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Skeleton Cowboys

By: DesoulTales



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Synopsis

Jacob Foster is the Sheriff of Avalon, a small frontier town with a newly established silver mine. 

When tragedy strikes the town, Sheriff Foster is drawn into battle with unimaginable horrors as he fights to survive. 

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Skeleton Cowboys

Copyright 2012

 

Chapter 1

"Papa! Papa wake up!"

The sound of the angelic young girl's voice jerked Jacob Foster from his shallow, troubled sleep. He blinked his eyes a few times, his body feeling tense and restless as if he had been up all night, despite being in bed early for a change the previous evening. 

The smell of freshly baked bread and bacon and sausage sizzling in a large iron skillet drifted up from the kitchen downstairs and the scent of the delicious food and promise of a hot meal motivated the lawman to rise from his bed. Jacob reached over to the stand beside his bed and picked up his silver pocket watch and flipped it open, his eyes blinking again as his body and mind slowly awakened from their restless stupor. 

It was 7:30am on a Monday morning, Jacob remembered clearly because today there was going to be an inspection at the town's fledgling silver mine. All the miners and local employees would be present at and inside of the mine as the investors toured the operation. It had caused no small headache for Jacob, who was the town of Avalon's sheriff, and Thomas, his deputy as they tried to corral the rowdy miners from both shifts into behaving. 

The Silver Sun Mining Company had enacted a curfew of sorts in light of preparation for the mine's inspection. The miners weren't allowed their regular trips to the saloons, brothels and gaming houses along the main drag for the one night. Needless to say, the miners and laborers were more than a little unhappy, downright mutinous was more like it. 

However, the outraged miners were assured of two things, the first being, that should anyone leave the camp and enter the town proper, the Silver Sun Company would revoke any claims or benefits of the curfew breaker and promptly terminate their contract. The second, only after the loud mummers of discontent, was the promise of a small bonus if the investors were impressed with the operation. 

Thus, both shifts were relieved for the night to rest up for the following day. With luck, and the lack of hangovers and any of the usual injuries from tempered exchanges fueled by drink or the presence of women, the mine would have a record production day, all in time to show their investors. 

"Are you feeling okay Papa?" The angelic voice chimed again. 

Jacob looked down at the side of the bed and was greeted with the sight of his five year old daughter Christie, who was already dressed for the day in an elaborate little dark red cotton dress trimmed with white ruffles and lace at the hems and cuffs. She was clutching a small rag doll with stringy, hay colored hair as her big, green eyes peered up at her father. The young lady had a neatly brushed mane of thick, natural black curls that hung nearly to the small of her back. 

With the wavy hair she so much resembled her mother and Jacob couldn't help but smile at her. 

"I'm fine little darling. Only, I hear tale that there is a monster about..." He grinned as his daughter tensed as if she knew what was coming. "He likes to jump out and tickle pretty little girls!"

Christie yelped and giggled as her father reached out with both of his hands, tickling the squirming little girl on her sides, all the while growling in a playful manner and making a polite mockery of a 'scary' face. 

After a moment the sheriff threw his legs out of bed and sighed, leaning down to kiss his daughter gently on the top of the head. "Tell your mother I will be along shortly."

"Yes Papa." The young Christie gave a clumsy, though very sincere curtsy to her father and then skipped out of the room.

Foster rose and stretched with a soft groan, his mind waking up ever faster as the delicious cooking smells from downstairs wafted up into his bedroom. The lawman strode out of his room and into the bathroom where he found everything laid out for him, including a kettle of piping hot water.

Using the hand towel wrapped around the handle of the kettle, he poured some of the steaming water into a basin that sat below the mirror and began to wash his face. His tanned face was handsome, a few lines that showed not only hardship, but experience, were etched into the flesh around his sky blue colored eyes. He had short, neatly trimmed dark blonde hair and a face that was clean shaven, save for the thick moustache that sat perched on his upper lip. 

A few minutes later he was washed and dressed, emerging downstairs with his boots on, clad in a pair of black pants and a dark red dress shirt covered by a black vest with white embroidery. He was tucking his freshly wound watch into the pocket of the vest as he entered the kitchen and sat at the table. 

He could smell the flowers in the planters just below the windows out front, the fresh fragrance rolling in through the open doors and windows that let the summer breeze freshen and cool the room. 

"Good morning darling." The voice belonged to Kate, Jacob's wife who was busy finishing the morning cooking. She was still at the stove as Christie moved over to the table, placing forks and knives carefully at the three places that were set at the table before going for the loaves of freshly baked bread. 

Jacob smiled and accepted the small basket with the small loaves of bread and set it in the center of the table as his daughter climbed up onto her seat. He leaned over and pulled the stopper out of a jug of fresh juice and poured some into a glass for first his wife and then daughter before pouring himself some coffee. 

They ate mostly in silence, save for Kate stopping to correct Christie who seemed more content to fiddle and play with her food than to actually eat it. Jacob just smiled; it irritated Kate to no end sometimes when Jacob would let her slide with things. The young girl was far from being spoiled, she was quite well mannered. But still, her father was more than willing to encourage her antics from time to time which simply drove Kate up the wall. 

"Anything special planned for the day, dear?" Kate asked as she silently sipped her juice and then dabbed at her soft, rose colored lips with a small napkin, her thick ebony curls cascading down her back and held together just behind her head with a baby blue satin ribbon. 

Jacob was content to just watch his beautiful wife for a few moments, enjoying not only the company, but just the very sight of her before answering. "Can't say that there is darlin', can't say that there is. Going to make my rounds and go see Thomas. I still need to talk to the Mayor, but I think most everyone will have their petticoats in a bunch over the inspection." He shrugged indifferently. 

"Language! And at the table no less!" Kate scolded him as Christie giggled at her father's improper display. 

Finished with breakfast, he kissed his wife and then daughter before heading over to the door. He paused to pull on his tooled brown leather belt and holster around his narrow waist, the weight of the heavy gun resting on his hip as he pinned his polished sheriff's badge to his breast and collected his hat. 

Though still early in the morning, the heat was already beginning to rise; residents of the small town of Avalon were already loitering in the shade on the covered boardwalks in front of shops and buildings along the main drag. Jacob tipped his hat politely as Mrs. Johnson, the school house's teacher, passed with several young children in tow all of them holding hands as not to get separated. 

"Oh but damnit! Is it going to be hot today!" Exclaimed a heavy set middle aged man as he waddled over from the front of the Dunmore Brothers freight company office. The large, bald man was fanning his face with the fancy grey hat he was holding as he joined the sheriff on the street. 

All around them the tiny town was bustling with activity, a piano was playing in the distance at the local saloon, the smell of fresh hay and the less pleasant smell of horse shit drifted in from the livery and mixed with the other smell coming from the various storefronts. 

"Well this is the desert Mr. Dunmore, it does tend to get hot." Jacob nodded as he strode through the rows of merchant stalls set up on either side of the street, the large, sweaty man keeping pace despite the sheriff's long strides. 

"Have you talked to the Mayor yet Sheriff Foster? About the railroad?" Dunmore asked as he continued to fan himself with the hat. 

Jacob did his best to suppress his annoyance at the badgering. The nearest town to them was a good 3 hour ride away by horseback, and the town was much larger as it directly benefited from being placed along the rail line. Avalon was still small, built around the silver mine which just barely been opened and begun to be mined. 

No railroad meant fewer people coming in and out of town; supplies were slightly more expensive to have brought in and took longer over the land routes. It also meant that Dunmore had to send his shipments and couriers out on horseback, making them vulnerable in the hot desert sands to bandits and road agents. Dunmore's concern was less about the safety of the people he employed and more about the money he could be saving, along with the additional profit of sending his goods directly through the rail line. 

Everyone in town could benefit from a rail extension, the Sheriff agreed it would do wonders for the quality of living and the economy, but he knew Dunmore's interest was motivated by greed and the pestering was getting to wear on him. 

"Mr. Dunmore it's 8 o'clock in the morning, I've barely had my breakfast, much less the time to conduct any business. I am on my rounds now in case you hadn't noticed." Jacob sighed, irritation showing in his expression as he eyed Dunmore. 

"Well you see Sheriff-" Dunmore began. 

But he was cut off as the figure of Thomas, the town's deputy made his way over through the crowd. "Sheriff! Sheriff Foster you are needed over here." He called out.

Jacob tipped his hat to Dunmore who became flustered and stormed off from having been so promptly dismissed. 

"What is it Thomas?"

"Heh nothin!' I seen how ol' bug eyes was pestering you and reckoned I would save you." Thomas snorted a laugh and Jacob couldn't hide his amusement. 

"Well you guess right." Jacob licked his lips as he looked around the town square, his deputy falling in step beside him. 

Thomas was a younger man than Jacob with a shock of neatly trimmed black hair and a clean shaven face. Despite the light hearted way the deputy usually carried on, with his jokes and remarks that sometimes landed him in hot water, he was a sincere and honest man. 

One that Jacob had taken to friendship with very quickly after moving in to take up the post of Sheriff. He found not only a friend, but a companion who was utterly reliable that he could trust to watch his back. 

"Any trouble from the Silver Sun hands last night?" Jacob asked as they walked. 

"Some of those boys were about as happy as a mule with its balls caught in a crank wench when they were told about the curfew. You better believe there was a bit of racket, but it quieted down when the overseers were threatening to pull claims and cancel contracts." Thomas quickly spit from the corner of his mouth and shook his head. 

"Thankfully it's just for one day. I'm sure we'll have a hell of a night while these boys are blowing off steam, makin' up for lost time." Jacob pushed up his hat for moment, using the back of his hand to whisk the sweat from his forehead. 

"I reckon so Sheriff, I reckon so." Thomas agreed as the pair paused on the porch just outside of a pickle barrel shop. The fragrant smell of the spices and barrels of pickling juice wafting over their senses and mingling with the other smells lingering over the street. 

"Did you feel that?" Thomas asked suddenly, the pair looking at one another and then slowly around. 

The awning overhead creaked quietly and then let out a more audible groan as the ground began to shake violently. In a matter of moments they could hear the rough clattering of jars shaking and practically trying to jump out of their crates in the store just behind them. The glass windows of the shops rattled and several startled people cried out. 

Suddenly there was a loud bang, but not like a revolver or a rifle, it was much, much louder. The resulting explosion rattled windows and teeth alike as a towering, white pillar of dust rose up from the opposite end of the small town, from the mining camp. 

"Son of a bitch!" Jacob growled when the violent tremors ceased. 

