"Twilight Riders"
"Twilight Riders"
12/11-12/12/1898
I.
Strange flickering red flashes rushed horizontally across each night sky. During each day, grey gloom overcast the sky so that even at noon nobody cast a shadow. Winds were heard howling constantly but somehow the air remained still and stifling. Birds were seen fleeing south in great flocks. Animals went into hiding across the Northwest, people either quarreled murderously over trifles or sank into depressed stupors where no chores were done and no meals made. It was like nothing no one had ever seen before, perhaps the very End of Days.
Hurrying up from across the plains and deserts, seven riders began to assemble near a Miscagowie reservation at the Canadian border. They had not planned to meet up. Some had never met any of the others before. But those who would be called the Twilight Riders found themselves forming a camp on a flat-topped hill and asking each other for answers none had. Most notorious among them was Johnny Packard, the Brimstone Kid still living under his curse.
Still looking like a beardless youth despite being forty, the Brimstone Kid was wiry and active as a bobcat. Just five feet six and barely one hundred and fifty pounds, the Kid wore all black except a red work shirt. His black stetson was pulled low over sullen green eyes. In the beaded band of that hat was tucked a copper-colored coin older than the West itself, the curse of his life. If he was in contact with the Darthan coin after dark, he would become the demonic Brimstone Kid in reality as well as name.
Past sixty by then, Tom Pinto had gotten grizzled and weathered by a hard life. His untrimmed beard and hair had as much grey as blond in them, and deep furrows ran down his cheeks like dried creekbeds. Pinto's darkly tanned skin looked tough as worn leather and his deepset blue eyes were sullen. His jeans and shirt were brown, with a short spotted vest over them. It was this black and white vest, made from the hide of a Pinto pony once owned by the famous Indian chief Osawayatotha, that had given him his name. Buckled around his waist was a gunbelt with a single-action .44 tied down low on his thigh. Swinging down off his own horse, he greeted the assembly politely enough. He and Johnny Packard had crossed paths several times.
"Howdy, Kid," he said, "Appears we all came up this way because the weather's been a might dodgy lately."
Johnny Packard snorted from atop his black stallion Terror. "Hallo,Pinto! Red fires in the sky at night and this godawful haze blottin' out the sun all day. You doesn't suppose this might be one of them volcanoes kickin' in?"
"I don't know know much about them things," Pinto replied. He turned in the saddle and nodded at the shirt, rather stocky black man who was sitting on a chestnut mare nearby. "What's your take on all this, friend?"
Sundown, a brooding black ex-soldier who got his name by insisting on walking the streets of "sundown towns" after dusk, carried a Model 1873 Winchester repeater chambered for the .44-40 cartridge. This was a durable and powerful weapon that he handled as lightly as if he had been a walking stick. He rumbled in a deep voice, "I'm not one for omens and superstitions, hard-headed as I am. But a fellow would have to be willful blind not to worry about all this. Have any of you heard or seen a bird or a squirrel this week? I haven't."
"You are wise to feel uneasy," said the sole woman among them. She was known as Copper-Hair, a bounty hunter skilled with the gun but much deadlier with her hands and feet. Tall and slim in a long duster coat and black slouch hat, she was the latest Karina, a immortal warrior spirit who incarnated each generation in the body of a willing living woman. The woman had bright auburn hair, glossy and much brighter in tone than Johnny's darker brick-red shade. In a strong-featured face with a wide jawline and full lips, her grey-green eyes caught the sunlight with a flash like a cat's. "Deep down beyond words, you sense we stand at the edge of an abyss and our footing is uncertain."
Clay Hawk, Federal Marshal Agent, was neglecting his orders to answer the mysterious summons. Formerly known by his tribal name, Little Clay Hawk, the lawman was nearing fifty by then. Dressed in formal townsfolk clothing, black trousers and a white shirt with a floral-pattern vest and a string tie, Clay Hawk wore a flat-brimmed low-crowned hat. His Indian blood showed clearly in the glossy black hair, the strong eagle-beak nose and the deepset eyes which were always watchful. Strapped to his right hip was an old-fashioned Navy revolver. Hawk swung his arms in a casual way as he walked, not keeping his hands near the gun butt more than was natural. He had been watching and waiting, in his career he had heard much about all of these strangers.
