ACT I: Money for the Missing
The noon sky was bright with cloudless summer heat; the sun burning a scalding fire down on anybody caught beneath its rays. William Dodge didn't care. His brimmed hat kept a permanent shade on his face as he gently bobbed in the saddle of his horse, now riding towards the small town sticking out of the sands ahead. His horse was breathing heavy snorts with each slow trot through the barren desert. The steed would need a troth to drown in sooner or later. Since this town was the nearest he could find before reaching Tombstone, Billy Dodge saw no other choice. He'd later regret ever even reading the name of the town on the wooden sign hanging pathetically on its outskirts.
Hells Furnace. A fitting name for an almost forgotten town in southern Arizona. Nestled along the banks of the San Pedro river, with the Galiuro mountains looming to the east, Hells Furnace was a deathtrap for many. Constantly barraged with heat and scalding winds most of the year, you could probably fry an egg on a bit of tin left out in the sun long enough. Like many towns in this forsaken desert, this one started out as a base of operations for desperate prospectors, gold-diggers that scoured the nearby mountains for the prize of all prizes in the west. A boom town. But like so many of them, it was slowly fading into the winds of Arizona's history.
Dodge wasn't sure of the exact date. Hadn't paid any heed to time since beginning his travels. All he knew was that the year was 1890, early August. That's all he wanted to know. The days passed beyond his concerns, much like the heat and the breeze, shimmering away into the horizon with each coming night. For twenty some odd years he'd done nothing but travel. Drift like a tumbleweed across this vast new world. A world he'd been forced to fight for twenty-nine years ago. From there came the memories of gun smoke and bloodshed, memories Dodge had long tried to wash away. He had recently turned fifty. Like most men his age, he should be sitting on some rocking chair with a cane in hand staring out into the world as his time on it rounded down. Recounting memories. He rode away from those memories, and instead of a chair and cane, Dodge chose a saddle and a Spencer rifle. A thirty year old relic of his time in the war.
Wrong side. He'd chosen the wrong side.
The town of Hells Furnace opened its rotting wooden gates to Dodge as his horse slowly rode into its dust-covered street. It seemed lively for a town that was dying. Numerous folk walked through the street, either hitching their horses or strolling to find shade in the many buildings lining the desert. He didn't look a single one of them in the eye as he rode in, despite the fact that a majority of them all stared long and hard at him. His sharp eyes had managed to withstand the ravages of age that were beginning to wrinkle his face. Behind the crows feet and graying beard stubble and underneath the shade of his hat was a gaze that could tear a mans soul apart. Blue eyes narrowed and empty. The eyes of a man lost in the past.
Dodge rode his horse up to the nearest troth, passing the Inn and the Drinking Hole saloon and all the horse droppings dotting the street. Before he could even dismount his thirsty steed it dunked its muzzle in the cool waters of the troth and drowned its thirst. Dodge dismounted, letting his spurs chink through the silent windy air. He didn't want to be heard, didn't want the eyes on him. But nonetheless, he was too sore and too tired to keep himself quiet. Anytime he wanted to he could easily sneak up on any man without making so much as a whisper. Having his Colts or his rifle drawn and ready before his prey could even know he was there. Came in handy when he was hunting bounty. Something he was debating on doing again now that he had caught sight of all the wanted posters out in front of the Sheriffs station. He'd been through many towns like this. Desolate, dying. Each and every time its citizens would eye him like he were some Chinaman. Towns like this weren't used to strangers. And even then, strangers usually meant trouble. This little spec in the sands would soon prove to be no different. But this time, Dodge's arrival was bringing a trouble the likes of which nobody has ever seen. Dodge opened the door to the Sheriff's station and took a reprieve from the heat outside. The building was small. One desk, two chairs, and a single jail cell made up its cramped innards. It wasn't as cool inside as Dodge had hoped for. In fact he was damn sure it was at least five degrees hotter in here. Only one of the chairs was occupied, and the shimmering brass star pinned to the shirt of its occupant told Dodge everything he needed to know.
"What's your business here in Hells Furnace?"
The Sheriffs voice was rugged and deep. Ravaged by the same age as Dodge. Before Dodge even responded he learned more about the man before him than he really wanted to know. About his age, clearly a former soldier as well. He looked familiar. The Navy blue shell jacket hanging in a glass frame on the far wall told him who he had fought for.
Right side. He'd fought for the right side.
"Bounty." Dodge responded in a low voice. The Sheriff just continued to stare at him with the same kind of narrowed eyes. A gray handlebar mustache hung beneath his large nose, the most dominant feature about him. Dodge studied the ink-etched faces of his possible prey. All of them were given the same dirty look, the same gruff expression of remorseless hate. Robbers, murderers, horse thieves, rapist. The list could go on forever in any other town. But not here, not in Hells Furnace. Here it was different. Dodge could tell these were no criminals. Hell he had figured seeing them all coming in that they were wanted poster. These didn't say wanted. They said missing.
"Afraid we ain't got any bounty, stranger. As you can already see."
Dodge didn't care if they were missing or crooks. He only cared for the numbers. And some of these were surprisingly big. Five hundred, a thousand, hell even one posted for five thousand. That would break the bank for him, considering he was already carrying a hefty load. Didn't know yet what he wanted to do with it all. Most men would find a piece of property and settle down. But that was the last thing Dodge wanted. Looking at the faces on each poster, he slowly started to see that a majority of them were elderly looking, with a few younger lads and even a couple of children. Dodge was curious as to why so many had disappeared in this town. It was a question he posed to the sheriff.
"Why y' got so many folks missing?"
"If you can answer that, then every single one of them prices up there is yours. Hell I'll even throw in a bottle of whiskey."
"What do y' know ‘bout ‘em?" Dodge set aside the new thirst he had acquired from the mention of whiskey, instead trying to get what information he could before setting out.
"Every single one of ‘em are prospectors. And every singe one of ‘em took that trail up into the mountains. Last one to go was ol' Henry. Went off looking for his boy, Clay. He's the one hangin' to the left of Henry there." Dodge studied the faces of both father and son. Both listed as missing.
"I'd figure a lawman such as y' self would be up there lookin' for ‘em. Instead of sittin' down in this oven waiting for the sun to burn away what's left of this town." The Sheriff took the mild insult with a light-hearted face. But he had a better answer than Dodge expected.
"Well son, you ain't the first bounty hunter to come through here. Matter of fact I've lost count. Y' see, every man and child hangin' on that wall there has been missin' for at least six months. I know damn well nobodies ever gonna see ‘em ‘round here again. And every single bounty hunter and good natured fella that's come in here has rode up that same trail to look for ‘em. And not a single one of ‘em has come back to claim the money."
Dodge took the information in, allowing it to settle into his mind. Most men would become discouraged and unsettled at hearing that information. Not him. He just continued to look the faces over. He found it better to memorize the faces of his prey instead of dragging a poster along with him. Anything to help burn away the memories he didn't want. He pondered briefly what could be snatching away so many lives. Mountains don't just swallow people whole. Something, or someone, had to be up there doing this. His best guess was raiders. Dodge had his fair share of encounters with raiders. Desperate men that found it easier to snatch and steal than to work. Each gang he had come across all tried to do the same with him. And each one fell at his hands. Could be raiders, or perhaps a local tribe of Indians protecting their territory. Dodge had only one bad encounter with natives, and it wasn't pretty for either side. The scar on his shoulder from the arrowhead proved his point, but in the end he left more of them dead than they really bargained for. Dodge had killed more men than he could remember. More men than he wanted to remember. In this lawless new world, none of it mattered to anyone. Dodge made for the door, satisfied with what information he could obtain. Before he could leave, he turned back towards the towns sheriff. Didn't even know the mans name. Didn't want to.
"Have the money ready. I'll be drinkin' that bottle of whiskey you promised real soon, old timer."
The Sheriff smirked a little. "I kinda doubt that, ol' Reb."
Dodge himself smirked. Something he hadn't done in awhile. First time he'd met a man he could actually respect since the war. Takes a soldier to know a soldier. Despite the fact they had most likely exchanged gunfire sometime or another. With that smirk, Dodge departed. Before the week was over, more bad memories would be flooding his mind. And these would be even more bizarre and terrifying for both these men than anything the war between the states had produced all those years ago.
ACT II: Predator and Prey
About two hours of sleep was all Dodge could manage to get the night before. He'd pitched a small fire at the base of the first canyon and caught as much shut eye as he could before dawn rolled around. He'd discovered an abandoned wagon, with most of its supplies either gone or eaten away by the winds and scavengers. Most likely the property of one of the missing, since it looked like it had been here for awhile. Still, it looked as if it could work again, if need be. Riding through the night had been for the most part uneventful. With the exception of that cry. Came right as his horse was nearing the base of the mountains. Oddest thing he'd ever heard. Sounded like a bird, but it wasn't any bird he knew of. And whatever made it sounded big, and too far away. He set it aside, and soon drifted off into his short slumber.
The same nightmare had plagued him for thirty years. The sounds of droning cannon fire, the whistling of hornets whizzing by his ears as the enemy took aim at him from the distance. The bugle calls, the clanging of steel against flesh. Lee made the worst mistake of his life when he ordered all of them up that hill. The screaming. Those awful cries, those desperate pleas of wounded men. Men he knew and served alongside. Men laying out in that Pennsylvania field that July day with their guts hanging out of their bellies and their blood staining the ground. Friends . . .
. . . family . . .
