Gunslinger's End

Duncan Dakota felt his horse shiver, and dismounted just before the beast keeled over and died. He wasn't entirely surprised; the horse was stolen, and he'd been driving the beast hard into the canyons, trying to shake the posse off his back. Maybe he shouldn't have gunned down that sheriff, but if the man didn't want a bullet in his pate he shouldn't have asked for Duncan's gun. Who'd've known a sheriff would have friends?

He took a few minutes to check the saddle, and came up with a half-full waterskin, a blanket, and not much else. Cursing the dead beast's owner under his breath, he rose...

A stone clicked against another stone, and Duncan spun. His pistol cleared leather, and he was ready to go down shooting, but...

He froze. 

The thing in front of him was near to his own size, shorter but wider, hairless and pale. Its features were half-formed, almost melted, and it blinked strange, orange eyes at him. Then it flowed forward. Duncan squeezed off a single shot, but by then it was too late. He fell back, screaming, as it surrounded him and overwhelmed his flesh, pouring in through mouth and nose and ears. 

Duncan Dakota stirred on the sands of the canyon floor, then sat up slowly. He climbed clumsily to his feet, then looked himself over. "Oh yes," he said, tasting his new language, his new understanding. "You'll do nicely." 

A new face in town

It was nearin' midnight, and there was only one face in the saloon that Sheriff Black couldn't place: a young man playing cards, well-dressed but not overdressed. Respectable, from the look of 'im, but not established. Wasn't playin' especially well or poorly, so probably not a professional gambler -- not that the stakes out here were high enough for a successful gambler to travel this far out. If he was a card-sharp, he was better'n most; the sheriff had run off two or three of those, and there was a certain air they usually cultivated. This kid didn't have it. 

No, he looked more like he was down on his luck or on the run, and playing cards to pass the time. None of the fake-brotherhood joviality that the professional grifters were so good at. Didn't look much like a murderer, but then again who did?

Won't know 'til it happens, he thought, and settled back in his booth.  

A night at the saloon

The saloon was full, but then the work-week was over for most, and there were coins to spend -- or gamble away -- and songs to sing, and drinks to down. It was a rough-and-tumble crowd, but generally well-behaved. Sheriff Black recognized most of them: Eduardo, Isabelle, and Juan, who worked the old Darling farm together; Sam Maddox, the town's cooper, who doubled as a scrivener for those as couldn't write or read; the mayor, Missus Laura, better known as Ma'am, watching over her tavern from her table on the second floor balcony. 

She saw him come in, stood, studied him form a moment, then gestured for him to come up. 

Sheriff Black had no intention of making a scene; if she'd ignored him, he'd have ignored her. If there were issues to discuss, they could hash it out at the the next City Council meeting. But with an unmistakable  summons... 

He found the back stairs, mounted them, and joined her at her table. 

"What can I offer you, Sheriff?" she asked. "I've had word there's been a murder. Your deputy wanted to know if I'd seen any likely suspects. I have not."

"There was a murder," he confirmed. "I was hoping to learn more before I filled you in, but since you already know: someone was killed, very late last night. Ripped apart, or nearly so.  Gravedigger's with Doc, looking at the body."

"That's good," she said. "There like t'be any more trouble from it?"

Augustus Black resisted the urge to shrug. "Depends on how fast we find whatever did it, or if it moves on without causin' any further trouble."

"Well then," said the mayor. "Carry on. Appreciate y'watching over my saloon tonight."

The sheriff lifted a finger to his forehead. "Ma'am." 

Startin' the hunt

"Ain't got nobody covered in blood," said Deputy Gonzales. "Leastways, nobody we've seen."

Sheriff August Black nodded at that. "Two drunks in their cells, but they both been here for hours. Have the Gravedigger look 'em over, but if he don't find anything we cut 'em loose in the mornin'." 

Gonzales nodded. "The Mayor herself, she says she ain't got anybody new stayin' in her saloon."

"That'd be too easy," Sheriff Black muttered, and Gonzales nodded. All right. He was going to have call the deputies in, and send them out to search in the morning if nothing else happened tonight. Meanwhile, he'd go and sit in the saloon t'night, all nice and casual, and see what might happen. Might be anything', might be nothin'. 

"Gonzalez," he said quietly. "You remember those silver bullets the gravedigger left for us?"

Gonzales nodded. 

"Make sure you and the others have a cylinder full of 'em, okay? I'll give the order, but you make sure the word gets around." 

The Gravedigger

The gravedigger's cart didn't actually sound different from any other, but there was something about the way the horse stepped that couldn't be mistaken. Those regular hoofbeats were like a heartbeat, inescapable and inevitable. There was a faint creak as Clayton Pyre set the brake, and then there came the regular clicking of his approaching boot-steps. 

The Gravedigger was a vital part of the life of the town, but it was small wonder that people feared him and considered his presence bad luck. Sheriff Black knew that was backwards -- he came in the wake of bad luck, he wasn't the cause of it -- but the belief was hard to shake. 