He pulled his hat down tightly around his head and Thomas did the same as the sheriff and his deputy dashed down the muddy thoroughfare towards the mining camp, yelling for people to clear the way as they narrowly avoided running head long into the still dumbstruck and terrified residents. 

"What the hell was that, dynamite?" Thomas asked, one hand up holding his hat in place on his head as they ran with great haste, growing ever closer to the edge of the camp. 

The thick pillar of smoke continued to roll up into the sky, but rather than growing in size, it was already noticeably beginning to thin and disperse. At least, the sheriff thought, there was no fire. 

"There isn't supposed to be any damned blasting materials, all the shafts were excavated manually damnit!" Jacob barked as the two entered the camp. 

Surprisingly enough, they found the camp completely deserted. There were numerous white canvas tents of all shapes and sizes, not to mention condition. As well as numerous permanent wooden buildings like the mess hall, store goods stock pile and the offices of Silver Sun Company. 

Thomas darted into the main office and then returned moments later, shaking his head. "Nobody home."

It was quickly becoming obvious that the entire camp was abandoned, and Jacob, along with Thomas, approached the mine itself as numerous town folk made their way into the camp, eager to catch a glimpse at what had caused the disturbance. 

Jacob's heart sank in his chest as he seen the damage, the side of the small hill seemed to of had its face sheered away by the explosion, the tons and tons of rocks sliding down and completely burying the one and only entrance to the mine. 

"Oh Jesus Christ." Jacob swore, his voice catching in his throat. 

Thomas pushed up the front of his hat as he pressed his palm to his forehead, staring in disbelief. 

"This was no accident, that was an explosion damnit! This wasn't some natural landslide." Jacob clenched his teeth.

By now a crowd had gathered behind the two lawmen, cries of shock and outrage poured from within, a few women weeping as some of the men respectfully pulled off their hats and clutched them to their chests. 

Jacob began to pace, his eyes darting quickly around, his mind scanning through all of the possibilities faster and faster. "Thomas, take two men and search the eastern part of the camp, look for tools, shovels, pickaxes, anything we can use to start digging. 

"Right sheriff!" Thomas turned and pointed to the two nearest men. "Mr. Johnson, Mr. Levy, you heard the sheriff, let's git!"

The three men dashed off as the sheriff again surveyed the damage. "Mr. Mayor! Mayor Bradford!" Jacob turned, shouting into the crowd. 

"The Mayor was down in the mines! With the people sent by Silver Sun!" Called back a man in the crowd.

Thomas returned a few moments later, he and the men were empty handed, the deputy shaking his head. "We couldn't find a damn thing in the store houses or the sheds; it's like all the tools and equipment are gone sheriff."

Jacob turned and stepped up onto a crate as he looked out over the crowd. It was loud as a hundred or more people were trying to speak at once, some louder than others, the gathering becoming more and more restless by the moment. 

"Be quiet!" The sheriff barked loudly, his hands in the air as he tried to call for order. 

After a few moments Thomas drew his gun and pointed it up into the air, firing a single, very loud shot. This caught the attention of the crowd which stilled almost immediately. Satisfied, the deputy holstered his weapon and winked up at the sheriff. 

"There could be 200 or more men trapped down inside of that mine. Honest, hardworking men with families waiting for them. We have to assume that, for the moment they are alive and trying to dig their way out. Well I aim to help them."

"We can't dig them out of there! They'll all die in a matter of hours if they aren't dead already!" Called one man. 

"There aren't enough tools to go around; there is no way sheriff, just no way!" Cried another. 

"Mr. Stone! Mr. Stone step forward!" Jacob called out, scanning the crowd as a tall, broad shouldered man with thinning brown hair stepped from the gathering. He was the town's only hardware merchant. 

"Sheriff?"

"Open your supply of lumber to the town and you will be compensated. Take as many men as you need and start building beams and braces. If we ever get to diggin' we'll need to support and brace the rocks so it doesn't just slide in and bury our work every few feet."

The man nodded and turned, pushing his way through the crowd, a handful of people following him as they dashed back towards the shop to begin work. 

"I need everyone to scour the town for anything that can be used for digging. Spades, picks, hell even buckets to form a line and haul away the rocks. Someone needs to go fetch the Doc and help him set up here, if we do get through to the other side, we can expect to find wounded, if not dead..." Jacob turned and looked back over the small mountain of rubble and shook his head, his expression grim. 

An idea struck him and he turned back to the crowd. "As of this moment, Thomas is the acting Sheriff and in charge. Find whatever implements you can and he will organize things here!" The sheriff leapt down off of the crate and headed into the gathering back towards the main street of the town. 

"Where are you going Jacob?" Called Thomas as he hurried to catch up.

"I'm taking a horse and riding to the next town, it'll be a few hours, but I should be able to rouse some help. Bring back some men and tools, it might be too late by then, or, God willing, just in time." 

Jacob strode into the livery and hastily began to saddle his mare. With practiced ease he laid out the saddle blankets, the saddle and tack and fastened it in place before plucking a bridle and set of reins from a hook on the adjacent wall. Thomas had vanished while the sheriff saddled up and returned quickly carrying a double barrel shotgun in a long saddle boot, gleaming with fresh oil. Its cartridges were loaded with rock salt, an incredibly painful, but mostly non-lethal alternative to standard, deadly ammunition.

Both the sheriff and his deputy had at various times been forced to draw down on and kill a man, but only when it couldn't be avoided. A stern warning and public walloping seemed to serve justice well enough, with the salt rock charges and god forbid, regular shells in reserve should things get too far out of hand. 

Thomas passed the shotgun over to Jacob who attached it to his saddle, the deputy then passing over a large canteen filled with water which Jacob promptly slung over his saddle pommel. Thomas walked side by side with Jacob as he led the mount outside and quickly climbed atop it, his boots fitting snug in the stirrups as he gripped the reins tightly in both hands. 

"Do what you can Thomas, I'll be back soon." Jacob sighed, nodding to his longtime friend and deputy. 

"Anything else you want me to do while you're gone?" Thomas asked. 


Skeleton Cowboys



"Yeah. Pray." With that, Jacob spurred his mount and the horse bolted off out of the stables and on towards the open desert.

 

Chapter 2

The noon sun was already scorching hot. The collar and back of Jacob's shirt were well soaked with moisture as the salty sweat beaded down his forehead and stung his eyes. The lawman winced, but continued on. His eyes were narrowed to lessen the stinging and to focus on the terrain ahead, everything, down to the last pebble and speck of sand seemed to be emitting a dizzying heat shimmer that rose up like a blurry wall ahead of the sheriff. 

"Almost there Applejack, almost there!" Jacob said gently, giving his mare a reassuring pat on the neck. Horses were intelligent creatures; they would remember kindness from a rider, and likewise any less than caring hand that was laid on them. This is what gave horses and their riders and affinity for one another. If you treated your mount well, it would treat you well. 

If you treated your mount poorly... 

Well, you were more likely to end up on your ass in the dirt than at your intended destination. Applejack's shod hooves kicked up a trail of dust in her wake as she galloped across the barren desert plain. Already the plains were giving way to sandy hillocks and the distant outcropping of rocky hills and the odd box canyon that indicated that they were nearing the town of Redding. 

By his best guess, he was still, at this pace, a good half an hour's ride from the edge of town. His counterpart in Redding was a tall, fair-haired man named Deckard. It had been a couple of months since he had last seen Sheriff Deckard, but he and the lawman from Redding had gotten along well enough in the times they met with one another. Avalon being as remote as it were, with no train or telegraph wires in place yet, they were isolated from the rest of the world. Forcing them to rely on travelers and the flow of workers in and out of the town to bring news from abroad. 

However, Deckard was a man who was as courteous as he was fair. Whenever there was a problem with road agents, fugitives or the odd stickup gang, Deckard would always send one of his deputies on the ride to Avalon to keep Sheriff Foster appraised of any danger that might affect his town. It was a professional kindness that Foster wouldn't expect from just anyone, but Sheriff Deckard was a good man, with a genuine interest in the well-being of others. 

Jacob's train of thought was interrupted by a thunderous report. A shot rang out, loud like an explosion as it echoed through the hills and small canyons. Applejack reared and kicked her front legs and Jacob scrambled to keep from being thrown from the saddle as the mare whinnied and bucked. Jacob clung on for dear life, his eyes frantically darting around the hillocks and outcroppings, looking for signs of where the shot came from. 

Applejack calmed, if only a little bit and Jacob shifted the reins to his left hand, his cocked .45 army revolver quickly appearing in his right. There was another report and Applejack's left flank was hit, the wound spraying out a small geyser of blood, the wound opening up just inches from Jacob's leg as blood splashed onto the sheriff. The mare bucked and fell over, Jacob barely diving from the saddle at the last minute as he hit the ground hard on his right shoulder. 

Dazed for a moment, the sheriff clawed for his sidearm which he had dropped in the fall. He plucked it from the dirt and dove behind a short outcrop of boulders at the base of a short, rocky hill. "Son of a bitch where are you?!" Jacob spat as he checked his revolver, making sure the barrel wasn't jammed or blocked by dirt from the fall. 

Something that loud, paired with the delay between shots... It had to be a muzzle loader. 

That would explain the power of the shot, the loud report and the delay. Jacob didn't like being shot at, with anything, but at least it wasn't someone with a repeater. And for that, he was grateful. His back pressed against the outcrop, Jacob slowly turned and dared a glance over the top of the rocks he was using for cover. 

Another thunderous shot rang out almost immediately and Jacob dropped down, eyes clenched shut as small pebbles and fragments of rock peppered his face, the earthen shrapnel the result of a round that had nearly got him in the face. 

"That's a goddamned buffalo rifle!" Jacob growled to no one in particular. 

The right side of his face stung and he blinked the debris from his eye lashes, happy to find that the sharp shards of stone hadn't cost him an eye, only bloodied his cheek a bit. Jacob looked frantically around, the next cover was 30 feet away, and there seemed to only be one shooter. He glanced around the corner of the rocks and then darted his head back to safety, he had to make sure that the shooter wasn't just pinning him down while men moved in on foot to finish him off.

On a gamble, Jacob pulled off his hat and twirled it around by the band with one finger before he tossed it off into the open on his right: almost immediately a shot rang out, kicking up a splash of sand and pebbles on the ground near the hat. Jacob was on his feet immediately; his arms pumping as he frantically ran to the more copious cover of a small hill. 