It was enough to drive even a hardened man like Dodge out of his sleep. By that time the sun had already started to peak its way out from behind the mountains. Dodge had always kept it together, and as the day wound on his nightmare again faded into memory. The path led through the desert until reaching the foot of the mountains. From there it wound its way into an ancient streambed carved out by water long since dried up.
Dodge now rode slowly down a narrow canyon carved into the mountain, with fifty foot walls of red rock jutting upwards on either side of him. The wind howled gently and eerily through it like a pipe, billowing a sound that would send chills down most men's spines. Dodge had ignored the sound, and instead picked up the tracks of whoever rode down this path last. One of his most efficient skills was tracking. He'd done it for Stewart during the war, and had used the skill to hunt bounty ever since. Whether the tracks be fresh or faint, he could easily weave together the story of whoever left them behind. For awhile the track he now followed was nothing but a single line of horse hooves pushed into the sand, trotting at about the same pace as he was by the stride length. Then it changed.
Dodge came to a spot where there were hoof tracks everywhere, as if the steed had panicked. Then there was an empty spot where the sand had been billowed away, the clear impression of a man's shirt still etched in the dirt. Beside it lay a pickaxe, abandoned. Rider had fallen off apparently, or was thrown off by the look of it. After that the tracks became predictable. Long horse strides and long boot strides as the horse ran off, with its rider running in desperate pursuit. For awhile Dodge finds nothing but the usual. The horses gait remains the same, but the boot tracks have now come closer as the rider apparently gave up hope in retrieving his horse. What made the horse panic?
The tracks further down the canyon start to weave the tale together. The horse hooves have now all but disappeared. And the boot trail has changed. The rider had stopped for a brief moment, caused a stir in the sand somehow, and then took of running again. His strides were longer than ever now, running in the same direction. He was fleeing from someone, possibly the raiders or natives Dodge had thought of. But there existed no other tracks. No other horse hooves in pursuit of the rider. Then Dodge comes to a puzzling sight.
Right as the canyon opens wide, the boot prints come to an abrupt and violent halt. Dodge can't explain it at first. He gets a good idea later of the riders current condition, finding large drops of coagulated blood strewn across the trail. The boot prints however were gone. They just disappear, replaced by long drag marks through the sand. Only conclusion Dodge can come up with was that the rider was being dragged for a distance of about twenty feet. Then nothing. The tracks simply vanish, as if he'd been plucked right off the ground. A pursuing rider on a horse could've snagged him, but they would have left tracks as well. Here there's nothing. Nothing to indicate what may have happened to the fallen rider.
Dodge had tracked every kind of animal known of in this country, and men were the easiest to trail. He could tell you whether something was male or female just by the stride it left imprinted with its tracks. But this trail was the first to actually leave him cold, the first to actually force him to ponder the possibilities. The only logical possibility was the simplest, and the hardest to swallow. By all indications, something had snatched the fleeing man right off the ground and carried him away. This in turn led Dodge to do what any other man would do upon learning this. He looked up.
Just when Dodge thought he had seen it all in his long lifetime, he was left with a sight that would haunt him til the end of his days. The canyon opened wide into a large open pit area, revealing a mountain peak jutting into the sky just beyond the cavernous path ahead. An overhang of rock jutted over the canyon at least seventy feet above the ground. Scattered all throughout the pit were skeletal remains. A jumbled pile of both horse and human, stripped down to the bare bone with the remaining flesh mummified and dried by the heat. The pile of skeletal remains beneath the overhang should've been enough to run chills down anybodies spine. But it was the monstrous creature, sitting perched in a hunch on the overhang, that gave Dodge the willies.
His first impression of the creature was condor. But this thing was massive, bigger than any bird he'd ever seen. Hell it was clearly bigger than his own horse, could probably even pluck his horse right off the ground. The sight of this giant bird reminded Dodge of all those camp canards he'd heard during the war. About soldiers shooting giant birds out of the sky. He always saw them as nothing but tall tales, odd little stories to pass the time.
Not anymore.
This thing was solid black, with a white tuft of feathers running down its chest. The bird was silhouetted against the late morning sun, and no truly clear details could be made out of the bird. Its gaze was currently preoccupied with the area above the canyon, the indications of a long sharp beak made evident in its profile. Dodge was as quiet as a summer breeze, not moving an inch. He had always managed to keep his cool in the presence of danger. Same could not be said unfortunately for his horse.
The steed started bucking, snorting and neighing heavily as the birds scent entered the horses nostrils.
Dodge soon found himself struggling to stay in the saddle of his panicky steed. The story of the tracks he'd followed here came together in a flash, and it had become clear now what had happened to all the prospectors from Hells Furnace. But Dodge wasn't planning on sticking around to learn anymore from the remains ahead. Before he could turn his nervous horse around and flee, the massive birds gaze snapped toward him. It now had him in its sights. The massive condor unfurled its black feathered wings, and with that single movement covered the entire canyon in a long shadow. Dodge didn't need a measuring post to tell it had a wingspan of at least thirty feet. He drove his spurs into the side of his horse, and with that he did something he hadn't done in years. He turned his horse back around and fled.
Dodge let his horse do the work. The steed knew where it was going, and he no longer needed to dig his spurs into its side to keep it at top speeds. Only incentive it needed was the massive bird that now pursued him. Dodge held his hat tight to his head as he peered back at the bird. It let forth a vicious call, a sharp shriek that dug through his ears and echoed through the canyon like the winds of hell. He soon recognized it from last night. But that wasn't on his mind now. For the giant bird was catching up, gliding with its massive wings ever closer to snatching him and his horse off the ground like it had done to so many others. Dodge wasn't gonna have any of it. He had survived war and the wilds of the savage western frontier. He wasn't gonna meet his end at the claws of a damn bird!
There came a savage gust of wind at his back, like a twister had suddenly dropped into the canyon. Accompanied with a long grumble echoing through the rocks. Dodge looked back just in time to see the massive bird recede, taking a swift flap of its massive feathered wings to obtain altitude. The canyon had narrowed down again, too narrow for the hulking condor to fly through. Dodge could find only one word to describe the sound its wings made in that single flap. Thunderous.
Pulling his Spencer rifle from the saddle holster, Dodge was suddenly reminded of a name he'd heard long ago. From an old Indian scout he'd rode with for a few years named Sharp Like Bear Claws. He'd always just called him Bear, since the name was too long for Dodge to keep saying all the time. The old coot didn't seem to mind anyways. The old Indian would always go on about these massive birds who carried the rains and storms on their wings. Thunderbirds he called them. Like most folk, Dodge considered it just another myth. Much like the camp canards. Most Indian gods and such were based on the animals they knew.
Myth or no myth, Dodge wasn't about to let it snatch him up like it had done so many others.
The canyon opened up ahead, pouring sunlight into the mountain pathway as the canyon ended. Dodge however didn't see escape. He saw exposure. The thunderbird was forced to pursue him above the narrow canyon, where its large mass was unable to fly. Still, its massive shadow never disappeared, never drifted away from being directly on top of him. Every so often the same whooshing grumble of its wings would echo through the canyon from above, drowning out for a brief period of time the constant thundering of his horses hooves galloping through the sand. He exited the canyon.
Dodge stormed past the abandoned wagon, gazing back with his rifle in hand as the thunderbird swooped in. It let forth another shrill cry from its hooked, two-foot beak. Ready to snatch him and his horse up in its massive, razor sharp talons. The thunderbird's shadow now completely covered him. Dodge put his Spencer to good use. He'd been a rider in Stewart's dragoon during the war, and knew good and well that Spencer rifles were made specifically to be fired from horseback. He cocked it, turned back left, took as steady an aim as he could with the horses gallops, and watched the gigantic predator get as close as it was ever going to get. Its head was covered in thin feathers, with a crown of larger white ones traveling from the beak down its back. Dodge stared briefly into its massive yellow eyes, its large black pupils that could see for miles, now just a few feet away. He fired.
The first bullet tore through the thunderbirds neck, thumping a hole the size of a nickel in its jugular. It squawked with a shrill pain as it receded, leaving Dodge open for another shot. He fired again, this time hitting it square in the chest. Dodge faced back around and drove his spurs hard into the horses side, sending the steed faster than it had ever gone before. Had he not done this, he'd be dead now. For as that thunderbird gave its final call, it came crashing down to the ground just five feet behind Dodge. Thudding heavily, its body sent a billowing cloud of sand into the air. It flipped tail first once, tumbling dead and broken across the ground before skidding to a halt some hundred feet from the canyon path. Its left wing, unfurled on the ground, twitched twice. Then it lay still forever, its heart torn by a bullet and its neck snapped by the fall. The thunderbird was dead.
Dodge skid his horse to a halt, peering back at the fallen giant with relieved old eyes. Riding casually up to the corpse, he no longer saw a legend. He no longer saw an Indian myth lain out across the sand. He saw his bounty. His older brother would be proud of him today if he had seen this. If he had survived that day in Gettysburg. Old memories drove away the prospect and buried glee of bagging the biggest bird in the west, as Dodge rode back to retrieve the abandoned wagon.
