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Happy Halloween! Today we conclude the short story from my compendium "The Illusion Exotic". If you missed Part 1, you can catch up here. THE CAVE, Part 9 A former Civil War soldier embarks on a quest on behalf of his former commander. He expects to find outlaws and gunslingers in the high deserts of New Mexico, but instead stumbles upon death incarnate. "The Cave", & "The Illusion Exotic, "Copyright 2016 Brian L. Braden  Image by Michaela Wenzler from Pixabay (One week later) Covered in a dusting of snow, the gallows stood ready for three days. But the village elders couldn’t decide whether to send for a territorial judge or let Townsend try the case as the justice of the peace. “No witnesses, nothing to tie Carl to the cave or the bodies, no confession, and no wounds,” Knight told the elders. “I shot him point blank. Townsend, you saw the wounds and the blood. Now, there he sits in shackles, fit as a rattlesnake on a hot day, and laughing. If you send for a territorial judge you might as well release him now.” The townsmen agreed, but the elders, accustomed to the days of centralized rule from Mexico City, took more convincing. Amado’s pleas, not Knight’s, eventually brought them around. They held the trial in the tavern. Shackled, Nesbitt hunkered in a dark corner like a rat. Knight had no words, no frame of reference for the beast known as Nesbitt Carl. He beat him only by abandoning all logic and relying on instinct. Now logic and reason were losing badly against Nesbitt Carl. A railroad bookkeeper with a back-east education represented Nesbitt. The young man correctly stated nothing could tie Carl to the scene of the crime, which Townsend and his party had already destroyed. Carl’s only possible crime was being in Knight’s room, uninvited but unarmed. Knight knew Nesbitt didn’t play by the rules in the bookkeeper’s back-east law book. They needed a frontier trial, where evidence carried less weight than fear. Amado beseeched the pueblo chiefs to come and testify, but none did. One sent a messenger to beg the court to appease the demon Nesbitt, lest he devour them all. “The injun is the only one talking sense!” Nesbitt cackled from his irons. “I hereby absolve the red savages from my terrible vengeance.” To Knight’s relief, Townsend quickly found Nesbitt Carl guilty of the murders of Sheriff Jackson Wellsby and the Lady Josefita Lucero, as well as twenty six counts of the unlawful death of an indian. During sentencing, Knight shocked the gallery when he spoke in favor of burning. This statement received Nesbitt’s full attention. “I’d rather take my chances out there with the savages instead of you ‘civilized men’! Bloody Americans, no better than the French,” Nesbitt protested, visibly shaken. The bookkeeper stood and tapped his law book. “This, gentlemen, is the U.S. Constitution as well as the territorial charter of New Mexico. It’s enough this is a sham trial, based on superstition and...” he waved his finger at Knight. “...blind fear! My client is right. We are no better than the primitives we’re supposedly here to show the light of reason, law, and Christian love. The legally proscribed form of capital punishment in this territory is death by hanging or firing squad. For all that is right and merciful, at least do this. Or we might as well all live in Texas.” The bookkeeper carried the day. Nesbitt grinned smugly as they dragged him into the cold sun and onto the gallows in the town square. In anticipation, a crowd gathered under the bare aspens surrounding the gantry. The fact the disappearances stopped once Knight apprehended Nesbitt didn’t go unnoticed by the villagers. A gasp went out among the crowd. Villagers crossed themselves with cries of, “El Diablo!” as women turned away. Knight made his way through the spectators to see what the commotion was about. Nesbitt’s skin darkened and turned purplish-black. It began to split and bleed. Blood trickled from his eyes like perverse tears. Townsend inched forward. “Nesbitt Carl, you have been found guilty of the murders of Jackson Wellsby and Josefita Lucero. Do you have anything to say before sentence is carried out?” Nesbitt looked left and right over the crowd. “Knight! Where’s Knight?” The railroad agent stepped forward. “Ah, there he is. I have but one request for my new friend.” The crowd fell silent as Nesbitt leaned over as far as his chains allowed, blood and pus dripping onto the freshly cut planks. “Before I snapped her neck she told me you were coming. Seer of the unseen, she said. The bitch cursed ya, Knight! Cursed ya with old magic, deep magic, and you don’t even know it. So you better bury me deep, old boy. BURY ME DEEP!” Knight stepped back, hand seeking the reassurance of his pistol grip. A woman screamed and fainted. Trembling, a young priest from the mission stepped forward. “Do you want me.... do...you...want me to read from the Holy Scripture?” he stuttered. Nesbitt rolled his eyes and grinned. Black blood oozed from between his teeth. “If it will get that hood on me, you bet your ass, laddie! Why don’t you read Daniel 9:9, that one is always short and entertaining in times like these.” The priest fumbled though the pages. “The Lord our God is merciful and forgiving, even though we have rebelled against him.” Nesbitt issued a deep, gurgling laugh. “Say, padre, could you bring that a wee closer so I can read it myself? My eyes are a bit watery right now.” The priest held the Bible closer to Nesbitt, who promptly spit a wad of black juice on its pages. “Damn you to hell!” the priest recoiled. “Too late. That forgiveness shit didn’t play too well in my case,” Nesbitt chortled as Townsend placed the hood over his boiling, disfigured face. “Ahh, that feels so much better!” With a cackle, Nesbitt broke into song. “Death is master of lord and clown; Shovel the clay in, tread it down. CLOSE THE COFFIN, HAMMER IT DOWN!” Snarling, Townsend yanked the lever and the trapdoor fell away, sending Nesbitt to a sudden jerk three feet above the New Mexico clay. Nesbitt’s feet kicked wildly. His neck didn’t snap. Knight had seen enough hangings to know when they would linger. He pulled a Colt and fired one bullet into the hood and one into the abdomen. Nesbitt ceased struggling. The bookkeeper looked up at the body in horror and disbelief. Knight bumped him as he turned to walk back into the tavern. “I guess he gets a hanging and a firing squad today,” Knight said. “I figure justice must be plum happy ‘bout that.” THE CAVE, Part 10 (Two days later) “You were right, we should have burned him. Will he come after us?” Amado asked. Knight chewed on a piece of grass, and kicked at splintered planks surrounding the grave, which was now a gaping hole dug from the coffin up. It reeked of sour mash whisky. “Maybe not today or tomorrow, but he’ll come,” Knight answered. “I fear Nesbitt Carl, whatever spawn of hell he may be, is too big, too strong for us to fight,” Amado said. “I’ll find out what he is and I’ll find a way to kill him,” Knight replied, Nesbitt’s final words clouding in his mind like hot gunsmoke. For several minutes they contemplated the empty grave in silence. “I wish I could have met your wife, Amado.” Surprised, Amado looked up at Knight. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Why do you say this?” Knight looked upon the distant mountains ringing the Valles Caldera, the season’s first snow lightly brushing its rim. Even against a slate gray sky, they were vivid and beautiful. “A beautiful woman once told me there was magic in this land. I didn’t know what she meant at the time, but now I do. She said it was old magic, bigger than us, bigger than Nesbitt.” Amado shook his head. “I don’t understand.” Knight looked him in the eye. “She said fire and steel won’t serve us against this enemy.” He spit the piece of grass into the disemboweled grave. “But in the end, fire and steel is all I got.” Knight removed the turquoise crucifix and silver chain from his pocket. “Townsend brought this back from the cave. He thought you’d want it.” Amado extended a trembling hand, and then pulled back. “Her precious memory will live with me forever, in our home, in our tavern...and in the village she was so loved. In this respect, I will always be a wealthy man. I’m not sure why, my friend, but I think she would want you to have it. Perhaps it will give you more than fire and steel.” Knight nodded in thanks and shook Amado’s hand. Silas Knight, railroad agent, soldier, and man of consequence and purpose, rode south and never looked back. He spent the rest of his days trying to forget the smell of the cave. THE CAVE, Epilogue The bobby trailed the big man since spotting him entering the Whitechapel an hour earlier. He wore a long trench coat and a wide brimmed hat. The stranger’s boots sounded oddly foreign on the London cobblestone. These slums were the domain of dregs and destitutes. This man, neither beggar nor gentlemen, didn’t belong here. The stranger slipped through the fog with purpose, but without obvious direction. This bloke is looking for something, and I suspect that something is trouble. Trouble plagued the East End these days and the policeman wasn’t about to let this stranger cause any more. He picked up his pace, determined not to lose the big man in the foggy darkness. The big man turned the corner at Miller’s Court, followed by the bobby a few moments later. And then he vanished. The bobby ducked into the side alleys, searching each in detail, unwilling to believe this stranger could give him the slip on his own turf. Yet, that’s exactly what happened. After ten minutes jogging up and down the nearly empty streets, the bobby gave up. He briefly considered blowing his whistle for reinforcements, but decided against it. He’d keep an eye open for the big man tomorrow night. He walked backed to Whitechapel Station, his shift almost over. The big man materialized out of the fog and watched the bobby turn the corner. He held a crumpled copy of The Penny Illustrated Paper and Illustrated Times, which detailed the recent murder of a local prostitute, Miss Catherine Eddowes. The bobby was right; the man in black was looking for something. He smelled the cave in London’s East End, and came with fire and steel to put a stop to it. He opened his black oilskin drover, revealing two Colt .44 pistols. Each black as night, one he named Consequence, the other Purpose. But he knew they weren’t enough to stop the evil he followed across the Atlantic. He needed more. The street lamps shone down upon his chest, reflecting off a turquoise cross hung from a silver chain. The End.  Happy Halloween! I hope you enjoyed THE CAVE. You can get The Illusion Exotic here, featuring The Cave and other short stories. Please browse all my titles here.
