The Gun of Crow
The rider kept to the shadowed side of the trail; it was warm this late in spring, even this far North. The smell of pine resin invaded his nostrils, mixed with the petrichor aroma that the light rain from the previous day had left lingering in the air.
It would have been a perfect day for a leisure ride, but for the pull. He had never asked for the gift, but he had it. And so his travels were never for pleasure. This was no exception; in fact, the rider had the impression that he had never felt such a strong impulse forward. If he closed his eyes, he could follow the path as if it was a gaudy illuminated street in New York’s night. He received it with apprehension, and determination.
He rummaged inside of his bags and took off some jerky. He munched for a while, then took a sip of water from his canteen. And then he noticed it. The much-travelled track to the side. And something else.
The silence.
The rider dismounted, and patted his horse’s neck. Coal was as much a professional as he was, but still he felt like reassuring the animal. He grabbed his satchel and walked on. A hundred yards beyond, right behind a bend, there was the entrance to a mine. Its dark mouth was waiting for him.
Only he saw the darkness for what it really was. Years before, he would have shivered. Today, he shrugged. He produced a small oil lantern from his satchel and a box of matches, and lit it up. Raising the lantern above his head, he took several steps forward. The light pushed against the darkness, and he entered the cave.
Some fifteen minutes later, the rider emerged from the mine.
“You have arrived late, Stranger,” said a voice. “It escaped two days ago.”
The rider looked up. The voice, as he had guessed from the accent, belonged to a native. A man, his chest covered in coloured beads, collars and bones. A Lakota, judging by his clothes. A knife by his left calf. His hair was long and grey, worn loose. His face was crossed by wrinkles. They gazed at each other. The rider knew: the man could see as well.
“Yes, Wise One,” the rider said in the man’s language. “They’re all dead in there. Consumed. But the presence has not left.”
“No. There is a town two miles North, Stranger.”
The rider nodded. That’s where the pull came from. He extinguished the lantern and put it in his satchel, then started walking towards where he had left Coal.
“Will you be coming with me, Wise One?” he asked.
“Do you have a name, Stranger?” the man said.
“Crow.”
“It’s an appropriate name,” the man said. Crow only wore black, from his hat down to his boots, and his skin was almost the colour of charred wood. “No, I won’t be coming with you. But I have one thing for you.”
The man produced a pendant. It held a stone, engraved with coloured swirling patterns. Crow stared at them. They seemed to move, as if animated by their own life force. He took the pendant, then inclined his head to put it on.
“Thank you, Wise One,” he said.
Crow raised his head and looked under the brim of his hat, but the man was gone.
Coal was impatient. He kept moving from side to side, and waved his tail. Crow fastened his satchel, then hopped on.
“Ok, Coal, let’s go. Hurry on!”
Crow knew it was too late for the town as soon as he saw the first body by the trail. Consumed, as if it had burned from the inside out. Like the ones in the mine. Crow didn’t want to delve into what those unfortunate miners had awoken, but the deed was done. He just hoped he arrived in time.
As he reached the first of the few houses in the town he feared he didn’t. All he saw were bodies, strewn across the street, hanging from verandas and even one over a window sill. Men, women and children alike. As he dismounted, Crow shook his head. All this only in two days.
He saw a face down body, a man, who didn’t look burned. Crouching, Crow turned him round. He had a bullet hole in his forehead, a gun hanging from his limp hand. Crow sighed.
Then he heard it.
A noise, coming from the saloon. He patted Coal and signalled him to remain silent, pointing to a side street. The horse moved away, as if he knew what was expected from him.
Crow approached the large building, carefully minding his step so as not to tread on a loose plank. He peeked through a window. A large man was cradling a woman, only there was something odd with them. Crow didn’t need his sight to notice that he was flaking, black specks wisping away from him as if he was afire, only there was no flame. As Crow watched, the woman fell to the floor, equally consumed. The man, standing with his back to Crow, raised his hands and let out a yawp that couldn’t have originated in a human throat.
Crow took that as his cue and crashed in, rolling on the floor as the man that was no man turned around. Crow stared at him, and in an instant he felt all the malice in its eyes that were pure black, and its hunger, and its joy for having found a powerful new host.
But Crow already had his gun in his left hand: a pure silver revolver, each round glowing an eerie emerald green. As the thing lurched forward, he shot once, twice, three times. The once human body fell backwards, and onwards came only a shadow, a smoke, hateful and furious.
It crashed against Crow.
For a moment, he felt the pain, and the wrath, and the infinite darkness. But he also felt the amulet take hold, and endure, and bear the brunt of the attack, and then it was gone.
Crow couldn’t remember for how long he had been out. The first thing he felt was water on his lips. He opened his eyes and saw the Lakota old man.
“It’s gone,” Crow said.
“For now.”
