver Springs Hotel for himself and his soldiers.

Lucas Slate felt the tugging at his body and soul like iron shavings might feel the pull from a magnet just exactly too far away to make them move. He could have resisted, but part of him did not want to. Part of him wanted this, needed to know what was behind the silent summons. What bothered him was he couldn’t decide if that part was what he liked to think of as himself, or as the thing that was changing him. There had been a time when he could tell the difference with ease, but familiarity was not being kind to him.

What had once been a distant voice inside his soul was now a part of him, much as he hated the notion. The endless whispering influence that had already changed his body was now better positioned for chipping away at his mind. He still knew who he was, but recent events argued that he might not stay that way too much longer.

One nameless town, one odd beastie — odd enough that Crowley had never heard of it before — and the thing inside him had taken over, nearly drowning him in the dark waters of his mind. The change had happened so quickly that he couldn’t fight it off. One moment he was himself and the next something else had controlled his actions. It had worked out to the benefit of Slate and Crowley alike, but it had put a strain on their relationship, and though Crowley did his best to act as if nothing was different, Slate’s mother hadn’t raised any fools.

His horse clomped along as calmly as ever. The dogs in the area, and there were a goodly number of strays, barked and raged and backed away. The horse didn't care. It wasn’t really a horse anymore, of course. It had been snakebit a while back, when he and Crowley were in the middle of the badlands. The horse had reared up and run a hundred yards and then fallen on its side. By the time he’d reached the thing, it was dying. The muscles in its body were shuddering and the beast was soaked in sweat, surely as good as dead. Crowley had come along, moving at a leisurely pace. He’d stopped long enough to shoot the snake dead and then followed, but the look on his lean face said he knew what Slate knew: the horse was a goner.

And for only an instant, that dark whispering voice that seldom spoke loudly enough to be noticed on a conscious level had reached out and taken control. Slate had leaned down and grabbed the dying horse’s head, wrenching it roughly around until the animal’s open mouth was aimed at his face. He’d leaned down and exhaled a powerful breath into the horse’s mouth and then held it closed with his hand.

He stayed that way until the animal shuddered and then shook him off. A minute, perhaps two, and the horse was up and fine and Crowley was looking at him with a calm that was even worse than the man’s damnable smile.

Something needed to be done about what was happening inside Slate’s body and his soul. He had no idea what that something might be, but he believed with every fiber of his being that the answers were somewhere near him, somewhere in this place. Just then he saw the palest man he had ever seen. Deathly white, actually. An Indian, that was obvious, but there was nothing natural about his hue or his demeanor. The man walked past him in the middle of a crowd, hunched over to the point where he looked easily a foot shorter than he should have. He had a shawl drawn over his head and if Slate hadn’t felt that something was wrong, he’d likely have dismissed the shape as an old squaw.

The face that peered from under that shawl was drawn and ancient, thin and angular. The eyes were hidden in shadow, but he could feel them scrutinizing him just the same. The man stood up quickly and let the old cloth fall from his head and his shoulders, dropping it to the ground. Around them, most of the people paid no mind, but every Indian backed away as surely as if they’d been hit with boiling water. A few of them screamed, to boot.

When he smiled, it was worse than Crowley’s. He spoke words that were not English. Slate should not have been able to understand them, but he did.

The old man said, “I know you.”

Slate shook his head. He spoke in English but knew the man understood every word. “I have never met you before. I’d remember you.”

“You will know me better soon.”

It was at that moment the Cavalry riders broke through the crowd. Slate had been so busy looking at the pale man that he’d lost track of everything else. The soldiers came on horses trained to bull their way through crowds. One of them had an old Indian woman by the wrist and was dragging her along beside him. Another had rope around the wrists of three younger women, also Indians, who were crying and trying to keep up with the rider and his horse.

Slate felt that other presence slither through his mind, but did not take the time to pay it any attention. He had other concerns. He was not fond of men who mishandled women. As a half-breed himself, he didn’t much care what race they were.

He rode his horse four paces toward the first of the riders and allowed himself a very small grin of satisfaction when the horse reared up and threw the rider. The horse didn’t like Slate’s mount. Most animals didn't. As he rode forward a little more the rest of the horses grew skittish and backed up, despite their riders’ urgings. The first of the soldiers looked up from where he’d landed on his tail end and glowered at Slate. Slate looked back down and kept his face deliberately expressionless.

“Watch where you’re going, you damn fool,” the soldier said. The old woman backed into the crowd as the soldier stood. Slate supposed he should have known the man’s rank in the Cavalry, but he did not. He had never much cared for the soldiers he’d met and the feeling had always been mutual.

“I did nothing, sir, but continue on my way.”

The man had risen to his feet and was still scowling, at least until he saw Slate’s face a little better. As he shaved himself when he needed and looked at the changes in his features with a sick fascination, he knew what the man saw and that it was not particularly pretty.

“Well you’ve interfered in a military operation!”

“Wrangling squaws is a soldier’s business these days?” Slate kept his voice as calm and soft as ever. Oh, he’d been riding with Crowley far too long. “I’d have thought you might actually try to find a few braves to fight instead of simply stealing their women.”

“Get off of that horse, you bastard. You’ll be coming with us.”

Slate looked at him for a long moment and rested his hand on the grip of his rifle. “As I am neither a squaw nor a brave, I believe I will stay exactly where I am.”

In the distance the other cavalrymen had managed to calm their horses — while successfully moving several feet back — and were carefully watching what happened. Apparently the man who dragged old women around was in charge.

“That’s a direct order!” He was furious, the soldier, but he was not very wise. He came toward Slate with one hand holding to the butt of his service revolver.

Slate spoke softly, his expression remained calm. “I am not now, nor have I in the past, been a part of your army, sir. I do not answer to you.”

“Are you a Confederate, boy? Is that the problem here?”

The man was likely a few years younger than he was. Not that it much mattered.

“In fact, sir, I was on the side of the North in the conflict, though I was not a soldier. I agreed with the notion that all men are created equal. I should think that would include red men, would it not?”

“What?” The soldier scowled and came closer still. Slate suspected he intended to sneak up and attack. He lacked in subtlety.

Slate sighed. “I am not a Confederate. The war is over, by the by. I am a gentleman. You might have run across a few in your journeys, though I fear it is just as likely you’ve never run across anything but gutter trash.”

That seemed to be enough for the soldier. He stepped forward with every intention of pulling Slate off of his horse. His gloved hands grabbed at the reins of the horse and tried to lead it roughly away.

The horse did not move.

“You’d do well to leave my mount be, sir. He doesn’t much like you.”

“Piss on your goddamned horse!”

Slate sighed and climbed down from the saddle. The great grey beast looked at him with only the mildest interest. Rather than bother with the horse Slate took hold of the cavalryman’s ear and pulled savagely. The man screamed as cartilage snapped. While he was howling in pain, Slate punched him across the jaw and broke bones.

The next of the soldiers was already drawing his firearm.

Slate looked at the man and did the same. “Don’t. It won’t go well for you.”

The man did.

It did not go well.

Stinky came back a while later. His actual name was Owen Napier, and he was a man without much purpose in his own estimation. “I come from a family of lawyers. They make a good living and I am fortunate enough to share in that, but I don’t much like the law. Thought I might come this way and find something more interesting to do with my time.”

“So you decided to try mining?” Crowley considered shaking his head at the notion because Owen-the-less-stinky didn’t strike him as a very physical man.

“Lord, no!” Napier shook his head hard enough to rock his jowly face. “I figure if anything I might report on what happens here. Send articles back to a friend of mine in New York.”

“Not a lot of money in that, is there?”

“I have a family. They’ll keep me fed.” He patted his belly. “As you can see that’s not much of a consideration for me. Besides, they’re glad to have me out here. I can’t get in the way and I might have useful information for them, too.” For a man who was carefully not admitting to being sent away from the family as an embarrassment, Napier seemed cheerful enough. When he patted his belly it also showed the bulge in his vest where he was smart enough to hide a small two-shot Wesson. It only took one bullet to kill a man if you were fast enough.

“So where are you from, Mister Crowley? I can’t quite place your accent.”

Crowley looked at his new acquaintance and smiled. “Here and there.” Before Napier could ask any more questions, Crowley turned the tables. “What is it you have against Indians?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing at all. But I keep hearing about raiding parties burning peoples’ homes down and taking their women. That’s a godless thing to do.”

“Are you a scholarly man, Mister Napier?”

“I like to think so.” He nodded. “Yes, I am.”

“Look into your history a bit better and you’ll find that raiding parties, houses being burned down, and women being taken from their families are not at all new notions. I don’t believe there’s a part of the world where it hasn’t happened for as long as there have been people.”

“Well, certainly not among civilized folks.”

Crowley smiled again and Napier got a nervous look on his face. “Whatever makes you think a few buildings brings about a civilized human being?”

