Skull Moon

Once the facts and speculations were done with, there were only more problems. If the Blackfeet were involved, then how were they directing the attacks of this wild beast? And what of Herbert Crazytail and his Skull Society and this mysterious other called Skullhead? Was it just a bunch of bull? Was the crazy old Indian allowing a bunch of savage murders to justify his own mythologies and visions?

Longtree had no idea whatsoever. His mother was a Crow. He had Indian blood in him and as a boy in the Crow camp before the Sioux raiders had murdered everyone, he'd witnessed the spiritual and mystical side of Indian life. But he'd forgotten most of it in the Catholic mission school as Christianity was rammed down his throat. And later, with Uncle Lone Hawk, there'd been little mysticism. Lone Hawk was a Christian. He was a practical man, having little use for the supernatural. Yet, despite the fact that Longtree knew very little of Indian spiritualism and the assorted, complex myth cycles and legendry of the tribes, he wasn't above believing there were mysteries in this world. Things unknowable, things dark and ancient that white man's science or religion couldn't hope to explain.

The world was a wild place.

And though there was no one better than the whites at collecting information and dissecting it for truths, there were some things in the world that defied rationality and scientific realism.

Longtree winced, knowing he was thinking like a superstitious man.

But all men were superstitious at their core, it was the nature of the beast. Men thought certain rifles and knives were lucky. That wearing a particular coat or pair of boots would bring them good fortune or, at the very least, keep them alive in this hard country. In the army he'd known officers that were highly-educated men who would only put their boots on a certain way or carry lucky coins or pictures of their children as talismans.

Superstition was everywhere.

And that was the same now as it had been two hundred years before or would be two hundred years in the future.

Longtree was confused about this thing with Crazytail, this talk of the Skullhead. Something was slaughtering people, something that left huge prints like those of some monster.

Crazy?

Perhaps. But he would've liked to have known something of this Skull Society and particularly this Blood-Medicine. It was, according to Moonwind's translation, the medium through which this Skullhead was called up like some Christian demon out of hell. But…Christ. Monsters? Demons?

You're a lawman, he told himself.

This was true. A lawman. A peace officer. A deputy U.S. Marshal. A special federal officer. He was a man of facts, not fantasy. He didn't deal in Indian superstitions or half-forgotten folklore.

Yet, Longtree was scared.

He would never have admitted it, but he was. There was a deep-rooted fear crawling in his belly and he couldn't shake it. After all the things he'd done, all the danger he'd faced, this scared him. He was frightened like he'd never been before.

(beware for the skull moon grows full)

The import of that unnerved him. Devils. Monsters. Primal beasts. There were names for things like this, for beasts that prowled the lonely countryside. Longtree was well-read, he knew something of folklore. Knew that even white European culture had their bogeymen, their haunters of the dark, their atavistic horrors. Bogarts and ogres and assorted flesh-eaters. Things with claws and teeth that stalked the dark forests.

Enough, he thought, enough.

And then out in the moon-washed countryside he heard it. A low, awful, evil sound that perfectly punctuated his thoughts: a mournful, drawn-out howling. He bit down on his lower lip, his head suddenly filled with nightmare imagery, terrible things that stalked the wind-swept shadows of cemeteries and burial grounds. Impossible, red-eyed horrors with long claws and sharp teeth that waited on frosty, forgotten lanes for wayward travelers…

He shook it clear from his head.

A monster of Indian myth given life, hunting enemies of the tribe. That was insane.

And the night went silent, even Longtree's horse dared not breathe. An eerie abnormal hush had taken the world now, enclosing it in folds of midnight satin. A heavy breathing stillness.

Then the howling began again.

9

Sheriff Lauters was on his way back to his office when he heard the screams.

He had half a bottle of rye in his desk drawer and the thought of it warming his belly and lulling him into an easy sleep was all he cared about. He didn't pay any attention to the miners he saw fighting in the streets outside the saloons and gambling halls. He didn't pay no mind to the lewd behavior exhibited by a few ranch hands outside the parlor houses.

He saw nothing but the bottle and the sweet release it offered.

Then he heard the screams.

They stopped him dead.