In the Valley

Part 2

‍ ‍    Heston squatted silently beside the ashen pile of last night's campfire. His eyes fixed on the white dots that circled around it. There were thirty-six in total. He didn’t know why he’d thought to count them, but with a sign so grim found directly next to where he’d been sleeping, he’d figured no detail could afford to be ignored. He stood slowly, casting his eyes around the tall grass that surrounded his campsite. No footprints could be seen to approach or retreat, and not a single piece of his gear had been disturbed. The thirty-six human teeth seemed to have simply appeared. 

      Heston blew a sharp exhale from his nostrils as he shook his head, turning about to fetch his pouch of tobacco to pack his pipe. He knew what was going on here. He’d seen it before. Painted horse skulls had been left for him once in a dark Dakota mine. Smeared with green ochre and crimson candles left burning to melt over their tops like bloody crowns. The skulls had been a hell of a startle for Heston and the other miners at the time. They’d gone into the mine earlier that day only to come out later and find them strung to the wooden supports with barbed wire. It didn’t take a lot of detective work to figure out what was going on though. After the initial shock of finding them glowing and dripping red in the midst of the black mineshaft, deep tracks of boots could be followed out and led to the horse hitches. A rival band was trying to frighten them out of the area, a tactic usually used by small groups that couldn’t have pushed them out by force. Whether by lack of men, bullets, or will, fright was the weapon they employed instead. Their painted skulls gave Heston’s crew a scare for sure, but not as much of a scare as when Heston himself pressed the barrel of his revolver into the forehead of the rival leader, warning him that if they didn’t clear off of their patch, it’d be their own skulls painted and adorned with candles. 

      It was the same thing going on here. Heston had no clue where the teeth could’ve come from, but he quietly applauded the originality. He was more concerned with the lack of tracks and the ability to sneak right past him without waking him or even disturbing his mule. The question that puzzled him most though was if they wanted him off the land so bad, why not just kill him there and then if they were able to get so close? 

    He shook his head again as if to shake off the confusion as he placed the pipe in his mouth. He struck a match, stoked his pipe and snatched up his shovel and pan to move down the riverside. As he plodded his way through the tall grass blades, his eyes picked through the trees. Afar on the other side of the riverbank, across the vast green plain he searched for shadows among the trunks, and though he couldn’t detect any movement, he couldn’t shake the knowledge that someone was out there. The brilliant sun was hardly comforting in the knowledge that somewhere out there were eyes on him. 

       Again and again he’d plunge the shovel into the ground, heave a load of black soil into the pan, and down to the river he’d go to filter out the pan, inspecting the pan closely for any gleaming flecks. For hours he kept at it, etching a dotted tapestry of mottled ground around his campsite.  He’d spy two flecks in one spot, three flecks farther down, then pull his pan to find nothing at all, forcing him to retrace his steps to find the pocket once again. 

      He’d lost count of how many holes he’d dug, cursing himself for stopping at midday to fish. Hungry as he might have been, it was time lost that should’ve been spent narrowing down the pocket. He grew even angrier when the sun began to creep behind the treetops. Damn it to hell. He thought. A whole day wasted diggin’ holes. I’d better find that son of a bitch tomorrow.

     As the sun edged beyond the horizon, his campfire was now back to a gentle flame. He stood with his back to it, surveying the area with his mind working up a plan. He didn’t know what direction they’d come from, so he’d have to be as strategic as he could with his placement. He collected a bundle of still green twigs, whittled them down into barbed spikes with a taper at the end to burrow into the ground. The aim wasn’t to kill the intruders. He wanted to hear them scream by placing a foot into his tension laid sprigs, triggering the twig to spring up to drive a nail into their leg. His pistol would do the rest of the work. He counted his paces as he set them into the ground in a semi-circular pattern around the rear of his camp, mindful to remember their exact placement so as to not trip them himself. 

As he pushed the second to last trap into the ground, a hollow whistle could be heard on the wind. His eyes shot up to the treeline, his hands and arms, diligently working before, were now frozen in place. The deep resonance of the sound seemed to rattle into his ribs. His eyes grew wide as he focused on a point in the shadowed trees. He spotted two small, bright lights just beneath the highest boughs of the treetop. Like the eyes of a giant spotting him over the distance. He stared as he remained in place, unblinking as he faced the lights. For only a few seconds that felt eternal, the valley was silent save for the harrowing whistle, which stopped only when the lights seemed to snuff themselves out like candles. Heston kept his position for another moment. Straining his sight as hard as he could to see if there was any movement in the distance. If he had seen them, then they had most certainly seen him first. With the whistle gone the valley fell impossibly quiet. Heston could nearly hear his own heart beating faster than he’d ever have admitted for the absence of any other sound. 

He fell onto his back, jolted with fear as a blaring shriek streamed through the open air. Shrill, sharp, and guttural it ripped through the peace and pushed him. It only lasted a few seconds but by the time it ended Heston had finally recovered to his feet. He stared down to his trembling hands, now clinging tightly to the trap. He turned on his heels and walked at a quick pace towards the safety of his fire. He set the two remaining traps in front of his tent, placed his pistol beneath his pillow, and slid his rifle into the crease between his tent and the ground, right at his back if he needed it. He laid awake for hours until the running river finally managed to lull him to sleep. 

The next morning he woke to an itch on his cheek. Half asleep he waved a hand up to scratch and pulled a length of twine off of his face. He looked up to the roof of his tent to see if it was fraying but it wasn’t. He rolled over to find the two traps outside his tent had been disarmed and the sticks had been laid neatly in the grass where they had been set the night before. Heston sat up like a spring, pulling his pistol from his pillow by instinct before moving to his feet. He took a few steps towards the ashen firepit, wary of what he might find this time. There was nothing by the fire, but his mule was missing. Bastards! He gritted his teeth as he swore. God damned bastards! He swung his head around to the open valley behind him, knowing they had to have left tracks this time. He found a line of trampled grass leading to the middle of the field, halfway to the wall of trees. He could tell, even before leaving his campsite, that in the middle of the field a post had been placed. He only had to make it a quarter of the way there before his walk turned into a full, panicked sprint. The trail ended right where the post was, no further tracks radiated from it, as if whoever placed it there had flown into the air. It was a thick tree branch drilled straight into the ground. At its base was the same bundle of green twigs Heston had used for his traps the night before. At its top, impaled into place, was the head of his mule with each trap nail hammered into it.