Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S1 Ep28: Episode 28: Wild West Horror Stories

Episode Date: May 6, 2021

Tonight's show is proudly sponsored by Manscaped: get 20% Off and Free Shipping with the code CREEP at https://www.manscaped.com/ Today’s opening feature-length story is ‘The Blood Trails’, an original work by Chili 1220, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all. https://www.reddit.com/user/Chili1220 Featured İn today’s story are the fine vocal talents of Nature’s Temper. Please visit his channel and subscribe! https://www.youtube.com/channel/UClVVgQbEUPxJZXCawn3Bexg Today’s second tale of terror is ‘The Horror from the Mound’, a classic work by Robert E. Howard, a story in the public domain but recorded here under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA license: http://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks06/0601761h.html

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We believe OCT scans are so important they're included with every standard eye exam. Book an eye exam at Spexsavers.cavers.ca.ca. Eye exams are provided by independent optometrists. Visit Spexsavers.com to learn more. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's dungeon. Sometimes we tell ourselves that we have a choice. But do we really have a choice? Just because their alternatives doesn't mean that they apply to us.

And all we're left with is compulsion. The compulsion to move forward with potentially disastrous results. As we will see in tonight's two stories. First, we have the feature-length story, the blood trail. by Chilai 1220, which also features the fine vocal talents of nature's temper. And that's followed with the horror from the mound, a classic work by Robert E. Howard. Now, as ever before we begin, a word of caution. Tonight's tales may contain strong language, as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery.

If that sounds like your kind of thing, then let's begin. I was 19 years old in the late summer of 1997 when my maternal grandfather suddenly became ill and passed away. He was 72 years old. In the span of only five short but grueling weeks, he was diagnosed with a particularly aggressive form of pancreatic cancer, went into hospice care, declined, and finally passed away on Tuesday in late August. The whole affair had been quite stressful and emotionally draining, especially for my mother who had been quite close to him throughout her life. What was most distressing was how quickly it had all passed.

Hardly enough time for him, his estranged wife or his only daughter to get his affairs in order, and when he finally lost his battle, many issues remained unsettled. The principal issue that took some time to resolve was what would become of his few possessions, an issue complicated by the nature of what he'd left behind. He was a tenured professor of anthropology at the University of Texas in Austin, a man of some academic distinction as I later learned. He was specialized in the study of Native American cultures, and he left behind a veritable treasure trove of academic materials and historical documents. Why he left them to us is beyond me, since it would be better served if these materials were donated to the university for use by his former colleagues, but at the time I believed it was simply an oversight on his part.

I myself was fairly upset by loss. Although I had drifted apart from my mother's side of the family over the years, this wasn't over any personal issue, but simply a matter of distance. He was living in Texas and our family was living in suburban Denver, and the years had offered few opportunities to visit or get to know him. However, I was much closer to him as a child when we visited more often, and I liked to think he was the one who inspired my own passion for human and social sciences. At the time of his passing, I had just completed my freshman year of college at the University of Colorado and Boulder,

and was giving up to begin my sophomore year, my chosen major being anthropology, like my grandfather. Fast forward just over 20 years, and I myself am a professor of anthropology at my alma mater. Although my area of expertise is in Mississippian cultures of the pre-Columbian era, while his was the study of Pueblo peoples of New Mexico and Arizona. Until this point, I had largely forgotten the quantity of academic materials he had left us, since they were mostly collecting dust in my parents' attic, although bits and pieces had been donated to the university over the years. It wasn't until the holidays when I was visiting my parents that I remembered anything about them.

And, being an academic myself, it occurred to me just how valuable these precious historical artifacts could be. Out of intellectual curiosity, and looking for a possible subject to research for a paper as prepared, I took possession of these materials for my own use. The documents were kept in quite an ancient engraved wooden chest, some of which were my grandfather's own research notes, while others were a collection of old books and census reports going all the way back to the 1870s. But the most intriguing of the bunch was a leather-bound journal,

into which was took to series of annotations written by my grandfather during his own research. It was this journal that piqued my interest, even though it was a more modern source than what my area of expertise entails, but I was interested nonetheless. The journal was written by a man named Joseph's Sheridan, my grandfather's great-grandfather, and I was immediately excited by this find, if only for its importance in our family history. My mother was quite interested in genealogy and actually kept quite an extensive family tree, where I located this mysterious. Joseph Sheridan. I immediately dived into research about this man, who I learned was actually an agent of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency in the 1880s, and was actually a man of some renown.

In 1880, he was the one credited with capturing Miguel Canales, a bandit chief who terrorized South Texas for years prior. And in 1884, he shot and killed a notorious Utah cattle rustler and thief named Lawrence Red Cobb, earning a $150 bounty in the process. Being something of an old West officiario myself, I was quite enthusiastic about the find and sent myself to reading his journal.

I spent the next week reading the journal cover to cover. And now that I've completed it, I'm not sure I feel quite the same way. In fact, I'm not sure just how I feel about having read it. It might be cliche to say that I regretting, it, but in a strange way, even though I can't process what was written in it, I'm glad I know, even though I feel some dread about what he wrote possibly being true. In this journal, he chronicles the pursuit of an outlaw band across New Mexico, Arizona,

and down into Mexico, which took place in late 1889. What follows is something so bizarre, so twisted and horrible that I'm not sure I even believe that any of it's true. It is quite possible that his writings were just the product of a disturbed mind, but reading it and seeing his sincerity firsthand, I can't imagine why he might fabricate something so strange. It's been a few weeks since I completed reading it, and I still can't decide whether or not I believe it,

and what any of it might even mean. I think perhaps you find people want to remember. read it for yourself and make your own decisions. I've taken the liberty of transcribing the journal its entirety for you to read, with a few small interjections here and there, but completely preserved. And so, I suppose, here goes nothing. July 28, 1889, Denver, Colorado. I had my first meeting with one of the men in charge of the Denver field office this morning. name J.M. Withers, must admit, I rather dislike him, rather brusque, and lacking in professional courtesy, but brief and succinct. Describe the details of the new assignment, a long one. He

estimates two months of work, and high risk. But he claims I was one of the first considered for it. Thought perhaps it was a clumsy attempted flattery, but I am still interested. No family obligations to tend to. Perhaps sobriety and fresh air will do me some good. Job pays $5,000 upon completion, and that's an individual reward, too, not split amongst the others. Should mention, the job is a five-man operation, including myself, though Mr. Withers would not say who else was offered.

Claims the precise details are to be known only by those chosen for this task. I rather dislike having details with health. But for $5,000 plus expenses, a worthy trade. July 29, 1889, Denver, still. Met again with Mr. Withers. Still dislike him. Anyhow, I made it clear that I would accept, and he followed through with the specifics. Five-man team, including myself, pursuing a suspect in a number of murders committed throughout Arkansas, the Indian Terities and Texas.

Offered no further specifics than that, but instead disclosed a dossier detailing the suspect and all pertinent information. Claims that the information in the dossier is for my eyes only, but I can disclose pertinent details to the four others at my discretion. This caveat I found to be rather strange,

as I am unaccustomed to this level of secrecy, Even with the Pinkertons. I will have a look at that dossier later. Try to determine why exactly the identity of this man is kept confidential. Possibly politically sensitive. Should save speculations for later. August 1st, 1889, Las Vegas, New Mexico Territory. Read the full dossier on the train from Denver.

Miserable train journey as well. All that money, the... Pinkertons won't spare a cent more than they have to for travel expenses, had to ride a rather packed carriage. Anyhow, I'm now staying in a hotel in Las Vegas, on the New Mexico Territory. In two days, I'll meet with the others, and then we shall depart on our mission. The dossier report states that the trail of our suspect seems to lead to a point some miles southwest of here, where we will reacquire the trail, and pursue it, where we'll re-acquire the trail, and pursue it, wherever it leads, even into Mexico, if the trail should point this way, although they were quite clear that we could not depend upon any official support should this become necessary.

August 1st, 1889, addendum Las Vegas, still. Still have some time to spare as I await my comrades on this mission. So I have studied further on just who we are pursuing, or why the urgency that demanded a sudden departure. Pursued across the desert at the height of the summer season seems quite foolish to me. But, as I understand, the urgency is so great, and the risk of the trail being lost so compelling, that we are expected to trudge across desert in the middle of August. Mr. Withers and the others did not say much about sharing information within the dossier, other than it was not to be expressed to any others outside of our group.

Still, they did not say anything about documenting the details in our personal writings, so I will write down some more details here, for posterity, if nothing else. Our subject is a man named Deacon Chogan, alias is Red Horse, Pico and Black Heron, among others. Even the name Deacon Chogan is a matter of conjecture. Subject is thought to be around 50 years old, perhaps older, some amount of Indian ancestry, either a half-breed or quarter-breed, though is thought to mostly resemble a white man. The given name was determined by a record of a student at a Presbyterian Seminary in Kentucky from 1853, whom they have determined is the subject in question.

As far as is known, this is the only official documentation of his existence. Thought to have been born in the Creek Nation, though this and his exact age are indeterminate. A manner of religious inclinations, though his denomination or his exact faith are unknown and undocumented. He has, apparently, lived and travelled in the Indian territories for much of his life. Has no known criminal record under the assumed name Deacon Chogan, though it is possible that he might under other names. Even this is not clearly known. Reports of a religious movement in the Choctaw, Creek and Seminole nations, name one of his aliases, Red Horse,

as the principal figure in a series of disturbances in the region. Crimes amongst the Indians in the territories are not always well documented. But the U.S. Marshal's office in Fort Smith did provide some speculation that he was involved in some other known cases, possibly under an unknown alias. They describe him as a very dangerous and treacherous individual, leading a group of like-minded religious fanatics. If this is true, then I can see why they are concerned with apprehending him,

given the anxieties expressed by the federal government over the ghost dances in Dakota. However, while the subject is described as a religious figure, not can quite say that they know anything about his professed faith. Perhaps some native superstitions, or, given his Christian education, something of a more biblical bend. Some speculation that it might be devil worship in some form, involving animal or even human sacrifice, or so the rumors go. Subject was largely unknown until eight months ago, when named as a suspect in several murders in Arkansas, and later tentatively linked to similar crimes in Mississippi and as far east as Georgia. The murders in question are thought to be the work of several individuals, in addition to our prime suspect.

The reports themselves are frustratingly unclear about precise details or circumstances of the crimes. Other reports do disclose rather macabre details. Grotesque mutilations, gouging of eyes, even some reference, to fleeing. Others described strange symbols marked upon the remains and unusual totems left at the scene. These symbols and totems are what led to speculation of native involvement, though none of the Indians who formed a part of the investigating force could recognize them. But it was clear, according to the investigating officers, that there was some mark of religious ceremony regarding these murders.

Number of victims total is labelled at 19, not including those crimes which have not yet been conclusively linked with our suspect. Such hideous displays of violence called into question the nature of the men who committed them. For how little we know about this Deacon Chogun figure

we know even less about his purported compatriots. The dossier is quite specific that what is known or believed regarding these men is purely conjectural, and among our directives is to attempt to identify as many of these men as possible. According to rumors and assumptions, many of our subjects' followers are thought to be white men, many of possibly mixed ancestry, and some full-blooded Indians as well.

Negro freedmen are also speculated to be among their numbers. As of yet, the precise racial composition of the group is still largely on, unknown, and in fact there are no precise estimates as the size of this group, with some reports speculating a varying amount from as few as 15 to as many as 100. What is most remarkable about all of this is how few of these details and assumptions have clearly documented sources. Police reports are generally authentic records, which offered some insight into the nature of these crimes. But other statements about our suspects identity, motives, and his accomplices are made as definitive statements with no clear records or

sources. Whoever compiled this dossier was either sloppy or failed to appreciate that every possible detail, even the source itself, is relevant in such an investigation. Or perhaps there was some ulterior motive in withholding this information. Anyhow, I've been writing for quite some time. and so we'll stop at this and peruse the dossier later and report my further musings. August 3, 1889, Las Vegas, New Mexico Territory. No entry for yesterday. Nothing noteworthy.

Just carousing in the saloon and purchasing some additional tacken and supplies. Even purchased a bottle of rye for own private reserve. Can't always trust the water out there. More importantly, my comrades in arms for this mission just arrived in town today, and we gathered at the saloon for appropriate introductions. Besides myself, there are four men who will take on specific responsibilities of our company. First was a tall, burly fellow with a prominent red beard named R. J. Hannigan, a very jocular and pleasant individual with an infectious good humor. He will be appointed our expert on matters of survival in the same. wilderness, who will maintain our stores of provisions or what little we can carry without a wagon.

Second was our wrangler, who will attend to our horses and tank, a man named Wilfred Sharp. He is rather the opposite of Hannigan, being a very sullen and easily agitated man, who made numerous complaints right away and did not offer to shake hands. Third is the tracker. an Indian chap who goes only by the name of William rather than a more typical native epithet. I believe he's either creak or a seminal, though I did not inquire. He is a rather quiet and stoic man, as Indians are wont to be, but still projected an air of competence that I found reassuring.

