Bloody Sun Rising (IC)

[AmenRa]

Mexico, 1877

John McCoy tugged the reigns and brought the black Andalucian stallion he rode to a halt. The horse snorted once, standing there in the hot Mexican sun on the dusty trail.

McCoy squinted his eyes to look through the heat that rose from the desert trail ahead of him. There was a figure standing there, and after a moment, the figure began to get closer to him. A few more moments, and he realized it was a man wearing one of the large sobrero hats they were so fond of South of the Border.

"Senor McCoy?" the man asked when he was close enough. McCoy's black horse snorted again.

McCoy himself, wearing a trail worn duster and and equally duster dark brown hat, reached up to his left shoulder and absently flicked one of the large biting flies off. He then nodded to the man.

"Bueno," the man said, "bueno. We were worried you would not be coming."

John shook his head. "How far?"

The man pointed up the trail. "One hour by horse," he answered.

John nodded and spurred his horse, who snorted one more time before heading past the man standing in the road. The man raised his arms in frustration as John passed him by. John would have liked to have picked the man up and give him a ride back to his village, but the horse John rode would only carry one. It wasn't that the horse wasn't physically capable of carrying more than one rider, it was that the horse wouldn't. The horse would only let one person ride him, and that was Johnathan James McCoy, to whom the horse was bound, and that was the end of that.

A little over an hour later, McCoy rode into the small village. The villagers saw him, and they came out to offer prayers and blessings.

McCoy stopped in front of the church, where a small group of people were gathered. Some of the men had rifles and pistols.

"Where?"

The priest pointed to the hills just outside the village. "There," he said, "in a cave."

John nodded, then pulled hard on Shadow's reigns, turning the horse around and spurring him on. Within a few minutes, he was in the area of the hills, and he saw a group of men standing near the entrance to a small cave. McCoy rode up to them and dismounted.

"We have it trapped in the cave!" one of them shouted.

John looked pointedly at the man. "So kill it," he said simply.

"But, senor, we do not know how to kill it!"

"It's easy," McCoy replied, "you just put a bullet in it."

The men all shook their heads. "No, no, bullets won't kill the chupacabra!"

"Watch," John told them. He then went to Shadow, and from a saddle bag he retrieved a stick of dynamite. He pulled a matchstick from a pocket of his duster, struck it against his boot heel, and lit the dynamite. He then walked calmly up to the mouth of the cave and tossed the explosive in.

The group of men fled. John walked backwards to where Shadow stood.

BOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!

Dust and dirt flew from the cave in a rolling cloud. There was a loud screeching, and a small, gray creature, somewhat similar to a dog, but with leathery and hairless skin came running from the cave. It stopped when it saw McCoy, then looked at him with red eyes and hissed with a mouth full of sharp teeth.

John's duster flew back behind him, and his right hand drew the Colt Single Action Army revolver from its drop holster. The revolver bucked in his hand as the .44-40 round fired from the steel revolver and struck the chupacabra precisely between the eyes. The creature gave a short squeak, then rolled over on it's back, it's black tongue hanging out of it's mouth.

As the group of men reformed around the now dead creature, John mounted his horse. He kept waiting for a few moments, for the villagers to arrive, having themselves heard the explosion. When they came, the priest of the church saw the chupacabra was dead, and he offerred a small, leather pouch to John. John took the pouch, and saw it contained the required amount of gold. He took one of the pieces out, though, and threw it back to the priest, then he took Shadow's reigns and spurred the horse to gallop away.

McCoy turned his horse towards the Rio Grande, heading out of Mexico towards home.

 

[satindesire]

Wavering lines of heat rose up from the dusty road that split the town in two. The wooden planks of the walkways were hollow and sounded parched under her feet, and a thin layer of grit covered every surface that wasn't scoured by the scalding breeze.

The heat had gone on for weeks, without a cloud or drop of rain to break the monotony. The sun stared down like a naked flame in a sky that seemed leeched of color, like even the endless blue overhead was withering under it's relentless gaze.

"Sskkkt! Witch..." came a female sneer, bringing a feline gaze up from a lazy tumbleweed skittering across the dirt to a woman holding a gloved hand in front of her twisted scowl. The intense crystalline gaze was piercing, and the booted heels of the heckler scurried away under the scrutiny.

The shade under the walkway was paltry comfort from the midday sun, and tempers seemed to grow shorter by the hour. Escaping into the stifling humidity of a saloon, the raven-haired woman eased herself down onto a chair, it's arid wood creaking with her weight.

"We need some rain, we're losing crops every day in this heat and the ranch needs water for the cows. If we don't get some soon, we're all gonna-"

"Shh. Jesus Christ, Peyton." She felt eyes on her, and turned at the stalling of the conversation. One of the ranch hands was standing up, staring at her with an expression that wasn't difficult to read.

"She's prolly the reason we're all dryin' up here. Her pagan witch gods drivin' out the rain, makin' the crops wither out in the fields..." A muscle in his jaw clenched with barely suppressed rage. One of the other ranchers stood up, the chair legs screeching on the sawdust floor. "Now, they ain't no proof she's the cause'a all this, it's the heat makin' you say them fool things."

He tipped his hat to her, not quite meeting her eyes. "Ma'am, I'm real sorry, he's just had a little too much whiskey."

His friend flushed with rage, sweeping his hat off his head and throwing it onto the table, scattering playing cards every which way.

"Shut your damn mouth, Calvin, I ain't no drunk! I know it's that fuckin' witch that's dryin' everything up! She otta be runn't outta town! Her an' the resta her heathen savage kind!"

Her head tilted quizzically at the tirade, but she met the angry accusations with a nonplussed air. "Do you think the red skinned people do not suffer as you suffer, Cow Boy? Do you think our horses do not thirst, our crops do not wilt, our babies do not fever themselves into early graves?" She gave the other ranchers a tight, narrow smile. "You should take your friend home."

The rest of the farmhands stood up, one placing a hand on the angry man's shoulder, which seemed to calm him.

Calvin, a man with rough blond stubble on his cheeks and kind eyes, nodded as they collected their drunken comrade, filing out of the saloon, leaving it mostly empty.

A throat cleared behind her, and she turned, meeting the gaze of the apparent owner. "Sorry 'bout that Ma'am. Here, have a shot on me."

He pushed a glass towards her, which she accepted with a grateful smile.