ACT III: Town Trophy
Sheriff Franklin Blusmith stepped out into the heat of the late morning. Hells Furnace was alive with the dwindling number of residents, all of them moving about their usual daily routines. Another boring day in a dying boom town. Blusmith remembered when he first arrived in this fiery hell hole. Remembered when you could literally go up into those mountains with two empty buckets and come back having both of them filled with gold nuggets in less than a day. Those days had long since dissipated into history, like so much of his life. He kept thinking back to that afternoon two days ago, when that drifter came calling in from the heat of the desert. Blusmith knew almost immediately when he caught the old stranger eyeing his old Union shell jacket with drained, shallow eyes that this man was a Reb. A former Confederate soldier now seeking a life away from the politics and government that had torn this country apart so many years ago. He held no hard feeling for the old Reb. Hell he almost pitied the man. So many like him had faced ridicule and defeat early on in life, resorting to simply running away from it all and riding the wind. Letting it take them wherever it blew. Blusmith knew this, for he had done the same thing. He'd lost his father to that war, along with his two brothers. His pops went into the ground from a bullet and his brothers disappeared among the south. Fighting for their home state of Alabama, despite his fathers pleas. Blusmith never saw any of them again, figuring them both to be dead. After the war he came out here. Found his riches like so many other men and built himself a home of his own. Away from the devastation of the east. Now a widower, he sought to keep what peace he could in this dying town.
Then the disappearances started. Blusmith heard all sorts of stories from old prospectors who had come back from that mountain. Tales of ghost and mystery shadows, things that no sane man has ever seen. One man even claimed to have seen a bird bigger than a horse. Blusmith always figured it to be the heat putting images into their heads. Then they started to disappear. Old men would go into the mountains in last desperate attempts to find what gold was left up there. Never to be seen again. A couple of children went up there as well, wandering off to play. They too never came back. Their parents went in search, with the same results. Soon anybody that went into those canyons disappeared without a trace, and anyone that went to look for them never came back. The last citizen of Hells Furnace to disappear out there was a man named Henry Barnsworth, back in the cold days of February. Since then, numerous bounty hunters and drifters have come into his office inquiring about the missing people. All of them looking for a quick buck. And each one of them allowed their curiosity to add them to the list of missing. Blusmith didn't know what exactly was going on up in those mountains, but he forbid anybody else in town from going up that path ever again. They all gladly obliged. He had no power over the strangers that came into town, so if they wanted to go, he wasn't going to stop them. He regretted only one. The last one. That old rebel with a sad empty gaze. Blusmith knew he would never see the man again, despite the gut feeling he had that he might.
Blusmith watched his two deputies, Walter Pucket and Bobby Angleson, head casually towards the Drinking Hole, the towns saloon. Either to grab themselves a midday swig or to settle any disputes that might be going on. More often than not, "Trigger-Finger" Tanner would be making some kind of ruckus at the bar. Either getting too drunk or too close with the hired help. The ladies of this town weren't lookers, but they weren't hookers either. Trigger-Finger however didn't give a hoot. Many saw him as nothing but a crazy old coot. He'd told all sorts of crazy stories from his prospecting day, even one about his sighting of giant birds. More often than not he spent his nights behind the iron bars of the only cell this town had. Sleeping off all the drinks. Trigger-Finger didn't travel alone. His two brothers Hank and Harvey were always by his side, both of them just as clumsy and trigger happy as their older comrade.
Sheriff Blusmith sat himself down in the shade outside the station and watched his boys disappear into the saloon. Five minutes passed, with only the hot wind causing a stir in town. He just about dozed off underneath the brim of his hat, when he was jolted awake by the thudding down the street. A portly fellow came stumbling out of the Drinking Hole, collapsing clumsily into a rather large steaming pile of horse droppings. It was a fitting spot for ol' Trigger-Finger. Deputies Pucket and Angleson came out right after him, both of them trying their best to keep the riled up old coot from retaliating. Luckily they'd relieved him of his arms before he had a chance to use them. They didn't call the man Trigger-Finger for nothing. Old man could draw faster than anybody else in town, and wasn't afraid to do so most times. Only man that could draw faster than him currently wore the biggest brass star in town on his shirt. Blusmith damn near killed Trigger-Finger a few years back in one such altercation, the results being a bullet imbedded in the drunken old man's leg. Surgeon did his job, and before long he was back to his old tiresome habits. He was the only bit of fun this dying town had left.
It all changed just like that.
Sheriff Blusmith didn't see him until after his deputies had. Only words he heard from their mouths as they stared out into the heat of the outskirts of town we're "Good God Almighty!" and "Sweet Jesus!" After that, the distinct rumbling of a wagon filled his ears. Blusmith got out of his seat and slowly approached his deputies. Just as Trigger-Finger pulled himself out of his crappy bed, Blusmith caught sight of the rider. It was a sight he had never thought he would see again. The old Reb, the drifter that had come in not two days ago, had returned from that mountain. The first to do so in at least a year. But it wasn't his presence that everybody was soon basking at. It was his cargo. Even Blusmith was shocked by the sight before him.
What at first appeared to be a large hairy lump in the back of the wagon soon took on form. It wasn't hair, it was feathers. And the size of the two wings hanging limply over the sides and dragging in the sand told Blusmith and everybody else that what lay dead in the back of that wagon was a bird. The biggest damn bird any of them had ever seen. Everybody clamored in curiosity around the wagon, some staring dumbfounded and in awe at the body lain out before them. A couple even touched it, just to make sure they weren't dreaming or under a spell from the heat.
Billy Dodge found himself at the mercy of the curious crowd, as dozens of them bombarded him with question after question. Even a man with a camera, mounted on a tripod now thrown over his shoulders, was among the mob of townspeople. Like before, Dodge ignored every single one of them. Holding his Spencer rifle over his shoulder, he cut a path through the crowd and slowly approached the awe-stricken Sheriff. The old Union soldier he'd last spoken to before heading off into that canyon.
"I think I figured out what's been claimin' all them prospectors." Dodge's words hit the Sheriff like a blast of wind.
"You "think" you figured out? Son that's the biggest understatement I've ever heard." Was the Sheriffs only reply. Dodge smirked.
"Logical assumption. Thing didn't hesitate to come after me either. And from what I saw up there its had quite a picnic. Lets skip the small talk though, Sheriff." Dodge coughed a bit from the dust. He wasn't used to conversation. "Got the reward ready?"
"Hell son, you already got your reward." Blusmith replied, pointing towards the massive bird now strewn out across the wagon. "Y'know how much something like that'll sell for?" Dodge grew agitated. Clearly the Sheriff had not gathered the money. He even doubted there was enough money left in this town for any reward. And he didn't wanna haul this bird all the way to Tombstone.
"Yeah." He replied. "One million dollars, if I have my way. And believe me, Yank. I always have my way."
Blusmith could sense the slight hostility in the old Rebels voice, and especially in his eyes. He still didn't understand why the drifter was so arrogant, so hostile. Could be the simple fact that they were enemies at some point in time. But he didn't seem to hold too much of a grudge in the brief words they had exchanged. Still, he seemed agitated. Probably due to the fact that he had been attacked by this thing, in all logical reasoning, before shooting it out of the sky.
"Well I ain't sure about a million, but the ten thousand for the missing should suffice. And I did promise you a bottle of whiskey. Before we get to talkin' business, lets have a look at this thing."
As the two old soldiers strolled up to the wagon, now surrounded on all sides by the curious townsfolk of Hells Furnace, Blusmith got a real good picture of just how big this thing was. It looked sort of like a condor, only it had to be at least ten times as big. Covered in solid black feathers, a distinguishable row of white feathers flowed like a crown down the top of its head and ending in a point near the base of its tail feathers. He couldn't see the patch of white on its belly.
"How the hell does something this big even get off the ground?" Blusmith queried. "How'd you even get it up into this wagon?"
Dodge didn't reply. He simply pushed through the crowd and jumped up into the wagon alongside the thunderbird. Looking as limber as a middle-aged man. With a simple and strained lift of his boot, he succeeded in bringing the entire torso up off the wooden back of the wagon.
"Thing's a lot lighter than it looks. I'd say ninety pounds, max."
Dodge let its limp and broken form fall back to the wagon, placing his boot on its torso briefly as if he were Daniel Boone.
"Hold that position there good sir!"
A cry from the back of the crowd came forth, and before Dodge could even realize what was happening, a fiery flash bulb went off. The cameraman had taken the first picture of the scene. Dodge only pondered why he'd used the flash bulb with the scorching sun burning so brightly out. It would be the first of only two pictures that were taken that day.
The massive thunderbird was soon carted down to the livery, where with the help of a couple of pulleys, some ladders and a little man-power, the massive carcass was hauled up and nailed to the outer wall. Its massive wings were unfurled and its head had to be tied off to the planks behind it to prevent it from swaying on its broken neck. The fallen bird of prey now loomed over the town like a trophy. Like Beowulf had done with the massive hand of Grendel after slicing it from the monsters form.
Despite the pleas of the cameraman, Dodge stayed out of the last picture. He didn't care much for having his image shown around in newspapers and the lot. Might stir up a few enemies from his past. Relatives of the men he'd killed over the years who might wanna taste for revenge. The idea didn't frighten Dodge, he just didn't want to waste any of his much prized energy on the hate-driven few. At his age he didn't need the stress. If he were gonna expend it these days, he expected to get paid for it. As greedy as it sounded, it was better than wearing himself out in a gunfight and get nothing out of it but a sore back, powder-burnt hands, and what he could scavenge from the bodies.
Sheriff Blusmith, his two deputies, and three other men all lined up in front of the bird with their arms outstretched, just to give the truly massive creature some scale. The picture was taken, and to many, it marked a turning point in the history of Hells Furnace. Some saw a bright future ahead for the town. Since the gold had dried up, this massive creature would draw plenty of business to this desperate and dying community. In the end however, the corpse would be the towns downfall.
For what followed the next stormy day was nothing short of a massacre.