And lastly, is a fellow agent like myself named Henry Quinn. I rather like him as well, and, though he is not as humorous or cordial as Hannigan. He is still quite agreeable and listened intently to our conversations. Almost immediately, Mr. Hannigan began to lecture us about survival tactics in rugged desert, and given my previous apprehensions about pursuing a party across the desert in the midst of August, I was quite interested in what he had to say. According to him, daytime temperatures will routinely exceed 100 degrees,

though, as he points out, the situation is not much different here in town, other than that we have ready access to supplies and shelter. We will be eating light and sleeping relatively little and spending as much of the day in the saddle as we can, so as to make good time with as little expenditure of supplies and provisions as possible. Sharp kept piping in with his own questions, and seemed unimpressed with Hannigan's reassurances. But Hannigan sticks by them.

William seemed to concur with Hannigan, or at least did not object as Dick Quinn. If the heat is too trying, he says, we can always opt to rest during the day and travel at night, to avoid the worst of it. I admit, I don't know that much about survival in the wilderness, but I will defer to Hannigan's recommendations. Sharp has provided our horses, which were actually shipped in this morning on the train. I received a standard quarter horse mare, actually a rather fine filly, who is rather well-trained. Whatever sharp's misgivings about us, he has an excellent way with horses and speedily prepared our tack and saddles. Quinn has provided our weapons, a Winchester repeating carbine and Colt's single-action army for each of us, all chambered in 4440 from convenience, with several dozen shells for each of us.

However, while I appreciate having the rifle, I think I'll stick with my Colts' frontier double-action revolver instead, even though it takes a different cartridge. Still, having two pistols just may come in handy depending on what we find. William has taken charge of our maps and compass, and I'll be right at his side directing our expedition. I must admit, perhaps my previous apprehensions about my comrades were unfounded. All things considered, I couldn't have asked for a more competent team. August 5th, 1889, 20 to 25 miles southwest of Las Vegas, New Mexico Territory. First day on the trail, made 23 miles by my estimation. Departed at 6 o'clock this morning, before the worst of the heat, and I'm rather

satisfied with our pace. Yesterday evening we gathered for supper. As Hannigan advised, we should try to eat a large meal before departing, as we will not have the opportunity to eat much for quite some time. We stopped some six miles short of our first destination, where we are meant to pick up the trail. I considered having the party push on to this point during the first day, but given the conditions, I decided against it to avoid pushing ourselves and the horse is too hard early on. I believe spirits are relatively high, since we've now gotten to the task at hand, rather than all that insufferable waiting. William the Indian has shown himself a highly competent navigator, as well as a tracker. Hanigan is notably more quiet now that we're on the trail,

but resumed his joking demeanour once we make camp. He advised that we keep our campfire some yards away from where we sleep, so as to avoid revealing our presence in unsettled country. Sounds rather inconvenient, so I accounted by saying we could do so later on when we were closer to our intended goal. He seemed to agree. Regarding our mission. Today I disclosed some of the relevant details to my comrades, and I was surprised they did not inquire much further. I told them the name of our suspect, his general description, some of his alleged crimes, and where they happened, and told them about the number of men thought to be following.

him. Oddly enough, they all seem to take the information in stride, ask few questions, must be tired from our time in the saddle. The country south of Las Vegas is rather rugged and sparse, but the evening hours were still relatively pleasant. You set up camp on a small hillocks on 300 yards off the trail, with some amount of scrub brush surrounding it, which will hopefully deter any prowling hostiles during the night. The rest are preparing to turn in, for we will depart at the sun-up tomorrow to complete the next leg of our journey.

Now that the temperature has dropped, I think I can sleep comfortably, and I'm quite confident about the days ahead. August 6, 1889, somewhere south of the Pecos River Valley, New Mexico Territory. I have slept on the ground many nights in my life, but it has never gotten any more pleasant.

Thankfully, some of the evening sounds in the high desert are rather relaxing and conducive to sleep. That said, I think my general feeling of well-being has diminished a bit since yesterday. I ought to get used to it, I know, as we will be spending many more days on the trail. Still, a fairly productive day. We awoke at dawn as planned, and I saw that the hill upon which our camp was set overlooked a small valley with the Pecos River running through it. At least, I think it's the Pecos, according to our map. I didn't notice this at waning twilight yesterday evening,

although I knew we should be getting close. We reached the point where we're meant to pick up the trail at half-past nine o'clock in the morning, and upon seeing the area, I was rather discouraged at first. The point on the map turned out to be a small cliff overlooking an orero at the base of a hill that William claims is called Mesasasola, and upon arriving, there seemed to be no one. obvious sign of human presence. I was frustrated with myself

for not pushing on the previous evening, but, looking back, we would have arrived here in darkness and been at an even greater disadvantage. There's a small ranch some two miles north of here, and I considered going there to question the locals about any strange happenings or notable travellers,

but I decided against it. Still, not all was in vain. William and Hannigan surveyed the scene, and pointed out that small All tracks did remain, having been hastily and imperfectly covered up. This is a compelling find, as it means that our prior intelligence seems to be somewhat accurate after all. We consider that the tracks might be those of another party, and not necessarily our quarry,

but the obscurity of this area and the fact that the tracks showed signs of being deliberately covered pointed to our previous assumptions being correct. William immediately began following the traces, and thus our pursuit of the pursuit of has officially begun in earnest. Hey Ontario, come on down to BetMGM Casino and check out our newest exclusive. The Price is Right Fortune Pick. Don't miss out.

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or someone close to you, please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor, charge. BenMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with iGaming Ontario. August 7th, 1889, 2 miles south of some place called Arroyo Calaveras, New Mexico. Spaned yesterday evening, ruminating about certain details that have become more apparent now. One thought that kept coming to mind was regarding our prior intelligence as to how and where we should reacquire the trail of our suspects. This was one of those details in the briefing that had no real source, but was stated with great emphasis, and which turned out to be correct.

And now, I wonder, how exactly did they come by this intelligence? I thought about how I was never told if any others before us were on Chogan's trail. I considered how the report used the passive tense when regarding any previous attempts to pursue him, and never mentioned any specifics about who. Indeed, since the last definitive report of his crimes occurred in northern Texas. I wonder how they were able to so confidently track his whereabouts to that exact spot. I might discuss these thoughts with my comrades later. We spend much of yesterday and today following an actual trail,

and our pace is slowed considerably. Now we're often pausing to examine clues and traces. We're making less than 10 miles in a day. It seems our quarry has taken some great pains to conceal his passing, but not enough to deter an astute tracker. Currently, the trail is pointing away south. I have rather mixed feelings about this. I'm hoping that the trail might divert west,

rather than potentially lead us into Mexico, which I am hoping to avoid. However, further south is more settled country, which is good news if we need to procure further supplies, though resting is out of the question. We have tried to eat and drink sparingly, in spite of the heat in long days, but there is only so much we can tolerate.

Hannigan, in particular, needs much to eat, as the man is probably six foot six and quite large, and always in need of food under his belt. For now, we've made our camp on the open country, and perhaps tomorrow we can discuss where, to find provisions and if we should question the locals. August 9th, 1889, near Estancia, New Mexico. Haven't ridden in a few days.

Nothing too notable in that time. The trail has veered a bit westward to my relief. In the morning, we debated traveling to a nearby town called Estancia on the map. We came to the consensus that we should at least try to find an opportunity to resupply, though we're not in agreement about questioning the locals. I, for one, am against it. As even though following the trail is slow and weary work, we are not likely to obtain any useful information from the locals,

and we might risk the secrecy of our mission, or even be misdirected by local rumours. William and I are in agreement. Hannigan is decidedly neutral, while Quinn and Sharp, especially Sharp, are getting impatient without progress. As the leader of our group, I made an executive call to all of them to refrain from questioning the locals. The town of Vistancia itself is rather pitiful, being only a very small trading post.

The local general store was not particularly well-stocked, but we more or less found what we required. Apart from this, nothing truly notable. I have mostly spent the day thinking further about our situation. I've revealed further details in the dossier to the others, but again they seemed relatively undisturbed and asked few questions. Now I'm wondering if perhaps they already know some of these details themselves. Were they briefed individually beforehand? I was led to believe, through my orders, that these men were unaware of the specifics, and that it was my responsibility to reveal them as necessary.

I can't say for certain. I'm rather exhausted, so perhaps my mood is being affected. negatively. Rest and a nip of rye might do me some good. I've been upstanding these last several days, so I think I've earned it. August 9th, 1889, addendum. My God, I am bloody goddamn irritated with Sharp. I haven't expressed it before, but it has been growing ever since we left Las Vegas. His interjections, unsolicited comments, general complaining have been a steady feature of his company, but until now I have been ignoring it successfully, and refusing to engage with him has worked, well, for a time. But now I hear this fool went against my explicit orders and has been

interrogating the locals about the men we are pursuing. He hasn't grasped that the locals are already wary of us, a group of strangers in these parts who go about conspicuously armed, and his questioning could throw suspicion on us. We could find ourselves a target of local law if we are careful. I let him know this in the sternest of possible terms, and he's been sulking for the past hour, muttering under his breath. I'll say it now. If that glorified stable hand doesn't shut his mouth and stick to caring for the horses, I'll smack him into next week. I'm also fairly annoyed with Quinn as well, for not stifling sharp during their trip to town, but Quinn seems genuinely repentant, so I'll avoid antagonizing him.

That is all. I simply needed to express this before it boils over. August 10th, 1889, near Estancia, New Mexico. I'm writing this entry midday, so I'll keep it brief. I desperately hate to admit this, but it seems that fool-sharp managed to uncover something useful after all. Still, I can't concede this to him. He would only encourage him.

Anyhow, it seems the locals have reported unusual strangers in the region, well, besides ourselves, of course, and their description not only matches what had been speculated in the dossier, but also occurred quite recently, well, within the time frame established by prior reports. The local owner of the General Store mentioned a white man who came through a fortnight prior, who was decorated strangely for a white man. He wore a mixture of American and Indian garb, and some regalia sporting strange stuff. totems that were unrecognizable and even had some strange markings, possibly tattoos, around his temples.

Around this time, a young woman from a nearby farm was said to have gone missing, and remained missing at the time of our passing. Sharp inquired without any attempt to find the young woman, and it was said that the only evidence of her whereabouts were a spotty series of blood trails, assumed to be hers, leading westward. I must say this is a remarkable find But I must not concede this to shop We may remain in the area for a short time longer

To consider our next move And see if this information concurs with the trail we've been following August 13, 1889 In the ruins of a Spanish mission called Abol, New Mexico I have not written for a few days But today we made a rather disturbing find And so I should write it down now We wasted a day and a half debating our exact plan based on the information we discovered back in Estancia,

and it was only yesterday that we finally resumed the trail. It seems my fears of being misdirected by faulty intelligence were not entirely justified, but we also debated whether or not we should investigate the story of the missing woman, in the vein hope that some meaningful clue might be discovered. I came down firmly against it, as did Sharpe. Finally, some agreement from him. although Quinn and Hannigan have shown themselves to be softer and more concerned. It took some prodding, but eventually they saw things my way.

Getting back on the trail was a slow process, as we stopped frequently to consider our options for following the trail while still heeding the information we'd obtained in town. We proceeded further south, and then west are short ways, when we discovered it. We had no expectation of finding anything in that, particular spot, as we'd only ascended the hill to gain a commanding view of the terrain and scope of the possible campsite for later. And indeed, we did find the ruins of a camp

already there. There it stood, the campfire long dead, and a headless corpse sitting upright on a log in front of it. It just sat there, with its hands on its knees, as if listening intently to an interlocutor, with a copious stain of blood having spilled from his neck and onto his chest. It was a man's body, fully clothed, in some type of garb that resembled rags. But the most strange and unsettling feature of the scene was the utter lack of activity in the area. The corpse had clearly been there for several days, the skin having gone slayed gray. But in all that time, no animals had bothered the scene.

Coyotes or wolves had obviously not ravaged it. no vultures circled overhead no insects explored the sight there weren't even any fly settling on the corpse this fine silenced outgroomed for a time and only William came out of his astonishment and moved forward to inspect the scene

he actually dabbed some blood from the stump onto his finger and smelled it as if it had a distinctive odor it was then that William pointed out the abnormal serenity of the scene nobody spoke for a time but when the spell broke we openly asked one another

what to do next William did not detect any trace of a trail at the site and in fact we never did find the head we searched all around the scene but came up with nothing Quinn asked if we ought to report the obvious crime as soon as possible

and even broached the idea of turning back to his stancia this I rejected as we'd wasted enough time already just getting this far, and reminded him that we could report it at a later opportunity. Hanlingon questioned if we should bury the body, but this I also rejected, because it would take too much time. We left the scene as we found it, and moved on to our next chosen destination. The ruins of Pueblo, an old Spanish mission, at a place called Arbo.