#shortstory #horror #halloween #spooky #western #serial *** If you enjoyed this blog, please like the post and leave a comment or if you're feeling brave, share it on social media. This platform is my entire advertising budget and is how I share the word on my books. Also visit my Facebook, my author page and check out my photography book from America Through Time, "Abandoned Wiregrass: The Deepest South's Lost and Forgotten Places."
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Halloween is two days away, and today is Part 7 of a short story from my compendium "The Illusion Exotic". I'll run an installment each day leading up to Halloween. If you missed Part 1, you can catch up here. THE CAVE, Part 7 A former Civil War soldier embarks on a quest on behalf of his former commander. He expects to find outlaws and gunslingers in the high deserts of New Mexico, but instead stumbles upon death incarnate. "The Cave", & "The Illusion Exotic, "Copyright 2016 Brian L. Braden  A grim calm settled over the dark man as he straightened and turned toward the entrance. He had his answer, but the answer didn’t make sense. The sun peeked under the top lip of the cave. He rolled down his sleeves and donned his coat. Before he stepped over the woodpile, something made him look back. He didn’t know why, because he didn’t want to. During the war the same inner voice made him duck right before a bullet whizzed by, or compelled him to advise General Palmer contrary to sound intelligence reports, thereby saving the division. Sunset now bathed the back of the cave in crimson light, highlighting every fly with crystal clarity. A ray of orange sunlight settled onto the gap in the pile where he removed Wellsby’s body. Something twinkled like starlight amongst ghoulish arms, legs and bones. Leave, his heart told him. Go see, something else whispered. The stink of rot and sour mash whisky enveloped him as he returned to the pile once more, careful not to block the sunlight from the sparkling place. Tangled black hair spilled over the body’s face, and Knight hoped he’d uncovered a freshly slain indian at the bottom of the pile. But the shade of black wasn’t quite right, and a few strands of gray stood out in the ruddy light. He kicked away another body to reveal white cotton and blue velvet. A silver chain wrapped around a delicate hand, which grasped a turquoise crucifix. As if watching someone else, he removed one glove and gently brushed away the black hair, uncovering pale, olive skin. Knight reeled backwards and fled the cave. Cleansing sunlight warmed his shoulders as he fell to his knees beside the stream. Knight stripped off his coat and splashed water over his face and arms. He kept scouring his forearms with water and sand until they bled, sucking in breath after breath, trying to purge death from his lungs. Townsend meekly approached. “Mr. Knight, are you okay?” Knight rinsed the bandana and folded it neatly in his pocket. He donned his coat, adjusted his hat and collected himself. “It’s just like Amado and I told you, isn’t it? Like something from hell,” Townsend said. Knight snapped his Colt up into Townsend’s forehead and shoved him against the ravine wall. “Where is Josefita Lucero?” He screamed into Townsend’s face. “You crazy som’bitch! Put that damn thing away!” Knight grabbed Townsend’s face and raised him off the ground with one arm. He shoved the black Colt up against the sheriff’s temple. “Tell me where Josefita Lucero is or I’ll shoot you dead now!” “Amado sent her to Santa Fe three days before you showed up! She went on the weekly coach. When we came back from the cave he said he was scared and didn’t want her ‘round. Yesterday he got word the carriage never made it. Amado was organizing a search party this morning.” Knight dropped Townsend into a dusty heap, turned and walked to his horse. “Señorita Lucero is in the cave, dead by two days near as I figure. Wellsby is in there, too. He’s been dead longer.” Townsend sat in the sand, face in his hands. Knight mounted up. He wasn’t going to tell Townsend, or anyone else, about his encounter with the Spanish Lady last night. “You still think I had something to do with this, don’t you?” Knight reached into this saddlebag and pulled out the unopened bottle of sour mash whisky. He cracked the seal, pulled the cork and took a whiff. Knight grimaced before his face solidified into a mask of determination. “There’s not a man alive with enough evil in his soul to do this. If there was, you ain’t him. The poor souls had their blood drained. They were feasted upon.” Townsend shuddered. “Probably some damned redskin.” Knight remembered General Palmer’s words: I fear, Silas, the old world is here, its sins and demons have followed us to the New World. “Get on your horse and ride hard back the way we came. Get back before sundown. I’m circling north via the rail line.” “Hell, I’d have to kill my horse to get back that fast!” “Then kill it. What did this knows we’re out here. If he catches you before you get to Espanola, you’ll end up stuffed under that pile with Wellsby and Amado’s wife.” “Well, tell me who done it. I’m the sheriff, and I’ll take care of ‘em!” “I suspect Wellsby left here with a good idea, too. I think he kept his suspicions to himself until he could confirm them. He underestimated this enemy and paid for it. I suspect the Lady Lucero knew who did this, though I don’t know how.” Knight reeled his horse around. “A good deal of what’s transpired here remains a mystery, but my gut tells me Father Garza may be dead, too. The faster you get back, the better the chances are you’ll find Amado still alive. “Now this is important, so listen carefully. When you get back, organize a party of about five men to come back at first light. Drag all that timber into the cave, soak it with kerosene and burn it to ashes. Then dynamite the cave and collapse the bank. As for tonight, stay at the tavern. “Don’t be alone, not even for a minute. If Amado hasn’t gone off looking for his wife yet, then.... well, tell him what I saw in there. I, for one, think he already suspects as much. Watch over each other, or you may not live to see the dawn.” Townsend swallowed hard. “I’ll bring the padre to bless the grave.” “If it makes you feel better, but this ground is cursed...deeply and forever.” “Are you going after who did this?” Knight jiggled the bottle. “I’m going to drink this, all of it till I can’t feel or smell anything else. I’ll see you back at the tavern. Tell everyone I plan on being mean and drunk, so stay the hell out of my way. In the morning, I’ll ride for the monster who did this.” “Who’s gunna watch your back?” Knight patted his Colt and rode off to the north without another word. He followed the cart tracks he scouted when they arrived at the river. He didn’t tell Townsend about the tracks, the less he knew the better. THE CAVE, Part 8 As darkness crept across the high desert, the wind howled up the Chama Valley. By the time Knight darkened the tavern door, the wind switched from the north, carrying flurries foretelling the season’s first storm. He swayed as the wind blew out the oil lamps. His glazed eyes swept the room until they fell upon Townsend. The lawman and the aborted search party sat quietly in the tavern, somberly nursing beer and whisky. Stumbling in, he slammed the empty whisky bottle on a table. The railroad agent raised his head and squinted at the wailing drifting from the upper rooms. “I take it Amado and his daughter know,” Knight slurred. Townsend nodded. “I caught ‘em just before he set out for Santa Fe with the search party.” “You did everything I asked?” Townsend nodded again. “I’m going to bed. There’s killing needs doing come dawn. Wake me before first light.” With that, Knight stumbled to his room and slammed the door shut. A barmaid closed the tavern door, but not before another slipped in unnoticed from the windswept darkness. Knight lay fully clothed, boots on, on top of the sagging mattress. Motionless and eyes closed, he breathed deep and ragged like a passed-out drunk. Townsend and his men’s muffled voices floated down the hallway and mixed with the branches rattling the window. Something slinked across the floor in the pitch-black room. Alert and cold sober; Knight’s senses were fully engaged. Eyes closed, breathing unchanged, he knew hell shuffled only a few feet from the end of his bed. He smelled the cave in the cramped space between the bed and the washstand. It’s deciding whether or not I’m really asleep. Like a spider, the enemy needed to ensure the venom was fully engaged before it wrapped the fly. Suddenly, the dark presence seemed to expand. The Colt blasted from under Knight’s right leg. In the muzzle flash, Knight saw a man slam against the opposite wall. Knight sprang up and discharged another cartridge where he calculated the body fell. Through the ringing in his ears he heard a groan. Townsend and his men exploded into the room brandishing guns and lanterns. Through oily gun smoke and dingy light Knight saw the motionless form of Nesbitt Carl against the shattered washstand. ("The Cave" concludes tomorrow.)  I hope you enjoyed this installment of THE CAVE. It will continue tomorrow on The Illusion Exotic and conclude on Halloween! Can't wait to find out what happens? You can get The Illusion Exotic here, featuring The Cave and other short stories.
