Author: Erik 'Tracer' Testerman

I wrote this for a short story anthology in four days. It turned out okay, but was a really good learning experience about how to do it better. Such as, I dunno, take more than four days. Use more than the minimum number of words if you have time to and the story needs it. I’ve basically spent the last few weeks since submission kicking myself about how I could have made this better.

But oh well. What’s done is done, and I’m not embarrassed by it. I just know I could’ve done a lot better. And I thought about taking a couple days to rework this, but Conquering Prehistoric really needs to be wrapped up and I’ve wasted enough time on this thing.

So, without further ado… I present my first short story.

****

BLOOD IN THE VALLEY.

Erik Testerman

***

Death.

That’s what I was looking for.

My own.

But first, it appeared I’d have the chance to sort a few things out with God.

The saddle creaked beneath me, and nudging my heels back I urged my mount to keep pushing up the rocky mountain side as I thought of what I’d say. The cold air was thin up here, and my mount struggled to breathe as it climbed. Our breaths swirled in front of us, and I felt bad for my mount. But it’s work was almost done.

In this area, there were savage grizzlies where the white man rarely tread and the red man’s pagan spirits kept them far away. People tended to avoid this area of my ranch and just keep riding until they were through it.

Except for Old Billy.

Old Billy had been born out of his time. A cantankerous old man who longed for gold, he’d wandered through my ranch days ago with a couple mules and some mining gear. I’d given him permission to prospect my lands, for a few percent of whatever he found all while expecting absolutely nothing.

But yesterday he crawled out of these very same mountains I rode into now, with no mules, a sack empty of gold, and half an arm ripped off. He lasted about an hour in the shade of a tree where I’d found him. In the few moments that he was awake, he was delirious and screaming about hair, teeth, and darkness.

A bad trip all around it sounded like.

That’s when I realized the opportunity that was at hand.

I could seek death at the bear paws of Old Billy’s killers and maybe talk to God on the way. I’d been flirting with the thought of death for some time now. Ever since the influenza took my wife and baby from me… and now it looked like I might have a chance at it.

A stick snapped nearby, and I shifted my grip on the Winchester that rested across the pommel of the saddle. Just because I was looking for death, didn’t mean I was going to make it easy.

At the bottom of the mountains, near the freezing cold streams of water from melted snow, I’d found the expected bear tracks. Big ones. I figured those would be old Old Billy’s killers. But his tracks kept going up the side of the mountain, so I kept going as well.

But strangely, the higher I climbed these lonely mountains, the less bear tracks I saw until they vanished completely along with all the other animals. It was as if nothing lived this high up. But there were all sorts of markings from where Billy had staggered and made his way down.

Now we were almost at the top.

My horse pushed through a thin foliage of ferns and leaves as we crested the edge of the mountain.

The view was impressive. Snow capped mountains, steep rock faces, and scraggly evergreens dotted the landscape. Below me, in a giant bowl crafted by the good Lord from the rugged mountains, was a thick white fog.

I stared at it for a moment, wondering what lay beneath its shroud. Then I shrugged and raised my face towards the blinding sun in the clear blue sky.

It looked like I’d get my chance to speak my piece before dying in a place as close to God as I could be. After this, I’d ride back down the mountain and go grizzly hunting until one finally got me.

Emotions that I’d stuffed deep welled up and threatened to consume me. And my voice cracked slightly, “Lord… you rotten sonuva-”

My horse bucked as something burst from the fog below and I felt myself falling.

***

I woke with my face pressed into the rock and a stabbing pain beneath me.

Groaning, I rolled over, grasping at my belly and finding that the walnut stock of my Winchester was digging into my guts.

Grabbing the rifle, I pulled it closer while rising to my knees.

One of my eyes felt glued shut, and I touched it gently. Small dark red flakes came off on my fingertips. Dried blood. That explained the dull ache that stabbed through my head like a bad hangover. There be a cut somewhere.