I spend the remainder of the trip thinking about that camp, and I do wonder if, perhaps, we ought to have done something about the body after all. Quinn, Hannigan and Sharp have been uncharacteristically quiet since then. I could tell they regretted leaving the remains of the poor devil, probably wondering if his loved ones knew what had come of him. We've settled in the ruins of the mission for the night, finally glad to spend a night under a roof,

even one with so many holes. I've been rather irritated with the others for the past few days. I think my attitude is. finally softened towards them. And I think we can say for certain. We are certainly on the trail of something. August 14th, 1889, in a village on the Rio Grande, New Mexico. We have finally reached a more settled region,

at least more settled than that pitiful scrubland around distancia. And we've decided to rest up a bit in a small village on the Rio Grande. I've heard the name once or twice since we've been here, but I didn't quite understand it, nor could I hope to spell it, but I know roughly where it is. The settlers here are mostly Mexicans, whose ancestors have lived here since the time this land was a Spanish domain. They were quite wary of us at first, given our ragged state and being openly armed, but they quickly came around and welcomed us. I must say, despite their initial suspicions, the Mexicans showed remarkable hospitality that outstrips any I've experienced anywhere else.

However, they remained wary of William, the Creek Seminole fellow, who I suppose the Mexicans took for an Apache at first. They still have clear and none too pleasant memories of fighting the seemingly endless raids of the Apache going back well over a hundred years. This hamlet in which we found ourselves was mostly composed of family members, and the elderly patriarch invited us to share his home for an evening and dine with them. I never told them our purpose for coming through their village, although some did ask. I simply told them we were tracking renegade Indians, to which they responded quite positively.

For the first time in several days, we enjoyed a full meal with his extended family, enjoying the tasty cuisine he'd prepared for us, beans, a rich stew of pork and vegetables, even some peppers he'd been saving. It was a welcome respite for us after so much hardship on the food. the trail, and all of our spirits, even that irascible shop, were greatly restored. I will pass the night here before heading out in the morning. I think I can sleep quite well here, with good food in my stomach and a roaring fire at my back. And then, maybe, I can forget where I am for a time.

August 15, 1889, Socorro, New Mexico. The people of the village gave us a fond farewell upon our departure. They even gave us some extra provisions for our use, which I was all too grateful to accept. So far we have followed the Rio Grande, further south through the day, to a town called Socorro. I am familiar with this town, though I am puzzled why we have come here, or why the trail has led south along such an obvious route, where before it went through remote wilderness. I'll have to keep a closer eye on my comrades, as they've shown remarkably poor judgment when they find themselves back in civilization after so long in the country.

It was a relatively short ride from the village to Socorro, so we arrived in the mid-afternoon. We might need some supplies, though, thankfully not much, thanks to our previous gracious hosts. For now, I'll find a hotel and see if I can sleep in an actual bed for the first time in nearly two weeks. Morale seems to have held strong, and I hope it'll stay this way.

August 17th, 1880. Somewhere southwest of Socorro. Words cannot express my current fury. I just read my last two entries, and it still pains me how much my former sense of well-being has fallen since then. I am beyond enraged with my team, and I'm now wondering if perhaps their sheer idiocy of the last few days may have ruined this entire mission,

two weeks trudging across New Mexico in the height of summer, all for nothing. When I went to rest at a hotel in Socorro, I was expecting to have a bath and a quiet evening, perhaps a decent meal and a few drinks at the saloon. Imagine my surprise when I awoke at three o'clock in the morning, having fallen asleep in the early evening before. It must have been the rain.

I was rather looking forward to a sudden late summer tempest that moved in over town and brought some much-appreciated rain to the desert but, well, I must have fallen asleep listening to it. Instead, I awoke to shouting, gunfire, and screams in the street, wondering just what was going on. I remained inside, looking cautiously out the window, pistol in hand, when I caught sight of the source of the ruckus. It was my team, all four of them,

charging up and down the street, howling like Indians, firing their guns into the air and nearby windows, bottles in hand. I ran down as soon as possible and accosted them, wondering just what the hell they got up to. I had to buffalo that idiot sharp to stand still and listen to me, and I even held my gun on Hannigan and Quinn, while William was seemingly nowhere to be found. The rest I pieced together from interrogating these damn fools after we bid a hasty retreat after a confrontation with the local constable. I hope to God these, these. idiots didn't actually harm anybody, because we didn't stay to see what came afterward.

It turns out my man had gone to the local saloon early in the evening, intending to relax and amuse themselves, when the drink got the better of them, and they decided to try their luck at a car game with some locals. Drunk as they were, their foray went poorly, and a brawl of some kind ensued, whereupon they went out into the streets, amusing themselves with Wild gunfire and general revelry in chaos. They know for certain they severely beat a man in the saloon and assaulted several others, and Quinn admitted that he struck a lawman in the face with his pistol butt on their way out. We came upon William some ways outside of town,

and he had apparently escaped the fracker by absconding over the rooftops in possession of several bottles of whiskey. I was so angry when I saw those bottles, and I threatened to shoot him if he didn't toss every single one of them into the river. I gave them as fierce of verbal lashing as I could. But still in their relatively drunken state, I can't say how much of it stuck. But I could see them returning to their senses by mid-morning.

Hopefully recounting the lowered details of their excavate made them ashamed enough to consider their behavior. Damn it all, I am not a school headmaster. I shouldn't have to do something like this. undoubtedly we will have the local law searching for us so for the time being we shall head as far south as the trail goes and then deviate west this of course assumes that our mission isn't a bust thanks to them august 20th 1889 unknown mountain west of socorro new mexico again i haven't ridden in some days there seems no point right now but i suppose Suppose our progress, or lack thereof, still needs to be recorded. After our retreat from Socoral, we headed south for a brief spell, and then west and up into

the foothills of a mountain just west of Socoral. We're only a few miles from town, but we are relatively secluded here. Once again, our morale is quite low, low as it has been so far. After recovering from their drunken stupor, I think the men of most of the most of the world. realized just what they did and how it could cost us dearly. Now, even though I am confident about disciplining them, I wish that I hadn't scolded them like children. After all, these are mostly grown, rational men,

my anger has largely subsided. Quinn has been openly repentant about his actions, as is Hannigan, though he is mostly embarrassed and humiliated, rather than genuinely sorrowful. Sharp, as ever, is unrepentant and seems to conceive of his behavior as some kind of rebellion against our situation instead of anyone in particular.

I hope that fool doesn't force me to do something rash and to put him back in order. I assume that their ill-advised rebellion was born from an insatiable desire for recreation after so long on the trail, although Quinn spoke to me earlier today, suggesting otherwise. I was resistant to the idea that their behavior was the product of anything but generally a responsibility.

But, Quinn's story, if I believe it, has made me see differently. Time on the trail was exhausting, he said, and they were in fact desperate to relax and forget their troubles. But for other reasons. He says that he and the others are struck by a growing dread, a fear that has been growing all these weeks while pursuing our man. It was a strange, almost unaccountable kind of fear, whose source was not clear, and this intense dread had been shed amongst themselves all this time, growing precipitously, especially at times when supplies were short and days were long. Even the ever-stoic William was struck by this fear, even though he did a good job of concealing it. I asked if it was a fear of what we were doing

about our mission and the men we saw. He says at first he couldn't identify the source of the fear that the early days of our expedition were relatively benign. What changed that was what we found at the camp near Arbo. The sight of that headless corpse, sitting upright in the unnatural stillness around him, cemented his fear, and that it severely perturbed the others as well.

I admit, I felt a similar feeling after that moment, though I had dismissed the scene as a savage but meaningless atrocity. That fear, said Quinn, motivated them to seek escape wherever they could, as if their drunken revelry was akin to some sort of last meal. This all struck me as odd, yet strangely illuminating. I wonder now if it's true. I see now that I never really interacted closely with the others, never palavered with them, so perhaps it's no surprise that their private fears were never apparent to me. Another day or two, and I think we can safely rule out any sort of pursuit against us by the authorities in Sikoro. We were in town only a few hours, so it's entirely possible that nobody there could conclusively identify us. I just hope the trail of our suspect hasn't gone cold in the meantime.

Whatever their fears, whatever our fears, having come so far, seeing this thing through is all that makes sense anymore. August 24th, 1889, estimated 40 miles northwest of last crucius. Morale is still quite poor. I'd hope for an improvement after we left our hideout three days ago, though obviously in vain. We've kept quite a brisk pace the past few days. making over 80 miles in that time. It's taken some motivating to get these men to accept such a pace. Though now I know the source of their poor spirits,

I am a bit more sympathetic. Sharp is complaining as usual, but he hasn't changed much, which is actually a relief. The others are more concerning, particularly Hannigan, who has mostly abandoned his jocular demeanor. The trail is still continuing south,

though it has deviated some ways from the Rio grounding. The spirit's so poor, and many of the supplies running short, I thought better of asking them about what they knew of our mission situation. Perhaps it is just excessive suspicion on my part, but the question remains, and now I wonder if knowing about what we're up against is the source of their fear. It's even starting to affect me,

though I mostly feel despondent about our apparently, lack of progress. I might cease my journaling for a while. Whatever relief I feel when expressing myself in writing is more or less gone. August 28, 1899. Location unknown exactly. Somewhere near Arizona territory boundary. I've been praying these past four days for a definite sign.

Any sign. Any more of a trace of the men we're after than whatever tracks and trace is that William and Hannigan can divine from the dirt and mud across this awful desert. And today, I got one. God have mercy for my sins. I got one I asked for. Another dull day on the trail. Nearing Arizona, I thought the monotony was getting to me.

That horrible, caustic type of boredom I remember from my days in the cavalry, waiting for a battle to erupt. Fearing a Sue brave waiting around every rock. and tree on the plains. I'm rambling. So, around three o'clock, we spotted men on the horizon, two of them, who seemed at first to be moving away from us. But as we continued forward, it seemed they were heading in the same direction, but would

wait periodically for us to close the distance, then move again for a short time. It almost seemed like they were waiting in ambush, or luring us into ambush. Bandits, Renegates, whatever they were, I didn't care. It was something after so much of

nothing. It's stupid, being so willing to thrust into an apparent ambush, but we did. My comrades must have felt the same

because they followed without hesitation. We caught up with them after an hour or so. Well, they weren't at all what I expected, what little I did expect.

These men were fearful, desperate, even terrified of us. They were emaciated and pale, clothed in animal skins like cavemen, their hair shaved off. I saw those scars on the sides of their heads. Ugly, ragged scars that were still bright red. One of them was missing an ear, and they were terrified of us when we caught up to them, so scared they could hardly move. They weren't visibly armed.

before we could ask them anything, one demanded in hysterics to know who we are, and the other chimed in, saying we were with them, whoever that was, and we could not calm them. We could hardly even get a word in between their hysterical questions. The one asking started asking faster, louder, more shrill, and even our shouts in return could not make ourselves understood. Before I knew what had happened, the other had pulled a great big horse pistol from nowhere and fired upon us. Well, gunfights are like that. They start and end so quickly. In a second, we pulled our pistols, gunned down the both of them. We emptied our revolvers and just riddled them. And when the smoke cleared, both were sprawled in the dirt. One with his skull smashed open by a bullet. The other, releasing his gun. a loud, rasping death rattle. We leaped off our horses and immediately checked to make sure they were dead.

The whole incident had transpired over the course of 45 seconds at most. We could still hardly believe what had just happened. Both men were stone dead as we saw. It was a minute or two before we realized that Quinn had been struck by one of their shots. The shot hit him in the hip and knocked him clear off his horse. The shot hit him in the hip And knocked him clear of his horse And his groans went unnoticed

For several seconds While we processed what had happened Sharp was the first to come out of his astonishment And went to check on Quinn As much as I hate Sharp He has a toughness in him That I had never suspected He knows something of medicine

And inspected the wound And applied pressure to it By then we come around and did what we could to assist sharp. The wound is quite bad, he says, and the bullet lightly struck the bone and shattered it. After nearly a month of following an endless trail, pursuing a dangerous criminal,

and now, in a matter of seconds, one of our companions is being lost. Quinn is not dead and won't die soon, but we are far from anywhere civilized, and the man may lose his leg to this grievous wound. We have few medicals, supplies, many of which are for horses, not men. But Quinn has put on a brave face. I always rather liked him, and now I have to admire the manful way he is bearing the pain, the strength beyond his

years. He insists that we push on, even though we tell him we can turn back, bring him someplace where he'll be treated. He's earned that, at least. But he insists and says that we can bring him someplace along away, but he does not want to impede us. Secretly, I'm relieved that he insists we push forward, because it is all that we can do anymore in spite of everything. And despite Agriam's situation, we have a clue, a clue of the kind we haven't seen in weeks. Those slain men bear strange markings about their heads.