Before Napier could answer, Lucas Slate walked into the room, looming over everyone in the place. Most of the conversations died in an instant. Slate’s voice remained as soft and cold and low as ever. Napier looked toward him and blanched. “Mister Crowley,” said Slate, ”I believe I’m going to need your assistance.”

From outside the tent a slowly growing sound caught Crowley’s attention. It was a noise he’d known for many, many years and one he never had much affection for: the sound of many men on horseback. Like as not, they were men in uniforms and their intentions would not be much to his liking.

“What have you gotten yourself into, Mister Slate?” Crowley did his level best not to smile, but it wasn’t easy for him.

“There were a few men in uniform decided they had to take some ladies from this area without their agreeing to be taken. I intervened.”

Outside there were the noises of commands being barked and repeated, horses coming to a halt and whinnying their displeasure, and a few dozen men working quickly to become organized in a chaotic situation. In other words, soldiers in action.

Crowley sighed and placed his hat on his head. “And did your intervention result in injury or worse to the men?”

“Indeed it did, sir.”

“Well now, this should be something.”

The man pouring whiskey looked uninterested. Napier seemed eager to hear more. He also studied Slate with wide eyes. He stopped when Slate turned quickly and stared back just as hard. Might be things would have gone wrong from there, but a collection of Cavalrymen came into the tent before things could get worse.

Of course, them coming in rather took care of worsening matters all by itself.

Folsom looked around. They were an unpleasant lot to be sure. The tent was filled with people, and most of them were unwashed and underfed. Folsom looked at the crowd and found the man his soldiers had reported with amazing ease. The gaunt albino was as tall as he was thin and looked like death. He was dressed like a savage in rawhide, sported a coat made of some sort of animal fur, and carried two large pistols on his hips. Despite his uniform and the men behind him, Folsom hesitated for a moment. Then the Chinaman, Song, moved a bit to the side and a few more soldiers stepped into the tent beside them both.

Having an audience never failed to make Folsom feel the need to be brave. “You!” He stabbed a finger at the albino. “What in the name of God did you do to my men?”

The gaunt man looked at him. Next to him a smaller man with a feral smile looked in his direction with nearly feverish eyes. Most of the people were looking toward him, but what made those two different was simply that they were not afraid of him. Not in the least, and that was a worrisome thing.

The albino said, “I did nothing to your men that they did not provoke, sir.” He had a southern accent. Little existed that was more contemptible in Folsom’s eyes.

“I have four dead soldiers and a handful of men who swear you killed them. Attacking a soldier is a hanging offense.” Folsom stepped forward and Song moved with him, a graceful, silent man with the eyes of a cat. Song always looked like he was ready to pounce, to kill, though Folsom had never once seen the man strike first.

“And I repeat, Mister Crowley, I do believe I’ll need your help.” The albino murmured to the smiling man next to him, seemingly unable to speak louder than a whisper.

The man with him slipped forward and stood between Folsom and his prize.

“Don’t make this concern you, mister.”

The stranger’s smile grew broader and ice rimmed the inside of Folsom’s stomach. He had no idea why, but the man scared the hell out of him. Still, there were the troops to consider and justice to be handled.

“I know you. Henry Folsom. How’s your mother? Ruth, I believe?” The man did not speak. He purred. Folsom felt that cold in his guts spread. His mother had passed when he was only ten. How the man could possibly know her was a mystery. Still, he seemed familiar,

“I do not believe we’ve met before.”

“I know you. I know your father, Alexander. Your mother, Ruth. I knew your sister as well, Loretta.” The lean man looked away for a moment, his eyes staring past Folsom toward something only he could see. Folsom barely remembered his older sister. She’d been involved with a man in Boston. There had been a scandal, of course, though his father did his best to hide it. Loretta died and died badly. The thought was enough to twist his heart into a knot.

“And your name?”

The stranger smiled. “I’m Jonathan Crowley.”

Folsom backed up, his eyes growing wide. That was impossible, of course. He remembered Crowley. The man had seemed a giant to him when he was a child. He’d been tall and lean and he’d had the most terrifying smile.

“Good Lord.” Folsom’s lips barely moved. “How is that possible?”

Crowley’s smiled dropped as fast as it had shown itself. He ignored the question and countered with, “I expect your men might have told you one version of the tale. Why not hear the other version before you decide how to handle the situation, Captain?”

The request was reasonable enough, but Folsom did not like the tone of voice any more than he liked that damnable smile. He didn’t like the fear that seeing the man caused in him, either. “Your friend will have a chance to tell his side of the story when he stands trial.” He wanted to dismiss the man, planned to, in fact, but the man stayed where he was and damned if that smile didn’t come back and grow broader still.

Crowley’s brown eyes regarded him for a moment and then he shrugged. “He won’t be standing trial. He has things to do and so do I.” That was the end of the argument as far as Crowley was concerned. His tone said as much. Folsom looked closely at the man for the first time and shook his head. “Sir, you should take yourself away from this situation before it grows any worse. I have witnesses that say a man with skin as white as snow killed four of my men. I see exactly one man with skin as white as snow in this area, sir. In fact I’d hazard there are no more albinos for a hundred miles in any direction.”

“Would you indeed, sir?” The albino’s face crept into a strange smile as he spoke. His eyes glittered under lids at half-mast.

“Have you seen yourself?” Folsom asked. “Your skin is as white as milk.”

“Indeed it is. Has been my entire life. I did, however, have a conversation with another man not long before I saw your men, and he was just as pale as me.”

The smiling man laughed; it sent shivers down Folsom’s spine. “Well now, I would hazard a guess you might be mistaken, Captain.” His tone was dry and mocking and Folsom found him distasteful in the extreme. That damnable laugh, however, echoed in the back of his mind, brought back thoughts of his sister, and how he’d felt when he found her body.

No. The past was just that, and he’d not let the grinning fool confuse him with what had to be half-truths or blatant lies. How he knew about Folsom’s family was irrelevant.

He had every intention of brushing the nonsensical claim aside, but before he could the man he’d observed pouring shots of whiskey spoke up. “Saw him myself. He’s a little shorter, a lot thinner, and looks like he’s an Indian, but his skin is just as pale.”

“Nonsense.” Folsom shook his head. “Corporal Bridges, kindly put that man in irons.” He pointed toward the gaunt man.

Bridges nodded and took a step forward. The corporal was a burly man, large and heavyset and capable with his hands. He’d knocked several men larger than him down a few sizes in his time and he would likely do so again.

The smiling man shook his head and blocked Bridges. “Let’s not make a mistake here, gentlemen. My friend and I are perfectly willing to leave town right now and end this without any additional troubles.”

“Are you deaf, sir?” Folsom’s voice was as harsh as a whip crack when he spoke. “I have dead soldiers on my hands!”

“Your soldiers died trying to shoot me down.” The gaunt man’s voice remained as calm as ever, but the expression on his face belied his tone. “They were a mite bit offended, seeing as I stopped them from taking a few squaws to have their way with.”

Folsom nearly balked at that. Was that guilt in his chest? He tried to tell himself that it was not, but he also remembered his sister and the scandals she’d been involved in and that feeling bloomed inside him. With an effort he crushed the emotion down. “It is our duty to curtail the growing Indian problems in this area. And in addition to confessing to killing my men, you’ve just confessed to interfering with that duty.” He looked away from the gaunt man and barked at the corporal, “Bridges! Lock that man in irons!”

Bridges nodded and started forward. Before he could take two steps, the smiling man moved forward and struck him a solid blow that dropped the larger man to the ground.

“That’s enough of this!” Folsom grabbed at the pistol strapped to his hip.

By the time he’d drawn, several of the soldiers with him were doing the same, and the two men he was facing had both managed to draw as well.

The smiling man had two Peacemakers. One of the large-bore barrels was aimed at Folsom. The other was pointed at Song, who was crouching slightly and looked like he might well enjoy taking a bite out of the gunslinger.

The albino aimed a heavy shotgun at the whole lot of them. He’d swept the damned thing from under his coat with ease, and was looking hard at Folsom.

“Anyone pulling a trigger might well wish they’d reconsidered, gentlemen.” A round-bellied man walked forward. His voice shook, but he had a pleasant enough smile on his round face. “Might I suggest we put weapons down and come to an understanding before anyone else is killed?”

Folsom didn’t like him. He spoke like a lawyer. Still, he offered a chance to the captain not to get his head blown off by two different men. Outside of the tent several of his men let out bellows of anger and shock. The ground trembled lightly and while he feared taking his eyes off the two men aiming at him, he risked a look around to the entrance of the tent.

“Would someone kindly tell me what the hell is going on out there?”

Private Bronson called out loud and clear from the other side of the tent flap, “Captain! We got injuns coming our way! A lot of injuns!”

The smiling man laughed again. It was a humorless, bitter sound.