 

[AmenRa]

McCoy

It was many days ride from the small Mexican village to the town of New Hope. It was dark as McCoy rode Shadow into the town. It had been raining a bit, and was now still mostly overcast, with the moon peeking out every now and then. There was just a bit of moonlight shining when McCoy passed the sign that read:

WELCOME TO NEW HOPE

He saw, however, that someone had taken red paint to the white and black wooden sign, and had struck through the word "new", and over it, in red, had written "NO".

McCoy shook his head slightly at that, and continued on into town.

He had stopped many times prior to getting to New Hope. One of those stops was to get supplies, and from the trader there he learned about the rumors of some unusual things happening in this town.

It wasn't coincidence, however, that brought John McCoy to New Hope. He had heard of areas of open ranch land around the town available for sale, and he was honestly hoping to purchase a few acres for himself. He figured it was time to settle down.

McCoy hitched the black horse to a post in front of a saloon and walked inside. It was indeed late, after 9PM, and what should have been a busy evening in the bar was quite the opposite. There were only two or three others in there, including the usual saloon girl, who eyed him with hungry eyes. McCoy walked up to the bar, removed his hat, and sat it on the bartop.

The bartender eyed him for moment. McCoy was used to the look, and he expected the greeting the bartender gave him next.

"New around here?"

McCoy nodded.

The bartender took a rag to an empty glass and dusted it off. He set it in front of McCoy. "Whiskey?"

"Bourbon," McCoy answered. The bartender filled the glass with a decent Kentucky whisky. McCoy took a sip, then set a quarter on the bar.

"Any rooms for rent?" he asked.

The bartender eyed McCoy again, nearly astonished. "A whole bunch upstairs," he answered. "And Opal's Boarding House, down the street, is pretty much empty as well." The bartender stopped wiping down the bar and stared at McCoy. "You planning on staying here a while, or just passing through?"

McCoy shrugged.

"I wouldn't stay around here," the bartender said. "This town isn't at all what it used to be."

McCoy drained his glass and set it back on the bar. "That's what I hear," he answered as he picked up his hat. He tipped the brim to the saloon girl, then turned and walked out.

 

[satindesire]

After finishing her whiskey, she lingered to talk to the owner of the saloon. Dusk fell, and the commons began to fill with drunks and gamblers, and the whores who frequented the patrons along with them. They flitted along the edges of her vision like painted flowers, their tittering laughter bells that tinkled above the piano.

The mood abruptly darkened when a scream rang out just outside.

"Fire! FIRE!!!"

The music and laughter halted, the affect leaving her ears ringing with the deafening silence. Then, in a mad rush, people began pouring through the swinging doors. The heat outside was not born of a naked sun, but of a smaller, more human flame that had sent the parched walkway aflame.

Weeks of extended, baking drought had laid the town bare like dry kindling, and a stray cigar ember had been just enough to start the licking tongues of sparks along the wooden planks.

"It's gonna catch the gen'ral store! Someone get the buckets, get the buckets here now!"

She stood pressed against the false-front saloon wall, people's footsteps rushing past her. The thick, acrid smoke was black, rolling into the street and her eyes watered with the sting. Men and women alike, frenzied in the most primal of fears, ran with sloshing buckets and tossed ineffectual gouts on the rushing flames, but it was not enough. Would not be enough. The town would burn...everyone would burn.

Dyani set her jaw, pale eyes focusing on a rain barrel. She dipped her hand into it's bitter, stagnant water, then touched a drop to the tip of her tongue. Her mouth formed soundless words, and as suddenly as the fire had caught and began roaring out of control, it was over. Every rain barrel on the walkway suddenly filled, overfilled, and water was pouring over the edges out onto the dry planks, turning the dirt road into a mud quagmire, quenching the tongues of flame that had lit the town like mid-day.

Women held up their skirts to stay dry, men looked quizzically at the sudden extinguished fire, unsure if their efforts were the cause or if there had been another cause.

Only the saloon owner had been a witness to the witch's efforts, and gazed at her intently, his expression carefully neutral. They stared at each other uneasily for several tense moments, oblivious of the townsfolk beginning to return to their business. As folks, now sooty and coughing from the smoke, began to filter back into the tavern, he nodded at her, breaking the intensity of the moment.

"Red Deer." He dragged a hand against his cheek, stubble scritching beneath his palm.

"Have a good evening, Travis." she murmured, and turned on silent moccasins, vanishing into a nearby boarding house.

 

[Avellan13]

Pavel Millers Jackson

Pavel looked out at the town of New Hope from the rocky outcropping on which he stood. The town was almost like any other town or village in the southwest. This town, however, was plagued by troubles of various kinds.

Ever since he, and the Blue Ravens, came to the town they had been working to stop raiders and bandits from attacking the traders and caravans who made their way, through the harsh lands, to this small settlement.

The Blue Ravens didn't see themselves as the police force of the town. More or less as protecters. The town provided one important thing for the Blue Ravens, and that was motivation. The Ravens loved to hone and train their skills, as well as doing daring tasks like routing out a gang of bandits. The town of New Hope had many challenge to deal with. And that's exactly what the Ravens were looking for.

Before Pavel had taken over as leader of the Ravens, they had been a band of mercenaries, working for the highest bidder. But once Pavel took over, he had transformed them into a group of protectors. The Ravens weren't a large group, only about 2 dozen members at any one time, and all of whom being skilled fighters.

Turning to his men, George and Jimmy, they got onto their horses, and made their way towards the town.

 

[AmenRa]

McCoy

He had decided instantly not to stay in any of the rooms of the saloon. He needed relative peace and quiet, and although it seemed there weren't that many patrons about the saloon this particular night, he got the impression most of the time, there were.

The streets were seemingly deserted he noted as he unhitched Shadow and mounted up. He turned the black stallion down the street, which still held a few puddles from the earlier rain.

Shadow trotted for a bit, past a general merchandise store, a gunsmith, a savings and loan, and a few other odd and end stores. He found a bleakly white painted two story building, or house rather, next to a livery. The white house was marked with a faded sign that read, simply, "OPAL'S". He hitched Shadow and went to the front door.

After knocking a few times, he waited, and he heard the sound of a woman's voice cursing and muttering about having to see to the door at such an ungodly hour. McCoy produced the silver pocketwatch he carried and checked the time. It was near to 10PM.

