And according to her, a Skinwalker had saved them.
Whatever the case, it had only taken the word of his sister to send him toward the town, and because many of the men were just as tired of being pushed and pushed, they came with him.
There would be no more of their women raped or scalped by the white men.
The men in blue uniforms were gathered in one area when Alchesay charged into town with his men. In numbers they looked to be stronger, but they were all busy looking at one tent and before they were aware, Alchesay and his men were in range.
The first rifle shots cracked through the air before the soldiers did much more than look around with open mouths. All around the area people of all colors were running, wisely clearing away from the charging horsemen. Four of the bluecoats fell before any of them considered attacking in return. Two of their horses fell too, shot by who knew. Men and horses alike screamed.
And then the soldiers turned and grabbed for their weapons.
Alchesay had planned for this. Instead of staying at a long range, he and his men charged their horses into the enemy. Flesh fell before the hooves of his mount. Men screamed and fell, and the horse stumbled but kept its footing. He was too close to shoot, so he swung his rifle and hit whatever he could with the butt of the weapon. Someone fired from nearby and a bullet cut past his head. He had no time to consider that. Instead he hit another bluecoat and felt bone break.
There were screams, of course. And then there were battle cries. He called out for his men and they called out as well. The cavalry recoiled as if hit by boiling water.
He charged forward.
The tent was closer now. And the time was finally here. He would kill them all, every last one of the soldiers. They would all pay for what they had done, what they had planned to do. There would be no mercy.
Unfortunately, the men in the tent felt the same away.
There were more of the soldiers than he’d expected. They came from inside the large tent and started shooting and they were far enough away that they could still aim and shoot and kill.
Beside him Mangas stopped his battle cry when a bullet tore his skull away. He fell from his horse and into the tide of men being crushed, and that was the last Alchesay saw of his lifelong friend.
The bluecoats kept coming, and Alchesay jammed his heels into the horse’s flanks and charged forward into the crush of soldiers.
And men screamed.
And men died.
And Alchesay roared his challenge for all of them. His skin felt hot. His bones were blades of ice. His heart thundered in his chest and his eyes shook in his skull.
And then the change came, and Alchesay roared his challenge a second time as his teeth grew and his body twisted into a new form.
Halfway across the camp he’d crouched in the dirt and made markings with one pale finger. His other hand had poured colored sand into the markings and filled them in.
The Navajo called his kind Skinwalkers. It was as good a name as any, but he knew better. There was more to them than just changing shapes. Most of his kind were gone now. They tended to kill each other off. It was not something they could, or wanted to, control. Like the weather or the stars, it was simply what was supposed to be. They felt a dislike for each other that could seldom be set aside for long. The one he’d seen earlier was a child, barely born into the world and likely knew nothing of himself.
He probably wanted to know more about what he was. And why he existed. The old one could have told him, but that was not what he planned this day.
What he planned was violence and carnage and blood and suffering, the things he fed on best.
And so he’d finished his simple spell and looked at the characters he had drawn in the dirt and then at the Apache charging into town. They had plans, too, and those plans were of blood and violence.
So the old one helped them along.
His hands had scooped up the colored sand and dirt and held the mixture out and blew it at the Apache as they rode past.
He did not hit all of them, but he’d hit enough.
He waited until they were engaged with their enemies and the bloodshed had begun before he said that words that made the spell awaken. And just that easily, the anger within the warriors was given a face and a form.
The old one settled down and watched and waited.
Soon enough he would feed.
Crowley shook his head as the cavalrymen turned away from him and from Slate alike. Slate stared at them with an expression that was either shock, outrage or both. Whatever the case, it made Crowley chuckle.
“You find this situation amusing, Mister Crowley?” Slate looked his way with an expression of disappointment.
“Not at all, Mister Slate. I find you amusing.”
“And why would that be?” Damned if Slate didn’t sound offended.
“Because you look so very annoyed that the men who want to hang you are no longer bothering with you.”
Slate blinked and a quick, embarrassed grin flashed on his face. “Yes, well, when you say it like that.”
“We should leave.”
“I agree.” Slate pointed at the men flowing out of the tent. “But there are men in our way.”
“This is a tent, Mister Slate. We can climb out from under it if we must.”
The bartender looked at them and shook his head. “Could just go out the flap at the other side, too.”
Crowley smiled and tossed the man a coin.
And as they were walking away from the soldiers, ignoring the screams and the gunshots, a deep roar shook through the air and the tone of the screams changed from anger and pain to deep, abiding terror.
And he knew before it happened of course. It was inevitable, really.
Someone out in the front of the tent let out a shriek and someone else called out, “Help me! Oh, Lord, help me!”
Crowley shook his head.
“You don’t have to, you know.” Slate’s voice, as soft as a whisper.
“Oh, but I do.” He shook his head again. “Can’t you feel it? Whatever is out there, it’s not natural.” He spoke as if he regretted what was going to come next, but still the smile pulled at the edges of his lips and his heart beat faster in his chest.
“Well then, shall we do this?”
Crowley spun hard and nearly ran for the men at the opposite end of the tent. Many of the soldiers were coming back in, their eyes wide and frightened. He could understand that. There were a lot of things out in the world to be afraid of.
Folsom had planned to come out with guns blazing and eliminate the threat before it could become something larger. He’d half expected to run across a few of the savages in town, but when he heard the horses, and the sound of Apache battle cries, he felt a cold knot of dread in his stomach.
Had he, perhaps, turned a blind eye to his men having their way with the squaws? Yes. Why? Because happy soldiers performed better. What he had not truly considered was what might occur when the red skinned brutes found out about what was happening with their women. That was the very first concern when he heard the sounds of his men screaming. It shouldn’t have been, but truth be told the guilt had been gnawing at him for a while.
The guilt went away the second he saw the monsters.
He’d pushed through the crowd of his men to assess the situation and was looking directly at the Indians when they changed. Not all of them, only a few, but it was enough. The man at the front of the charge was a stocky brute in leathers. He wore a canvas coat that had seen its best days a few years earlier and was coming apart at the seams, and his rage was a brutal thing to behold.