Dennis Yates - Red Mountain

After finishing their business, Jared would send his sons away with some spending money while he sipped a few whiskeys with the local men inside a cool saloon. He was well known for having a sense of humor and a deep laugh, and men seemed to gravitate to his table whenever he visited. On the few occasions he might have had trouble with someone, he’d simply pick up his hat and leave and the offender would soon find himself an unwelcomed customer.

As always, some folks in town had the need to find faults in others they deemed unworthy of success. Brandon Dukes had the worst habit of anyone around. At one time a skilled wood craftsman, Dukes’ drinking finally landed him into serious debt problems with a dangerous gang and ultimately the loss of a hand. He referred to the Horn family as “damned Amish” although they were known to be unaffiliated with any religion and never came to church. After he’d once tried to sell Horn a load of pine riddled with beetle damage, Dukes became furious when Horn declined the deal.

Horn had felt sorry for Dukes, and didn’t want any trouble. And despite his offer to allow Dukes to find him a better product, the drunk’s fragile pride could not be mended. From then on the Horn’s weekly visits to town began to deteriorate. Dukes began spreading vicious rumors to anyone who’d listen, manufacturing stories about the Horn family being involved in devil worship and the like. Folks laughed at first, but Dukes’ lurid stories started poisoning opinions and soon the town became edgy when the Horn family came for their Friday visit. Even people Jared considered friends began to look upon him with suspicion. Thanks to Dukes, people stopped buying their wares and often the Horn family would return home with very few provisions to get them through the coming week.

Over the next several years Horn’s visits became less frequent. People had grown tired of the stories Dukes had spread, and began to question why they’d believed him in the first place. They’d seen no evidence to support Duke’s claims that the Horn family was in league with the devil. But it was still too late to change what had happened. The damage was done. The proud family they’d once admired was dying from starvation, their bodies reduced to skin and bone. Mrs. Horn, who’d once turned heads when she walked along the boardwalk, had lost most of her shimmering red hair and now kept her head wrapped tightly with a scarf. Horn’s sons no longer smiled or waved, but cowered with fear of the other children who chased after their wagon and threw stones at them. A jealous drunk had turned them into outcasts. There was no one left they could trust.

Jared, distraught by the betrayal of so many, began to wander alone into the mountains for days at a time, filling his sketchpad with the things he saw. Once, after being gone for several days without food or water, he had a vision that changed everything. Instead of producing a great quantity of tables, cabinets and chairs, he decided to sharpen his focus on images he could engrave in wood.

The strategy paid off. Although in far less quantity than their once popular furniture, the Horns delivered more intricately carved pieces—wall hangings and jewelry boxes, decorative figurines and chests. The townsfolk couldn’t resist them and soon forgot about the ugly past. Most said they were ready to make amends and showed it by opening their purses.

Horn’s new works were a success. When news reached Dukes that several of the wealthier townspeople had standing orders, Dukes’ fury hit the boiling point. His goal to drive Horn permanently away had ultimately failed. He couldn’t believe how quickly his neighbors had gone from treating the Horns like pariahs to going soft headed over his new carvings. Something had to be done before Dukes found himself being run out of town.

It wasn’t too long afterward that Horn’s Trojan horse began to take its toll...

****

A bruised sun dropped toward the serrated outline of the Cascades. Dark purple clouds sat perched on snowy peaks like behemoth gargoyles. Underwood and Logan hitched their horses to a fence post not far from a cottonwood towering next to the Horn farmhouse. The gloaming tonight was eerily devoid of sound. When several crows hiding in the branches of the cottonwood abruptly flew off, Underwood noticed they made no sound. On the other hand, he could hear every sound he made, from the creak of his bad hip to the smallest grains of sand whispering against the heel of his boot.

When they reached the tree, Underwood bent down and passed his palm over a bed of dying coals, determining in his own mind how long the fire had been burning. He glanced up at a branch high above him and noticed a piece of rope still clinging to the blistered bark.

“I reckon Horn is somewhere in this mess,” he said turning over the ash with a stick. “Otherwise, he’d be out here giving us hell by now.”

“You want me to check the house?” asked Logan.

“Might as well be sure of it,” he said without looking up. “But I doubt if there’s any survivors.”

Logan nodded and walked toward the farmhouse, rifle braced against his hip. The likelihood of someone rushing out of the house with a loaded weapon seemed remote indeed. It was just so damned quiet you could almost hear the air pop as you moved.

Underwood picked out a leather strand from the ash pile, a bootlace perhaps, and examined it before throwing it back. When he stood up and backed away from the tree, he almost tripped on an empty bottle. He picked the bottle up and probed the neck with his finger. It was still wet with whisky.

Wrath Butte vigilantes… more like shit for brains.

Underwood shook his head and wondered why on earth they’d brought the boy. The men should’ve had more sense and stayed home. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t known what Horn might be capable of. Did they think the town would have handed out medals for what they did?

Most likely…

He lifted the whiskey bottle and flung it into the brush where it smashed against a rock.

“Jared Horn. Are you in there Jared Horn?” Logan shouted as he approached the doorway to the house. He noticed the windows blown out from fire. The soot-streaked front door was tilted inward, held up only by a lower hinge. Something told him not to go into the house, but he brushed it away like he always did when such warnings came to him. Logan credited his survival to learning long ago how to ignore his fears, especially of the dead. It never made sense to him anyway why a corpse scared people so. What was dead was dead, and if you thought it could still come after you then you were a fool.

He kicked the door off its only hinge and watched it splinter when it hit the ground. Stepping inside the house, Logan’s eyes probed at the damage. Horn’s scenic carvings were mounted all over the walls. And although they were nothing more than charcoal now he could still make out the rendered landscapes and portraits of wildlife and people. The sharp smell of burnt wood prickled his eyes and made them water.

When he heard a hissing sound in the next room, his heart skipped a beat. He released the safety and moved forward. With the muzzle of his rifle leading the way, Logan turned the corner and saw the small wood stove in the corner of the room. On top of the stove was an iron pot full of boiling water.

What the hell?

****

Underwood had gone back to his horse to get some headache powder. He could no longer think straight. His head felt like someone was inside his skull, trying to kill a fly with a hammer. The medicine’s bitterness tasted good as he washed it down with water from his canteen. After he closed his eyes and started to rub his temples, he began hearing Logan’s screams coming from inside the house.