Another bullet penetrated the mud walled shack neatly grazing the arm of Lieutenant Tom McGinty's Union Soldier uniform, leaving a stinger but drawing no blood. "I'll be damned if I'm staying here letting 'em pierce me through the heart to bleed to death in Lord knows where we are," he bleated out mostly to himself since those of his regiment that stayed were lying either in agony or death around him. Still it brought him comfort to talk to them, knowing they couldn't answer but believing they were still watching him fight. Six men "volunteered" to hold off the attack while the remaining soldiers took the dead settler's wife and children down the Green River to Fort Cass and safety.
Their father wouldn't be joining them that night or ever again. It was a wild and unforgiving country with as many snares as promises to those brave enough—no, foolish enough to try to tame it. Lieutenant McGinty knew the story; he'd heard it a dozen times before: The family left their home in the East for gold, or land, or cattle and the inherent enticement of money. When they arrived, the Sioux were friendly enough, maybe more amused than curious. Thinking their Christian values would transcend the cultural differences and moral values of the savages, the family took more and more liberties with the natives till they crossed the line.
Lack of envisioned riches breeds greed and the Natives cannot understand a man claiming more and more land as his own. To the Indians, life was simple: live today; die tomorrow. To many white men life was far more complex: live today and get as much as you can by any means available to you, dying was not in the foreseeable future. Tom hated thinking that these were the kind of people that represent him, knowing far more honest and faithful people than not. He hoped this family was one of the later, but feared the father was one of the former. The temptation to take advantage of your neighbor, especially when that neighbor is to your standards uneducated, is too great.
Even with good intentions, eventually the white man encroaches to the point that the native cannot live on the land his ancestors have known for generations. Something has to give. "They are not reasonable," we say. "They don't understand what it takes." Maybe it's us. Maybe we've taken too much. Either way, a soldier has his duty and Lieutenant McGinty had never shirked it before; he wasn't about to shirk it now. He'd wait till nightfall, if he could survive till then.
The soldiers came to the homestead after the settler's oldest boy rode to the fort screaming for help. When they arrived, the Indians had apparently abandoned the raid and retreated to their own village. After loading a few things into the family's wagon, the soldiers set out for the fort, then the Sioux returned. They came in a rush, killing or maiming several soldiers during the ensuing chaos. Six soldiers were ordered to counter the attackers, drawing their fire and providing enough time for the remaining soldiers to evacuate the family. They did under a barrage of gunfire and bugle calls. After originally retreating again, the Sioux turned back on the soldiers and forced them into the out buildings of the settlement.
Shortly after the retreat, two soldiers died from their wounds. Two more took arrows within the first few minutes. The fifth soldier died from a lead slug that penetrated the thin walls of the building. Tom's scratch on the arm amounted to little more than a discomfort while he waited for the next three hours, collecting the guns and ammunition from his companions. Tom blindly fired off an occasional shot towards the Indians letting them know he was still alive, hoping to keep them at bay till sundown. He remained on a vigilant guard watching the hillside for movement, firing indiscriminately when he saw any. It was a long three hours, maybe the longest he could remember.
His whole life Tom had wanted adventure. A life on the frontier, settling the land and raising cattle didn’t appeal that much to him so he joined the army. Sometimes he regretted his choice of military service thinking that a life on the sea would have been more adventurous. If not as a Naval Seaman than as a buccaneer, though he doubted he had the malevolence within him to be a scoundrel. Then with the reassignment to Indian Territory Tom had plenty of opportunity for adventure; this day had proved that—of course, putting your life into the hands of an enemy was not the only avenue for adventure, to be sure. His commitment to the army had expired two days earlier and he was weighing his options to reenlist or move on. At this moment the choice was obvious: get out! He didn't feel he was a brave man, just a soldier doing his duty. Often that duty had put him into situations that tested his commitment—so far so good. Whenever he needed something more, he remembered his father dying in the street, gunned down by bank robbers.
