Lovecraft Ezine Mega-Issue 3 Rev3 Page 5

  Gerry Huntman lives with his wife and young daughter in Melbourne, Australia. He is a father, husband, speculative fiction writer, publisher and IT Consultant. He writes equally between horror, fantasy and science fiction, and publishes regularly in various mags, ezines and anthologies. His most recent publications have appeared in Stupefying Stories, Ticon4, and SQ Mag. He has also published a young teen fantasy novel, Guardian of the Sky Realms (IFWG, 2010). He his currently one of the long fiction judges for the 2012 Australian Shadows Awards.

  Story illustration by Leslie Harker.

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  The Stranger’s Trail

  by Tom Lynch

  Marshal Sam Branson's office door crashed open and a small boy burst into the room. "Marshal, Marshal! Doc Hubert says to come quick!"

  "Hold on, Bobby. What's the matter now?"

  "He didn't say, Marshal. He just said to come quick," the boy crowed, tugging on Sam’s hand.

  "Okay now. I'm coming." Sam closed the book he was reading, and tossed it on the desk. He snatched his hat off the peg by the door and trotted after Bobby who'd already disappeared around the corner and down the road.

  He tapped on Doc Hubert's front door and waited. A minute later, the door opened and the dentist's tall, gaunt form grinned at him from the doorway. "Hey, Sam! Thanks for comin'. Damnedest thing, lemme tell ya. Come in, come in!"

  Sam stepped into the cool of the small living room. The woman's touch was still visible in the room, even though Doc's wife had passed away three years earlier. Doilies still decorated the backs of the wingback chairs, and the ashtrays were emptied.

  "Pour ya a drink, Sam?" Doc asked.

  Sam saw a slight unsteadiness in his friend, and knew he'd already been at the bottle. "Little early, isn't it?"

  "You say so," Doc said into his glass as he tossed it back.

  "So what happened?"

  "Right! So it was the middle of the night, and I hear a crash outside. Pitch black outside, cuz, y'know, I'm on the edge of town here. So I grab my gun and a lamp and go to the door, right? Nothin' there! So I put my gun down and open the door, holding up the lamp so I can see, and somethin' hits me in the legs. Right in the shins. I jumped outta my skin, I tell ya. Dropped the lamp, too. Broke. Happily didn't start a fire.

  Anyways, I look down and there's this guy leaning on my leg. He musta fallen against the door and when I opened it, he fell onto me. Still scared me shitless. Pissed myself a little. So there was this guy lyin' on me. So I dragged him over to the couch and propped him up. Still had a pulse. Still breathin’. So what am I going to do with him? It’s the middle of the night, and I have an unconscious man in my living room. I did what I could do: I cleaned him up and put him to bed."

  "That’s it? That’s why Bobby had me run over here?"

  "Not hardly, Sam. As I moved him to the bed, he came to. Started raving. Shouting. Surprised he didn't rouse the neighbors, as far away as they are. Started going on and on about something on the other side of the ridgeline. He swore he'd never go back. Nothing'd make him go back. I managed to get some laudanum down his throat so he'd sleep.

  "This morning, I figured I’d shave him. He had a big, matted red beard. Red hair, too. Darker red than his beard, though. So anyway, I shave him off and damned if he doesn’t look familiar. I can’t place it though, you know? So I start flipping through old magazines and books, and it hits me, and I nearly pass out."

  "What? What was it?"

  "Here, Sam. You look." Doc handed the marshal an open book.

  Marshal Branson took it and looked at the entry. It was about a murderer in Edinburgh in 20s. His partner in crime was hanged, but the other one escaped, and no one ever found out where he went.

  "What're you doing with books like this, eh Doc? A little morbid now, isn't it?"

  "A fascination I've always had, Sam. Now what do you think?"

  "You’re kidding, right? You’re telling me you’ve got William Hare passed out in your spare bedroom right now?"

  Doc Hubert’s face was a cold mask. "It gets worse. Come see."

  Sam followed Doc Hubert up the stairs to the spare bedroom. There, lying in the bed, was a middle-aged man. "Doc, he’d have to be much older than that. Says here he was born over 70 years ago."

  "Sure. Read the description. The part about scars."

