The Dead of Winter

FIVE



"Well, ain't this a regular mess."

Cora and Ben stood on the train station platform, watching the steady stream of people flow around them. Men in dark suits and waxed mustaches paraded into passenger coaches bound for San Francisco, Saint Louis, Chicago, and New York. On their arms, ladies in calico dresses peered from beneath lace-trimmed hats. Their perfume lent the scent of flowers to the stench of smoke, oil, and human sweat.

Following the swell of the crowd, they stepped out into the street and started walking. The afternoon sun glowed on the brick buildings, its reflection in their windows blinding them at regular intervals. The murmur of voices all around them blended with the clopping of horse hooves on the street.

After a few blocks, Cora paused and stamped her feet. "I hate walking," she said. "Just our luck to catch the only train left in the world that ain't got a livestock car."

"Don't you worry none," Ben said. "Them boys at the hotel livery will take right fine care of Our Lady."

"Ain't her I'm worried about, it's me. Won't do to show up at the good Lord's house all worn out and ragged. Old Father Baez might take us for vagabonds or some such."

Ben started walking again. "He'd be more than half right if he did."

They made it to the church just before dusk. Red sunlight made the golden cross atop the bell tower shimmer, and Cora paused for a moment to admire it. As pretty as it was, she'd never understood why some churches chose gold over silver. Sure, the gold was more valuable, but no demon or monster had succumbed to a golden bullet through the heart.

"Well, let's go see if the old man can help us out." She pushed her hat off her head. The white streak in her dark hair glowed as she smoothed down her braid.

"You go talk to him. I think I'll go scare us up a room for the night." Ben's book was tucked under his arm as his blue eyes looked up and down the street.

"Make sure it's got a good view," she said. "You know how I like to see the mountains."

Ben nodded and started on his way down the street. Cora watched him go for a moment before ascending the big stone steps. The church building, though modest, was still new, having only been built in 1865. The Vatican had commissioned it in honor of Denver's appointment as the capital of the Colorado Territory. Before its construction, Father Baez's congregation had met in a small Spanish mission on the eastern end of the city. Cora had never been there, but the way Father Baez had spoken lovingly of the new church on their last visit, she figured it hadn't been very nice.

She challenged the big front door to a brief Indian arm wrestle before earning her way inside. The smell of stained wood and resin incense drifted out of the shadows to greet her in the darkened foyer. Candles winked at her from their stands on either side of an archway that opened into the small sanctuary. Beneath her feet, thick carpet muffled the sound of her boots as she made her way inside.

Once past the arch, she looked to her right. A small marble basin stood at attention behind the first row of pews. She reached over, dipped her finger in the cool water, and crossed herself. Satisfied, she began walking down the center aisle. Solemn saints watched her progress from their painted windows of red and purple and yellow. Their rich colors were fading with the daylight, shifting from a dazzling display of light to a soft evening glow. Candles burned atop iron stands at either end of each row of pews, casting their pale light toward the rafters. In front of her, a crucifix hung above the altar, illuminated by rows of candles on either side. A purple sash hung down from the Savior's arms as He looked skyward in pious agony. To the left of the altar, the water in the baptismal font reflected the orange candlelight.

The smell of incense grew stronger, mixing with the sweet scent of candle smoke as she approached the altar. She knelt before the crucifix and crossed herself again, bowing her head in reverence. The carpet was soft on her knees, so she lingered for a bit, savoring the silence.

"What can I do for you, child?" a voice behind her asked. A grin blossomed on her lips as she turned to face the voice's owner.

Father Baez stood in the aisle, his hands clasped in front of him. His white hair and beard were bright above his black vestments, making him look a little like a candle himself. The look of concern on his face melted into a wide smile when he saw her face.

"Ah, Cora," he said, stepping forward and holding out his arms. "It is good to see you again."

She accepted his embrace, stooping a little in the process. Father Baez was one of the few men in the world shorter than her. "I'm surprised you remember me, Father."

"Well, I don't get the chance to meet many vampire hunters," he replied, a twinkle in his dark eyes. He stepped back and looked her over. "The years have been kind to you, I see."

"You'd sing a different tune if you saw me in the daylight," she said. "You look the same as you ever did."

Father Baez smiled. "Not much changes when you reach my age." Despite his years, he still stood upright, not stooped like so many old men. He sat down in a pew and motioned her to sit beside him. "So what brings you here?"

