"Valley of the Thunderbirds"
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dochermes"Valley of the Thunderbirds"
8/12-8/15/1878
I.
Bouton's Pinto came galloping toward them in complete panic. Its eyes rolled wildly and its head was down as it tore past the rescue party faster than it had ever moved before in its life. Seeing the animal gallop by so closely spooked the other horses and four men fought to keep their mounts from breaking away and running off in all directions.
Only the black horse named Terror did not react. He watched the Pinto hurtle by without moving other than to turn his head to follow its path. Leaning forward in his saddle, Johnny Packard stroked the great neck of the stallion. "Good fella there, that's my Terror," he said quietly. In a louder tone for the other men, Johnny added, "Let him go. There's only the one way in and out of this valley and he's too spooked to manage it by himself. He'll calm down in a mite."
"Yeah, I don't think so," answered Benitez. The veteran scout had calmed his own horse and was pointing with a thumb behind them. "Take a look."
The Pinto had collapsed in a heap not far from where they stood, lying on its side with its ribs not moving to show any breath. Johnny swung down from the saddle and led Terror by the reins to investigate. Still a youth not even twenty years old yet, the Brimstone Kid was small and wiry, active as a bobcat. He was the only clean-shaven man there, which just emphasized his age. Just five feet six and barely one hundred and fifty pounds, the Kid was wearing all black except a red work shirt he had just bought in town while the rescue party was stocking up. His black stetson was pulled low over sullen green eyes. In the beaded band of that hat was tucked a copper-colored coin older than the West itself, the curse of his life.
Behind him, the other four men of the rescue party followed, still on their mounts. Franklin, Dutchie, Benitez and Scott. They had quickly accepted Johnny as their natural leader despite his youth. The ominous reputation of the Brimstone Kid had spread over the Southwest in just a few years and to be honest the four men were uneasy around him. They saw the matched Colt 45s in holsters worn low on his hips. Johnny let the reins drop from his hand as he approached the unfotunate Pinto.
The animal was dead, all right. There was red foam on its mouth. "I figger the poor boy busted his own heart in fear," he said. "Ain't a cut or scrape on his own self, but there's blood all over the saddle. Still wet, too..." He bent and lifted up a well-worn boot. "This was still a-hangin' in one stirrup."
"God save us," Benitez breathed and crossed himself. "What could have happened?"
"Hanged if I know," answered Johnny. He placed the boot down next to the carcass. "Bouton was one tough hombre. He served in the War Between the States and he had been a deputy in a few cow towns before heading out this way." The Kid tilted his black Stetson back to reveal a shock of thick red hair and watched his four companions thoughtfully. "I can't say exactly what befell him."
The man called Dutchie was actually from a German family and his last name was Reinhard. He was the biggest man there, several inches over six feet tall and stocky, with a thick waist. Dutchie had not spoken much so far but now he rubbed his stubble-covered jaw and said, "Appears to me that something took him out of the saddle. Something snatched him up!"
"Paiutes call this the Valley of the Thunderbirds," added Benitez. "Remember that brave we saw in town? He warned us not to come here. He said we would end up in the bellies of the Thunderbirds."
"Aw, that's just redman tall tales," Johnny Packard dismissed the topic. "I've heard a hundred campfire legends and none of 'em turned out to have any meat on their bones. Here, hold on, you rannies." Unfastening a saddlebag that still had CSA stencilled on it, the Kid drew out a wad of the big paper money that was tied together with a piece of twine. "This is what Mr Sutcliffe paid Bouton to join this party. I reckon it's proper to dole it out between us."
Walking over to the four men, Johnny Packard passed out the bills one at a time, jamming one into his vest pocket when his own turn came around. "And one more for Dutchie. Huh, that didn't come out even, tell you what.. I'll take this last dollar and buy everyone a round when this is all over and we get to a saloon." He turned back to the dead horse and raised his hat in a respectful salute. "Adios, Steve Bouton. Rest In Peace, I hope."
Gazing out at the high rock walls which encircled them, Dutchie cleared his throat and spat behind him. "I gotta say, this development don't make prospects look good for bringin' Sutcliffe's boy back in fair condition."
"Dead or alive, Mark's here in this valley," Johnny said as he placed one boot in the left stirrup and vaulted lightly up into the saddle. "His father said they had a screamin' argument and the boy swore he would hide here where no one would see him agin. We hired on to find him one way or the other and that's what I aim to do. Keep yore eyes peeled, boys, and it wouldn't hurt to loosen yore irons in their holsters."
II.
Conditions in the valley were very different from the arid desert outside. At least two large streams ran down from the North, and they stopped at one to water their horses and to refresh themselves. The men filled their canteens and rinsed off the sweat from their hands and faces, all the while gazing around them with worried faces. The grass in this valley was lush, there were trees and heavy brush. It seemed to be almost a closed-off world of its own.
Brushing his wet red hair with his fingers, Johnny Packard stared up at the steep cliffs which entirely encircled them. Those looked like hard climbing, with no obvious handholds or possible routes to the top. The townspeople in the only settlement for sixty miles had told him that the Valley was enclosed and only had one narrow pass barely wide enough for a single horse to squeeze through. Paiutes in the area had not wanted to talk about the place and acted as if the subject had not been brought up.
Johnny tugged on the wrist-length white gloves. Like most men who spent days riding out in the sun, he had developed the habit of wearing gloves to keep the skin on his hands from being burned off. He placed the Stetson back on his head and felt that the Darthan coin inside that hatband was inert. Toward sunset, he knew that coin would start to feel warm and heavy. Then he would become the Brimstone Kid in actuality as well as name but that was still a few hours away.
One of the men came to stand beside him. Tom Frankin was a thirty-odd year old black man of medium height and build, wearing baggy work clothes with worn-out shoes and carrying a Winchester in his hands. He did not pack a sidearm. Franklin was not a good-looking man, his features were heavy and coarse and one side of his face seemed to have been badly burned early in life. But when he spoke, it was to offer solid advice and opinions, and Johnny respected that.
