The frontier land towards Night

Listen (23 min) | Short story | Horror/strange Western | Mild language, violence

Train robbery ticked on as sure as clockwork, if you knew what you were doing.

Morgan listened, tightening the sagging bandages covering his eyes, holding his own horse and the reins of two others. His dog Mercy panted against his leg.

Morgan’s brother Percy and Flynn Tuttle waited with him in the desert for the sound of the locomotive.

It was early yet.

About that time, Frank and Cole Tuttle would be throwing knapsacks full of cash off the express car, if no one had shot them in the attempt.

Morgan always hoped someone would, but he was yet to get that lucky.

If all went according to plan, Frank and Cole would jump off the train and meet the other three. Then, it would be on to the next town, wherever Percy and Flynn said there was another payroll train.

Before the Tuttles, life had been one long string of low-class, low-achieving gangs, most of which went broke playing Faro. Frank, Flynn, and Cole were different. They had ambition, or at least a genius for robbery and violence. 

Percy made the usual deal with the Tuttles. He would take part in the gang’s endeavors. Morgan would be the group’s horse wrangler, luggage boy, cook, and whatever else a blind man could manage. The Tuttles had agreed, stipulating that Morgan would only get enough for his keep and not a full share of the loot.

Morgan felt he deserved a full share, if only because his tending to those tasks left the Tuttles free to enjoy other pursuits—cheating at poker and roughing up whores being chief among them.

To the west, Morgan heard the whispered tick tick tick of metal-on-metal.

By the time the sun was warming his front, Frank and Cole were with them again.

Handing them their reins, Morgan grabbed Mercy and jumped into his saddle.

At Frank’s word, the party fled.

Sweat of man and beast sprayed and chilled, grit grinding between his teeth, as the gang galloped into the wilderness. With every mile, the dust grew. Squeezing Mercy to his chest, Morgan wheezed, his lungs begging for clean air.

Over the thunder of hooves, Percy shouted. “You alright?”

Morgan nodded, wishing the two of them were anywhere else.

The crew slowed, and he was able to catch his breath.

“There,” Frank Tuttle said. “Bound to be some caves that’ll keep the cold off.” Frank’s voice echoed and focused far ahead. They were nearing a canyon.

Percy spoke. “All the law will have to do is plug up both ends, and we’re trapped.”

Frank snorted. “Earliest that could happen would be tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll be long gone by then.”

A click of the tongue, and the horses started, carrying them into the canyon.

Hoof beats bounced off the stone slabs, volleying across a space growing wider with every foot of ground.

The rush of rock walls caught Morgan in their current. They were eyeing him, drawing him in like the perfumed arms of the women who worked above the saloon. He crouched under their watching, letting his cheek press the top of Mercy’s head.

The horses stopped.

“I’ll be damned.” Cole Tuttle’s voice.

Percy moved close to Morgan’s ear. “Looks to be an old mine, at least from what I can see. It’s a big outfit, three or four buildings, all look like they could blow right over.”

Morgan sniffed and wrinkled his nose. “Smells like rotten eggs.”

Percy answered. “Miners say that happens sometimes. They call it ‘stinkdamp,’ though I don’t think it’s dangerous.”

Flynn Tuttle snickered, riding ahead. “Smells better than what little Cole’s got in his canteen.”

They rode, Percy running his gloved finger along the ridges of their mother’s cameo, worn round his neck on a bit of twine. He began chattering, rubbing the fishhook-shaped scar beneath his nose, trying to hide his nerves. “Probably copper. There’s lots of that out here, but it don’t look like anyone’s been around for a while. And there’s a switch-back going up the hill just to the west. Must lead up to the railroad tracks. Not a bad way if we gotta get out quick.”

“Would you two shut up.” It was Cole.

Flynn giggled. “What’s a’ matter, law make you nervous? I guess it should. I hear they hang train robbers in New Athens.”

Cole’s horse snorted as he pulled it around. “Close your mouth before I knock it off your damn face.”