"You've got a poet's way with words, ma'am, and that's for sure," he said as the others watched for his response. "What purely troubles me is that the air is still and yet I hear gale winds blowing somewhere. Tain't natural."
Wai Cho-Lan had come walking in from the forest without a horse or indeed without much more than a bedroll and what he wore. He was a tall, lanky man in plain long-sleeved work shirt and pants, with heavy walking shoes that had seen a lot of wear. His head had been shaven but showed a five-o'clock shadow across it. The hair growing in was white. He seemed Northern Chinese, with a single eyelid fold and a long solemn face whose tawny skin was darkened by severe sun exposure.
Several of the other riders had heard wild stories about Wai. Called by some the Tiger Fury, he was said to be able to catch arrows without being cut, to fight a half dozen men at the same time, to recover from wounds that would kill a mule. He himself made no such claims and spoke little. He said only that he would help in any way he could. The taciturn exile from mainland China, was in fact a Kumundu master and knight of Tel Shai. He alone carried no gun and refused to accept one. His unarmed combat skills had become well known campfire tales across the plains. Never one for unnecessary talk, he remained as silent as possible.
Peligroso came from Northern Mexico, an aristocratic Castilian with a driving restless taste for violence. He wore two revolvers butts forward and carried both a whip and a dueling sword with him. Peligroso was normally quick to laugh or sing, but the uncanny gloom and whistling winds had dampened his spirits. Surprisingly, the young bravo did not dress in obviously Spanish-flavored clothing but wore plain brown pants, a yellow silk shirt and short brown jacket, with a bowler derby rather than a sombrero. Nor did he affect a thin mustache but was clean-shaven and kept his glossy black hair short and neat.
Peligroso would not reveal his true name, but then neither would Tom Pinto or Sundown. Peligroso did say he came from a prominent Madrid family which he had disgraced by dueling even after stern warnings. When he killed the governor's son, he was quickly shipped to California to stay out of prison. Tall and excessively handsome, well-dressed and eloquent, he often claimed it would be unchivalrous to turn down the young women who swarmed to him. With so many outraged fathers and husbands out for his blood, he had taken to living on the trail. With sudden seriousness, Peligroso told the other Riders he had never taken much seriously in life... until now. He feared this was indeed The End Days and his soul was not ready.
II.
Some of the tribe's young men had observed this group gathering and, after they reported to their people, an invitation was extended. The Twilight Riders had a parley with the elders of the tribe and learned what little the Miscagowie knew about what had been going on.
A tribe of beastlike Earlier Ones were periodically raiding farms in the area but mostly concentrated on the struggling Indian village for food and supplies. Taller than a tall man, covered with long black hair, the brutes were barely scratched by arrows and retaliated savagely after any resistance. After the latest attack in which three Miscagowie were killed, the elders decided they could not bear any more. They gathered what jewelry, pelts and blankets they might be able to use in barter and were looking for a white man who would sell them rifles.
Clay Hawk rightly warned them that they were forbidden by federal law to own rifles and that anyone caught selling such weapons to the Miscagowie would be hanged. But, he said thoughtfully, somehow the strange omens had drawn together seven people who COULD fight with firearms and who will gladly help.
Arriving at the unofficial reservation where the Miscagowie had been mostly left unmolested by neighboring white settlements, the Riders worked with the tribesmen to build fortifications and help fashion new bows and lances. They noted the lack of women and children in the village until Sundown stumbles upon a school-educated girl named Florisa and discovers the women were hidden in fear that the Riders would rape them. But almost immediately, the Miscagowie began to trust these strangers, and Florisa would spend much time with Sundown.