ACT IV: Soldier to Soldier
"That things gonna stink to high heaven if it gets too wet!" Sheriff Blusmith hollered.
"Ain't much we can do about it, unless we tear it down from there and haul it inside the livery."
Deputy Pucket stood squinting against the downpour up at the thunderbird corpse. Figures the one day it rains out in this forsaken spec of desert is the day they haul in the biggest prize in Arizona history. A perishable prize too. After all, who the hell would wanna pay to see a giant bird that stinks of moisture and rot.
"That taxidermist fella comin' in tomorrow?" Blusmith questioned. To which Deputy Pucket snickered.
"Are you kidding? Ain't no man alive can stuff something that big. I say let it rot and we can keep the bones." Blusmith saw no other option.
"I'll have that fella with the camera take a few more pictures once the storm passes. Hate to leave you and Bobby out in this rain, but I need some guards on the thing til the day closes out."
Pucket smirked. "I don't mind a little rain, Frank. Better than the heat."
"Besides, Angleson stated, you're leaving us in good company." He held out the bottle of whiskey Blusmith had given them. It was one of two bottles he'd bought that day. He figured it would hold them both over for the remainder of their guard shift.
"I'll be down at the Drinking Hole if ya need me. Try not to empty that bottle before the hours up." Their laughter echoed out behind him as Sheriff Blusmith trudged slowly through the rain soaked streets of town.
A day had passed since Dodge had rode into Hells Furnace with the thunderbird carcass. On into the night yesterday every citizen in town came to gaze upon the carcass. Before he was thrown in jail for being recklessly drunk, Trigger-Finger Tanner stammered about in front of the bird with jumbled curses and drunken words of caution. The whole time having his back covered in horse manure.
"This things got . . . it's got friends! It's got . . . a whole slew of buddies up in. . .up in them mountains! I's seen them. They's a gonna . . . they's a gonna tear this town apart! Gonna . . . snatch you all up like jackrabbits!"
As Deputies Pucket and Angleson hauled his stumbling self down to the jail, Tanner mumbled off his last drunken words before passing out from the heat and alcohol.
"I ain't no jackrabbit. Ain't no . . . bird gonna snatch me! I ain't no . . . ain't no jackrabbit!"
After the small fiasco, Tanner's brothers Hank and Harvey managed to keep their cool. All the while trying to shake off the glares from Sheriff Blusmith. As the day progressed on into night, the whole town got a look at the massive trophy. A few broke down, sobbing at the sight of what they now knew had consumed all those that went missing. Those who had lost loved ones now couldn't help but hate the dead creature. One man even drew his six-shooter and emptied the cylinder into the birds belly before being wrestled to the ground. They didn't throw him in jail however, since they all felt he had good cause for his aggression. Besides, Trigger-Finger Tanner was still sleeping off all the drinks he had in the towns only jail cell. It would seem cruel to them to throw the man in with him since he still stank of horse scat. More than a few average vultures had circled the livery most of yesterday, drawn by the scent of decay that was starting to swell off the carcass. But today there was no sign of them. The next day came, and the skies darkened. Now at noon, the usually hot summer day was gray with storm clouds. Lightning periodically etched itself across the sky, while thunder rumbled down from the heavens in response. People either receded to the dry comforts of their homes or gathered inside the Drinking Hole to down a few glasses of the friendly creature. Nothing like a good glass of whiskey on a rainy day. Dodge sat near the end of the long bar, as far from the noisy, annoying piano as he could. He couldn't stand the songs they kept playing on that thing. The lanterns of the saloons two chandeliers had been lit early, with the darkening midday skies of the storm outside. Dodge kept his hat on, pulling the brim down over his eyes to keep the light out of them. He tried his best to ward off all the curious townsfolk who kept approaching him, asking him the same questions about "how did he kill it?" and "how many shots did it take?" Made him almost regret ever seeing it. He downed one shot of bourbon after another, keeping the same stern gaze etched across his face. He could hold his liquor better than most men. But unlike most men, he knew when to quit. The bottle of whiskey the Sheriff had bought him was gone in no time. It was the only reward he had gotten so far. He told the Sheriff if he didn't see some money before the day was out that "he would have trouble on his hands." The Sheriff took the mild threat with confidence, "reassuring" Dodge that he would see the reward money for bagging the beast.
Dodge didn't mean to come off like a pain. He just hated doing a job and not seeing anything for it. Every man did. This town was anything but a cozy spot for a drifter like him as well, and all he wanted to do was leave as soon as possible. He tried his best to ignore most of the people in this dying little town. He only listened in when he received simple thanks. Men and women were buying him drinks one after another. Their reward so to speak for bringing justice to the loved ones they had lost to that mountain and the thunderbird he had hauled out of it. He respected these men and women. The ones that held it together now despite having lost someone close to them. He knew what it was like to lose loved ones, family.
The memory of watching his older brother stumbling through the gun smoke in Pickett's Charge before disappearing altogether in a billow of dirt and blood from an artillery shell wrenched Dodge's heart. Finding what was left of him afterwards amidst the gunfire and droning artillery was even worse. It was one of the things that made him the rogue he was today. For most men would never have the unfortunate option of seeing their brother laying mutilated and in pieces. Never understand what it does to you on the inside. Dodge rode back to Virginia with Lee that next day a changed man. He abandoned his true name, taking on instead the hollow sound of his middle name, Dodge. He changed everything. And in all those thirty some odd years since then, he'd stayed the same.
The bartender, a portly woman with a stand-out wart on her chin, was the only one that hadn't pestered him with questions. She just kept pouring the drinks when he asked for one. Now however, that tingling sensation in the back of his throat and that first wave of light-headed drifts stopped him from ordering anymore rounds. He didn't need to be getting drunk in this town, despite the urge to drown out the noise of that damn piano! Instead he rolled himself a quick cigarette.
Dodge's sharp eyes caught the swaying doors of the saloon open, as the soaked Sheriff strolled in from out of the storm. He hung his long coat up on one of the hooks lining the wall, where the rain pattered off it onto the wooden floor. He soon caught sight of Dodge sitting at the end of the bar, and slowly made his way towards him. Dodge watched him out of the corner of his eye, watched the old man remove his hat and bat what rain he could off of it. He was bald underneath it, something Dodge had the unfortunate "good graces" of experiencing as well. He hated getting old.
"Evening, Sheriff. Can I get y' anything?" The bartender asked.
"Just a shot, Aggie." Blusmith took a seat beside Dodge, leaving one stool between him and the Rebel drifter. Dodge took it lightly, with a slight smirk.
"You afraid I might bite or something?"
Blusmith laughed a bit. "Nah. You seem the kinda guy that likes his space." Dodge nodded, striking a match and lighting the cigarette he had rolled. He took a deep draw from it before exhaling a draft of smoke over the bar. Aggie placed a shot of bourbon in front of the Sheriff. Blusmith looked the drifter over before picking up his drink. Something about this stranger seemed more familiar to him than it should have. Like he'd seen him before. Perhaps on the battlefield.
"Can I ask you a question, just between us. Soldier to soldier. . . ."
Dodge heard the word soldier and immediately interrupted the sheriff. Skipping any small talk and quite possibly a question that might irritate him. He hated talking about the war, in every way, shape, and form. Made him angry just to hear about it. Dodge didn't care about this old Yanks questions, this town, or anything else in this desert for that matter. He just wanted to get his pay and leave this rotting spec in the sand.
"Got the money ready?"
Blusmith hesitated, noticing how the drifter never once looked at him. He gulped down the shot of bourbon with a slight wince, setting the glass down on the bar. If the Reb didn't wanna chat, that was fine. "Harold down at the Bank is getting it ready now. Should be all counted up and bagged for ya before the days out." Dodge nodded, holding in a draw of smoke before letting it out with a grunt. "What about the bird?" Blusmith hesitated. "What about it?"
"Well, I killed it. Seems in some right it belongs to me as well."
Blusmith sensed it again. Hostility. The drifter's tone was calm, but beneath it all he could hear the agitation. As if he expected a fight. Blusmith figured the drifter might not want to part with the massive bird he had hauled in. After all, it was a one of a kind kill. But the mans demeanor yesterday and his hesitation to even go near the thing told a different story. This man didn't wanna haul that carcass around. He wasn't the type. What did he want, the head? Or was he simply doing what Blusmith thought he was doing. Trying to start trouble. Either way, Blusmith saw he was right. If the drifter wanted to haul the carcass out with him he wasn't going to stop him.
"Well. I suppose if you wanna take it, you can take it."
Dodge merely nodded. He took one last draw from the cigarette, reducing more than half of it to ash. Then he got up from his stool. Blusmith suddenly realized something, looking into this old man's sun-wrinkled face as he prepared to leave.
"I didn't catch you name, stranger."
Dodge let the last bit of smoke flow out of his mouth. Then he crushed what remained of his cigarette into the bar.
"No, you didn't."
ACT V: A Storm on Their Wings
Outside in the rain, standing beneath the hulking carcass of the thunderbird, Deputies Pucket and Angleson took turns swigging a bit of whiskey from their bottle. Each of them had a winchester draped over their arm, letting the rain patter over their barrels as they waited the storm out. Every so often thunder would echo its way over their heads, grumbling off into the distance as the rain continued to come down. At times it rained off and on, stopping then starting again. It was odd though, like patches of the downpour were just missing altogether for a brief period of time before starting again. Not like the usual pattern of all the rain stopping and starting again. Both of them however ignored it. They let their wide-brimmed hats keep the rain out of their faces, and both of them kept their gazes focused on the ground. Because of this, none of them looked skywards into the gray midday clouds.