"Following this stream's not a bad idea," Franklin said.
"I reckon so. If Mark Sutcliffe got in here, he'd be likely to stay by fresh water." Johnny had soaked his red bandanna and wrung it dry, now he tied it back around his neck. "Out here, friend, we don't ask about a man's past. It's considered unthoughtful."
"But you're curious about my accent, eh? I don't mind. I'm from Philly, back East. I came from a family of freemen who worked on the shipyards." The top of Franklin's blue flannel shirt was soaked across his shoulders from when he had been dunking his head in the stream. "I came out here because I read too many of those damfool dime novels."
That got a rare laugh from Johnny. "I can see why a man would do that. If life was as free and wild as in them dime novels, it'd be a better world."
Franklin chuckled too. "What I mostly found was labor, first on the railroad then on a cattle ranch. But somethin' I like about the frontier, people treat you based more on how hard you work and whether you keep your word than on the skin you was born with."
"I suppose," Johnny said. "I ain't never been across the Mississippi, so I don't know how things is back East." He jerked a thumb at the Winchester. "I'm glad to see you brung a longarm. Whatever grabbed poor Bouton outta the saddle like that might not be bothered much by reg'lar irons."
"It's a big comfort to me..." began Franklin but he cut off his words as they both heard a loud whoosh from overhead. A huge dark shadow fell over them, Johnny was knocked completely off his feet and Franklin was snatched up into the air bodily by something with wings thirty feet across. The man screamed in pain and fear, the rifle went flying as talons dug deeply into the muscles of his shoulders and his arms went numb.
Rolling as he hit the dirt, Johnny Packard came up with a Peacemaker in each hand. Before any of the stupefied riders could react, the Brimstone Kid was blazing away with the Colt in his right hand to send five heavy slugs at the monster. He had a confused glimpse of bright blue feathers, a long sharp beak and red eyes. There was a piercing screech that hurt their ears, and the giant creature was soaring away into the distance with a limp body hanging from its claws.
The other three men stood with mouths open, hearts pounding and minds frozen at what they had seen. No one had been able to react before the monster was gone with Tom Franklin. Watching the dark form already almost out of sight, Johnny holstered his left-hand gun so he could reload the right-hand Colt with cartridges from the loop on his belt. Cordite stung his nostrils.
Everyone started talking over each other, none of them making too much sense. Johnny took over. He shouted as loud as he possibly could, "Shut yer traps! Not a word outta any of you. Listen up. That was the biggest bird anyone ever seen. I never heard of such a thing but it's a bird, that's all it is. If it's flesh and blood, bullets will kill it. You men savvy?!"
No one answered immediately, then Benitez said, "There are tales of such things, Johnny. The Thunderbird who carries a storm on his back and whose wings cause tornados."
"Yeah. Well, maybe this is the seed that grew into them tales," Johnny said. "Folks with book learning say that even legends start somewhere."
"Quetzalcoatl...."
"Speak English, dern you. What are you saying?"
"The Azetcs in the old times, they worshipped Quetzalcoatl. The winged serpent," Benitez said. "I think they knew about critters like that."
Will Scott spoke as if to himself, "I ain't so sure it was a bird. Its head had like a bony crest and its beak was as long as its body, and its wings were more like a bat than a bird..."
"We'll jest call it a bird for now." Johnny Packard pointed at Dutchie. "I want you to bring Franklin's hoss along with us. It's a good animal. And we might need some of Franklin's gear before this is all over. Anyone see where his rifle fell?"
They located the Winchester but found its mechanism had been damaged by the drop and discarded it. The only other longarm they had among them was Will Scott's shotgun carried in a boot behind his saddle. The rest of them packed revolvers.
"Time to ride," the Kid said as he climbed up atop Terror. "That bird thing was heading upstream, we'll do the same. I calculate I don't have to tell you men to be alert, do I?"
As they moved slowly north alongside the stream, the rescue party spotted rabbits and red squirrels but nothing larger than a stray coyote in the distance. "I don't see no sign of antelope or buffalo, nothing like that," Benitez observed.
"Mebbe we just ain't sighted none yet," Johnny said. "But what are you getting at?"
"I was puzzlin' how much a critter like that would need to eat," Benitez answered. "If it has a family, if there's a few more of these monster birds, they must be eatin' something."
Johnny hesitated. He studied the tops of the cliffs surrounding them. "Nothin' is keeping them birds from flyin' out over the walls around this valley."
"Them Injuns did say something about men and horses sometimes just disappearing real sudden-like," Dutchie said. "I recollect one of the men at Sutcliffe's ranch said the same thing. Sometimes a steer will just be gone as if it fell off the Earth."
"Or up into the sky," Johnny said.
III.
Benitez took the lead, riding slowly, hanging half off his horse with a hand on the pommel for support. He had been a scout and guide for the US Cavalry for eleven years in Apache territory and was a master at spotting tracks or spoors. The rest of the rescue party hung well back to not get in his way. It was late afternoon and the red sun was touching down on the top of the canyon walls.
Pulling up alongside Johnny, Will Scott spoke in his usual quiet tones. He was a dry-skinned man about forty, with the sun-bleached hair and squint of someone who lived most of his time outdoors. Scott was a senior hand at the Sutcliffe ranch and had volunteered to join the group sent to bring young Mark back.
"You was right quick with that hogleg," Scott said. "The rest of us was gaping and gawking like brides on their wedding nights, but you was shootin' at that thing like you do it every day."
"I've led an interesting life," was Johnny's answer. "Been places, done things."
Behind them, Dutchie screamed in absolute terror. Scott and Benitez turned around in their saddles, but it was the Kid who wheeled his steed around with a Colt already in his hand. Plunging down from the sky was one of the giant blue creatures. This close, it could be seen that even though it had blue feathers, the monster was not really a bird. The wings were taut leathery hide stretching down from a supporting bone. Not quite like a bat, but not a bird either. The beak gaped open, more than long and wide enough to bite off a man's head with its sharp inner edges.