His father had been the deputy sheriff and the acting president of the first bank in a new town on the cusp of the new frontier. These towns often started the same, pandering to the pioneers. The populations grew and shrunk with the tides of settlers and prospectors. The names were often the same—Silver City, Sweet Water, Boomtown—relating to the geographic or mineralogical aspects of the area. The names changed over time as new people came and the old timers moved on, passed away, or just dropped out of favor with the political elite's.
The McGinty's moved to the town shortly after the discovery of silver. Tom's father didn't imagine finding a claim of his own; rather he sought to take advantage of the need for business. "That’s where the real money is," he would say. "Even the miners that go bust have to first buy tools and supplies. The proprietors that sell those wares will need commerce, you cannot have a business with out establishing commerce." So his father proposed to the people a business district, setting himself up as the chairman. Tom and his brothers would work the family farm during the day while their father spent his days in town shaping the direction of commerce. He had lost his election as Mayor, but was appointed deputy sheriff, accepting more to keep his name on the minds of the townspeople than for a love of the law.
Being the third son, Tom was not burdened with the full responsibilities of the farm or the family so he was able to attend school when the town held it. Tom liked to read and to listen to the older people talk of their journey to the New World, whether it was immigrants crossing the ocean or pioneers crossing the plains. The Mormon handcart trek had gone through this Silver City a few years back and Tom liked listening to those stories. His favorite tales were those of a man named Porter Rockwell, a tough brute that did not fit the part of a religious zealot. Rockwell's loyalty was legendary, and Tom admired that, secretly hoping, but also fearing, to run into him some day.
His father would tell Tom that a man's duty and word was more important than his life. "If we die it's over. If we lie, we have to live with that the rest of our lives," he'd say. "Without his word, a man's no better than a dog. That's why Judas hung himself, couldn't live with the shame that accompanies a traitorous coward."
His daddy had given his word to the town that he'd protect the money to his last breath—he did, taking two of the five bank robbers with him. One of the fallen bank robbers carried the bags of money. The townspeople recovered the money and honored Mr. McGinty by naming the town after him—Gintiburg—which, Tom knew, over time would also change. Almost immediately after his father's death, Tom joined the Army to scout the West.
Reflecting back on those days, Tom wondered if perhaps he had gone to the mountains if he could have struck a claim. He wondered if he could have claimed some land and cleared it to farm. Many of the well-to-do's in the area were cattlemen or large farmers. He had been one of the first to settle in the area; he could have claimed some of the top land. But, he tired of the same scenery easily and had to do something different. The army seemed the best way out, now he wondered if it was the right way out.
He saw movement on the hill and fired a pot shot that easily missed the mobile Indian. He had never killed a man before, only Indians. He was slightly ashamed for thinking that way. He wanted to believe that 'all men were created equal,' but society, even the Government, didn't agree. The Indians and many others were treated like second-class citizens. Right or wrong, Tom couldn't help but feel the same. Still, it shamed him to dwell on the thought.
Twilight set in on the Dakota's skyline as the lone soldier made his break from the cabin, sliding down the rain soaked grass to the Green River. As he approached the banks the call of a mourning dove caught his attention. He'd been in Indian Territory long enough to feel when the sounds of nature were man-made. Instinctively dropping to the ground, he pulled his Army Issue Colt .45 into his line of sight and slithered through the mud, ducking behind a tree stump blackened by a lightning strike just out of the river. If there were Indians that had seen him he didn't stand much of a chance of getting away tonight, he knew that. All he could do now was float away and pray it was dark enough that he'd go unnoticed or at least unseen.
Somewhere in the distance a coyote howl chased after the last shimmering of daylight. A field mouse paused momentarily to judge its distance from the predator before scurrying into its underground maze of interconnecting tunnels. Tonight it would dine on crickets and sleep in its warm nest made from the settler's old burlap bags. If Tom had seen the creature, he would have envied it for this one night.
The Green River ran very cold even in the summer. Tom knew the quickest way out of there was to use the current to carry him away, but he also knew how cold the river was. He sat behind the stump for several minutes talking himself into plunging into the cold. The site of the Indians moving on the outbuilding finally convinced him. He slipped into the water.