If they had, they may have seen them sooner.
Instead their attention was soon drawn to the innards of the livery they both stood guarding. A terrible racket was kicking up inside. Multiple horses had started to neigh and whinny. Then things started thumping the wooden walls inside. They were bucking as well, kicking at the doors of their stalls. Both Pucket and Angleson could tell right off the bat that the entire livery was spooked. They soon found out what it was the horses had caught wind of. For a new kind of thunder was rumbling through the sky overhead. And this thunder was different. Not the long grumbling sound of the storm. More like a series of long thumping sounds etching their way out of the sky. It drove both men to gaze skywards. By then, the first of the flock had already swooped into the streets ahead.
What the men saw drove true fear into their hearts. One of the many horses that had been hitched outside the Drinking Hole had yanked itself free, and was taking off down the road. But before it could even reach the outskirts of town, a massive talon with a three foot gape dug its claws into the horses flesh. Pucket and Angleson both watched as a massive thunderbird, just as big as the dead one they now stood in front of, snagged the fleeing horse in one fell swoop. With a single flap, it gained altitude, sending a shockwave of rain water and thumping wind right over the rooftops of town. Every single building shuddered with its passing. Pucket let the nearly empty bottle of whiskey fall from his grip. Their gazes followed the massive creature, listening to the horse in its grip give horrible death cries as it soared back into the sky overhead. Both men aimed their winchester's at the beast as it took to the air. But what they saw next petrified them.
The entire sky above them was filled with numerous thunderbirds. All of them circling the rotting carcass of their fallen brethren, and the town. Their very passing blanketed whole patches of the town from the rain, which explained the unusual spots in the downpour that were bare. Their masses acted unwillingly as large umbrellas over the town, practically carrying the storm above them on their wings in a way. The biggest of them had by the looks a thirty foot wingspan, the others being around or smaller in size. Either way, they were all massive. All drawn to the town by the stink of their comrade. They traveled extensively only when the skies darkened, either with the night or with a storm. Mainly because their massive dark silhouettes were harder to spot against the backdrop of dark clouds or a starry sky. Mostly they were scavengers, sticking to the canyons and mountain ranges while taking what they could in this barren desert. Where many an animal would die of dehydration in the sun. Now however, the swelling scent of decay from one of their own had drawn all of them from their mountain roost into a feast. A town full of prey.
Dodge hadn't made it to the swinging doors of the saloon before he heard the neighing. He watched a horse outside snap its reins loose from the hitching post and take off out of sight. He listened closely to the splashing sounds of its galloping gait. There came an awful whinny from down the street, and all at once the sound of the horses galloping stopped. Then Dodge heard an all-too-familiar sound that filled him with dread.
Thunder.
Not the thunder of the storm, but the same thunder he'd heard the day before yesterday. All at once, a wave of air shuddered the walls of the saloon. So much so that it got the attention of every single one of its patrons. The chandeliers bobbed and swayed gently over the tables and townspeople. The patter of the rain outside stopped in that brief silence, then started up again just as quickly. Every single horse hitched outside was bucking in panic.
"What in Gods name was that?"
Blusmith's question was answered by the blasting shots of winchester's outside. Followed by the most god-awful sound he'd ever heard. A shrill high pitched cry, so loud it tore through the air outside like a steam whistle. He knew right off the bat however as soon as he watched the drifter rush out the doors with his Spencer rifle in hand, that the sound had come from a bird. It filled him with true terror when another one of these cries filled the stormy air outside, followed by more. Every single one of them was coming from a different creature.
Dodge rushed out into the rain, his keen eyes sighting first the two men rushing head long towards the bar. It was the deputies. One of them didn't look back, splashing water with each long stride he took. He had abandoned his rifle in the mud. The other deputy however took a stand. He turned around, aiming his rifle skywards. Dodge watched the deputy get off one shot before the bulk of another massive bird came down on him. He disappeared briefly beneath its weight, before the sounds of his screaming filled the air. The bird had landed right on top of him talons first, standing like a giant in the muddy streets of the town with its wings slightly unfurled. Dodge had to endure the grisly sight of watching the man get ripped to shreds by it beak. Much like a hawk would do with a mouse, the thunderbird took swift and savage pecks at its prey. Prying flesh loose with each pull. After three drives of its hooked beak, the deputies cries came to an abrupt halt. As the surviving deputy collapsed in shock and exhaustion at the foot of the door, Dodge glimpsed the first bit of tattered flesh hanging from the thunderbirds beak disappear down its gullet. It was the last meal the bird would ever have.
Dodge took quick aim with his Spencer rifle, and through the rain outside he buried a single round in the thunderbirds skull. The shot rang through around the same time that a shrill cry from above echoed out of the sky. As the thunderbird in the street collapsed with death, Dodge took a step out from beneath the awning of the saloon. He shuddered upon seeing what filled the skies above Hells Furnace. He counted at least twenty of them, all circling the town with their keen eyes surveying the streets below. Behind him, Sheriff Blusmith burst through the doors of the saloon with his own winchester in hand. His sight soon found deputy Pucket laying against the wall outside, breathing heavily with winded shock. Blusmith kneeled down beside him, seeing the bewildered and wild look of terror spread across Pucket's face.
"Walt, what the hell happened? Where's Bobby?"
Pucket didn't answer. He just continued to stare out into the streets, past the panicking horses hitched out front. The shock of it all had left the man speechless.
"That other deputy of yours just got torn to bits by that!"
Dodge pointed the muzzle of his Spencer out down the street, where Blusmith soon saw the motionless bulk of another thunderbird sprawled out in the mud. His first thought was that it was the same one they had nailed to the livery. But he knew better based on the cries he was hearing now from above that it wasn't. Before the thought of Angleson perishing to one of these things could fill him with sorrow and thoughts of revenge, Sheriff Blusmith was greeted to a sight he would never forget as he peered skywards. His heart leapt into his throat at the sight of numerous thunderbirds circling in the skies above.
"You've got yourself one hell of a heap of trouble to deal with tonight, Sheriff."
Dodge's words didn't ease any fears thumping in Blusmith's heart. Just as a majority of the saloon patrons flooded towards the door to see what was happening, there came a great thump from the roof above. It was so loud and heavy that dust fluttered down from the rafters. The chandeliers swayed greatly, snuffing a few of the lantern flames flickering from them. There came the noise of scarring wood from the rooftop, followed by more thumps. Then a long groan of bending wood. Before anybody could deduce the sound in its entirety, before anybody could reach the doors in time, all hell broke loose. An entire section of the roof collapsed, as splintered wood and drops of rain came tumbling down into the saloons entrance. Followed by the cause of the hole. The massive bulk of a wet thunderbird. Several people were buried instantly beneath the fallen debris and the giant bird as it collapsed with a squawk into the Drinking Hole. Having landed on the roof of one of the biggest buildings in town, it didn't expect its weight to collapse a section of it. Upon seeing the massive creature, people went crazy.
Dodge and Blusmith turned just in time to be dozed over by the mob of frightened bar patrons rushing out of the saloon. Dodge skid into the rain just at the foot of the hitch, while Blusmith managed to stumble back against the wall beside the bewildered Pucket. Dodge ignored the crowd, recovering from the mud with his Spencer in hand as he set his attention fully on the massive thunderbird inside the saloon. The massive raptor caught sight of him as it furled its wings against its body and recovered from the fall. A shrill warning cry escaped its beak as it clawed slowly towards the door. Dodge however had no intentions of getting too friendly with this thing. He immediately took aim at the bird with his Spencer from outside the doors and fired.
Blusmith watched the streets fill with terror-stricken people, and he knew right away that their screams and exposure to the storm outside would be disastrous.
"Get out of the streets! GET THE HELL OUTTA THE STREETS!"
One man had unhitched his horse and thrown himself into the saddle as it started to take off. Before it could get far another massive bulk came swooping out of the storm above. Soaring in at fast speeds, another massive bird plucked the man and his horse right out of the street. His cries faded into the rain as the thunderbird soared away. Its very passing sent a wave of air and rain droplets through the street that was so strong, it knocked every single person off their feet. They were now helpless to the flock of predators soaring above them. Blusmith saw that his entire town was in deep mortal danger.
Dodge's first shot at the thunderbird standing in the saloon hit it in the area to the right of its chest. The sound of the gunshot and the impact of the bullet sent the massive raptor into a panic. Screeching with loud irritating calls, it flapped its massive wings with reckless abandon. This alone was enough to send tables flying and wood breaking. The thunderbird hopped around limply within the cramped innards of the saloon, wrecking everything that got in its path. Dodge quickly reloaded his Spencer, watching with keen eyes as his prey tried desperately to escape. Thumping clumsily into the back wall with cries of pain and irritation. One of the chandeliers was knocked loose, and it's round wooden frame came crashing down at the foot of the trapped thunderbird. All at once the oil lanterns within it shattered, and a small fireball shot up off the floor.
Dodge hesitated in shooting the beast again, watching now as it let forth multiple cries of agony as its flesh sizzled and burned. Despite being soaked by the storm outside, the thunderbird had caught fire, hopping, flapping and screeching madly in pain. Every flap of its wings sent a shockwave of air over Dodge as he stood outside the doorway. Each flap did nothing but to feed the flames dancing off its form. Before long the fire built beyond control. Feathers crackled and withered away, while its dance of death ignited the walls around it. The whole saloon went up in flames, despite the large amounts of rain that fell in through the gaping hole in the rafters. Dodge didn't bother wasting another bullet on the doomed bird. He instead turned back toward the terror-filled streets of town, while the last cries of the thunderbird behind him faded into the fires of the burning saloon. He took in a long deep breath of the smoky air flooding out of the saloon doorway. Smelled like chicken.