#shortstory #horror #halloween #spooky #western #serial *** If you enjoyed this blog, please like the post and leave a comment or if you're feeling brave, share it on social media. This platform is my entire advertising budget and is how I share the word on my books. Also visit my Facebook, my author page and check out my photography book from America Through Time, "Abandoned Wiregrass: The Deepest South's Lost and Forgotten Places." Halloween is two days away, and today is Part 6 of a short story from my compendium "The Illusion Exotic". I'll run an installment each day leading up to Halloween. If you missed Part 1, you can catch up here. THE CAVE, Part 6 A former Civil War soldier embarks on a quest on behalf of his former commander. He expects to find outlaws and gunslingers in the high deserts of New Mexico, but instead stumbles upon death incarnate. "The Cave", & "The Illusion Exotic, "Copyright 2016 Brian L. Braden  Formed by successive floods, heaps of gray scrub oak and rotting pinion formed a wall guarding the cave’s mouth like ragged teeth. Death lurked in there, every bit as grim as Amado and Townsend described. Josefita’s words came back to him...you will need more than fire and steel. Knight cocked the Colt’s hammer. Fire and steel will have to do. He stepped gingerly over the woodpile looking for the telltale sign where men had repeatedly transversed the heap. Knight quickly found a path of flattened sticks and followed it. Immediately after clearing the woodpile, Knight spotted the first bones. Covered with tattered flesh, they formed a scattered trail stretching into the dark recesses. Then the hot, putrid reek of rotting flesh assaulted him, along with the deafening buzz of a million flies. Knight pulled a flask of rye from his coat and took a long pull. He poured some over his bandana and tied it over his face. Returning the flask in his pocket, he knelt down examined the cave floor. Once again, the tracks told the story. Knight slipped deeper into the cave until the sloping roof forced him to stoop. That’s where he found the pile, exactly as Amado and Townsend described it. Clouds of black flies ebbed so thick they partially obscured the flesh mound. Arms, legs and bloodstained indian garb poked out from sheets of squirming maggots. Fighting an overpowering urge to vomit, his nostrils rebelled against an unholy stench the bandana did little to curb. Knight wasn’t familiar with the local savages, but he felt confident these weren’t white men. The corpses weren’t piled as much as stuffed into the back of the cave, new corpses tossed atop the old ones instead of spreading the pile out in the ample cave. The pile looks compressed. It’s been arranged. Beyond the scene’s sheer horror, that fact puzzled him. Knight glanced back at the bright entrance. The bone trail leading to the cave’s mouth obviously came from the older bodies near the bottom. Four men have been here. Amado’s, Townsend’s, and perhaps Wellsby’s tracks were several weeks old and easy to spot: straight in, straight out and close to one another like frightened creatures. The fourth set of boot tracks cut fresh and deep and bold across the cave floor, proclaiming the predator’s lair. The only scavenger tracks were those of the freshly killed coyote, and its tracks only meekly penetrated beyond the woodpile. It snatched the first scrap it found and high tailed out. Every critter for miles around should have been in here, feasting and dragging the carcasses up and down the riverbed. The only buzzards he saw were freshly arrived and circling over the dead coyote outside. From First Manassas to Gettysburg, Knight had witnessed fields of blood and carnage. Nature wasted no time feeding on war’s grim bounty, but here only flies reported for duty. The evil that repelled the scavengers began to seep into his bones. As bad as he wanted to run, grim duty kept his boots planted in the cave. If the bone trail leads from the center of the pile, it means someone needed to make room. Knight returned to the woodpile, thankful for the fresh air. He removed his drover coat and pulled a pair of leather gloves from its inner pocket. He laid the coat over the pile, rolled up his sleeves, and donned the gloves. That’s when a thought occurred to him. He looked back at the cave floor, and blew out a long breath of air between his teeth. There weren’t any signs of bodies being dragged, either inside or outside the cave. That’s why the killer’s tracks are so deep. He carried them, perhaps for miles. Returning to the corpses, Knight pulled on a rotted leg protruding midway down the pile. At first it didn’t budge, but his efforts released a fresh wave of foulness along with a cloud of flies. Knight coughed and fought for breath as he pulled again. The body slid out with a wet sucking sound. On a hundred battlefields Knight had never seen a corpse like this. The indian, perhaps in his late teens, had been here over a week, but wasn’t as stiff and bloated as would be expected. All the dead grow pale, but even a red savage wouldn’t be this eerily white, even after a week. Then he saw how the indian died. The man’s blood had been drained through a long gash ripped into his neck. Knight looked around, but there was no evidence of mass bloodletting anywhere in the cave. He wasn’t killed here. He pulled another corpse from the pile, this time an older man. He died the same way. Another older, badly decomposed body told the same story. He examined their necks more closely, trying to deduce the weapon that inflicted the killing wounds. “Knight, you alright in there?” came Townsend’s voice from beyond the cave. “I’m alright,” he yelled back. “But I reckon you won’t be if you don’t high-tail it back to that‘X’.” “I ain’t moved, Mr. Knight.” Townsend responded a moment later in a fainter, more distant voice. Knight leaned closer over the dead. No other wounds were apparent, only the gashes which delivered the killing stroke. Too jagged for a knife...maybe a saw? He peered closer at the necrotizing flesh, occasionally flicking away a maggot. Knight couldn’t believe what his eyes told him, but the dead don’t lie. Chew marks. Bites. “Poor bastards.” As a deputy in Kansas City, he once investigated a prostitute’s murder. Something about these bodies reminded him of that brutal violation. He examined the rest of the three corpses and discovered bruises around their wrists. Someone very powerful pinned them down, ripped open their necks and drained every ounce of blood from their dying bodies. They didn’t struggle much, and that he didn’t understand. They all looked to have been strong bucks. Shaking, Knight stood and took several deep breaths. He placed his hand on the holstered Colt until the trembling ceased. Looking back at the cave entrance, the light slowly dimmed as the day wore on. The tracks in and around the cave gave Knight confidence Townsend wasn’t responsible for this atrocity. The evil here wasn’t indian handiwork, either. Even the monstrous Comanche had never done anything like this before. Knight battled the urge to bolt, but an unseen force held him. He glanced back at the pile and saw black fabric poking from beneath an indian leg. Knight shoved the leg aside and discovered a hand and arm wearing a white man’s coat. Knight grabbed the sleeve and tugged at the body buried deep inside the pile. Initially, it wouldn’t budge. Knight dug in his heels and turned his head against the hellish fume rising from the heart of the pile. The body broke free as corpses tumbled right and left, leaving a stinking valley in the death mound. Knight gasped for air and took a long pull from his flask before examining the new corpse, two holstered pistols strapped to its hips. “Wellsby.” He’d never met the man, but felt sure it was him. A tin star topped Wellsby’s black overcoat, his white shirt now stained with rot from his new companions. Wellsby died differently from the rest. His mustachioed face was purple and bloated, his body stiff with rigor mortis. Bruises encircled the lawman’s throat, but the neck wasn’t ripped open. Someone snapped Wellsby’s neck with bare hands before the sheriff could even draw, carried the big man here, and then stuffed him deep inside the pile like a rag doll. Probably a hard man, Knight knew someone like Wellsby didn’t have his neck snapped easily. Still leaning down, Knight caught a faint scent hiding beneath the blanket of rot and decay. A familiar scent. Knight pulled down the whisky soaked bandana, closed his eyes, and whiffed the air. At first, the putrid rot overwhelmed his senses, but then he caught it again. Wincing, he filled his lungs again and again, leaning over the pile like a chef taking in the aroma of the day’s soup. Whisky. This wasn’t the hard-edged old rye soaking his bandana, but a sweeter, more refined aroma of Kentucky sour-mash. (to be continued tomorrow)  I hope you enjoyed this installment of THE CAVE. It will continue tomorrow on The Illusion Exotic and conclude on Halloween! Can't wait to find out what happens? You can get The Illusion Exotic here, featuring The Cave and other short stories.