They could not know how many soldiers were holed up so they could not guess that he'd left. Of course they'd search for him, for anyone that may have lived. And he was sure they could easily read his footprints; it wouldn’t take an Indian Tracker to follow those large tracks through the mud. But with the onset of darkness, he hoped, they would find it much more difficult to track him to the river. Plus he tried to walk on the grasses and rocks when he could. Just the same, the young soldier was scared and wanted desperately to escape.
On the southwestern hill some 40 yards from the river Tom saw the frightening silhouette of two burly Sioux braves searching the river. Despite the bitter cold from the water he completely submerged. He'd never been much of a swimmer, but to save his life a man is capable of incredible things. Afraid to open his eyes, Tom swam directly into a willow snag that entangled his left shoulder and scared the wind from his lungs.
The cold water burned his skin and lungs. His clothes doubled in weight, trying to drown the desperate oxygen breather. He worked himself into an all out panic.
Flailing for the surface, Tom dropped his sidearm into the rushing water. Once again breathing oxygen, some of it in the form of the river, Tom snaked his way into the willows, hoping to remain unseen by the young braves. He knew he had to drift in the darkness, but it was cold, bitterly cold. He stripped off his boots and let them sink into the water to stay afloat. He envisioned ice forming in his hair and eyelashes. If only he could look at himself in that saloon mirror again. "It wasn't much of a saloon," he murmured to himself, "but it was warm!"
"Especially while it burned," he chuckled, more of a quiver than a laugh. "I'd give real money to be fighting that fire again right now!" It had been less than a year ago when a group of roughens rode in and tied to the hitching post outside the one saloon near Fort Cass. One man picked a fight with an Army Private who was negotiating a price with the local madam that sent the entire group of patrons into a brawl.
Somewhere along the way one of the kerosene lamps broke open and spilled onto the long tapestry igniting a fire that engulfed the pine paneled wall. The tempered wood of the building fueled the fire and brought the soldiers from the fort to the rescue. Their attempts were futile. All but the front window glass burned. The Captain of the fort ordered the arrest of the gang and the expulsion of the proprietor. No one had been able to rebuild a saloon within ten miles of the fort since.
Tom was young, twenty-four. He had not been in a saloon for drinks till two years after joining the army. When he was a kid he used to sit with his father in the saloons during the days and listen to the talk of the older folks. He knew he could learn from them, from their experiences. Since the town did not hold regular school, he used that opportunity for education. He also heard much of the news of the country and often thought about traveling back East to see where the Founding Fathers had done their sacred work. Someday, he thought, I'll do just that.
It was not till he was nineteen that he entered a saloon with the intent of getting drunk. The most vivid memories of the night were of very early the next morning puking his guts out. He knew he had had fun, his buddies told him so, but he had a headache that lasted two days and the other soldiers took no pity on him. He decided then that heavy drinking didn't agree with him and he stuck to small amounts of beer after that night.
He did, however, enjoy the company of the ladies. He spent very little money on them and virtually no time upstairs with them. He just liked to befriend them and indulge in innocent flirtations with them. Sure the ladies put forth a facade of confidence and control, but their true self-esteem was low simply because of their profession. "It’s hard to hold your head up when you’re lying on your back," a lady had told him one night. Tom enjoyed making them feel like true ladies again. Once the girls realized that Tom truly had respect for them as ladies, they flocked to him when their other business was slow.
Scanning the now darkened hillside, Tom felt confident that he was alone. Just as he began drifting from the snag, he stiffened and reached back to the willows in a panic. He'd been looking at the wrong side of the river! Turning to the other bank, he nearly bawled when he saw several braves crest the summit and drop over the hill. He couldn't see anything below the skyline in this light.
"Which side?" he asked into the night. "Which side did they go down?" He tried to envision the sight in his mind and determine where the Indians had gone. "Mexico! That's where I'm going!" Lieutenant McGinty was well aware that even though the Mexican-American war ended ten years ago the Union was still sending troops down there to quail the small uprisings and protect the California settlers from marauding banditos. "At least the water down there is warm." He could think of little else but the cold. He scanned the shoreline and hillcrest in vain, shivering uncontrollably. "I wonder how hot Arizona really is?"