He skid on his boots and then dove the last couple feet, breathing a sigh of heavy relief that he had made it intact. Keeping his belly flat to the ground, Jacob shimmied slowly up the side of the dirt hill, his gleaming revolver clenched in a knuckle white grip as he moved quietly, his ears straining for any sign of movement. 

He heard the loud pops and cracks of gunfire, both from side arms and long arms, the spaced out shots turning into a cacophony of gunshots across the small plain. Jacob dared another peek and seen a trio of riders, one stationary with a repeater firing at the crest of a distant hill as the other two riders, revolvers in hand, rode to the left and right to flank and get behind the shooter. 

The whole ordeal was over in moments and a figure with a large muzzle loader, a .50 cal buffalo rifle as Jacob had guessed, appeared at the top of the hill, the two riders firing into man who fell and tumbled down the side of the hill, stopping motionless at the base. The stationary rider turned his mount slowly in the direction of where Jacob was hiding; the man's rifle was held at the ready but pointed off to the side, for now. 

Jacob caught the glint of a polished tin star on the chest of the first rider, and then again on the other two men as they trotted around the base of the small hill, cautiously joining the first. Keeping his revolver in a tight grip but down at his side, Jacob stood slowly, his left arm extended high in the air, the hand open in the universal gesture of a friendly greeting. 

He came into view of the riders who halted at the sight of him, but after a few tense moments the rider with the tin star and repeater returned the gesture, his hand held up high as he nudged his mount forward, trotting slowly towards Jacob and the small hill. 

Breathing a soft sigh of relief, Jacob slowly walked down the short hill and towards the riders who still held their weapons at the ready but kept them respectfully lowered, Jacob replied in kind. 

"Howdy!" The rider called out, his voice was deep and clear. 

"Howdy!" Jacob called back. He slowly holstered his piece and the three other lawmen seemed to relax noticeably. Jacob moved the back of his hand up and smeared some of the blood off of his cheek, the numerous small cuts stinging like fire now that the adrenaline was receding, the pain slowly materializing. 

"Are you alright there stranger? You aren't shot are you?" The rider asked, the two parties had closed the distance, stopping some 10 feet from one another where they could more closely regard each other. 

The three men on horseback were clad similarly in black pants with vest covered white shirts and simple ties. None of the men were wearing jackets on account of the heat, but all wore hats on their heads, and stars pinned to their breasts. All three of the men had a bit of grey stubble on their jaws, their faces unwashed; obviously they had been on the trail for a spell. 

"I'm not shot, no sir." Jacob shook his head, his voice catching, his throat suddenly feeling parched. "My name is Jacob Foster, I am the Sheriff of Avalon, a few miles off yonder." Jacob jerked his head back roughly in the direction he had come from. "Are you and your men alright? That was quite an exchange."

The rider smiled and nodded. "We're just fine Sheriff Foster, just fine. I'm Marshal Taylor, this here is Marshal Smith, and Marshal Jackson. The man shooting at you was a stubborn ass by the name of Lawrence Callahan, but he won't be bothering nobody no more." Taylor leaned slightly to the side and spit from the corner of his mouth into the sand. 

"What brings you out this way if you don't mind my askin', Sheriff?" Taylor sat upright in his saddle as he tucked the rifle away into an oiled leather saddle boot just near his left leg. 

"We've had a disaster in our town. There was an explosion on the hillside and it buried the entrance to the silver mine. If that weren't bad enough, there were over 200 men down there pulling a special shift for company inspectors." Jacob pushed up the brim of his rawhide hat and mopped the sweat from his brow, sighing heavily. The ride and the heat had already taken their toll, and he hadn't even made it to Redding yet. 

"Jesus Christ, that's terrible." Taylor shook his head as Jacob produced his watch and regarded it for a moment. 

"This was a few hours ago, only happened this morning. Only we have shit for tools and supplies, and hell, labor for that matter. I organized what I could and left my Deputy to get things under way. We have a good rapport with Redding and I was hoping to get whatever man power and as many picks, shovels and whatever else I could bring back. It could be hours before I get back to town with help, if any... But damnit I can't sit idle and do nothing!" Jacob growled, feeling a strange anger welling up in him, boiling and threatening to spill over before settling down once more.

"Well it looks like your mount is dead. Grab your things and we'll get you to Redding fast enough." Taylor nodded to Jacob who turned and strode back over to his mount, pulling his large canteen which he uncorked and gratefully took several long, greedy gulps from before slinging it over his shoulder. He grabbed the light saddle bag and the boot with the shotgun in it and handed the belongings up to Smith who secured them on his saddle before Jacob climbed up to ride with the smaller Marshal Jackson. 

"For whatever it's worth Foster, if you hadn't drawn that mean bastard Callahan out, well he might have gotten the drop on us and killed one or maybe all of us. So for that I thank you. And for whatever good it will do, me and my men will ride back to Avalon with you and help with your rescue." Taylor nodded seriously as he extended his hand to Jacob from the mount beside him. 

"That's damn good of you Marshal, I appreciate it." Jacob replied, grasping the man's hand firmly. 

As they doubled back around the base of the small hill, Jacob got a look at the man who had tried to kill him. The corpse was sprawled out in the dirt, its eyes still open, sightlessly gazing up into the brilliant blue sky. The man was haggard, looking like he had been up for a month, his skin pale with an unhealthy glow. The man's simple clothing were dirty and tattered, the buffalo rifle on the other hand, looked well kept, pristine even. 

"What did this poor son of a bitch do anyways?" Jacob glanced up from the body across to Marshal Taylor. 

It was the grizzled, slight figure of Marshal Smith who answered. "He wasn't right in his head."

"Insane?" Jacob perked a brow. 

"Came into town one night, raving about seeing demons out in the desert. He sure looked spooked, but wouldn't calm down, kept raving for days about monsters in the desert, an' how the end of the world was comin'." Marshal Smith slowly shook his head and then spit from the corner of his mouth. 

"Then what happened?"

"He went into the schoolhouse one morning and got a hold of some little ones. Kept on saying it was the only way to save them. He pulled out a blade and set to work cutting on a young boy, the others ran out with the school mistress into the streets screaming for help. Well by the time anyone got there it was too late to save the little one, and ol' Callahan was already gone." Marshal Smith sighed, his grey-stubbled jaw clenching so tightly that it looked like the bone beneath the prickly flesh was made from iron. 

"Then we followed him out here. For someone who was out of their damned mind, he sure was difficult to track. It took us a couple days to find him." Marshal Jackson explained, shifting in the saddle in front of Jacob. 

"I know it's terrible what he did Marshal Taylor... But you don't intend to leave his body for the crows do you? It's just not done." Jacob stated, glancing down again at the pale corpse with the deranged expression frozen on its face. 

"He may have been a son of a bitch, but now he is dead and its God's place to pass judgment on him. I know it's not proper, but seeing as we have you now and an emergency to deal with, we'll send someone to collect the body when we get back. You have my word." Marshal Taylor nodded. 

Jacob nodded in agreement and the men set out, the trio of horses kicking up a roiling cloud of tan dust in their wake as they galloped at speed towards the town of Redding. 

The ride was short; setting a hard pace they had entered the edge of the settlement less than an hour later. 

The muddy streets of Redding were broad and crowded with people. At the far end of town was the sizable railroad platform, the dock laden with goods piled up to be shipped out and crates of goods and supplies being imported into the town. People were coming and going everywhere and their mounts had to trot very slowly as they made their way for the stables through the crowds. 

Jacob glanced around, there was a double row of buildings making up the main drag, and in front of those were tents pitched to form small, makeshift shops and sleeping quarters. While no stranger to the hustle and bustle of a booming town such as this, it had been over a year and some change since Jacob had been in a city so crowded. He had been so use to the quiet, quaint little streets of Avalon with their relatively small population, that he was taken aback briefly by the sights, smells and sounds generated by the moving sea of people. 

Jackson reined in his mount and spoke, which caused Jacob to snap out of his mind's wanderings. "The Mayor's office is over there, why don't you head in. I'll go over to stables and get you fixed up with a rental mount."

"I appreciate it, thank you." Jacob said, sliding down off the saddle behind Jackson who nodded and then nudged his mount forward once again. 

Likewise, Marshal Taylor dismounted and handed the reins of his horse off to Marshal Smith who continued on to the stables, leaving Taylor and Jacob to their business. 

"I'll be sure to mention your help with taking down Callahan to the Mayor, I am sure he will appreciate it and it will encourage him to aid our case." Taylor explained as they crossed the broad, crowded dirt street and headed towards the Mayor's office.

"Help? Hell, all I did was get shot at, Marshal Taylor." Jacob shrugged. 

"Well he had to sit still to shoot at you, so you helped." Taylor grinned as they approached the large, hand carved double doors with the frosted glass panels that led into the city's official offices. 

"That's what troubles me." Jacob scratched his slightly prickly chin. 

"How's that?"

"To put it bluntly Marshal, that man looked like a sack of horseshit and smelled about as bad. I've never seen eyes so red and bloodshot, and his skin... I don't know how the man was up and walking around, much less taking crack shots at me across the plain." Jacob stopped and turned his to glance at Taylor who was standing to the left of Jacob's shoulder. 

"And yet, he was." Taylor sighed, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he rolled over the events of the past several days in his mind and then slowly shook his head. "Who knows Sheriff? I've seen things in my time, people who were on the drink or the crazy weed. Made even calm, slight fellas wide-eyed and bushy-tailed and meaner than a rattlesnake someone just stepped on."

Jacob considered it for a moment and then merely nodded, saying nothing as the two proceeded into the city's business office. The two men removed their hats, holding them in their left hands as they approached the broad, cluttered desk of a nearby clerk. A bespectacled man wearing a neatly maintained pin-stripe suit looked up as the two men approached, narrowing his eyes for a moment before he glanced at Taylor, recognition kicking in. 

"Ah welcome back Marshal! How was your ride?" The balding man stood and eagerly shook hands with Marshal Taylor, completely ignoring Jacob. 

"We took care of Lawrence. However, something else has come up. We need to speak to the Mayor, right now." Taylor explained, shaking the clerk's hand for a moment before having to pull his hand back, the clerk staring blankly up at Taylor. 

"Ahhh yesss good yes, good... The Mayor cannot receive you I am afraid." 

"And why is that?" Taylor asked. 

"He's with company I am afraid." Replied the clerk. 

"With all respect, time is an issue here, if you could drop the fuckin' games and get us the Mayor, I would appreciate it." Jacob growled, placing his hands on the edge of the desk as he glared at the clerk who merely recoiled. 

