Death Wind by Travis Heermann

Author:Travis Heermann [Heermann, Travis]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror, western, Lovecraft, Lakota, cannibals
Publisher: WordFire Press
Published: 2016-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Part 3

“What tribe or people has not had its golden age, before Pandora’s box was loosed, when women were nymphs and dryads and men were gods and heroes? And when the race lies crushed and groaning beneath an alien yoke, how natural is the dream of a redeemer, an Arthur, who shall return from exile and awake from some long sleep to drive out the usurper and win back for his people what they have lost. The hope becomes a faith and the faith becomes the creed of priests and prophets, until the hero is a god and the dream a religion, looking for some great miracle of nature for its culmination and accomplishment. The doctrines of the Hindu avatar, the Hebrew Messiah, the Christian millennium, and the [Father] of the Indian Ghost Dance are essentially the same, and have their origin in a hope and longing common to all humanity.”

—James Mooney, The Ghost Dance Religion and Sioux Outbreak of 1890 (1892–93)

I

Major Wilson stood behind his desk, a slim cigar clenched in his teeth, glass of brandy in his hand, but Charles could not determine if it was anger or fear that made the glass tremble. Sergeant Weatherly and the quartermaster flanked him. Katie stood close at Charles’ hip. Lightning flashed in the window, and a sudden clap of thunder made the roof shingles rattle. Small bits of wind-driven debris pelted the glass.

Major Wilson said, “You’re saying they’re atop old Sentinel Hill?”

Charles put his hands on Major Wilson’s desk, leaning in. “My father and another man went up Sentinel Hill. There was a bonfire up there. There was a full-out gun battle. I don’t know who might still be alive up there.”

Major Wilson’s lip curled. “And you ran away.”

“A twister was bearing down on us! I was protecting the girl.”

Major Wilson chewed on his cigar and scowled.

“Damnit, Major, innocent people have been abducted, white homesteaders.”

Major Wilson yawned and checked his pocket watch. “I don’t see there’s much I can do. This is a civilian matter.” Nevertheless, two droplets of sweat glistened on his forehead. “Besides, my men are hunkered down for the storm.”

For a long moment, Charles stood speechless, unable to believe what he had just heard. “After everything you’ve seen in the last twenty-four hours—”

Wilson waved his hand dismissively. “I hardly think any of this is connected. Perhaps you should get some rest, doctor.”

“It’s all connected! Why can’t you see that?”

The Major sipped his brandy with a trembling hand.

“My father is the only civilian law within forty miles. You have to do something!”

“You are hardly in a position to give me orders, Doctor.”

Sergeant Weatherly shuffled between both feet, his face pale, and his eyes conveying quiet defeat. The quartermaster looked at Charles with ill-concealed disdain.

Charles raised his voice. “Can’t you send out a patrol? A few men?”

Wilson stubbed out the cigar. “No force in god’s creation will have me send my men off-post, into a thunderstorm—and we’ll count ourselves fortunate if that cyclone misses us—to face an enemy of unknown strength.

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