ACT VI: Feathered Gods
There was nothing godly about these birds to Dodge, despite their status as deities to the Indians he had traveled with in the east. The simple fact that he had already killed three of them displayed their mortality, and status as mere animals and not gods. Dodge knew these creatures were simply doing what instinct told them to. To these massive bird, we were nothing but mice. Dodge was frightened of these things. His only worry was the simple fact that he wasn't carrying enough ammunition on him to shoot every single one of them out of the sky. All he had left as far as ammunition for his Spencer rifle was what he carried in his gator-skinned haversack. Which wasn't much. It would take at the very least two rounds each to bring one of these things down, unless he could get a clear shot off at the head like he had done with the one down the street.
Blusmith finally managed to snap Pucket out of his state of shock. The man broke down into sobs for a brief moment before the heat of the burning saloon got both of their attention. The people in the streets all ran for some cover to the nearest buildings. Before they could disperse however, another thunderbird swooped in. With a savage cry from its beak, it snagged a portly woman in its talons. It was Aggie, the bartender. Gone in a matter of seconds. The wake of the thunderbird's passing again knocked most of the people off their feet. It even made Dodge stagger.
Then they started landing.
A smaller thunderbird, still a good twenty-five feet or so wingtip to wingtip, flapped down into the streets down the road. Another one landed on the roof of the livery in the distance, studying with a curios look in its eyes the carcass of its comrade nailed to the wall. Another came crashing down in front of the livery door, its head disappearing inside where the sounds of squealing horses soon followed. A group of people soon found themselves cut off by one of the feathered giants, dispersing in screaming panic as it moved in. With an unfurling of its wings and a single peck, it snapped an unfortunate straggler up in its beak.
Blusmith soon recognized the cameraman from his clothing and the sound of his screaming. The towns Sheriff could only grimace in disgust as the cameraman was torn apart by the thunderbird. He was still reeling and kicking as the bird lowered him towards the ground. Arcing its head and the prey locked in its beak, the thunderbird reached up with one of its talons and carved his lower torso to ribbons in one yank. Pulling him apart like a hawk might do a field mouse. Snipping the fleshy remnants of him down in three or four bites.
Blusmith beat Dodge to the punch this time. Rising to his feet, the Sheriff aimed his winchester at the thunderbird down the road and fired off two rounds. Both hit the monstrous condor-like bird square in the chest. As the remnant of the screaming crowd made for the nearest building, the bird collapsed. It flapped its wings a few times in a dying struggle to stay alive before falling still.
"Sweet Jesus, Frank! What the hell are we gonna do, these things are everywhere!"
Pucket's panicky rant did nothing but annoy Dodge. He ignored it however, and took aim at the sky. There was still a lot of birds up there, circling with the storm as their keen eyes surveyed the town. Most of the street had emptied, and people had found refuge in the nearest building they could find. It would soon prove to be fatal.
The three remaining men outside the Drinking Hole were soon faced with the terrible fact that the only prey left for the flock above to see were all the horses still hitched outside the saloon just a few feet away. The first of the thunderbirds landed almost immediately. Dodge had gotten more than his fair share of close looks at these things. But it still sent a slight chill down his spine when one landed not five feet in front of him, furling its wings as it attacked the nearest horse. They were truly intimidating when standing not ten feet away. Dodge could barely raise his gun in time before the sight of predator and prey played out before him. With a swift peck, the thunderbird had removed a good portion of flesh from the horses side. It died almost instantly, collapsing to the mud as the thunderbird buried it beneath the weight of its claws. As Blusmith pulled Pucket to his feet, another thunderbird landed out in front of the hitching post. Every horse there was helpless to the onslaught. Blusmith saw nothing but a slaughter in a matter of seconds.
Dodge simply saw easy targets.
Taking aim at the nearest thunderbird, he fired off two rounds into its head. Adding another body to the growing count on his list. The gunshots however didn't frighten away the other thunderbird. Instead they drew its attention towards him. Letting forth several shrill cries from its blood-soaked beak, the wet thunderbird lowered its massive head and lumbered towards him. Dodge desperately tried to reload his rifle, but the bird wobbled into killing range before he could. Dodge raised his rifle just in time to deflect a swift and powerful attack.
The thunderbirds beak cut through the air, snapping his Spencer rifle in half like a twig. The force of the blow knocked Dodge back against the flaming wall of the Drinking Hole. Blusmith fired off a round from his winchester into the birds body. It flinched once, then set its sights on him. Blusmith pulled the trigger again, realizing with a look of terror upon hearing nothing but a click that he was out of rounds. He would've died there had it not been for Pucket.
Sucking up his courage, the deputy yanked his six-shooter from his belt and fired away. The thunderbird let forth shrill cries of pain, receding with several hunched hops away from the burning building. A crazy confidence took over Pucket as he fired off his second shot, his third shot, his forth. The thunderbird staggered, then regained is stance as it struggled to take to the air. Struggled to escape the bullets tearing through its body. Pucket stormed out into the rain soaked streets after it. A mad grin of confidence spread across his face as he fired off his fifth shot, hitting the bird in its feathery left leg. The thunderbird finally collapsed, squawking as it tried desperately to stand back up. Pucket would have none of it. He walked right up to the flapping creature, aimed his revolver straight for the thunderbirds massive eye, and fired off his last shot. It was the fifth thunderbird to fall this night, the sixth altogether to lay dead in the town of Hells Furnace. Pucket stood proudly over his kill, grinning in his own egotistical gluttony.
He never saw it coming.
All Sheriff Blusmith could do as he reloaded his winchester was cry out to him. Another thunderbird swooped in from above, its snapping beak connecting with Pucket's upper torso. At eighty miles an hour, the hooked ends of its beak tore through Pucket's flesh like a hot knife through butter. As the massive bird passed, it dragged Pucket briefly into the air, before his limp body came tumbling back to the mud. About fifteen pounds of flesh and rib had been removed from his chest and back in that brief instant, and his dead eyes now stared wide into the air. Where the rest of the flock in its entirety was soaring in to land.
Dodge and Blusmith receded away from the now sweltering heat of the burning saloon, the crackling of the flames strong enough to withstand the continuing downpour. Thunder now constantly filled the air above, both from the storm and the beating wings of the massive birds. More of the giants landed in the streets.
"We gotta get to my station, I've got plenty of ammunition there."
Dodge pulled both his Colts from their holsters. "You lead the way, Yank."
"Stick close to the walls!"
The two old soldiers moved swiftly through the downpour, making their way for the building just around the corner of the burning saloon. Both of them caught sight of numerous thunderbirds, all of them landing with heavy thuds in the rain soaked streets of Hells Furnace. Unbeknownst to both of them, the worst was yet to come.
ACT VII: I Ain't No Jackrabbit
Sheriff Blusmith and Dodge both made it around the bend, both keeping their keen eyes on the nearest thunderbird. It was the one by the livery, dragging a dead horse out through the doors with its massive beak before gorging itself on the equines flesh. Soon movement ahead caught Blusmith's attention. Two figures stood in front of the station, and one had just smashed the glass of the door in with his rifle. Blusmith recognized them both as Hank and Harvey Tanner.
"Keep those muzzles pointed at the dirt gentlemen, were comin' in."
The Tanner brothers both remained calm when they finally caught sight of Blusmith and Dodge heading their way. Hank reached in through the broken glass and unlatched the lock, pushing the door in as all four men stumbled inside. None of them paid anymore notice to the massive thunderbird sitting perched on top of the livery, eyeing them with hungry eyes as they faded into the dark innards of the Sheriffs station.
"I's told you fellas. I's told you all they were comin'. But none of you listened to me."
Trigger-Finger Tanner's words pierced the darkness of the cramped station before Blusmith moved towards the locked bars of the cell. Man still stunk of horse manure. Dodge kept a keen eye on the thunderbird feeding beside the livery, every so often gazing skyward to see if anymore were still flying overhead. Lightning light up the sky above before true thunder rumbled through the broken glass of the door.
"Give ‘em a gun Sheriff. He's gonna need it." Harvey Tanner's high pitched voice whispered through the dark as Blusmith unlatched the cells lock. Trigger-Finger was already on his feet by the time the door was opened.
"I'm not giving you a gun until I'm positive you've sobered up." Blusmith's stern words hit Trigger-Finger like a bullet. His equally stern gaze even managed to pierce the darkness.
"I's fine, Sheriff. Ain't had a drink since yesterday mornin' and I's done slept off that buzz."
"That's not the first time I've heard that." It was at this point that Trigger-Finger grew slightly agitated. Not aggressive, but panicky. His voice was full of fear.
"Sheriff you've gotta give me my pistols. Those birds out there are gonna eat all of us if we don't shoot ‘em out of the sky first. Eat us like all them folks that gone up into the mountain!"
"C'mon sheriff, he's sober enough to handle a firearm." Hank's words still did little to change Blusmith's mind set.
"Its not his handling of a gun that concerns me its his aim. I know good and well how reckless he can get with his firearms, and I don't want any bullets whizzing by my head along with them birds. . . ."