There was a point where no more could be tolerated. That point had come a long time ago as far as Alchesay was concerned. His parents had been murdered and scalped when he was a boy. His wife had been taken only a few years ago. His family had been attacked and slaughtered again and again over the years, first by Mexicans and now by the round eyes. Enough.

Several of the tribal elders wanted peace, but that time was past. They came into the area and looked for silver, and when they found it, they started digging. Most of the Dilze’he were already stuck in this desert land, forced here by the white man, and now they were being told to move again.

And maybe they would have. Maybe even Alchesay would have accepted this — though he was not truly sure if he would or not — but now these fools had come and dragged several women from the town. They thought the women did not understand their words, but they were wrong. His sister was among them and she’d heard what the men intended to do.

And according to her, a Skinwalker had saved them.

Whatever the case, it had only taken the word of his sister to send him toward the town, and because many of the men were just as tired of being pushed and pushed, they came with him.

There would be no more of their women raped or scalped by the white men.

The men in blue uniforms were gathered in one area when Alchesay charged into town with his men. In numbers they looked to be stronger, but they were all busy looking at one tent and before they were aware, Alchesay and his men were in range.

The first rifle shots cracked through the air before the soldiers did much more than look around with open mouths. All around the area people of all colors were running, wisely clearing away from the charging horsemen. Four of the bluecoats fell before any of them considered attacking in return. Two of their horses fell too, shot by who knew. Men and horses alike screamed.

And then the soldiers turned and grabbed for their weapons.

Alchesay had planned for this. Instead of staying at a long range, he and his men charged their horses into the enemy. Flesh fell before the hooves of his mount. Men screamed and fell, and the horse stumbled but kept its footing. He was too close to shoot, so he swung his rifle and hit whatever he could with the butt of the weapon. Someone fired from nearby and a bullet cut past his head. He had no time to consider that. Instead he hit another bluecoat and felt bone break.

There were screams, of course. And then there were battle cries. He called out for his men and they called out as well. The cavalry recoiled as if hit by boiling water.

He charged forward.

The tent was closer now. And the time was finally here. He would kill them all, every last one of the soldiers. They would all pay for what they had done, what they had planned to do. There would be no mercy.

Unfortunately, the men in the tent felt the same away.

There were more of the soldiers than he’d expected. They came from inside the large tent and started shooting and they were far enough away that they could still aim and shoot and kill.

Beside him Mangas stopped his battle cry when a bullet tore his skull away. He fell from his horse and into the tide of men being crushed, and that was the last Alchesay saw of his lifelong friend.

The bluecoats kept coming, and Alchesay jammed his heels into the horse’s flanks and charged forward into the crush of soldiers.

And men screamed.

And men died.

And Alchesay roared his challenge for all of them. His skin felt hot. His bones were blades of ice. His heart thundered in his chest and his eyes shook in his skull.

And then the change came, and Alchesay roared his challenge a second time as his teeth grew and his body twisted into a new form.

Halfway across the camp he’d crouched in the dirt and made markings with one pale finger. His other hand had poured colored sand into the markings and filled them in.

The Navajo called his kind Skinwalkers. It was as good a name as any, but he knew better. There was more to them than just changing shapes. Most of his kind were gone now. They tended to kill each other off. It was not something they could, or wanted to, control. Like the weather or the stars, it was simply what was supposed to be. They felt a dislike for each other that could seldom be set aside for long. The one he’d seen earlier was a child, barely born into the world and likely knew nothing of himself.

He probably wanted to know more about what he was. And why he existed. The old one could have told him, but that was not what he planned this day.

What he planned was violence and carnage and blood and suffering, the things he fed on best.

And so he’d finished his simple spell and looked at the characters he had drawn in the dirt and then at the Apache charging into town. They had plans, too, and those plans were of blood and violence.

So the old one helped them along.

His hands had scooped up the colored sand and dirt and held the mixture out and blew it at the Apache as they rode past.

He did not hit all of them, but he’d hit enough.

He waited until they were engaged with their enemies and the bloodshed had begun before he said that words that made the spell awaken. And just that easily, the anger within the warriors was given a face and a form.

The old one settled down and watched and waited.

Soon enough he would feed.

Crowley shook his head as the cavalrymen turned away from him and from Slate alike. Slate stared at them with an expression that was either shock, outrage or both. Whatever the case, it made Crowley chuckle.

“You find this situation amusing, Mister Crowley?” Slate looked his way with an expression of disappointment.

“Not at all, Mister Slate. I find you amusing.”

“And why would that be?” Damned if Slate didn’t sound offended.

“Because you look so very annoyed that the men who want to hang you are no longer bothering with you.”

Slate blinked and a quick, embarrassed grin flashed on his face. “Yes, well, when you say it like that.”

“We should leave.”

“I agree.” Slate pointed at the men flowing out of the tent. “But there are men in our way.”

“This is a tent, Mister Slate. We can climb out from under it if we must.”

The bartender looked at them and shook his head. “Could just go out the flap at the other side, too.”

Crowley smiled and tossed the man a coin.

And as they were walking away from the soldiers, ignoring the screams and the gunshots, a deep roar shook through the air and the tone of the screams changed from anger and pain to deep, abiding terror.

And he knew before it happened of course. It was inevitable, really.

Someone out in the front of the tent let out a shriek and someone else called out, “Help me! Oh, Lord, help me!”

Crowley shook his head.

“You don’t have to, you know.” Slate’s voice, as soft as a whisper.

“Oh, but I do.” He shook his head again. “Can’t you feel it? Whatever is out there, it’s not natural.” He spoke as if he regretted what was going to come next, but still the smile pulled at the edges of his lips and his heart beat faster in his chest.

“Well then, shall we do this?”

Crowley spun hard and nearly ran for the men at the opposite end of the tent. Many of the soldiers were coming back in, their eyes wide and frightened. He could understand that. There were a lot of things out in the world to be afraid of.

Folsom had planned to come out with guns blazing and eliminate the threat before it could become something larger. He’d half expected to run across a few of the savages in town, but when he heard the horses, and the sound of Apache battle cries, he felt a cold knot of dread in his stomach.

Had he, perhaps, turned a blind eye to his men having their way with the squaws? Yes. Why? Because happy soldiers performed better. What he had not truly considered was what might occur when the red skinned brutes found out about what was happening with their women. That was the very first concern when he heard the sounds of his men screaming. It shouldn’t have been, but truth be told the guilt had been gnawing at him for a while.

The guilt went away the second he saw the monsters.

He’d pushed through the crowd of his men to assess the situation and was looking directly at the Indians when they changed. Not all of them, only a few, but it was enough. The man at the front of the charge was a stocky brute in leathers. He wore a canvas coat that had seen its best days a few years earlier and was coming apart at the seams, and his rage was a brutal thing to behold.

The coat tore itself apart, shredded right before the captain’s eyes, and the clothes beneath it did the same, peeling away even as the man continued charging forward on his horse. One pace and the fabric was splitting. Another step forward and the horse was knocking two soldiers aside. A third step and one of the soldiers fell to the ground while the other kept his balance. A fourth step and Folsom was drawing his weapon, intent on killing the fool horseman. A fifth step and everything changed all at once. The horse let out a shriek and lost its balance, falling forward and crashing to the ground. He was a horseman himself and knew instantly the beast had broken its neck. The rider fell forward and blurred as he caught himself on his palms. That was the only way he could think of it. The fabric on his body was torn apart and so was the flesh beneath it. Folsom looked and his eyes refused to see properly. Great flakes of flesh and hair split away from the shape of the man and when he moved forward, standing instead of sliding across the ground, which seemed an impossibility by itself, he was not a man anymore but something entirely different.

The thing still had two legs and two arms, yet beyond that he would have been hard pressed to say what might seem humanoid about it. The body was wrong. Too broad, and covered in wiry fur. The head seemed to grow directly from the torso, and while he knew the thing must surely see, the only features that made any sense were the teeth that filled a mouth far too large for the rest of the hellish shape.

The thing roared again and Folsom aimed and fired, and then fired twice more. His aim was true, and a hole blossomed in the center of the demon’s chest. It stepped back and then fell back and landed in the dirt, rolling and thrashing, slamming into the shuddering, dying horse, which once again let out a scream of panic and pain.

His men did their best to get away from both shapes, but even as they tried to escape, the other horsemen were coming and they, too, changed. While Folsom was busy trying to kill the first nightmare, a pack of equally-unsettling things dropped from their horses, snarling, bleating, screaming, and attacking the members of the Cavalry.

They were none of them the same. Each was a different form of nightmare; some thickset and low to the ground, others long-limbed and far too tall for a human. The horses fled, kicking and screaming up a hellish noise, crushing everything that got in their way as they made as much distance as they could from the hellish things.

The only thing they had in common was that each and every one of the nightmares was, indeed, as white as snow. They were ghostly, horrid things that scared him to the point he thought he’d piss himself.