No words were needed. All four men spurred their horses in the opposite direction and the animals were near hysteria in any case. Looking back, the men saw to their horror that the Thunderbird had landed with a violent thump and was chasing them on the ground. It ran on its short hind legs and on the knuckles of its front limbs with the wings folded up behind them. The red eyes glared hungrily. The monster was gaining. It ran faster than the horses could.
Swinging Terror over to one side, Johnny Packard leveled his Colt and blasted all five shots-- not at the thick skull, but all at the right foreleg, as close together as he could manage. He had experienced a sudden insight that birds had hollow bones to reduce weight and maybe this thing did as well. Five .45 caliber bullets smashed within inches of each other and that forelimb broke apart with splinters flying away. The monster screeched and toppled over heavily on that side.
"Rein you, you rannies!" the Brimstone Kid yelled. "It's down! Take a gander, it's down!"
With some difficulty considering how excited both they and their horses were, the three members of the party managed to slow their flight. In a minute, they halted and were making a slow reluctant return to where the monster was squaking and flopping about. Its head lunged forward on a ridiculously long neck and tried to snap at Johnny.
Dismounting well out of reach, the Kid drew his left hand gun and holstered his spent revolver, but shifted the fresh gun to his right hand. He was not as equally good a shot with both hands by any means, he had never met a man who was, but carrying a second weapon at the ready had saved his life more than once. When he was sure this beast was no threat, he would reload the spent gun.
"GodDAM look at that thing! It's from the Book of Revelations!" Dutchie said. "An abomination upon the Earth."
"Yuh see that tail? Long like a rope with a fluke on the end," Scott said. "This is no bird. I told you. I--I don't know what it is."
In a deep, authoritative voice, Benitez declared, "The Feathered Serpent. Quetzalcoatl, as the ancestors believed."
Holstering his gun and moving a little closer to the struggling beast, Johnny said, "I take your meaning, amigo. It IS like a lizard of some kind, but with feathers, and its skin stretched to form wings. Kinda wings. Guess I'll never say I've seen everythin' there is to see in this world."
"I spose we need to kill this animal," Benitez said. "Wrong to let any living thing suffer. Who's got a knife big enough to cut-" He stopped in mid-sentence because a three-foot long arrow sliced into the back of his neck to emerge from his throat. A storm of arrows hissed down on them, coming without warning and piercing them in three or four parts of their bodies at the same time.
Johnny already had a Colt in his right hand. The reflexes which had made him infamous across five states took over as he dropped into a crouch to present a smaller target and started firing up without really knowing where the attack was coming from. He only got off one shot before an arrow punched deep into his abdomen and another one into the middle of his chest. That was the last he knew.
IV.
The night sky out in the wilderness blazed with thousands of stars never seen near town lights. Johnny Packard lay stretched out on his back, gazing up in awe at the stars and feeling as if somehow he might fall up into them and be free of all care and suffering. Then the burning in his chest and stomach brought him roughly back to the situation at hand. He felt unreasonably sad at having to deal with life again.
Looking furtively around without moving his head, the Kid discovered he was laid out next to the bodies of Benitez and Scott. Both were stiff and cold, their open eyes staring up at the same sky he had just admired. The corpse of Dutchie was lying a few feet further away and a strange sort of Indian brave was yanking an arrow out of the body. Johnny studied the native with curiosity. The man was short and squat, with more of a light brown skin than any coppery tone such as he was used to seeing. The thick coarse hair was black, hacked off straight around the shoulders and bound at the temples with red cloth. An elaborate loin cloth also of red cloth had beaded cords hanging from it as decoration.
But the face was not like that of any Indian tribe he had ever seen. The nose was long and pointed, the chin long and jutting forward, the eyes deepset and a pale hazel color. A second individual came over, closely resembling the first and they exchanged low guttural conversation. They marched away together.
With no one within sight, Johnny took more of a chance and raised his head to look down at himself. Ragged holes in his red shirt were black with dried blood. He felt sore and achy but was in no real pain. Against his back, where he had been lying on his hat, the Darthan coin inside the band burned painfully hot. It was like lying on a white coal. Johnny let his breath out and tried to collect his thoughts. This was the third time he had thought for sure he was going to die, only to revive after dark with his injuries healed.
How long would this work? How much damage would be too much for the cursed token to repair? If he was killed early in the morning instead of near sunset, would he be dead too long for the coin for help? He had no way of knowing. He could not count on this witch-coin to keep resurrecting him.
His guns were gone. That was no surprise.
Taking a chance, still watching for any of the strange brown Indians, the Kid drew up his Stetson and adjusted its firmly on his head without sitting up. The presence of the Darthan talisman throbbed against his forehead. Instantly, strength roared through his body and he fought the urge to jump to his feet. Whenever the coin transformed him, it was like the feeling you got when waking up alert and energetic after an illness. Suddenly he felt as if he was only sleepwalking during the day and this was who he really was.
Growing bolder with every second, Johnny sat up and made out that they were inside a stockade made of logs lashed together to form walls. The tops of the posts had been sharpened and one of the brown Indians with a quiver made of animal hide and a longbow in hand stood watchfully at each corner. The Brimstone Kid in him took over. Johnny got openly to his feet, saw that no one had noticed him yet and watched as twenty of the strange Indians gathered around the back of the stockade which was formed by the wall of the canyon.
There were a few women among the crowd, with longer hair but also mostly naked. Only two solemn silent children stood next to their mothers. What were they doing? The entire tribe seemed to be concentrating on some activity. Johnny wished he could find his guns before he had to confront any of these savages. Then the crowd stepped aside and the Kid boiled over with rage at what was revealed.
A young boy, no more than thirteen or fourteen, had been tied spread-eagle face-out to pegs driven into the cliff at head level. Even from where he stood, Johnny saw the coveralls and plaid work shirt, the tousled head of yellow hair like the father's. It was Mark Sutcliffe, the runaway son of the rancher. At least he was alive for now.
Overhead, a dark shape blotted out the stars when it passed. That hideous screech echoed in the still air. One of the Thunderbirds, whatever they were. Johnny Packard stiffened in sudden realization that these people were going to sacrifice an outsider to the monster.. like the Aztecs making sacrifice to Quetzalcoatl as Benitez had told him.