The clerk stood and roughly adjusted his vest before storming off. Clearly he was offended but said nothing as he vanished behind a set of doors at the rear of the public offices. 

Taylor regarded Jacob with an amused grin but said nothing. 

Clearing his throat, Jacob licked his lips and sighed. "I apologize for my display. I'm afraid my concern is wearing on me."

"Oh no, by all means. Your display did wonders for my mood. I don't mind watching the little shit squirm." Taylor grinned and the two men had to keep from chuckling. 

A moment later, the clerk returned, his eyes darting around, his forehead glazed with tiny rivulets of perspiration. "Ahh. The Mayor is preoccupied with a Ranger I am afraid." The clerk stammered. 

"Ranger?" Jacob and Taylor asked in unison before glancing at one another and then back to the clerk. 

"Ranger from where?" Taylor scowled down at the little clerk. 

"Louisiana way, down on the bayou by the way he talks." 

"Louisiana way." Taylor grinned. "Well seeing as I am the law around here, it's only proper I welcome my counterpart from another state. Sheriff, care to join me?" Taylor looked back to Jacob.

"I'd be delighted Marshal, delighted." Jacob nodded once to the clerk and then followed the other lawman towards the back of the first floor. 

They went through a pair of double doors and found themselves in a corridor, the back, private offices that belonged to the city politicians themselves. Making a left and heading straight to the end, the pair quickly found themselves at the Mayor's office. Even from out in the hall, the pair of lawmen could hear raised voices, an argument between the Mayor and his guest. 

Taylor shrugged, he wouldn't feel quite right about eavesdropping, but stepping right in and making his presence known suited him just fine. Taylor reached for the knob and twisted it, the pair moving into the office to see the Mayor seated at his desk. In front of him was a tall, very handsome man with long brown hair held together with a black velvet band at the back of his head. 




Skeleton Cowboys



He was wearing a dark red shirt and black pants, a gleaming gun rode on each hip and Jacob could see the wicked, curved blade of a long knife sheathed at the man's back. He was very pale, despite being someone who traveled outdoors, and despite this, the man's clothes were in perfect shape, his boots shining, his face cleanly shaven. Jacob even caught the scent of a light cologne. 

Something about the man pegged Jacob as being soft, though he had to admit the soft Cajun accent was endearing. 

"Dis be my point mon ami! I am searchin' for the man from the schoolhouse!" The Cajun slapped his hands on the Mayor's desk, glaring down at the fat, stubby little politician. 

"Lawrence Callahan? He's been dealt with." Taylor announced as they entered the office, both men turning to face them. The Mayor in particular wearing a relieved expression. 

The Cajun perked a brow, his bright blue eyes regarding the two men who had just came in. "Ah. I reckon from your expression that you killed him, didn't you mon ami?"

"I'm afraid we had no choice." Nodded Taylor. 

"Mon dieu this is not good, not good at all." The Cajun frowned, his brow furrowing as he pushed his fingers back through his hair. 

"Marshal Taylor, this here is Patrick Bordeaux, a Ranger from Louisiana way." The Mayor gestured to the angry Cajun. 

"Please, my friends call me Peppa." Pepper extended his hand, shaking quickly with Taylor and then Jacob.

"Pepper? Why do they call you that?" Jacob asked, perking a brow. 

"Cuz we Cajuns, we like things spicy." Pepper grinned. 

The Mayor shook his head and reached for a tumbler of whiskey as the trio talked. 

"I'm Marshal Taylor of Redding, this here is Sheriff Jacob Foster of Avalon." Taylor said, introducing his companion. 

"Ooo. Marshals and Sheriffs and Rangers, oh my. Wonder jus' what is so awful that we three end up in the same place at 'da same time." Pepper scratched his chin before moving his hands to rest casually on his hips. 

"Callahan shot at us out in the hills; we had to put him down. Marshal Smith is sending someone out to collect the body, but we have another concern Mayor Quentin." Taylor walked slowly over to the desk. "This man here is Sheriff Foster from Avalon." 

Jacob nodded to the Mayor as he stepped up beside Taylor, offering his hand to the Mayor which was quickly shook. "Ah yes, Sheriff Foster, what can I do for you Sir?"

"Mr. Mayor, this morning there was an explosion at the mine in Avalon. Right now over two hundred people are trapped underground and we don't have the tools, or even enough people to mount a rescue. I was hoping you could lend our town aid, Sheriff Deckard knows me and could-" 

"Sheriff Deckard? Deckard has been missing for 3 weeks." The Mayor cut in. 

Jacob was taken aback for a moment. "Missing? What happened?" 

"There were reports of a caravan of traders vanishing in one of the canyons to the south, along the river. Deckard rode out one morning to investigate and never came back. Marshal Taylor here and his men rode into town and mounted a search; they've been to the canyon five times and found nothing." Explained Mayor Quentin. 

"We've been there every few days but found no trace of the Sheriff or any caravan. It's been nearly a month now... In the meantime we stuck around, chasing bounties and keeping the law until we could either find the Sheriff, or, well, find a new Sheriff." Taylor confirmed. 

"Jesus this day keeps getting worse and worse." Jacob brought his hand up to his forehead, sighing heavily. "I'll personally look into it when I have the time. Deckard is a friend, and I know if I were in the same situation he wouldn't sit idle. But Mayor, we need aide. I'd be willing to pay for the use of any tools we borrow and make a deposit against their safe return."

"I'll make the arrangements right now and have you sign a paper Sheriff. I can provide tools, but you'll have to find your own manpower. If you'd like to take volunteers, I could make an announcement on your behalf." 

Jacob nodded. "I'd appreciate it Sir. "

"Were they blastin' in the mine, Sheriff Foster?" Pepper asked suddenly. He was leaning against wall nearest to the door, rubbing his chin as his eyes narrowed, the man thinking intently about something. 

"No. The mine was already in operation, all the shafts had been excavated and things were under way. There shouldn't have been blasting of any kind going on." Jacob replied. 

"Mighty curious mon ami, mighty curious." Pepper rubbed his chin and then shook his head, pushing back off of the wall. "Well, the best of luck with that, mon ami. I hope you find someone still alive when you return." Pepper extended his hand and quickly shook with Jacob. He gave a nod to Taylor and then slipped out of the office, ignoring the Mayor completely. 

It took less than an hour for a pair of wagons to be loaded with the supplies needed for the rescue. Jacob signed a promissory note against the cost of the supplies, the order being backed by the town of Avalon. Likewise, he would organize a collection among the business owners to pay for the volunteers coming to dig out the mine. An announcement was made and they soon had about 50 men for the trip back. 

Jacob settled on top of his new horse, a strong looking palomino and made his way to the front of the procession making ready to leave. "You should take the northern road. Cutting across the plain would be a bad idea with the wagons, the sand can get deep in patches and we're in enough trouble as it is." Jacob said to the driver of the lead wagon. 

"The northern road takes you through the hills and around to the back of the town where the mines are. Just head up the hard track and past the mission, you really can't miss it." Jacob reached for his canteen, taking a quick swig as he regarded the wagon's driver. 

"Sure thing Sheriff, my crew is pretty reliable, and if we lose a wheel we got plenty of labor riding with us." The older man grinned with a smile that was missing patches of teeth as he took up the reins to his horses. "Yeeeeehaw! Let's move out!" The driver snapped his reins and slowly the procession stirred to life. 

Jacob was joined by Marshal Taylor, the two agreed that they would ride hard back to town, leaving Smith and Jackson to ride with and protect the wagon train and workers. 

"It might be sunset before they reach Avalon." Taylor remarked as the two kicked their mounts into action, leaving the procession behind as they headed back towards the foothills that led to the open desert. 

"If there is air, they can last, but who knows how deep they are buried in that goddamned mine? I won't kid myself into believing it will be easy, but we have to believe that it will work." Jacob glanced at Taylor and the Marshal could see the grim concern etched into the Sheriff's face.

"Well then, sooner we get there, the sooner we can get started." Taylor kicked his mount and Jacob followed suit, the two dashing out across the plain.

A few short hours later and the two men were nearing the edge of Avalon. There was still plenty of daylight left, and Jacob squinted up into the air, seeing numerous black crows circling high above the town in the distance. 

They were still a mile out, and all looked normal in the town, though both men could smell the scent of smoke thick in the air, even though none was in sight. Jacob shifted uncomfortably in his saddle and spurred his mount harder, pushing it as fast as he could. 

As they trotted into the edge of town and onto the main thoroughfare, it was obvious that something was very, very wrong. 

"Is there something you aren't telling me Sheriff?" Taylor asked as he glanced around, one hand dropping to rest on the butt of his revolver. 

The two advanced at a very slow trot as they surveyed the destruction. All around, shops and homes had their windows shattered out. Blood was streaked and splattered on the large shards of glass still imbedded in their frames and splashed over the doors and boardwalks under the covered porches. 

The streets were completely deserted, the still desert air silent, save for the crows overhead and the squeaking of the welcome sign rocking back and forth gently in the breeze. 

Jacob went for his gun, pulling it free from the tooled leather holster at his hip as he glanced nervously around. "It wasn't like this when I left!" 

"I don't imagine so..." Taylor had likewise drew his weapon, edging his mount closer to Jacob's as they glanced around the street and at the damaged buildings. 

Reluctantly, Jacob slid down off of his mount, leading it to a nearby post where he tethered it, Taylor following suit. Jacob pushed his gun back into its holster and pulled the double barrel shotgun from his saddle boot, Taylor too electing to holster his sidearm in favor of his repeater. 

Side by side, the two lawmen headed into the ruins of Avalon. 

 

Chapter 3

"Take the left side of the street, I'll head up the right. Don't go into any buildings, just peer in. If you see something, whistle real loud and I'll do likewise." Jacob instructed hurriedly as the two lawmen parted to sweep opposite sides of the street. 

Jacob moved slowly forward up the dusty boardwalk, his steps slow and light as the gaping double barrels of the sawn-off shotgun pushed ahead of him, his finger resting lightly on the double triggers. 

He pushed his body up against the wall outside of the general goods store and then darted his head out, stealing a glance through the shattered front window. The stench that crept up his nostrils caused him to jerk head away, gagging and coughing hard as he fought to keep from vomiting on the spot. 

Likewise across the street, Marshal Taylor was holding a maroon handkerchief tight over his mouth and nostrils, his face glazed and pale. The two caught each other's eye and Taylor slowly shook his head. One hand gripping the shotgun tightly and the other covering his mouth and nose, Jacob peered into the general goods store, his eyes narrowing as he glanced around. 

