  That feeling you get when Halloween is over for another year. Halloween is over and another mundane week is upon me. Speaking of Halloween, I hope you enjoyed the Halloween serial presentation of my short story, "The Cave." If you missed it, you can catch Part 1 here. Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. In fact, it IS my favorite. I love the Holiday season, don't get me wrong, but in my opinion its all downhill after Halloween. Thanksgiving makes you fat, Christmas makes you broke, and New Years makes you hung over with the realization the Holidays are over and you have to go back to work. Okay, its not all bah-humbug. I enjoy the other holidays, but in my mind, nothing compares to Halloween, even if I don't get a day off work.  The entrance to my backyard haunted house back in 2015. We usually go all-out for Halloween at the Braden household. Actually, I go overboard. Big time. I throw theme parties, make haunted houses or generally try to wring as much joy from the day as possible. I sort of lose myself in Halloween. One year, I turned the garage into a haunted house, and then the next year I turned the entire back yard into a haunted house (it was epic!). The neighbors still refer to me as the Haunted House Guy. My party themes have range from Stranger Things to Killer Clown to this year, where I hosted a Bilbo Baggins 111th birthday party. I used to lie to myself and say t was for the kids. Who am I kidding? I'll do it even when the kids are grown up and gone (and they almost are).  The passage to the Upside Down.  Beatle Juice meets Stranger Things. Everything was in The Upside Down that Halloween. Why does Halloween appeal to me so much? It's not because its spooky, or there's lots of candy. It isn't because its an excuse to party (okay, maybe just a little). None of these are the reasons Halloween is magical to me. Its because Halloween is about pretending. Its the Imagination Holiday. I think that's why so many people find it appealing into adulthood. It's like a giant cosplay convention. It gives adults a chance to pretend, and by definition, become a kid again. Its also one of the best ways imaginable to connect with your own kids. Kids instinctively know when their parents are enjoying themselves, and love it when parents bond with them on a level they can understand. I love when I see entire families dressed up and trick or treating together. I'm seeing an event the kids will remember for the rest of their lives, and pass on to their kids. It's a deeply good and wholesome thing to witness. My kids always help get ready for Halloween with a zeal that doesn't manifest at Christmas. One of my best memories was oldest bringing all his teenage friends over to work my haunted house.  It was an event of special magnificence. This year while I was putting up Bilbo's birthday banner in the front yard a car passed by very slowly. A young lady had her face plastered against the passenger window, a child's grin plastered ear to ear. Before the car slipped away, her hand emerged from the window with a big thumb's up. She's my people. There are lots like her, those people who instinctually understand the joy of surrendering to your imagination. It doesn't have to end with childhood. In fact, it gets better if you just let it happen.  Lots of people don't let it happen. In fact, they don't get it at all. I feel sorry for them. I feel sorry for all those teenagers who think they are too cool for Halloween. You know the ones, the kids who walk around like they don't know what to do with themselves. Sometimes they travel in packs with their friends, no costumes, looking out of place and trying to be immune to the fun around them. They want to join in, but they forgot how to. When did it become a right of passage to kill something beautiful in one's spirit in order to transition to adulthood? It makes me sad. Kids, never give up Halloween! Not even if you're a hundred years old. Just as bad are those people who turn off their lights and hide in their houses, unwilling to enjoy themselves or hand out candy. I know its their right, but I still feel sorry for them, too.  Halloween hayrides are the best. The time has come to pack the magic back into the attic for another year. As I prepare for the rest of the Holiday Season, I'll look back fondly at this year's Halloween, and bask in the memories of Halloweens past. I'm already thinking about next year, and what new adventures I can cook up. Maybe another haunted house? Maybe a theme party? What will I dress up as? I think I'm quite ready for another adventure! #halloween #imagination #party #cosplay #holiday #essay  Halloween is over, but don't throw a fit. It will be back next year. ***
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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." |
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