The door opened, and Opal, a short, rotund woman, well-aged, greeted him with a sour expression. He introduced himself, and made mention he was looking for boarding for a few days. He offerred a gold coin, to which Opal was gladly receptive. She had him come inside. She then called for Rufus, a small boy, barely into his teen years, whom she ordered quite harshly to fetch Mr. McCoy's horse and take it to the livery stable.

McCoy placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Be easy with Shadow," he told Rufus. "You need to let him know I said it will be fine to go with you."

The boy nodded, clearly not understanding why or how he was supposed to implement the request. He then nearly ran out the front door to see to the horse.

Opal showed McCoy to a decently sized room upstairs. She then explained to McCoy that breakfast was at 7, dinner was at 8, and he was on his for lunch. McCoy acknowledged her, and mentioned he had not eaten at all since early in the day. She smiled, a rare thing, he imagined, and told him she still had stew warming on the stove, leftovers from dinner that evening. He accepted a bowl, and while she went to prepare it for him, he left the house and went out back to retrieve hsi saddlebags and pack from Shadow.

He found the boy and Shadow near the side of Opals' boarding house, the boy tugging at Shadow's reigns, and the black horse clearly not moving any further than he already had.

"Go with him, Shadow," McCoy said. The horse snorted, then he allowed himself to be lead by Rufus to a stall inside the stable. McCoy followed, and he took his goods, as well as his two rifles, from the horse's pack saddle.

"Fifteen cents a day for stabling," the boy said, holding out his hand. McCoy looked at the youngster from under his hat brim.

"Ten cents," McCoy said. He then pulled a few quarters from his pocket and gave them to the kid. The kid smiled.

Back in the house, McCoy sat down at a table while Opal placed a large bowl of beef stew and a piece of cornbread in front of him. She sat down a tall glass of tea, to which she added a few lemon wedges, and an ice cube,

"We get ice every week or so," she told him. "They bring it down from the mountains north, takes them 3 days, and by the time the train gets it to New Hope, the big ol' block isn't very big anymore."

They made some small talk while McCoy ate. He didn't tell her much, and he didn't ask much, until she started talking about the people in the last month or so that turned up dead, or didn't turn up at all.

"I would think the local constabulatory would be on top of this," he postured.

"Well," she answered, "Sheriff Cogburn is doing as much as he can, when he's not in the bottle and all."

McCoy stopped eating. The name 'Cogburn' was one he knew. "Cogburn?" he asked. "As in 'Rooster'?"

She nodded. "Yes, sir. That's what they call him. Real name is Reuben, or at least that's what it says on the sign outside the jail."

Reuben 'Rooster' Cogburn had been a colonel in the army during the War Between the States. He had lost an eye in some battle, or some duel, or some such thing. Before that, though, Cogburn had been a lawyer, and a friend of McCoy's father. After the war, Cogburn became a federal marshall, and he was well-known for being the best man tracker around. He was also quick with a six gun. When McCoy was a younger man, and Cogburn younger than he would be now, they had rode together for a while, where McCoy learned so very much about tracking and finding men. And killing them. Cogburn had always been fond of whisky, and women, and had little to say about the supernatural things McCoy sometimes talked about.

McCoy finished up his dinner, and gave Opal a good night. He retired to his upstairs room, where after undressing and meditating for a moment, he lay down to sleep.

He'd catch up to his former mentor, Rooster Cogburn, come tomorrow morning.

 

[AmenRa]

McCoy

Morning came, and he dressed in usual long coat and hat, thanked the lady of the house for a nice breakfast that included bacon and eggs, and headed out into town.

New Hope was different in the morning daylight. Where the night before had been hardly a soul moving about on the dirt streets that wandered through the town, the daytime saw differently. McCoy saw the townsfolk, apparently unaffected by the horrors that he had heard about, moving about to and fro.

He wandered from the boarding house towards the end of the main street, where the office of the sheriff was located. He noted a few horses hitched out front of the drab wooden building. He walked inside and saw an old black man sitting behind a small, wooden desk. There was gray in the man's beard, and he seemed to be asleep with his black felt hat sitting low on his forehead as he sat slumped in the chair.

McCoy learned, however, this man was not asleep at all.

"Can I help you?" the man said without even looking up at McCoy.

"I'm looking for Sheriff Cogburn," McCoy answered.

There was a slight forward nod of the man's head. "At Rich's," he said, as if this indication of the sheriff's location would explain all the needed to be.

McCoy nodded, a gesture he wondered probably went unnoticed and left the building. As he was making his way across the street to Rich's Tavern, he saw the absolutely unmistakable figure of Rooster Cogburn stepping off the wooden walkway in front of Rich's onto the street.

Just then, a galloping horse sped by, and Cogburn spun and turned and jumped out of the way with a quickness that belied the man's slightly overweight, eye-patched, and aged form.

"That's pretty fast moving for a one-eyed, fat man," McCoy called from the other side of the street.

Cogburn stood up straight and turned to face the direction of the insult.

"Fill your hand, you son of a bitch!" Cogburn shouted as his right hand hovered over the butt of the Colt revolver slung low in a Mexican leather holster.

And then, Cogburn recognized the man who had called him out. He stood there for a moment, disbelieving what his one good eye was seeing, and then he broke into a grin. He crossed the distance between them in a few strides.

"McCoy," Cogburn said in greeting. He stuck out his hand.

"Sheriff," McCoy returned, and took Cogburn's hand and shook it.

"Been a while," Cogburn admitted.

"It has," McCoy agreed.

They small-talked their way back to the sheriff's office, where upon entry, the man behind the desk still didn't look up, and they settled into an office in the rear of the building beside the many jail cells.

Cogburn produced a bottle of bourbon and poured some into a glass. He offerred a glass to McCoy, who declined.

"Suit yourself," Cogburn muttered.

"It's nine in the morning," McCoy pointed out as he closed the cover on his pocket watch.

"And?"

McCoy shook his head as Cogburn lifted the glass of amber colored liquid to his lips.

"So," Cogburn said, "tell me again what brings you to New Hope."

McCoy shrugged. "Stories are circulating about happenings in town that seem to fall outside the normal occurrences."

"Something you would know something about."

"Possibly," McCoy agreed. "Which seems to stand in the way of my purchasing some property, building a house, that sort of thing."

"Horseshit," Cogburn reckoned. "You thinking of settling down?"