"Well, I'm in a fix," she said, taking the offered seat and crossing her legs. "Got me a monster up near Leadville that I can't lick or even put a name to."

The priest's white eyebrows drew together. "You've never seen one like it?"

"Not a one," Cora replied.

"Tell me what it looked like."

"Well, it looked like a cross between a frozen corpse and a spider. It had black skin like frostbite on its fingers and hands and lips. And it was missing its nose. The head and chest was normal-sized, like the kind you'd find on anybody, but the arms and the legs were a good sight longer than they ought to be." Cora settled into the pew as she continued. "If I had to guess, I'd say the arms were half as long again as the torso, and the legs maybe another half or so. It made a kind of moaning sound, which I first took to be the sounds made by a miner who done hurt himself something fierce. Imagine my surprise when the miner I was searching for turned out to be the monster what tried to eat me."

"Did you notice anything else about it?" Father Baez asked.

"It made my hands and feet go all chilled, like I was standing outside in a blizzard without gloves or boots. Had itself a big old mouth, too. Bigger than it should be." She paused, thinking for a moment. "Didn't smell like much of anything, which is rather irregular. This thing has a taste for people, so it should have the smell of death on it, but it just smelled cold."

"I see." The priest stroked his beard with one hand as he considered her story. "And you said it looked human?"

"Yessir," Cora said. "Was human at one point, in fact. The body belonged to Jules Bartlett, a hermit-style miner that lived near town. I ran into him before a few years back when the sheriff of those parts thought he was a vampire."

"A vampire?" The white eyebrows arched. "What gave him that impression?"

"His own cowardice tossed in with the old coot's habit of hunting for his keep at night. That sheriff felt a mighty fool when I dragged the hermit into his office, but he was grateful all the same." She grinned at the priest. "Or maybe the sheriff's instincts were spot on and it just took the miner a bit to catch up."

Father Baez shook his head even though he knew she was joking. "No, not unless the sheriff himself turned the miner into what he is. Might that be a possibility? The sheriff may be looking for revenge on the man who humiliated him."

Cora laughed at the thought. "Ain't no way old Jim Barnes would go and do a thing like that. The man is as yellow as they come. He might have been sore about it awhile, but he wouldn't go making trouble for himself. The only reason he's kept his seat as long as he has is thanks to the toughs he's got working for him. They take care of the dirty work while he cools his heels wherever he sees fit. Without Mart Duggan and that herd of deputies he's got, there'd be no Sheriff Barnes."

The priest's dark eyes reflected the candlelight as he stared at the crucifix hanging above them. Vampirism, curses, necromancy; none of the usual suspects matched what the hunter was telling him. He supposed it could be some new creature, but that seemed unlikely. Evil had been crawling all over the face of the earth since its creation, and most of the demons in the world were as old or older. They always found new bodies, new servants, and new lairs, but their nature never changed. Yet whatever Cora Oglesby had encountered was a creature he had never heard of before.

He thought of something else and turned back to her. "You fought this thing, didn't you?" She nodded. "How did you manage to escape when you encountered it?"

"A number of ways, really," Cora said. "For one, it didn't seem to appreciate my silver bullets. I shot it full in the face half a dozen times and made it bleed some black molasses. It carried on a good deal about it, but it didn't roll over and die like it should have. Seemed right scared of fire and sunlight, too, from what I could see."

"Most creatures of the darkness are."

Cora nodded. "One thing was funny, though. I tried to cut it up with my saber, the one I have a blessing on, but it was like trying to cut through a cannon. Blade just bounced right off."

"The blessing was still good?"

"Yep. Had Father Brown over in Dodge see to it not four weeks ago."

Cora's news troubled the little priest. What sort of evil creature could defend against a blessing placed by a servant of the Most High? Unless she had crossed paths with Lucifer himself, he didn't see how it was possible.

The priest looked at Cora and spread his hands out. "Well, I'm sorry, my dear, but I really don't know what it could be."

Cora's shoulders slumped. "Not even a hint?"

"I'm afraid not," he replied. "It is clearly a powerful creature, and very dangerous, but beyond that, I can't say much."

"All right, then," she said. "Ain't sure what I'm going to do now, though."

"Not to worry, my child," the old man said, patting her hand. "I will send telegraphs to some of my friends back East. They have a lot more experience dealing with these sorts of things than I do. I'll send it first thing in the morning, so it should only take a couple of days to find your answer."

