BAD WATER

Copyright (c) 2017 by Randall R. Peterson ALL RIGHTS RESERVED This is a work of fiction. All persons, locations and actions are from the author's imagination or have been used in a fictitious manner.

BAD WATER

By R. Peterson

Thomas Lang galloped Comanche to the top of the butte and stopped. The prancing Texas mare sidestepped wind-polished rock as she gulped mouthfuls of dry air like water. The scorching sun was almost directly overhead so the Indian Fig cactus and Sage that littered the vast desert below cast no shadows. Two tiny flecks of sifted dust, rising perhaps four miles out in a sky baked dull orange by blistering sand, showed the ex-confederate soldiers he chased were too far ahead and would not be caught this day. The thick Crow weave blanket under the saddle was wet; better to wait out the heat and travel in the cool of night. Perhaps then it might be only buzzard picked bones and two leather bags filled with semi-refined Blue Bonnet ore that he captured.

Elisabeth Walker, the owner of the gold mine, had been furious as Tom saddled up to go after the outlaws. “There can’t be more than ten pounds of pure gold in them bags once it’s melted down,” she said. “Fourteen-hundred dollars ain’t near enough to get yourself killed over!”

“They killed one of your wagon drivers and left another for dead,” Tom argued. “It’s not just about the money!”

“I know that!” Elisabeth tried to get between Tom and his horse. “I’m no innocent schoolmarm fresh off the stage from St. Louis!  Dillard and Dodd Cole were a plague in Missouri when I lived there. Either brother would just as soon shoot you as look at you. Both of the killers rode for a time with “Billy” Clarke Quantrill and I heard he ran them off because they were too bloodthirsty.” Elisabeth tried to undo Comanche’s saddle cinch “You best bide your time in town until a posse can be put together!”

Elisabeth had been crying as Tom rode out of South Fork.

An hour later, the Sheriff found an overhang on the north side of an ancient volcano that offered shade but no breeze. After shooting a rattlesnake he poured water for his horse. Tom took only three gulps for himself and then put the wet hat back on his head. The first canteen was empty; only two more remained lashed to his saddlebags. Only one thing was more valuable than gold in western Montana in August 1879 … water. Tom took off his cartridge belt and laid the loaded single action Colt 45 next to the saddle he used as a pillow … and then he slept.

Just before Tom opened his eyes he thought he was sleeping on a bench in the Abilene train station. The rough wooden building shook like a St. Louis bordello dancer each time the snorting Kansas Pacific locomotive smoked and banged into the bustling cow town. When he heard the horse whinny, rear and pull against the brush she was tethered to he knew it was no dream. The rock on which he lay seemed to suddenly turn liquid as it heaved and rolled in waves beneath him. Small rocks began to rain down from the ledge above and he buried his head under the saddle hoping Comanche had sense enough to break the leather reins that tied her to the earthquake.

Less than thirty seconds later it was over. By the time the first aftershock came, fifteen minutes later, Tom had already caught Comanche and was riding down the western side. A crowd of curious stars watched his progress from a cool and darkened sky. One of the flickering red lights low on the invisible horizon looked too bright to be a planet and Tom hoped the outlaws would have coffee on.

-------2-------

The first rays of morning light were rising over the mountains to the east when Tom saw his first dark wonder of nature. The entire side of a mountain had fallen away and a never-before-seen-tributary gushed from an opening halfway up the side of a granite cliff. The water sprayed mist twenty feet in the air as it tumbled and splashed over piled, fresh boulders flung in its pathway. Wild thrashing torrents formed into a river as it roared through a canyon and then spread across the low parts of the desert ahead. “And I was worried my tongue was going to dry up and blow away,” Tom removed the canteen strapped to his pack, drank heavily and then splashed his arms and face.

It wasn’t until they neared the muddy pools spreading outward that Comanche snorted, jerked and turned away. “Dern! I shouldn’t have been so quick to dance.” Tom wiped his brow. There weren’t too many things the sheriff put his full trust in, but his horse and water were one. If Comanche refused to drink … she probably had a damn good reason.