Frank and Cole always did the robbing. Brass balls, the both of them, only when a job was done Cole’s balls got a little squishy. Put a gun in his hand, and he was a mountain lion, but when the heat of the moment cooled, talk of death or anything close drained his nerve. He usually found it again at the bottom of a bottle.

Frank kept up the pace. “If you two jackasses can hold off until we reach the mine, you can scrap with full bellies.”

The further they rode, the fouler the stench.

Dismounting at the sturdiest of the old buildings, the gang left Morgan to tether and shelter the horses.

Tying thick twine to the wood frame and using his walking stick, he set about picking up loose boards and taking what branches Mercy could gather to build a fire.

When he was done, Percy was waiting to take him on.

Morgan tied the other end of the twine at the cave’s entrance, hoping he’d worked up an appetite.

A belch of sulfur, wafting up from the guts of the earth, rolled through the mine’s throat and blew in their faces. They stood like food on a monster’s tongue, ready to be sucked in and chewed up.

*

The entry chamber was cavernous, echoing every sound. Plenty of room to build a fire.

Dinner was hard biscuits, jerky, and coffee.

Cole, who never took food after a job, opened his canteen, the contents wreaking of turpentine and chewing tobacco. He drank, turning away all offers of nourishment.

On he went, past dinner, into the time for smoking around the fire. He swore, kicking Flynn’s plate, tripping to his feet and shuffling to the back of the cave.

Morgan listened, hearing him stack stones together.

Cole unholstered his pistol.

Frank spoke up. “Little late for target practice.”

Cole fumbled with the weapon. “Don’t . . . try ta . . ..”

Cocking the pistol, he fired at the back of the cavern, shattering rock and booming an echo up and around.

Mercy flinched but stayed at Morgan’s side.

Cole cocked again.

Morgan bent to steady the dog.

The revolver popped, and the whine of ricochet whizzed by, taking Morgan’s hat with it. He fell over, covering Mercy, his face close to the ground.

Percy jumped up, spilling his coffee, shouting at Cole. Flynn and Frank were on them, trying to steady the situation before the gun went off again.

Feathers of movement brushed and fell beneath Morgan’s hands. He felt the group stamping, the buzz of raised voices, and something else. Something off-rhythm. Fingertips read the floor, sensing the hum of stomps, like a man wearing horseshoes. It was coming from under the cavern. Ear to the ground, Morgan strained to hear beyond the din.

In the depths of the mine, something screamed, and it was speeding in their direction.

“SHUT UP.” Morgan got two seconds of quiet.

Frank barreled towards him. “What did you say to me, you blind son of a—?”

Another wail scraped the tunnel at the back of the cavern.

The four on their feet went for their guns, pulling back the hammers.

Percy squatted beside his brother. “You know what kind of beast it is?”

Morgan shook his head. “No, but it’s big. Fast for its size.”

Percy hoisted him up. “There’s a shaft at your two. You and Mercy stay in there ‘til we get rid of it. You got your knife?”

Morgan felt the bowie hanging at his hip and nodded. Wrapping his arm under the dog, he felt his way to the shaft wall and hunkered down.

Steps pounded up the tunnel. The men found cover and took their positions.

Stopping at the edge of the chamber, the beast waited, its breath grating on its throat, and moved forward, crossing the threshold into the cavern.

Cole and Frank, closest to it, shouted, firing one after the other, bullets whining and ricocheting.

Yelling turned to screaming.

The beast shrieked.

Screams stopped dead, like a door had been shut on them.

Flynn rushed out, firing two pistols—more whining, more ricochet.

He gasped. Something had him by the throat.

Again, the beast shrieked, and Flynn was silent.

Stone struck the floor and shattered.

Morgan clung to Mercy, praying the clamor wouldn’t bring the old mine down on their heads.

Percy held his position.

The animal moved closer, wheezing with the voice of an old woman, a buzz of air and rattle like a pit of snakes growing with each step.

Sliding across the ground, Percy fired. Just once. “Oh gods.”

Another shriek.

Morgan squeezed Mercy’s face to his chest, listening for any sign of his brother.

Wheezing. Buzzing. Breathing. The animal was listening, too, coming nearer to the mouth of the passage.