He could wait no longer; Hell would be warmer than this river. He had to take his chances. Besides, it had to be dark enough now. He timidly released his grip on the branch that held him against the current and the river swept him silently down stream like so much driftwood. Picking a tree in the skyline, he watched it fade out of sight as he floated on his back down the river towards safety. "I wonder if Lewis and Clark traveled this river," he said aloud. "I bet they weren't as cold." He could hardly form the words in his mouth his jaw was so stiff from the cold; his entire body felt numb.
Overhead two bats chased insects through the air, dipping close enough to the river to feel the light spray of the water on their leathery wings.
Estimating that he had traveled more than a mile, about one third the distance to the fort, Tom spied the light of a fire flickering on the riverbank. The cold was too much, he had to get out and get warm. He guided himself to the shore and dragged himself to the bank. Again he nearly broke into tears as he weighed the possibility of hostile company versus the hostile river. If only he hadn't dropped his pistol! Crawling closer to the camp, he heard muffled voices, too quiet to understand. They had to be kinder than the Green River.
Tom lay motionless on his back for several minutes reaching deep inside him to find the nerve to face the camp. A light rain began to fall in his face. A pair of bullfrogs called to each other. Finally, in a moment of either great courage or absolute fear, Tom rose to his feet and walked directly towards the camp.
The unearthly sound of metallic snarls and the screams of human terror stopped Tom in his tracks several yards out of the firelight. He heard horrifying screams and sounds of violence while dust and smoke clouded his vision of the camp. His first instinct was to rush in with guns a blazing, rescuing the victims. Then he realized that he had no gun—he didn't even have boots! He squinted, ducked and bobbed his head to get a better look. The macabre scene turned his stomach.
From his vantage he could see three people—two men and a boy—being attacked by some kind of creature standing roughly six feet tall, semi-erect, covered in what appeared to be dark hair. It had an elongated, goat-like face that looked skinless, just a skull. It did have teeth, maybe like a wolf and huge clubbed paws on the end of overly long arms. It's legs, which never fully straightened resembled tree trunks in their mass and shape. Its ears were short and pointed, setting nearer the sides of the head rather than the top. Fierce, penetrating eyes functioning independently sat further apart than a dogs, giving the creature tremendous peripheral vision. Tom had never seen or even heard of anything like this.
Moving in deliberate, almost mechanical motions, it effortlessly lifted one man, snapped his body in the air with a crack like a bullwhip, breaking his back. Dropping the limp bodied man to the ground, the creature swung its long arms mercilessly at the other man who was nervously aiming a rifle. The man fired off a single desperate shot that appeared to have no effect on the creature, and then buckled under the weight of the blow. The strong arm of the creature eviscerated the mans skull, sending blood, hair and brains exploding into the air in a sunset colored mist against the back light of the fire.
The boy clubbed the creature, trying to free the creatures grip on the older man. No effect. Another blow got the creatures attention. Facing away from the boy, the creature dropped to his hands and knees kicking its thick leg back into the boy's groin, its foot puncturing the young body. Quickly spinning around, the creature crouched down to the motionless corpse as if admiring, maybe sniffing or tasting, its handiwork.
Not five seconds later, an eternity for a man in shock, the creature jerked its head up and looked directly into the eyes of the wet, shivering soldier frozen no longer by the cold but by shear terror. For a moment, Tom could almost sense intelligence in the creature. Then panic.
Tom felt a warm streak down his legs: it was his own urine. Suddenly a blinding blue light came from the camp, thankfully knocking Tom unconscious to the ground. That night he dreamt of quiet evenings at the saloon and the company of beautiful women; for what more could a man hope.
*** Chapter Two ***
The long, warm kisses of a woman on a man’s face and neck are enough to make him believe that he could leave the intangible promises of adventure behind and be the settling kind. Tom had that feeling now. This woman was working his left ear with the skills of a professional woman but with the touch of a sweetheart. Perhaps he could lie here all night and let her work her magic.