#shortstory #horror #halloween #spooky #western #serial *** If you enjoyed this blog, please like the post and leave a comment or if you're feeling brave, share it on social media. This platform is my entire advertising budget and is how I share the word on my books. Also visit my Facebook, my author page and check out my photography book from America Through Time, "Abandoned Wiregrass: The Deepest South's Lost and Forgotten Places." Halloween is three days away, and today is Part 5 of a short story from my compendium "The Illusion Exotic". I'll run an installment each day leading up to Halloween. If you missed Part 1, you can catch up here. THE CAVE, Part 5 A former Civil War soldier embarks on a quest on behalf of his former commander. He expects to find outlaws and gunslingers in the high deserts of New Mexico, but instead stumbles upon death incarnate. "The Cave", & "The Illusion Exotic, "Copyright 2016 Brian L. Braden  “It’s there, in the cliff face on the east side of the river.” Townsend pointed down to a sharp bend in the river about half a mile north of their vantage point on the cliff. Knight lowered his hat against the naked sun and followed Townsend’s finger to an overhang in the opposite cliff. There, the river had carved out a hollow in the soft yellow clay. In the stark midday shadows, he couldn’t be sure how far it penetrated the cliff. With monsoon season nearly over and the Brazos Mountains snow pack almost gone, the Chama shriveled to a trickle. The challenge would be finding a way down the cliff to the streambed. “I see it. How do we get down there?” “The cliff descends in another mile north.” “Something is moving down there, just south of the cave,” Knight pointed to a dark speck trotting out from the cave’s shadow. Townsend shielded his eyes from the sun and sat higher in the saddle, wiping sweat from his brow every few minutes. “That there’s a cay-yote-aye, maybe a mangy wolf. Hard to tell from here, I didn’t see any sign of a...” Townsend jumped in his saddle as Knight’s Colt thundered inches from his ear. “SON OF A BITCH! I’m gonna be deaf in that ear for a week, you...” Ignoring Townsend, Knight calmly replaced the revolver in his holster, and rode through the blue smoke. Townsend rubbed his ringing ear and looked where Knight shot. Far below, the animal lay motionless on the riverbank. “It had something in its mouth. I want to see it.” “Jesus Christ,” he mumbled and spurred his horse after Knight. As Townsend promised, the cliff soon descended to the sandy streambed. Knight stopped just short of the river and trotted back and forth, looking intently at the ground as Townsend caught up. “Hell of a shot back there. Musta been three hundred yards. Never saw a revolver shot like...” “What’s east of here?” Knight interrupted, pointing to a wisp of black smoke on the horizon. “That’s Foreman McGhee’s railhead camp, maybe four miles. The line stays north of the river until it enters the mountains.” Townsend took off his hat and wiped his head with a rag. “Looks like ole’ McGhee’s making good progress all things considered.” “Answer me this, and answer carefully.” Knight turned and directed his gaze squarely on Townsend. “Have you told anyone what Amado spoke of last night? Does anyone in town, other than you and Amado know of this place?” Townsend shook his head. “Only the kid from the pueblo and Father Garza.” “I ain’t worried about the boy. If what Amado told me is true, there isn’t a red skin alive who’ll come near this place.” Knight galloped about fifty yards downstream and halted, studying the sandy bank. Warily, Townsend trailed a few yards behind. Knight suddenly wheeled about, pulled his gun and pointed it squarely at Townsend. “The boy, did he accompany you and Amado back to the cave?” Townsend slowly raised his hands. “Hey, I ain’t done nothing to you or any of those poor souls!” Knight cocked the hammer. “Answer my question.” “No, he was too afraid. Stayed upstream ‘til we came back fer him.” “Father Garza...when did he leave you and Amado and head back to the Espanola?” Knight asked. Townsend looked confused. “I don’t understand.” “It’s important you answer my question, Mr. Townsend. Otherwise, it’s going to go bad for you.” “Last night, neither of you told me what happened after you found the cave. Tell me what happened to Father Garza after you left the cave.” Sweat poured down Townsend’s face. “He took the boy north, to the pueblo. Don’t rightly know what became of them since. I suspect Garza made his way back to San Marcos.” “And Wellsby?” “He went back with us, I know Amado told you as much.” “We’ll see. Turn around and ride north ahead of me.” “Are you gunna tell me what the hell’s going on? I ain’t done wrong by you or anyone.” “Maybe,” Knight replied casually from behind. “There’s what you tell me and what the tracks tell me. I’ll find out soon enough who’s telling the truth.” They rode several hundred yards north toward the distant railhead, until the terrain flattened and sand gave way to scrub and thistle. He commanded Townsend to stop, but stay on the horse. “Keep your hands were I can see them.” Knight dismounted and walked through the scrub, once again studying the ground, Colt always pointed in Townsend’s general direction. He bent down and examined the dirt. “Wellsby vanished, just like that?” Knight inquired. “It ain’t no damn different than like we told you,” frustration rising in the sheriff’s tone. “We got back just before dark. Wellsby told us to keep quiet and he was gunna wire back to Colorado Springs what we found. He never met us the next morning, like he said he would. Ain’t seen him since. Amado said we should keep quiet until you showed up. That’s the truth, I swear. Hey, if we were lying, why would I bring you up here?” Knight remounted his horse. “Because this would be a good place to dump the body of an agent of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad. Now, turn your horse around and ride back to the river.” Townsend spit. “You planning on killing me?” “Should I?” They returned to where the cliffs enclosed both sides of the river. The horses splashed up to their hooves in the muddy water as they rounded the bend and the cave came into view. “Dismount,” Knight ordered. The railroad agent dismounted and cut an “X” in the sand with his boot heel next to the stream. “Stand here. Don’t move until I see if what you and Amado told me is true. Most of what you said lines up with the tracks going in and out of this canyon. If I see tracks newer than two weeks old coming from the south, I’ll know someone lied. And if I don’t find what you described in the cave, I’ll still know someone lied.” “We weren’t lying, Knight.” “We’ll see. If you move off that ‘X’ I’ll kill you before you mount your horse, understand? Even if my back is turned, I’ll still hear you. And if I can’t hear you, I’ll smell you. If I find what I should in there, then me and you, we’re okay.” Townsend remained silent as he tied his horse to a piece of scrub and stood on the X. “Ain’t you gunna take my gun?” “If I thought you knew how to use it, I would.” Townsend’s cheeks turned red. He jerked his hat low and crossed his arms with a huff. Knight tied off his horse and crossed the sluggish current, barely getting his boots wet in the process. As he walked down the canyon the cliffs rose higher and the breeze abandoned him to the New Mexico sun. Overhead, buzzards dragged their shadows over the creature lying next to the stream bed. It turned out to be a mangy coyote with a mottled coat and sore-covered skin. Jutting ribs and bulging eyes spoke of a creature already dying of hunger. A human femur, partially covered with dried flesh, lay beside its head. He nudged it with his boot, revealing blood-soaked sand under its chest. Lung shot. Knight stepped over the coyote, not bothering to look back at Townsend, knowing he hadn’t moved. The cave waited. (to be continued tomorrow)  I hope you enjoyed this installment of THE CAVE. It will continue tomorrow on The Illusion Exotic and conclude on Halloween! Can't wait to find out what happens? You can get The Illusion Exotic here, featuring The Cave and other short stories.
#shortstory #horror #halloween #spooky #western #serial *** If you enjoyed this blog, please like the post and leave a comment or if you're feeling brave, share it on social media. This platform is my entire advertising budget and is how I share the word on my books. Also visit my Facebook, my author page and check out my photography book from America Through Time, "Abandoned Wiregrass: The Deepest South's Lost and Forgotten Places." Halloween is quickly approaching, and today is Part 3 & 4 of a short story from my compendium "The Illusion Exotic". I'll run an installment each day leading up to Halloween. If you missed Part 1, you can catch up here. THE CAVE, Part 3 A former Civil War soldier embarks on a quest on behalf of his former commander. He expects to find outlaws and gunslingers in the high deserts of New Mexico, but instead stumbles upon death incarnate. "The Cave", & "The Illusion Exotic, "Copyright 2016 Brian L. Braden  The serving wench hadn’t brought his whisky. He turned to go back inside when the sound of drunken singing, clear and hollow, echoed out of the night. Without thinking, Knight placed his right hand on the butt of his revolver and slowly turned. The singing drew closer. When logs about the house are stack’d, And next year’s hose is knit, And tales are told and jokes are crack’d, And faggots blaze and spit; Death sits down in the ingle-nook, Sits down and doth not speak: But he puts his arm round the maid that’s warm, And she tingles in the cheek. Death! Death! Death is master of lord and clown; Shovel the clay in, tread it down. Death is master of lord and clown, CLOSE THE COFFIN, HAMMER IT DOWN! The refrain repeated as the smell of rye, stale and rotten, floated from the darkness. The form materialized, leading a donkey and cart. As the shadow drew closer, light streaming from the windows illuminated a fat, bloated face covered with stubble. “Good evening to you, kind sir!” The portly man bellowed with a slight Irish brogue. He removed his top hat and bowed deeply, revealing a few thin strands of hair over a bald pate. “Mr. Nesbitt Carl at your service.” Knight nodded but kept a hand close to his revolver. “If I may be so bold, you must be the railroad agent Amado spoke of, sent here by the General himself to put this fair village back in order. Mr. Knight, I presume?” He thrust forward a meaty hand. “The same.” Knight nodded, but didn’t accept Nesbitt’s hand. Nesbitt withdrew his hand and smiled. “I see, a man of few words; a man of action and justice.” He lifted his finger and waved it vigorously. “I salute you, Mr. Knight. The General is most serious and must be determined in his resolutions to send a man such as yourself. I, too, am a man of action and recognize a kindred spirit. Men like us are driving the American Empire to the Pacific and taming the red savage. I, for my part, soothe and give comfort to tired working men with my assortment of tonics and spirits.” He motioned to the cart pulled by a dead-eyed donkey. Knight first took the crates for coffins, but a second look revealed whisky crates. The man he took for an undertaker was nothing more than a carpetbagger, probably driven west when the spoils of war dried up. He sensed something very wrong in this village, something beyond the influence a common rapscallion like Nesbitt Carl could bring. Knight held scavengers like Nesbitt Carl in disdain, but such cowardly creatures had their uses. He would deal with Nesbitt later, but for now he would keep an eye on him. “I take it, Mr. Carl, you have business here with Señor Lucero?” “I come this way every few months. He has a good eye for fine liquor and his patrons expect only the best. I must ensure my customers have enough inventory to last them through the brutal territorial winter. In fact...!” Nesbitt’s eyes grew wide as a smile sprung to his face. He bounced to the back of the cart to retrieve a fresh bottle of whisky. “As a distinguished representative of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad, please accept this complimentary