There were only a few low huts made of adobe, with wood bracing and thatched roofs. Thin torches burned here and there on posts stuck in the dirt. Johnny stayed in the shadows, working his way closer. Even with the spirit of Brimstone upon him now, he couldn't fight all these natives barehanded. If he could find even a tomahawk or Bowie knife...
From the far side of the stockade, a horse snorted angrily. Terror! Johnny made his way in that direction and found a crude corral that was too small to hold three grown horses. He wondered what it usually contained. The logs had been stripped of bark and notched to fit together, with a gate that tied shut by thongs.
Standing with his back to Johnny, watching the agitated movements of Terror, one of the brown men held Scott's shotgun in both arms. Johnny's matched Colts were jammed in the red loincloth. As soon as he spotted them, the Kid launched himself directly at the guard from twenty feet away. They crashed together, fell to the ground and then Johnny leaped up to stamp down viciously with a boot heel to the back of the man's neck. There was no need to check if that man was dead.
The rest of the tribe was breathlessly watching the Thunderbird circling and circling, drawing lower with each pass. No one had seen the action. But his luck could not hold forever. One of them was bound to come over to check on the horses. Johnny reloaded the Peacemaker he had emptied earlier that day and made sure both guns were properly set in his holsters. He broke open the shotgun, checked the shells and clicked it shut again.
As he passed the corral, Terror neighed and stamped. When he was this close to his horse, the black stallion began to transform, too. The dark eyes turned lambent red and plumes of steam shot out when the great animal snorted. Johnny knew his own face was becoming bony and gaunt, his eyebrows with getting rough and spiky, and there would be a red glint in his own eyes. He patted the black horse, managed to calm it, and strode between the adobe huts toward the crowd just as the Thunderbird dropped to the ground in front of the terrified young prisoner.
The tribe had begun chanting and swaying in place with both arms up above their heads. Evidently, the monster was used to this and paid them no attention. The huge head with its long pointed peak made a tentative snap at Mark Sutcliffe, who could not even hide his head to avoid seeing what was going to happen to him.
Unseen by the oblivious crowd, Johnny Packard raised the shotgun. Just being held in his hands had a weird effect on the weapon, the barrels showed a ruddy sheen to them as if they had been lying in a furnace. As the Thunderbird threw back its head to give a triumphant screech before feeding, Johnny stepped closer and blew its skull apart with both barrels. The roar of the shotgun was louder than it normally would be, echoing back and forth inside the stockade. Every weapon the Brimstone Kid wielded had its destructive effects magnified.
Complete confusion and panic swept over the tribe. Maybe they had never seen a shotgun used before, maybe it was the shock of seeing their god slain before their eyes. Whatever the reason, most of them knocked each other down in their haste to get away from the sacrificial scene. Johnny flung the shotgun away, having no more shells for it, and hopped past the flopping beast as its dying body thrashed. Mark was tied with rawhide strips to pegs driven into the cliff and the Kid had to use his folding knife to cut him free.
"Get ahold of yourself," he ordered in a voice both hollow and menacing. "Yore daddy sent me to bring you home. Just come with me and keep yore head down." Dragging the dazed boy by a wrist, the Brimstone Kid ran through the stockade area back toward the corral. Two of the tribesmen moved into his path, raising war clubs set with sharp stone blades in the heads. As soon as he saw them, Johnny whipped up his Colt and squeezed the trigger twice. The gunflashes were dark red and bright as lightning at close range. Not only were the two Indians flung down with fist-sized holes in their torsos, but the concussion of those shots stunned the tribesmen who were too close. One started bleeding from the ears.
Reaching the corral, the Kid opened the gate while still holding onto the boy. The other two horses tore off as fast as they could pelt but Terror calmly came up to him. The black stallion's head appeared to have changed shape with nightfall, becoming skeletal and frightening. Johnny picked Mark up bodily and placed him behind the saddle which was still on his steed. He vaulted up himself and took the reins, then urged Terror to get going. Mark clung to him desperately. As they trotted through the village where the brown men were running back and forth without purpose, no one tried to stop them. Some of the tribe were kneeling around the dead Thunderbird and wailing.
The gate to the stockade was barred with a log across its width. Without any urging from Johnny, Terror reared up and struck with both front hooves. The thongs holding the crossbar snapped and the gate swung open. They passed through and suddenly Terror was in full gallop through the Valley.. not in fear but in the wild exultation of strength and freedom. Overhead, the crescent moon had risen.
"Mark? Hey boy, you good back there?" the Kid asked as they thundered along the stream toward the lone pass leading from the valley. No answer came. Johnny twisted his head and found the boy was staring off at some distant point only he could see. In the tin arms wrapped around his middle, he could feel that Mark was trembling. Johnny had seen this reaction before, in survivors of battles and massacres. The War had produced many damaged veterans. Only time would tell if this boy would recover or if he would be detached and unreachable. Maybe being back in familiar surroundings would help.
Soon they had reached the narrow opening between sheer cliff walls. Johnny dismounted and led Mark by one hand, with Terror squeezing through on his own. It was not easy for the big stallion to make it and Johnny understood why the valley beyond the cliffs had remained unexplained. Leading Terror by the reins in one hand and Mark by the other, the Brimstone Kid started hiking at a steady pace across the dry sandy soil back toward the Sutcliffe ranch. He didn't know what would happen to the Valley of the Thunderbirds once he reported back. Maybe Mr Sutcliffe would gather twenty men with buffalo rifles and dynamite to slaughter the tribespeople and all the monster birds they could find. It would be simpler just to dam up the streams at their source; without fresh water coming in, that valley would soon become uninhabitable.
None of that was his concern right now. Soon he would mount up again and ride Terror back to the ranch with the boy behind him. His job was to bring Mark home. Even under the malignant influence of the Darthan coin, Johnny felt a pang of regret that he was going back without any of the five men who had entered that valley with him. It was not the first time he had been the sole survivor.
