Skinwalkers Read Free Page B

monsters, wasn’t it? The realm of all things dead? Of things that scurry and slither, devour and destroy?
    Thoughts of the bridge troll loped through Farnsworth’s mind. He saw the troll’s gnashing, rotted teeth—smelled the maggot-ridden flesh it reeked of.   Somewhere in the depths of his psyche, the fleeting, rational side of his mind asked what kind of lunatic would tell a person such stories—and what kind of lunatic would sit back and listen?
    “Quiet,“ the bounty hunter whispered.
    J.T. heard chains rattling and wished whatever coward was doing that would get a grip on themselves. When he saw it was his own trembling shackle causing the noise, he stilled.
    Night. Silence. Abyss.
    Then the slightest of hoofbeats upon rock, growing steadily louder with each passing second. Then they appeared— Indians —spectral riders on horseback who seemed to float past camp in the darkness. Farnsworth saw both horse and rider were painted. But, in the night, the dyed clay shone merely as varying shades of blue-black. The night seemed to devour the campfire’s light so that the Indians remained cloaked in skins of shadow.
    Then they were gone as quickly as they came. Farnsworth knew if he and the bounty hunter made it through the night, the morning would reveal no tracks or other evidence the ghostly party had passed them by.
    A few moments passed and, satisfied they’d gone, Farnsworth relaxed. He took a step back and bumped up against something— against someone . Farnsworth whirled around and an icy fist of terror seized his heart. J.T. gazed into the face of the troll. He knew it was the troll. Nothing else could be so wretched. In truth, the monster wore the face of an ancient native, but J.T. was not fooled. He knew pure evil when he saw it.
    Demons of fire and shadow danced across the ancient’s scowling, wrinkled face. His long, platinum hair wriggled in the breeze like a bed of snakes. But that was not the worst of it.
    It was the ancient’s eyes—those twin infinities of soul-swallowing cataract—a blind man’s eyes— a demon’s eyes —that made J.T. scramble backward and fall upon his ass as he screamed his mother’s name.
    The ancient turned his empty eyes to the bounty hunter. Despite the native being unarmed, it was the bounty hunter who trembled in the other’s presence. The bounty hunter glanced down at his quivering weapons. When he looked up again, the ancient had been swallowed up by the night.

From Black Bob’s Doom; or The Hounds of Perdition , a dime novel by J.T. Farnsworth…
     
    The noble gunslinger kicked in the cabin door and fired his weapons in the air as he announced his arrival in a most vociferous manner. “Be you either gentlemen or brigands, I am Daniel Sinclair. If the resounding of my psalm-like title does not chime the bells of memory within your cowardly heads, let me say that you may recognize my more titular appurtenance, that of Deadshot Dan!“
    “ Deadshot Dan of Arizona?“ One of the brigands seated at the cabin’s sole adornment, a roundish table, queried, his voice quivering as he gazed into the glistening, nickel-plated barrels of Dan’s infamous twin revolvers.
    “Aye,“ Dan confirmed, a wry smile upon his lips, “the very same. Deadshot Dan of Arizona, the sultan of six-guns and the prince of pistoliers who, with the aid of my trusty revolvers, Death and Doom, hulled the town of Big Grit single-handedly of all ruffians and evildoers in defense of those too innocent of heart and meek of character to protect themselves! Make no mistake that I can nere do the same with the likes of this motley crew any day of the week and as many times on Sunday as the good book orders!
    “But both good luck and lady fortune have shined upon you this day, gentlemen, for allow me to state that my quarrel and reason for being here is not with the likes of you, but rather with that fiend of fiends, the coal-skinned rascal known as Black Bob! He has apprehended my beloved