The shrill cry of a thunderbird pierced the gray sky outside, sounding awfully close. A massive shadow fell over the sheriffs station. But before any of the other men inside could get a good glimpse of the bird, Dodge fired away. Aiming both his colts outside the window, he simultaneously fired off eight rounds into the street. From outside the cries of a dying bird filled the air, before it all became silent again. Dodge swiftly loaded more rounds into his revolvers before turning back towards Blusmith.
"Just give the man a gun. We ain't got time to argue ‘bout it."
A hidden grin spread itself across Trigger-Finger's face. One Blusmith didn't feel comfortable looking at. Nonetheless, time was dwindling. Wouldn't be long before another massive bird comes along. Blusmith urgently reached into the weapons locker beside the desk, pulling two of eight winchester rifles from its innards. He handed one to Trigger-Finger, then the other to Dodge. Dodge seemed hesitant in taking the rifle, having never fired a winchester before. He'd always either used his revolvers of his Spencer rifle. But his Spencer was destroyed, and his revolvers didn't pack the punch necessary to take down these birds quickly.
Before any of them could get their rifles fully loaded, a chilling sound entered their ears. From down the street came a heavy crashing sound, followed by the terrified screams of numerous people. Blusmith didn't need to see the cause of the sounds to know that his townspeople were being attacked, somehow driven out of their sanctuary by these invading predators. The first few revolver shots sounded out from the same area.
"All of you grab as much ammo as you can carry and get ready. . . ."
The roof of the station suddenly groaned, giving way with a violent tremor before falling a good foot or so. All five men within the station held their hats tightly, thinking all of it would come crashing down on their heads. Thankfully only a few bits of rubble and dust fell instead. The shrill cry of a thunderbird called out from above them, and the clear sounds of its beak pecking the roof soon became evident. Trigger-Finger, having appeared calm and cool before hand, suddenly snapped. Fool was still a bit drunk.
"No! Aw hell, hell no! You damn birds ain't gonna get your claws on me!"
Before his brothers or Dodge or Blusmith could do anything to stop him, Trigger-Finger was out the door. Screaming hysterically as three thunderbirds took him into their sight.
"You ain't havin' me for dinner!" Trigger-Finger aimed his rifle at the nearest thunderbird and fired, hitting the bird with incredible accuracy right in the head. The thunderbird feeding on the livery squawked and flapped its wings in aggression, hopping towards him with food on its mind. But crazy Trigger-Finger had it in his sights before it could even get into the road.
"I ain't no jackrabbit!" He fired off two rounds into the assaulting thunderbird, nailing it in the chest and beak. The bird collapsed into a heap as Tanner moved his way down the street. Hank and Harvey, fearful for their crazy brother, rushed out into the rain after him. Dodge and Blusmith reluctantly followed. It was the beginning of the first and only true stand against the onslaught of the thunderbirds.
Dodge rushed out into the street and immediately set his sights on the thunderbird he knew was perched atop the sheriffs station. Just as the massive bird of prey swooped down through the rain to snag him, Dodge fired off two rounds into its chest. This didn't stop it however from landing. Dodge's reflexes again saved his life. Ducking low, the dying thunderbird soared a mere foot over the top of his head before it came crashing down into a puddle, the wake of its passing knocking Dodge off balance. Sliding onto its head, the snap of the massive birds neck was heard clearly over the falling rain. Its body lay still in the pattering water beside the livery fence.
Blusmith watched another massive bird soar over the tops of their heads about thirty feet above them, dragging rain along its wings as a savage cry erupted from its beak. He allowed the four men behind him to fire on it. His only concern now lay down the street. For the cries and screams of the townspeople still radiated from around the corner. Blusmith heard numerous violent crashes, the shattering of wood and mortar, and the thunder of massive flapping wings. He emerged from around the bend to a sight that wrenched his old heart.
Ahead in the street stood seven thunderbirds. Among their talons were the bodies of dozens of people, the remaining citizens of Hells Furnace. Men, women, even children, all of them were either crushed or torn. Many of the birds were snatching their still remains in their beaks and flapping their way back towards the mountains. While the few stragglers that remained continued to feed. How they had retrieved such a bounty of human prey lay in the carnage surrounding them.
Almost every single building had collapsed, or was filled with a massive hole. Rubble and splintered wood lined the edge of the streets, illuminated in the gray storm by the fire that continued to rage in the saloon. A fire that was spreading quickly to the neighboring buildings. Blusmith realized in one tragic second that his entire town, a town he had been entrusted to protecting, now lay in ruins. With a majority of its citizens now dead.
The thunderbirds had literally torn right through the buildings, pecking and clawing their way through the walls to get at their prey. The people inside didn't stand a chance. Their only option was to flee as fast as possible before the buildings either collapsed on top of them or the assaulting bird snatched them in its beak. Those that entered the streets didn't get far before a massive bird came crashing down on top of them claws first. Using their ninety pound bulk to pin them to the mud while their talons and beaks ended their lives.
Blusmith collapsed to his knees, holding tightly to his winchester rifle as he beheld his failure. He was familiar with death, had seen it numerous times in his days. He had watched dozens of soldiers march off into a field and never come back, had watched bullets and artillery rounds snatch their lives away in swift, unbearable instances. He had lived with that for more years than he had wanted, all the while maintaining the courage and strength that had kept him alive through all the Civil War had thrown at him.
But this, this massacre he beheld before him, just wrenched the very strength from his body. He came close to breaking down right then and there, doing something he hadn't done since the war. The rain hid the few tears that managed to escape the confines of his eyelids, and the cries of massive birds ahead of him gave Blusmith the incentive he needed to rise to his feet. He couldn't save them, thus, he'd avenge them. Nature however worked in mysterious ways. The mass of the flock ahead all snagged what bodies they could and took to the sky in one swift motion. The rhythmic beats of their massive wings filled the now empty streets of Hells Furnace with wind and thunder. Blusmith went ballistic.
Behind him, Trigger-Finger Tanner hadn't shut up. With each step and each shot he fired there came a long list of swears and repetitive sentences. All the while that same sentence ending each and every rant.
"I ain't no jackrabbit! Y' ain't gonna catch me with them claws!"
Dodge tried as hard as he could to keep himself from shooting the noisy old coot. He could see now that the skies were starting to empty a bit. The rain still fell, but the number of thunderbirds was dwindling. Only four had fallen since they all exited the sheriffs station, and those that remained swooped down around them. None of the birds moved in to snatched them off the ground. For each time one would swoop in for the kill, Dodge and the Tanners would open fire on it. There were times that Dodge was sure he had hit the massive birds, but they kept on flying. Receding with thunderous flaps of their wings at the first sound of a gunshot. The flock was learning. Gunshots meant stay away. The flock was dwindling now, either dead or retreating to the mountains with what prey they could snag. Ahead in the main street of town, the last acts of this grisly night were about to unfold.
ACT VIII: Passing of the Storm
Sheriff Blusmith let forth hollow screams of hate as he fired off into the fleeing flock of thunderbirds. Each shot from his winchester whizzed through the rain, all of them fired recklessly and without careful aim. The sight of his towns demise impregnated Blusmith with raw carnage. He wanted nothing more than to see every single one of these birds fry, to see them fall dead before him for what they had done to his town and its people. Friends he'd known for years now gone, snatched away in pieces by gods of the sky.
A few of his shots hit their mark, causing one of the birds to fall dead in the streets below while sending another reeling through the air in screeching pain. The remainder of the flock flapped their massive wings and beat a thunderous path back towards the sanctuary of the Galiuro mountains. Blusmith watched with hate burnt across his gaze as his prey faded into the rain. What was left for him were the bloody remains of all who had not been snatched away and eaten. All left for him to bury.
He could only stagger weakly into the crumbling wall of a nearby house as Dodge and the Tanners approached from behind. Trigger-Finger departed the group and ran out into the middle of the street. He laughed like a crazy man at the departing flock, letting out cheerful cries and holding his rifle high in the air as he watched them fly off. Dodge wanted to shoot him now. He seriously wanted to aim his winchester at the back of this guys skull and blast the last remaining words right out of his big mouth. But he held it back, and instead approached Blusmith. The old sheriff looked like he could keel over at any second.
"I's told you! I's told you damn birds you wouldn't be gettin' me!"
Trigger-Finger continued screaming out into the storm, out towards the mountains protruding towards the passing gray clouds. Hank and Harvey, his brothers, started towards him. For the most part, their brother had always been a burden to them. Always a bother as they moved into this boom town. Their parents had said something about him being all wrong in the head. A fact they had come to live with. Both brothers got to within ten feet of their screaming mad brother.
"I's told you all! I ain't no jackrabbit. . . ."
Just like that he was dead.
Both Hank and Harvey were knocked off their feet by a massive fifteen foot wing, thrown back by its gust as the last of the thunderbirds came crashing down on top of their brother. The two brothers were winded and hit their heads hard on the ground, knocking the two of them dangerously close to unconsciousness. Dodge and Blusmith turned just in time to hear Trigger-Finger's last cries escape his mouth before a single swift blow from the thunderbirds beak silenced him forever. In a way, Dodge was relieved. Unfortunately the bird took off before any of the two old soldiers could raise their rifles in time. With three flaps of its massive wings, the largest of the flock took off towards the end of town. The gust of wind let off by each flap nearly knocked both old soldiers off their feet as the giant departed. It didn't fly far. With a gracefulness none of the surviving men had ever paid heed to, the massive bird landed on top of a pile of rubble and wood. All that was left of the last building on the towns outskirts. Dodge moved to find himself a shot, but Sheriff Blusmith held him back.
