Louisiana, in swamp and bayou country, and hadn’t spent a lot of time in mines or caves. The whole environment felt foreign to him.
The individual thumps merged, like a drumbeat, then came a rushing sound, and all Chee could think of was a flock of birds; perhaps some starlings or sparrows had gotten shut up in the mine somehow.
The bats hit them full on. There were hundreds of them.
“Look out!” Hollister tried to shout but the flying creatures hitting his face and chest muffled the rest of his words. He dropped the torch and the Ass-Kicker and fell to the ground, the bats flying over and around him, wanting nothing but to reach the entrance of the mine and fly off into the open air.
To Chee it felt like hundreds of them were striking his face, chest, and arms, and he shouted, waving the torch back and forth trying to keep them off. Hollister was on his hands and knees, his hat lying in the dirt and Winchester’s special gun hissing on the ground beside him.
As quickly as the bats were upon them they were gone, rushing past and exiting the mine shaft to their rear, their squeals dying out as they flew away.
Hollister stayed on the ground, breathing hard. He looked at Chee. The young man had restored the usual tranquil look to his face.
“Good Christ,” Hollister said, retrieving his hat and using it to fan the embers on the torch and get it burning again. He finally stood up, smacking the grit from his duster and pants. He picked up the Ass-Kicker, which on examination looked none the worse for wear.
“I don’t know about you Chee, but I could use a little sunshine right about now,” Hollister said.
Chee tried hard to keep the happiness out of his voice. “Yes, sir,” he said.
They strode quickly back to the entrance, and were relieved to step out into the fresh air, the sun warm on their faces even in the cool mountain breeze. Both men were quiet for a few minutes, the sun creeping slowly across the sky as they made their way cautiously back down to the shed where the three bodies lay. Each tried to piece together a situation that got more curious by the day. As Hollister was about to inform Chee of his overwhelming desire to be away from the mine before the bats returned, their thoughts were interrupted by a bark as Dog loped into the town, coming from the north. He ran up to Chee and pushed his head into the young man’s hand briefly before going to the bodies on the ground and working them over with his nose.
“Good boy,” Chee said.
“Not so sure about that,” Hollister said, pointing to the mountain ridge to the north and above the town that Dog had just returned from.
A ridge that was now lined with nearly forty Ute warriors. All on horseback and looking mightily pissed off.
“Well, shit,” Hollister said. “I suddenly got the feeling we should have stayed on the train.”
Chapter Twenty-five
To the east on the mountainside just above the mine shaft and well hidden in the trees, Shaniah sat astride Demeter, watching the scene below and cursing her bad luck. Her plan had been to follow Chee and Hollister and see if they had a plan for finding Malachi. In her mind, she hoped the witch-man Chee would be able to conjure some clue from the scene of the rogue Archaics’ last massacre. Any indication that would tell him where they had gone. It was her only hope. The trail had gone cold and Malachi’s time was drawing ever near. At the age of fifteen hundred years he would become an Eternal. Virtually unable to die unless killed in battle by another Eternal, and she would need to wait more than a hundred years before she herself became Eternal. By then it would be far too late. His plan to wreak havoc on humankind was foolish and would only succeed in destroying her people.
For now, Archaics lived in the shadows. Hidden high in the mountains. There were nothing but whispers and legends, scary stories told to children to keep them afraid of the night things. Malachi was ruining all of that. If they were revealed, if humans learned of their actual existence, they would use their technology, armies, and superior numbers, and her people would cease to exist, all because of Malachi’s vanity. She could not allow this.
She should have hidden the looters’ bodies more carefully. Killing the three men had been easy, but she had been careless and in a hurry to find Malachi. In her haste, she had almost forgotten the bodies were still there. And Chee had found them in a matter of minutes. It was becoming clearer to her by the minute that she would need to kill Chee before he discovered who she was and stopped her.
The Indians’ arrival gave her pause. She wondered what Hollister would do. Would he try to fight his way out? Or talk? Should she help them if it came to a fight?
The next few minutes would prove interesting, at least.
S later and his men stayed well back in the trees. The mining camp was in a small valley near the river, and from the rise to the south they could see everything unfolding before them quite clearly. He was certain Hollister and the breed knew they were being followed. And in fact, Slater and his men had made no real effort to conceal themselves other than staying far enough back so as not to be visible to the naked eye. Seven men on horseback weren’t easy to hide, and besides, he knew Hollister and Chee were experienced enough to know they would be coming.
He had not counted on running into forty mounted and armed Utes, however.
One of his six men, Baker, a heavyset, slow-witted thug, nudged his horse forward until he was next to Slater.
“What we gonna do, Boss? Should we help ’em out?” he asked.
Slater shook his head. “Not my orders. Mr. Declan wanted them followed, he didn’t say anything about fightin’ Utes.” But he was conflicted. At first, Senator Declan had wanted this whole affair swept under the rug. Let everyone think his son was a coward, a drunk who had run away from an Indian massacre. Eventually all the excitement would die down and things would go back to normal, and the Torson City killings would become just another ghost story.
It might have worked, but Slater had visited the camp and seen signs for himself. This wasn’t something that was going away. It hadn’t. People were talking, gossip was spreading. A few farmers and ranchers had already picked up and left. Whether they believed what had happened at Torson City had been because of monsters or Indians didn’t really matter. People leaving the territory was bad for business and bad for the senator.
And since his own fortunes rose and fell with those of Declan, he needed to make sure this was handled. The only way to do that was to let Hollister and Chee find these creatures and kill them. Then Slater would step in.
Down below, the two men stood rooted to their spots, neither they nor the Utes moving. It was an uncomfortable standoff. Slater had momentarily forgotten his interest in the three bodies they had pulled out of the shed. He was waiting to see what happened next and wishing he could hear what they were saying.
Michael P. Spradlin
Blood Riders
Chapter Twenty-six
“Chee, you got any ideas?” Hollister whispered, his eyes glued to the line of mounted warriors.
“No, sir,” Chee whispered back.
Hollister cursed himself. He had been so eager to get here, to find a trail to follow, that he’d acted without any common sense. He had the Ass-Kicker and his Colt, and Chee had his two pistols, all of them loaded with the special ammo Winchester had given them. He wasn’t sure how accurate the new guns would be at a distance. And Winchester had said the Ass-Kicker only had four shots before it needed to be recharged by the steam engine, which of course was all the way back in Denver. Crap on a biscuit.
The Ute leader, a tall, regal-looking man, nudged his pony forward as he pulled his rifle from the saddle scabbard. It looked to be a breech-loading Sharps. Hollister cursed again. Favored by snipers and buffalo hunters, it would be accurate at a great distance. The Ute made no other threatening move, but kept his pony striding toward them at a slow walk. After a few paces, the rest of his war party drew their weapons and followed suit.