The thing he’d shot got back up. It wasn’t completely white anymore. There was a lot of blood spilling from the wounds he’d put in it, but that didn’t seem to be enough to stop it. There was no face, just that damnable mouth full of fangs as it screeched and leapt at him.

And then the pale white man he’d been ready to lock in irons pushed past him and fired a shotgun blast into the open mouth of the thing. The barrel was just past Folsom’s face and he felt the detonation as much as he heard it. After that he wasn’t hearing much of anything. His ears seemed too stuffed with cotton to make sense of the words spoken.

Just the same, he understood the gesture when the albino swept him aside and fired the second barrel of his weapon. The thing he shot did not get up again. They were tough, but they were not indestructible.

Crowley was next, moving past him with no sign of a weapon in his hands and that mad grin of his spreading across his face.

His hearing was coming back enough that he heard the words from the smiling man’s mouth. “What are they, Mister Slate?”

The gaunt man shook his head. “No idea, Mister Crowley, but I believe they are connected to whatever is drawing me here.”

One of the things, too thin and too tall and reaching for a private who was screaming and staring down at the stump where his hand had been, turned its attention to the man named Slate and let out a sound like a cat hissing, if that cat was the size of a bear.

Crowley stepped around the gaunt one and blocked the oversized hand that reached for the albino. He struck hard enough that the nearly-skeletal thing reared back in shock. It was almost twice as tall as a man and had a face that was stretched and thin and filled with teeth the size of knives.

“No. I don’t think you want to do that.” Crowley kept smiling.

Folsom shook off his confusion and decided to handle the matter. The revolver kicked when he pulled the trigger and he watched the left half of the thing’s neck explode in a gout of crimson that splashed both of the men.

Slate flinched as the thing screamed and clutched at the wound. That made Folsom feel a little better about his own fear.

Crowley stepped in closer and kicked the spindly leg of the thing with the heel of his boot. Bones snapped and the ghostly white demon fell as surely as if struck by an axe.

Folsom felt something touch his leg, and almost shrieked. He looked down and aimed his Colt at the source of whatever was touching him. It was Song. Half of the Chinaman’s face had been carved into bloody red trenches and his eye was missing. He clutched at Folsom’s pant leg and let out a sound. And then he died.

Folsom shook his head, angrier at the loss of the heathen than he would have ever expected. “That’s enough of this madness!” he roared, and all around him the soldiers stopped their panic, or at least calmed it down. They were soldiers and they were used to combat. What they needed, what they always needed, was someone to lead them. “Kill these damned things!”

To make his point he aimed at the next of the things close enough for him to hit, and fired. The shot went astray and only clipped one overly large ear on the beast. When it looked at him, really looked at him, Folsom knew he’d made a horrible mistake. He’d have apologized if he could have found the words, but it was on him far too quickly. Folsom let out a yelp as clawed fingers ripped into his coat and the beast lifted him into the air, baring impossible teeth and roaring directly into his face.

Folsom aimed his weapon and fired, and nothing at all happened.

He tried again.

Nothing.

“Well, damn.” It was all he could think to say.

The captain was staring at his death, and Crowley was tempted to let it take him. As a boy he’d been a scared, confused little thing. As a man he smacked of too much cocky attitude and too little common sense. Worse, he was actually making himself useful. It was easier to ignore men who were useless and cocky about it.

Still, at the moment there were other considerations, like the damned things chewing their way through a dozen soldiers. They were monsters, yes, but nothing he’d ever seen before. They did not reek of the demons he was used to, and they were not spirits in any sense he was familiar with.

When he’d come to the New World he’d done so to study these exact sorts of creatures. There had been a definite excitement in finding new and interesting beings in a land he had never been to before.

That excitement had not changed. Adding to it was the sheer variety of shapes that these creatures took. They were, he had no doubt, of similar ilk. They had to be.

Even things that ran in packs seldom liked to mingle with different creatures.

That was the part that made him smile.

Crowley saw Lucas Slate grab the thing holding the captain and haul it backward by the scruff of its bullish neck. It let out a yowlp of surprise and so did the Cavalryman. The good news for the captain was that it let go of him. That was also the bad news for Slate. The thing he was holding onto moved like a sack of cats held over a roaring fire. It twisted and whipped its arms in wide arcs and screeched as it turned on Crowley’s companion, and both of them stumbled back and fell.

Before Crowley could get to them, they were lost in the crush of people.

A soldier aimed for the area where they’d fallen and Crowley knocked him aside, throwing off his aim as he waded into the crush of flesh. People moved and thrashed and pushed in and out of his view. Crowley ignored them all, save to push them aside. Somewhere ahead of him, not but a few feet to be sure, but in the press of struggling bodies it might well have been miles, his companion was down on the ground and fighting.

When the bullish thing flew through the air, it was as limp as a sack of horse dung. The thing trailed blood, and as it rose into the air, Lucas Slate stood, covered in the same crimson stains and looking truly enraged.

His shirt had been torn apart and deep cuts ran along the left side of his muscular chest. Those cuts bled, a reminder that he was still at least partially human despite his appearance.

Slate looked around and stooped long enough to grab his fool hat from the ground. That hat had seen better days and likely would have been thrown away by most people, but the battered old thing with its dusty band and the broken feathers sticking from the same went back on Slate’s head before he looked around and the rage faded from his expression.

It was a calmer expression he wore as he reached for his Navy revolvers and started aiming.

Crowley had the good sense to stay well away from the man as he pulled the triggers. The first bullet blew a hole through a white, scaly thing with too many eyes, and also took the hand from one of the Cavalry. The creature flopped to the ground and twitched. The soldier fell to his knees and screamed. By the time those two things had occurred, Slate had turned his attention to the next target and fired with that same dead expression on his face. Boom! The creature fell. Slate’s mouth twisted into a feral snarl and he fired again. The bullets from his weapon were a reminder that death could be sudden and violent. Another explosive noise and the Indians and the soldiers alike were quickly backing away from Slate. He stood taller than any of them and he looked like the Grim Reaper ready for the harvest. The only things that didn’t run were the white nightmares around them. They should have fled but it seemed beyond them to reason that well. Instead they charged toward Slate and he fired again and again until the last of them fell at his feet.

Through it all, Jonathan Crowley watched with his eyes narrowed to slits and a grin frozen in place.

When the final beast had fallen, Lucas Slate looked at Captain Folsom and shook his head. “I do not currently feel inclined to go with you for trial.” Both of the weapons were still in his hands and the barrels of the Navy six-shooters were smoking in the cold air.

Folsom stared at the spectre before him for ten heartbeats without responding and then finally he said, “Currently, I do not feel much inclined to argue the matter, sir. We have all of us had a day already.”

“Indeed.”

Folsom called for his men to gather the dead and the wounded. His voice was weaker than before and his hands shook. That did not make him a coward in Crowley’s eyes. It merely made him human.

He rather envied the soldier that.

Folsom sat in his newly-appropriated office in town. He thought about the day’s events. All told, if you counted the Chinaman — and he did — he had lost seven men, and the number of wounded was higher still.

Somehow he had avoided getting injured himself. The men looked up to him and none of them had missed that he was in the heart of the combat. They knew he hadn’t stood behind the lines and watched them take the damage. No, he had come out to the assistance of all when the damned Indians had attacked.

Being as he was in the middle of town when the attack took place he should have expected some sort of coalition of townsfolk, but he was caught flatfooted. The men who came before him were dressed, as gentlemen should dress, in proper suits with vests and with matching shoes. That was an accomplishment at least half the time; at least it had been since he crossed into areas across the Mississippi from home. That said, they needed a good wash and not a one of them seemed familiar with the idea of shaving. The facial hairs were long and the facial expressions were dour.

They’d been droning on for a while now, long enough for him to get the gist. They wanted the soldiers gone. Or they wanted assurances, or they wanted the Indians dead. Something of that sort.

When he’d heard enough he raised one hand and the conversations stopped. “What exactly do you gentlemen want? Pick one thing. I haven’t the time to listen to every complaint you have. I need to report the deaths of my soldiers and I need to prepare your town for any more possible Indian attacks.”

A black haired man sporting the most impressive mustache Folsom had ever seen, spoke. As his lips moved, his mustache jittered and jumped. It was nearly mesmerizing. “There wouldn’t be any Indian attacks if you’d left well enough alone.” The man leaned forward and planted his hands on the long oak table the captain had commandeered to act as his desk. “We had us an understanding. We didn’t piss on them and they didn’t come along and try to kill us. You notice how they only went for soldiers? There was a reason for that.”

Folsom stood and gave the man his best hard look. It was a good one because the fellow took two paces back, shaking his head. “Do you know who I am, sir? Do you even begin to know why I am here? I’m here because I was called here by one of your own. A telegram was sent to Washington, D.C. and that in turn was considered and then acted upon. I am the result of that telegram.”