bottle of my finest wares. It’s Kentucky sour mash, only the highest quality. I reserve this for my white customers, being too strong for the weak constitutions of the red race. Only a few drinks and they become delirious.” Nesbitt leaned in and tapped his head. “Tenderizes the savage brain, you know. Amado tells me it’s fit for the tables of the Spanish court. Please take it with my best regards, Mr. Knight.” “Much obliged,” he said and took the bottle of amber fluid. “You said you come this way every few months. What other towns do you frequent throughout the territory?” Nesbitt’s eyes darted left and right. “Well, as a businessman I must keep a wide variety of customers stocked. If I tarry too long my competitors, numerous and not known as scrupulous men, will swoop in and prey upon my clientele. This is why I am a man who moves...” The front door opened, spilling light and noise onto the porch. Isobella emerged holding a shot glass and a half-full bottle and placed them on the rail next to Knight. “I am sorry, but we are running low...Señor Carl! The cellar is almost empty; take your wares around to the kitchen. Miguel will see to your cart and donkey.” “Sweet Isobella, I have a better idea. YOU take my cart and ass to the back. This is Amado’s entire order. I will join the patrons in the saloon presently. Mr. Knight, I must see to my customers. Perhaps you will join me in the inn for a drink and a conversation?” “It would be a pleasure.” He began to roll another cigarette. “I’m going to take in the night air for a spell longer, then I will be in directly.” “As you wish,” Nesbitt handed the reins to a reluctant Isobella, lifted a few bottles of whisky from one of his cases, and entered the inn. Muttering curses under her breath, the girl led the donkey and cart around the corner. Knight heard a few men cheer as the vendor entered the room. Laughter penetrated the walls and carried across into the night. Knight found himself alone again on the porch, pondering the events of the evening. THE CAVE, Part 4 He placed the fresh bottle on the rail and filled the shot glass from the bottle of rye Isobella brought. A mystery formed in his mind, fed by the look of desolation in Amado’s eyes and the fear festering inside the inn. He wanted to talk further with Josefita, somehow sensing she held the key to this mystery. First, he would hear what Amado had to say, and then seek out Wellsby. Something in Espanola spelled trouble for General Palmer’s ambitions. He nursed the whisky and waited for the inn to empty. As midnight approached, he heard Nesbitt laughing and lifting the spirits of the gloomy crowd with raunchy jokes and bawdy songs. Eventually, men drifted away, but never alone. Once they stumbled into the darkness, silence and sobriety fell upon them. They scurried away like children racing to the outhouse at midnight, their need barely outweighing their fear of what lurked in the shadows. Knight slipped back inside carrying both bottles of whisky. Only a few men remained at the long tables. He found a dark corner and sat with his boots up on the table. A few women cleaned up, but Josefita had yet to reemerge from the kitchen. He poured another shot from the near empty bottle of rye and continued to nurse it. Nesbitt laughed loudly with two Mexicans almost too drunk stand. Knight watched him closely. Nesbitt caught his gaze and smiled back with large yellow teeth that reminded Knight of a coyote. Amado emerged from the kitchen, sweaty and obviously exhausted. He wiped his hands on his apron and approached a group of men drinking near the fireplace. Amado nodded and motioned over to Knight. A stocky, Dutch-looking cowboy with a red beard, scowled over his shoulder at Knight. Perhaps this fellow is Wellsby. He looked younger than expected, perhaps only in his early 20’s. Amado and the bearded man approached. The cowboy glanced side to side, not meeting Knight’s steady gaze. A Colt hung awkwardly by the man’s side. “Señor Knight, thank you for waiting so long. The matters at hand will not wait for morning. Let me introduce Sheriff Townsend.” Knight put his boots down and leaned forward. “I was expecting to meet the acquaintance of a Mr. Wellsby.” “Let us sit and talk. Much has transpired since the General dispatched you.” Amado called for more whiskey. Townsend immediately poured a shot of whiskey and downed it, then poured another. What Knight first took for cockiness, he now recognized as fear. Whatever is going on here, Townsend wears the badge reluctantly. “A few weeks after snows cleared from the lower passes to Santa Fe, the crews resumed work on the rail line. It was shortly thereafter when people started vanishing,” Amado began. “Indians, mostly.” Townsend spoke up, “Strong backs are hard to come by ‘round here. Injuns are poor workers...if and when they show up. They come ‘round when they’re hungry or want liquor and vanish as fast as they’re paid. Some foremen won’t use ‘em, claim they steal more than their worth.” Amado looked irritated at Townsend’s interruption, but continued, “I am on good terms with the chiefs from the various pueblos. They came to me first. They did not trust Wellsby, perhaps for good measure. At first...” his voice broke and he looked away. “At first I thought it was simply a matter of intoxicated indians wandering away. Sometimes they mix strong drink with peyote in their kivas and are overtaken by madness; but after a few weeks there were too many men missing for this to be the only explanation. I knew some of them, young Zuni and Navajo men. Good men, fathers and sons. Some were my friends. Yes, maybe they drank too much, but that is the curse the white man brought upon them.” “How many indians are we talking about here?” Knight asked. Amado paused and took a drink, his hands shaking. Townsend stared at his glass and remained silent. “By the time the monsoons came, I counted two dozen indian men vanished. Maybe more, it’s difficult because the indians soon ceased leaving the pueblos.” “When Wellsby found out, he told me it was indian business as long as it didn’t interfere with the railroad. It became railroad business when the chiefs forbade their men to work on the railroad. Wellsby rode out to the pueblos to strong arm the chiefs to release their men back to the lines. I believe he knew you were coming and he didn’t want the problem to get back to General Palmer before he could resolve it.” “He asked me to ride out with him that day, along with Richard here.” He nodded at Townsend. “We also took Father Garza from San Marcos and rode twenty miles northwest, along the Chama, to the Zuni settlement on the river. They were the first to refuse workers.” “Father Garza came, I think, not to convince the chiefs, but to protect them from Wellsby. They are a proud but peaceful people. Not like the southern Apache or bloodthirsty Comanche. They protect themselves with desolation, high on the mesas or deep in the malpais, the badlands. They thrive where others only find death. Death is their friend because he takes care of their enemies before their enemies can find them.” Amado paused and rubbed his eyes. “Wellsby...Wellsby,” he smiled and wagged his finger. “The indians did not trust him. Wellsby threatened the tribes. Father Garza always tried to mediate, but Wellsby only made the indians more stubborn.” He shrugged. “I could not blame them, Wellsby was a hard man.” Townsend nodded. Was? Knight continued to listen, poker face firmly set, unsure where this tale would end. He wanted to like Amado, obviously a shepherd of a man and the center of this community. This inn reflected his spirit, a light on the edge of a dark frontier. He also saw turmoil swimming in innkeeper’s haggard gaze. Townsend took false solace in the iron strapped to his side, not from any inherent mettle in his spirit. Knight knew Townsend’s gun would more likely get him killed than save his life. “So we rode out that morning, before the sun,” Amado continued. “We wanted to get as far as possible before the late season monsoons rose above the mesas. I sent young Miguel ahead to inform chief Lai-lun-kia of our arrival. The chief is wise and patient, but I feared Wellsby’s arrogance would test him. I wanted him prepared for our arrival. Garza is especially trusted in that pueblo.” Amado took a long drink of whiskey and wiped his mouth. “We rode up the Chama till mid-morning. It was hot, very hot. Not a breath of air stirred. We started up into the high country when we saw him.” He paused and shivered. Something is terribly wrong here. “Gentlemen!” Nesbitt boomed from behind. He slapped Amado and Townsend on the back. Knight didn’t notice his approach from the other side of the room, and that fact chafed his mind like a sandbur in his boot. Knight looked about and realized, save Isobella, the patrons and barmaids were gone. She sat quietly in a rocking chair beside the fire. All the lamps were extinguished, leaving only the fireplace to cast long shadows across the room. Amado rose and shook Nesbitt’s hand. “My friend, did Isobella see to your payment?” Nesbitt smiled widely and grasped Amado’s shoulder. “Of course, all our accounts are settled. As usual, your hospitality and generosity are without equal.” Amado stood with rigid formality, an honorable old world man. Nesbitt, however, gushed over Amado the way sycophants do. Nesbitt removed his hat and bowed low. “Gentlemen, the night is no longer young and neither am I. There is much business to attend to on the ‘morrow. I bid you goodnight!” As he turned to go, Knight saw something in the liquor monger’s eye, something sharp like an unexpected shard of glass. Nesbitt’s eye lingered too long on Knight, sizing him up. “Amado, how long has Mr. Carl been in your acquaintance?” “He came with the melting snows. His prices are fair and the customers like him, especially in these dark days. He is quick with a joke and is very generous with the samples.” “I see,” Knight replied. “Continue your account. Who did you see?” Amado took another drink and continued, “We saw a frightened young boy from the pueblo, running north up the riverbank as if being chased by the devil himself.” Stone faced, Knight listened to Amado’s tale into the early morning. When he finished, only the lamp at their table lit grim faces. Isobella had long ago retired to bed. Orange embers popped and floated out of the dying fireplace. Knight remained silent for what seemed an eternity. “Townsend, I want you to accompany me to this place first thing tomorrow. We leave with the sun.” Ashen, Townsend stood. “Then I best be getting along. I’ll meet you here at sun-up.” Knight stood as Amado grasped his hand. “Thank you. I hope you understand why I cannot accompany you, I must tend to the inn.” Knight almost opened his mouth to inquire if Josefita could keep an eye on things while Amado accompanied them. She struck him as an intelligent and competent woman, but instinct held his tongue. Experience taught Knight when in doubt, remain silent lest you unintentionally reveal a weakness to an unknown enemy. “Amado, I must clarify one more detail regarding your account. You said Wellsby returned with you to Espanola, then vanished the day after your return. How many days now has he been missing, and have you or Mr. Townsend told anyone this account except for me?” “It will be two weeks tomorrow since he vanished. Townsend and I made a pact to tell no one until your arrival. Trust is a hard commodity these days.” In that moment, Knight sensed Amado wanted to tell him something else. Instead, the innkeeper blew out the lamp, slumped into a chair next to the dying fire, and bowed his head. “Goodnight, Señor Knight.” Silas Knight lay in bed, boots on and Colt by his side. His thoughts lingered on the beautiful Spanish Lady before he fell into a soldier’s sleep. Branches scraped a dry rattle against the window as muted sobs floated down the hall from the tavern chamber. (to be continued tomorrow)  I hope you enjoyed this installment of THE CAVE. It will continue tomorrow on The Illusion Exotic and conclude on Halloween! Can't wait to find out what happens? You can get The Illusion Exotic here, featuring The Cave and other short stories.