Posting one of their numbers to stand the first watch, the Twilight Riders settled down on a ridge overlooking the village. Johnny Packard chose a sleeping spot furthest from the fire. Directly after darkness fell, the Brimstone Kid rose and leaped up into the saddle so silently that even the alert Clay Hawk heard nothing. For one second, two red eyes flared in the darkness.
III.
At dawn, the Riders awoke to find Johnny Packard sprawled face down in the dirt next to the dying campfire. The black horse Terror was sleeping nearby, legs locked, several gouges on his flanks and dried blood on his hooves. Tom Pinto tried to roust Johnny, bjut it took a while before the Brimstone Kid responded with vague mumbling and pawing at the air. His torn clothing was streaked with blood and reeked of gunpowder. Examining him while consciousness slowly returned, Pinto told the others that Johnny was not hurt beyond a few bruises, only exhausted. The Kid slept soundly until noon. Then he stirred, got up and drank some coffee before seeming to realize his surroundings.
Two of the Riders knew the secret of the Brimstone Kid. Tom Pinto and Copper-Hair had witnessed his demonic nocturnal change before, but they did not volunteer that knowledge to the others. Johnny himself discouraged questions, admitting only that he was under a curse "older than when the first red men came to this continent." He did say that now there were twenty fewer Earlier Ones out there to worry about. After the Riders had fried and devoured some fresh eggs and thin flapjacks provided by the Miscagowie, they spread out over the immediate area to plan defense.
That day, Earlier Ones arrived in a parley of thirty, armed with broken-off tree branches thick as telegraph poles. They could speak simple English, although with difficulty and their guttural voices were not easy to understood. They claimed that this was the Twilight of the World, when the land and the water would be unmade and every living being must perish. The parley broke down as tension made tempers short. The Riders and the tribesmen kill another most of the beasts in a shootout and run the rest out of the area. The tribesmen prematurely celebrated, believing the creatures would not return. But Copper-Hair had stolen into the hills. With great stealth, she spied on the caves where the Earlier Ones lived and learned that they were desperate for food and crazed with some unreasoning fear.
In front of the caves, the Earlier Ones had erected a strange circle of standing stones which they decorated with scrubbed human skulls. Esoteric symbols were drawn with blood on the upright stones. As few living beings could in modern times, Copper-Hair recognized magic from the Darthan Age in which she originated. Her knowledge went back thirty thousand years when the first Karina had been at the Corruption. Estimating more than two hundred of the brutes still lived and still intended to attack at any moment, she returned to warn her fellows.
Some apprehensive tribesmen urged the gunfighters to leave for their own sakes. There was no need for them to die. Not only did none of the Riders wavered, but Tom Pinto yelled that they should stay, even threatening to kill any of the Riders who might agree to give up the fight. Mournfully, the Miscagowie insisted and trudged back down the hill. The tribe had not had any young born in a full year. The Miscagowie believed the time of people to rule the world was over and the omens in the sky are telling them to let go and pass over.
Somberly preparing to depart, the Riders admitted they have become emotionally attached to the village. Sundown declared that at first he scorned the tribesmen for their fatalistic ways but now that he knew them better, he saw they were good people. "I been told many times that it ain't the color of your hide but what's in your heart that determines your worth. But I thought that was just flowery words to make folks feel better. I'm not so sure now."
The Riders had been escorted some distance from the village, where the Miscagowie wished them long lives. Left alone, gazing from one to another, the group found there was no need to discuss their next move. They all were determined to return and fight, not just for the tribesmen sakes but for their own self-respect. "Even if they don't want our help, even if they refuse to look at us, we're not running," said Tom Pinto.
Surprising everyone by speaking, Wai Cho-Lan added, "It is not the fight that we value...it is what we are fighting for."
Another night passed without further incident. Upon the urging of his fellows, Johnny Packard remained with the Riders and did not venture out into the night on his own. Toying with his hat, staring into the fire, he became morose and irritable. Even his horse Terror acted strangely, stomping his hooves and snorting as if eager to gallop off. His obvious craving for mayhem was like that of an aged barfly thirsting for one more drink.