There was something unfamiliar about this woman, something not quite right. But he could accept it, at least for now, for tonight. To return the affection he rolled to his side to face the loving woman and forced open his heavy eyes—it was a dog! A big, wet haired, putrid smelling, gas inflated, beast of a dog! He quickly spun to his haunches, realizing further that he was lying in the sand of the riverbank below the fort. He coughed and spit the canine slobber from his lips. Nothing could compare to the awful and persistent taste that lurked in every corner of his mouth. He'd have to chew up a full pound of catnip to clean it—or maybe just a bottle of whiskey.
Then he began to focus on his new dilemma. A dream? He recalled the events of the previous day including the creature at the camp. What about the light? How did he get here? He couldn't have fallen here in a drunken stupor the night before, could he? He didn't think so. He remembered the settler's house for certain and the death of his friends was as clear as the river he somehow managed to navigate to the fort. He memory was all a blur.
At least the dog was real, his skin still felt sticky from it's rough tongue.
Holes. His mind was full of them. He could remember the camp and the three men that died there—no, two men and a boy. He was certain one of them had been a young boy of about eight or ten years of age; his sorrow compounded for the youth. Then there was the creature. That creature. What was it? There was a definite light—a blue light—he could still see the dark spot in the middle of his vision as a result of it. His mind became foggy; foggy as the rolling, pine-covered hills in early spring. He’d force himself to remember, he insisted, as soon as he figured out where he was and how he got there.
Suddenly his head ached. He fell to his back, shaded his eyes, pushed the dog away and slipped back into unconsciousness. No dreams this time, his body cried for pure sleep.
When he next awoke, even in the pain, he had full control of his faculties. He glanced around the room without moving his head. Even though he had rarely been here, he knew this place: it was the infirmary. The whitewashed walls and the pungent odor of decay betrayed the room’s identity. Futile attempts at sanitization with a lye compound did little to mask the smell of the previous occupants that hung in the air like a light, low fog. Sitting up, he called for the doctor who was just outside his door.
"Son, lie back down," said the doctor grinding a freshly rolled cigarette into the floor with the heel of his boot. "You've got a nasty bump on your head."
"How'd I get here?" Tom demanded as he complied with the doctor's orders.
"Son, we dragged your half dead backside out of the river yesterday morning," came the reply. "You can thank those dogs for finding you. Now just take it easy and the Captain will be along later for a report."
The doctor walked across the room and opened the medicine cabinet. Inside there were several liniments and elixirs for various ailments along with a variety of wraps and bandages. The doctor passed his hand over several bottles, touching each with his index finger as he mumbled under his breath and rejected each one, then chose one that he retrieved from the cabinet and insisted that Tom drink. Through the bitter aftertaste Tom accused him of making things worse with his snake oil and magic potions.
The doctor snorted then mumbled as he walked away, "Yeah, like I've never heard that one before."
When Captain Jackson came to the room, Tom was sleeping. The accompanying Corporal woke the Lieutenant by slapping his foot. Tom looked up, saw Jackson and made his best effort to snap to attention while remaining in bed. "At ease, soldier," said the Captain after a swift return of salutations. "Tell me what happened, Lieutenant."
Tom's head felt light as the blood rushed out from him sitting up so quickly. He took a deep breath. "Sir," Tom began his informal report of the incident at the settlement. He omitted the happenings at the camp; he wanted to talk to a few bunkmates before making it a part of his official report. He did inform the Captain that he was at the camp and that there were three dead people there, he just didn’t tell him how they died. He was still unclear of what had actually happened there anyway. He explained that from the camp to this morning he couldn’t remember anything. The doctor attributed that to either the shock he suffered from the cold of the river or the bump that was still swelling on the top of his head, probably a product of him smashing his head on a rock while floating down the river.
Maybe he was right; maybe everything Tom thought he remembered from that camp was just his imagination filling in the holes pierced in his mind from the shock. No, Tom decided that whatever did happen there was not due to shock; that he had seen some kind of creature and that a blue light ended his conscious recollection of the events. He became determined to find out exactly what happened that night. That was his new adventure.