"This ones mine, Reb."
Dodge could see the hatred and hell-bent aggression behind the sheriffs gaze. With a little thinking, he deduced it had all come from watching his town fall before him. Dodge would normally shove any other man out of the way, no matter what he said, in order to bag his bounty. But in this particular case, the look in this old Yanks eyes was enough to tell him to keep out of this. This last encounter between man and thunderbird was not to be his.
Blusmith walked with his rifle thrown over his shoulder out into the middle of the street, his gaze never leaving the thunderbird out in the distance. It stood with its massive black wings unfurled, snapping up what was left of Trigger-Finger in its beak and swallowing it down. Atop its head was the familiar crown of white feathers, larger and more defined than those of its companions that lined the streets. Its gaze was currently fixated on the fire still burning down the remnants of the saloon. Blusmith quickly changed all that.
He fired a single round from his winchester into the air, the cracking echo of the gunshot bursting through the rainy sky. The thunderbirds head snapped in his direction, its massive yellow eyes finding him in their piercing gaze. Blusmith came to a halt in the middle of the street, not ten feet from the body of a fallen thunderbird and those of the people its flock had killed. To his back, past the remains of two other thunderbirds down the street, was the livery. Where the first of the flock to be killed remained nailed to its wall.
Dodge pulled the Tanner brothers out of the street, to the nearest cover he could find in this ruined town. Blusmith watched the massive thunderbird take two brief hops from the rubble into the muddy road about sixty yards ahead of him. The massive bird brought its head down low to the mud, and with its wings unfurled let forth a shrill screech from its beak. A warning cry. Sheriff Blusmith let the cry pass in and out of his ears. He raised his rifle. Took aim, and waited. Waited for the bird to make the first move.
As the rain started to die down, the last of the thunderbirds remaining in Hells Furnace took to the sky. With one flap it was airborne, lifted thirty feet off the ground by a stormy updraft. Hovering briefly in mid air, the thunderbird and Blusmith made eye contact. In that brief moment gazing into each others radically different souls. The bird arced upwards briefly before letting its outstretched wings release the wind. It soared in for the kill. Blusmith didn't hesitate any longer. He cocked his rifle, adjusted his aim for the wind of the passing storm, and took a good long last look at the approaching thunderbird. With thoughts of avenging his slain townspeople on his mind, the tendons in his finger tighten. He pulled the trigger on his rifle for the last time.
Click.
There came a wave of dread with that click. A sick sense of defeat that hit Blusmith hard as he realized that his hatred had blinded him to something. Blinded him to the simple act of reloading his rifle. A rifle that was now empty. For a brief second, Blusmith saw his life. His life passing before his eyes. His childhood, the war, his father and the two brothers he never saw again. His wife and her death. This town, its people, and the many stories it had to tell now that it was erased from the earth. The thunderbird opened its beak wide, ready to snatch Blusmith out of this world and carry him on into death, and the next life. Blusmith closed his eyes, and saw a flash as he accepted his approaching death.
That flash however wasn't the hand of death. It was something else.
All at once, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. And in one brief second, he beheld what he considered to the end of his days an act of God. Just ten feet were all that remained between Blusmith and the gaping beak of the swooping thunderbird before it was struck down. An arc of lightning stretched itself out of the sky from the dissipating storm clouds. Its tip struck the square of its back, coursing thousands of volts of electricity through the swooping form of the massive bird. A vicious crack of thunder deafened all to the sounds of the thunderbirds death call as its back and head were set ablaze by the intense heat of the lightning.
The passing of the bird knocked Blusmith off his feet, skidding his shocked form into the blood-stained streets of town. Behind him, the flaming carcass of the thunderbird tumbled through the air before flying head first into the body of its first fallen comrade nailed to the wall of the livery. The wooden wall of the empty livery gave way to its weight, smashed to splinters as both the thunderbird bodies disappeared amongst the falling debris and shattered planks of wood. A violent crash and the sounds of clattering timber sounded as the entire mass of the building caved in on itself, burying the remains of both birds with debris. Fire from the lightning charred carcass of the thunderbird soon ignited the massive amounts of dry hay within the fallen building, and a massive inferno soon erupted from the wet ruins.
In the exact spot that this ordeal had started, it had ended. A flash of lightning being the final blow delivered on this bloody night. Blusmith stood from the mud, sore and shaken by his latest brush with death, as the fire raged on ahead of him. With the passing of the storm, the nightmare that had destroyed Hells Furnace came to an end. Above his head, the storm clouds started to fade, and the first rays of sunlight began to peak their way through into the towns streets.
EPILOGUE: Brothers of Legend
The muddy soil was easy to dig through for the four remaining men. A lot of graves were dug that next day, marked with custom made crosses hacked together by the debris of town. The old graveyard would be one of many forgotten in the wilds of the west as time moved on. Little of value was salvaged from the ruins of Hells Furnace, save for a few heirlooms from Blusmith's past. His uniform being one of them. The surviving Tanner brothers, Hank and Harvey, found something that was bigger than any of them could have foreseen.
A photograph, the only picture to survive yesterdays event. The freshly developed picture taken by the cameraman of Blusmith, his deputies and three other men standing before the body of the first thunderbird killed by Dodge, nailed to the now fallen livery. Neither Dodge nor Blusmith cared any for having the picture. Both men wanted to erase permanently all sights and memory of the feathered gods that had leveled this town. Blusmith seemed hell-bent in doing so, hitching to one of the surviving horses every single thunderbird carcass that had fallen that day and hauling it down to the burning ruins of the livery. Where their bodies were added to the flames. The only memory both men left town with of these winged predators was the taste their cooked meat left in their mouths. Didn't surprise none of them that roasted thunderbird tasted like chicken.
Seven horses had managed to escape the livery during the feeding frenzy, and were now the only means of transport for the four surviving men. The Tanners never found anything of their deceased crazy brother, but still left a grave marker with his name on it in the cemetery. They hitched four horses to the only surviving covered wagon and departed town. Hidden in the back of the wagon unbeknownst to Blusmith was the severed wing of one of the thunderbirds. Evidence of the outlandish tale they were surely to obtain wealth from. Even after surviving such a horror, the two brothers remained greedy.
They headed down river to Tombstone, where they recounted an under-exaggerated and fame-fed tale of what transpired that rainy day. Their interpretation told nothing of the demolished town of Hells Furnace, nothing of the countless lives lost to that starving flock. Instead it was portrayed as an outlandish tale of two prospectors, both Hank and Harvey, spotting a hundred foot bird and shooting it out of the sky all heroic and such. Their presentation of the severed wing along with the photograph added fuel to the speculations as dreams of fame and fortune filled their heads. A single article in the newspaper was the only fame they got.
As for Dodge and Blusmith, their fate remained a mystery. The Tanner Brothers did not speak of Dodge the drifter, or any sheriff for that matter. Instead they told of another set of brothers. All their drunken minds remembered from that parting day.
Dodge had saddled up, preparing to leave as the last of the thunderbirds was dragged into the fire and incinerated along with the rest of this dead town. He wouldn't be surprised if the smoke of it drew any travelers along. But he didn't care. He was just passing through. He obtained nothing new from this town, nothing of significance to his old soul. Just some money, some whiskey, and some more bad memories.
He did however find respect for someone. Something he hadn't found in a long time. Dodge rode his horse up beside the burning debris and charred skeletal remains of the thunderbird carcasses. Beside it stood the Sheriff, his arms crossed as he stared into the dying flames of the fire. The humidity and the heat of the flames did little to alter his stance, solid and upright despite the advent of age. A soldiers stance. Dodge allowed the old Yank to look up at him before speaking. Making eye contact with the man for the first time since that final confrontation.
"You gonna be alright, old yank?"
A tired sigh escaped Blusmith's breath as he looked up into the face of the departing drifter. "I'll manage. Move on like I always do. Probably head down to Tombstone like the Tanners. How ‘bout you, where you headed?"
"Ah, never really tell with me. I just let the wind take me where it wants to go." Dodge smirked, tipping his hat in salute to this old towns sheriff. "You take care of yourself, old man."
Dodge nudged his toes into his horses sides, sending it trotting off into the sands. He pulled the brim of his hat down to shade his old eyes from the ever burning sun. He didn't expect to look back. Didn't want to. But he did. At the sound of the old Sheriffs voice.
"The names Frank, by the way." Dodge grinned, finally hearing the mans name after so many days. "Frank Blusmith."
Dodge tugged gently on the reins, bringing his horse to a dead halt. He became winded, the air drained from his lungs in one instant that defied everything his life ever stood for. A name he hadn't heard in thirty years entered his old ears, and changed everything just like that. Sheriff Blusmith was puzzled at first. But when he saw the drifter look back at him, wide-eyed, surprised. He saw a gaze that had eluded him for the past few days. A gaze all too familiar. He too became winded. For behind the wrinkles and crows feet, behind the gray hair and sun-dried skin of both their faces, the two men saw something they never thought they would see again.
Family.
Dodge had abandoned his true name at the end of war, after losing his older brother to one of its bloodiest battles. He'd forgotten about his father, and his younger brother who stayed behind in the north. Dodge never expected to see either of them again. Old memories, good memories of before that war returned to Dodge's mind. When that war ended, Dodge had simply let the wind take him. Let its breeze lift his tattered soul into its arms and carry him to whatever fate had in store for him. That wind, that breeze had brought him out here to this town in the middle of nowhere. To a face he didn't even recognize at first.
To a brother he had almost forgotten. |
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