  Sam turned back to the book, and looked up. Doc pointed to two spots on the prone figure in the bed. There was the white, linear scar along the jaw line, and the other jagged one on the left forearm, but the man lying in front of them was thirty years too young to be that man.

  "Doc? I'll take that drink now."

  "Thought as much."

  The two men thumped back down stairs and sat in the small wallpapered dining room with a bottle of whiskey between them. Not much later, the glasses stood empty, and the bottle would soon join them. The two men just sat and looked at each other.

  "I'm still hoping this is a mistake."

  "Sure, Sam."

  "Because it could be. We could be wrong about this. He could be his son, and through crazy coincidence, have two of the same scars."

  "Of course he could, Sam. And you believe that bullshit as much as I do. Git back to yer office, and I'll send word when he wakes up and calms down. We'll talk to him to see what happened."

  "Yeah," Sam sighed, standing. "Good plan. I'll see if I have anything more on the Burke and Hare case. What year was Burke strung up?"

  "'29, Sam."

  "Over forty years ago. Yeah...not sure how much information I'll be able to get on that. One thing if I were in Washington, but, well, this ain't Washington." Sam winked and smiled at the dentist still sitting at his table and headed out.

  Sam paused on the dirt road outside. Even in the streaming sunlight, he felt a chill. The smile died, and he looked out from the dentist’s house to see where the stranger might have come from. There was nothing but hard packed earth, scrub grass, and rock as far as the eye could see. Sam liked it that way. Sure, he could be back East in DC driving a desk, but out here, what he still considered the frontier, life was worth living. You didn’t just watch it go by. You could be a part of it out here under the broad sky, with snow-capped mountains in the distance.

  True, not much usually happened around here. The town sprang up around the Coach House Inn since this was a coach stop, but that was really it. People who liked living out under the sky gathered here for a quiet life.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets and stalked back to his office. This stranger would make noise. So much for the quiet life. Reporters would inevitably come. Doc liked to drink when he played cards, and when he was losing at cards, he talked. People would hear. That’s just how it would be.

  Once back in his office, Sam went through the records he had, but found nothing, as he expected. He was going to have to wire Washington to get information, and they’d need to know why he wanted it. This one was not going to be easy. He supposed they’d have to try to figure out where he wandered into town from. Sam had several towns in the area under his jurisdiction, but stayed here for the coach access. It tended to speed up the mail service.

  Sam knew he’d have to get a move on if he wanted to avoid making this into a circus. He hoped this wouldn’t stir his little town into a lynch mob. He had to do something, so he headed out to wire headquarters requesting documentation, and then look for Old Harley.

  Old Harley had become something of a legend in the area. He lived with his wife and son, and whenever anyone from all the nearby towns wanted anything tracked, they pulled in Old Harley. No one knew where he got his skills but he had the uncanny ability to find things people were looking for, be they lost cattle, runaway children, or horse thieves. Sam had even seen him track a couple of shady gambling types over a solid rock canyon. No idea how he managed that, but they caught up to the two men, and the money box they’d stolen.

  Again, he stepped outside, looking toward the horizon. Somehow, this town didn't feel
as safe as it used to. Something had happened, and now Marshal Sam Branson was on edge. He sent his telegram, and happily the telegraph operator didn't appear to be paying attention to the message he was sending. Easier that way.

  Next, he headed over to the Coach House to see if Old Harley was there. He pushed through the swinging double doors and scanned the room. "Mornin' Marshal," Ed called from behind the bar. Ed owned the Coach House Inn and tended to the day-to-day business of the inn. He was also the best source of information and gossip in the town. Everyone told Ed everything, even when they shouldn't.

  "Howdy, Ed," Sam replied. "Wonderin' if you can help me out."

  "Aw, Marshal, you know me. I'll always help if I can," oozed Ed.

  "Yeah, Ed...I know. I'm lookin' for Old Harley. Seen him today?"

  "Not just yet, but what's it, Tuesday? Sure...he'll be here in a bit. He turns in early Mondays, so he's in early on Tuesdays."

  "Is that so?"

  Ed lowered his voice and leaned in to the marshal. "Private time with the little woman."

  Sam's eyebrows shot up. "People really do tell you everything, don't they?"

  "Well, I don't like to boast Marshal, but..."