4/12/2017
8/12-8/15/1878
I.
Bouton's Pinto came galloping toward them in complete panic. Its eyes rolled wildly and its head was down as it tore past the rescue party faster than it had ever moved before in its life. Seeing the animal gallop by so closely spooked the other horses and four men fought to keep their mounts from breaking away and running off in all directions.
Only the black horse named Terror did not react. He watched the Pinto hurtle by without moving other than to turn his head to follow its path. Leaning forward in his saddle, Johnny Packard stroked the great neck of the stallion. "Good fella there, that's my Terror," he said quietly. In a louder tone for the other men, Johnny added, "Let him go. There's only the one way in and out of this valley and he's too spooked to manage it by himself. He'll calm down in a mite."
"Yeah, I don't think so," answered Benitez. The veteran scout had calmed his own horse and was pointing with a thumb behind them. "Take a look."
The Pinto had collapsed in a heap not far from where they stood, lying on its side with its ribs not moving to show any breath. Johnny swung down from the saddle and led Terror by the reins to investigate. Still a youth not even twenty years old yet, the Brimstone Kid was small and wiry, active as a bobcat. He was the only clean-shaven man there, which just emphasized his age. Just five feet six and barely one hundred and fifty pounds, the Kid was wearing all black except a red work shirt he had just bought in town while the rescue party was stocking up. His black stetson was pulled low over sullen green eyes. In the beaded band of that hat was tucked a copper-colored coin older than the West itself, the curse of his life.
Behind him, the other four men of the rescue party followed, still on their mounts. Franklin, Dutchie, Benitez and Scott. They had quickly accepted Johnny as their natural leader despite his youth. The ominous reputation of the Brimstone Kid had spread over the Southwest in just a few years and to be honest the four men were uneasy around him. They saw the matched Colt 45s in holsters worn low on his hips. Johnny let the reins drop from his hand as he approached the unfotunate Pinto.
The animal was dead, all right. There was red foam on its mouth. "I figger the poor boy busted his own heart in fear," he said. "Ain't a cut or scrape on his own self, but there's blood all over the saddle. Still wet, too..." He bent and lifted up a well-worn boot. "This was still a-hangin' in one stirrup."
"God save us," Benitez breathed and crossed himself. "What could have happened?"
"Hanged if I know," answered Johnny. He placed the boot down next to the carcass. "Bouton was one tough hombre. He served in the War Between the States and he had been a deputy in a few cow towns before heading out this way." The Kid tilted his black Stetson back to reveal a shock of thick red hair and watched his four companions thoughtfully. "I can't say exactly what befell him."
The man called Dutchie was actually from a German family and his last name was Reinhard. He was the biggest man there, several inches over six feet tall and stocky, with a thick waist. Dutchie had not spoken much so far but now he rubbed his stubble-covered jaw and said, "Appears to me that something took him out of the saddle. Something snatched him up!"
"Paiutes call this the Valley of the Thunderbirds," added Benitez. "Remember that brave we saw in town? He warned us not to come here. He said we would end up in the bellies of the Thunderbirds."
"Aw, that's just redman tall tales," Johnny Packard dismissed the topic. "I've heard a hundred campfire legends and none of 'em turned out to have any meat on their bones. Here, hold on, you rannies." Unfastening a saddlebag that still had CSA stencilled on it, the Kid drew out a wad of the big paper money that was tied together with a piece of twine. "This is what Mr Sutcliffe paid Bouton to join this party. I reckon it's proper to dole it out between us."
Walking over to the four men, Johnny Packard passed out the bills one at a time, jamming one into his vest pocket when his own turn came around. "And one more for Dutchie. Huh, that didn't come out even, tell you what.. I'll take this last dollar and buy everyone a round when this is all over and we get to a saloon." He turned back to the dead horse and raised his hat in a respectful salute. "Adios, Steve Bouton. Rest In Peace, I hope."
Gazing out at the high rock walls which encircled them, Dutchie cleared his throat and spat behind him. "I gotta say, this development don't make prospects look good for bringin' Sutcliffe's boy back in fair condition."
"Dead or alive, Mark's here in this valley," Johnny said as he placed one boot in the left stirrup and vaulted lightly up into the saddle. "His father said they had a screamin' argument and the boy swore he would hide here where no one would see him agin. We hired on to find him one way or the other and that's what I aim to do. Keep yore eyes peeled, boys, and it wouldn't hurt to loosen yore irons in their holsters."
II.
Conditions in the valley were very different from the arid desert outside. At least two large streams ran down from the North, and they stopped at one to water their horses and to refresh themselves. The men filled their canteens and rinsed off the sweat from their hands and faces, all the while gazing around them with worried faces. The grass in this valley was lush, there were trees and heavy brush. It seemed to be almost a closed-off world of its own.
Brushing his wet red hair with his fingers, Johnny Packard stared up at the steep cliffs which entirely encircled them. Those looked like hard climbing, with no obvious handholds or possible routes to the top. The townspeople in the only settlement for sixty miles had told him that the Valley was enclosed and only had one narrow pass barely wide enough for a single horse to squeeze through. Paiutes in the area had not wanted to talk about the place and acted as if the subject had not been brought up.
Johnny tugged on the wrist-length white gloves. Like most men who spent days riding out in the sun, he had developed the habit of wearing gloves to keep the skin on his hands from being burned off. He placed the Stetson back on his head and felt that the Darthan coin inside that hatband was inert. Toward sunset, he knew that coin would start to feel warm and heavy. Then he would become the Brimstone Kid in actuality as well as name but that was still a few hours away.
One of the men came to stand beside him. Tom Frankin was a thirty-odd year old black man of medium height and build, wearing baggy work clothes with worn-out shoes and carrying a Winchester in his hands. He did not pack a sidearm. Franklin was not a good-looking man, his features were heavy and coarse and one side of his face seemed to have been badly burned early in life. But when he spoke, it was to offer solid advice and opinions, and Johnny respected that.
"Following this stream's not a bad idea," Franklin said.