"A man's got to know his limitations," McCoy responded. "An old friend told me that long ago."

Cogburn smiled again. "Yeah," he stated. "True. True. Smart fellow, this friend of yours."

Cogburn stared at the empty glass on the desk in front of him. He eyed McCoy then, watching the younger man as he adjusted the holster of his Colt on his hip. "This town is cursed, John. That much is true."

McCoy gestured for Cogburn to continue.

"Sally Anne Strothers," Cogburn began. "She was a school teacher. But, see, it seems she had an infatuation with Lee Reynolds, who ran the lumber yard south of here. He's married, you see, or was, rather. Seems they were having a midnight rendezvous here and there at a little glade just in the forest on the hills," Cogburn pointed towards the mountains away from town, to the North. "Couple of days went by since either had been seen, and Reynold's wife got worried, the school superintendent got worried, and me and my men went looking for them.

"We found them," Cogburn finished. "On the hill, in the little glade in the forest. They were in pieces. Like they'd been torn apart."

McCoy's face was hard and unreadable. "Animal signs?"

"Tracks," Cogburn answered. "Wolf tracks."

McCoy nodded. "There's more?"

Cogburn reached for the bottle. "There is," he answered, "having to do with a certain Laura McFarlane and an empty grave."

"I'm listening," McCoy stated.

 

[Avellan13]

Pavel Millers Jackson

Pavel, accompanied by George and Jimmy, rode into the town. The place looking like any other settlement in the Midwest. People went about, doing their various tasks, a few seeming to take no notice of Pavel and his men. Others looked at them with various expressions of surprise, confusion, and curiosity. Only a few, probably newcomers, looked at them with nervousness and fear.

This wasn't an uncommon sight. The Blue Ravens were still a mysterious group to the citizens of New Hope, and it would take awhile for them to get use to their presence.

When they approached the Sheriff's office, Pavel dismounted for his horse, handed the reins to George saying, "Stay here with the horses while Jimmy and I talk to the Sheriff."

George nodded as Pavel turned and walked into the building, Jimmy following close behind.

Entering the building Pavel saw the sheriff, sitting down at his desk, talking to a man whom he didn't personally know, but had seen several times before. Taking off his hat Pavel bowed to the Sheriff, "Hello Sheriff. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

 

[AmenRa]

McCoy/Cogburn

Cogburn told McCoy about the McFarlanes, wealthy ranch owners who had quite a spread on the northwest plain. He explained how Laura McFarlane had been found dead in her bed one morning, and they buried her that day, and then a few days later when her father, Ian, went to visit her grave, it was empty.

"Empty?" McCoy asked. "As in she was dug out?"

Cogburn nodded. "That's what it looked like. She had been dug out, the casket opened from the outside, and her body was missing."

"How long?" McCoy asked.

"How long? What?"

"Did Ian McFarlane wait to visit her grave?"

Cogburn thought for a moment. "Three days I believe he told me."

McCoy nodded knowingly. He surmised rather quickly that the vampire that turned her had dug her out of her gravesite. It took three days for someone to complete the change.

Entering the building Pavel saw the sheriff, sitting down at his desk, talking to a man whom he didn't personally know, but had seen several times before. Taking off his hat Pavel bowed to the Sheriff, "Hello Sheriff. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

Cogburn turned his head at the opening of the front door, and when he saw Pavel walk into the office, he figured the young man had come to take a look at the wanted posters that were tacked to the message board just inside the door.

"Nothing new," Cogburn told him. "Not since the last one you and your boys brought in."

Cogburn then indicated McCoy. "This is John McCoy," Cogburn said to Pavel. "We go way back," he added. "Johnny, this here is Pavel Jackson. Pavel and his men help keep things in check around here sometimes."

McCoy stood and shook Pavel's hand. McCoy indicated the chair he had been sitting in, then moved to a stool that he dragged out of a corner of the room. He sat back down, then looked over at Cogburn.

"I could use some help," he said, looking first at Cogburn and then over to Pavel. "Especially from people you trust."

Cogburn was quiet for a moment. "I know what you're thinking, and I know you know I need you to keep thinking it, but I would rather this be kept quiet."

McCoy shook his head. "Word will get out sooner or later," he told the older man, "whether it is a result of my investigation into these 'happenings' or not, people will learn what is going on here in New Hope. If they don't already know. Things like this you can't hide, Rooster. And I completely understand you don't want mass hysteria and people hiding in their homes. Believe me, I'd rather keep this quiet, as well. It would make my job a whole lot easier."

Cogburn nodded. "Glad to know we're on the same sheet of music." He then turned to Pavel. "Pavel, what say you and your boys possie up with Mr. McCoy here, assist him. He'll be looking around town a bit here and there. He'll need to know where to go to find things, talk to people, that sort of thing. Think you can do that without raising much of a fuss?"

McCoy looked to Pavel. He was thinking that, yeah Pavel and his men would probably be happy to help, if the stories he had heard about the Blue Ravens were true. But, before any of that, the man would probably like to know just what the hell was going on.

 

[Avellan13]

Pavel Millers Jackson

Pavel smiled and sat down at the chair that Cogburn had indicated and, after saying greeting McCoy, he directed his attention to Cogburn.

"I'm not here for any bounties my good man. No, nor to ask for any jobs. Instead, I have some information for you. Information that you might find interesting."

Jimmy stepped forward and dropped down onto the table a map showing the area to he North of New Hope. The map centered on the roadway, the roadway that lead into the town. "One of my men came back with a report of a disturbance on this stretch of road here. When we arrived at the scene what we was very... strange." said Pavel.

"At first, it looked like the typical bandit attack on a caravan. Dead merchants, destroyed wagons, the usual wreckage. However, the number of dead bandits was surprising. From other bandit attack that we've seen, usually only one bandit is ever killed, rarely two, but in this case, seven were dead."

Pavel took a breath before continuing, "We wondered how the caravaners had managed to kill so man. However, when we examined the bodies of the bandits, we found something... disturbing. It looked as if the bandits had been attacked by animals for they had huge claw marks on them, and similar marks were on the caravaners as well."

Pavel shook his head before continuing, "If I had to take a guess, I'd say that the bandits were attacking the caravaners, and probably just at the moment, this unknown third party attacked both groups. We found no bodies of this mysterious group."