Cora smiled. "My thanks, Father."

He smiled back at her, then his face grew serious again. "Have the years been hard since our last meeting?"

"Oh, ain't got much to complain about," she said. "Still living with my virtues and building on my vices, just like always."

"It's been a long time since you fought the vampires here," Father Baez said. "Have you found your peace with it?"

"I reckon so," Cora said, finding the question strange. "I ain't the type to let myself get all in a sulk on account of shooting a few monsters, Father."

"No, I suppose not," the priest replied. "I'm glad to hear you say that."

"Me too." Cora stood to her feet and offered her hand. Father Baez accepted it and accompanied her to the front door.

"Well, as I said, I expect to hear back from New York or Philadelphia within a day or two, so stop by tomorrow evening." He patted her on the back and smiled. "Maybe I'll even have time for a confession."

"The good Lord knows I need one," she replied, "but I don't think it does any good if you ain't looking to change your ways. If I didn't have whiskey and poker, why, I'd have to take up reading like Ben does just to pass the time."

A shadow passed over the priest's face, but it cleared within the span of a breath. "Well, if you change your mind, I will be here to listen."

Cora nodded, smiling as she pulled the door open. Father Baez watched her saunter down the front walk, a prayer coming to his lips.

"Heavenly Father, lover of all and defender of the weak, bless Cora in Your love. Accept her offering of dedication and service, and help her to give You praise, to pray for Your church and the world, and to serve Your people in peace and joy. I ask this grace through Christ my Brother and my Lord, amen."

Jack Evans lowered his head as he walked by the Pioneer. Despite the powerful thirst in his throat, he kept his eyes pointed straight ahead down the dark street. He could hear the piano plinking away at some classic tune, accompanied by a chorus of miners well past their first drinks. Picturing a row of glistening beards on either side of the old upright, Jack broke into a grin. He longed to toss his arm around the shoulders of the last man in line and sing along, all his worries of monsters in the woods forgotten.

His boots slowed down as his thirst began overpowering his will. He came to a stop and had started to turn back when he heard a tinkling crash and a stream of shouting. More voices rose in answer, drowning out the piano in an avalanche of slurred cursing. They rose in pitch until the roar of a 12-gauge cut them off. The shot echoed in the street, causing a few to duck for cover, and Jack knew Mart Duggan and his on-duty deputies would soon arrive to break up the fight. As a lawman, he knew he should fetch the marshal himself, even if he was off-duty. It was his responsibility and might earn him another free drink from the bartender. Had it been any other night, he might have done just that. Duggan could probably use another hand in keeping the rowdy miners under control. Still, that's what he had the on-duty deputies for. Let them deal with the situation.

He had somewhere else to be tonight.

His boots crunched through the dirty snow, leaving footprints in a straight line away from the Pioneer. He wondered how many times he'd left a sober trail from the saloon since he and the marshal found that clearing. No more than the fingers on one hand could count, he was sure.

The thought of what Cora Oglesby had said about the monster wouldn't leave his mind. She seemed sure of herself, and was probably as good a shot as she claimed to be. If she, a self-proclaimed expert at dealing with monsters, could be bested by this one, what chance did the rest of them have?

He glanced over his shoulder, more in response to his thoughts than to any sound or sense of danger. The street behind him stretched out into the shadows of the night. Lanterns and candlelit windows floated in the darkness, strongholds of warmth in the cold expanse. He imagined the creature watching from its mountain. To those hungry eyes, the town would shimmer like a glowing feast in the dark night. It was a wonder it hadn't started making a habit of preying on lonely men wandering the streets.

Men like him.

His pace quickened as he tried to put thoughts of the monster out of his mind. Cora Oglesby had told them she would take care of it, and he had no choice but to trust her. She was gone now, though. Off on a train ride up to Denver with her husband. It occurred to him that he'd never actually met the man married to such an unusual woman. He would have thought that her husband would have been as loud as she was, but maybe he was the quiet one of the pair. Jack couldn't figure out how that would work for a married couple, but he'd never been married himself, so he couldn't call himself an authority on the subject.

The thought of marriage put a bit of a bounce in his step. He was on his way to visit the girl he intended to marry one day, and maybe tonight would be the night he would win her over. He had stayed out of the Pioneer because he knew she didn't take to the smell of whiskey on a man's breath. Staying sober was a strain, especially with the thoughts of Leadville's local terror running through his mind, but she was worth it.