"I reckon so. If Mark Sutcliffe got in here, he'd be likely to stay by fresh water." Johnny had soaked his red bandanna and wrung it dry, now he tied it back around his neck. "Out here, friend, we don't ask about a man's past. It's considered unthoughtful."
"But you're curious about my accent, eh? I don't mind. I'm from Philly, back East. I came from a family of freemen who worked on the shipyards." The top of Franklin's blue flannel shirt was soaked across his shoulders from when he had been dunking his head in the stream. "I came out here because I read too many of those damfool dime novels."
That got a rare laugh from Johnny. "I can see why a man would do that. If life was as free and wild as in them dime novels, it'd be a better world."
Franklin chuckled too. "What I mostly found was labor, first on the railroad then on a cattle ranch. But somethin' I like about the frontier, people treat you based more on how hard you work and whether you keep your word than on the skin you was born with."
"I suppose," Johnny said. "I ain't never been across the Mississippi, so I don't know how things is back East." He jerked a thumb at the Winchester. "I'm glad to see you brung a longarm. Whatever grabbed poor Bouton outta the saddle like that might not be bothered much by reg'lar irons."
"It's a big comfort to me..." began Franklin but he cut off his words as they both heard a loud whoosh from overhead. A huge dark shadow fell over them, Johnny was knocked completely off his feet and Franklin was snatched up into the air bodily by something with wings thirty feet across. The man screamed in pain and fear, the rifle went flying as talons dug deeply into the muscles of his shoulders and his arms went numb.
Rolling as he hit the dirt, Johnny Packard came up with a Peacemaker in each hand. Before any of the stupefied riders could react, the Brimstone Kid was blazing away with the Colt in his right hand to send five heavy slugs at the monster. He had a confused glimpse of bright blue feathers, a long sharp beak and red eyes. There was a piercing screech that hurt their ears, and the giant creature was soaring away into the distance with a limp body hanging from its claws.
The other three men stood with mouths open, hearts pounding and minds frozen at what they had seen. No one had been able to react before the monster was gone with Tom Franklin. Watching the dark form already almost out of sight, Johnny holstered his left-hand gun so he could reload the right-hand Colt with cartridges from the loop on his belt. Cordite stung his nostrils.
Everyone started talking over each other, none of them making too much sense. Johnny took over. He shouted as loud as he possibly could, "Shut yer traps! Not a word outta any of you. Listen up. That was the biggest bird anyone ever seen. I never heard of such a thing but it's a bird, that's all it is. If it's flesh and blood, bullets will kill it. You men savvy?!"
No one answered immediately, then Benitez said, "There are tales of such things, Johnny. The Thunderbird who carries a storm on his back and whose wings cause tornados."
"Yeah. Well, maybe this is the seed that grew into them tales," Johnny said. "Folks with book learning say that even legends start somewhere."
"Quetzalcoatl...."
"Speak English, dern you. What are you saying?"
"The Azetcs in the old times, they worshipped Quetzalcoatl. The winged serpent," Benitez said. "I think they knew about critters like that."
Will Scott spoke as if to himself, "I ain't so sure it was a bird. Its head had like a bony crest and its beak was as long as its body, and its wings were more like a bat than a bird..."
"We'll jest call it a bird for now." Johnny Packard pointed at Dutchie. "I want you to bring Franklin's hoss along with us. It's a good animal. And we might need some of Franklin's gear before this is all over. Anyone see where his rifle fell?"
They located the Winchester but found its mechanism had been damaged by the drop and discarded it. The only other longarm they had among them was Will Scott's shotgun carried in a boot behind his saddle. The rest of them packed revolvers.
"Time to ride," the Kid said as he climbed up atop Terror. "That bird thing was heading upstream, we'll do the same. I calculate I don't have to tell you men to be alert, do I?"
As they moved slowly north alongside the stream, the rescue party spotted rabbits and red squirrels but nothing larger than a stray coyote in the distance. "I don't see no sign of antelope or buffalo, nothing like that," Benitez observed.
"Mebbe we just ain't sighted none yet," Johnny said. "But what are you getting at?"
"I was puzzlin' how much a critter like that would need to eat," Benitez answered. "If it has a family, if there's a few more of these monster birds, they must be eatin' something."
Johnny hesitated. He studied the tops of the cliffs surrounding them. "Nothin' is keeping them birds from flyin' out over the walls around this valley."
"Them Injuns did say something about men and horses sometimes just disappearing real sudden-like," Dutchie said. "I recollect one of the men at Sutcliffe's ranch said the same thing. Sometimes a steer will just be gone as if it fell off the Earth."
"Or up into the sky," Johnny said.
III.
Benitez took the lead, riding slowly, hanging half off his horse with a hand on the pommel for support. He had been a scout and guide for the US Cavalry for eleven years in Apache territory and was a master at spotting tracks or spoors. The rest of the rescue party hung well back to not get in his way. It was late afternoon and the red sun was touching down on the top of the canyon walls.
Pulling up alongside Johnny, Will Scott spoke in his usual quiet tones. He was a dry-skinned man about forty, with the sun-bleached hair and squint of someone who lived most of his time outdoors. Scott was a senior hand at the Sutcliffe ranch and had volunteered to join the group sent to bring young Mark back.
"You was right quick with that hogleg," Scott said. "The rest of us was gaping and gawking like brides on their wedding nights, but you was shootin' at that thing like you do it every day."
"I've led an interesting life," was Johnny's answer. "Been places, done things."
Behind them, Dutchie screamed in absolute terror. Scott and Benitez turned around in their saddles, but it was the Kid who wheeled his steed around with a Colt already in his hand. Plunging down from the sky was one of the giant blue creatures. This close, it could be seen that even though it had blue feathers, the monster was not really a bird. The wings were taut leathery hide stretching down from a supporting bone. Not quite like a bat, but not a bird either. The beak gaped open, more than long and wide enough to bite off a man's head with its sharp inner edges.