There was blood splattered and pooled everywhere, much like out on the boardwalk. The foulest stench of decay the Sheriff had ever smelled lingered in the air like a heavy fog, yet, despite this, there was no gore or signs of any corpses, whole or otherwise. 

"Lord Jesus..." Jacob gasped, turning his head away as he spit mouthful of bitter stomach bile, his head feeling light and dizzy as he gripped his scatter gun with two hands and continued up the boardwalk. 

Each shop was the same: splintered door frames, shattered window panes and blood splattered and pooled everywhere. But still, there were no bodies to be found. Jacob found himself increasingly more agitated. Mere hours ago the town had been alive and bustling with activity. 

Tradesmen were providing their services and the doors to the shops were open, the porches swept. What the hell had happened in such a short time that would clear out the town like this?

A cold chill jolted through Jacob's very core as he remembered leaving his wife and daughter alone that morning, he turned around suddenly just as he heard the loud click of Marshal Taylor cocking back the firing hammer of his double action revolver, the barrel staring Jacob right in the face.

"Where are the bodies?" Taylor asked quietly, his jaw clenched, hand steady as he gripped his revolver. Not that he had to be any sort of marksman to hit Jacob from this range. 

"When I left this morning there were people here! The town wasn't like this!" Jacob's breathing slowed, his fists clenched tight on the scatter gun which he held pointed away from Taylor, not daring to move it.

"Where is your crew?" Taylor demanded.

"Crew?"

"Yes! Crew! You had to have people help you clean out an entire town and not leave so much as a fuckin' corpse! You had help, where are they?"

"What in the hell are you raving about Taylor?! It wasn't like this when I left this morning! I don't know what's going on any more than you do!" Jacob barked back at the man, his jaw clenched in anger. 

"Bullshit! What was your plan? You cleaned this place out, now you call for aide and then what? Bushwhack the wagon train coming up here to help you and make off with all the goods?" 

"You're out of your fuckin' mind Marshal!" Jacob spat. He was nearly tempted to put a double shot of rock salt into the belligerent lawman, but the gaping barrel and the .45 caliber round in the chamber behind it once again stayed his hand. 

"Give me the scatter gun." Taylor said grimly, the tone of his voice making it obvious that he was telling Jacob, not asking. 

The Marshal reached out with his free hand and grabbed the barrel of the gun which Jacob released without a struggle. His mind was racing now as he struggled to understand just what in the hell was going on here. 

"Now turn away and unfasten your gun belt." Taylor ordered, gesturing with the barrel of his gleaming, nickel-plated sidearm.

"Damnit! You're makin' a mistake here Marshal!" Jacob growled but reluctantly unfastened his belt, letting the belt, ammo and holster dangle from his hand at his side. 

Marshal Taylor snatched the belt and slung it over one shoulder before nudging Jacob forward with the barrel of his gun. "Let's go. Move slowly, you so much as glance sideways at me and I'll put one in your skull. Savvy? 

"I savvy. You better pray your mistake doesn't get us both killed." Jacob gritted his teeth, arms held loose at his sides as he walked out from under the soothing shade of the boardwalk and back into the glare of the unforgiving sun.

Jacob's eyes never ceased moving as he swept everything in sight, but as they continued it was nothing more than he already seen. Not so much as a corpse was left, what the hell kind of bandits raided a town and didn't leave any bodies behind? Jacob shook his head, looking up as they neared the front of the Sheriff's office. Like the rest of the buildings, the front window was shattered, white-frosted glass littering the front porch and entry way to the building. 

"Inside." Taylor ordered, and carefully Jacob stepped through the front door of his own office, his eyes darting around at the damage. His desk was turned over, as was Thomas' desk, and sheets of once ordered and organized papers now canvassed the entire floor. 

"You're staying here until I can have a look around." Taylor gestured towards an empty cell and Jacob sighed, shaking his head. 

"I don't know what the hell is going on here!" Jacob tried to plead with the man one last time. 

"And I'm sick of hearin' of it! Now get in the damn cell!" Taylor barked, gesturing with his gun. 

With a grim frown the Sheriff reluctantly stepped into his own jail cell, his hands grasping the cold iron bars as he pulled the door shut in front of him. The iron lock clicked loudly, like a bone snapping, as he was locked inside. 

"I'll be back for you before long. If you're responsible, by God you will dance at the end of a rope." Taylor set the scatter gun and belt on the bench near the door before he headed out back into the street, his revolver gripped in his hand as he went to retrieve his repeater. 

Foster sighed heavily and slumped forward against the cool iron bars of the cell, closing his eyes tightly. He caught his breath, struggling to slow his racing thoughts and calm himself. With difficultly, he pushed the fear that bordered on panic from his mind, opening his eyes to see Marshal Taylor stalking off into an alley between the livery and blacksmith's shop. 

"Lock me in my own cotton-pickin' jail." Foster snorted and shook his head as he reached into his left boot, palming a long, iron key which he immediately used to unlock the door to his cell. 

He strode across the room to a small stand in the corner and lifted a heavy, enameled pitcher full of water and drank deeply from it. The cool water soothed his parched throat, the cold liquid splashing around in the hot, hungry core of his stomach, easing his hunger somewhat as he set his mind to other matters.

Rummaging around in one of the drawers of Thomas' overturned desk, Foster found a small, white canvas satchel and untied the drawstring, pulled a single piece of tough, dry jerky from the bag and promptly stuck it into his mouth. 

Foster collected his gun belt and buckled it around his hips before he moved over to a cabinet set against the wall to the far left of the room. Gnawing on the tough jerky, Foster unlocked the cabinet and pulled out a small lever-action shotgun with a hand-tooled leather shoulder strap attached to it. There were a dozen loops along the strap. The dozen loops each filled with a gleaming brass shotgun round, rounds that weren't loaded with rock salt. 

He checked the action on shotgun and then slung it over his shoulder, 4 rounds in the shotgun with 12 in reserve. Should be plenty enough to face Taylor, or whoever was out there. Drawing his revolver, Foster cocked the hammer and glanced out the door of the Sheriff's office. 

Seeing no sign of Taylor, Foster slipped outside and made a left into the alley between the Sheriff's office and drug store, making his way to the end of the alley before he turned, heading towards the general direction of the mine while using the buildings for cover. 

He made it up to the first intersection and glanced around before hearing a scream, followed by a shot, and then another shot. Foster dashed out into the street and doubled back, turning back towards the way he had come, towards the direction he had heard the shots and screaming.

The barrel of his revolver probing the air in front of him, Foster ran along the covered porches of the storefronts, weaving around and occasionally leaping over the odd piece of debris or overturned crate of goods. 

Foster neared the edge of town when he stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening in horror at the sight of Marshal Taylor's convulsing body lying at the mouth of a dirt alley. His throat was torn out, the front of his white shirt soaked through with dark red blood. 

His gun was still clutched with a knuckle white grip in his fist, his arms and legs twitching violently as his body jerked and spasmed like a macabre puppet dancing on its strings over an open fire, his eyes glaring wide and sightlessly up at the clear blue sky. 

A man was hunched over just inside the alley, a grotesque, wet sound like ravenous pigs feeding from a trough emanated from the mouth of the man as he devoured a chunk of dripping, bloody flesh that had moments ago been the Marshal's throat. 

"Son of a bitch." Remarked Foster quietly, still in shock at the horrific sight. The feasting man was dressed like any other, though his once immaculate suit was covered with dirt and gore. The dark stains of old, dried blood crossed with the bright, gleaming red of the fresh blood dripping from its chin and hands. 

The man's face, though Foster doubted seriously that the word 'man' described the grotesque, demonic thing masquerading as a man, was a clammy, pallid yellow color. Its eyes glazed over with a jaundice-like hue of a similarly sickly yellow. Even from several paces away Foster was overwhelmed with the nauseating scent of decay and grave rot, the very stench that had permeated throughout the town upon their arrival. 

"D-drop that!" Jacob Foster's voice caught in his throat for a brief moment, but he raised his firearm with a steady hand and sighted down the barrel at the hunched figure. "Grab sky you son-of-a-bitch!"

Foster shuddered as the thing turned and regarded him with vacant eyes. It dropped the handful of gore it was feasting on and opened its mouth wide, a loud, guttural moan issuing forth with an unnatural intensity that echoed through the silent, dusty streets. 

"Grab sky I said!" Foster repeated, his sights staying fixed on the fiendish looking ghoul.




Skeleton Cowboys



In an instant the thing was on its feet, arms outstretched, the gaping mouth open wide and lined with black, jagged teeth as it lunged for Foster with an unnatural quickness. 

"Stop right there!" Foster growled. 

The thing advanced, a continuous, unnatural moan rattling from the back of its throat as it quickly closed the distance between it and the startled lawman. Foster fired his gun, the powerful .45 caliber round slamming into the ghoulish man's torso, causing him to stagger and then stumble backwards as Foster fanned the hammer of his sidearm, rapidly putting a second round right through the thing's heart. 

To Foster's dismay and horror the thing remained standing, seemingly unaffected by the two shots from the powerful gun. It slowly looked down at the two neat, round holes in its chest. Blackened blood flowed from the wounds as the thing looked back up at Foster and growled, lunging forward again as the Sheriff stumbled backwards, firing a third and then fourth round into the unyielding figure of the ghoul. 

The creature reached down and seized Foster by the shoulders, its fingers like strong iron clamps as they gripped and dug into the Sheriff's flesh and squeezed. Foster involuntarily let out a cry of pain as the thing jerked its head forward, going for the Sheriff's throat. Foster responded by swiping the solid butt of his gun across the ghoul's jaw, bashing its head violently to the side as it hissed and growled. 

Again and again the creature's head was jerked back or to the side, only to snap back and try to bite the Sheriff once more. The fingers were digging into Foster's shoulders so ferociously that he was sure, if not for his jacket and shirt, the fiend would be ripping the flesh from his body. The Sheriff tussled with the ghoul, alarmed at how unnaturally strong the thing was. He was quickly tiring of repeatedly bashing the thing in the skull, but for the moment it was all he could do to keep it at bay. 

With an especially powerful swipe of his gun, Foster knocked the thing's head back and up, causing it to look skyward for a moment. Its grip still powerfully tight but easing significantly as its head slowly turned to face the Sheriff, its mouth filled with shards of blackened teeth at it grinned in a grotesque mockery of humor. 