#shortstory #horror #halloween #spooky #western #serial *** If you enjoyed this blog, please like the post and leave a comment or if you're feeling brave, share it on social media. This platform is my entire advertising budget and is how I share the word on my books. Also visit my Facebook, my author page and check out my photography book from America Through Time, "Abandoned Wiregrass: The Deepest South's Lost and Forgotten Places." Halloween is quickly approaching, and today is Part 2 of a short story from my compendium "The Illusion Exotic". I'll run an installment each day leading up to Halloween. If you missed Part 1, you can catch up here.  THE CAVE, Part 2 A former Civil War soldier embarks on a quest on behalf of his former commander. He expects to find outlaws and gunslingers in the high deserts of New Mexico, but instead stumbles upon death incarnate. "The Cave", & "The Illusion Exotic, "Copyright 2016 Brian L. Braden The horse drank by the mountain stream while Knight slept in the saddle. Late afternoon sunlight danced off the last of the cold snowmelt. Soon, the first snows would seal the mountains to the north and east, barring his way back to Colorado. It didn’t matter; he wasn’t coming back this way until next summer. For now, however, the only thing falling was the leaves from the cottonwoods and aspens. A breath of cool, dry mountain air woke him. He looked up and around. The sun shines harder here. Mountains capped with strips of old snow stood boldly against the pale blue sky in the west and north. Knight gently spurred his horse. They ambled down the mountain, following the golden trail of cottonwoods into the fertile Chama Valley. The setting sun blazed orange as he entered Espanola, a collection of low adobe huts, shacks, and tents. Children played in the dusty haze kicked up by wagons packed with railroad workers. Zuni Indian women sat cross-legged against southern facing walls. Wrapped in brightly colored blankets, their shadows lay crisp on white adobe. He found himself before a two-story adobe inn across from an old mission. A Mexican boy gladly accepted a U.S. nickel to feed and care for his horse. Outside the inn, several squat Zuni women in long dresses tended two hornos, adobe ovens. They took loaves of fresh bread, tortillas and steaming goat meat into the main kitchen though a side door. He stepped out of the cooling twilight into a warm main chamber packed with men crowded along several long tables. White men and Mexicans hunched over their mugs, eating with barely a word. Except for a crackling fire in the corner, an odd silence hung over the tavern. Knight made his way to an open bench. A plump indian girl ran a wet rag across the rough table in front of him. “You are not a worker,” she said matter-of-factly. “No, but my money is good. Now bring me something to eat.” She eyed him suspiciously and hurried off to the kitchen. Around the room, hardened gazes assessed Knight before going back to their business. After a few minutes, a sweaty man emerged from the kitchen, nervously wiping his hands on a dirty apron. “Señor Knight? Are you Señor Knight from the railroad?” Knight stood, towering above the elderly man with the refined Spanish accent. With bloodshot eyes, the Spaniard’s shoulders slumped as if under some invisible weight. Knight extended his hand. “I take it you are Señor Amado Lucero?” The Spaniard offered a weak smile and unsteady handshake. “Welcome to my establishment! Please, sit. Isobella, get our guest some warm bread and tequila. Please, sit my friend.” “Thank you.” Knight tipped his hat and sat back down. Patrons eyed Knight with renewed interest, perhaps wondering who merited Amado’s finest hospitality. “Isobella will take care of you,” Amado motioned to the plump indian girl. “I must tend to the kitchens. Once my patrons depart, if you are not too exhausted from your journey, we will discuss business. My daughter is preparing a room for you even now.” “Thank you kindly. General Palmer spoke highly of you and your dear family.” Amado winced, then smiled tightly and nodded. He curtly begged Knight’s pardon and disappeared into the kitchen. In a few minutes, Isobella placed a steaming plate of corn tortillas and shredded goat meat before him. The green and red chili spices didn’t sit too well with Knight’s bland Protestant palate, but it was hot with ample cool water to wash it down. Anyway, mountain air made a man plain hungry. He ate as quickly as the spicy food permitted, all the while observing the room around him. As the sun set outside, the fire cast long shadows across the mud walls and danced off the low-slung ceiling beams. Hard men, exhausted from their day’s labors, sat in near silence. They nursed whiskey or warm beer, but lacked spirit. More men streamed in, but few left. Soon, the serving girls lit lamps, banishing the shadows to the corners. Knight wiped his mouth and washed down the last of his meal. He’d seen this before. When men gather in fear, they are either overly boisterous or deathly quiet. Men are loud in the face of dangers they understand, but fall silent in the shadow of the unknown. He beckoned Isobella. “Bring me a whisky. I’ll take it on the porch. Tell Señor Amado he can meet me there when his business is complete.” Stares followed him as he departed. Knight stepped onto the front porch and leaned up against a post. He breathed in deeply, letting the night fill his lungs. A man could live on air this sweet. He struck a match, lit a freshly rolled Carolina tobacco cigarette and watched the blue smoke waft into the starry night. For a brief moment, he caught a whiff of something sickly sweet, but it vanished quickly on the breeze. Knight turned, and experienced the disturbingly rare sensation of being surprised. Dark almond eyes studied him intently from the edge of the porch. Never taking her gaze off of him, she emerged into the ruddy light. Stray tendrils of midnight hair, untouched by grey, escaped a bun and fell across perfect olive skin. She wore a kitchen apron over a blue velvet dress common for ladies in these parts. A brilliant turquoise crucifix on a silver necklace hung from her graceful neck. He cleared his throat and tipped his hat. “Ma’am. I didn’t mean to disturb you, I thought I was alone.” She slid onto the porch uncomfortably close to Knight, never releasing him from her stare. Her expression overflowed with goodness and sadness and a life fully lived. Finally, as if pitying Knight, she released him from her gaze and stared into the night. So this is the Spanish Lady. Along his journey the railway workers spoke reverently of the beautiful enchantress, a lady of noble Spanish blood who gave her heart to a lowly commoner, a simple innkeeper. For her, they fondly named this settlement Espanola. Even in a kitchen apron, her beauty surpassed any woman he’d ever seen, seemingly lighting the darkness around her. She finally spoke in a voice of satin and honey, “We came here when I was only a little girl. My father told me this place held old magic, a kind of magic the Church did not want to acknowledge. It’s old and pagan, as beautiful and terrible as a summer monsoon over the mesa. It’s in the air and you drink it like wine. I see it in the stars and in the sunrise over the mountains. When my father arranged my betrothal to a gentleman from Toledo, I pleaded with him not to separate me from this beautiful, enchanted land. I draw my strength from it, and fear I would wither if gone too long. I think this is why I married my dear Amado.” She smiled and drifted to a different place and time. Knight had seen hell so many times that a glimpse of grace stole his breath. Her voice poured over his soul like a spring Baptism, washing away a lifetime of blood and gunsmoke. Silas would have gladly spent the rest of his life in this moment, willingly trapped in the Spanish Lady’s power. He would do anything for her, she need only ask. She turned again to look upon Knight, but he could not hold her gaze. He looked down at his boots as the moment passed. “Forgive me, I have been working too long in the hot kitchens. Sometimes I get carried away. We are most grateful you arrived here safely. I am Josefita, Amado’s wife. Our daughter has prepared our finest room for your stay.” Finding his senses, Knight nodded and removed his hat. He searched for the right words and briefly thought about how her apron was strangely clean and white for someone working in the kitchens all day. He cleared his throat. “Of course, Señorita. General Palmer spoke glowingly of the hospitality of the house of Lucero. He sends his regards.” “I wish we could accommodate an agent of the railroad with a more gracious reception, but we have many mouths to feed. If Amado can be of any service, please do not hesitate to ask.” “Ahm...uh, yes ma’am. I most certainly will.” Suddenly, she stepped even closer to him and placed a hand on his arm. The coolness of her touch took him aback; the intensity shining from her face bewitched him yet again. “Dark tidings have befallen us. I don’t know what General Palmer told you before you came here, but what stirs in this valley is ancient sin brought to life. I know you are an earthly man, but you possess the gift to see what is unseen.” Her eyes bore deeper into him. “I fear you will need that gift... more than even fire and steel,” she whispered. Then, without another word, she turned and vanished around the corner. For a moment, he caught the sickly sweet odor yet again. Clouds now covered the stars as the night turned pitch black. A few ruddy lanterns spilled feeble puddles of light onto the dusty street. Alone again, he leaned against a post and blew out a long breath. (to be continued tomorrow) Read Part 1 here.  I hope you enjoyed this installment of THE CAVE. It will continue tomorrow on The Illusion Exotic and conclude on Halloween! Can't wait to find out what happens? You can get The Illusion Exotic here, featuring The Cave and other short stories.