Annabelle Rose. He whispered her name, enjoying how it felt on his tongue. He could picture her bright blue eyes looking his way, a smile on her lips. Honey-colored hair spilled down around her face in gentle waves. Her cheeks would be flushed, their red blossoms standing out against the creamy whiteness of her skin like the sunrise peeking over the mountains. She would say his name in her soft voice, extending a small hand for him to kiss.

Yellow lamplight spilled across the snow on his boots. His thoughts of Annabelle had carried him all the way to her. He adjusted his hat and smoothed down his mustache, planning out what he would say in his head. His nervous hands, having made him as presentable as they could, began fingering the bullets in his belt. Taking a deep breath, he tried to stop them from shaking and reached to open the front door of the Purdy, one of Leadville's finest brothels.

A rush of warm air enveloped him, carrying the scent of flowers and the plinking of another piano. Red carpet flowed up the central staircase of the house like a trail of rose petals. Elsewhere, the floor's polished shine reflected light from dozens of candles hanging in ornate candelabras. Around the room, paintings of gray-haired men watched him from the walls. Jack had never taken to such paintings himself, but most people seemed to think they were in good taste. He didn't figure he'd ever earn enough money as a lawman to put such things in his own home, so he didn't pay them much attention.

A handsome black man in a porter's suit walked up to him. "Good evening, Mr Evans." Jack nodded in response and removed his hat and coat. The porter bowed as he took them, then vanished through a side door. A few of the house's ladies lounged on overstuffed couches, wisps of hair draped across their faces. Bosoms strained against corsets of red and white and black while thick dresses covered dark stockings. Their red lips smiled at him, but he only answered with a polite nod. Each girl had her charms, but none were for him. He was here for Annabelle.

The porter returned, his smile wide and white. "If you'll follow me, Mr Evans."

Jack nodded, trying to keep a silly grin off his face as he followed the porter. It was all he could do not to shove the man aside, take the stairs two at a time, and gallop down to Annabelle's room. The porter's footfalls were slow and deliberate, as if he knew of Jack's mounting excitement and wanted to make him sweat. Jack took a few deep breaths to calm himself.

When they finally reached Annabelle's door, the porter bowed with another smile before taking his leave. Jack stared at the door, listening to the sound of the porter's retreating footsteps. His stomach felt like it was going to jump out of his mouth and go flopping down the hall. Closing his eyes, he gave his head a shake, then turned the knob.

The aroma of perfume and scented candles filled the steamy air, inviting him into the room. He stood in the doorway instead, wishing he'd kept his hat so his hands would have something to do. He let them fidget around his ammo belt for a moment before shoving them in his pockets.

He could hear the sound of splashing coming from the room, and although he couldn't see the bathtub from where he stood, he knew exactly where it was. He could picture Annabelle in that tub, soapy bubbles climbing up to perch on her bare shoulders. Hot blood flooded his cheeks at the thought, and he looked down at his boots.

"Is that you, Jack?" Her voice floated out to greet him.

"Yep, yessir, it's me," he said.

"Well, why don't you come on in?"

"OK, then." Shutting the door behind him, he walked down the short hallway, his boots sounding to his ears like a herd of buffalo. When he came around the corner, his foot caught on the floor, tripping him up. He recovered himself before he fell, but he could feel his cheeks burning. The burn grew hotter when he looked up to find her blue eyes watching him.

A smile played about her full lips. "You might want to take them boots off."

He nodded and sat down in the nearest chair. His feet, still cold from the walk through the snow, throbbed in protest as he wrenched his boots off. The sour tang of his sweat cut through the sweetness in the air. He shoved his feet as far as they would go under the chair, hoping she wouldn't notice.

"Are you going to stop there?" she asked, her smile lingering. "You're welcome to, of course, but you might not enjoy yourself quite the same." She rose to her feet and stepped out of the tub, water running down her white sides. "Come on, let's get you out of them clothes."

Jack's gut lurched in excitement at the suggestion, but he just stood to his feet and walked over to her. Up close, she smelled clean, like fresh water from a mountain stream. He was all too aware of his own stink, but she didn't seem to notice as she began working the buttons of his shirt. She untucked it from his pants, pulled his arms through the sleeves, and tossed it on the floor. She gave him a coy smile as she stepped behind him and reached her arms around his body. Her palms pressed into the coarse hairs on his chest.