Foster pushed the barrel of his gun up under the thing's chin and pulled the trigger, the top of the creature's head exploding in a shower of blackened blood and rotted flesh. Bones fragmented as they were blown apart, the ghoul's eyes slowly rolling up in their sockets as it released its grip on Foster and slumped to the ground. 

Swaying, dizzy from the exertion, Foster stumbled backwards and fell on his ass, panting for breath as he regarded the mostly headless figure of the man. The stench of decay was ripe and overpowering, so much so that the panting Sheriff couldn't help but be sick; he turned his head quickly and suddenly lurched, vomiting profusely into the sand as he wretched and heaved. 

After a few moments, the violent stomach spasms eased, and Foster brought up the sleeve of his dusty, dirtied coat and wiped the spittle from his lips. Standing on shaky legs, Foster broke open his revolver, the adrenaline from the brief, but intense fight still surging through his body, causing his hands to tremble as he replaced the 4 rounds he had fired from the revolver. 

The chambers of the 6-shooter full once more, Foster cocked the hammer and then cautiously reached out with the toe of his boot, nudging the corpse. The top half of the damn thing's head was missing, but after the fight it had put up, the Sheriff just wanted to be sure. 

Foster pulled himself up to his feet, swaying unsteadily for a moment before he turned his head and spit. The death rot stench of the corpse was putrid to put it mildly, and the scorching heat of the sun was doing nothing to help ease the stench of rotten flesh. 

Rubbing the fine stubble on his chin, Foster narrowed his eyes, squatting down beside the corpse as he regarded the corpse of the strange man. The blood flowing from the bullet holes was thin and runny, and a shade of the darkest black. 

Another thing that struck Foster as being odd was the way the blood seemed to separate as it flowed out. There was a layer of black, sickly blood that stunk to high hell on the bottom, and on top of it was a slimy layer of clear fluid. 

There was a folded up piece of crisp, new paper in Foster's pocket, a shopping list that his wife had made out for him the evening before. Just some heavier things that she wouldn't be able to carry back on her own from the general goods store. Foster winced, trying to control the cold knot of fear in the pit of his stomach as he thought of Kate and little Christie and he removed the piece of paper, carefully dipping one corner of it into the corpse's discharge. 

His eyes squinted slightly as he examined the paper. The tip of the bottom corner was lightly stained with the black, rotted blood, and above that, the paper was soaked through by a transparent, colorless fluid. Foster had to wonder just what it was, something was obviously mixed into the man's blood, but that only raised more questions to the baffled Sheriff. 

Only one thing was for certain - something was terribly wrong in the town of Avalon. 

 

Chapter 4

The unforgiving heat from the sun began to ease in the late afternoon, though it still radiated from the sand and rocks that littered the trail. There were numerous outcroppings and small canyons to pass through on the path through the hills to Avalon, and James Carter was thankful for the merciful break from the oppressive sun that the patches of cool shade offered.

Carter sat on the bench at the head of one of the two supply wagons, the reins to his horse train clutched in his fists as the animals trotted quickly over the open, mostly level ground.

The folk who rode on horseback still preferred a direct line to the town across the desert plain. The soft sand was trickier with wagon wheels; thankfully, there was the path through the hills. As Avalon had no rail access, and no river, lake or sea for ports, they relied on wagons to bring goods in and out of town, making the trail Carter found himself on well cleared and maintained. 

The wagon swayed steadily from side to side as they made their way forward at a respectable pace, the occasional dip or bump jostled the wagons and their riders from time to time. For the most part thought, it was a pleasant ride. Foster had estimated that it would be nearly sun down before the men on the wagons would reach Avalon, but their pace had been brisk and Carter was confident that they would reach the town with hours of daylight to spare. 

"How much farther Big Jim? I gotta take a piss!" One of the volunteer diggers announced loudly, much to the amused laughter of his companions. 

Carter frowned. "If 'n you gotta take a piss do it over the side of the wagon! We ain't stoppin'!" The wagon master barked back at the rowdy laborers. 

There were roughly 20 men riding on horseback, the rest crammed into and hanging from the sides of the two large wagons laden with their supplies. The two Marshals had split up, Smith riding well ahead of the party while Jackson brought up the rear, the two taking up precautionary scouting and defensive positions. One could never be too careful out in the wilderness.

"I guess the notion of hopping in a wagon and going for a little ride is just too much excitement for some folks." Carter frowned, shaking his head. 

A rider clad in a dark blue shirt and a pair of battered, dusty old leather chaps, reined his mount close to the wagon and grinned. "Aw hell, they're just tryin' to rile you up Jim."

The driver grimaced and spit from the corner of his mouth as he glanced sideways at the rider. "Yeah? Well I reckon its workin'! I tell you Roy, this world is goin' right to hell."

Some ways in the distance to the rear, a shot rang out and echoed loudly throughout the hills. A loud, booming crack followed by another and another. The rider beside Big Jim Carter snatched his gun from his holster, cocking the hammer as he turned his head, scanning the rear of the train. 

Carter reached under the wagon's bench and produced a long, double-barreled shotgun. He snapped open the break action to confirm that the scattergun was still loaded and then snapped it shut, his hands tight on the reins as well as the scatter gun as he glanced cautiously at the hills to the left or right.

"That shot came from behind! The Marshal could be in trouble, lets git!" Roy called out, rearing his mount around before spurring it hard, the horse bottling off towards the rear of the train, a number of riders brandishing their weapons as they followed suit. 

The hooves of the nearly 20 horses thundered across the sand, kicking up a large cloud of dust that filled the small canyon from edge to edge as they rode hard back down the path. The rider at the head of the column slowed down after a minute, coming to a gradual stop before the mutilated horse of Marshal Jackson. 

The horses whinnied and nervously dug their hooves into the sand, the smell of blood and something else entirely, frightening the animals to the point that they wanted to turn and flee, the will of their riders be damned. With difficultly, Roy and three other men advanced, their pistols held at the ready as eyes darted nervously around the rocks and outcroppings of the shallow canyon. 

The Marshal was nowhere to be found, his horse, a large spotted pinto, was lying on its side in the soft sand, completely disemboweled. Blood and gore was splattered everywhere, the large animal's intestines pulled from its body and stretched across the ground like a discarded length of pink, glistening rope. 

"Sweet Lord Jesus!" The man pulled the bandana up from around his neck to cover his mouth and nose. 

"No. I don't think he had any hand in this." Roy frowned and he too reached down, pulling a bandana up over his nose and mouth. There was a strange, overpowering stench of decay in the air- a stench that wouldn't be emitted from a freshly killed horse, much less one that had been sitting in the sun for a few days. 

"Where the hell is the Marshal?" One of the men asked nervously. His head jerking from side to side as he anxiously scanned the rim of the canyon above, expecting gunfire to rain down on the party at any moment. 

"Looks like a goddamned bobcat got the horse..." Roy observed as he leaned over his mount and looked for tracks in the soft sand. "The Marshal could have been knocked off, drug away if the cat way big enough-" 

He was cut off as one of the men at the rear of the column screamed, Roy turned around to see what had happened nearly all the horses were struggling under the reins of their riders who were trying harder than ever to keep the animals calm. 

"What the hell was that thing?!" One of the men cried out, several shots cracking loudly and echoing deafeningly loud through the shallow canyon walls as a pair of men fired into the sand beneath them. 

"Whoa! Whoa! What the hell are you doin'?!" Roy called out, rearing his mount and trying to push forward into the cluster of men and horses choked together by the tight space between the canyon walls. 

One of the horses whinnied loudly and then tumbled onto its side, the rider screaming as he was crushed by the horse that thrashed about in the sand. 

"Somebody help Bill! Wait... What the..." One of the other riders cried out as something darted out from the sand and coiled around one of the front legs of his horse. 

A length of seething black matter, like a long obsidian tentacle twisted tightly around the horse's leg, the bone snapping audibly as it too fell to the sand and crushed its rider. The man let out a loud cry of pain, his legs crushed under the bulk of the heavy animal as he struggled vainly to pull himself free. 

Before the man could call out for help, a second black tentacle shot out of the sand and coiled around his throat, muffling his horrified screaming. The tentacle tightened in an instant, like a massive angry hand clutching the man's throat, the tentacle coiling tighter and tighter until the man's neck was quickly and mercifully snapped under the extreme pressure. 

Slowly the tentacle began to drag the corpse into the earth, head first. The other riders were shocked and horrified at what they had just witnessed. Finally, one man pointed his pistol down towards the earth and began to fire at the predatory tentacle. This broke the spell of the horror that froze the other men and a number of others quickly followed suit, firing wildly down at the black mass. 

Shots kicked up small geysers of fine sand into the air, many of the bullets missing the black coils of tentacle entirely and riddling the corpse of the already dead rider. The scent of the fresh, warm human blood splashing down onto the freshly churned soil started a feeding frenzy. 

A dozen more of the wriggling black abominations exploded from the sand and attached to horse and rider alike, pulling them down onto the sand with their fallen comrade. A pair of the tentacles rose up nearly 15 feet in the air, easily towering over the terrified riders. The men fired frantically at the largest pair but to no effect, in fact many missed the tentacles entirely and shot down their own companions in the crossfire.

Roy watched as the two longest tentacles thrashed back and forth, strewing about horse and rider alike as easily as if they were little toy soldiers. He watched in horror as one tentacle darted forward, spearing a man square in the chest and continuing through the other side find the next nearest man, and then another. 

The corpses convulsed and gurgled as they hung like grotesque beads strung around a demonic piece of thread. Roy brought his gun up and screamed, firing it again and again until the hammer fell down onto an empty chamber. The flat loud 'click' with each pull of the trigger did not the stop the man, and he continued to dead fire his pistol as he watched the entire party be torn apart and devoured. 

Paralyzed by fear, he had no time to react as one of the tentacles swiped out and cleanly decapitated him. 

Carter held his scatter gun in trembling hands as he glanced over his shoulder, hearing the prolonged gunfire mixed in with the horrifying, blood chilling screams of men dying. 

"Big Jim! Big Jim! We need to be gettin' the hell outta here!" One of the men growled, grabbing Carter by his suspenders and violently shaking the man back to his senses. 

The old wagon driver was chalk-white as he looked back across at the man. They hadn't seen the slaughter, only heard it, and that was all the convincing Carter needed on the matter. 

"Yaw! Yaw! Come on!" Carter snapped the reins to the horse train and soon they were off and picking up speed. The pair of wagons along with the few remaining horsemen barreling through the small canyon towards the distant town.