They have bizarre totems carved into their backs, the animal skins, those strange mutilations across their scouts. It can't possibly be anything else. It has to be connected to our man, this Deacon Chogan, Red Horse, Peacote, or Black Heron, or whatever they call him. For weeks, he hasn't seemed even real. All he's been is faint markings in the dust and dirt, a headless corpse around a campfire, a veritable road to nowhere of scattered blood trails.

but now he is real. I'm not cracking up. I feel it indelibly in my gut that something is happening. I prayed for a sign when I thought I'd die in dirt for nothing. God is my witness. I got one. And God have mercy on me. It may just have cost Henry Quinn his young life.

August 29th, 1889, near territory boundary of Arizona and New Mexico. I'm writing this in the morning. It has taken me nearly an hour to accept what has just happened. I was lying before. I think now I might actually be cracking up. Sharp has been ranting and raving for an hour now. Hannigan just seemed sick.

He won't mean anyone's eyes or even respond. Sharp has been yelling at him into middle knees, this whole time, and William is just staring off to the west at nothing in particular. We set up camp and bedded down for the night, not far from where Quinn was shot. We thought we should rest after what happened, to brace for the long journey ahead with that awful wound in his right hip. I never thought I could sleep with everything that was going on, but sometime in the night, while I stared blankly at the stars, it came. I awoke when I heard Hanigan and sharp shouting frantically around the perimeter of our camp, calling Quinn's name.

Quinn was missing. Somehow in the night, he'd slipped away from our camp. How exactly I cannot say. We should have noticed that his sc groans of pain had suddenly disappeared. He couldn't have walked in his condition, much less get far enough to be out of sight. And then, I noticed that horrendous stench, an incredibly full. foul my asthma that seemed to permeate the entire camp. Quinn's bedroll was lumped together, with all of his supplies and weapons gone.

But his horse and saddle was still there. I joined Hannigan and Sharp in calling for Quinn, while William scoured the edge of the camp, searching for whatever trace could be found. Hannigan went over and checked Quinn's bedroll, and that's where he found it. He made this horrible gasp, when he was. He unwrapped the bedrole, and that immediately got all of us to pay attention. That bedroll was the source of the stench, and we soon saw why. Inside the roll was a pile of organs and innards, lumped together like the offal in a slaughterhouse.

The entrails were covered in faint splotches of blood and unidentifiable fluids, but there was no mistake. These were real entrails. Quinn's bedroll, and we couldn't account for where Quinn was. The thoughts that occurred to us in these moments paralyzed us. Sharp immediately said it couldn't be him. No one could say what kind of entrails these were. All we know is that we found it in Quinn's bedroll and the Quinn was missing.

He has a resilient mind, I must admit. Nobody had suggested that whatever was in that bedroll was what was left of Quinn. but he gave voice to what all of us were thinking. And I couldn't dispute him. But I can dismiss what we're thinking. How could something like this be possible? How could he leave or be spirited away in the night without our noticing? How could that hideous pile of innards and gorse suddenly appear within his bedroom?

Sharp has ceased his tirade, finally. Now, I have seen his many faces, but this is the first time I have seen him, defeated. The once-jovial Hannigan is a shell of his former exuberance and good humor. William has just come back, and he seems frustrated, exhausted, and defeated, just like Sharpe. I think they have all come to the same conclusion. Our foe is very much real. Whatever became of Quinn cannot be anything other than his doing. I've read the dossier. I've seen the details of his crimes that this deacon Chogan, accused of 19 murders across three states and territories, is capable of such things. I have no doubt. Suddenly, I don't think I want to know just what exactly

happened to young Henry Quinn, a faithful stalwart companion for only too short a time. What we found in that bedroom is anybody's guess, but it won't be mine. September, 1889, Arizona, according to our map. I have not kept track of the precise date for several days. I imagined it must be September by now. We left what remained of Quinn at the campsite, still wrapped in his bedroll, taking his few supplies with us. His horse as well will remain with us as long as we can manage.

Sharp has taken responsibility for his saddle and tack. Quinn had no other personal belonging in his kit, or had them on his person when he disappeared. No journals, photographs, or even a small Bible. There was nothing I could bring back to his next of kin. Assuming I do notify his next of kin, I'm not sure I could bring myself to tell the truth of what became of him, or what we assumed to have happened to him. We've ridden all through the day since then, stopping rarely and keeping a brisk pace. Sharp no longer seems concerned about pushing our horses too hard.

I assume by now we must be well inside the Arizona Territory, and now we're heading south yet again. If the trail should lead down into Mexico itself, I shall not hesitate. My desire to see this thing through has overridden my feeble concerns about doing so. The nights have been getting worse. Every night, without fail, the horses will become. supremely agitated and Sharp will spend well over an hour trying to calm them and prevent them from running off. Hanigan has finally come out of the worst of his torpor, but his moods have been shifting wildly. He swears blind that during the night he can hear strange sounds, like the

call of wild animals in the distance, but like none he has ever heard before. I have never heard them myself, but in my state I can hardly focus on anything. much less notice anything beyond the perimeter of our camp. My private reserve of whiskey has finally run out. I wonder how I will now get to sleep. We have been leaving our campfire lit throughout the night, in spite of the risks. Not one of us can bear the thought of passing another night in darkness. September 4th or 5th, 1889 near the Mexican border.

By God, I heard. heard those sounds that Hanigan has been warning us about. I heard them in the night coming from the south, directly in the path we are headed. And like Hanigan said, these weren't any kind of animal that I have ever heard in this country or any other I visited. It almost seemed like the noises came from the sky itself, rather than them from some distant point on the horizon. It was like a deep, wavering howl, almost like a wood. wounded animal. And despite its faint report, it echoed definitively across the plains. Sharp claims he hasn't heard them, but I saw everyone in camp become riveted in place when those

echoes went out. He has heard them. I have no doubt. We're coming close now. I'm sure of it. But now I wonder if it's not them, but us that is being followed. or lured to wherever our trail should lead us. I wonder how long we've been followed, perhaps since the mission at Arbo, or even before, when we discovered the corpse at the camp near there, or from Estancia, where we interrogated the locals, or maybe even from the very beginning.

Hannigan is cracking up. William has hardly said a word for days, and despite Sharp's frequent denials, I know he is fraying at the edges as well. I have held my silence long enough. Before too long, I will confront them about what they know and do not know. I'm starting to crack up myself. But there is no reason my comrades should be so forlorn,

unless they know something I do not. Perhaps tomorrow, after another night of sounds and distant threats, they will finally come around. September 6th, 1880s. I knew there was something on that hill. Our camp the previous evening was set in a depression between two hills. One bear, the other with a small grove of cottonwoods surrounded by thickets of tall scrub brush set in its slopes. I spotted that gap in the thicket, like the entrance of a cave, but surrounded by creosote and low-hanging branches.

I pared it no mind at first, but all through that evening I would. was transfixed by that gap. Maybe there was a convenient spring to water the animals, or a place to set up a secluded camp, but that wasn't the reason I'd noticed it. This morning, only a few minutes ago, I finally worked out the nerve to go and investigate it, and I found something,

something so terrible and edifying that whatever doubts I have about our task had now gone. I went into that that gap, in the thicket, where it was several yards deep, and I emerged in a small clearing, overshadowed by those cottonwoods. That's when I found it. Suspended by those low-hanging branches was an enormous totem, perhaps six feet across, hanging several feet over the clearing, and it was made of bones, animal bones, maybe some human bones as well, all arranged. like spokes on a wheel, with feathers and animal skins.

Around his border were mummified limbs, both human and animal, with a similarly mummified head of a goat at his crest, and a string of dried human skulls hanging down from the bottom. But those animal skins were the worst. They were fresh, some still dripping blood. It can have been here more than a day or so. The message is unmistakable. We are most definitely closing in.

Whether we are closing in on them, or if they are closing in on us, we shall soon find out. September 6th. Addendum. Same location. I finally confronted these fools about whatever they've been hiding this whole time.

And despite some early resistance, they finally spilled it. I was right before. They were, in fact, individually briefed about what was going on. Each one had a copy of the very same dossier I was given, with subtle alterations to specific details. Each was told that they were the sole possessors of the information, and that the others would not know, and could be only told sparingly. But they found this out for themselves when I freely shared the details I was given against orders. Why would the agency have done this?

Do they expect none of us to come back? Is that what they actually hope for? It's the only reason I can think of. Each man believes only he knows what is going on. And when the others are lost or killed, he becomes the sole witness to what happened. But why tell us in the first place? No, I've answered my own question.

If I had not known what was going on, I would have deserted this mission back in. New Mexico. We have just enough information and reason to push on. And when each man believes only he knows a full story, he will have all the more reason to turn on each other or leave the others to die. They want as few witnesses to this operation as possible. This is only conjecture, but it is the only reason I can think of.

I'll be keeping a much closer eye on these men from now on. The secret is out. I won't have them turning on me or deserting us. They will see this thing through. I will make sure of that. That lingering, unnameable fear that Quinn told me about in Socorro is clear to me now. But he will not get the best of us. September 7th, 1889, 12 miles past the border in Mexico.

That miserable Kerr, William, has deserted us. our designated tracker, the one who so capably led us across the wastes using nothing more than faint prince in the dust, a faithful hand stalwart companion has shown himself no more than a feckless no-account coward. He stole away in the night, presumably while we slept, and was long gone by sunrise. He took with him his own horse and supplies and left few traces of his leaving. Hannigan will be taking over his duties as the tracker, although his slow pace and reluctance to go on could impede us. It is no matter.

His demeanor has hardly changed, even after the revelations of yesterday. Sharp turned Quinn's horse loose this morning. Quinn's supplies were long since exhausted, and the extra horse was no use to us any longer. He even broached the idea that we should turn all the horses loose and continue on foot. When we reach wherever we're. head it, we'll have no more use for them. I can't say that I disagree, but we will press on further

before doing so. And depending on what we find, a return journey may not be necessary. September 10th, 1889, the forest of skins in the Sierra Madre. We turned our horses loose yesterday when we reached the foothills of the mountains. They lingered for a minute and then bolted a round. broadly. Since then, we've moved further into the mountains. Then, we reached it. Less than 100 yards into the trees, we found our first definite signs of the men we are following. Animal skins nailed to trees, totems of sticks and bones. At the edge of Narayo, we saw the clear sign that we have been waiting for. A symbol painted on a rock face of a man with many arms and legs,

and a head painted completely black, with narrow white slits for eyes. It was like a gatekeeper, for beyond that was what we have called the forest of skins. Dozens, even hundreds of skins, of animals, and perhaps even humans, stuck to trees, draped up. over branches, pelts of animals of different species stitched together in horrible shapes. Every tree inside is covered with them, and some are so fresh that they drip blood from overhead, like a light drizzle of rain. I think I can see torches ahead in the distance, deeper into the forest. We are here, I know it. Hanigan is on the verge of hysterics. Sharp is bracing himself

Everything ahead of us is our enemy I've been so preoccupied with getting here I haven't even thought of how we should take our quarry alive or dead But it will come to us We're at the end And our end will make itself clear Deacon Chogan

Alias Red Horse Alias Peco alias black heron is finally at our door. This is when the journal entries end, but not where the story of Joseph Sheridan ends. The second portion of his writings is much shorter and was apparently written many years after the events he describes in his journal, in the year 1896. In it, he reveals just what happened in the forest in the Sierra Madre Mountains of northern Mexico. in terms much more coherent than his earlier writings. He evidently survived the horrific ordeal and returned to a normal life a few years later,

having spent many months in a sanitarium recuperating from what happened. He left the United States for South America in 1898, settling in Argentina and living out the rest of his life. It is unknown when and where he eventually died, although he left behind his estranged wife and their young son. Again, I'm not quite sure what to think about what I read in this journal. It all seems so surreal. Too strange to even be true, but I can't imagine why Joe Sheridan would fabricate something so revolting and horrible. But the fact is, not long after this, he did indeed spend time in a sanitarium to recover from an extremely poor physical and mental state, which points to two possible conclusions.

One, that his writings really are the product of a diseased mind, which led to his placement in the mental institution. But the other, more worrying possibility is that perhaps there is at least some amount of truth in what he wrote, and that his condition was a result of it. I have a hard time imagining a world where something like this is possible, but he seems so certain, especially in his recollections afterward, that it was all quite real. But I just don't know. And I can't say for certain.

I suppose it is up to the readers to draw their own conclusions. What follows next is a transcription of his writings after the incident, in which he details what happened after the final entry in his journal. Perhaps you people can read it and draw better conclusions than mine. May, 1896. It has been a full five years since my release from the institution, and the personal vow of silence I opposed to my myself has run its course. I spend the years since those faithful months in 1889,

rebuilding my courage and resolve to one day describe what happened, and the fate of my former comrades. Indeed, it is the memory of these men that has spurred on my desire to come clean. Though we were companions for only a short time, and were not always on cordial terms, I feel a certain kinship with these men. Not unlike that I forged with my former comrade during my time in the U.S. cavalry. In fact, I dare say that there is some deeper bond with R.J. Hannigan, Henry Quinn, Wilfrid Sharp, and that Stoic Indian William than any I felt before.

or since. We are all victims of a horror beyond reckoning, one that has thrown into question my own faith in the sanity of the world. But alas, I feel I owe them a certain debt, one that I intend to repay

in their memory. I was found in the village of Agua Prieta on the Mexican border in early November of 1889. My state, both physically and mentally, was one of profound deterioration, covered in strange wounds and scars, babbling nonsense and completely naked.

