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HOW THE WEST WENT TO HELL

BY ERIC S BROWN

KINDLE EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Pill Hill Press on Kindle

How the West Went to Hell

Copyright © 2010 by Eric S Brown

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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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HOW THE WEST WENT TO HELL

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Prologue

One year before Reaper’s Valley

Baalon raged against the chains that bound him. His muscles strained for freedom but the shackles were too strong.

His plans had been so carefully lain. He’d followed his foe across the United States, all the way to the western edge of the continent. He was so close to bringing down his enemy and long time rival.

The only thing he hadn’t counted on was the priest.

Somehow, the religious man had known what Baalon was from the moment he had first entered the town of Highwater. The men of the town rallied to the priest’s call and met Baalon with all the force they could muster.

Baalon’s wounds had healed, though they had been many. The bullets which had torn through his host’s body had left his clothes in bloody tatters, reducing his borrowed form to a mangled mass of shredded meat so damaged he had been rendered unconscious.

The priest was wise, sickeningly so. He instructed the men of Highwater to chain him while he was passed out and his body fought to repair itself.

Now, Baalon had reawakened to greater danger than he’d ever faced. Five men stood around him in a circle, their rifles and shotguns leveled at him should he make a move they didn’t like or the chains break and set him loose.

They were not a threat—the priest was his sole concern.

The good Father Paige of Highwater emerged from his church with his dog-eared copy of the Bible and a crucifix in his hands. Baalon hissed with fury as the priest drew closer to where he stood, shackled. Father Paige knelt before him and looked him in the eyes. Baalon snarled, exposing his fangs.

Father Paige fearlessly held his ground and pressed the cover of the Holy Scripture to the flesh of Baalon’s forehead. Baalon reared back his head and howled with pain as the cross etched into the leather binding singed his skin.

Father Paige retreated a step and opened his bible. He read passages from the good book and whispered prayers. Baalon’s struggles against his bonds grew more furious. His body spasmed and shook as he felt the cleansing power of God wash over him. Baalon’s eyes blazed a sinister shade of green as he continued to howl and scream. “No!” he begged the fates, his voice hoarse, “I am so close!”

Father Paige moved closer to finish the rite of exorcism that would cast out the spirit from the man he occupied. Baalon cursed. “You fool! I am not the threat you feel in your midst. He is here and he will unleash the very wrath and darkness of Hell itself upon you and your followers! You must set me free if you wish to live,” Baalon warned the priest.

“
Your lies will not save you, demon,” Father Paige told him calmly. “Your taint will be gone from the poor man’s soul you have stolen.”

“
I am not lying, Father. He will devour all the souls in Highwater and his taint shall spread far beyond the boundaries of this town. Even now, he begins to release his evil while you waste your time with me. I could be your ally in this fight. I want nothing more than to see him fail.”

“
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I cast you from this man!” Father Paige shouted and pressed the scripture against Baalon’s flesh once more. Baalon’s will to remain in his host was strong, but the priest’s faith was stronger, fueled by the power of God. Baalon shrieked and his hold within the battered body broke. His essence flew from the man he’d held under his power for so long and dissipated into the night.

Father Paige released the man from his chains and lifted his head with a gentle hand. “You are free now, son.”

The man was soaked in sweat and could barely speak, but he managed a weak whisper into Father Paige’s ear. “Thank you, Father, but you’ve made a terrible mistake.”

One

Now

L ouis Farmer felt as if he were riding into Hell. The interior of the stagecoach was like an inferno as the sun’s blazing rays fell on its roof. Large dark, wet patches of sweat stained the underarms of his expensive suit, and the constant bouncing as the stage rattled along the trail did nothing to ease his stomach, which was already tied into a nervous knot.

He should be back in his office in New York City, editing the latest manuscript to come across his desk—not out here, away from proper civilization, chasing a nightmare. Kramer, his boss at the publishing company, demanded he head into the field as if he were a lowly journalist instead of a well-respected, world-renown editor.

The simple truth was the book he was currently stuck with needed more substance in order to be publishable; and, since the author was dead, it fell to Louis Farmer, editor extraordinaire, to “fix” the problem. Kramer, notoriously tight with his money, wasn’t about to hire a ghost writer to travel west and finish the project when he could just as easily use Louis to do the job without shelling out an additional penny beyond Louis’ normal salary and travel expenses. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the beads of sweat on his forehead, above his gold-rimmed glasses.

Three other passengers shared the stifling stage with him. The man to his left was in his early twenties and had introduced himself as Michael Clark. He was smugly charismatic, with a roguish sort of charm. Louis pegged him as a gambler from the way he shuffled a worn deck of cards with practiced ease as they rode.

Across from them sat Mr. O’Rouke, a lawman in route to Reaper’s Valley to become its new sheriff. O’Rouke was a giant of a man, standing well over six feet in height, with wide shoulders and chiseled, rugged features. His look of hardness bespoke of years carving out a living with the deadly Colt .45 he wore holstered on his belt, low on his hip.