#shortstory #horror #halloween #spooky #western #serial *** If you enjoyed this blog, please like the post and leave a comment or if you're feeling brave, share it on social media. This platform is my entire advertising budget and is how I share the word on my books. Also visit my Facebook, my author page and check out my photography book from America Through Time, "Abandoned Wiregrass: The Deepest South's Lost and Forgotten Places." Halloween is one week away. I'd like to start a tradition on the Illusion Exotic, by featuring a short story from my compendium "The Illusion Exotic". I'll run an installment each day leading up to Halloween. I hope you enjoy it.  THE CAVE A former Civil War soldier embarks on a quest on behalf of his former commander. He expects to find outlaws and gunslingers in the high deserts of New Mexico, but instead stumbles upon death incarnate. "The Cave", & "The Illusion Exotic, "Copyright 2016 Brian L. Braden The man in black leaned against the porch railing, patiently contemplating the purpose of his summons. Twirling his handlebar mustache, he admired the late spring maelstrom raging high above on Pikes Peak. Snow erupted off the upwind slope in sun-gilded plumes, blending into rolling clouds above the summit. The turmoil above contrasted to the calm where he stood a mile below. He understood the illusion of tranquility, of how quickly death could descend and deliver an unexpected blow. Squinting against the morning sun, deep creases etched his weathered face with shadows as dark as his drover coat and broad hat. The man in black seemed to soak the light from the morning air, testifying to the civilized world here stood a man of consequence, a man of purpose. He merely thought of himself as a man of duty. Duty drew him to the eastern Rockies, the slopes just coming back to life after a bitter winter. Most of the snow across the plains had already melted, transforming the streets of Colorado Springs into mud, confounding wagons and soiling the finest petticoats. He noticed quite a few petticoats and top hats, strangely out of place in a new frontier town. English tourists and English money saturated the city, driving prices as high as Pikes Peak. As the fresh scars of the Civil War began to heal, gentlemen and ladies from the finest eastern families and European nobility came west, deposited in Denver by the Kansas-Pacific Railroad. They journeyed the rest of the way courtesy of General Palmer’s Denver and Rio Grande Railway. Some came to see the vanishing frontier and gaze upon the majestic Rockies. Others came to hunt the plentiful trophy game in the high country. The one thing not plentiful here was liquor. General Palmer didn’t tolerate alcohol in his new town. He harbored deep respect for his former commander, but still brought enough good rye to keep him warm during his stay. He had some fine tobacco in his hotel, too. As bad as he wanted for a cigarette, he supposed this would be a bad place to roll one. The covered porch wrapped around a spacious whitewashed building, which could have been mistaken for a fine resort hotel. Perched between worlds, the majestic mountains formed the hospital’s backdrop and the plains fell before it like an endless gown. Frail, wispy figures clad in white robes surrounded the man in black like morning fog encircles a granite peak. They, too, existed between worlds; living ghosts slumped in wheelchairs across the porch. Nurses drifted among the pale figures carrying blankets and hot tea. Occasional coughing spasms racked the silence. The patients deflected their gazes away from him. Perhaps he’d dealt death for so long, he’d come to resemble it. During the war, General Palmer once confided why he always kept him by his side. Palmer believed the man in black could sense when death lingered nearby, attributing this gift for keeping the General’s feet firmly planted in this world. He told the General it wasn’t a gift. When you got the smell of death deep in your lungs day in and day out, it eventually stuck there like molasses on the inside of a barrel. After a while, you could smell it coming. Just when a man thought he’d exorcised death from his mind for good he’d get a whiff of it again, strong and fresh. Most men who fought the war, like the General, spent the rest of their lives trying to avoid death. Thinking it a fool’s errand, the man in black quit trying long ago. In fact, he’d gotten so damn good at smelling death coming he made it his profession. Death permeated the clean, crisp mountain air. It wasn’t the hot, violent smell of the battlefield or a gunfight, but the cool, sterile odor of antiseptic decay. While expensive and beautiful, this place wasn’t a fine resort hotel and these weren’t English tourists. The patients came for a second chance at life and hoped to find it here at Craigmor Sanitarium. Neither stricken with consumption, or visiting a patient, he had an appointment with his former commander General William Jackson Palmer. Palmer’s personal secretary, a small man with a penchant for small details, emerged onto the porch and whispered to the man in black, “Mr. Knight, the General will be out shortly.” Silas H. Knight nodded and resumed chewing on a toothpick as the little man scurried off. A few moments later, a group of well-dressed men emerged onto the porch, Palmer at their center. “Gentlemen,” the General addressed them. “I feel certain I’ve laid to rest any doubts this grand institution, nestled here amidst our Lord’s natural beauty, is at the forefront of modern medicine. I am confident this glorious place of healing can only prosper and thrive under the stewardship of such a distinguished board of trustees. Now, if you will please excuse me, I must attend to other matters. I leave you in the hands of Doctor Edwin Solly, with whom you are already acquainted, to field any further questions.” He shook hands with each and bid them thanks and farewell. His smile cooled as he turned and made his way across the porch to Knight. “Sergeant, it does please me to see you again.” “General.” Knight touched the brim of his hat in a ghost of a salute. “How was your journey? Are you hungry? The kitchen staff here is excellent.” “No thank you, sir. The hotel has a fine breakfast, even if it is a bit rich for an old soldier.” “Ah, yes,” Palmer agreed. “The Antlers is the finest hotel west of St. Louis. I hope you find it agreeable.” “Most certainly.” Palmer motioned off the porch. “Well then, Sergeant, will you do me the honor of accompanying me in a stroll across the grounds while we discuss why I asked you here?” The two men made no small talk as they strolled in silence down the hill, past the garden toward the open prairie. Palmer stopped and surveyed the wide-open rolling grasslands stretching east, interrupted only by the distant town nestled among the foothills. A gust of wind stirred the late morning calm as the mountain storm behind them began to draw energy from the warming grasslands. Knight watched his former commander out of the corner of his eye. The steely look on Palmer’s face transported him back to battlefields long ago, and a thousand miles away. He knew deep inside that Palmer still fought the war. The general would fight for the rest of his life to purge the smell of death from his nostrils. “Silas, I trust you are in good health and your constitution is as firm as ever.” Palmer looked him up and down and nodded. “Yes sir, still fit enough.” “If my telegram was sufficient to lure you here then I can rest assured Kansas City holds no special bond for you?” Knight nodded. He had no bonds, other than to some inner code of honor he shared with a few men. Palmer was and would forever be his commander, loyalty bought and paid for with blood. Palmer nodded quickly and grinned. “Excellent." Palmer stretched his arm across the open grasslands, the way he did when he surveyed battlefields. Knight followed him, because unlike most Union generals, Palmer was a man of thought and action. A spy, the commander of the 15th Calvary Regiment, a former prisoner of war, and nemesis of General Lee, he was the most daring man Knight had ever encountered. “Colorado Springs is going to be the next St. Louis. I’m building railroads, but not out west, Silas. No, that is already happening.” He turned and motioned toward the giant peaks. “Instead, I’m building narrow gauge lines throughout the Rockies from Mexico to Canada. Not around them, mind you, but through them! In Washington, they see these great mountains as obstacles to uniting the continent. I see them as a source of wealth, the very backbone of the continent.” Knight listened as Palmer went on, detailing his plans for the Denver and Rio Grand Railway. To his former commander, it was simply a matter of breathing life into events already played out in his mind a thousand times. An engineer, the General visualized the end-state, and then applied scientific principles to make his vision reality. Now Palmer visualized pushing the American Empire across a virgin continent. “Science now allows us to engineer railways in places the ancients couldn’t have scraped a goat path. I have work camps scattered up and down the Rockies. These are lawless places, beyond territorial justice. If I can’t keep order, I can’t build the railroad.” Knight now understood why he’d been summoned. Palmer continued, “The camps are filled primarily with Mexicans, but there are some white men, mostly foremen and engineers mind you, at each location. There is liquor and whoring, I can’t prevent that. However, I can’t have these vices inducing strife with the local indians. The tribes, especially in New Mexico territory, are very different than those across the plains. They’re generally passive unless stirred to trouble. That, my old friend, is why I requested your services. Are you equal to the task?” “I understand, sir.” Sergeant Silas H. Knight, former scout of the 15th Pennsylvania Calvary Regiment would ride forth once again at the bidding of his general. “Very good. I knew I could count on you. I’ll pay well above what you earned in Kansas City. My personal secretary will handle the details.” “Yes, sir.” Ordinarily a hard man when it came to contract negotiations, Knight simply accepted his former commander’s word. “I hope your instincts are as sharp as ever, for I must request that you depart immediately. I received word this morning of trouble near the railhead in Espanola, in northern New Mexico. There is a territorial marshal there, a certain Thomas Wellsby, but he is a drunkard and a liar. I’m making you a deputized agent of the railroad. Under territorial law you’ll have jurisdiction in all matters regarding the Denver and Rio Grande Railway.” Palmer leaned toward Knight in confidence. “Espanola is the lynchpin for the Chili Line, the railroad stretching from Raton across northern New Mexico. Therefore, all matters in Espanola are in some regard the jurisdiction of this railroad.” “Will Wellsby be a problem?” Knight inquired. “He’ll see your mettle and likely stay out of your way. However, he is not above backstabbing, so tread carefully. Ascertain the situation in Espanola and, if he is involved, deal with him as necessary. And I suspect he is involved. “I want law and order established there, one way or another. When you are through