 

[AmenRa]

McCoy/Cogburn

Pavel shook his head before continuing, "If I had to take a guess, I'd say that the bandits were attacking the caravaners, and probably just at the moment, this unknown third party attacked both groups. We found no bodies of this mysterious group."

McCoy leaned forward on the stool and took a look at the map Jimmy had set down. Cogburn pointed at an area near where the indicated attack had taken place.

"There's a trapper's cabin right here," Rooster said, "not far at all from the attack site. Some of the local trappers use it to take beaver and coon from the creek that winds down through the hills."

McCoy nodded his head. "It's pretty obvious we've got a wolf problem," he said to them. "This kind of carnage that you've described Mr. Jackson is the usual scene where their kind are involved.

"I can try and track the wolves. See where they go, where they are holing up during the day. Thing is, well, there's a good chance they are close by, in town as a matter of fact.

McCoy sat upright on the stool, adjusted his hat brim. "I need a few things: the first being a good gunsmith that knows how to smelt metal and make bullets. I have a few of what we will need, but the more, the better. Second thing I need to know is if there are any Native Americans around, specifically Navajo, or Hopi? Although these are probably not the culprits we're looking for, as their beliefs totally go against this type of killing, they may be able to give some insight on others who may be responsible."

The Navajo skinwalkers, of a few he had encountered in his travels, could change into wolves, bears, mountain lions, all sorts of animals. These, though, didn't kill people, and when they did, it wasn't like this. McCoy reckoned they were dealing with Old World werewolves, of the European descent.

As for the vampires, well, he hadn't come to that, yet.

"I've seen a few Navajo about," Cogburn said. "They keep to themselves, mostly. There's a settlement west of us, small village, and I do know they trade with the trappers and some of the merchants here in town."

"Good place to start," McCoy said. He stood up and took a last look at Jimmy's map, committing the place to memory. He had a few places to go, and a few things to do, but this attack site would be his starting point, since it was the freshest and the tracks most likely still around. Also, he would later check on Ian McFarlane and learn what he could about his daughter's empty grave.

"Chandler's," Cogburn stated, "is on the back street behind Opal's. He can make any bullet of any kind."

What I really need to find is a witch, McCoy thought as he considered the possibilities of battle with werewolves and vampires. When dealing with this much of the supernatural, it wasn't a bad thing at all to try to even the odds.

 

[satindesire]

Dyani was wrist-deep in dirt. Good, black dirt, moist from the recent rain. The garden was a cornucopia of odd plants, most of which the tiny town had never seen.

There was blessed thistle, devil pod, fennel, agrimony, barberry, aloe, angelica root, and countless others that she had raised from seeds to aid her in her spells and to protect her family...and her customers...from evil.

Her house was slightly apart from town, visible from the main street but set well enough apart to avoid the dust and noise. Bunches of dried herb strings hung with tiny wooden animals and seashells along the supports of the front porch. Woven reed mats decorated the floor, and the furniture was sturdy, hand-carved and spartan enough to feel appreciated.

The house was filled with the sweet, dry scent of crushed leaves and potpourri, which always seemed to carry over into her clothes and hair, no matter how many times or with what she bathed.

A faint knock on the front door lifted her head from her efforts.

"I'm in the garden!" she cried. Stood up, brushing clinging dirt from her soft doeskin breeches.

The hesitant figure that rounded the corner made her cock an eyebrow in surprise. It was one of the schoolmarms, Elizabeth Courtly.

"Miss Courtly. This is an unexpected surprise."

The woman was extremely attractive despite her plain wool gown and severe hairstyle. Recent gossip said that she was being wooed by one of the Johnson brothers who had come to town to open a tack shop.

"Miss uh....Red Deer?" Her voice held the edge of a tremble that didn't quite get suppressed. Dyani took her elbow, directing her with firm but gentle pressure towards the cabin.

"Let's talk inside. I'll make some tea."

An hour later, after much small talk that was, blessedly, only slightly awkward, the truth came out. Elizabeth's teacup was empty, and she looked into it's dregs, the moist leaves clinging to the bottom of the cup, then sighed and set the cup down on the table.

"Miss Red Deer, I need your help. The kind of help that you provide...for other people...here in town."

Dyani set her cup down as well, tilting her head in a listening expression. Sometimes...it was better to wait and listen than to talk.

Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably in the seat, embarrassment making her cheeks flush in a most comely way. "I...uh....I seem to be finding myself welcoming the advances of Albert Johnson, I'm sure you know them?" Dyani nodded serenely.

"Well, I must say I'm quite worried...there are three brothels in town and I don't....that is to say...I know that men...." She flushed a deeper shade of crimson, unable to go on. Realization dawned on Dyani, and she smiled knowledgeably.

"Worry no, my friend. Mister Albert Johnson will be faithful to you, just steep these leaves in hot water and serve them as tea the next time he comes to eat dinner with you. And every time after that."

She stood up, and reaching for one of the dried herb bundles that hung all around the common space of the cabin, plucked a good handful of various herbs from it.

These she placed in a tiny paper satchel, and she handed them to Elizabeth.

"Fifteen cents, please."

The money exchanged hands, and Elizabeth left the cabin, much calmer for her visit.

 

[MilkManDan007]

Travis Brunette

The Last Hope Saloon wasn’t the highest-class drinking establishment in New Hope, but it was most certainly one of the busiest. It was a working-man’s saloon with worn and dusty wood-plank floors, a serviceable but slightly out-of-tune piano, and a small host of rentable rooms on the second floor. The beers served came in mostly-clean glasses, and the stronger spirits were not watered down. Travis Brunette had helped to build the building with his father when the mines first opened and had inherited the family business when his parents disappeared more than a decade ago. Since then, he has been more than willing to keep the patrons’ drinks, the rentable rooms, and his own pockets as full as possible.

Brunette stood behind the bar, wiping down a mug with a rag that had come off the clothesline with as much dust on it as it had dirt before it had been washed. He surveyed the establishment and was dismayed with what he saw. The last few weeks had been slow, with few travelers and traders braving the brutal midsummer heat to pass through, and fewer of the town residents wishing to toss their money to him for liquor to quench their thirsts with the little money they earned. There were a few cowhands playing cards as they waited for the midday heat to break before heading back out to the ranch, an old prospector snoring quietly in the corner having put himself to sleep with the drink. He set the mug back on the shelf with others, inverting it to keep the dust from settling at the bottom, and reached into his pocket, nervously feeling the ragged shred of cloth he had not let from his person in a week.