"You smell like a man ought to," she said, her fingers tracing tiny circles on his skin. He blushed again, glad she couldn't see.

Soon, he was seated in the bathtub. Annabelle knelt by the edge of the tub, cupping water in her hands and pouring it over his head. The warmth made his skin tingle. He wanted to lean back, close his eyes, and let her keep pouring handfuls of water over him, but the nearness of her naked body made it impossible to relax. He sat in nervous silence, the water running through his hair, into his eyes, and down his mustache.

She reached over to a small stand behind him, picked up a scrubbing brush, and dipped the bristles into the soapy water. Placing a hand on his back, she gently pushed him forward. He bent at the waist, his back stiff as the brush scrubbed his shoulders, his neck, and his back. Annabelle smiled, watching his skin turn from fishbelly white to the rosy pink of sunset.

After a few minutes, she declared him finished and stood up. He splashed his way out of the tub and into a towel she was holding. She rubbed him down with it, stopping a few times to kiss his exposed skin. Her lips were soft, but he still jumped as though she was poking him with a needle. She giggled when he did, a lilting sound that made his knees feel weak.

Grasping his hand in both of hers, she led him through an archway into the bedroom. The smile never left her lips, even as she began kissing him. She lay back on the sheets and pulled him on top of her. The heat of her seemed to set him aflame, and he felt his arms quiver as he held himself above her.

It was over all too quickly. He crawled up next to her and collapsed, still catching his breath. Annabelle's smile widened as she draped an arm over his stomach.

"So tell me about your week," she said.

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "Oh, it was pretty normal, I reckon." Pillow talk was one of her services. Most of her clients probably enjoyed talking about themselves and their work, hoping to impress her with stories of strength or riches, but Jack's tongue always tied itself in knots. Her breath on his cheek made him want to best them all, to tell her a tale grand enough to make her eyes shine. His mind raced, searching for something, anything to say.

A thought came to him. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

"Go on, sugar." Her voice felt like silk on his ears. "Say what you want to say."

"You can keep a secret, can't you?"

"Secrets are my trade," she said, giving him a look that made him want to crawl under the bed.

"Well, then," he said, "I got a secret to say."

"I'm all ears," she murmured, kissing his.

Her kisses sent shivers down to his toes. "Well, me and the marshal went out riding one morning, and we come across this clearing, right? Well, some poor fellers met with a bad end there. Real bad. I don't want to tell you the details, so I'll just say I've never seen worse in my two years of upholding the law."

Her hand traced circles around his belly button. "Did you find out who done those fellers in?"

"Of course I did," he replied, trying to make his voice sound strong. "I tracked him all the way through the woods and up a mountain. Cornered him in a mine and made ready to do what I had to do."

"Did you lick him proper?"

"Well, turns out the culprit wasn't exactly a man or even a gang of them," he said, turning his head to face her.

Her thin eyebrows pulled together. "What was it, then? A grizzly?"

"Nope, not that, neither." He swallowed and looked her in the eyes. "It was some sort of monster. A monster that used to be a man."

"I don't follow," she said.

"Can't say for sure my own self," he said. "It had a man's shape, see, but its legs and arms was all stretched out like a spider's." Jack could see her interest growing, and his heart started beating faster. "Anyway, like I said, I got it cornered in a mine, but it lashed out and knocked my gun right out of my hand. Took a leap at me, so I had to roll to get clear and nearly bashed my brains out on a big old rock. I picked myself up and pulled my other gun. The monster was coming back at me pell-mell, its big arms reaching to tear off my head. I stood stock still, waiting for my shot. When it came, I took it. Hit the thing square between the eyes, but even that didn't put it down. It howled something awful and lit out down the mine tunnel. I tried to run it down, but it gave me the slip on account of the darkness."

"My heart," Annabelle whispered. She gazed at him in disbelief for a moment, then a thought came to her. "You best not be pulling my leg, or so help me, I will end you right here."

He could see that she was impressed, and for the first time that night, a smile spread beneath his mustache. "On my word," he said, then tried out a new word, "darling."

"So you really faced down a monster?" She curled a long white leg around both of his and leaned in to him. "They should make you the marshal and run out that old drunkard Duggan."

Jack swallowed, uneasy. "You think so, do you?"

"Why, sure," she replied. "Ain't much of a feat to toss drunk miners in jail for a night, but running off a mankilling monster? That ain't nothing to sneeze at."