In only my bare skin, I wandered into the village in the wee hours of the morning, having walked a considerable distance through first, hunger, and in clemen weather for several days and nights. The locals were naturally disturbed by my appearance, though their alarm became genuine concern, and I was taken into the care of the local convent, where the sisters helped restore me to some health. I am eternally grateful to those wonderful women, particularly Sister Mary Agnes, whose ministrations were among the first to bring me out of my deranged state. A message was sent across the border, where evidently word was reached that I, Joseph Sheridan, was found alive, though not well, and within days I was retrieved from the care of nuns

by my sister Meredith, in the company of two men from the agency. before my convalescence in the institution in Colorado, those two agency brutes attempted to debrief me, even though my dismal state should have precluded any clumsy attempts at interrogation. Meredith, God bless her, came to my defense and saw to it that I was placed into better care and that I would be safe for a time from there prodding. I was in the institution for 13 months, all the while frequently visited by Meredith and even my wife Eleanor, whom I have not seen for quite some time. She did not, however, bring our son, which I suppose is a small mercy given my state. The doctors and nurses at that institution

treated me quite well, and with their treatment and kind considerations, I'm glad to say I made progress. But I have incurred some wounds that I believe shall never truly heal. In an interview with my primary doctor. I described my state as being one in which my mind and soul were shattered in many pieces, and though my recovery managed to meticulously piece it together again, it shall never again come together in its original shape. But, God willing, I will find the strength to push ever on and make peace with my new self.

Almost immediately upon my release, I was called to the Denver office of the Pinkerton Agency for a thorough debriefing of the events of those faithful weeks in 1889. And I did give them thorough report, though the exact truths of what happened to remain mine, and mine alone. I did indeed get their man,

this deacon Chogan fellow, but, as things turned out, I could not conclusively prove to them that I had. But my sincerity swayed them, and they could not deny the evident truths of my predicament, that I returned with a broken body and mind, A living testament to some horrific ordeal that they could scarcely fathom, had I not corroborated it with my own words. That the five men that departed Las Vegas, New Mexico, that August seven years ago, only I remained.

And only I can say what exactly became of most of them. The mystery of what happened to Quinn remains a mystery. But I am confident that he shall never be seen again. After that, I imposed that vow of silence upon myself, which I have maintained for five whole years now. The act of conveying my tale to the Pinkerton so soon after my release was quite painful and trying. I have since left the agency, and I have moved back home to Ohio and found employment with my brother-in-law, Frederick, at his grocery store. I received the $5,000 reward I was promised, and despite my urging to offer the same. reward to the next of kin of my compatriots. I cannot say if they ever received it. I reread my

journal, which I had fortunately saved, making some private annotations about certain statements I'd made. My God, I can hardly believe just how fragile mind-mind was in the latter days of that time. But even then, I distinctly remember how little truth I expressed about myself, like my feeble quotes about finding sobriety on the trail. I drank like a fish that whole time and had no business making a similar expectation of my comrades. Nor did I ever express that I indeed was struck by a dread, a mercurial fear, throughout the early days of that expedition,

just as my fellows were. In these self-criticisms, I found a reserve of strength to recount the latter half of my tale, and no matter what fears and reservations may come flooding back, I am committed to putting my memories to the page. My last journal entry puts the three of us in what I call the Forest of Skins, which is precisely as it sounds, and as I described those many years ago. I knew that we were quite close to our intended goal,

and I found an insatiable desire to confront our man, and to see from my own eyes the men we had pursued, through thick and thin these many weeks. When night fell in that ghastly forest, we were set upon by our enemies. For all this time, we'd only ever heard rumors or seen faint traces of their passing.

And it was only when we'd laid eyes upon them, the men who were formerly distant nightmares in our imaginations, that, well, they were more horrible than anything I expected. They were dressed entirely in animal-skirts, from head to toe, strangely stitched together so nothing of human visage could be identified, not even a patch of skin. Those horrible, faceless demons, with bones and sticks in their hoods to resemble antlers or horns,

and descended upon us in near darkness and complete silence. They said, not a word, no warnings or threats. And they appeared from all directions, hunched over like stalking animals, carrying primitive weapons, but in those numbers we could not hope to ward them off without guns

before they reached us. With knives, spears and clubs fashioned from wood and animal bones, they charged with murderous intent. We had drawn our pistols and rifles, and with that horrible fear and icy feeling in our veins, we did not hesitate to pull those triggers.

And yet, it did nothing. I know for a fact that our bullets struck home, yet our assailants did not drop, not that they even react to being shot. With their speed, we had only seconds of fire before they came upon us, and with great violence they pummeled us without mercy, raining down blows on our hapless heads with their clubs, and the blunt end of their spears.

For many agonizing minutes, it seemed like ours, we were beaten without a sound from any of our foes, struck constantly without any regard for where their blows landed. In those moments, I felt the sting of failure, feeling that we had come to our deaths and that our enemy would be victorious. Somewhere in those moments, I lost myself, thinking vaguely that I just died, that I was in those strange moments just before meeting my maker. But it was not the end. In spite of that vicious beating, I and my comrades had only been rendered unconscious, badly injured but still alive. As I awoke, I was strung up by my hands and feet in a strange position,

inconsiderable pain from the beating and from the strain on my wrists and ankles. I was suspended face down, a short ways above the ground, by three ropes between a group of trees. My arms were pulled full span. My ankles tied together and pulled painfully tight to a tree behind. behind me. I was positioned almost like a man on a cross, though held up only by ropes, suspended like a marionette some four feet above the ground. It was still night, though this part of the forest was quite well lit, with many torches staked into the ground. And when I gathered the energy, I could look up to a degree. I saw through a haze of blood in my eyes that others

were about, dressed in a manner similar to our assailants, regarding me in complete silence. I said nothing, but as I looked about, I could not see my comrades anywhere. I was held in this state, drifting in and out of consciousness, for a time whose length I cannot determine. It was twilight when I was finally cut down for my painful situation, and though I was not restrained, I had no energy to resist with more than feeble struggles. I was simply dragged through the forest by my arms and then roughly thrown down into the dirt, where I lay for some time before being grabbed again.

I was raised to my knees, and it was only then that I realized that my captors had completely stripped off my clothes, except for some torn rags around my nether regions, and that I was in front of a roaring fire, facing a man completely cast in shadow of the bright flames. He was completely bald, with no trace of beard, but had numerous patterns painted upon his scalp and face.

He regarded me with cold, empty eyes that showed nothing but contempt for a pitiful man before him. I could only stare blankly at his face, saying nothing. With the start, he briskly signaled the man restraining. me to bring me to another spot. It was there that I saw what had become of my comrades. William, the Indian tracker, was among them. Despite his best efforts to flee out desperate predicament, he had not evaded capture. Having come as far as he did, perhaps he was faded to be among us at the end of the journey. His state was horrific beyond words, but I shall do my best.

He was restrained to an X-shaped crucifix elevated above the ground, fully illuminated by the firelight. His head, like the others, was completely shaved of its long, flowing black hair, with numerous fresh lacerations made into the side of his skull, some of which still trickled blood. His eyes were wide open, with a haunted look and a trembling jaw that showed a man utterly broken. across the front of his torso were even larger cuts and lacerations, some of which were stitched closed, with two main slashes in the shape of an X running from shoulder to hip, and his limbs. Good God, his limbs! They had been completely flayed, and in that place were a patchwork of animal skin sewn into his flesh. They held up my face to regard this horrific

excite for several minutes, tugging on the skin of my forehead to keep my eyes open. They then lowered the cross with a violent drop, and William led out a brief, blood-cirling shriek that was utterly ignored by our captors. Still on the cross, he was dragged away into the dark forest, out of my sight, to God knows where. By this point, the bravado with which I had pursued these men was completely gone. As they dragged William away, I went into a pitiful wail, and my nerves utterly collapsed. As I still wailed, the man once again dragged me off to another spot, a crude enclosure made of sticks, where I again came face to face with the man from before.

There was an altar in the centre, and on it I recognised my friend Hannigan, who lay completely senseless and weak. He was still alive, I saw. and over him stood that painted man who glared at me balefully in the dim light. I saw then in the corner was sharp, in a state of sharp not dissimilar to mine, and two men were at work trimming the hair from his head,

shearing it off with a knife, and then dry scraping the scalp of any stubble, not caring if the blade sliced the skin. They forced my attention back at Hannigan, who lay completely incontinent, and at this man's mercy. He raised Hanikin's head in the altar, and drawing out a long, thin instrument,

he began to vigorously thrust it into Hannigan's bare scalp. The poor devil began to come around as that horrible tool began to root under his skin and was soon making gasping cries of agony through his sluggish state. I know now the reasons for the hideous markings about the scalps of the other victims. That horrible blade was pushed ever deeper into Hannigan's head

and was sure that it must have punctured his skull and all the while his cries became screams but he could do nothing as this evil surgeon used his considerable strength to restrain the poor man. In an instant the scream stopped and Hannigan's head lulled over for me to look into his face that look of abject horror remained

but his eyes were now black, darling back and forth without comprehension. I could see that this horrible surgeon's blade had gone completely through his head, just behind the temples. Then the blade was violently pulled out, and then the surgeon turned his attention to driving the blade into his victim's chest,

ripping a deep gouge that resembled those I'd seen on William. I was rendered utterly speechless by this spectacle, but I could not look away. This dark figure spayed open Hanigan's torso again and started rooting around without object, as if out of curiosity, occasionally plunging his tool into some unseen viscera.

Hannigan was still alive, but could only make faint struggles against this horrific torture, and no sound would emanate from his mouth. But those eyes of his, those blank eyes, would still come alive for brief instance. and I would feel faint, but I could not lose myself. Some time later, Hannigan was dragged off that altar, and Sharp, whose preparations were apparently complete, was put in his place.

But Sharp, still in possession of his faculties, struggled with great force, crying and shouting at the top of his lungs, when the surgeon grabbed the sides of his head and began to push his thumbs into Sharp's eyes. The cries became shrieks, and the pain had hobbled Sharp long enough. The surgeon's assistant could strike a vicious blow against the side of Sharp's head, which stunned him. It was then that the surgeon retrieved a horrible object,

a mummified human head with no eyes that had been fashioned into some sort of chalice with the liquid draining from its open mouth. They forced Sharp's mouth open and poured down his throat some hideous concoction that resembled dark blood, but which gave a sharp, accurate chemical odour similar to, carbolic acid. Within moments, Sharp was rendered as senseless as poor Hannigan before him, and this ghastly surgeon repeated his horrific mutilations on Sharp, but with greater violence and force than with Hannigan. As before, Sharp still showed some vestige of life behind his eyes, but that grievous wound to his brain had permanently stifled his struggles. When the surgeon

completed his work, he came around the altar to look me close in the earth. his hands almost completely slathered with fresh blood. Then he gave a cold, baleful smile, sneering in my face, even chuckled. Then he quietly said, later on, briskly got to his feet and walked out. It was then that a tight, smothering rag was pulled over my head, starving me of breath,

and as I was sure I would suffocate, I was struck over the head and left and left, blackness. I came back to my senses seconds later and saw I was being dragged away yet again to a new place. I was quite afraid that I would again be strung up by those ropes, but I instead was dragged in front of a hole in the ground, looking into a small covered dugout, into which I was pushed and left alone. I was in utter shock as I lay on that frigid, sod floor of that dugout, unable to comprehend the meaning of what I had just witnessed. I was horrendous, meaningless mutilations, the apparent death of my comrades, the knowledge

that I was likely next for such treatment. All of it imposed on my fragile mind and left me in complete despair. I remained like this for days, held in this filthy dugout that was so small that I could not stand up and was forced to lie in my own waste. One night I awoke to find myself being brusquely ripped out of the dugout and again dragged dragged off and forced to face the surgeon. I was convinced that my time on the altar had come. And knowing that the grotesque mutilations of the brain would not kill me, but lead me to suffer, I was deathly afraid.

Instead, I was brought again before this surgeon. To my utter horror, I saw that he was flanked on both sides by Hannigan and Sharp. They stood on their feet, though unsteadily, and swayed mildly while they were. blank eyes regarded me. They still had those terrible lacerations on their chests, with bits and pieces of animal height stitched into their shoulders and arms, and the surgeon leaned down to scrutinize me with that familiar dead glare. But to my further surprise, he ushered my guards back and leaned forward to whisper in my ear.