"Hell below," remarked the older man, looking down at the corpse. He sniffed at the air, then knelt down beside it. His eyes went immediately to the mangled ankle, then lingered on the gouges in the torso. He pulled a small glass vial off of his belt, poured a bit of salt into his hand, and then sprinkled it over the wounds. 

Nothing happened, and he nodded at that, then sat back on his heels. Looking up at Doc, he said: "Corpse is safe enough. Whatever did this ain't infectious."

Doc nodded to him. "Good to be sure, though. You know what did it?"

The gravedigger shook his head. "I've got silvers set aside. I could put him safely in the ground, Guessin' you'd like a look first."

Doc grunted. "You're certain it's safe?"

"Certain's a strong word," Clayton Pyre told him. "You want a look, I'll come with you."

"I'd 'ppreciate that," Doc told him. 

The Gravedigger rose in a smooth movement, pivoting to face Sheriff Black. "Most likely we've had shifter slip in. Maybe a beast, if'n it slipped the borders somehow. If it's a curse, we're lucky -- it'll be done and gone."

The Sheriff nodded. "As soon as you take the corpse off, I'll start checking for strangers and anybody new back in town."

"When's the last time you walked the city limits?" asked Pyre. 

"Two weeks ago," Black told him. 

"Arm yourself with silver and check 'em again," the Gravedigger said. "And walk the county line as well. A little extra strengthening can't hurt either way."

"Was planning to," said Sheriff Black. He grinned at the ever-serious Gravedigger. "I do know my own duties."

"Then Doc an' I'll be out your way and let you get to it. Don't mean to tell you your business, but you're still new here."

Sheriff Black offered the Gravedigger a shrug, because he did appreciate the man's advice. "Ain't as new as all that," he pointed out. "And Needhaven ain't the first town to have these sorts of troubles." 

Clayton Pyre stopped, considered that. "Fair," he said. "Just be careful -- an' be safe."

"Will do," Sheriff Black replied. "You do the same."

A look'at the corpse

"Well," said Sheriff Black after a long moment. "That's a bad'n."

Doc nodded. "Knife fight would've been cleaner, and there's no shot from a shotgun. Flesh is torn, like something bit or clawed."

The sheriff swallowed. "Any bits missin'?"

Doc shook his head. "Not sure yet. Wanted you t'see it the way I found it, before I moved it t'where I could look."

"That's good of you, Doc." Sheriff Black stepped forward, then stopped. "Y'see that ankle."

Doc turned his head, blanched, and the said. "Yeah. I see it."

The Achilles tendon had been cut -- or bitten through, more like. Not that kind of thing that happened when folks fought with other folks, and they both knew it. "Damn it," said Doc. "Now I'll need Pyre to look it over before I take it back t'the clinic."

The sheriff nodded. "Yeah. And I'll have t'look for strangers in town, or anyone else as might've gone missing." 

"We wait here," Doc said, resigned. "'Least 'til the Gravedigger arrives. Make sure nothing changes, nothing comes back. You've a mold for bullets?"

Sheriff Black grunted. "Don't need it, though. Not for this. Gravedigger brought me a box of silver shot when I first came to town. Said he hoped I never needed 'em. I'll load up as soon as I go back." 

A killin' In Town

"Sheriff! Sheriff!"

Sheriff Black straightened at his his desk and sighed, wishing he'd had time to finish his mug before whatever-this-was broke loose. Coffee wasn't easy to come by out here, and it was a damned shame that this cup of it seemed like to go to waste. 

There was an enormous thud on the porch outside, and then a brief pause before the door opened. The man looking in was Dan Brighton, the town's cobbler, and from the sound of things he'd tripped on the porch and crashed into the door before he managed to open it. He was red-faced and breathin' hard, but he managed t'say, "Doc says y'gotta come! A feller's been killed."

Sheriff black sighed again and stood up. "Where? How?"

"Outside the saloon," Brighton told him, bending over to catch his breath. "I was passing by, and Doc said to fetch you right quick. I didn't see much, but... the feller, he was torn open."

Yep, this one's going to be an unholy mess. He stepped around his desk, put a hand on the cobbler's shoulder. "All right, Dan. Good work." He sighed again. "Now... I'm going to need you to do one more thing. I know you've got a shop to run and all, but I need you to walk -- walk, mind you, slow and careful -- up the hill and fetch back the Gravedigger. Can you do that?"

Brighton's face went through several expressions in the space of a single breath: objection, understanding, acceptance. He knew as well as they all did that whether this was a simple murder or something more, they were going to need the Gravedigger to help with it. He nodded slowly.

"Good man," said the Sheriff. "Catch your breath first."

"I'll see to it, Sheriff," Brighton said, breathing more easily now. "Just give me a minute. Got a little... over-excited, I think."

Sheriff Black shrugged. "Well, we don't see dead bodies in town just every week -- and thank the Great Spirit for that."