IV.
The next morning at dawn, the onslaught finally came.
Loping downhill, bent far forward and using their long arms as two more legs, the Earlier Ones howled and roared as they attacked. But the great beasts skidded to a halt so sudden that some in the rear of the pack thumped up against the leaders and became entangled. What was this? The Indians sitting in front of their teepees were mere bundles of sticks wrapped in blankets. The Earlier Ones stared at the decoys, then at each other as sudden understanding dawned on them..
Just beyond the final teepees thirty feet away, sticks and brush were thrown aside as the Twilight Riders stood up within their waist-deep trench. Deep booms and sharp cracks echoed from a storm of gunfire that was both fast and accurate. The previous encounters had shown them a way to deal with these tough brutes as bullets ripped through vulnerable areas of throats and groins.
Dropping in a wave before that barrage, the remaining Earlier Ones swung to their left and to their right in an instinctive move to escape. But long arrows whistled by the dozens to sink into their chests and faces. The Miscagowie braves had been waiting on either side of the village, crouching behind brush and boulders. They loosed arrows at such close range that the barbs sank completely through even those leathery hides. The Earlier Ones did not have the bare second they needed to recognize what was happening and retreat. Instead, the remaining beasts plunged forward to crash directly upon the Twilight Riders.
For an endless hellish moment, thunder of gunplay and the bellowing of brutes mingled, The Miscagowie ran up headlong to the trench with long knives in hand, no thought of danger entering their minds. The Riders' guns ran empty and there was no chance to reload. Fighting blazed on with knives and gunbutts and bare hands against brutes twice Human size. Even the skills of Wai Cho-Lan and Copper-Hair could not do much more than deflect and defend against the giants.
Abruptly, the sounds of war broke off. Heavy breathing, grunts of pain and high emotion were all that broke the sudden silence. Men helped the wounded rise, pressing their hands where deep gouges spurted bright arterial blood, offering words of encouragement.
Tom Pinto, Clay Hawk, Peligroso and Copper-Hair had all been killed in that final frenzy of slaughter. Sundown's right arm dangled, broken, Johnny Packard was bruised and gashed but would live. Everyone thought Wai was dead too, as torn up and battered as he was, but he unexpectedly took a deep shuddering breath and managed to sit up. Not one of the Earlier Ones survived. They had no younglings and only a few females waited in the caves for mates who would never return. The brutes knew themselves their time had passed.
There was no victory dance that night, no feast with accompanying boasts and denigration of the fallen enemies. The mood was too somber for any feeling of triumph. Sundown's broken arm was set and hung in a sling, the wounds of Johnny Packard and Wai Cho-Lan were cleaned and wrapped with clean cloth. The carcasses of all the dead Earlier Ones were dragged yards away to form a huge pyre which burned with oily black smoke and a foul stench. And before dusk, the four fallen outsiders were wrapped in blankets and buried atop the sharp hill overlooking the village. Simple crosses of two sticks tied together with rawhide were all that marked the graves.
The next dawn saw the three surviving Riders standing on that hill to pay final respects. Sundown parted company with Wai and Johnny Packard, saying he would stay after realizing how much he wanted to be with the girl Florisa. The two outsiders waved farewell to the watching tribesmen and they realized that the sky had cleared finally. Its color was the deep comforting blue it should have always been. Bright sunlight warmed the ground and the air felt free and pure for the first time in weeks. Declining the offer of a horse, Wai Cho-Lan bowed humbly and limped off into the woods, gone from sight within seconds.
What was it that had happened in this nightmare week, wondered Johnny but no answer came to mind. Perhaps with the passing of the Earlier Ones, their magic was broken. He had seen over the past few years that nearly all of the weird and unexplained horrors of the West were fading and being quickly forgotten. What had been terrifying peril was dismissed as tall tales. Rowdy lawless towns were settling down to become comfortable cities. It was the end of more than one era.