Morgan’s legs burned to flee into the mine, but his mind recalled what he knew of such places. There were air shafts. Pits full of gear that broke your body as you fell forever. And he was in the animal’s den. If he moved, it would know how to find him.

Sitting stone-still, he held his breath.

The animal waited.

When it was satisfied, it turned, its steps hammering the floor, and disappeared into the mine.

Morgan pressed his ear to the ground, listening, feeling until all signs of the creature were gone.

Mercy whined beside him. He shushed her. “No, gotta keep quiet.”

He had to find his brother, alive or not. There hadn’t been sounds of eating or dragging, no smell of blood, and Percy hadn’t screamed. Maybe he’d fainted and been left for dead.

Morgan placed his hand on the dog’s back. “Mercy girl, find Percy. Get Percy.”

The dog’s toenails tapped the stone as she crossed to where Percy had taken cover. She stopped, sniffing.

Morgan got up, feeling his way, finding nothing under his fingers but dirt and rock.

He squatted, patting Mercy. “Find Percy, where’s Percy?”

The dog lay down where she was and whimpered.

Probably scared out of her mind. He would have to get his walking stick and find Percy and the others on his own.

Morgan stood, and his coat caught. His fingers fumbled as he tried to loose himself, feeling for what had snagged him.

It was stone, long and thin, like the barrel of a revolver pointing towards the back of the mine. He followed it upward. There was a lever, a cylinder, and a trigger with a stone finger on it.

Morgan took his hand back.

A statue, close enough to the fire that the others would have seen it, and no one mentioned anything.

He touched it again, running his hands up the arm to the face, the eyes, the nose, and below the nose to a raised scar in the shape of a fishhook.

Jerking his hand away, he stumbled and fell, gasping. Mercy crossed to him, sniffing his face. He held her, shaking.

Catching his breath, Morgan moved towards the figure. Again, he felt the scar. Studied the face. It was warmer than the rest of the rock, growing colder by the second. Running his fingertips down the chest, he found, peeking out between two stone shirt buttons, the impression of his mother’s cameo.

“Percy.”

Morgan’s body tried to scream. Every hair on his head ached. He tripped, crawled, not believing in the world. He was in the jaws of a nightmare, dashing himself against a rock, fighting for air. But the rock had Percy’s face. And Frank’s. And Flynn’s. And Cole’s. Whole and broken, stone men without breath.

No true beast. It was a monster. And the dream was reality.

Falling to his knees, Morgan laid his head on Percy’s feet, wrapped his arms around what remained of his brother, and wept.

Beyond the cave, the sounds of night rose and fell.

He was alone. There was Mercy but no one who remembered their mother. Their boyhood. Without Percy, Morgan didn’t exist.

He’d often wished to be free of the life his brother had chosen for them. Percy’s choice, not his. Nothing of his. And he’d resented his brother, not for Percy’s decisions, but for his own fear of setting out to build a life that would allow him some dignity.

Morgan wished, as he held his brother, that he too might turn to stone. He could recall the monster and let it transform him, but that felt lonelier even than the world he faced. Lonely and ungrateful.

Their lives had been one long string of hunger, thirst, cold, heat, blood, bruise, the stink of city streets, and every time it’d been Percy standing between them and death. Percy who taught him how to ride, scrap, shoot, and handle a knife.

He wouldn’t leave his brother unavenged to be a hunting trophy, and he wasn’t going down without a fight.

There’d be a reckoning, and in the end, either himself or the monster would be dead.

In its own lair, the creature was master. The only advantage he had was its being unaware of his presence.

Morgan dried his tears, thinking.

There had been two heavy feet stomping up from the mine, the ricochet of bullets fired in the dark, screaming, swearing, and a shriek before silence.

The monster was big, but size wouldn’t matter to a bullet, if it could find its mark.

The horror of changing men to stone hadn’t been done by touch—Flynn was the only one it got its hands on—nor by sound. The others had seen it, it had seen them, and they had turned.

Morgan had to kill it before it laid its eyes on him.

Searching with his stick, he found again the remains of Frank and Cole Tuttle near the back of the cavern beside a large stone. Morgan hoped to make better use of it than they had.