Under the recommendations of the Doctor, the Captain put McGinty on medical leave for two days. Tom spent the first in the infirmary mostly sleeping but also contemplating what he had seen and what he should do about it—and he would do something about it, his peace of mind depended upon it.
When he return to the bunkhouse, Tom sought out the two men he thought could help him most, Corporal Wilson Everett Winchester and Corporal William Everson Winchester. Word was the brothers had left some European University to join the Union Army simply to spite their aristocratic father. They refused an officers rank to further the grudge, knowing that their father had arranged the commission. They both started as Privates and had been advanced to Corporal on promotions of merit and both wore the stripes with pride.
They were constantly engaged in conversation, mostly with each other since very few other soldiers had the educational ability to speak to their level. When they weren't deep in discussion, they had their noses buried in a book, swapping them with anybody passing through that had one. They seemed to know much about the world and questioned almost everything. Sometimes other soldiers whispered that they must regret leaving the University and they'd go AWOL to return if they didn't fear being shot.
The Winchesters listened intently and without condescension. Tom felt that the men considered him a peer, even though they obviously knew more than he'd ever know. After relating all that he could remember, Tom asked for their opinion.
"Probably a grizzly," answered Wilson dismissively. He was the younger of the two brothers.
Tom crooked his face, "I don't think so. I've seen grizzlies. I know it was dark but this seemed more like a man. And the face wasn't right for a bear."
"Well," William drew a sigh, "there is the Sasquatch." With the mere mention of the word Tom could tell Wilson disapproved. Seeing the puzzlement in Tom's face, William continued, "An Indian legend. Giant man, covered in dark hair, smells like a latrine. Did you get close enough to smell it?"
"Oh no, no way," Tom answered. "I wasn't even close enough to make out any features, except what I told you." He paused then added, "And with the fire flicker being the only light, plus all the shadows, well..." He stopped as if he didn't know how to end the sentence. Just as well, he thought, he'd much rather listen.
"As the story goes," William said, "the Sasquatch lives in the deep woods, rarely seen by anyone," He paused a moment as if in deep thought. "Course the legend says it's somewhat docile, nothing about it attacking unprovoked."
"I didn't see any provocation," Tom said, then with a shrug added, "But I came in a little late."
"As long as you're telling stories, what about a werewolf?" asked Wilson somewhat skeptically.
"Let's keep it in the realm of the possible," answered his brother.
"Mmm, what's a werewolf?" asked Tom.
Wilson rolled his eyes, "European myth about a half man, half wolf. Uhh...uhh...nasty creature...um…very violent. Seems they perpetuate their species by biting other humans, thus turning their victims through some lunar metamorphosis into another werewolf." Glancing towards his brother, Wilson continued, "Of course then there's vampires, yetis, succubus, specters, poltergeists, and, let us not forget, Dr Jeckle and Mr. Hyde. Each of which has an equal possibility of being real—zero, zilch, nothing, nada." He held up his hand with the thumb and index finger forming a circle to emphasize the point.
"There could be Sasquatch's," William insisted. "Like the gorilla of Africa, living in the deep forest, or the mythical panda bear. There's still a lot of land unexplored in this country, Lord knows what we'll find."
"William, William, William. You, like the simpleton, know not of what you speak," said Wilson sarcastically. Turning to Tom and seeing no reaction to his attempt at humor, he said, "Pardon my brother's flights of fantasy, I'm sure it was nothing more than a grizzly bear or a rogue Indian wearing the fur of one."
"No," Tom replied, "I don't think so. And what about that flash of light?"
"Well there's that. Then there is another creature legend, El Chupacabra," William said with more than a little hesitation. "I can almost believe the Sasquatch story, but El Chupacabra is another thing."
"Oh please!" exasperated Wilson as he rolled his eyes.
Tom quizzed, "What's the story there?"
Turning to his brother, William snapped, "Look, the only reason I mention it is because of the light Lieutenant McGinty talked about. A creature using an inter-dimensional portal my very well cause a lightning like reaction. We don't know." Tom became more curious even as Wilson scoffed at his brother. Turning back to Tom William continued, "The Chupacabra is an ancient, vicious beast that no one can positively identify. It's generally thought to be in the Southwest, even as far down as Mexico. That's where the word comes from, it means goat eater."