1/10/2023
12/11-12/12/1898
I.
Strange flickering red flashes rushed horizontally across each night sky. During each day, grey gloom overcast the sky so that even at noon nobody cast a shadow. Winds were heard howling constantly but somehow the air remained still and stifling. Birds were seen fleeing south in great flocks. Animals went into hiding across the Northwest, people either quarreled murderously over trifles or sank into depressed stupors where no chores were done and no meals made. It was like nothing no one had ever seen before, perhaps the very End of Days.
Hurrying up from across the plains and deserts, seven riders began to assemble near a Miscagowie reservation at the Canadian border. They had not planned to meet up. Some had never met any of the others before. But those who would be called the Twilight Riders found themselves forming a camp on a flat-topped hill and asking each other for answers none had. Most notorious among them was Johnny Packard, the Brimstone Kid still living under his curse.
Still looking like a beardless youth despite being forty, the Brimstone Kid was wiry and active as a bobcat. Just five feet six and barely one hundred and fifty pounds, the Kid wore all black except a red work shirt. His black stetson was pulled low over sullen green eyes. In the beaded band of that hat was tucked a copper-colored coin older than the West itself, the curse of his life. If he was in contact with the Darthan coin after dark, he would become the demonic Brimstone Kid in reality as well as name.
Past sixty by then, Tom Pinto had gotten grizzled and weathered by a hard life. His untrimmed beard and hair had as much grey as blond in them, and deep furrows ran down his cheeks like dried creekbeds. Pinto's darkly tanned skin looked tough as worn leather and his deepset blue eyes were sullen. His jeans and shirt were brown, with a short spotted vest over them. It was this black and white vest, made from the hide of a Pinto pony once owned by the famous Indian chief Osawayatotha, that had given him his name. Buckled around his waist was a gunbelt with a single-action .44 tied down low on his thigh. Swinging down off his own horse, he greeted the assembly politely enough. He and Johnny Packard had crossed paths several times.
"Howdy, Kid," he said, "Appears we all came up this way because the weather's been a might dodgy lately."
Johnny Packard snorted from atop his black stallion Terror. "Hallo,Pinto! Red fires in the sky at night and this godawful haze blottin' out the sun all day. You doesn't suppose this might be one of them volcanoes kickin' in?"
"I don't know know much about them things," Pinto replied. He turned in the saddle and nodded at the shirt, rather stocky black man who was sitting on a chestnut mare nearby. "What's your take on all this, friend?"
Sundown, a brooding black ex-soldier who got his name by insisting on walking the streets of "sundown towns" after dusk, carried a Model 1873 Winchester repeater chambered for the .44-40 cartridge. This was a durable and powerful weapon that he handled as lightly as if he had been a walking stick. He rumbled in a deep voice, "I'm not one for omens and superstitions, hard-headed as I am. But a fellow would have to be willful blind not to worry about all this. Have any of you heard or seen a bird or a squirrel this week? I haven't."
"You are wise to feel uneasy," said the sole woman among them. She was known as Copper-Hair, a bounty hunter skilled with the gun but much deadlier with her hands and feet. Tall and slim in a long duster coat and black slouch hat, she was the latest Karina, a immortal warrior spirit who incarnated each generation in the body of a willing living woman. The woman had bright auburn hair, glossy and much brighter in tone than Johnny's darker brick-red shade. In a strong-featured face with a wide jawline and full lips, her grey-green eyes caught the sunlight with a flash like a cat's. "Deep down beyond words, you sense we stand at the edge of an abyss and our footing is uncertain."
Clay Hawk, Federal Marshal Agent, was neglecting his orders to answer the mysterious summons. Formerly known by his tribal name, Little Clay Hawk, the lawman was nearing fifty by then. Dressed in formal townsfolk clothing, black trousers and a white shirt with a floral-pattern vest and a string tie, Clay Hawk wore a flat-brimmed low-crowned hat. His Indian blood showed clearly in the glossy black hair, the strong eagle-beak nose and the deepset eyes which were always watchful. Strapped to his right hip was an old-fashioned Navy revolver. Hawk swung his arms in a casual way as he walked, not keeping his hands near the gun butt more than was natural. He had been watching and waiting, in his career he had heard much about all of these strangers.