This kind of slowdown was expected from time to time, giving him a break from the hustle and bustle to recharge his energy and catch up on his rest. But even with the slowdown in activity, Brunette found himself doggedly tired. He was terrified to go to sleep, to let himself drift off into the world of the unknown. It didn’t happen every night, or even every week, but it always happened sooner or later. The doctor called it somnambulating, or sleepwalking as Brunette understood it. The rising sun would wake him far from home, with no remembrance of how he had come to be there. Sometimes he would wake lying in the dried riverbed, other times seemingly wandering aimlessly through the cactus-choked sands. It was unnerving to say the least, but the most recent episode earlier in the week had left Travis Brunette terrified.

He had been awakened again by the rising sun, this time several miles from his home coming out of a glade of weathered and sun-beaten trees trying to survive on the dwindling spring water. His clothes were tattered, the sleeves of his shirt torn nearly away and his pants ragged from the knees down. The leather of his boots had split along the side seams and the soles hung by but a few stitches and tacks. His hands had been caked in what looked like dark dirt, and he tasted a metallic twinge in his mouth. Troubling indeed, but it was what he found clutched tightly in his right hand that send chills up his spine and caused his skin to break out in gooseflesh.

It is a wonder how such a simple thing as a piece of cloth can cause a man to nearly lose his grasp of reality, yet there it was staring him in the face and making him question everything about himself and the world around him. It was a simple patch of floral-print cloth barely the size of his hand, its edges roughly torn with tendrils of cotton thread limply hanging in the windless morning. The azure blues of the mountain flowers were stained the same brackish-black as the caked substance of his hands. His hand trembled as he licked his lips, again tasting the coppery hues on his lips. It was blood. Blood on his hands, blood on his lips, blood on the scrap of what used to be woman’s dress in his hand.

Travis turned and vomited, dropping to his knees and retching out all his stomach contained. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the horrors he may have coughed up, instead turning and walking back towards town. He tucked the small cloth in his pocket and scooped up a handful of dust, wringing his hands trying to remove as much of the foul deed from his hands as he could before reaching town.

He slipped quietly into the back door of his house, immediately going to the washroom and opening the tap on the tub. He sat and scrubbed for nearly an hour, scraping at his skin with the coarse-haired brush nearly until it bled. He’d heard about the many odd and unnerving things happening about town, rumors of the dead walking, whispers about men who drink the blood of the living, even stories of witches. He began to wonder if he was as cursed as this town was.

He opened the saloon as normal that day, hoping the regularity of the routine would help his mind unravel what had happened the night before. But as the day wore on, all he could do was continue to touch the small shred of cloth in his pocket to remind himself that something terrible had happened, something terrible that he could have been part of.

Tempers were always hot when the mercury rose, and today was no different. Several cowhands began to harass an local Indian woman who they said was the cause of the current wave of heat and drought. She wasn’t any more the cause than the buzzard sitting on the roof the saloon, yet they harassed her anyways. No need to treat a woman that way, he thought, and gave her a shot on the house. The tranquility was short lived before the cries of fire filled the streets.

Brunette made his way to the door of the saloon, wondering again if this town was cursed and this fire was the judgment sent down on them to purify the evil that everyone seemed to know but never spoke of. It wasn’t the fire that caught his attention, but the Indian woman. She did something, touched the rainwater and spoke softly, and then the fire was no more. Was she the cause of his nocturnal actions? Had she placed a spell on him? Or was this place simply a divining rod for the unnatural. He did not know what to say to her when he saw what she was capable of, returning her look with only the slightest of nods and speaking her name before returning to his place behind the bar, once again touching the ragged cloth in his pocket.

 

[AmenRa]

McCoy

John McCoy bid farewell to Rooster, Pavel, and Jimmy. He explained he needed to pick up a few things before heading up to see the place Pavel had pointed out on the map.

As he headed to Chandler's, he thought about what he would likely be up against. The werewolf presence was a given; he almost didn't need to see the attack site, or the one Cogburn spoke of, to know for sure, but he wanted to see them anyway, just to....assure himself. The other, the empty grave that Cogburn had spoken about, told him there was a vampire around somewhere. Or, as was more probably, the plurality of the word: vampires. It wasn't uncommon for them to nest up in groups and set up a feed where prey was plentiful.

The vampires would actually be easier to find than the wolves. Vampires had to hide in daylight. One didn't see one of their kind walking the street during mid-day. The werewolves, on the other hand, remained in their human form, and, if they were old and powerful enough, could change at will independent of the moon's power.

As McCoy stepped onto the raised porch of Chandler's he caught a scent blown to him by the light breeze that coursed between the buildings facing the main street. It was a scent he recognized, and one that he had not smelled in a long time. He followed his nose to a house that sat off the main street a ways. He saw herbs strung up along the house's front. He saw a bunch of freshly hung red sage. This was the herb he had smelled.

Whomever lived here was obviously adept at herbalism. And, he wondered, they just may have what he was looking for.

He stepped to the door and knocked.

 

[satindesire]

He stepped to the door and knocked.

The woman that opened the door was small, even for her Navajo heritage, her glossy raven hair swept sideways from her square, strong-boned face. Some might have said that her features might have been unduly masculine, but her large, unusually pale blue eyes and lush, sensual mouth softened the face into an exquisite balance.

One of her shiny black brows quirked upwards in curiosity, and she stepped back from the door to allow him entry.

"Mister Cow Boy. You look like man on a mission." Her accent was strong, as if she had only spent a few years amongst English speakers. Her warm, if faint smile was welcoming. "Please come in."

She was wearing a sleeveless pale-yellow doeskin tunic that reached mid-thigh, slit to reveal fitted breeches and soft knee-high moccasins all heavily beaded and quilled, the dressings of a Navajo shaman. While her skills might have made her a wealthy and well respected woman amongst her own people, there were few trappings of the wealthy amongst her sparse belongings.

"I was just finish supper. Would you eat with me?"

 

[AmenRa]

McCoy

He wasn't quite prepared for seeing who opened the door. He looked down into her eyes, she was a good head shorter than he, and he took in her features, the calculating part of his mind registering her as Navajo, and her manner of dress marked her as a Shaman, a Holy Woman.