  "I see," Sam said. "Well, I'd be obliged if you'd pour me a cup of coffee while I wait for him."

  "My pleasure, Marshal. On the house, as always."

  Sam muttered his thanks and made his way over to a table by the back corner of the room. Sam hated sitting with his back to anything but a wall. It was an occupational hazard as the highest law in the area. He watched the door and took a sip of his coffee. He wished he could have a drink at this point. Anything, really, other than this terrible coffee. Sam didn't have the heart to tell Ed the coffee was awful. Maybe it was out of guilt that Ed never charged him for it. He made a mental note to see if he served others from the same coffee pot.

  True to Ed's word, Old Harley wandered in within a few minutes. His son "Little" Harley was with him. Little Harley was the biggest man in the town, towering over the rest of the population at over six and a half feet tall, and half that wide. Little Harley was the proverbial brick shithouse.

  Old Harley started toward the bar, but his son tapped his shoulder and mutely pointed in Sam's direction. Little Harley, the quiet mountain that missed nothing. Old Harley dropped into the seat across from Sam, "Whatcha need, Marshal?"

  Little Harley sat down between them, waiting.

  "Need to find where someone came from."

  "When?"

  "Last night."

  "Where?"

  "Starting from Doc Hubert's."

  "When do we leave?"

  "As soon as we can gather a bit more information."

  "Right," Old Harley said, and turned to his son. "Harl, go get supplies from Ed, and we'll head back to pack up."

  "Obliged, Harley," Sam said. "I'll be over to get you as soon as I can."

  Old Harley stood, and met his son on the way to the door. In Little Harley's hands were two bottles of whiskey. Sam shook his head. Old Harley drank like a fish, but was as dependable as ever, no matter how much booze was in his system. It didn't hurt that his son was an imposing presence who never left his father's side. That came in handy more often than not on these expeditions.

  His business here complete, Sam stood and downed the rest of his coffee, swallowing his gorge to avoid embarrassing himself or Ed, the brewer of the atrocious swill. He thanked Ed and headed out into the badly needed fresh air. He sucked in the fresh air and tried to work the taste out of his mouth. He walked by his office to see if anyone was looking for him, and then headed back to Doc Hubert's.

  He rapped on the door, and peered in the nearby window, suddenly nervous. He again became aware of how tense this whole situation was making him. There was no more routine; there was only this problem, and hopefully some solution.

  Doc opened the door, and stared at Sam. "What is it, Doc? What's the matter?"

  "Come in, Sam." Doc sounded as if his tongue were swollen.

  Sam stepped past him into the room and saw the whiskey bottle from earlier on its side on the table, and another standing open. A third hung from Doc's right hand.

  "Hav' drink?"

  "Uh, no thanks...but what's happened? I've only been gone, what, two hours, tops?"

  "Psssh! Long enough!" Doc said, and started to chuckle. "He woke up, Sam."

  "He did? What did he say?"

  "He told me his name. No prompting from me. William Hare, born in 1792. Derry, Ireland."

  "Doc, that's just not possible. The man upstairs isn't 80 years old!"

  "DON'T YOU THINK I KNOW THAT SAM?" Doc shouted. He took a breath. "Sorry. Little shook up."

  "What else did he say?"

  "Fled here after escaping to London in 1829. Stowed away on a ship to start over, and headed West after making port in New York. Worked odd jobs. Made his way. Finally stayed in one place long enough to buy himself a decent horse, and headed further West. He was riding over a bluff...and came to outside my door. He thinks the year is 1835."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "Nothing. Telling me that much wore him out. He fell back to sleep."

  "Shit."

  "I'll say. Now what? We could call Dr. Branney. Have him do a full examination."

  "I wanna keep this quiet, Doc. This will get out eventually, but I don't want panic on our hands. There's no way news of this is taken well around here. Old Harley and his boy are gonna help me track him back out of town. Hopefully we can find where he came from and get some more answers."

  "Okay, yeah. Just be careful, okay?"

  "Yup. I'm gonna go pack up and get the Harleys. We'll stop by here in case he wakes up again before we head out."