"You've got a poet's way with words, ma'am, and that's for sure," he said as the others watched for his response. "What purely troubles me is that the air is still and yet I hear gale winds blowing somewhere. Tain't natural."
Wai Cho-Lan had come walking in from the forest without a horse or indeed without much more than a bedroll and what he wore. He was a tall, lanky man in plain long-sleeved work shirt and pants, with heavy walking shoes that had seen a lot of wear. His head had been shaven but showed a five-o'clock shadow across it. The hair growing in was white. He seemed Northern Chinese, with a single eyelid fold and a long solemn face whose tawny skin was darkened by severe sun exposure.
Several of the other riders had heard wild stories about Wai. Called by some the Tiger Fury, he was said to be able to catch arrows without being cut, to fight a half dozen men at the same time, to recover from wounds that would kill a mule. He himself made no such claims and spoke little. He said only that he would help in any way he could. The taciturn exile from mainland China, was in fact a Kumundu master and knight of Tel Shai. He alone carried no gun and refused to accept one. His unarmed combat skills had become well known campfire tales across the plains. Never one for unnecessary talk, he remained as silent as possible.
Peligroso came from Northern Mexico, an aristocratic Castilian with a driving restless taste for violence. He wore two revolvers butts forward and carried both a whip and a dueling sword with him. Peligroso was normally quick to laugh or sing, but the uncanny gloom and whistling winds had dampened his spirits. Surprisingly, the young bravo did not dress in obviously Spanish-flavored clothing but wore plain brown pants, a yellow silk shirt and short brown jacket, with a bowler derby rather than a sombrero. Nor did he affect a thin mustache but was clean-shaven and kept his glossy black hair short and neat.
Peligroso would not reveal his true name, but then neither would Tom Pinto or Sundown. Peligroso did say he came from a prominent Madrid family which he had disgraced by dueling even after stern warnings. When he killed the governor's son, he was quickly shipped to California to stay out of prison. Tall and excessively handsome, well-dressed and eloquent, he often claimed it would be unchivalrous to turn down the young women who swarmed to him. With so many outraged fathers and husbands out for his blood, he had taken to living on the trail. With sudden seriousness, Peligroso told the other Riders he had never taken much seriously in life... until now. He feared this was indeed The End Days and his soul was not ready.
II.
Some of the tribe's young men had observed this group gathering and, after they reported to their people, an invitation was extended. The Twilight Riders had a parley with the elders of the tribe and learned what little the Miscagowie knew about what had been going on.
A tribe of beastlike Earlier Ones were periodically raiding farms in the area but mostly concentrated on the struggling Indian village for food and supplies. Taller than a tall man, covered with long black hair, the brutes were barely scratched by arrows and retaliated savagely after any resistance. After the latest attack in which three Miscagowie were killed, the elders decided they could not bear any more. They gathered what jewelry, pelts and blankets they might be able to use in barter and were looking for a white man who would sell them rifles.
Clay Hawk rightly warned them that they were forbidden by federal law to own rifles and that anyone caught selling such weapons to the Miscagowie would be hanged. But, he said thoughtfully, somehow the strange omens had drawn together seven people who COULD fight with firearms and who will gladly help.
Arriving at the unofficial reservation where the Miscagowie had been mostly left unmolested by neighboring white settlements, the Riders worked with the tribesmen to build fortifications and help fashion new bows and lances. They noted the lack of women and children in the village until Sundown stumbles upon a school-educated girl named Florisa and discovers the women were hidden in fear that the Riders would rape them. But almost immediately, the Miscagowie began to trust these strangers, and Florisa would spend much time with Sundown.