I cannot remember his precise words, but I distinctly recall his cold, soft voice, and I recall what sort of things he told me. He said that humanity would not inherit the earth, and that the world did not belong to the first men, or to men like us, nor would it belong to anybody that comes after. Instead, he said, that the next man who rule the earth would not be born, but made, fabricated out of the pieces of the old world. He claimed that he and his men were the parents of new order,

and I am my comrades and countless others who suffered that horrible fate would be the children and those we bore after us would inherit the earth. I could not fully understand what he meant, and for all I knew, it was simply the ramblings of an insane man, but what he said next came with perfect clarity. In a soft, taunting voice he said, You found me. And then I realized just who's the same. who this diabolical surgeon was.

It was the man I sold, this deacon Chogan and all his other aliases. I studied his face in the better light, trying to make out his features. At first glance, he did indeed seem to be a white man, but on further examination, he seemed to defy any firm classification of race. His skin was a very pale brown in the torchlight,

but his painted face made it down. difficult to define any exact features. He was not at all what I'd imagined, not the wise and sorcerer or hideous monster that I pictured. With another brisk signal, his guards brought me to my feet and dragged in the direction of the altar. Having seen what became of Sharp and Hannigan,

I began to panic, despite my defeated state. But I was taken by complete surprise when I thought a long, so sharp objects, slide into my hands. I looked behind in confusion and saw that Sharp was following close behind us. And I could swear then that I saw a faint glimmer of human life in his eyes. And a small nod touched his features. My panic turned to confusion and then determination. Had I been granted a slim chance of escape?

But Sharp, in his diminished state, had a brief resurgence of humanity and recognition. That feeling of full. hot bloody determination that I felt in the days before our arrival returned to me. I had a chance again. I was placed on my back upon the altar, presumably destined for the same fate as sharp William and Hannigan. Chogan leaned over again, glaring into my face as he had done all of these times, and he gave an evil grin as he waved that horrible surgical instrument in front of my eyes. His men restrained my eyes. His men restrained my eyes. arms, and once again he bore that head chalice with foul elixir within.

My face was forced open, and the substance poured into my mouth. It was foul tasting beyond belief, and as if some custed chemical had been poured down my throat mixed with blood. I'd seen what this foul stuff had done to shop before, and so I thought I could fake swallowing it, but it was so foul that I spit it out into Chogan's face. This absolutely enraged him, and for a man of his appearance, his rage very nearly drove me to panic again. Then he gave me that distinct, evil smile, apparently intending to continue the procedure, even without his elixir to paralyze me. As I looked around, I saw sharp and Hannigan standing by my side, as if to guard me, but they were both glaring at Chogun, some of that spark of life having returned to their eyes. As Chogun raised his instrument to strike my head, they acted.

With an enraged, animalistic cry, Sharpe and Hannigan struck at the two other men guarding the altar. They drew concealed knives, and with tremendous fury, plunged them into the faces of their targets, drawing screams and dropping them where they stood. Cholgan was briefly frozen with astonishment, and I seized my moment. I had hidden that long knife under the small of my back. And in one motion I drew it and regarded Chogun. For a moment, time slowed, and I saw his attention shift to me,

with confusion and fury clouding his eyes. And after a brief hesitation, I swiped that knife with all my strength. The slice caught him across his throat, completely ripping open the front of his neck, and a warm jet of blood pelted my face. He stumbled back, not understanding at first, and his eyes became incredulous at his state.

He teetered back, and, with his eyes still fixed on me, collapsed flat on his back, and lay still. As I saw this, I returned to my senses, and realized I had been bellowing aloud and vicious war cry as I struck him down. I turned and saw that Sharpened Hannigan had already charged out into the camp, weapons in hand, striking the unbelievable speed and fury at other men who had come to challenge them. They suffered numerous blows in return, being slashed and skewed.

But they did not slow, hacking away at their foes with boundless fury. I turned to my heels and fled into the forest, heading whichever way I thought was north. But as I ran, I turned back to see my comrades, still fighting, surrounded by slain foes. And they began to succumb to their wounds, their bodies hideously tall. but not deterring them. With an energy that I never knew I possessed, I ran, sprinting with all my might in the direction from which we come. I must have been running for hours.

When I was finally drained of energy, I was well clear of the forest and could see no pursuers. It was early evening by now, but even in my exhausted state, I stayed on my feet, keeping a brisk trot to the north. The delayed sense of relief at being out of there finally came to me, and even in my dismal state, I exalted. Sharp and Hannigan were surely dead, overwhelmed and mortally wounded, as they were when I last saw them,

but their fury and courage are given me my opportunity to escape. It's here that my recollections fade. I only remember walking endlessly, with a vague sense of time that seems. seemed like the passage of days. I did not sleep and rarely stopped to rest. It was in this state that I stumbled into the village of Alcoirieta, and the rest of my tale I've already told. By now, it's taken me three days and numerous stops for me to completely write down my memories of the events of those horrible days. Now that it is out, I can already feel a certain relief coming on, even though I am quite drained emotionally.

My recovery from this chapter of my life may never be quite complete. I do not expect the pain that still reoccurs to ever cease. I still bear the marks of the ordeal on body as well as my mind. With scars and marks from the beatings on my legs and back, a strange symbol carved into flesh between my shoulder blades. I have never laid eyes on it myself, but I can feel the raised scar tissue and get a sense of the pattern it makes. My doctors in the institution have been quite skeptical of my story, or what little of it I told them.

And even the scar on my back never convinced them, believing that I did that to myself in my fugue state. I've come to some realizations over the past few years, about life, about human history, about our general place in the universe. When my anesthetists came across the ocean to the Americas, they called it the new world. But this could hardly have been a more inner problem. appropriate title. The land beneath our feet is ancient, ancient beyond reckoning, and over the centuries it has swallowed whole, countless generations of men. War, famine, disease and the slow march of time drenched this land in blood, and in the process changed the shape of men and beasts that roam it. I still ruminate on what Chogun told me in those faithful moments about how mankind will not inherit the earth.

earth, and I wonder if perhaps he was crept. Trains, telegraphs and steamships have made the earth somewhat smaller, broad distant corners closer together, but even the most remote and dark places on this planet, even a place like the forest of skins, are not truly different from any other spot on earth. Every inch of it has feasted upon the flesh of all the poor beasts in creation. I cannot escape it anywhere. In time, I think I will travel elsewhere. Perhaps South America.

I find a corner of my own to fertilize one day. We follow blood trails all our lives. And on mine, if I look hard enough. I think I can see the end of it. And the end of Joseph Hay, Sheridan. Our second and final story for this evening is The Horror from the Mout by Robert E. Howard. The horror from the male.

Steve Brill did not believe in ghosts or demons. Juan Lopez did. But neither the caution of the one nor the sturdy skepticism of the other was shield against the horror that fell upon them. The horror forgotten by men for more than 300 years. A screaming fear monstrously resurrected from the black lost ages. Yet Steve Brill sat on his son.

sagging stoop that last evening. His thoughts were as far from uncanny menaces as the thoughts of man can be. His ruminations were bitter but materialistic. He surveyed his farmland and he swore. Brill was tall, rangy and tough as boot leather, true son of the iron body pioneers who wrenched West Texas from the wilderness. He was browned by the sun and strong as a long-hawed steer. His lean legs and the boots on them showed his cowboy instincts. And now he cursed himself that he'd ever climbed off the hurricane deck of his crank-eyed Mustang and turned to farming. He was no farmer, the young puncher admitted profanely.

His failure had not been all his fault. Plentiful rain in the winter, so rare in West Texas, had given promise of good crops. But as usual, things had happened. A late blizzard had destroyed all the budding, fruit. The grain which had looked so promising was ripped to shreds and battered into the ground by terrific hailstorms just as it was turning yellow. The period of intense dryness, followed by another hailstorm, finished the corn. Then the cotton which had somehow struggled through fell before a swarm of grasshoppers which stripped Brill's field almost overnight. So Brill

sad and swore that he would not renew his lease. He gave fervent thanks that he did not own the land on which she'd wasted his sweat, and that there was still broad rolling ranges to the west where a strong man could make his living, riding and roping. Now as Brill sat glumly, he was aware of the approaching form of his nearest neighbour, Juan Lopez, a tacit an old Mexican who lived in a hut just out of sight over at the hill across the creek, and grabbed for a living. At present he was glaring a strip of land on an adjoining farm, and in returning to his hut, he crossed a corner of Brill's pasture. Brill idly watched him climb through the barbed wire fence

and trudging along the path he'd worn in the shore dry grass. He'd been working at his present job for ever a month now, chopping down tough, gnarly mesquite trees and digging up the incredibly long roots. And Brill knew he always followed the same path home. When watching, Brill noted him swerving far aside, seemingly to avoid a low, rounded hillock which jutted above the level of the pasture.

Lopez went far around this knoll and Brill remembered that the old Mexican always circled it at a distance. And another thing came into Brill's idle mind. Lopez always increased his gait when he was passing the knoll, and he always managed to get by it before sundown. Yet Mexican labourers generally worked from the first light of dawn to the last glint of twilight, especially at these grubbing jobs when they were paid by the acre and not by the day. Brill's curiosity was aroused. He rose and sauntering down the slight slope on the

crown of which his shack sat, hailed the plotting Mexican. Hey Lopez, wait a minute. Lopez halted, looks about and remained motionless but unenthusiastic as the white man approached. Lopez, said Brill lazily. Ain't none of my business, but I just wanted to ask you. How come you always go so far around that old Indian mount? No, Sabi, grunted Lopez shortly. You're a liar, responded Brill genially. You're savvy, all right.

You speak English as good as me. What's the matter? You think that mount's haunted or something? Brill could speak Spanish himself and read it too, but like most Anglo-Saxons, he much preferred to speak his own language. Lopez shrugged his shoulders. He is not a good place, no bueno, he muttered, avoiding Brill's eyes. Later, he don't think's rest.

I reckon you're scared of ghosts, Brill bantered. Sharks, if that is an Indian mound, them Indians been dead so long their ghosts would be plum, worn out by now. Brill knew that the illiterate Mexicans look with superstitious aversion on the mounds that are found here and there through the southwest. rest, relics of a past and forgotten age, containing the mouldering bones of chiefs and warriors of a lost race. Best not to disturb what is hidden into earth, grunted Lopez.

Balsh, said Brill. Me and some boys busted into one of their mounds over in Palo Pinto country, dug up pieces of a skeleton with some beads and flint, arrowheads and the like. I kept some of the teeth a long time, until I lost them. I had never been haunted. Indians, snorted Lopez unexpectedly. Who spoke of Indians? There have been more than Indians in this country.

In the old-time strange things happened here. I've heard the tales of my people, handed out from generation to generation. My people were here long before yours, Signor-Brew. Yeah, you're right, admitted Steve. First white man in this country was Spaniards, of course. Coronado passed along not very far from here, I hear tell, and Hernando de Estrada's expedition came through here. Away back yonder, I don't know how long ago. In 1545, said Lopez, they pitch camp yonder where your corral stands now.

We'll turn to glance at his rail fence corral, inhabited now by his saddle horse, a pair of workhorses in a scrawny camp. How come you know so much about it? He asked curiously. One of my ancestors marched with Estrada, answered Lopez, a soldier, Porfirio Lopez. He taught his son of that expedition, and he taught his son, and so down the family line to me,

who have no son to whom I can tell the tale. Oh, I didn't know you were so well connected, said Brill. Maybe you know something about the gold the Estrada was supposed to have hit around here somewhere. There was no gold, growled Lopez. The Estrada's soldiers bore only their arms, and they fought their way through hostile country. Many left their bones along the trail. Later, many years later, a mule train from Santa Fe was attacked, not many miles from here by Comanches, and they hit their gold and escaped.

So, well, the legends got mixed up, but even their gold is not there now. because gringo buffalo hunters founded and dug it up. Brill nodded abstractly, hardly heating. Of all the continent of North America, there's no section so haunted by tales of lost or hidden treasures in the southwest. Uncounted wealth passed back and forth over the hills and plains of Texas and New Mexico in the old days, when Spain owned the gold and silver mines of the new world and controlled the rich fur trade of the west.

echoes of that wealth linger on in tales of golden caches. Some such vagrant dream, born of failure and pressing poverty, rose in Brill's mind. A loud, he spoke. Well, anyway, I got nothing else to do, and I believe I'll dig into that old mound and see what I can find. The effect of that simple statement on Lopez was nothing short of shocking. He recoiled, and his swarthy brown face went ashy. His black eyes flared and he threw up his arms in a gesture of intense expostulation. Dios, no, he cried.

Don't do that, Signor, Bril. There is a curse. My grandfather told me. Told you what? Ask Bril. Lopez lapsed into sullen silence. I cannot speak, he muttered. I am sworn to silence.

Only to an eldest son could I open my heart, but believe me when I say better had you cut your throat than to break into that accursive mouth. Well, said Brill, impatient of Mexican superstitions. If it's so bad, why did you tell me about it? Give me a logical reason for not busting into it. I cannot speak, cried the Mexican desperately. I know, but I swore to silence to the Holy Crucifix, just as every man of my family has sworn.