“And who the hell sent it?” The mustache trembled with righteous indignation. Folsom knew the man he was speaking to had eyes, but he had not yet been able to focus on them enough to consider the character they might reveal.

“Allucius Sheppard.” Folsom reached into his jacket pocket and fumbled out the original paper. “Says here he’s the mayor of this town.”

The mustache tightened for a moment and then trembled even more. “Al? Al Sheppard not only isn’t the mayor of anything, he’s dead!” Several voices murmured their agreement. “The damned fool drank himself to death. Passed out and choked on his own regurgitation. And besides, he was never in charge of a damned thing around these parts.”

Folsom felt a flush run into his cheeks. “Be that as it may, I have my orders to get rid of the red man in this area and I intend to follow those orders.” He leaned onto the table and heard it creak threateningly under his weight. “I’ve spent time listening to your concerns, gentlemen. Until I hear otherwise, my duty is to remove the Indians from this area and keep your town safe. Good day.”

“We were already safe!” Mustache shook his fist and looked like he might even consider using it against Folsom but decided at the last moment not to get himself shot. “Leave us to our own devices, sir! We have to live here when you’re done with your damned orders.”

The man turned his back and stomped away before Folsom could respond, and after a brief hesitation the rest of the sorry lot followed suit.

Folsom settled back behind his desk and started composing his explanation of the day’s events. Colonel Hartshorn would want to know what had happened and he’d need to offer a proper defense. The loss of so many and that on top of being caught unawares, was not going to sit well. Folsom dreaded the shit storm that would surely be coming his way.

He had no idea.

Lucas Slate squinted at his reflection in the dusty mirror. The clothes were nice, a gift from Crowley, and they fitted properly. The tailor had a suit that was supposed to be picked up and never was — the man had died, apparently — and while it took a bit of waiting while the adjustments were made, the final result was worth the patience.

Crowley eyed him critically enough to make him wonder if the man had ever spent time as a tailor himself. Finally he nodded his satisfaction and counted out coins for the man who’d sold the suit.

“There is a haberdashery at the edge of the saloon over that way,” the tailor said as he pointed vaguely, which, as the town had no proper streets, was the best that could be managed, “should you like a new hat as well.”

Slate stared at the man for a moment and then simply shook his head.

Crowley walked for the door of the shop after thanking the tailor.

Slate watched Crowley break into one of his smiles. “What?” Slate was slipping his hat in place and almost managing a scowl.

“I have seen men less devoted to their wives than you are to your hat, Mister Slate.”

“And had I a wife, perhaps I’d care less about my hat, sir.”

“I should rather not consider the ramifications of that statement.”

Slate reared back as if slapped and then chuckled. “You’ve a vile mind, Mister Crowley.”

“Now, tell me about the pale thing you saw before everything went mad.”

“He was tall and thin and pale. Looked to me as if he might be an Indian, but as washed of color as me.” Slate looked away. “He spoke to me in some language I have never heard, but I understood him. He said we would meet again.”

“You were pale when we met. You are an albino, after all, but you are a different sort of pale now.”

“How do you mean?”

Your skin lacked pigment before. Now it has more color to it, but that color is white. That’s really the best way I can put it.”

Slate nodded and pursed his thin lips. “He was too thin.”

“What do you mean?” Crowley looked puzzled.

“I mean I am thin, but I am still a possibility. He was taller than me and thinner than me. He looked impossible. His body is too thin and his arms and legs so very long and his head shape was thinner even than mine.”

Crowley stared at him for a long moment and finally nodded. “That thing we dealt with in Carson’s Point was a bit like that. But only a bit.”

“I never truly saw the thing but towards the end, and frankly I was a bit too unsettled by what was happening to me to much care at that point.”

“You touched a stone. The stone went into you. We’ve discussed that before, of course. We know that the stones were put into the — whatever the hell it might be’s — chosen victims and they changed, but it wasn’t the same as these things. These were sudden and the bodies didn’t stay changed.”

Slate looked at him. “Did they not?”

“No.” Crowley looked back just as hard, his face impossible to read past that damnable grin of his. “They became what they once were when they died. They were Indians, but we knew that.”

“Why do you suppose they attacked?”

Crowley shrugged. “I neither know nor care. Humans do stupid things to humans all the time, Mister Slate. I don’t allow myself the luxury of paying much attention.”

That was a lie and Slate knew it. They discussed many things on their travels and inevitably what they talked about most was the state of the world around them as gleaned from various newspapers. Crowley bought them and read them insatiably. Still, he did not call the man on his lie.

“And the soldiers? How do you feel about them being here, Mister Crowley?”

“I’ve never much taken to soldiers. Been one before, fought in my share of wars and followed orders, but I’ve never liked it. Soldiers are expected to follow orders, no matter how foolish those orders might be.”

Crowley paused a moment and then asked, “And you? Do you side with the Indians?”

“No sir, I do not. I side with the people on the streets who are getting caught up in this conflict. I knew what those men intended when it came to the squaws.” He shook his head. “I do not believe that women should be misused.”

Crowley nodded.

“And you, Mister Crowley? Do you side with either group?”

“The Indians were minding their own business. The army was sent by someone. They do not, as a rule come without orders. They are summoned. So one is doing what they have always done and the other is following orders from elsewhere. I can’t say as I much care either way.”

“You keep saying that sort of thing, and yet, here you are, grinning and wading into conflicts.”

Crowley’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “My pale companion has gotten himself into trouble and asked for my help. What is a man to do?” His plain face looked around the shop for a moment and then back to Slate. “How does the suit feel?”

“Like proper clothing, and I thank you for it, Mister Crowley.” Slate ducked his head briefly for a moment, feeling an unaccustomed flash of shame. “I fear I cannot possibly pay you back any time soon.”

Crowley waved it aside. “I have the money to spare and you have lost all you owned before we met. As we are traveling together for the present time, I can hardly expect you to settle into life as an undertaker again, though I imagine you could have made fair compensation this particular day.”

“Just the same.”

“Should I decide you owe me, Mister Slate, you may rest assured you’ll be informed of such debts. Until then, merely accept that under our current circumstances I do not mind investing in your clothes.” He snorted. “Besides which, you were beginning to look too much like an Indian and I need to not confuse you for any other white-skinned Indians we might encounter.”

“Do you suppose that’s a strong likelihood?”

“You’ve run across one already and I am fairly certain you are looking forward to a second encounter.”

“What makes you say that, Mister Crowley?”

“Because you have a need to understand your place in the universe, Mister Slate.”

“And you don’t?”

“I have known my place in the universe for a very long time, Mister Slate. And we are still looking into your position.”

Neither spoke of what might happen when that position was known.

Finding rooms proved challenging, but not impossible. Apparently having a giant albino looming over your shoulder made people more willing to find space for a man in a negotiating mood. The rooms were comfortable enough, and as an added bonus seemed bug free.

In the morning, Crowley looked at the growth on his face, and trimmed the hairs down to manageable levels rather than shaving them away completely. He knew it wouldn’t last but for the next few days at least he had a neatly-trimmed beard and mustache to fight off the cold.

When he came downstairs, Slate was already waiting for him, and the small gathering of tables were all filled except for the one where the albino waited. His hat had been mended and looked mostly like it had in the past. Crowley chose not to feed into his obsession and ignored the thing completely. Within twenty minutes they’d eaten and after ten minutes more they were on their way.

“Where are we going, exactly?” Crowley asked, though he already knew the answer.

“I’m off to find the other one like me. You are along to keep me out of trouble.”

Crowley nodded. “I seem to remember something about that.”

“As it was your idea, I should hope so, sir.”

Despite the violence of the day, before the crowds were moving about, many of them looking to buy wares and others looking to sell. It was distinctly possible that there were even more wretches moving into the town.

There were soldiers everywhere they looked, though for the moment none of them seemed to be causing too much trouble. Crowley had no doubt that would change soon enough.

Folsom had made clear his intention to clean the Indians from the area for the safety of all involved, regardless of how the people felt about that. As it had been Indians starting the shooting the day before — excluding what Slate had accomplished all by himself — it seemed perfectly reasonable to expect the captain and his men to be as prepared as possible.

A pickpocket tried to steal from Crowley. He stopped the attempt without causing a scene. It was a bad time to be a thief and a worse time to be a child. He decided to let someone else deal with handling the young boy with the grabby hands. The things they’d been bothered by the day before were far more worrisome. Besides which, Crowley kept most of his money hidden where it would never be found. A moment later he changed his mind, and contemplated going after the kid and teaching him a lesson, but it was too late. The would-be thief was long gone.

He watched the other Skinwalker from a distance, and noted the man who walked with him. They were both powerful, as was expected of any Skinwalker, but the one with him, the smiling man, he was a different sort of powerful. He carried himself with confidence and he smiled at almost everything. Not a pleasant smile but a baring of teeth, a warning that the man was deadly beyond most people’s reckoning. Where they walked, people scattered away from them, perhaps without even being aware of it.