"I reckon so," Jack replied. His thoughts jumped back to that morning, when Mart Duggan had whipped over a hundred miners without firing a single shot. Jack himself had been scared spitless, sure that the mob would tear the entire station apart and him with it. He'd been making his peace with the Lord when the marshal marched past his desk and into the morning sun. In the space of a few minutes, Duggan had called every mother's son of them a coward and watched them slink away in shame. Jack Evans had never seen anything like it, and Annabelle's casual scorn for the marshal didn't sit right with him.

He could feel the heat from her body as she pressed into his side. Maybe she was right, though. Sure, Duggan could whip a crowd of miners, but he hadn't done much by way of whipping that thing in the forest. Now that Jack thought on it, the marshal had seemed downright scared that morning in the clearing, looking over his shoulder like the trees themselves were going to grow teeth and eat him. Jack had felt the same chill but stayed calm. He'd been the marshal's eyes that day, and if he hadn't kept a sharp eye, they could've both been eaten. That was almost the same as saving Mart Duggan's life, yet the marshal never said a word of thanks. If Jack was marshal, he'd be sure to give his deputies a hearty thank-you if they did something as thoughtful as saving his own life. He'd also make sure no man-killing creatures were welcome in his town, even if that meant chasing them up a mountain and into an old mine. If that crazy Cora Oglesby could do it, there wasn't any reason why he couldn't, either.

Jack's grin returned. He could make a fine marshal if given the chance. The first thing he'd do would be to take this beautiful woman as his bride and move her out of the brothel. He looked into her deep-blue eyes, eyes that reminded him of the sky, and she smiled back. Maybe she really could come to love him if he became marshal.

Jack pulled Annabelle closer. She came willingly, lowering her lips to his. The soft skin of her back felt warm on his cold hand. Her fingers combed through his hair, sending thrills skittering down his spine. Waves of goosebumps rolled over his skin, and he shivered.

A scream echoed from the street outside. Startled, the lovers turned toward the window. Annabelle pulled the bedsheets over her body as a second scream rattled the glass. Jack scrambled to his feet and ran into the other room. He fumbled with his pants, nearly falling over as he pulled them on. He threaded his arms through his shirt sleeves, grabbed the pistol from his belt, and ran to the window. All he could see was a steamy outline of his reflection. Several gunshots cracked in the darkness, followed by another scream.

The deputy pulled on his boots, gave Annabelle a quick nod, and ran downstairs. He crashed through the Purdy's front door into the night. The cold air hit him like a slap in the face. Blinded by the darkness, he could hear shouts and shots coming from somewhere on his left. A few heartbeats later, his vision cleared, and he could make out several figures down the street, outlined by the Pioneer's glowing windows. Imagining Annabelle's big blue eyes watching him from her window, he ran toward them, revolver at the ready.

As Jack ran, he saw several flashes as the figures fired into the shadows across the street. He looked where they were firing, but couldn't see anything except a row of lights winking in the darkness. When he reached the other men, he crouched down next to them and pointed his pistol in the same direction.

"Glad you could join us, deputy." The voice belonged to Mart Duggan.

"What's going on, marshal?" Jack asked, winded from the sprint.

"Seems that crazy bitch was right. Murray and me got the thing cornered, but–"

Duggan fell silent as a shadow lurched into view across the street. It stood on two legs like a man, but it was far too tall. Long arms hung down from a ten-foot height, brushing across the thing's knees as its fingers curled and flexed. Jack squeezed the trigger, adding the crack of his Schofield to the roaring of Duggan's Colt. On the other side of the marshal, he could hear the clap of a Winchester rifle in the hands of Deputy George Murray.

The creature reeled from the impact of the bullets, but it kept its feet even after Jack's revolver was empty. Shells skittered across the snow as he snapped the gun open. He reached down to pull more bullets from his belt, then cursed at his own stupidity. His ammo belt still lay on the floor in Annabelle's room.

The marshal's fingers reloaded his own gun with practiced ease. Across the street, the shadow crouched, its knees and elbows rising above its back as it lowered itself toward the snow. It watched them for a moment, swaying like a giant spider. Then, as the marshal slammed the Colt's cylinder back into place, the creature sprang toward them with a piercing screech. Jack flinched at the sound, his gun falling from his hand. He heard Duggan fire once before a long white arm slammed into him, knocking the lawman backward into the saloon's wall. Pain exploded in Jack's head, followed by a wave of nausea. Through the ringing in his head, he heard a choking scream and looked up.

