Old Scratch and Owl Hoots: A Collection of Utah Horror by

Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Griffin Publishers, LLC
Published: 2015-01-12T00:00:00+00:00

8 Hunger

Jaren K Rencher

Eddie Hawkins winced at every noise the dappled gray mare made, no matter how slight. Old Brigham’s Avenging Angels, the Danites, could track you through the Salt Lake in a driving thunderstorm on a moonless night. They were hungry, hungry for your blood and your eternal soul. Nothing hungrier in fact, not in this world or the next. Leastwise, that’s what the whispers said.

Not much scared Eddie. He had robbed many men, killed several others. His latest victim fell less than a month before: a soldier from whom he’d liberated his current favorite treasure. Eddie reached a hand out and caressed the stock of a nearly-new 1855 Colt Revolving Carbine.

Yet Eddie hadn’t known a moment of peace for the last week. He had been sitting alone at his fire, nursing a cup from his last pot of coffee. He looked up sharply at the sound of a wagon’s creaking wheels. Carbine in hand, he watched as a bald man with a bushy, white beard stopped the wagon level with Eddie’s fire; the man waved a salute and called out, “Good evening, friend. Might we share the warmth of your fire for the evening?”

The man was dressed like a dude; his wife looked like she’d never before held a battlin’ stick. Eddie sensed an opportunity and waved back. “Come ahead, sir, ma’am.” He set the Carbine down, then stood and tipped his hat. “My fire is yours. Would you or your wife take some coffee? Perhaps a bit of stew?” Introductions were made: the man went by the name of Nolan Sturgill; his wife was Eliza; and their daughter, Ginny, clambered from the back of the wagon. Over the next several hours, Sturgill related what seemed like his entire life history, including a detailed accounting of the property in the wagon intended for his homestead near Salt Lake City, “abiding with the rest of the Saints.” Eddie allowed the man to ramble; his imagination pierced the canvas and saw what his eyes could not. A wallet stuffed with money, silver candlesticks in the trunk, even a bit of silk and a few bead necklaces he could sell. Eddie’s smile grew and he finally interrupted the ‘steader, warning, “Not everyone you’ll meet on the trail is a friend. Lettin’ the cat outta the bag is a whole lot easier than puttin’ it back.”

Despite the warning, Sturgill continued to talk. Three hours later, after the family had retired, Eddie had the family’s entire stake in his saddlebags and was atop his horse, ready to ride into the night. Sturgill, eyes bleary with sleep, charged Eddie from the darkness, earning himself a helping of lead in his gut. The last words Eddie had heard the heavily whiskered ‘steader whisper consumed his waking thoughts. “They’ll be tellin’ Porter, Hawkins. You can run, but Porter’ll find you!” Sturgill’s words rang in his mind accompanied by the crying of the girl and her mother. He had ridden hard in the week since, the ‘steader’s promise ever at his heels.

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