Hunger on the Chisholm Trail Read online

  Death’s Head Press

  Houston, Texas

  www.DeathsHeadPress.com

  Copyright © 2020 M. Ennenbach

  All Rights Reserved

  First Edition

  The story included in this publication is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Cover Art: Justin T. Coons

  The “Splatter Western” logo designed

  by K. Trap Jones

  Book Layout: Lori Michelle

  BOOK 2

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To Maia and Dax, you two kept me going when the world did its best to stop me. I am the luckiest father on the planet. I love you both.

  To the Chris and PC3, the other two heads of Cerberus. World Domination. I couldn’t have asked for better friends, writers and brothers on this journey.

  To DHP, thank you for the opportunity to step outside my comfort zone. World Domination, one story at a time.

  The Beta readers, who are actually all alphas in my mind. Thank you as always.

  Jelly, guess what? You know exactly what I am thinking. Thank you for always expecting the best from me. For being there with a smile and making me do the same.

  Summer, 1869 Indian Territory

  “String him up! But be careful, these godless savages don’t know when to quit!”

  There were three of them. All covered in dust and sweat from the long chase across the plains. The heat from the sun beat down upon them as they wrestled the native youth in his buckskins to the ground and bound his arms and legs with coarse rope. The three men had an assortment of cuts and scrapes. Savage or not, the youth was scrappy. Knowing you were about to die had that effect on a person.

  They dragged him to the stout old tree at the base of a low hill. The three men worked with a business-like efficiency. Even as the boy, barely into his manhood, thrashed and tried to fight while bound tightly, they took a long coil of rope and tossed it up over one of the thicker branches with a practiced motion. Then with a grunt, they begin to raise him up into the air by a loop of rope around his wrists. The old tree limb sagged a bit but held true as they tied the rest of the length around the trunk.

  The not yet a man thrashed against the ropes. He looked like a butterfly seeking to escape the cocoon except for the hatred etched into his eyes. Not a sound left his mouth except for grunts of exertion. No cries. No tears welled in his eyes even as he knew with a certainty what fate lay before him.

  “Let’s have us a little target practice with the Savage. Whaddya boys think?” the leader of the trio asked. A nasty smile made uglier by the scar running down his cheek broke across his leathery skin.

  The others nodded. Teeth like picket fence posts, brown and crooked and spread far apart shown in their smiles. Yet for the supposed glee, the gnarled smiles never seemed to reach the fevered eyes above.

  As if sensing an impending feast, a lone buzzard began to circle high in the sky. They had learned to follow men on horseback across the near-desolate plains. They always seemed to leave a trail of bloated corpses behind, either their own or anyone unfortunate enough to cross them. It watched as the men removed rifles from saddlebags strapped to too thin horses. The large bird let the thermals carry it lazily while it drifted along. As if the movement meant something, it called out into the sky that an act of egregious violence were about to occur, a second and soon third vulture arrived.

  “Now then, boy, we are gonna ask you one more time. Where is the gold?” the leader snarled as his cronies aimed down the sights. The bundle just glared hatred at the men and twisted in a furious circle.

  A sharp crack echoed into the air. A chunk of bark exploded off of the tree no more than a foot from the rope tied form’s head.

  “Damn it, Paddy! Shoot lower! You kill the Savage and we have to find another one! These red skinned bastards are like wrestling rattlesnakes! Use your damned head!” the leader growled.

  “Just a warning shot to let him know we mean business,” Paddy replied with what would have been chagrin on a cultured face. Instead it looked like pathetic mewling. He chomped down the cigar in his mouth as petulantly as a man that didn’t know the word could, his blue eyes squinting in the sunlight.

  “You ain’t that good a shot and we all know it. What about that whore in Dodge? You blew off her toe tryin’ to be clever.” The third laughed uproariously at this. “She was hopping up and down, screaming and crying.”

  Paddy glared at him and spit on the ground. “You shut your mouth, Henry! I told you I saw a snake! I was trying to protect her. Not my fault she flinched when I drew.”

  Henry laughed even harder. “You seen her toe and thought it was some kinda snake. You surely took care of it!”

  “Would you two shut your idiot mouths! Everyone knows Paddy ain’t a rifleman. And that whore sure wasn’t gonna get bit on the toe by a snake in the middle of town. We need to concentrate on the gold!”

  “Yes, Bill. I just think Paddy ain’t the one to be shooting. Remember in the war? He kept cranking that Gatling and the Union marched straight in! If he hit one, it was on accident! I do swear he is the worst shot in the entire Confederacy!”

  “I killed more of those bastards in one battle than you did the entire war, you mangy son of a whore!”

  Paddy swung the rifle at Henry’s head with an angry cry. Henry jumped back and pulled a wicked knife from his belt. All traces of smiles were gone. They eyed each other with as much hate as the Apache boy glowered at the three of them.

  “Put that knife away right now, Henry. Stop provoking Paddy. And if you swing at him again, I will let him stick that in your guts. I am so sick and tired of the two of you bickering. I’ll shoot you both in the back of the skull and take the gold for myself if you don’t quit!”