Posting one of their numbers to stand the first watch, the Twilight Riders settled down on a ridge overlooking the village. Johnny Packard chose a sleeping spot furthest from the fire. Directly after darkness fell, the Brimstone Kid rose and leaped up into the saddle so silently that even the alert Clay Hawk heard nothing. For one second, two red eyes flared in the darkness.
III.
At dawn, the Riders awoke to find Johnny Packard sprawled face down in the dirt next to the dying campfire. The black horse Terror was sleeping nearby, legs locked, several gouges on his flanks and dried blood on his hooves. Tom Pinto tried to roust Johnny, bjut it took a while before the Brimstone Kid responded with vague mumbling and pawing at the air. His torn clothing was streaked with blood and reeked of gunpowder. Examining him while consciousness slowly returned, Pinto told the others that Johnny was not hurt beyond a few bruises, only exhausted. The Kid slept soundly until noon. Then he stirred, got up and drank some coffee before seeming to realize his surroundings.
Two of the Riders knew the secret of the Brimstone Kid. Tom Pinto and Copper-Hair had witnessed his demonic nocturnal change before, but they did not volunteer that knowledge to the others. Johnny himself discouraged questions, admitting only that he was under a curse "older than when the first red men came to this continent." He did say that now there were twenty fewer Earlier Ones out there to worry about. After the Riders had fried and devoured some fresh eggs and thin flapjacks provided by the Miscagowie, they spread out over the immediate area to plan defense.
That day, Earlier Ones arrived in a parley of thirty, armed with broken-off tree branches thick as telegraph poles. They could speak simple English, although with difficulty and their guttural voices were not easy to understood. They claimed that this was the Twilight of the World, when the land and the water would be unmade and every living being must perish. The parley broke down as tension made tempers short. The Riders and the tribesmen kill another most of the beasts in a shootout and run the rest out of the area. The tribesmen prematurely celebrated, believing the creatures would not return. But Copper-Hair had stolen into the hills. With great stealth, she spied on the caves where the Earlier Ones lived and learned that they were desperate for food and crazed with some unreasoning fear.
In front of the caves, the Earlier Ones had erected a strange circle of standing stones which they decorated with scrubbed human skulls. Esoteric symbols were drawn with blood on the upright stones. As few living beings could in modern times, Copper-Hair recognized magic from the Darthan Age in which she originated. Her knowledge went back thirty thousand years when the first Karina had been at the Corruption. Estimating more than two hundred of the brutes still lived and still intended to attack at any moment, she returned to warn her fellows.
Some apprehensive tribesmen urged the gunfighters to leave for their own sakes. There was no need for them to die. Not only did none of the Riders wavered, but Tom Pinto yelled that they should stay, even threatening to kill any of the Riders who might agree to give up the fight. Mournfully, the Miscagowie insisted and trudged back down the hill. The tribe had not had any young born in a full year. The Miscagowie believed the time of people to rule the world was over and the omens in the sky are telling them to let go and pass over.
Somberly preparing to depart, the Riders admitted they have become emotionally attached to the village. Sundown declared that at first he scorned the tribesmen for their fatalistic ways but now that he knew them better, he saw they were good people. "I been told many times that it ain't the color of your hide but what's in your heart that determines your worth. But I thought that was just flowery words to make folks feel better. I'm not so sure now."
The Riders had been escorted some distance from the village, where the Miscagowie wished them long lives. Left alone, gazing from one to another, the group found there was no need to discuss their next move. They all were determined to return and fight, not just for the tribesmen sakes but for their own self-respect. "Even if they don't want our help, even if they refuse to look at us, we're not running," said Tom Pinto.
Surprising everyone by speaking, Wai Cho-Lan added, "It is not the fight that we value...it is what we are fighting for."
Another night passed without further incident. Upon the urging of his fellows, Johnny Packard remained with the Riders and did not venture out into the night on his own. Toying with his hat, staring into the fire, he became morose and irritable. Even his horse Terror acted strangely, stomping his hooves and snorting as if eager to gallop off. His obvious craving for mayhem was like that of an aged barfly thirsting for one more drink.