Reluctantly, Tom rode Comanche ten miles in the opposite direction to fill his canteens from a source in the mountains. This time the wild Texas mare drank heavily and even tried to roll in the muddy spring. “Wish I’d thought of that,” Tom grinned, “but it’s a little too late now!”

It was two hours after sunset when the sheriff found his way back to the new lake. Light from a campfire reflected on the water. Tom dismounted and crept up to the camp on foot. Dillard and Dodd Cole were both laughing at something. A strong odor stung Tom’s eyes. A smell like a haunch of fatty beef that had fallen into the flames.

Tom blinked his eyes not sure if he was seeing right. Dodd Cole sat on a log next to a rock-ringed fire with a large cooking pan filled with what appeared to be lake-water on the ground next to him. His boots were off and he would alternate sticking first one bare foot and then the other into the fire giggling as the bloody flesh charred and blistered. After the foot had actually began to flame he would plunge it into the pan of water and breathe the steam vapors all while smiling broadly. Tom could see only the back of one horse and it stumbled through the brush without a tie rope like it was severely lame and going blind. Dillard sat on a rock several feet from his brother furiously whittling something with a buffalo knife all the while singing loudly in a skinner’s voice. “Oh! Bright are the jewels from love's deep mint …God bless my toes while picking lint!”

Thomas Lang stood and took two steps into the camp, cocking and bringing a Colt 45 level on each man. “You boys been drinking that lake water?” he asked. Both men burst out laughing. Tom noticed each man’s eyes appeared to glow with an orange-yellow sickness. As if in reply, Dillard dropped what he was carving and reached for a jug. “Best drink this side of my mother’s grave,” he said as he gulped and the water trickled down his beard. Tom watched the horse hoof roll toward the fire. Dillard had carved a heart with an arrow through it and what looked like his initials.

“I’m sorry about your mother, but you men are under arrest,” the sheriff told them.

“Oh maw ain’t dead yet … but we plans a real nice funeral for her don’t we … Dudd?” Dillard laughed as he glanced at his brother.

“Cut her throat and let her pretty blood drip in the gravy-pan right after she pulls them top brown biscuits from the oven!” The younger Cole licked his lips and patted his overlarge stomach.

“You lose a horse on the trail?” Tom used one gun barrel to point to the half-carved severed hoof resting next to the fire stones.

“My horse ran off thirsty,” Dodd smiled and rolled his eyes. “We had to whip Dillard’s nag and burn its legs to make the damn thing drink.” He turned his head to one side. “Pouring a pan of water into a screaming horse’s mouth is no easy chore!”

“Like night-shooting nigras inside a burning church!” Dillard smiled with the memory.

“All that jumping around I think the poor critter picked up a stone …” Dodd closed one eye and a tear ran down his cheek as he shook his head. “Sorry! But that bruised hoof just had to come off!”

“I want you both to turn around and put your hands over your heads,” Tom ordered. The men appeared to be growing sicker by the minute. A nauseating smell like burnt almonds suddenly choked the air.

“Peggy be bawn!” Dodd burst into a rapid fire song as he stepped into the fire holding his hands behind his head. His bare feet kicked and pumped furiously to the words as he kept his upper body stiff in the crackling flames.

“Oh  Ireland be a sharp fine country,

And all Scots to her be kin,

So I must gang-alang without you,

My pleasures to begin!”

Tom was so astonished he barely noticed the gun in Dillard’s hand until he heard the hammer cock. He turned as a chunk of led tore into his left arm, and shot the man four times each time listening to the growing hysterical laughter that spilled from his mouth like a soup pot boiling over. The excited speech deteriorated to fat-lip gibberish mixed with poor-white talk.

           

“Doo bla gum bo … Come on in, friend, the water be jus fine!” A demon made of fire beckoned. Tom shot the bloody, scorched thing dancing in the flames with his last eight bullets … before a thin smoke finally began to rise.