  “Tell him to stop bringing up the whore. Every day he brings that up. There was a snake, you gotta believe me, Bill!”

  Henry slid the knife back behind his belt and laughed quietly. Bill gave him a stare that foretold murder and he choked it down. “Fine. There was a snake. You done played the big hero. Too bad the Marshalls didn’t see it that way. I apologize, Bill. Let’s get the Savage to talk and then we can be on our way. I’m just thirsty is all. It’s drier than a mule’s tit out here.”

  A rustling in the tall dry grass was their only warning. They all turned quickly, rifles and three pistols pointed in one motion. An emaciated figure, more skeleton than human stumbled out of the prairie grass thicket. Patches of wispy long white hair clung to the skull and two sunken eyes stared in seeming incomprehension at them.

  “What in tarnation is that?” Paddy cried, his finger pulling back on the trigger of his rifle a little instinctively.

  Bill stared at it for a long moment. “This ain’t got nothing to do with you. Best take your nearly dead self back where you came from.”

  The thing, clearly a person—or what was once one in better times—stopped and cocked its gaunt head at them. A hot wind began to blow and the tattered skins it had draped itself in fluttered against it. The smell of death blew oily across the space between them. Pungent enough to make eyes water, with a trace of malevolency that caused their fingers to tighten even more firmly on the triggers. It made no move t
o retreat or come closer. The twenty yards between the four of them seemed dangerously close. The horses whinnied in terror and all that could be seen of their eyes was white as they thrashed against the leads keeping them bound to a smaller tree. It bent against the savagery of their fear.

  “I said you need to turn around and git. This is your last warning stranger,” Bill muttered. His tongue felt heavy and his stomach seemed to be filled with angry hornets all of a sudden.

  A soft, mournful cry came from the boy hanging from the tree. “Wiiindeeego.”

  Henry looked over his shoulder at the kid and the look of terror on his face made his bladder feel close to letting loose. He looked back and without thought pulled the trigger on his revolver. Time seemed to slow as he cocked back the hammer again. He saw the first shot hit the thing in the arm. Suddenly, all three of them were shooting. Smoke and burnt powder filled the air along with the cacophony of miniature explosions. Yet it just stood there, head cocked and watching. His bladder did release then. He felt piss run down his leg and into his boot. But he couldn’t recognize it. The involuntary reaction to the creature’s eyes lighting with a soft red glow took all thought from his head.

  He watched as it dropped to its haunches. He saw black liquid drip from the wounds, more than he could count across its torso and limbs. Then, in a blur, it was in motion. He fumbled to reload his pistol, but his hands seemed dead. In a flash, it was on Paddy. Its claws, for there was no other way to describe those too long fingers that ended in points, tore Paddy’s throat out in a single swipe. It lowered its face and drank the spewing red. If he were capable of thought, Henry may have seen the wounds as they knitted themselves closed as it drank. It sprang into the air and its mouth seemed to stretch far past the limits of a human jaw. Before Bill could get off another shot, he screamed in horror and pain. It bit through, clean through, his shoulder. Bone and flesh and muscle tore like paper. Gouts of blood rained through the air as it bit again and again, next into Bill’s chest with a sickening wet rip. Henry saw ivory bone for the briefest moment before gore made everything into bubbling crimson. Then it tore out Bill’s throat.

  Henry knew he needed to run. To reload. To do anything but stand in his piss-soaked pants. But he couldn’t will himself to do any of that. To do anything. He just stared as his two friends lay shuddering and convulsing on the dry dirt. The ground seemed as thirsty the creature, red stains where the liquid seeped into it. Then its eyes were on his. The soft glow became a bonfire of evil intent.

  “Please don’t,” was all he could mutter. He heard the quaking in his own voice. Barely able to recognize it as his own.

  The creature cocked its head again, the musculature looking more defined after it had eaten from his friends. Its jaw slowly worked. “Please don’t,” it whispered back to him. “Please don’t.” A little louder. “Please don’t!” it screamed. And then it leapt at him.

  The three buzzards flew above. They watched the carnage below as the one fell to its knees and feasted upon the three corpses, the sound of flesh tearing and bone cracking carrying far into the night. One by one, they drifted down and perched on the branches above the boy as he spun in circles. Fear emanated from his every pore as he too watched the thing eat until all that remained was filthy clothes and blood-stained dirt. Four sets of eyes locked upon it. Finally, the creature stood, stomach distended to the fullest extent. The body now looked healthy despite the gray pallor of the skin. Eyes burning like embers, like stars in the sky. It walked to the tree and stared at the boy for a long moment, then cocked its head. “Please don’t,” it said with no emotion. It reached up and, with a quick slash, the ropes were cut and the boy hit the ground with a breathtaking hiss. Then it turned and walked into the thicket of tall grass without a look back.

  The boy scrambled to his feet and stared. Then he ran in the opposite direction. Only the three buzzards remained, sitting forlorn on the sagging branches of the near dead tree, cheated out of the meal they had so patiently waited for.