IV.
The next morning at dawn, the onslaught finally came.
Loping downhill, bent far forward and using their long arms as two more legs, the Earlier Ones howled and roared as they attacked. But the great beasts skidded to a halt so sudden that some in the rear of the pack thumped up against the leaders and became entangled. What was this? The Indians sitting in front of their teepees were mere bundles of sticks wrapped in blankets. The Earlier Ones stared at the decoys, then at each other as sudden understanding dawned on them..
Just beyond the final teepees thirty feet away, sticks and brush were thrown aside as the Twilight Riders stood up within their waist-deep trench. Deep booms and sharp cracks echoed from a storm of gunfire that was both fast and accurate. The previous encounters had shown them a way to deal with these tough brutes as bullets ripped through vulnerable areas of throats and groins.
Dropping in a wave before that barrage, the remaining Earlier Ones swung to their left and to their right in an instinctive move to escape. But long arrows whistled by the dozens to sink into their chests and faces. The Miscagowie braves had been waiting on either side of the village, crouching behind brush and boulders. They loosed arrows at such close range that the barbs sank completely through even those leathery hides. The Earlier Ones did not have the bare second they needed to recognize what was happening and retreat. Instead, the remaining beasts plunged forward to crash directly upon the Twilight Riders.
For an endless hellish moment, thunder of gunplay and the bellowing of brutes mingled, The Miscagowie ran up headlong to the trench with long knives in hand, no thought of danger entering their minds. The Riders' guns ran empty and there was no chance to reload. Fighting blazed on with knives and gunbutts and bare hands against brutes twice Human size. Even the skills of Wai Cho-Lan and Copper-Hair could not do much more than deflect and defend against the giants.
Abruptly, the sounds of war broke off. Heavy breathing, grunts of pain and high emotion were all that broke the sudden silence. Men helped the wounded rise, pressing their hands where deep gouges spurted bright arterial blood, offering words of encouragement.
Tom Pinto, Clay Hawk, Peligroso and Copper-Hair had all been killed in that final frenzy of slaughter. Sundown's right arm dangled, broken, Johnny Packard was bruised and gashed but would live. Everyone thought Wai was dead too, as torn up and battered as he was, but he unexpectedly took a deep shuddering breath and managed to sit up. Not one of the Earlier Ones survived. They had no younglings and only a few females waited in the caves for mates who would never return. The brutes knew themselves their time had passed.
There was no victory dance that night, no feast with accompanying boasts and denigration of the fallen enemies. The mood was too somber for any feeling of triumph. Sundown's broken arm was set and hung in a sling, the wounds of Johnny Packard and Wai Cho-Lan were cleaned and wrapped with clean cloth. The carcasses of all the dead Earlier Ones were dragged yards away to form a huge pyre which burned with oily black smoke and a foul stench. And before dusk, the four fallen outsiders were wrapped in blankets and buried atop the sharp hill overlooking the village. Simple crosses of two sticks tied together with rawhide were all that marked the graves.
The next dawn saw the three surviving Riders standing on that hill to pay final respects. Sundown parted company with Wai and Johnny Packard, saying he would stay after realizing how much he wanted to be with the girl Florisa. The two outsiders waved farewell to the watching tribesmen and they realized that the sky had cleared finally. Its color was the deep comforting blue it should have always been. Bright sunlight warmed the ground and the air felt free and pure for the first time in weeks. Declining the offer of a horse, Wai Cho-Lan bowed humbly and limped off into the woods, gone from sight within seconds.
What was it that had happened in this nightmare week, wondered Johnny but no answer came to mind. Perhaps with the passing of the Earlier Ones, their magic was broken. He had seen over the past few years that nearly all of the weird and unexplained horrors of the West were fading and being quickly forgotten. What had been terrifying peril was dismissed as tall tales. Rowdy lawless towns were settling down to become comfortable cities. It was the end of more than one era.
1/10/2023