Sheriff Thomas Lang’s hands were shaking so bad he had a hard time reloading, but he knew the horse with one bloody leg stump thrashing through the brush would have to be put down.

Tom found two sun-bleached buffalo skulls not far from the dead horse and placed them on  stakes he drove into the ground near each end of the lake’s shore then he kicked lots of dirt over all three bodies. He didn’t need any crazy buzzards flying through the air and he hoped that whoever came along would heed the poison warning.

An hour later, he loaded the saddle bags with the gold ore on the back of Comanche and led her on foot away from the mind sickness. There was no way he was going to sleep tonight … in this place of devils.

-------3-------

It was near morning when Tom finally stopped to rest at the top of a ridge with a slight breeze blowing but he had wanted to get as far away from the smell of madness as possible. He was just about to turn and head back to South Fork when a glimmer of dust on the horizon caught his eye. Ten minutes later he could pick out two dozen covered wagons driving toward the lake. “Damn,” Tom muttered as he unloaded everything off his horse except the sweat. He had rode Comanche many times without a saddle, not always by choice, and the increase in speed just might make the difference between life and death for the hapless travelers.

It was a group of Mormon settlers obviously lost and too far north on their way to Utah. Tom noticed one bearded man and at least three to six women crowded into each wagon plus at least four times that many children riding and walking alongside. Comanche was winded and sweating heavily when he stopped the train just as the first wagons reached the lake.

“You can’t drink that water!” Tom yelled trying to catch his breath.

“Why not?” the man in the lead wagon reached for a rifle just behind the seat. “Our map shows open range with no restrictions!”

“The water ain’t no good,” Tom said. “It smells of a devil … and it ain’t as pure as it looks!”

“None of us is as pure as we look!” the man smiled. “Thanks for the warning … Sheriff!” He noticed Tom’s badge and the rifle disappeared. “My name is Zachariah Johnson and this here is the Johnson Overland Company. We was just about to stop for our mid-day meal … won’t you join us?”

“You folks is a bit north for Utah,” Tom said as he slipped off his horse.

“The good Lord shines a light before the faithful,” Zachariah said, “and we cannot be lost. Our party is headed to a place called Gilmore just on the other side of these mountains.”

Tom had heard of the silver mining town worked by leftover Chinese railroad immigrants. It lay in a dry valley filled with sage brush. He didn’t think it was a proper destination and it showed on his face.

“The good Lord stretches forth his hand and a garden grows in the desert,” Zachariah sounded like he was preaching. Tom only nodded.

The group proved to be more than accommodating, offering him a special place at a quickly assembled table and he was surrounded by children. “You kill any Lamanites with those guns?” Tom noticed several admiring looks from a group of blue eyed giggling females. All the dresses they wore were crisp, bright and clean. He wondered if they were all wives … or spoken for. The mid-day meal was a rich fresh vegetable and venison soup made from what looked like the last of the party’s water supply along with fresh baked bread. After a prayer, bowls were passed around and a group of women began to sing Come Come ye Saints.

After eating, Zachariah asked Tom to follow him to one of the wagons. The only one boarded up and without a cloth cover. “There is something about our people that you don’t know,” he explained and then motioned for the sheriff to look in the back of the wagon.

A skeletal girl, covered with scabs, lay sprawled near-naked on a pile of dirty, fly-infested blankets. She turned and hissed as Tom stared. Her jagged teeth were as green as new corn leaves with tiny black worms stitching the corners of her too wide mouth.

Tom didn’t see the man swing the heavy cast iron pan but heard the crash a split second before his head began to swell. Then there was only darkness.

“Put him in the back with the demon child,” Zachariah told the men surrounding his wagon, “then water the stock and fill all the barrels with water.”

“Sorry Sheriff,” he whispered as an unconscious Tom was pulled into the wagon. “We bring our own laws and devils with us … and only God in heaven can direct a Latter Day Saint what to drink!”

TO BE CONTINUED …