  Sam went back to his office and went into the back room. He grabbed his larger saddle bags, and put in blankets, hardtack, smoked meat, and two extra cases of bullets for his .45. He was heading to get his horse, when he thought the better of it, and went back to get one more case of .45 bullets and two cases for his Henry rifle. He truly did not know what he was up against, and the more he thought about it, the more uneasy he became.

  He went around back, and tossed the stable boy a 3-cent nickel, and put the saddle bags onto his horse Two-Gun. He slid his rifle into the case in front of the right stirrup, slipped Two-Gun a carrot, and walked around to mount up.

  "Hey Timmy," he called to the stable boy. "Clean the stall out till it shines, and I’ll give you two nickels when I get back."

  Somehow, voicing the certainty of his return only made the growing pit in his stomach that much worse. He turned his horse and trotted over to Old Harley's place. As he got there, little Harley was tying the saddle bags into place on their horses. The pack mule was already loaded. It looked like the father and son team were ready for this to take a while, and Sam was glad of it. While he only packed the minimum, if he were caught in the wild without food or water, he'd be a goner for sure. His two companions would make sure he wouldn't starve anyway.

  With a mumbled good bye to his missus from Old Harley and a silent wave to her from Little Harley, the three set out. They would stop in at Doc Hubert's for any final information and hopefully track down some answers.

  They got to the dentists' house and the Harleys volunteered to stay outside. Old Harley took the opportunity to dismount and find the trail and a general direction. Sam tapped on the door. There was no answer. Sam backed up and looked at the upstairs windows. Not seeing anything he knocked louder this time, with no response.

  "Doc!" he called out. "It's Marshal Branson! You there?"

  His nerves began to get the better of him. Little Harley nudged his horse closer, silently offering assistance. Sam waved him back, and pounded on the door. "Doc! Open up!" he shouted.

  Finally, it crept open. A stooped and bleary dentist squinted out into the daylight. "Hey, Sam."

  "Everything okay?"

  "Yeah. Musta passed out. Tired. Oh, I see you have the Harleys with you. Well c'mon in, there are some
last bits to share with ya."

  Sam followed the dentist into the cool dark of his house, and waited. Doc turned to the marshal and began slowly. "It's as if he was dreamin'. He seems to only remember bits and pieces. He's sleeping again, but he wakes up and shouts nonsense, calms down, talks a bit, wears himself out, and falls back to sleep."

  "What's he said?"

  "Remember that ridgeline he mentioned? Well, he keeps going on about it, looking over his shoulder in a blind panic. I tell ya Sam, this ain't normal fear. This is shit-yer-pants, nightmare-for-life fear that's in him. Whatever he saw, whatever's out there is Bad, with a capital b."

  Sam heaved a sigh. "Right. Well, I guess we'll just have to see what we can find, and make sure to protect our own here in town."

  Doc started to look uncomfortable. "There's...there's more, I think, Sam."

  Sam knit his brow. "What is it, Doc?"

  "He mentioned being chased. Running away, and the things almost got him. He didn't say what, at one point he started squirming as if his back bothered him, so I looked. There, on his back, were what looked like three enormous claw scratches. Parallel wounds from his right shoulder blade to the middle of his back on the left, but each line is almost four inches apart."

  "Mountain lion?"

  "Sam, I never want to see a mountain lion with a paw eighteen inches across!"

  "Hell, Doc, I don't wanna see anything with a paw eighteen inches apart! Can I see him? Why didn't you mention this before?"

  Doc shifted from foot to foot, and rubbed his hand over his bald head. "They're uh...gone, Sam."

  "He's gone?"

  "No, they're gone. The marks. They faded as he woke. It was as if...as if..."

  "As if what, Doc?"

  "As if he were dreaming it, Sam, but somehow it was affecting him after he was awake, too. I can't explain it, but I had to have a few more drinks to get myself to sleep. This shit is crazy, and I hope to hell you can find some answers out there, because it seems to get weirder and weirder."

  Sam stood, silent. He started to speak a few times, but stopped. Finally, all he could do was pat his friend on the shoulder, and turn, and walk out of the house. Outside, he found Old Harley two hundred yards beyond the edge of town waiting for them. Judging by his posture, he'd found the trail. Little Harley sat on his horse, quiet, patient, ready. Sam mounted up, and the two rode out to join Little Harley's father.