"Goat sucker," Wilson interrupted. "Goat sucker. Meaning it sucks the blood of goats. Goats, not people."
"We don't know that," William said without looking at his brother. "And that's one translation. I for one think they are responsible for the Anasazi's disappearance."
"Ah, here we go!" exclaimed Wilson as he threw up his hands and turned around, stepping a few paces for effect. "We don't know what happened to 'The Ancient Ones.'"
William turned to his skeptical brother, "You've read the stories, it had to be something like that," he said. "The 'evil' that they fled from. Going from one world to another."
"'One world to the other'?" asked Tom. "You mean like from Europe to America or from the moon to the Earth?"
"No," answered William as his brother waved his hands at them and walked to the other side of the room to straighten up his shaving equipment. "I mean they came from another world inside ours, or parallel to ours, like a dimensional transport."
"A 'dimensional transport,'" laughed Wilson. "You can't even structure a sentence correctly."
"What are you talking about?" asked William.
"You used a transitive verb grammatically incorrect," answered Wilson smugly.
"I did not," said William incredulously.
"Yes you did," demanded Wilson. "And the worst part is that you don't even know it."
"Boys, boys," said Tom with mock authority. When the brothers had become silent he said, "Can we get back to the issue at hand."
William stared at his brother through narrowed eyes. He turned to Tom and continued, "You see, they lived in holes in the cliffs, they were cliff dwellers. They had a ceremonial hole in the center of their dwellings that represented a passage or door into another world. Apparently this was their fourth world. They left their last world because of some great evil that existed there—El Chupacabra perhaps. No one knows how long they were here, but when the Pueblo or Hopi and the Navajo Indians moved into the area, all of the dwellings were abandoned.
"The Hopi and Pueblo have some intermixed descendents of the Anasazi that carried with them an oral tradition of what happened to the Ancient Ones—that's what Anasazi means: the Ancient Ones. Anyway, the evil from their past world followed them into this world and began the same destruction, thus forcing them to abandon this world as well."
"William," Wilson scornfully returned to the conversation from across the room, "for all you know that evil is metaphoric and was simply a drought or a band of marauding Indians that drove them to another territory, like across the Rio Grande. Why do you have to believe the outrageous?"
Shaking his head, William replied, "You can't possibly think we know everything there is to know about our world? Mythology has been around far longer than science and science cannot prove or disprove ninety percent of the legends and old-wives-tales. Why could it not be the outrageous? What about those fossils belonging to animals that no one has ever seen? What about the strange lights in the night skies people, people like you William, have seen? Have you ever been able to explain what you saw that night?"
"This is a little hard to swallow," Tom said, "and if it were this 'evil of the Southwestern other world', what would it be doing all the way up here in the Dakota's?"
"Maybe they've found another portal," replied William matter-of-factly. "Maybe they need to expand their territory like we're doing here in the Territories. Who knows? I think we should go back to the camp tomorrow and investigate. Take Oolichan with us; he can help read the signs if the rain hasn't washed them all away.
"Wilson, tell Tom what you saw that night," prodded William. "He told us his story without fear; tell him yours."
After a little more prodding and the assurances from Tom that he did in fact want to hear the story, Wilson explained, "Now I wasn't the only one that saw this, three other boys we're with me. I was about eight years old and we were laying out under the stars on a hill near our home in Boston. We saw this light, actually it was three lights in a triangular shape, drift down the hills towards us.
"At first it looked like someone was carrying torches and moving swiftly but smoothly across the ground. Then this thing, a vessel, appeared around the lights and hovered above us about one to two hundred feet in the air. It sat there as silent as a sailing ship with no wind for about ten, maybe twenty seconds, then zoomed off with immense speed back to the mountain from whence it came. Never made any noise."
"A flying machine? Like one of those hot air balloons?" Tom asked. "And it carried torches?"
Frowning and shaking his head, William answered, "I don't know what we saw, but we saw something. All of us did and we've never seen anything like that again. I swear to you it's the truth."