Almost everyone carrying a gun had rode back to check on the Marshal with Roy, leaving Big Jim Carter, Marshal Smith and a scant few others the only armed men remaining. Carter was painfully aware of this fact as he snapped the reins, urging his team of horses on faster and faster as he constantly looked over his shoulder for any sign of pursuit, his attention was so sorely divided that he didn't notice the odd churning in the sand up ahead. 

The horses became spooked and slowed, eventually stopping as they struggled against their bonds, trying to pull free from the harnesses that held them to the wagon as they bucked and whinnied. "Come on! Let's git!" Carter barked, snapping the reins. There was no response for the animals as they continued to try to pull free, their frightened whinnying unsettling the other riders, as well as the passengers of the supply wagon. 

"Damnit let's go!" Carter barked, banging the stock of his scattergun against the bench, the horses still not reacting to his commands. 

The other Marshal had taken up position at the rear with the other riders, riding guard lest they were followed by whatever had attacked the rest of their party some ways back. Marshal Smith's mount faced away from the rest of the train, his repeater gripped with both hands as he watched their rear flank. 

Carter was still spooked, but figured the Marshal would open fire the moment he seen anyone coming. It was assurance enough to push the driver off the bench of his wagon, the man quickly moving to the front of the train as the broad, gaping twin barrels of the scatter gun cut a path in front of him. 

Two of the men had reluctantly jumped out of the wagon to help, their desire to get out of the godforsaken canyon overpowering their fear of whatever lie in the canyon behind them. The barrels of the scatter gun swept the ground in unison with Carter's gaze as he strained his eyes, looking for any sign of disturbance that would cause the train to stop. 

There sure as hell wasn't any quicksand, not that the horses would have known to stop, instead they would have ridden right into the patch and found it that way.

"Ah come on Jim! What the hell's the hold up?" One of the men nervously approached Carter and then suddenly screamed out in horror as a gnarled, decayed hand and forearm clad in the tattered remains of soiled, dark clothing exploded from the surface of the soft sand and grasped him by the calf. 

Carter spun at the scream and brought the butt of his scattergun up to his shoulder, the sight of the demonic hand seizing the man from the very depths of hell stayed Carter's hand as he stared in shock and bewilderment at the sight. The tips of the fingers were bare bone, the decayed flesh having peeled back to expose the curved, claw-like talons that had once resembled human fingers, but no longer. 

The man screamed as the talons tore into his flesh, blood welling up from around the wounds and trickling down his leg as the hand squeezed him in a death grip. To the horror of those watching, a second limb sprung out from the soft earth to seize the worker by his other leg. The sudden movement spooked the already horrified Carter who instantly hammered down on the scattergun, giving the man both barrels and blowing his legs clean off at the knees. 

Both of the demonic limbs protruding from the sand continued to grasp the served ruin of the worker's legs as the man dropped to his back, screaming on the ground. His hands vainly clutching his ragged stumps as blood gushed out in a thick, constant torrent onto the hot desert sand.

"My legs! My legs! Oh Jesus no!" The screams of the unfortunate man turned to a indecipherable gurgle as one of the gnarled, talon-tipped fists tore through the center of his chest and emerged out the front, glistening with blood. Slowly the fist unclenched into an open hand, the clawed fingers immediately tearing into the now still and lifeless corpse. 

More of the limbs sprouted from the ground and clutched at the body, ripping off large pieces of bloodied flesh and glistening entrails, only to drag the gory remains off under the sand. 

Somehow, Carter had managed to break open the shotgun, the two hot brass casings ejecting and falling to the ground as he fumbled with violently trembling hands to load another two cartridges into the weapon. The old wagon master barely accomplished the feat, snapping the barrel shut as he took aim and fired, blowing apart a pair of the demonic appendages and reducing them to mangled stumps. 

The Marshal had shouldered his repeater and was firing as quickly as he could while still trying to possess a modicum of accuracy. The bulky .45 rounds tore through wrists and forearms and palms, putting large holes in some of the limbs that continued to emerge from the ground like perverted flowers in a demonic garden. 




Skeleton Cowboys



The repeater was next to useless, the Marshal quickly realized. Putting holes in the sprouting terrors did nothing to slow them; they would have to be obliterated, like Carter had done with the shotgun. The seed of an idea sprouted in the Marshal's mind and he quickly shoved the sturdy repeater back into its saddle boot before grabbing the reins to his mount. 

The pinto suddenly whinnied and rose to its hind legs, pitching the Marshal onto his back in the sand. Smith hit the sand hard on his back and shut his eyes tightly, the impact momentarily knocking the wind out of him before he slowly rolled onto his side. 

Slowly the Marshal rose to his hands and knees in the hot sand, his eyes opening wide as he caught a glimpse of another of the gnarled, clawed hands, just seconds before it lunged forward and ripped his eyes out. 

***

Sheriff Foster looked up towards the distant hills and narrowed his eyes. He could hear the distant gunfire, the way it echoed among the hills and through the shallow box canyons made it difficult to judge just how far off it was. 

"The workers! Damnit!" Foster growled through clenched teeth. His two-handed grip on the scatter gun went knuckle white, and for a moment, he nearly succumbed to the urge to dash off into the hills and help the supply train and whatever danger it was facing. 

Foster quickly calmed himself, realizing that even if he had ran off on foot, whatever was happening would be over by the time he arrived. He was calmer, but no less angry as he resumed his door-to-door search of the town. After killing the strange man that had killed Marshal Taylor, Foster had a made a beeline directly for his own home, only to find it empty. Like the rest of Avalon. 

There was no sign of either Kate or Christie. While there were no signs of violence - broken windows and blood in the home, unlike much of the shops on the main drag, Foster couldn't allow himself to feel the slightest bit of relief. He had been through nearly two dozen buildings, and had still found no sign of life anywhere in the ruins of the small mining town. 

The Sheriff sighed heavily as he pushed up the brim of his hat, whisking the sweat from his forehead with the back of his left hand. He stopped on the front porch of the shipping office, his eyes scanning the along the street before settling on the large, single story barn that housed the livery. 

The barrel of the scatter gun pushed through the cracked open barn door, pointing into the darkness as Foster reached up and pushed the massive door open. Light spilled into the dark stable and Foster quickly swept his barrel and gaze over the large space. Again, not a living person in sight, but in the first spell of luck during this awful day, he found what he had hoped to find. 

In a stall against the far wall was a single bay mare. The chestnut colored horse whinnied nervously and backed away from the onslaught of daylight that was now pouring through the open door. 

"Oh thank you Jesus." Foster sighed, walking quickly into the livery. He slowed and held his hand up to the mare as he approached the stall, trying to calm the already agitated animal as he walked over to the gate. 

"Shhh shhh. It's okay. It's all okay..." He whispered softly, quickly looking around and immediately seeing the large closet containing saddles and tack and everything else he would need to mount the mare. 

He reached out and gently patted the mare on her neck, gently rubbing her shiny, well-brushed coat as he tried to hold still, not wanting to scare the horse any more than it already was. "It's okay... We're going for a little ride, you up for that?" Foster asked, gently patting the horse, his voice quiet, soothing as he tried to let the animal know he wasn't a threat. 

The horse snorted in reply and Foster grinned. "Well that's the first good news I've heard all day." 

Foster carefully set the scatter gun against the gate and turned, walking quickly over to the closet before he pulled out a blanket and saddle. He quickly went into the stall with the mount and deftly saddled her, but as he turned to retrieve the bridle, there was a figure standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the setting sun. 

"Stealin' horses will get you hung in 'dis state." Came the smooth, Cajun drawl from the figure cloaked in the glow of the orange, setting sun. 

Foster responded immediately, his gun clearing leather in and instant as he drew down on the figure. 

"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Je viens en ami! It's me, Peppa!" The Cajun quickly threw his hands up as he stepped into the barn so Foster could clearly see him. 

"Jesus Christ! I almost blew your fuckin' head off Cajun!" Foster growled, holstering his gun quickly with a slightly trembling hand. The adrenaline burned through the Sheriff's system, making his heart thump loudly in his ears. 

"Whoa now. I was jus' jokin' 'bout 'da horse! Not like I was gonna turn you in!" Pepper snorted.

"I'm an officer of the law in this town and I require this animal to carry out the duties of my office. It's not stealing, I'll return it or a credit will be issued towards a new mount." Foster sighed, carefully attaching the bridle to the mare. 

"I found what was left of Marshal Taylor out there. You weren't bit now, were you mon ami?" Pepper asked, stepping a little bit closer towards the Sheriff. 

"No I wasn't. Lord knows the fiend tried. He tore out the Marshal's throat and then came for me. Man was bastard strong." Foster finished prepping his mount and turned to face the Ranger, eyeing him suspiciously. "What do you know about it?" 

"Well it's a long story Sheriff..." Pepper stated simply. "The one who bit the Marshal, was he the only one you saw?" 

"The town is empty. I am heading out to the mining camp to keep looking for survivors. And yes, he was the only one." Foster frowned as he picked up a canteen that was slung over one of the stall posts, finding that it was empty. 

"It's nearly sunset, 'dis place won't be safe no more. They like to come out at night, you see." Pepper slowly turned, his hands resting on his hips as he scanned the main street of the deserted town. "Goin' to the mine is a bad idea mon ami, only one place be safe tonight."

"Just what the hell is going on here and what do you know about it? There was a goddamned explosion, I go to get help, come back a few hours later and find the town empty and turned on its head, though nothing seems to be missing. Only damn thing that's gone are the people! Where the hell is everyone?!" Foster growled, his hands clenching into white knuckled fists as he waited for the Ranger's reply. 

"How long ago did you kill that man? The one who killed Marshal Taylor?" Pepper asked calmly, turning to face the Sheriff once again.

Foster paused for a moment and then shrugged. "I don't know, less than hour ago. Why?"

"An hour is usually all that it takes mon ami. Come wit' me." Pepper turned and quickly headed out of the livery and back onto the street, not waiting to see if Foster would follow him. 

The Ranger moved quickly with Foster at his heels, walking into the small alley beside the livery and onto the next street before turning to head towards the edge of town. In moments they were at the corpse of the man Foster had killed, it was still lying in a pool of blackened blood as Foster had left it, but there was no sign of Marshal Taylor's body. 

"Where the hell is the other body?!" Foster asked, quickly looking around. 

"Oh the body be walkin' around here somewhere, I'm sure." Pepper pointed towards a set of close-set tracks that looked like the person shuffled away awkwardly more than walked. 