in Espanola, move north or south along the rail line from Santa Fe as you deem fit. Let your reputation move ahead of you, if you take my meaning.” Palmer gestured to the well-worn grips of Knight’s .44 caliber Colt pistols. A cold gust of wind suddenly blew from the west, rocking Palmer slightly. Knight’s heavy black oilskin drover barely ruffled. The general turned and looked back at the sanitarium and the gray mountains beyond. The storm slowly descended onto the plains, darkening the blue morning sky and casting a shadow over Palmer’s face. “I have enemies. Not just the railroad barons in Denver, but in Washington. They want to see my narrow gauge railway fail. Lackeys in Congress try to block me and I suspect the work camps are filled with saboteurs. I believe Wellsby is one of them. “I fear the old world is here, its sins and demons have followed us to the New World. The war showed us that, Sergeant. We must shine the light of freedom and faith into the all the dark corners. We must not let those demons gain a foothold in this clean, bountiful land.” Knight did what he always did when his general waxed philosophically: nodded and kept quiet. He’d never been to the Old World, but he knew people were the same, whether white, negro, indian, or Mexican. Most were bad, few were good. And some were damned. (to be continued tomorrow)  I hope you enjoyed this installment of THE CAVE. It will continue tomorrow on The Illusion Exotic and conclude on Halloween! Can't wait to find out what happens? You can get The Illusion Exotic here, featuring The Cave and other short stories. *** If you enjoyed this blog, please like the post and leave a comment or if you're feeling brave, share it on social media. This platform is my entire advertising budget and is how I share the word on my books. Also visit my Facebook, my author page and check out my photography book from America Through Time, "Abandoned Wiregrass: The Deepest South's Lost and Forgotten Places." In 2011 I sat in a Manhattan publisher’s office pitching my novel to several editors who were supposedly big deals in the publishing business. Everyone at the conference was trying to tie their novels into Game of Thrones, Walking Dead, Breaking Bad, or Ready Player One. My novel? Not so much. "Where does your manuscript fit on the book shelves?" they asked. "Not next to Game of Thrones, Breaking Bad, Walking Dead or Ready Player One," I said. "Its more like Ten Commandments meets The Odyssey." Needless to say, I didn't land a fat publishing contract that week. I can’t remember her name, but one publisher from that conference stands out in my memory. All the female authors who were pitching their novel to her were warned not to show too much cleavage in her presence. I had no cleavage, so I felt confident going in (though I can’t make that claim today). She listened to my pitch with a dour expression, like she had to pass a kidney stone, and then asked me if my novel (Black Sea Gods) was going to be a series. “Three or four novels,” I replied. “The first novel is complete, the second well underway.” “Too ambitious for a new author,” she scoffed, and summarily dismissed me. And thus ended my attempt to get The Chronicles of Fu Xi traditionally published. Every new word added to the Chronicles of Fu Xi, Book IV’s manuscript is a blow against Anti-Cleavage Lady. Take that, mammary hater! Sometimes that moment in New York drives me onward, just to prove her wrong. Actually, she was probably right. I should have started my writing career on something a little less ambitious, and a lot more commercially viable. If I wanted a traditional publishing contract, a historical fantasy, set in central Asia, and bordering on literary fiction probably wasn’t the place to start. Not that any of that matters now, I’m committed. The Chronicles of Fu Xi, Book IV is well underway. This story must be told. I completed 2000 words this weekend and two more chapters in the can. That brings the word count to 22,000. The writing is coming easier now, and it isn’t. When I write, I have Books I-III open on my desktop, plus The Golden Princess, trying to avoid plot holes. It’s a Herculean effort to keep characters straight, events lined up, and everything in sync. I think it’s working. I’m back in the groove. Regardless, it's ambitious, to say the least. Anti-Cleavage Lady's warning echoes in my mind. One major change came out of this weekend’s efforts…I’ve changed the last novel’s title. It was going to be “The Children of Fu Xi”, but I’ve ditched that. That title was suggested many years ago by an editor, and I kept it in my back pocket. I’m not going to divulge the new title until the publication date approaches. However, it ties the final novel back to the first novel and sounds great. That’s all I have for today. I’ve got to keep my energy focused on the writing. However, if you haven’t picked up the series, you really should. There are three ways to start: First, you can get copy of Black Sea Gods, the first installment in the series, Second, you can buy a copy of the prequel, The Golden Princess. If you really want a treat, get the Audible copy of The Golden Princess, narrated by the BBC’s Philip Battley. You will not regret it, he sounds great. I’ll see you later this week for another installment of Photography Phriday. *** If you enjoyed this blog, please like the post and leave a comment or if you're feeling brave, share it on social media. This platform is my entire advertising budget and is how I share the word on my books. Also visit my Facebook, my author page and check out my photography book from America Through Time, "Abandoned Wiregrass: The Deepest South's Lost and Forgotten Places." #books #blackseagods #writing #philipbattley #audiobooks #epic #fantasy #epicfantasy  Get the entire series!  Listen to the audiobook sample!  As promised, here's my shots of the L.A. band "Temple Monarc" from their October 2nd appearance at Harlow's in Ozark, Alabama. However, I wasn't the only photographer there that night. My friend Savanna Kirkland of Embrace Photography was also there. As the wife of "MidLife Crisis" bassist Ken Kirkland, Savannah is keyed in to the local music scene. She takes some incredible photos, and I was excited when she agreed to let me post her images from that night. Here's a little about Savanna and Embrace Photography in her own words:  "My name is Savanna and I started Embrace Photography because of my love to catch the "moments" of live action photography. I specialize in live music performances by showcasing the musicians energy and love of their craft. My goal is to capture the musicians emotion that allows my audience to feel that they were a part of the performance through my photos." The slideshow intersperses Savanna's and my photography to give the viewer some idea of the great show and energy on stage that night. Thanks to Live at Harlow's for letting us take photos. Located in downtown Ozark, Harlow's does an amazing service by bringing great music to the Wiregrass, including acts from across the region and US. Please check them out and support local music! Please visit Temple Monarc's Facebook as well and check out their great music. Enjoy! music #photography #musicphotography #liveperformance #canonphotography #rockandroll #liveatharlows #templemonarc #embracephotography *** If you enjoyed this blog, please like the post and leave a comment. Also visit my Facebook, my fine art photography and check out my photography book from America Through Time, "Abandoned Wiregrass: The Deepest South's Lost and Forgotten Places."  I turn 54 today and the Universe is trying to kill me. Let me explain.
As I celebrate another trip around the sun, the sun commemorated the occasion by unleashing a major solar storm aimed directly at our planet. While I’ll try not to take this personally, it does get me thinking. The solar flare carries the energy of billions of nuclear bombs. We might have some internet and GPS interruptions, but Earth will shrug it off. Life will go on. You see, our little planet has an a magnetic field that punches way above its weight class. The sun’s highly charged onslaught will go right around our planet. That incredible magnetic field will even protect the astronauts on the International Space Station. If our planet orbited just a little closer to the sun, we’d be fried. If we didn’t have such an exceedingly powerful (and unusual) magnetic field, we’d be fried. If we orbited only a little farther away, we’d be frozen. Scientist call this place Earth occupies “The Goldilocks Zone” because its not too hot and not too cold. In fact, it’s just right. It’s impossibly right. Our planet dances on the edge of impossibility. Go up about fifty miles and the atmosphere is too thin to support life. Beyond that, there is nothing but emptiness. Dig down about 18 miles and you enter a searing hot ocean of molten rock. To put it in perspective, our solar system is approximately 93 billion miles in diameter. Of that, a band less than 70 miles supports life. 70 miles out of 93 billion miles! Oh, it gets better. If our planet didn’t have a molten iron core, we wouldn’t be here. If our planet wasn’t blessed with an unusual amount of water, we wouldn’t be here. If an astroid hadn’t knocked off all those pesky dinosaurs, we wouldn’t be here. Our telescopes have discovered worlds circling other stars as far away as 13,000 light years. In all that searching they’ve discovered no signs of life, intelligent or otherwise. It doesn’t mean there isn’t life, its just that we haven’t found it. The Universe is about 98 billion light years across and overwhelmingly inhospitable, (mostly due its nature of being a bunch of nothing). Life needs stuff to survive. In the places where the Universe actually has stuff, that stuff hates life. A sliver of biosphere 70 miles thick supports the only life for at least 13,000 light years. Despite overwhelming odds, Earth teems with life, (some of it might even be intelligent.) This planet is about 4 billion years old, and, amazingly enough, has hosted life for most of that time. The Universe has tried to knock us off again and again. Yet, here we are. This brings me to today. I turned 54 today. Mathematically, I shouldn’t be here and neither should you. In the known universe, there isn’t anything like us, and like Earth. We are living, breathing miracles, little slivers of self-aware time-space. Our little planet dances on the edge of impossibility, therefore so do we. Statistically, we punch way above our weight. That thought fills me with gratitude and awe. I’m thankful God permitted me a brief time here to witness and participate in Creation. I hope to participate some more before the Universe finally knocks me off. I guess it’s time for a glass of wine, and prepare for another lap around the sun. *** If you enjoyed this blog, please like the post and leave a comment or if you're feeling brave, share it on social media. This platform is my entire advertising budget and is how I share the word on my books. Also visit my Facebook, my author page and check out my photography book from America Through Time, "Abandoned Wiregrass: The Deepest South's Lost and Forgotten Places." #birthday #joy #faith #hope #god #gettingold |
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