Black fingers curled around Deputy Murray's neck as a pale arm lifted him off his feet. The marshal's gun roared in Jack's ears. Every one of Duggan's shots found its mark, but the creature didn't flinch. Instead, it turned a death grin at them, its teeth clacking between bloodless black lips.

Duggan fired again, and sparks flashed in the creature's face as the bullet ricocheted off its fangs. The monster answered with a sharp hiss. Jack heard the distinct click of an empty gun followed by Duggan's curse. Murray's boots dangled in midair as he clawed at the dead hand around his throat, desperate for a breath. Paralyzed, Jack watched the helpless deputy struggle for a moment before he felt something clamp onto his leg. He only had a moment to register the long black fingers gripping his boot before the creature hoisted him into the air. Hollering in panic, he twisted in the powerful grip, arms flailing. His fingers caught the cold, clammy skin hanging from the creature's ribs. It stretched like rubber, pulling away from the frozen bones, but it didn't tear.

The monster reared to its full height, releasing Jack's leg as it did. He fell headfirst onto the packed snow and lay dazed, his stomach reeling and his head foggy. Shadows danced across his vision. He lifted his head and squinted upward through the pulsing in his eyes.

The long arms cradled Deputy Murray like a child. Murray wrestled against the black fingers and kicked at the creature's ribs, but it held him fast. A stream of prayers poured from his lips. The creature hissed in reply, black lips pulled back. Long teeth sank into the deputy's neck, and his prayers ended in a gurgling scream. Jack felt something warm splash against his face, blinding him, but he didn't turn away. The sounds of crunching bone and grinding teeth filled his ears.

Only when the creature turned its eyes to him did Jack awake from his stupor. He rolled onto his stomach and scrambled to his feet. Before he could take two steps, icy fingers clamped around his stomach, bringing him up short. Hoisted skyward, he came face-to-face with those wicked teeth, now covered in fresh blood and bits of flesh. The creature seemed to grin at him, its yellow eyes alight with savage hunger. A wave of frigid air covered him as the jaws opened, revealing a pit as black as Hell itself.

Jack screamed.

A flash of orange light caught the monster's attention, and its eyes left the deputy's frightened face. In that moment, Jack heard the most welcome sound he could have imagined: the roar of Mart Duggan's voice.

"Back, you devil, or I'll set a fire in your hide!"

The black fingers let go of Jack's leg, and the deputy landed head-first on the packed snow. Stunned, he lay still as the world pitched around him in a swirl of black and orange.

Mart Duggan stepped over the fallen form of his deputy, a burning branch in each hand. He waved them in the creature's face, the flames brilliant against the night. The monster reeled backward with a loud wail. It beat at the fire with its long hands, but the marshal kept the branches just out of its reach. Duggan advanced, flames crackling, and pressed it back into the night. Finally, the creature turned and loped down the street, its long legs disappearing into the shadows.

Duggan stared after it for a moment, branches held high. With a final shout of triumph, he lowered the flames and turned back to his fallen deputy. The marshal prodded Jack with a boot until he rose to his feet.

"Where's Murray?" Duggan asked.

Jack opened his mouth, but the words didn't come. He could only look at the splattered blood and crushed bones that had once belonged to Deputy Murray. Duggan followed his gaze, then lowered his eyes to his boots. Only a handful of decent men called Leadville home, and George Murray had been one of them. The marshal swallowed the hard lump in his throat and whispered a prayer for his fallen man.

"Well, can't be helped now," he said aloud. "At least he don't have a wife or kids to give the bad news to."

Jack nodded. A man had just been eaten before his eyes, and he'd have followed in like kind had the marshal not returned when he did. His hands trembled, but he didn't have the wits to put them on his hips. Instead, he just looked at the bloody snow around them, thinking back to the clearing and wondering what those wolfers had felt in their last minutes.

"Well, come on, son," Duggan said, handing him a flaming branch. "We best make sure that thing has run off for good."

Jack took the branch from the marshal. It shook in his hand as he stared into the flames. That woman had said the creature was scared of silver and fire, but he'd forgotten. If the marshal hadn't remembered, it would have torn both of them apart. He could still see that gaping mouth and feel the icy breath on his face. Taking a deep breath, he tried to pull himself together enough to meet Duggan's eyes. "What in God's creation was that, sir?"