No words were needed. All four men spurred their horses in the opposite direction and the animals were near hysteria in any case. Looking back, the men saw to their horror that the Thunderbird had landed with a violent thump and was chasing them on the ground. It ran on its short hind legs and on the knuckles of its front limbs with the wings folded up behind them. The red eyes glared hungrily. The monster was gaining. It ran faster than the horses could.
Swinging Terror over to one side, Johnny Packard leveled his Colt and blasted all five shots-- not at the thick skull, but all at the right foreleg, as close together as he could manage. He had experienced a sudden insight that birds had hollow bones to reduce weight and maybe this thing did as well. Five .45 caliber bullets smashed within inches of each other and that forelimb broke apart with splinters flying away. The monster screeched and toppled over heavily on that side.
"Rein you, you rannies!" the Brimstone Kid yelled. "It's down! Take a gander, it's down!"
With some difficulty considering how excited both they and their horses were, the three members of the party managed to slow their flight. In a minute, they halted and were making a slow reluctant return to where the monster was squaking and flopping about. Its head lunged forward on a ridiculously long neck and tried to snap at Johnny.
Dismounting well out of reach, the Kid drew his left hand gun and holstered his spent revolver, but shifted the fresh gun to his right hand. He was not as equally good a shot with both hands by any means, he had never met a man who was, but carrying a second weapon at the ready had saved his life more than once. When he was sure this beast was no threat, he would reload the spent gun.
"GodDAM look at that thing! It's from the Book of Revelations!" Dutchie said. "An abomination upon the Earth."
"Yuh see that tail? Long like a rope with a fluke on the end," Scott said. "This is no bird. I told you. I--I don't know what it is."
In a deep, authoritative voice, Benitez declared, "The Feathered Serpent. Quetzalcoatl, as the ancestors believed."
Holstering his gun and moving a little closer to the struggling beast, Johnny said, "I take your meaning, amigo. It IS like a lizard of some kind, but with feathers, and its skin stretched to form wings. Kinda wings. Guess I'll never say I've seen everythin' there is to see in this world."
"I spose we need to kill this animal," Benitez said. "Wrong to let any living thing suffer. Who's got a knife big enough to cut-" He stopped in mid-sentence because a three-foot long arrow sliced into the back of his neck to emerge from his throat. A storm of arrows hissed down on them, coming without warning and piercing them in three or four parts of their bodies at the same time.
Johnny already had a Colt in his right hand. The reflexes which had made him infamous across five states took over as he dropped into a crouch to present a smaller target and started firing up without really knowing where the attack was coming from. He only got off one shot before an arrow punched deep into his abdomen and another one into the middle of his chest. That was the last he knew.
IV.
The night sky out in the wilderness blazed with thousands of stars never seen near town lights. Johnny Packard lay stretched out on his back, gazing up in awe at the stars and feeling as if somehow he might fall up into them and be free of all care and suffering. Then the burning in his chest and stomach brought him roughly back to the situation at hand. He felt unreasonably sad at having to deal with life again.
Looking furtively around without moving his head, the Kid discovered he was laid out next to the bodies of Benitez and Scott. Both were stiff and cold, their open eyes staring up at the same sky he had just admired. The corpse of Dutchie was lying a few feet further away and a strange sort of Indian brave was yanking an arrow out of the body. Johnny studied the native with curiosity. The man was short and squat, with more of a light brown skin than any coppery tone such as he was used to seeing. The thick coarse hair was black, hacked off straight around the shoulders and bound at the temples with red cloth. An elaborate loin cloth also of red cloth had beaded cords hanging from it as decoration.
But the face was not like that of any Indian tribe he had ever seen. The nose was long and pointed, the chin long and jutting forward, the eyes deepset and a pale hazel color. A second individual came over, closely resembling the first and they exchanged low guttural conversation. They marched away together.
With no one within sight, Johnny took more of a chance and raised his head to look down at himself. Ragged holes in his red shirt were black with dried blood. He felt sore and achy but was in no real pain. Against his back, where he had been lying on his hat, the Darthan coin inside the band burned painfully hot. It was like lying on a white coal. Johnny let his breath out and tried to collect his thoughts. This was the third time he had thought for sure he was going to die, only to revive after dark with his injuries healed.
How long would this work? How much damage would be too much for the cursed token to repair? If he was killed early in the morning instead of near sunset, would he be dead too long for the coin for help? He had no way of knowing. He could not count on this witch-coin to keep resurrecting him.
His guns were gone. That was no surprise.
Taking a chance, still watching for any of the strange brown Indians, the Kid drew up his Stetson and adjusted its firmly on his head without sitting up. The presence of the Darthan talisman throbbed against his forehead. Instantly, strength roared through his body and he fought the urge to jump to his feet. Whenever the coin transformed him, it was like the feeling you got when waking up alert and energetic after an illness. Suddenly he felt as if he was only sleepwalking during the day and this was who he really was.
Growing bolder with every second, Johnny sat up and made out that they were inside a stockade made of logs lashed together to form walls. The tops of the posts had been sharpened and one of the brown Indians with a quiver made of animal hide and a longbow in hand stood watchfully at each corner. The Brimstone Kid in him took over. Johnny got openly to his feet, saw that no one had noticed him yet and watched as twenty of the strange Indians gathered around the back of the stockade which was formed by the wall of the canyon.
There were a few women among the crowd, with longer hair but also mostly naked. Only two solemn silent children stood next to their mothers. What were they doing? The entire tribe seemed to be concentrating on some activity. Johnny wished he could find his guns before he had to confront any of these savages. Then the crowd stepped aside and the Kid boiled over with rage at what was revealed.
A young boy, no more than thirteen or fourteen, had been tied spread-eagle face-out to pegs driven into the cliff at head level. Even from where he stood, Johnny saw the coveralls and plaid work shirt, the tousled head of yellow hair like the father's. It was Mark Sutcliffe, the runaway son of the rancher. At least he was alive for now.
Overhead, a dark shape blotted out the stars when it passed. That hideous screech echoed in the still air. One of the Thunderbirds, whatever they were. Johnny Packard stiffened in sudden realization that these people were going to sacrifice an outsider to the monster.. like the Aztecs making sacrifice to Quetzalcoatl as Benitez had told him.