The Skinwalker was aware, of course. That was why he was following them. They were dangerous and they could well be dangerous enough to cause him harm. He would find out soon enough.

The wind blew and whispered its secrets and he listened as he had learned to long ago. The stories of the wind were all about the Indians coming toward the town. There had been a great deal of blood spilled and the Apache in the area wanted to settle the matter. They did not wish to talk any longer. There is a point where anyone can lose hope of a simple resolution and that time had come and passed.

All around him people moved and milled and sought desperately for what would make their lives complete. An urchin moved toward him, furtive and worried. He bumped into a man in front of the Skinwalker and plucked a few coins from his victim’s pocket. A moment later he was bumping into a young woman and apologizing even as he lifted a small item from her bag. And then he bumped into the Skinwalker, mumbled an apology and continued on with a small silver nugget the Skinwalker had been carrying for the last three days.

The silver meant nothing to him. He had taken it from a dead man he found on his way to the town. The corpse had been torn open by what at first glance appeared to be wolves, but the Skinwalker knew better. He could smell shapechangers and found the notion amusing.

The fact that the boy took it merely meant that he had managed to catch the old sorcerer’s attention. That was enough.

A whispered word as he crouched and grabbed at the soil. The arid earth crumbled in his hand and he spat into it, rubbed it between his fingers and his palm until it became a doughy mass. He stood just long enough to throw that simple lump at the thief, striking him on the back of his neck. The boy reached reflexively for what hit him and the old man smiled and continued on his way. Only a few seconds later the screams started as the boy fell to the ground, swelling and choking and trying to breathe. It was not the first time he’d spread a sickness and it would not be the last. This was a minor one and would only kill a few, but it would leave them all afraid.

Somewhere behind him a woman screamed as the boy’s flesh rotted away and spilled his bodily fluids into the street. Up ahead, far enough along that they did not seem to notice, the other Skinwalker and the strange creature walked on.

Crowley noticed Slate cock his head to the left. “What is it?” he asked.

“That damn song again,” Slate replied. “Every time I hear it something goes wrong.”

“You are hearing a summoning spell. Whatever this thing we’re looking for is, it summons energies and what I can only call demons, even if they don’t feel like the ones I’m used to.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I’ve been testing your limits, Mister Slate. Seeing what it is you might be capable of, but I have my own abilities.”

“You’ve never much discussed what they are.”

Crowley cast a sideways look in Slate’s direction. “We don’t much talk about what happens if I decide you are a threat. We both know the answer already, yes?”

“Of course.” Slate nodded, but his voice remained soft and dry. “I might be a threat and you might need to eliminate that threat. We’ve already seen a little of what something like me can do. If I don’t maintain control, I understand what you’ll have to do and I condone it.”

“Do you?”

Slate looked at him and his mouth trembled for a moment. “I’ve no desire to become the sort of monster I was raised around.”

“You were raised around monsters?”

“I was raised an albino and a mulatto in an area where many considered that a sign of the Devil, sir. Had my family not had a certain level of influence I’d have been killed. As it was, I remained locked inside my house most times to avoid a beating. There are all sorts of monsters, Mister Crowley. Not all of them cast spells or have fangs.”

Crowley nodded. “Agreed. Very well, Mister Slate. A few facts for you. I can see the dead. I can communicate with them. Mostly I choose not to.”

“Why is that?”

“Because the dead are not of interest to me. They are dead, and often they make demands when they know they can be heard. I am not interested in their demands and I have no desire to be plagued by them any more than I have been in the past.” Crowley’s face grew troubled for a moment.

“Are the dead around here?”

“Some. Not as many. Not too many have died here yet, though I imagine that’s to change soon.”

“Are there any dead around us now?”

“Oh, yes.” He looked past Slate’s shoulder at the faint ghostly image of Molly Finnegan and nodded slowly. She looked at him, implored him, would have begged if there was enough of her left, but there was not. Something had stolen most of her away in Carson’s Point, not too long ago, and left just enough to ensure he was haunted by her. He had not yet resolved to destroying that remnant or sending it on to whatever lay beyond this realm. If he didn’t think about it, he could tell himself she wasn’t suffering. Sometimes, most times, really, he didn’t much like himself. He promised himself that he would release her soon. Very soon. Just not yet.

“What else do you see that you do not speak of, Mister Crowley?”

“I see a lot. I hear just as much. I heard the spell that was cast. I’m still trying to understand it. I know that it came from behind us, but so do you.”

Slate nodded in agreement. “I do indeed. I’ve been trying to decide how to handle it.”

“Well, perhaps you should confront your enemy and be done with it.”

“Is he my enemy?” Slate’s voice carried an uncertain note.

Crowley stopped walking and stared hard at him. “I should imagine he is. He’s killed several people with his actions, and a few moments ago he killed a young boy who was seeking enough to stay alive in this hellhole.”

“Did he?” Slate shook his head. “How do you know that?”

“Because currently the dead boy is standing over his rotten remains and screaming his rage into the skies. You cannot hear the dead, Mister Slate, but I can and I do.”

Slate closed his eyes and nodded. “Then I suspect he is, indeed, my enemy.”

Crowley heard the sound of gunfire and screaming from the far side of the small town, same as they had the day before. The screams were not pain or suffering. They were war cries. “Well, things are likely to get confusing right about now.” Crowley spat the words, but again his smile crept out.

“I suspect you are right, Mister Crowley. And should I confront my enemy or wait?”

“It might be that the fighting won’t reach us.”

Slate nodded again and spun hard on his heel, moving back the way they’d come.

Crowley watched him, watched the crowd that had turned toward the sounds of dying part before Slate as easily as calm waters part before a ship’s prow, and watched also as the small shape he approached unfolded itself from a stooped position.

Lucas Slate was taller now than most of the men around him. He was taller than Crowley by a few inches, though they had only recently stood almost the same height. Crowley had once stolen a suit of the man’s because it fit well enough to allow it. As tall as Slate was, the thing that stood before him was taller by almost a foot. How it had hidden itself in so small a form was a mystery that Crowley would try to solve later.

The thing was the same color as Slate, a white that seemed too vibrant for the cadaverous shape. It had long white hair tied back in a braid, and wore clothes that looked like rawhide but that Crowley knew immediately were human flesh.

It had a very long body and a long face, eyes as dark and black as pitch and as shiny as polished glass. When the nightmare smiled his gums were gray and his teeth an unpleasant shade of yellow.

Slate and the thing spoke to each other, and Crowley listened and understood not a word of it. In the distance a dead boy kept screaming his outrage at being murdered and further away still, the gunfire continued in sporadic bursts.

The Indians came in hard and fast, and this time there were more of them and they were better organized.

Folsom’s men were doing their duty, guarding the town, and none of them took their task lightly. The day before had been reminder enough that their work was dangerous.

So when the red men came, the alarm was quickly called. Folsom stepped outside and prepared himself for the battle. The men were ready and so was he, and by God, he’d see the savages pay for their bloody assault.

The men rallied quickly and he called for them to assume the various posts he’d laid out the night before. They were ready and they were more than willing after seeing their companions taken down. One or two might well have been worried about whatever sort of monsters the Apache had brought with them the day before, but they rallied just the same and he was proud of them.

Captain Folsom walked away from the hotel and headed for the sounds of combat, his heart pounding with the thrill of combat. He was not afraid. The Lord had blessed him with a brave heart and a noble purpose. He would see the day through and take no prisoners. The savages had earned a quick death for their troubles.

Up ahead of him, Sergeant Barnes had taken a position on top of a two-storey mercantile, firing as quickly as he could into the crowd below. The man was hell with a rifle, and with each shot, an Indian dropped, but damned if it didn’t seem there were endless numbers of them this time around.

He had dealt with the Lakota before but never with the Apache until the previous day. They did not seem cut from the same cloth. They seemed more determined to stand their ground and take whatever it was they wanted.

“Fowler! Where is Sergeant Fowler?”

“Sergeant Fowler is on the other side of town, standing his ground and waiting, sir!” The man that spoke to him was just out of his sight, but he recognized the voice of Private Herbst. The voice was as distinct as the man himself, a red haired brute nearly as strong as an ox. He turned to bark an order at Herbst and saw the private’s body jerk twice, saw the blast of meat and bone that came off his left shoulder and then saw the man hit the ground, screaming.

Damned foolish of him to look away from the conflict. He looked back toward the crush of Indians charging into town and the chaos of people getting away from them. The civilians ran, as well they should. The soldiers stood their ground.