This explained the herbs decorating the front of her house. And, if she truly was a Shaman, then she may hold the access to spells and witchcraft. Not black magic as was condemned by the church so long ago, but a true spiritual connection to Earth and her elements: water, fire, air. This was something the Navajo knew so much about and the White Man was only beginning to learn.

The rest of McCoy's mind, the male part, summed her features up in one simple word:

Beautiful.

"Mister Cow Boy. You look like man on a mission." Her accent was strong, as if she had only spent a few years amongst English speakers. Her warm, if faint smile was welcoming. "Please come in."

McCoy removed his hat, the silvered and engraved ring he wore on his right hand glinting from reflected light, and stepped into her house. "Yes, maam," he said, "I am indeed seeking certain items," he answered her. "I noticed the assortment of dried herbs you have outside, and was wondering if you may have others for sale? I'm looking for a few things in particular."

"I was just finish supper. Would you eat with me?"

McCoy was now bound by custom. She had invited him into her house and offerred him food. It would be a severe disrespect for him to not accept. And, he instantly decided as he looked into her blue eyes, her company would not be unwanted at all.

"Of course," he said, "I would be honored."

 

[satindesire]

"Of course," he said, "I would be honored."

She had seen many white men before, many hard-faced miners and gamblers with eyes long dead from short lives full of suffering and want. His eyes, however...were not dead. He was handsome, if slightly ragged around the edges, bearing the manner of a man who had fought often and well, and had seen many things that lesser men would have crumbled from.

She appraised him, eyes taking in his face and clothes in a cursory manner, settling for a moment on the ring, before returning back to his face as she closed the door behind him. The cabin was warm inside, but mud pack acted as insulation from the baking sun outside, and the open windows let plenty of light and fresh air in and kept it from being uncomfortable. She directed him to the same chair that Elizabeth had sat in just an hour before, although the tea cups had long been whisked away to be washed. She sat down opposite him and appraised him again serenely, her piercingly blue gaze as mirror-calm as the rest of her stony features.

"Yes, maam," he said, "I am indeed seeking certain items," he answered her. "I noticed the assortment of dried herbs you have outside, and was wondering if you may have others for sale? I'm looking for a few things in particular."

She reached up and touched a bundle of wormwood sticks that hung strung up with rosemary and peach leaves, as if considering their properties. "Yes, many for sale for money, and many...coin cannot pay for. What things are you want?"

 

[Avellan13]

Pavel Millers Jackson

Pavel walked out of the sheriff's office and over to where the horses where picketed. George looked up at Pavel, "That was quick. Expected you to be there a while longer."

Pavel shrugged, "Not much to discuss really, just showed him the map and gave him the information."

Jimmy stood there with his arms crossed, "So? Where to now?"

Pavel thought to himself, unsure of where really to go. They could go back to the Raven's Camp and talk with the rest of the gang. Or they could travel around the outskirts of New Hope. Or they could stay in the town for a while longer and relax.

Out of all of the choices, staying in the town seemed the best option.

"We just arrived in New Hope, we might as well stay. Learn about anything new and probably get some supplies.

Jimmy smiled, "Yes, I don't want to ride around. I want to relax and enjoy myself."

George shrugged, "Whatever you say boss."

Getting on their horses, they headed farther into the town of New Hope, looking around for an establishment to stay at.

 

[AmenRa]

McCoy

She reached up and touched a bundle of wormwood sticks that hung strung up with rosemary and peach leaves, as if considering their properties. "Yes, many for sale for money, and many...coin cannot pay for. What things are you want?"

McCoy looked her in the eyes again. He made a little smile, and then replied, "Most of these herbs I'm looking for are European. I'm not even sure they are grown around here, and maybe you've never even heard of them," he added, hoping she had. "I need a bundle of wolfsbane and the same of vervain," he told her. "Also, some garlic."

The wolfsbane was absolutely poisonous to humans. There was an old story he heard from some gypsies in Romania how some of the black art witches would dip small throwing darts made of spring steel into a solution of wolfsbane. When thrown, these things were quite deadly, as the smallest scratch would allow the wolfsbane to enter the bloodstream. He knew that the herb had to be handled with gloved hands. He also knew, from practical experience, that wolfsbane stopped the supernatural transformation of man to wolf.

Vervain had been used many for centuries in Europe. It was made into a tea and drank by the Druids to welcome the spirits and to toast the Dog Star. Vervain also had the property of keeping at bay the unwelcome spirits. Unholy beings of the supernatural variety shunned the smell of the herb, and it was quite toxic to them. Vampires, in particular, had a weakness to it.

Garlic was one of the main courses in any menu served to combat vampires. In Europe, many villagers strung the bulbs of the plant along the windows and doors of their houses. At first, it was thought they did this to dry the bulbs for consumption, but McCoy learned when he was a child this was done to keep the vampire out of the homes. It would be effective in keeping them at a distance, and also for coating knives, arrows, and stakes.

 

[satindesire]

McCoy looked her in the eyes again. He made a little smile, and then replied, "Most of these herbs I'm looking for are European. I'm not even sure they are grown around here, and maybe you've never even heard of them," he added, hoping she had. "I need a bundle of wolfsbane and the same of vervain," he told her. "Also, some garlic."

She stilled, studying him intently for some long heartbeats. Then, as if the moment had been broken, she smiled an easy smile.

"I have Vervain, the heat it grows in is common to this desert...Garlic is not something one asks for just because they can." She cocked her head, her smile fading.

"Wolfsbane is not grow here. It is...too hot, dry. But...I have small amount. For a price. Cow Boy does not come here..." She paused, searching for words. "not come here for nothing. Asks for thing that are not use for nothing. Do you understand? My English good enough?" She narrowed her eyes on his face.

"I collect...I know things. Information...And new Cow Boy brings words from outside New Hope that I need. So...you give me information. I give you your magic."

 

[AmenRa]

McCoy

"Do you understand? My English good enough?" She narrowed her eyes on his face.

"I collect...I know things. Information...And new Cow Boy brings words from outside New Hope that I need. So...you give me information. I give you your magic."

McCoy mentally pinched himself. He had been listening to her, but he was intently studying her mouth as she spoke. The way she formed her words, the slight purse of her lips, the almost musical quality of her speech had an effect on him. He realized, though, the silence had grown noticeable, and her statements required a response.