Tom wanted to laugh at William but since he had just had an outlandish experience of his own, he thought better of it.
They then made plans to return up the river to the camp and investigate. Tom had still to decide if he was going to reenlist, but that was a decision for after this little excursion. The brothers and the Indian scout would accompany him as soldiers in the army, but Tom began to desire release from his duties. That decision would have to wait.
At first light, the four men rode up the river in an attempt to find the camp. They had trouble locating the camp since the circumstances that led Tom there the first time were not conducive to recollection. Along the way the group stumbled upon a dead cow elk with its head removed but the skin and meat from the cheeks lying near by. Blank stares. It did not look like a predator-prey kill, but no one made a comment about the animal, they just looked at it briefly and rode on. Tom knew the camp was about a mile or so from the settlement, so after a short time, they did find the campsite.
It was obvious that there had been a struggle involving several people. Most of the footprints had been washed out or run together but the mud held the evidence of the scuffle intact. The cooking tripod remained over the fire with a Dutch oven hanging from the chain, one bedroll remained stretched out on the ground undisturbed, two others were scattered around with one blanket ripped in several places. The smell of rotting flesh hung in the air but they could not find any bodies. Two saddles were in or near the camp, the ropes where the horses were picketed were intact but the horses were gone. They found one rifle and two pistols in the camp and only a few traces of blood, the rain from the previous days had washed away most of the tell-tell signs.
William asked Tom to repeat his actions of that night; show where he exited the river, where each person he saw stood, where the light appeared from, anything about the creature. Tom walked parallel to the river on the bank, trying to find the precise angle from which he saw the camp that night. Eventually he found deep, round imprints in the mud where he climbed out of the water on his knees so he knew where he left the water.
While they were going though this exercise, Oolichan searched the area surrounding the camp for any signs of the creature. He found signs. Calling to the others, Oolichan indicated that the legend was true; he had proof.
Not know for certain which legend he talked of, the three soldiers rushed to him to see at what he was pointing. "Some track, no grizzly," he said. "No grizzly." When questioned as to what kind of track it was, the Indian blankly said, "Sasquatch."
"Couldn't be," said William. "Look, it's all wrong. There's pointed heel marks and pointed toes. It must be a bear track partially washed away. I've known people to be confused between bear and human tracks when there's only one."
"No bear. No human," exclaimed Oolichan, "Oolichan no confuse. Sasquatch come, take man, free horses. Things not taken, just people. Sasquatch protect, Sasquatch lives."
"Is he coming back?" asked Tom.
"Sasquatch?!? You old fool," interrupted Wilson impatiently. "How can you curs believe something like that?"
Tom noticed for the first time how similar the two brothers' facial features and expressions were. "What other explanation do you have, Wilson?" asked William. "I don't hear you explaining this."
Nearly shouting so as to be heard over the brother's argument, Tom asked, "What about Chupacabra?"
"Chupacabra?" repeated Oolichan slowly, emphasizing each syllable. "I not know Chupacabra. I know Sasquatch. Sasquatch been here. Oolichan must leave. Oolichan tell Shoshone people."
As the Indian scout mounted his horse and rode back towards the fort, the three soldiers returned to their discussion of the campsite. Moments later they heard Oolichan frantically shouting from a short distance, not shouts of fear but to get their attention. In response, the three men rode to him, finding one hand and the lower half of a man's body lying under some brush, the top of his trunk torn and lost. The meaty part of the back of the thigh had large bite marks.
"This no Sasquatch," said Oolichan, "Sasquatch not eat people. Sasquatch protect."
"Looks like a bear drug him out here and did that after Sasquatch killed him," said William quizzically.
"No bear, not right," replied Oolichan abruptly.
"A wolf or coyote or puma then," said Wilson.
"No wolf," Oolichan said. "Maybe," he paused and stumbled through the pronunciation trying to mimic how the white man had said it, "Chup-a-cab-ra? I not know, I find...uh...I discover what eat. Oolichan talk to people, tell later." He then turned his horse towards the fort and it jumped into a gallop under the prodding of his heels; the soldiers followed.
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