Folsom drew his revolver and took aim at the closest savage, a lean old man on a black horse. The old man saw him and charged, riding hard to reach him. The bullet Folsom fired caught the old man in his thigh and blew through the leg and the horse under it with ease. The old man screamed, the horse screamed, and both collapsed in a sliding heap. Neither was dead, but he intended to remedy that. One step closer, and the bullet from the next Indian caught Folsom in the chest, tearing through the rib above his heart and then through the organ itself. He tried to aim his weapon but his traitorous fingers dropped it. The pain, when it showed up, was as large as a mountain and crushed his chest in its grip. Folsom tried to scream, tried to do anything at all, and managed only to fall backward and land hard on the ground. The horse and rider stomped over his body as they continued into the town, followed by several other natives.

Crowley watched on from a distance, his face calm and almost expressionless, his eyes intensely focused. Slate did his best to ignore the man, which, considering the nightmare in front of him, was not that difficult.

“You have questions,” the thing said. It was a statement rather than a question. Again it was spoken in a language other than English, one completely unknown to Slate, but he understood just the same.

“What are you? What am I?”

Those vile teeth flashed and the impossibly thin, tall man chuckled. “You were given a seed. It was planted in your body. I do not see it.” It stared for a moment and then pointed to the small bump almost perfectly centered in its own forehead. When he touched it the skin parted like an eye blinking and for just an instant a greenish-gray stone showed before the skin sealed itself again. “It would be similar to this, but not exactly the same.”

Slate remembered touching the stone, feeling it; remembered that pebble, too, had a song to sing. He nodded but did not speak.

“That seed is what you are. What you are becoming. We are not many, there have never been many, but we are powerful.”

“What do I do about it?” Slate asked.

“Embrace the changes. I fought mine and in the end it caused me nothing but pain.”

“What is the song I hear?”

“That is magic trying to tell you how to grow and become strong.”

“Do you hear that same song?”

The thin man looked at him with a cold, sly expression. “I am the song.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We are a part of the world. This world and others. We can listen to the song and we can sing notes from the song and create wonders. But we must feed if we listen to the song.”

He wasn’t sure if the thing was being deliberately vague or simply lacked the ability to explain itself. Either way, he was starting to dislike the thin man.

“What do we have to feed on?”

“Mostly pain, and others like ourselves.” That smile grew larger.

Then the thin man reached for him and placed a hand on his chest and something inside of him pulled and twisted and shook through his body like a tree’s roots being ripped from the ground. Lucas Slate tried to step back, tried to break free, but the thin man’s hand on his chest burned at him and left him unable to move a single muscle. He stared at the yellowed teeth in darkened gums surrounded by white, smiling lips, and felt hatred rip into his heart.

In a lifetime full of predatory people who thought he was easy prey Lucas Slate had proven more than his share of people mistaken. He could not make his body move. He could not make his anger known by any of his previous methods. He could not, by God, even call out to Jonathan Crowley a dozen strides away. Instead he listened to the song that called to him and tried to understand the things it was saying.

The pain fought for his attention. The song had been trying to get his notice for longer.

He let the song win.

Crowley stared hard at the two pale men, waiting as they stood face to face and spoke. He could not understand a single word they were speaking and that, too, was something he was unaccustomed to. He did not understand because the words were new to him, but they were also not words, not exactly. Damned if it didn’t sound like to two of them were harmonizing.

As a counterpoint to their song, the battle raged close by and drew closer. The Cavalry was fighting against the invading Apache and by the sounds of screams, cries, and gunshots the conflict was in a full fury.

Crowley stared toward the sound of battle and saw the soldiers retreating, heading at a slow crawl toward where he stood and watched another war taking place.

Sometimes the conflicts seemed impossible to escape.

The gaunt man facing off against Lucas Slate slapped Crowley’s companion in the chest and Slate started jittering where he was, standing still and twitching, seizing again and again. The usually calm face pulled down, drawing into a pained expression and Slate’s eyes raged silently.

Crowley’d planned on doing nothing at all about this. He made it a habit not to get involved in several different sorts of situations, not the least of which were cases when one monster fought another.

Did he think Slate was a monster? That was the question.

Not far away the dead boy kept screaming his anger to the skies. He refused to be placated by whatever it was the afterlife was supposed to offer him. From the corner of Crowley’s eye he could see the vaporous spectre of Molly Finnegan, dead since the previous winter, buried by none other than Lucas Slate, and whose body once pushed itself out of the ground at the behest of whatever sort of creature Slate was becoming.

Behind Molly a Cavalryman’s head snapped back violently and he flopped to the ground without making a sound that could be heard from the distance. Molly looked at the body expectantly. Crowley looked away.

Helping Slate would be a hideous mistake. The events of the last summer had proved that beyond a doubt. The man had muttered words and shattered the ground at his feet. He was no longer human.

And yet, as Slate asked for help in the tent earlier, Crowley was still allowed to respond now. He was freed from his usual constraints when asked for assistance by a human being.

And he was freed when asked by Lucas Slate.

“Damn me,” he muttered.

The gun was in his hand in a second. He cocked the hammer, aimed and fired. Aimed, fired. Aimed, fired, and then again.

All four bullets slammed into the thin man. The first shot surprised him. He had apparently forgotten Crowley was there. The bullet tore his right arm apart, dragging it from Slate’s chest. Slate staggered backward, gasping. The second bullet took the thin man in the left shoulder blade and spun him where he stood so that he was looking toward Crowley’s feet. The third round punched into the thin man’s chest and blew a hole through his left lung. The fourth round hit him in the stomach and doubled him over as sure as if he’d been kicked by a horse.

The thin man gasped and grunted and then fell to his knees, trying to balance himself on his hands. He bled from each wound, streams of blood flowing to the ground. Crowley took three strides forward and looked down at where Slate lay on the frozen soil. Slate looked at him then sat up, wincing. Where the thin man had touched him, his shirt was torn and the skin underneath was already bruising, showing an amount of red that would have been alarming on most people, but for all Crowley knew, the color was perfectly normal in an albino who got himself bruised properly.

“I wasn’t sure if you were going to help me or not.” Slate’s voice was more raspy than usual.

Crowley did not answer. To his left he saw the thin man getting to his feet.

“Mister Crowley!” Slate’s eyes grew wide.

The thin man was looking hard at him and he was scowling. His face, already long and thin, grew longer still as he opened his mouth to speak. What he said meant nothing at all to Crowley. It was just gibberish. Just the same he felt his body hurled backward and did his best to prepare himself for impact.

The good news was that he landed on a canvas surface. The bad news was that a cast iron stove was under that canvas. He felt his ribs break on impact, and his right arm snapped in three places. He did not black out. He was not that fortunate.

The Skinwalker looked at his prey and smiled again. The wounds hurt, but he would heal. He would take from the younger, weaker Skinwalker and he would feed on the essence as had been done for as long as there had been Skinwalkers. Each was born, each created their seeds, each offered the seeds to worthy humans and then left. Later, after the seeds had a chance to grow, they came back and harvested their children. This one was not one of his, but that did not matter. He would feed and he would feed well. If the one who created this one took offense, he would feed on the progenitor as well.

The young Skinwalker stood, shivered. His chest was an angry red mass. The bruising was no doubt painful. The seed was deep inside this one’s chest, near his heart. That was why he’d grabbed him there. Most Skinwalker’s chose to place the seeds in the forehead. It made it easier for their children to see with their new senses and it also made harvesting them easier.

“I will kill you now. If you stay still I will try to make your death simple.” It was a mercy he was willing to offer.

The young one nodded and said, “Fuck yourself.” The shotgun rose and both barrels of the weapons fired.

The Skinwalker had been alive for a very long time and he was familiar with European weapons. Familiarity, however, did not prepare him for the pain. A hundred tiny pellets rammed through his flesh and burned into muscles, into bone. One of the tiny shots tore open his right eye and the agony was greater than he had felt in lifetimes.

He yowled and fell back, clutching at his face. He had planned to be merciful. That plan was finished.

He looked through his good eye in time to see the young one breach the shotgun and pull out the hot shells. As he watched two more were inserted and the gaunt man came closer, scowling down at him.

He raised one arm and sang. His right arm was ruined and hadn’t had time to mend, but his left worked well enough. His fingers clenched the air and he pulled with his song, with his mind, willing the seed deep in the other to come to him, to tear free of its moorings and come to him.

Lucas Slate dropped the shotgun and clutched at his chest. Was this a heart attack? He had no idea, had never felt one before. The pain grew larger and he fell to his knees, crying out.

Had any pain ever been this large? His hands held tight to the front of his chest, and under the palm that touched his pallid skin he felt something moving, twisting. He remembered the day he’d swallowed the oddly carved pebble he’d been given as a gift. It was a memory he’d done his best to forget, a fevered dream he never wanted to recall.

Much like the pain tearing him in half.

Lucas Slate screamed, something he hadn’t done since his transformation had started. The sound was not remotely human.

For three seconds Crowley had a fantasy about Molly. Her body was next to his and she whispered in his ear, a warm breath that tickled pleasantly. Then the pain kicked in and took him from his reverie.