It is a thing so dark, it is to risk damnation even to speak of it. What I'd tell you, I would blast the soul from your body. But I have sworn, and I have no sun, so my lips are sealed forever. Oh, well, said Brill sarcastically. Why don't you write it out? Lopez started, stared, and, to Steve's surprise, caught at the suggestion. I will. Dios be thanked the good priest taught me to write when I was a child.

My oath said nothing of writing. I only swore not to speak. I will write out the whole thing for you, if you will swear not to speak of it afterward, and to destroy the paper as soon as you have read it. Sure, said Brill to humor him, and the old Mexican seemed much relieved. Bueno, I will go at once and write.

Tomorrow as I go to work, I will bring you the paper, and you will understand why no one must open that accursed mount. When Lopez hurried along, his homeward path, his stooped shoulders swaying with the effort of his unwanted haste. Steve grinned after him, shrugged his shoulders and turned back toward his own shack. Then he halted, gazing back at the low, rounded mound with his grass-grown sides. It must be an Indian tomb, he decided, what with its symmetry and its similarity to other Indian, mounds he'd seen. He scowled as he tried to figure out the seeming connection between the

mysterious and all and the martial ancestor of Juan Lopez. Brill gazed after the receding figure of the old Mexican. A shallow valley, cut by a half-dry creek, bordered with trees and underbrush, lay between Brill's pasture and the low sloping hill beyond, in which lay Lopez's shack. Among the trees along the creek bank, the old Mexican was disappearing, and Brill came to a sudden decision, hurrying up the slight slope, he took a pick and a shovel from the tool shed built onto the back of his shack. The sun had not yet set, and Brill believed he could open the mound deep enough to determine its nature before dark. If not, he could work by a lantern light. Steve, like most of his breed, live mostly by impulse, and his present urge was to tear into

that mysterious hiller confined what, if anything, was concealed therein? The thought of treasure came again to his mind, piqued by the evasive attitude of Lopez. What if, after all, that grassy heap of brown earth did hide riches, virgin awe from forgotten mines, or the minted coinage of old Spain? Was it not possible that the musketeers of De Estrada had themselves reared that pile above us treasure that they could not bear away, mording it in the likeness of an Indian mount of fool seekers? Did old Lopez know that? It was a It would not be strange if, knowing of treasure there, the old Mexican refrain from disturbing it. Written with grisly superstitious fears, he might well live out a life of barren toil

rather than risk the wrath of lurking ghosts or devils. For the Mexicans say that hidden gold is always accursed. Surely there was supposed to be some special doom resting on this mouth. Well, Bril meditated. Latin Indian devils had no terrors for the Anglo-Saxon, tormented by the demons of drought and storm and crop failure. Steve set to work with the savage energy characteristic of his breed. The task was no light one. The soil, baked by the fierce sun, was iron hard and mixed with rocks and pebbles. Brill sweated profusely and grunted with his efforts, but the fire of the treasure hunter was on him.

He shook the sweat out of his eyes and drove in the pig with mighty strokes that ripped and crumbled the close-packed urns. The song went down, and in the long, dreamy summer twilight, he worked on, almost oblivious of time or space. He began to be convinced that the mound was a genuine Indian tomb, as he found traces of charcoal in the soil. The ancient people which reared their sepulchres had kept fires burning upon them for days, at some point in the building. All the mound Steve had ever opened and contained a solid stratum of charcoal a short distance below the surface, but the charcoal traces he found now were scattered about through the soil. His idea of a Spanish-built treasure-trobe faded, but he persisted.

Who knows? Perhaps those strange folkmen now called mound builders had treasure of their own, which they laid away with the dead. And then Steve yelled with exultation as his pick rang on a bit of metal. He snatched it up and held it close to his eyes, straining in the waning light. It was caked and corroded with rust, worn almost paper thin, but he knew it for what it was. A spur-rel, unmistakably Spanish with its long, cruel points. He halted, completely bewildered. How Spaniard ever reared this mound, with its undeniable marks of aboriginal wormanship?

yet how come that relic of Spanish caballeros was hidden so deep in the pack soil? Brill shook his head and said to work again. He knew that in the centre of the mound, if it were indeed an Aboriginal tomb, he would find a narrow chamber built of heavy stones, containing the bones of the chief for whom the mound had been reared and the victim sacrificed above it. And in the gathering darkness, he felt his pick strike heavy against something granite-like and unyielding, examination by sense of feel as well as by sight, proved it to be a

solid block of stone, roughly hewn. Doubtless it formed one of the ends of the death chamber, useless to try to shatter it, real chipped and pecked about it, scraping the dirt and pebbles away from the corners, until he felt that wrenching it out would be but a matter of sinking the pickpoint underneath and levering it out. But now he was a bit of sinking the pickpoint underneath, and levering it out. But now he was suddenly aware that darkness had come up. In the young moon, objects were dim and shadowy. His Mustang knickered in the corral whence came the comfortable crunch of tired beast's jaws on corn.

A whippoorwill called eerily from the dark shadow of the narrow winding creek. Brill straightened reluctantly. Better get a lantern and continue his explorations by his light. He felt in his pocket with some idea of wrenching out the stone, exploring the cavity by the age of matches. Then he stiffened. Was it imagination, but he heard of faint sinister rustling, which seemed to come from behind the blocking stone.

Oh, snakes! That was they had holes somewhere about the base of the mound, and there might be a dozen big diamond-back rattlers coiled up in that cave-like interior, waiting for him to put his among them. He shivered slightly at the thaw, backed away out of the excavation he'd made. It wouldn't do it to go poking about blindly into holes. And for the past few minutes, he realized he'd been aware of a faint foul odor exuding from insterstices about the blocking stone, though he admitted that the smell suggested reptiles no more than it did any menacing scent. It had a Charnel house reek about it. Gasses formed in the chain of the chestes formed in the chain of the

chamber of death, no doubt, and dangerous to the living. Steve laid down his pick and returned to the house, impatient of the necessary delay. Entering the dark building, he struck a match and located his kerosene lantern hanging on its nail on the wall. Shaking yet he satisfied himself that it was nearly full of coal oil and lit it. Then he fared forth again, for his eagerness would not allow him to pause long enough for a bite of food. The mere opening of the mound intrigued him, as it must always intrigue a man of imagination, and the discovery of the Spanish spur had whetted his curiosity. He hurried from his shack, the swinging lantern casting long, distorted shadows ahead of him and behind.

He chuckled as he visualised Lopez's thoughts and actions when he learned, on the morrow, that the forbidden mound had been pried into. A good thing he opened it that evening, Brill reflected. Lopez might have tried to prevent him meddling with it, how do you know? In the dreaming hush of the summer night, Brill reached the mount, lifted his lantern, swore, bewilderately. The lantern revealed his excavations, his tools lying carelessly where he dropped them, and a black, gaping aperture.

The great blocking stone lay in the bottom of the excavation he'd made, as if thrust carelessly aside. Wearily, he thrust the lantern forward and peered into the small cave-like chamber, expecting to see he knew not what. Nothing met his eyes except the bare rock-sized of a long, narrow cell, large enough to receive a man's body, which had apparently been built up of roughly hewned square-cut stones, cunningly and strongly joined together. Lopez! exclaimed Steve furiously.

That dirty coyote. He's been watching me work. And when I went after the lantern, he snucked up and pried the rock out and grabbed whatever was in there, I reckon. Blast his greasy hide. I'll fix him. Savagely, he extinguished the lantern and glared across the shallow, brush-grown valley. As he looked, he stiffened. Over the corner of the hill, on the other side of which the shack of Lopes stood,

a shadow moved. The slender moon was setting, the light dim and the play of the shadows baffling. But Steve's eyes were sharpened by the sun and winds of the wastelands, and he knew that it was some two-legged creature that was disappearing over the low shoulder of the mesquite-grown hill.

Ah, beating it to his shack, Snar Bill. He sure got something, or he wouldn't be travelling at that speed. Brill, swallow, wondering why a peculiar, trembling had suddenly taken a hold of him. What was there unusual about a thieving old greaser running home with his loot?

Brill tried to drown the feeling that there was something peculiar about the gate of the dim shadow, which had seemed to move at a sort of slinking lope. There must have been need for swiftness when stocky old Juan Lope is elected to travel at such a strange pace. Whatever he found is as much mine as his. swore Brill, trying to get his mind off the abnormal aspect of the figure's flight. I got this land leased and I'd done all the work digging. The curse, heck, no wonder he taught me that stuff. Wanted me to leave it alone so he could get it itself.

So wonder he ain't dug it up long before this. You can never tell about them spears. Brill, as he meditated thus, was striding down the gentle slope of the pasture which led down to the creek bed. He passed into the shadows of the trees and dense underbrush and walked across the dry creek bed, noting absently that neither Whippoorwill nor Hoot Owl called in the darkness. There was a waiting, listening tenseness in the night that he didn't like. The shadows in the creek bed seemed too thick, too breathless. He wished he'd not blown out the lantern, which he still carried, and was glad he had brought the pick.

gripped like a battle-axe in his right hand. He had an impulse to whistle, just to break the silence, then swore and dismissed the thought. He was glad when he clambered up the low opposite bank and emerged into the starlight. He walked up the slope and onto the hill, and looked down on the mesquite flat, wherein stood Lopez's squalid hut. A light showed at the one window. Packing his things for a getaway, I reckon. Steve. Oh, what the earth? He staggered as from a physical impact as a frightful scream knifed the

stillness. He wanted to clap his hands over his ears to shut out the horror of that cry, which rose unbearably and then broken in an abhorrent gurgle. Oh, good God! Steve felt the sweat sprang out upon him. Lopez or somebody. Even as he gasped the words, he was running down the hill as fast as his long legs could carry him. Some unspeakable horror was taking place in that lonely heart, but he was going to investigate if it meant facing the devil himself. He tightened his grip on his pick handle as he ran. Wandering prowlers, murdering old Lopez for the loot he'd taken from the mound, Steve thought.

I forgot his wrath. It will go hard for anyone he caught molesting the old. old scoundrel, thief though he might be. He hid the flat, running hard. Then the light in the hut went out and Steve staggered in full flight, bringing up against a mesquite tree with an impact that jolted a grunt out of him and tore his hands on the thorns. Rebounding with a sobbed curse, he rushed for the shack, nerving himself for what he might see, his hair still standing on end at what he'd already seen. Brill tried the one door of the hut and found it bolted.

He shouted to Lopez, had received no answer. Yet utter silence did not rain. From within came a curious, muffled, worrying sound that ceased as Brill swung his pick crashing against the door. The flimsy pole splintered, and Brill leaped into the dark hut, eyes blazing, the pick swung high for a desperate onslaught. But no sound ruffled the grisly silence. and in the darkness nothing stirs,

though Brill's chaotic imagination peopled the shadowed corners of the hut with shapes of horror. With a hand damp with perspiration, he found a match and struck it. Besides himself, only Lopez occupied the hut. Old Lopez, stark dead on the dirt floor. Arms spread wide like a crucifix,

mouth sagging open in a semblance of idiocy, eyes wide and staring with a horror Brill found intolerable the one window gaped open showing the method of the Slayer's exit possibly his entrance as well Brill went to that window and gazed out warily

he only saw the sloping hillside on one hand and the mesquite flat on the other he stared was that a hint of movement among the stunted shadows of the mesquites and chaparral or had he imagined he glimpsed a dim, loping figure among the trees. He turned back as the match burned down to his fingers.

He lit the old coal oil lamp on the rude table, cursing as he burned his hand. The globe of the lamp was very hot, as if it had been burning for hours. Reluctantly he turned to the corpse on the floor. Whatever sort of death had come to Lopez, it had been horrible, But Brill, gingerly examining the dead man, found no wound, no mark of knife or bludgeon on him. Wait, there was a thin smear of blood on Brill's questing hand. Searching, he found the source. Three or four tiny punctures in Lopez's throat, from which blood had oozed sluggishly.

At first he thought he'd been inflicted with a stiletto, a thin, round, edgeless dagger. Then he shook his head. He'd seen Stiletto wounds. He had the scar of one on his own body. These wounds more resembled the bite of some animal. They looked like the marks of pointed fangs. The abril did not believe they were deep enough to have caused death, nor had much blood flowed from them.