The lawman’s handshake was so firm, Louis had wondered if the cursory, polite gesture was going to break every bone in his hand when they’d been introduced.

Yet it was the fourth passenger who held Louis’ attention and interest, and he was quite certain the beauty had captured the awareness of the other two men, as well. Her name was Eliza Green. Even in these horrid conditions, she was stunning in her black dress.

She was headed west to settle the affairs of her recently deceased brother. It was easy to see she came from wealth by her gentile manner, but Louis’s interest in her was much more physical in nature. Her figure was slender and fetching beneath her dress, and her long blond hair was pulled back behind her head, showcasing her long, slender neck.

Her blue eyes were mesmorizing, and Louis forced himself to stare out the window lest he be caught staring at her. “Mr. Farmer? Excuse me, Mr. Farmer?” she unexpectedly called to him in her cultured voice. Louis carefully turned to gaze into her sleek, delicate features.

“
Did I understand correctly that you are a writer?” Eliza asked. Her slender fingers played at the black ribbon tied around her tiny waist. Louis noticed she did not wear a wedding band.

“
I was once,” he answered with a pause, sliding his spectacles back up his nose. “I’m an editor by trade these days.”

“
Oh, do you work for Harper’s magazine, then?” she purred. Her voice was smooth and sultry, with an ever so slight hint of a southern drawl, sending tendrils of pleasure spiraling up his spine.

“
No, ma’am,” he answered, his voice a little higher than usual. He took a steady breath to calm his nerves. “Nothing so prestigious. I edit fiction, novels and tales of the west.”

“
I reckon’ she’s asking what brings you out here, Mr. Farmer,” O’Rouke pointed out in a gruff bark.

Louis hoped his companions attributed his reddened complexion to the increasing heat. “Research,” he answered honestly. “I’m working on a book about an outlaw who’s reputedly murdered hundreds of people.”

O’Rourke chuckled.
“
Them books always glorify the evil that men do. Not a lick of truth or common sense to most of them. No offense, Mr. Farmer, but couldn’t you just make up the facts in your office in New York City like most of them book folks do anyway?
”

Louis didn’t react to the insult. He wasn’t about to start a fight with a man like O’Rouke. “No. This story is so strange, I won’t pretend I understand it. My publisher didn’t either, so he sent me out here to find the missing pieces of the manuscript’s puzzle so that I can finish the book.”

“
But you said you weren’t a writer anymore,” Eliza reminded him.

“
I’m not usually, but the original author is dead.”

“
How did he die?” Michael asked from beside him, suddenly interested in the conversation.

“
Rather gruesomely,” Louis admitted. “I would rather not share the details in the presence of a lady.”

Eliza giggled, bringing her hand up from her lap to cover her mouth.
“
I assure you, Mr. Farmer, I am not faint of heart. Please continue, if you would be so kind. I admit to being afflicted with a dreadful curiosity,
”
she urged him.

“
His body was found in the room of his hotel room in New York. He was staying in the city while I looked over the book and considered it for publication. A maid discovered his corpse dangling from a beam on the room’s ceiling, hanged there not by a rope, but by his own entrails. His body had been gutted and his skin flayed from his bone in long strips. Someone had collected what they could of his blood and wrote characters of some unknown language on the room’s wall that even the best linguists I could acquire the services of were not able to recognize the tongue, let alone decipher its meaning.”

Michael appeared sorry he had asked for details, and the yellowish hue on the young man’s flushed face suggested he was on the edge of being sick. Neither Eliza nor O’Rouke seemed fazed by the atrocity. The wealthy, demure southern woman climbed a few rungs on the ladder of his estimation.

“
That’s disgusting, is what it is,” O’Rouke grunted. “Sounds like the work of Indians or some sort of cult.”

“
That’s what I thought at first, too,” Louis agreed, “But the cuts on his body were too rough and jagged to have been made by any blade. They looked to be more the work of an animal—perhaps a large predatory cat or something of that nature, as the wounds more closely resembled claw marks.”

“
Ain’t never heard tell of big cats in New York City, son,” O’Rouke told him with a glower of disbelief.

“
Neither have I. His murder is just another piece in the puzzle of the murder book.”

“
Must be some sick book,
”
Michael shuddered.

“
It is,” Louis nodded, “but it’s my job to make sense of it and make it marketable. Dark and disturbing tales have an ever growing readership and my publisher feels this book will set the standard for all those that come after it.”

The interior of the stage fell quiet and Louis could see the others had heard enough about his assignment. He pushed his glasses into place on his nose from where they’d slipped again and glanced through the window at the barren and rocky hills along the sides of the trail.

Renewed nervousness about his job flooded his senses. Louis reached into the pocket of his jacket and let his fingertips brush the metal of the small, loaded Derringer buried there. The weapon did nothing to reassure him that everything would be alright in the end. The author of the book was dead, and there was no certainty that such a grisly death wouldn’t be his fate, as well.