There were only a few low huts made of adobe, with wood bracing and thatched roofs. Thin torches burned here and there on posts stuck in the dirt. Johnny stayed in the shadows, working his way closer. Even with the spirit of Brimstone upon him now, he couldn't fight all these natives barehanded. If he could find even a tomahawk or Bowie knife...
From the far side of the stockade, a horse snorted angrily. Terror! Johnny made his way in that direction and found a crude corral that was too small to hold three grown horses. He wondered what it usually contained. The logs had been stripped of bark and notched to fit together, with a gate that tied shut by thongs.
Standing with his back to Johnny, watching the agitated movements of Terror, one of the brown men held Scott's shotgun in both arms. Johnny's matched Colts were jammed in the red loincloth. As soon as he spotted them, the Kid launched himself directly at the guard from twenty feet away. They crashed together, fell to the ground and then Johnny leaped up to stamp down viciously with a boot heel to the back of the man's neck. There was no need to check if that man was dead.
The rest of the tribe was breathlessly watching the Thunderbird circling and circling, drawing lower with each pass. No one had seen the action. But his luck could not hold forever. One of them was bound to come over to check on the horses. Johnny reloaded the Peacemaker he had emptied earlier that day and made sure both guns were properly set in his holsters. He broke open the shotgun, checked the shells and clicked it shut again.
As he passed the corral, Terror neighed and stamped. When he was this close to his horse, the black stallion began to transform, too. The dark eyes turned lambent red and plumes of steam shot out when the great animal snorted. Johnny knew his own face was becoming bony and gaunt, his eyebrows with getting rough and spiky, and there would be a red glint in his own eyes. He patted the black horse, managed to calm it, and strode between the adobe huts toward the crowd just as the Thunderbird dropped to the ground in front of the terrified young prisoner.
The tribe had begun chanting and swaying in place with both arms up above their heads. Evidently, the monster was used to this and paid them no attention. The huge head with its long pointed peak made a tentative snap at Mark Sutcliffe, who could not even hide his head to avoid seeing what was going to happen to him.
Unseen by the oblivious crowd, Johnny Packard raised the shotgun. Just being held in his hands had a weird effect on the weapon, the barrels showed a ruddy sheen to them as if they had been lying in a furnace. As the Thunderbird threw back its head to give a triumphant screech before feeding, Johnny stepped closer and blew its skull apart with both barrels. The roar of the shotgun was louder than it normally would be, echoing back and forth inside the stockade. Every weapon the Brimstone Kid wielded had its destructive effects magnified.
Complete confusion and panic swept over the tribe. Maybe they had never seen a shotgun used before, maybe it was the shock of seeing their god slain before their eyes. Whatever the reason, most of them knocked each other down in their haste to get away from the sacrificial scene. Johnny flung the shotgun away, having no more shells for it, and hopped past the flopping beast as its dying body thrashed. Mark was tied with rawhide strips to pegs driven into the cliff and the Kid had to use his folding knife to cut him free.
"Get ahold of yourself," he ordered in a voice both hollow and menacing. "Yore daddy sent me to bring you home. Just come with me and keep yore head down." Dragging the dazed boy by a wrist, the Brimstone Kid ran through the stockade area back toward the corral. Two of the tribesmen moved into his path, raising war clubs set with sharp stone blades in the heads. As soon as he saw them, Johnny whipped up his Colt and squeezed the trigger twice. The gunflashes were dark red and bright as lightning at close range. Not only were the two Indians flung down with fist-sized holes in their torsos, but the concussion of those shots stunned the tribesmen who were too close. One started bleeding from the ears.
Reaching the corral, the Kid opened the gate while still holding onto the boy. The other two horses tore off as fast as they could pelt but Terror calmly came up to him. The black stallion's head appeared to have changed shape with nightfall, becoming skeletal and frightening. Johnny picked Mark up bodily and placed him behind the saddle which was still on his steed. He vaulted up himself and took the reins, then urged Terror to get going. Mark clung to him desperately. As they trotted through the village where the brown men were running back and forth without purpose, no one tried to stop them. Some of the tribe were kneeling around the dead Thunderbird and wailing.
The gate to the stockade was barred with a log across its width. Without any urging from Johnny, Terror reared up and struck with both front hooves. The thongs holding the crossbar snapped and the gate swung open. They passed through and suddenly Terror was in full gallop through the Valley.. not in fear but in the wild exultation of strength and freedom. Overhead, the crescent moon had risen.
"Mark? Hey boy, you good back there?" the Kid asked as they thundered along the stream toward the lone pass leading from the valley. No answer came. Johnny twisted his head and found the boy was staring off at some distant point only he could see. In the tin arms wrapped around his middle, he could feel that Mark was trembling. Johnny had seen this reaction before, in survivors of battles and massacres. The War had produced many damaged veterans. Only time would tell if this boy would recover or if he would be detached and unreachable. Maybe being back in familiar surroundings would help.
Soon they had reached the narrow opening between sheer cliff walls. Johnny dismounted and led Mark by one hand, with Terror squeezing through on his own. It was not easy for the big stallion to make it and Johnny understood why the valley beyond the cliffs had remained unexplained. Leading Terror by the reins in one hand and Mark by the other, the Brimstone Kid started hiking at a steady pace across the dry sandy soil back toward the Sutcliffe ranch. He didn't know what would happen to the Valley of the Thunderbirds once he reported back. Maybe Mr Sutcliffe would gather twenty men with buffalo rifles and dynamite to slaughter the tribespeople and all the monster birds they could find. It would be simpler just to dam up the streams at their source; without fresh water coming in, that valley would soon become uninhabitable.
None of that was his concern right now. Soon he would mount up again and ride Terror back to the ranch with the boy behind him. His job was to bring Mark home. Even under the malignant influence of the Darthan coin, Johnny felt a pang of regret that he was going back without any of the five men who had entered that valley with him. It was not the first time he had been the sole survivor.
4/12/2017