  1

  Three years later, along the Chisholm Trail

  The herds of cattle kicked up red clouds of dust like a thundering storm sweeping across the plains. Three thousand head of cattle stomped across the open land in the eye of that storm. The setting sun still beat down mercilessly onto countryside after a long day of intense heat unbroken by a single cloud. A collared lizard sat on a large stone, unblinking as the ground rumbles underfoot. Only when one of the cattle trampled a little too close to his little kingdom did the frills on its neck expand in warning. Its lizard brain was unaware of the countless of its brethren that had been crushed under the hooves of this living force of nature as it moved slowly but surely North.

  Riding carefully around the controlled chaos of the herd were six riders on sweat-slicked horses, each taking up a position to keep the stray and stubborn tons of meat on course. It was grueling in the heat and whipping dirt. Behind them rode the chuck wagon, dutifully keeping pace as the wagon bounced over every rut and rock on the trail. The remuda of spare horses followed alongside the wagon as the horse wrangler watched the placid scenery pass. It was peaceful and boring, broken by moments of sheer panic. His herd of horses, three per every man, seemed to trot happily.

  The wrangler rode closer to the wagon. “Looks to be about time to stop for the night. You want to wake up the night crew, Jesse?”

  Jesse looked up in surprise at him. “You darn near scared the life outta me! By God, man. Can’t ya see I was lost in thought?”

  “Been so long on the road staring at cow ass you have become a scholar?”

  “Ain’t ya got something to do? Leave me be or I will add something special to your stew! Mark my words, Jarod! You’ll wish you had stayed and become a barber like your father!”

  “Just wake up the night crew, ya mangy cur.”

  He rode away from the wagon and the angry mutters of the camp cook. He shook his head and laughed. Jesse was an odd one, but he could make the trail tack and slowly shrinking stores into a passable meal. It didn’t matter if he was nearly off of his rocker from months of trail dust and the wagon rattling his brain. He listened as Jesse yelled into the back of the wagon where the night crew had spent most of the daylight sleeping.

  “Time to earn yer keep! Up and at ‘em!”

  Two months it took to get from Texas to Kansas. Two months of fifteen mile days. The angry longhorns were easily surprised beasts and constantly on the verge of stampeding with little provocation. Get them to the Railhead, collect the money and rest for a few days before heading home again down the same heathen-infested lands. It wasn’t an easy life by any means, but it was gradually getting better. In the beginning, there was nothing between home and the Railhead. But a new crop of Sooners, settlers that didn’t want to wait for the official declaration from the government, had begun to build small towns along the trail. The boys didn’t complain. It gave them a break, maybe a bath and night at the brothel. Beds to sleep in for a night to rest weary bones. Grazing lands with fences to keep the herd safe and full. It was damn near comfortable for a stretch.

  A whistle rang out over the flat land and every head looked up in relief. Time to make camp for the evening at last. Some of the cattle trains tried to ride into the night. The cost was too high, though. Coyotes prowled the night and set the steers to stampede. Riders got thrown as horses caught hooves and broke legs. Plus, the slower pace kept the cattle weight higher and fetched a higher price at market. When all was said and done, it was the gold that mattered most. Why sacrifice to save a day or two only to return with lighter pockets?

  The riders calmed the beasts into a semblance of order as the wagon made steady progress to the front of the line. Once it stopped at last with creaks and groans, four men climbed stiffly out of the back and stretched under the now bruised sky. Jarod watched them as he brought the remuda to rest farther out, where the tall grass was dancing in the wind to graze. He secured the lines of steeds and mares with enough slack to eat their fill
by a slow-moving creek. More a trickle, really, but after months of no rain it wasn’t wise to complain. Water was water in the middle of nowhere. He made his normal walk around the perimeter with his buck knife in hand. It didn’t pay to set the horses among the snakes that liked to sleep on still warm rocks. Especially not by the only source of water that would attract prey. An errant bite could lead to a dead horse and the rest spreading far across the countryside.

  As he walked, a strong scent drifted to him. He gagged as it grew stronger. Death. He knew the scent well. Something was rotting in the still hot dusk. “Damned coyotes,” he muttered through clenched lips.

  If the corpse of whatever it was lay in the trickling stream it could make everyone sick. So, he went against his instinct and walked into the ever-thickening cloud. He raised his eyes and looked for the telltale sign of a vulture circling overhead but saw nothing. Soon enough, the buzzing of flies led him to the source of the smell.

  “Lord above,” he said as he came to the grisly scene, a pile of half eaten animals, rotted and putrefying into a pool of blackened ooze in a small clearing. He stared uncomprehending at it. This was nothing normal, no creatures he had ever seen would have killed so many. Nor would they have left anything half eaten. Animals killed as necessary and ate their kills. This was something unnatural. He backed away and went to find James, the leader of the drive. This was his responsibility, not Jarod’s.

  2

  Town of Duncan, Indian Region, along the Chisholm Trail

  “Wake up, prisoner! Time for breakfast, you mangy prick!” the sheriff shouted has he banged on the bars of the cell. He had a scowl upon his face that was lined from years spent out in the elements. Heavy, drooping mustaches covered his mouth except for when he yelled. The folks of the new little town on the ass edge of anywhere knew he was not really as bad as he liked to carry himself, though. But that wasn’t fitting for dealing with strangers.