His face became serious, his slight smile fading, as he spoke next. "There are dark forces at work in this place," he said, his voice low and serious. "You know the uses for vervain and wolfsbane, I'm certain. And garlic, well, you no doubt understand that I don't plan to use it season meat.

"This is what I do," he admitted to her, feeling he could trust her, even though what he was telling her was fair trade for her herbs as she had stated. "I hunt them. Kill them. My bullets are silver, my horse a spirit of what the Old World calls the Fay. I am, however, only a man, and because of that I require certain tools," he raised his right hand, showing her the ring he wore. "These herbs I ask for are part of these tools I use."

John McCoy relaxed a bit, and sat back in his chair, giving her a hint of another smile. "This I tell you because you asked, but more so because I know you can help me. You can ask me what you wish, and I will tell you all I know."

 

[satindesire]

"There are dark forces at work in this place," he said, his voice low and serious. "You know the uses for vervain and wolfsbane, I'm certain. And garlic, well, you no doubt understand that I don't plan to use it season meat. This is what I do, I hunt them. Kill them. My bullets are silver, my horse a spirit of what the Old World calls the Fay. I am, however, only a man, and because of that I require certain tools," he raised his right hand, showing her the ring he wore. "These herbs I ask for are part of these tools I use."

John McCoy relaxed a bit, and sat back in his chair, giving her a hint of another smile. "This I tell you because you asked, but more so because I know you can help me. You can ask me what you wish, and I will tell you all I know."

Her face was an impassive mask, but on the inside, her heart beat frantically against her ribs. She felt a flush come to her face, and struggled to still herself. The power of his empathic reach was astounding, and his attraction to her was plain. The force of his charisma was overpowering. She could see that this was a man who subconsciously used it to get what he wanted...a natural. It would be impossible to deny him what he wanted. She shifted uncomfortably, now visibly discomforted by the sensation of desire that radiated from him.

She looked down into her lap, gathering her wits, and when she returned to him, her face was the serene mask that had become commonplace to her.

"This town was made long time ago, settled here by the White Man because the mountain had silver blood. Now they cut open the mountain, chip away it's life, greed taints every coin that passes through the hands in this city."

She stood, walking back towards the black wood-burning stove that was burbling happily away, blissfully unaware of the situation at hand. She fetched off a kettle of steaming water, opening it's hinged top and dropping in a small handful of herbs to steep. Almost immediately the welcoming scent of green tea and chamomile began to fill the cabin.

She shifted, and turned just enough to look at him over her shoulder. "This town lies over ley lines of magic old enough to seen this place under ocean water. Older than even I can see, Cow Boy."

She brought the kettle and two delicate wooden cups, carved by her own hand and polished smooth. "Yes...dark works happen here. I am here, but I am lost in the face of this violence. I cannot help all. You understand Cow Boy? I need your help. And I think you need mine."

She motioned to the numerous bundles of aromatic herbs that were strung along the walls.

"You tell me what "them" you hunt...and I give you what you need to do it."

 

[AmenRa]

McCoy

She motioned to the numerous bundles of aromatic herbs that were strung along the walls.

"You tell me what "them" you hunt...and I give you what you need to do it."

He smelled the familiar smell of chamomille. It had been a favorite of his while in Europe. He noticed her cups. They were small and hand-smoothed, and they reminded him of those he had seen in Japan as a child during one his father's visits.

"My name is John McCoy," he told her. She kept referring to him as Cow Boy, and he just now got the hint that he had failed to introduce himself to her. He wasn't exactly shearing the sheep on etiquette with her, he decided. He offerred her a smile and waited for her to pour the tea.

"Vampires," he said at last in a low voice, almost a whisper. "I hunt vampires. Werewolves. Those things."

He fixed her with his gaze.

"Will you help me?"

 

[newgirlpj]

Dan watched and listened, going largely unnoticed by the humans of this small community, dusty canvas pants, brown trail shirt, scuffed boots and worn hat blended with all other cowboys. She watched the sheriff, Cogburn seemed a good man, and wondered what evils drove him to his inebriation. She noticed the role the Ravens were taking as the town protectors and knew they had little if any idea what it would truly take to protect these people. The native witch woman she kept a distant eye on, she alone seemed to feel the presence of the evil converging on this ancient place. She felt the arrival of the killer, John McCoy, the one born to this time and place, did he know his destiny was laid out for him, that when he faded from this life he would be reborn to the next life as a fighter for humanity? In that way they were alike, both created for a purpose, however if the day should come that Dan was destroyed there would be no rebirth, so in some ways he was more an immortal than she.

The evil ones were moving now, the random attacks for food becoming more organized. They were concentrating on growing their numbers. Dan had found one alone, in a burrow just outside of town, but it was no more than a low level minion with no knowledge where the packs main den was or which branch of the Were clan the leader was born of. She suspected it had spread it’s infection to at least one member of the community. Werewolves, to use the present name given these mutations, had such erratic memories it was almost impossible to follow them. One couldn’t be sure if what you were perceiving was a kill, a transformation or the creatures own death. Only the pure descendants of the clan could think and reason during the transformation. The once human creature died quietly, never waking and was buried within the den as Dan strode back toward town.

As for the blood drinkers, they moved more slowly and their presence was more insidious. They watched over the ones they chose to turn and they were far more difficult to track. Dan had yet to locate a clear path to one, but as their numbers grew so would their sign.

 

[satindesire]

"My name is John McCoy,"

Her smile was soft, making her eyes glitter in the dim light of the cabin. "John McCoy. You call me Red Deer." Dyani tilted the kettle carefully, filling the cup with the fragrant, steaming tea, and handed him the cup, their fingers brushing. A tingle burned in her hand at the meeting of skin to skin, her energy and his mingling, tasting each other's tenor.

"Vampires," he said at last in a low voice, almost a whisper. "I hunt vampires. Werewolves. Those things."

Her eyes searched his. "To do a thing like that..." her voice also had fallen to a whisper. The quiet of the cabin, the subject matter seemed to demand it. "you are good man, John McCoy."

"Will you help me?"

She blew across the rim of the cup, her breath carrying the steam away in whorls. She sipped, as if steeling herself.

"Yes...yes, I will help you."

She set the cup down, and touched his arm and once again feeling the tingle of contact. She smiled, breaking the tension.

"We cannot do this on empty stomach. Supper will be ready soon."