A belief, abhorrent with grisly speculations, rose up in the dark corners of his mind. that Lopez had died of fright and that the wounds had been inflicted either simultaneously with his death or an instant afterward. Steve noticed something else. Scrawled about on the floor lay a number of dingy leaves of paper, scrawled in the old Mexican's crude hand. He would write over the curse of the mound, he had said. There were the sheets on which he'd written. There was the stump of a pencil on the floor.

there was the hot lamp globe all mute witnesses that the old Mexican had been seated at the rough-hewn table writing for hours and it was not he who'd open the mound chain and stole the contents but who was it in God's name

and who or what was it that Brill had glimpsed loping over the shoulder of the hill well there was but one thing to do saddle his Mustang and ride the ten miles to Coyote Wells the nearest town

and informed the sheriff of the murder. Brill gathered up the papers. The last was crumpled in the old man's clutching hand, and Brill secured it with some difficulty. Then as he turned to extinguish the light, he hesitated and cursed himself with a crawling fear that lurked at the back of his mind. Fear of the shadowy thing he'd seen crossed the window

just before the light was extinguished in the hut. The long arm of the murderer, he thought, reaching for the lamp to put it out no doubt. What had there been, abnormal or inhuman about that vision, distorted though it must have been in the dim lamplight and shadow? As a man strives to remember the details of a nightmare dream, Steve tried to define in his mind some clear reason that would explain why that flying glimpse had unnerved him to the extent of blundering headlong into a tree,

why the mere vague remembrance of it now caused cold sweat to break out on it. him. Hursing himself to keep up his courage, he lit his lantern, blew out the lamp on the rough table, and resolutely set forth, grasping his pick like a weapon. After all, should certain seemingly abnormal aspects about a sordid murder upset him. Such crimes were abhorrent, but common enough, especially among Mexicans who cherished unguessed feuds. Then as he stepped into the silent Starfleck night. He brought up short. From across the creek sounded the sudden soul, shaking scream of a horse in deadly terror, and a mad drumming of hooves that receded into the distance. Ambril swore in rage and dismay. Was it a panther lurking in the hills?

Had a monster cat slain old Lopez? And why was not the victim marked with the scars of fierce hook talons and who extinguished the light in the hut. As he wondered, Brill was running swiftly towards the dark creek. Not lightly does a cowpuncher regard the stampeding of his stock. As he passed into the darkness of the brush along the dry creek, Brill found his tongue strangely dry. He kept swallowing and held the lantern high. It made but faint impression in the gloom, but seemed to accent.

the blackness of the crowding shadows. For some strange reason, the thought entered Brill's chaotic mind that, though the land was new to the Anglo-Saxon, it was in reality very old. That broken and desecrated tomb was mute evidence that the land was ancient to man. Suddenly the night and the hills and the shadows bore on Brill with a sense of hideous antiquity. Here had long generations of men lived and died before Brill's ancestors ever heard of the land. of the land. In the night, in the shadows of this very creek, men had no doubt given up their ghosts in grisly ways. With these reflections, Brill hurried through the shadows of the thick trees.

He breathed deeply in relief when he emerged from the trees on his own side. Hurrying up the gentle slope to the rail corral, he held up his lantern, investigating. The corah was empty, not even the plastic cow was in sight. and the bars were down. That pointed to human agency, and the affair took on a newly sinister aspect. Someone did not intend that Brill should ride to Coyote Wells that night. It meant that the murderer intended making his getaway

and wanted a good start on the law, or else, Brill grinned Riley. Far away across a mesquite flat, he believed he could still catch the faint and faraway noise of running horses. What in God's... name had given them such a fright. A cold finger of fear played shudderingly on Brill's spine. Steve headed for the house. He did not enter boldly. He crept clear around the shack, peering shudderingly into the dark shadows, listening with painful intensity for some sound

to betray the presence of the lurking killer. At last, he ventured to open the door and step in. He threw the door back against the wall To find if anyone were hiding behind it Lifted the lantern high And stepped in Heart pounding Pick gripped fiercely His feelings a mixture of fear and red rage

But no hidden assassin leaped upon him And a wary exploration of the shack revealed nothing With a sigh of relief Brill locked the doors Made fast the windows And lit his old coal oil lamp The thought of Lope is lying, Glaciated corpse alone in the hut across the creek,

made him wince and shiver, but he did not intend to start for town on foot in the night. He drew from its hiding place his reliable old Colt 45, spun the blue steel cylinder, and grinned mirthlessly. Maybe the killer did not intend to leave any witnesses to his crime alive. Well, let him come. he or they would find a young cowpuncher with a six-year-old,

as easy prey than an old unarmed Mexican. And that reminded Brill of the papers he brought from the house. Taking care that he was not in line with a window through which a sudden bullet might come, he settled himself to read, with one ear alert for stealthy sounds. And as he read the crude laborious script, the slow, cold horror grew in his soul.

It was a tale of fear that the old Mexican had scrawled. The tale handed down from generation to generation, the tale of ancient times. And Brill read of the wanderings of the caballero Hernando de Estrada and his armored pikemen, who dared the deserts of the southwest when all was strange and unknown. There were some forty-odd soldiers, servants and masters, at the beginning, the many of the men script ran. There was a captain, de Estrada, and the priest, a young Juan Saviard, and Don Santiago de Valdez, a mysterious nobleman who had been taken off a helplessly floating ship in the Caribbean Sea. All the others of the crew and passengers had died of plague, he had said,

and he'd cast their bodies overboard. So Deistrada had taken him aboard the ship that was bearing the expedition from Spain, and de Valdez joined them in their explorers. celebrations. Brill read something of their wanderings, told in the crude style of old Lopez, as the old Mexicans ancestors had handed down the tale for over three hundred years. The bare-written words dimly reflected that terrific hardships the explorers had encountered. Drought, first, floods, the desert sandstorms, the spears of hostile redskins. But it was of another peril that Old Lopez told, lurking horror that fell upon the lonely caravan wandering through the immensity of the wild. Man by man they fell, and no man knew the slayer.

Fear and black suspicion ate at the heart of the expedition like a canker, and their leader knew not where to turn. This they all knew. Among them was a fiend in human form. Men began to draw apart from each other, to scatter along the line of march, and this mutual suspicion that sought security and solitude made it easier for the fiend. The skeleton of the expedition staggered through the wilderness, lost, dazed and helpless,

and still the unseen horror hung on their flanks, dragging down the stragglers, preying on drowsing sentries and sleeping men. And on the throat of each was found the wounds of pointed fangs that bled the victim white, so that the living knew with what manner of evil they had to deal. Men reeled through the wild, calling on the saints or blaspheming in their terror, fighting frenziedly against sleep, until they fell with exhaustion and sleep stole

on them with horror and death. Suspicion centred on a great black man, a cannibal slave from Kalabar, and they put him in chains. But young Juan Saviour went the way of the rest, and then the priest was taken. But the priest fought off his fiends. assailant and lived long enough to gasp the demon's name to Deistrada and brille, shuddering, wide-eyed, red. And now it was evident to Deistrada that the good priest had spoken the truth, and the slayer was Don Santiago de Valdez, who was a vampire, an undead fiend, subsisting on the blood of the living, and Deistrada called to mind a certain foul nobleman who

had lurked in the mountains of Castile since the days of the moors feeding off the blood of helpless victims which lent him a ghastly immortality this nobleman had been driven forth none knew where he had fled but it was evident that he and don santiago were the same man he had fled spain by ship and deistrada knew that the people of that ship had died not by plague as the fiend had represented but by the fangs of the vampire Deistrada and the black man and the few soldiers who still lived, went searching for him and found him stretched in a bestial sleep in a clump of chaparral. Full gorged he was with human blood from his last victim.

Now it is well known that a vampire, like a great serpent, when well gorsed, falls into a deep sleep and may be taken without peril. But Deistrada was at a loss as to how to dispose of the monster, for how may the dead be slain. For a vampire is a man who was died long ago, yet he is quick with a certain foul unlife. The men urged that Caballero drive a stake through the fiend's heart and cut off his head, uttering the holy words that would crumble the long dead body into dust. But the priest was dead, and D'estrade feared that in the act the monster might awaken. So they took Don Santiago, lifting him softly and bore him to an old Indian mound nearby.

This they opened, taking forth the bones they found there, and they placed the vampire within and sealed up the mound. Dios grant until judgment day. It is a place accursed, and I wish I'd starved elsewhere before I came into this part of the country seeking work, for I have known of the land and the creek and the mound with its terrible secrets ever since charmed. So you see, Signor Brill, you must not open the mound and wake the fiend.

And there, the manuscript ended with an erratic scratch of the pencil that tore the crumpled leaf. Brill rose, his heart pounding wildly, his face bloodless, his tongue cleaving to his palate. He gagged and found words. words. That's why the spur was in the mound. One of them Spaniards dropped it while they was digging. I might have known it's been dug into before. The way the charker was scattered out, but good, go. Agast, he shrank from the black visions. An undead monster stirring in the gloom of his tomb, thrusting from within to push aside the stone loosened by the pick of ignorance. A shadowy shape loping over the hill

Toward a light that beckoned a human prey A frightful long arm that crossed a dim lighted window It's madness, he asked Lopez was plumb loco They ain't no such things as vampires If they is, why didn't he get me first instead of Lopez Unless he was scouting around Making sure of everything before he pounced

Oh hell It's all a pipe dream The words froze in his throat. At the window, a face glared and gibbered soundlessly at him. Two icy eyes pierced his very soul. A shriek burst from his throat and that ghastly visage vanished. But the very air was permeated by the foul scent that had hung about the ancient mound. And now the door creaked, bent slowly inward.

Brill backed up against the wall, his gun shaking in his hand. It did not occur to him to fire through the door. In his chaotic brain he had but one thought that only that thin portal of wood separated him from some horror borne out of the womb of night and gloom and the black past. His eyes were distended as he saw the door give, as he heard the staples of the bolt grow. door burst inward. Brill did not scream. His tongue was frozen to the roof of his mouth. His fear-glazed eyes took in the tall, vulture-like form, the icy eyes, the long black fingernails, the mouldering garb, hideously ancient, the long spurred boot, the slouch

hat with its crumbling feather, the flowing cloak that was falling to slow shreds. Framed in the black doorway crouched that abhorrent shape out of the past, and Brill's brain reeled. A savage cold radiated from the figure, the scent of mouldering clay and Chanel house refuse. And then the undead came at the living like a swooping vulture. Brill fired point-blank and saw a shred of rotten cloth fly from the thing's breast. The vampire reel beneath the impact of the heavy ball. then righted himself and came on with frightful speed. Brill, reel back against the wall with a choking cry,

the gun falling from his nerveless hand. The black legends were true then. Human weapons were powerless. For may a man kill one already dead for long centuries, as mortals die. Then the claw-like hands at his throat roused the young cowpuncher to a frenzy of madness. As his pioneer ancestors fought hand to hand against brain-shattering odds, Steve Brill fought the cold, dead-crawling thing that sought his life and his

soul. Of that ghastly battle, Brill never remembered much. It was a blind chaos in which he screamed beast-like, tore and slugged and hammered, where long black nails like the talons of a panther tore at him, and pointed teeth snapped again and again at his throat, rolling and tumbling about the room, both half enveloped by the musty folds of that ancient rudding cloak. They smote and tore at each other among the ruins of the shattered furniture, and the fury of the vampire was not more terrible than the fear Christ's desperation of his victim. They crashed headlong into the table, knocking it down upon its side, and the coal-oil lamp splintered on the floor,

spraying the walls with sudden flames. Brill felt the bite of the burning oil that spattered him, but in the red frenzy of the fight he gave no heed. The black talons were tearing at him, the inhuman eyes burning icily cold into his soul. Between his frantic fingers, the withered flesh of the monster was hard as dry wood, and wave after wave of blind madness swept over, Steve Brill.

Like a man battling a nightmare, he screamed and smote. While all about them, the fire. fire leapt up and caught the walls and the roof. Through darting jets and licking tongues of flames they reeled and rolled like a demon and a mortal, warring on the fire lance floors of hell. And in the growing tumult of the flames, Brill gathered himself at one last volcanic burst of frenzied strength. Breaking away and staggering up, gasping and bloody, he lunged blindly at the foul shape and caught it in a grip, not even the vampire could break. And whirling his fiendish assailant bodily on high, he dashed him down across the uptilted edge of the fallen table, as a man might break a stick of wood across his knee.

Something cracked, like a snapping branch, and the vampire fell from Brill's grasp to writhe in a strange broken posture on the burning floor. Yet it was not dead, for its flaming ice still burned on Brill with a ghastly hunger, and it strove to crawl toward him with a ghastly hunger. and it strove to crawl toward him with his broken spine as a dying snake crawls. Brill, reeling and gasping, shook the blood from his eyes and staggered blindly through the broken door. And as a man runs from the portals of hell, he ran stumblingly through the mesquite and chaparral until he fell from utter exhaustion. Looking back, he saw the flames of the burning hells and thank God that it would burn until the very bones of Don Santiago de Valdez were utterly consumed and destroyed from the knowledge of men. Well, heartfelt thanks once again for taking the time to listen to today's podcast.

If you like the two stories you heard, please do me a little favor, leave a five-star review and write a few kind words about what you thought, wherever you get your podcasts. It really, really does mean a lot to me. Well, that's it for this week, two and a half hours, but I'll be back again. same time, same place next week. So, until that, a very, very sweet dream. And bye-bye.