There was magic about and while he often hated that notion, Jonathan Crowley was healed by the presence of the supernatural. His skin ached and his bones shrieked a symphony of pain, then the agony faded into a deep fiery itch as they pulled themselves to where they belonged and healed within him.

Crowley opened his eyes and stared at Slate and the thin man. Both of them were on their knees, straining and bleeding and locked in some sort of silent struggle. Slate did not seem to be winning. He would rather Molly whispering in his ear, but she was dead and the past offered him little solace.

“All right then,” he moaned. It took only a moment for him to stand.

The sounds of gunfire grew closer, drowning out the cries of the dead pickpocket and the unsettling scream coming from Slate.

Crowley started walking, heading for the two of them.

The first of the Indians came into view and almost immediately reined in their horses. They stared at the thin man and Lucas Slate with expressions of dread that were nearly comical, and grew almost as pale as the two of them.

He had no idea why the Apache were so afraid of the pale men and he did not care. What mattered at that moment was that the whole marauding lot of them watched for all of five seconds, and then their leader let out a command that had them turning tail and leaving the area at high speed.

As Crowley had witnessed, the Indians in the town had been scared of Lucas Slate. Apparently two of his kind in the area was a bit too much for them to stand. Crowley smiled at the notion, even as he looked back to Slate and the thin man.

Slate screamed again and blood spilled from between the fingers clamped over his chest. His eyes were wide and his mouth moved like a trout out of water seeking a gasp of proper breath.

“Move your hands, Mister Slate!” Crowley bellowed the words and the thin man ignored him.

Slate looked at him and managed a puzzled expression. “I am… I can’t. What do you need?”

“I need to see what he’s reaching for inside of you.”

Slate stared at him for a moment and slowly, carefully let his hands fall away. The lump that was revealed was the size of an apple. That Slate’s chest had not exploded was something of a miracle in Crowley’s opinion. Heavy lines of red stained a great deal of his body and in addition to the heavy lump trying to tear free of him, there were other lines, other things moving under his skin. All of them seemed connected and all seemed determined to come out.

Crowley looked away from Slate for only a moment to assess the thin man. He’d been beat down a good bit. Four holes from the bullets Crowley himself fired and more still from a shotgun blast or two. Only one eye remained and it stared only at Slate.

The bastard was smiling.

Crowley hated when other people had a reason to smile. Well, at least when they were enemies of his. He walked closer, scrutinizing the thin man’s face.

One eye was gone. One remained. Centered above them was a small opening in his head, and that at least was something Crowley was familiar with.

He had seen similar stones in Carson’s Point. They had caused him no end of troubles.

Two fast steps had him picking up his pistol. Three more strides and the barrel was one inch from the center of the thin man’s forehead.

As he cocked the hammer back, the bastard finally noticed him and his one remaining eye opened wide. Crowley pulled the trigger and ripped the top of the thin man’s head away with one shot.

The thin man launched backward and slammed his ruined head into the frozen ground. Deep within his skull a collection of grey things wriggled. They all seemed to be seeking something that was no longer there.

Crowley looked at the body for a moment and then checked the remaining portion of the skull. The bullet had managed to destroy that damned stone, whatever it might be, and though he couldn’t be sure, he suspected that was a mighty fine thing, indeed.

Slate fell forward and caught himself on his hands again, whimpering.

The sounds of combat were gone. The noise of people screaming had died as well, though in the distance a dead boy wept with less fervor, perhaps one step closer to accepting his fate.

Crowley put his weapon away and helped Lucas Slate to his feet.

“Are you well, Mister Slate?”

“I am not, sir. But I am alive and I thank you for that.” His voice was fainter than usual.

“You’ll have to be well enough.” Crowley squinted as he looked around. “You take the Indians and I’ll handle the soldiers.”

“What do you mean?”

“I intend to stop this damned fighting before one or both of us is killed.”

Lucas Slate nodded, hefted his shotgun and looked toward the direction the Indians had gone, the direction of most of the fighting.

As he walked, he murmured under his breath, words to a song that no one else in the vicinity could hear or understand. The furious red marks on his torso rapidly faded, first to pink and then to the same color as the rest of his flesh.

He was learning. The song had many, many notes and Slate suspected he would not know them all for years, but for now he learned how to heal himself with the song and it was a start.

Crowley found Sergeant Fowler and his men gathered near the far side of town, following orders. They were there to make sure the Indians didn’t storm in from the other side of the area, and likely to clear a path should it become necessary to flee Silver Springs.

Crowley walked directly up to the sergeant while the man watched warily.

“Sergeant?”

The man nodded and came toward him with caution. There was no telling where a man might stand on the Indians. Most agreed they should be sent away, but wise soldiers didn’t take that for granted.

The spell was simple, and one of the very first he’d learned ages ago. Crowley didn’t like using sorcery on human beings, but if he had to, he made exceptions.

“Sergeant, I’m sorry to inform you that your captain and most of the rest of your soldiers are dead. They were killed by the Indians, who are fleeing even as we speak. You’ve won the battle, but the cost was high.”

There was truth to his words, but only as much as he needed. He could have told the man that it was the heart of summer and he’d have agreed. That was how sorcery worked.

“I’m sure they fought bravely.” The sergeant’s voice was slightly slurred.

“Of course they did. They fought valiantly and they won. But wouldn’t it be best if you returned to your base camp and reported in? If more Indians should come back they might see your presence as a challenge and you can’t do your duty if you’re all dead.”

The sergeant looked around uncertainly. There were seven men with him. The rest were elsewhere or dead.

“Yes, of course. We’ll head for home.”

“An excellent idea, Sergeant. You have to make sure your men are safe, after all.”

He finished the incantation. The sergeant would forget having seen his face. The men around him would remember only that the sergeant had been informed of their pyrrhic victory and nothing else.

A short walk had him reuniting with Slate and with the man who stood near him. Stinky Napier was clean and sober, his eyes haunted by the sights that Crowley didn’t need to see to understand. There were dead men up ahead and likely a lot of them if the sounds from earlier were anything to be judged by.

Crowley smiled broadly for him. Napier flinched a bit but stood his ground.

“And is the town still alive, Mister Napier? Or are we the only survivors?”

“Oh, there are more, Mister Crowley. The Indians only wanted the soldiers. They were good about not shooting anyone else.” He frowned a moment. “Can’t say the same for all the soldiers. Some of those boys shot anything that moved.”

“Still think the red men are all heathens?”

“Absolutely. Doesn’t mean I have to hate them. I just know they do not properly worship Jesus Christ.”

Crowley shook his head and said nothing. That was a story he was wise enough not to touch on.

“Your friend is very persuasive.” Napier’s voice caught him off guard.

“How so?”

Slate chuckled to himself. He was looking remarkably healthy for a man whose chest had been nearly broken open twenty minutes earlier.

Napier eyed him dubiously but continued on. “Walked right up to the Indians where they were getting ready to have a bit of fun with the soldiers and put a stop to it.”

Crowley’s grin was quick and savage. “And what did you say to them, Mister Slate?”

Slate looked directly at him. “Leave.” He shrugged. “They left.”

“So the Indians are gone and the soldiers are leaving.” Crowley nodded, a satisfied expression crossing his features and feeling decidedly alien there.

“Can’t be that many soldiers left.” Napier’s frown deepened and he looked around. “I don’t reckon that’s a bad thing just now.”

Slate spoke up, his voice still pained. “Might we be on our way, Mister Crowley? I’m feeling a bit faint.”

Mister Napier opened his mouth to say something else, but one look from Slate silenced him.

When the morning came the two men claimed their horses from the stables. A surprising number of the Cavalry’s horses were gone, despite the lack of riders, but no one was foolish enough to try for theirs.

Outside, the remaining soldiers were gathering together, preparing to head northeast, toward Camp Woodbine, if Crowley was remembering properly.

“Where are we headed today, Mister Crowley?”

Crowley looked at his companion and shrugged. The weather was hideous, but that was hardly unusual. “I took the time to listen to a few men chatting last night, after you had gone to sleep. The men were French and talking about Loup Garou.”

Slate frowned. “Werewolves?”

“You speak French, Mister Slate?”

“Not as well as I speak English, but I can manage. Spent a bit of time in Louisiana and dealt with my fair share of Cajuns.”

Crowley nodded. “We’re heading west, Mister Slate. We shall discuss what happened here when you feel more inclined to discussing the matters, but we are heading west to see if there are, in fact, werewolves hiding somewhere in the region.”

“You don’t suppose it’s merely wolves?”

“No. In my experience, wolves very rarely attack wagon trains.”

Slate nodded. “Well then, I imagine this will be an interesting journey.” The man seemed distracted and Crowley simply nodded. Let him have his time to think.

As they rode, Lucas Slate listened to the song that always played for him and, in listening, began to comprehend.