Three times he passed from there to the cave entrance and back, being sure he could cross quickly. Digging Percy’s second pistol out of his knap sack, Morgan loaded it. He wasn’t a bad shot for a blind man—though he hated guns—and hearing would tell him most of what he needed to know, especially if he could get close.

Walking Mercy to a hiding place near his own, he kissed her, held her face, and told her to stay down. New Athens wasn’t far. If he didn’t survive, maybe she would.

Dowsing the fire with what remained of the coffee, Morgan yelled, hurling every curse he knew at the creature, knocking the pot against the stones.

Beneath his feet, rumbling started.

Hurrying, he took his cover at the back of the cavern.

The monster ascended, growling at the far end of the tunnel.

Morgan inched the pistol’s hammer back.

The creature moved towards the entryway, wheezing and rattling, waiting, seeking the noise’s source.

Morgan quieted his breath and steadied his hands, his legs ready to pivot.

Moving past his cover, the monster entered the cavern.

Morgan matched its movements, creeping round the back of the stone, listening.

By its breathing, the head was about two heads higher than his own, and the body was large. Plenty of target.

He exhaled. Now or never.

Sliding from behind the rock, Morgan took aim and fired.

Fired three shots before he noticed the whine.

Ricochet.

Percy and the Tuttles didn’t miss and hit rock. The slugs bounced right off the beast’s hide.

Before he could think, it had him by the throat, a claw of metal propping him up on his jawbone above its head.

He tried to shout for Mercy to run, to pry its talons away.

The monster gripped all the harder, slashing at his face with its other claw, tearing the bandages from his eyes, and shrieking a choking stench in his face.

He felt its gaze hold him. Fix him.

One breath before the end.

By all his figuring, he should’ve turned to stone, but his body was fighting for air. Pain seized his spine. His heart drummed in his ears.

The monster hesitated.

He couldn’t.

Dropping his right hand, Morgan wrenched the bowie from his belt and stabbed at the creature’s left eye.

A cold claw caught his wrist, tightening, crushing. The knife began to slip.

Screaming, the beast dropped Morgan’s arm.

It arched, swinging round, twisting towards a low, flailing growl.

Mercy.

She’d grabbed hold of it.

With the last life in his fingers, Morgan gripped the handle of his knife and drove it in, up to the guard, through the monster’s eye.

The creature made no sound but the sucking of air as its claw loosened on his throat.

Morgan jiggled the blade and yanked it free, plunging it into the remaining eye.

The claw opened, and he fell, gasping, to the ground, pushing with his legs to get clear.

The body thudded into the stone beside him.

Morgan lay still, his breath whistling in his swollen throat.

He heard the tapping of toenails. Felt a cold nose nudge him. A wet kiss. Mercy lay down and put her head on his chest.

Raising his hand to touch her, letting go of everything, he let himself swoon.

When he woke and could move again, Morgan checked the creature, curiosity directing his hands across the body of his brother’s killer.

It was every bit as tall as he thought. The legs were thick and hard as a young oak, and the hide was serpent scales. On its back he found two feathered wings—Mercy had probably got a hold of one of them—and its head—he pulled his hand back when he felt it—was covered in unmoving snakes.

*

The smell of nighttime cool faded.

Morgan redressed his eyes and packed.

Supplies in hand, he stood before Percy, touching his face. “I should’ve never been angry at you. You did what you thought you had to, and I’m sorry I never thanked you for that.”

Feeling once more his mother’s cameo, Morgan hauled up his gear, gathered Mercy, and departed.

Exploring to the west as Percy had said, Morgan found the switch-back.

Unsaddling the Tuttles’ horses, he freed them, sending them out into the desert.

Taking his and Percy’s animals, he walked them up the sloping ground and out of the canyon with Mercy by his side.

---

The painting used for this story is Sunset, Canyon de Chelly by Edgar Payne, done around 1917.

The title was taken from a translation of the Greek poet Hesiod’s Theogony, describing the location of the gorgons’ lair: “the Gorgons who dwell beyond glorious Ocean in the frontier land towards Night.”