Foster narrowed his eyes at the tracks and then glanced towards the Ranger, saying nothing as he slowly drew his pistol and began following the tracks that led off into the shadowy space between the two nearest buildings. 

"One round in the head will do jus' fine mon ami. If you hesitate, you wind up just like the Marshal." Pepper cautioned, sighing as he leaned with his shoulder against the wall, watching Foster follow the tracks around the corner and out of sight. 

Only a handful of seconds later the report of a single shot was heard, the crackling echo of the thunderous shot tearing through the silence of the deserted city. Foster appeared at the opposite end of the alley from Pepper, his gun held slackly at his side, a wisp of grey smoke curling from the barrel, his face pale. 

"What the hell is going on here?!" He growled suddenly as he took slow, measured steps towards the Ranger. 

Pepper didn't reply. 

"What was that thing?! And the one from earlier?! Is this town damned, or am I simply going mad?! Tell me! Answer me goddamnit!!" Foster growled, seizing Pepper by the front of the shirt as he threw the Cajun against the sturdy wooden wall behind where the man stood. 

"Mon ami, you don't need to know what they are to fight them. And now is not 'da time." Pepper replied softly, despite being man handled by the fuming Sheriff. 

Foster dropped his pistol in the sand and stumbled backwards a couple of paces before he found himself with his back against the wall of the building opposite Pepper. "I just want to find my family so this madness can end." Foster said weakly, slowly slumping downwards and onto his knees as his eyes glazed over, his gaze detached, distant. 

"No shame in bein' overwhelmed... First time I saw one of those things... I puked. Oh boy did I puke, and puke, and puke." Pepper recounted honestly, offering the Sheriff a smile. 

Foster smirked slightly, the small puddle of stomach bile marking his first encounter with the creatures not 10 paces away. 

"I was scared out of my damn mind mon ami, but 'den... Well 'den I started fightin' back. I know what we fightin' and how we stop them. But now is not the time. I promise to tell you everything Monsieur Foster, but not now. In jus' an hour or two, da' sun be settin' on Avalon, and if we stuck out here, we dead. Simple as 'dat." Pepper leaned down and plucked Foster's gun from the sand, shaking the dirt from it before he flipped it in his hand, holding it out to Foster butt-first. 

Looking, and feeling slightly calmer now, Foster reached out and took the gun from Pepper's hand as he stood. Foster broke open the revolving chamber and began to pluck the spent cartridges out, stuffing them into his pants pocket before replacing them with fresh rounds. 

"Well then Ranger, what's the plan?" Foster asked, snapping the weapon shut and smoothly holstering it at his hip in a single movement. 

"We goin' to pay our respects to theLord." Pepper grinned and then gestured with a nod towards the foothills. 

Foster tilted his head, catching the faint sound of church bells, getting louder and louder by the moment. 

"The mission! The bells are used in case of an emergency!" 

"Oui, mon ami. 'Da mission is our next stop. Best be headin' out before it gets any darker." 

With that, the Sheriff and the Ranger dashed back towards the livery. 

 

Chapter 5

"There's more at the gates!" Called out one of the lay brothers from the small walkway that ran along the length of the top of the white washed walls of the fortified mission. 

A number of the creatures had amassed at the gates of the mission, the decrepit, shambling mass that held only a mere semblance of their former humanity pounding on the thick wooden gates leading into the mission. 

"Brace it! Hurry up!" Called out a tall man with a shaved head, clad in simple black monk's robes that dashed out of main doors of the chapel. "Bar the gates, throw your weight into it if you have to, we must not let them get in!" The man shouted, he and a number of other men in the small courtyard garden running to the gates. 

The creatures slammed into the gate over and over again, the shambling mass throwing themselves mindlessly into the gates again and again as the men on the other side pushed back, trying to keep the horde at bay. The gates were high and heavy, made of thick beams of wood, but despite that, they weren't made to take a prolonged battering. 

Joining the other men, the monk threw his back against the door, his heels and the heels of the other men digging into the cobbled stone floor as they pushed against the gates. Men who were fearfully muttering prayers, hoping that the hinges wouldn't break under the force of the onslaught. 

"RIDERS! COMING IN!" The man on the wall shouted, the statement quickly accompanied by a cacophony of gunfire that echoed throughout the hills and in the walls of the small mission. Thunderous shots rang out again and again followed by the sound of horses galloping by as the riders made a pass, turning to fire into the group of monsters once more. 

"Oh thank you Lord." The bald, black-clad monk sighed, feeling the pounding on the other side of the gate lessen and lessen before ceasing altogether. 

"Hail the church!" Called out one of the riders. 

The face of the up on the wall lit up as he turned to look down at the men holding the gate closed. "It's Sheriff Foster! Open the gate! Open the gate!"

As the group of men removed the massive piece of timber securing the gate, the huge doors swung wide open, revealing dozens of mangled, reeking corpses piled just on the other side. On the other side of the small killing field sat Sheriff Foster of Avalon on his mount, and another man, whom the monk did not recognize. 

"Brother Wesley!" Foster called out to the black robed monk. "Are any of your people hurt?" 

"Thankfully, so far they are not Sheriff." Replied the monk, blowing out a sigh of relief as he moved his hand up, rubbing the soft stubble of his shaved head. "Hopefully that was the last of those, things. The gate is damaged and we don't have any timber to repair it."

Foster remained on his mount as he surveyed the killing field, a grim scowl etched onto the man's face as Pepper dismounted and drew his gun. The Ranger stalked from corpse to corpse, pausing once to fire a round through the back of the head of one of the monsters as Foster surveyed the damaged gate. 

"All dead." Pepper announced as he climbed back into his saddle. The Ranger ejected the spent cartridge and thumbed in a fresh one into his revolver, sighing as he spun the gun around his finger and quickly holstered the weapon at his hip.

"I heard gunfire earlier, what happened to the supplies and workers coming to excavate the mine?" Foster asked, his cool blue eyes darting among the small group of monks and the handful of survivors from the town. 

No Kate, no Christie. 

"Are these all the survivors of Avalon? There is no one else?" Foster asked, scanning the small gathering of maybe 20 people, a handful of them were women, but most were men, many of whom he recognized.

"Y-yes sir. We're all that made it." Answered one of the men as he removed his hat, clutching it to his chest. 

Foster cringed. 

"There was gunfire from up the trail... and screams. Terrible screams. After that, silence." Wesley explained, the monk carefully stepping around the tangled corpses of the dead ghouls as he approached the two riders to talk face-to-face.

"We could use some of 'dem supplies mon ami. Gonna be a long night." Pepper cut in, squinting up towards the rapidly setting sun. "Got less than an hour now, we need to get dis' wrapped up."

"I don't fancy being out of doors after dark with these things wandering about." Foster darted his eyes up towards the monk and then up to the damaged gate, his jaw clenched in grim determination. "We'll be back! Brace the gate with whatever you can, we'll be back!" 

Before the monk could reply, Foster jerked on the reins, turning his mount as he spurred it, the large, chestnut-colored mare bolting off towards the trail as his Cajun companion followed fast on his heels. 

Brother Wesley sighed and quickly made the sign of the cross as he watched the pair of riders vanish around the bend leading into the foothills, his eyes half closing as he muttered a quiet prayer. "Lord help us all."

The scene as the Sheriff and the Ranger arrived to the small canyon was one of a gory horror. Unlike Avalon, it lacked the grim subtly of patches of blood pooled on storefront porches with shards of broken glass. All of that was nothing compared to the carnage the riders found surrounding the carts of supplies: Bodies were torn to pieces, arms, legs and severed heads were strewn about the soft sand that had turned to sticky, red mud from the blood of dozens of men and horses. 

The horses had been ripped completely to pieces. Bones, human and animal alike were stripped of pink, bloodied flesh, leaving nothing but the gleaming white bones strewn among the gory killing field. 

"At least we don't have to worry about them getting up and attacking us..." Foster mused from his mount, hands tightly clutching his scattergun in a white-knuckled grip. 

"I'm afraid it's far worse than that mon ami." Pepper swallowed, the Cajun looking strangely pale as his eyes very slowly scanned the soil, inch after bloodied inch, his eyes narrowed almost into little slits. "We only have a few minutes at best before what did 'dis comes back." The Ranger sat a little higher in his saddle as he anxiously looked around, his cocked revolver in his right hand, reigns clutched in his left. 

Reluctantly, Foster slipped out of his saddle and handed the reins of the uneasy horse over to Pepper who slung them over his saddle pommel, his eyes still fixed on the soil, weapon at the ready as Foster dashed over to the blood-splattered supply wagon. 

The inside of the long wooden wagon was splattered with blood and gore, much like the outside of the wagon and the ground surrounding it. Foster found an arm that was severed at the elbow, the stiff hand still clutching a large revolver which the Sheriff immediately went for. He struggled to pry the fingers open and freed the weapon, before spotting another pair of guns stained with blood and gore lying on the floor of the wagon. 

"Pepper, there are some guns here!" Foster called back, frantically looking around before he found a small cloth sack containing some dried beans which he quickly dumped out onto the floor of the wagon before he stuffed the weapons inside. 

"Hurry up mon ami. This thing gets hungry, and I don't wanna be here when it comes back to feed." 

Foster glanced the discarded scattergun on the bloodied sand beside the cart and hopped out of the back, snatching the weapon up and putting it in the sack as he ran towards the second cart. He had the good fortune of finding another pair of powerful revolvers, and to his relief, a seemingly unblemished repeater. The absence of the men who owned the guns, or rather had owned them, was constantly in the forefront of the Sheriff's mind. 

The people who owned them were dead, but he wouldn't fail, he refused to die. His wife, his daughter, they were out there somewhere with the rest of the town's people, they had to be! Foster would find them all, and set this right, he knew he would. It was with this conviction that he dashed over to his mount, heaving the small cache of firearms up to Pepper before the Sheriff moved to the rear of the first cart. 

He grunted as he lifted a long wooden beam that weighed a good eighty pounds and propped it up against the side of the wagon. Foster looked the long piece of timber over and nodded his approval, it was sturdy, and long enough to brace the battered gate back at the mission. Part of the supplies brought on the wagons was a number timber beams, their intended use to brace the tunnel that the volunteers were going to dig upon arriving at Avalon. 

Before they were all killed. 

Without prompt, Pepper pulled a lasso that was hanging from a brass hook on his saddle and gave it a few turns above his head before tossing it over the beam, his arm tugging hard to slip the knot down tightly around the beam before tying off the other end of the rope to his saddle pommel.