Licking a finger, I rubbed my eyelid until I could see out of both eyes again and looked around.

I was on a ledge overlooking a thickly forested valley.

Damn, but I’d fallen far.

My body ached like it, and the thick white fog above me teased at the depths of which I’d bounced, rolled, and dropped.

Scooting back into a sitting position on the ledge, I took stock of my situation.

The leather thong on my holster had held. I still had the Colt Peacemaker. My Winchester rifle was a bit battered and dinged, with new scuffs and scrapes in the stock. The barrel looked straight though, and the sights were still on it. But I was out of water, food, and the only ammunition I had was on my cartridge belt wrapped around my waist with a sheathed hunting knife. Everything else had been in my saddle bags and I didn’t know if my horse was dead somewhere or run off.

I began moving about gently, trying to stretch a little and feel if anything on my person was cracked, broken, or missing. Everything seemed intact. The palms of my hands were scrapped, and a couple of fingernails were cracked or torn off. I didn’t remember anything past my horse bucking, but I reckon that I’d fought the fall on the way down and lost. In addition to the cut across my scalp, my knees and elbows hurt like hell. I suspected there was also a good bit of scrapes and bruising beneath my clothes as well.

Looking up the side of the mountain, I could tell there was no way to climb up from here. It was too rough and near vertical in places appearing even steeper as it rose into the fog.

Easing over to the rocky edge, I looked down. It appeared luck was on my side and with some sliding on my backside I could probably make it to the bottom in one piece.

And if this was where Old Billy had come from, then there had to be a way out of here.

And that mattered. I wanted to get back on top of the mountain and finish my speech to God.

Then death could have me. But not until I’d spoken my piece. And I wasn’t about to speak it below thick tendrils of fog and out of sight of the Lord.

A rock smashed against the cliff face behind me, narrowly missing my shoulder and pelting me with splintered shards. Dropping in surprise, I lay flat on the ledge and looked around.

Another shattered, this one clipping the rock ledge and sending shrapnel upwards.

Swearing, I peeked over in the direction they seemed to come from below.

From the thick forest beneath me, a large dark figure among the trees hurled another one at me. An incredible distance for a man to throw, easily a hundred yards and with unnerving aim the rock impacted several feet to my right. If he kept it up, he was bound to nail me eventually.

I pulled the battered Winchester rifle into my shoulder and lined the iron sights up on the big fellow as he stooped down to pick up another. I didn’t know who he was, or why he was chucking rocks at me, but I’d learned long ago that strange things happen to folks in the wilderness. And a rock could kill a man as easily as a bullet. Ask Able about that.

Gently squeezing the trigger, I rode the recoil and scored a hit. The shadow fell, thrashing slightly before rolling out of sight.

Rolling to my feet, I racked another round into the chamber of the rifle and found the easiest path down was on my backside. In a slow, controlled yet unproud manner, I managed to slide to the bottom.

Afterwards, I dusted my backside off, and carefully stalked towards where the rock thrower had been. Using the barrel of my rifle, I pushed through the undergrowth muzzle first. It was wet down here, and humid. And with the white fog above the valley blocking out most of the sunlight, it appeared to almost be in a sort of permanent evening dusk. Just enough light to see, but not enough to see well.

I reckoned at night it got pitch black as hell down here.

Moving forward, I found the spot that the man had chucked rocks at me.

There was a splattering of blood, and a trail moving off through the trees. I followed it a dozen steps before something shifted slightly in the thick foliage before me.

Unsure of what to do, I cautiously raised my rifle with finger on trigger, and called out. “Hey there buddy, sorry about that bullet. You alright?”

An ungodly roar sounded from the shadowed branches and ferns. Almost deafening in tone and pitch.

I blinked in surprise.

The ferns parted as the man slammed into me like a raging bull.

Muscular and hairy, his body knocked me backwards and I lost my grip on the rifle. The man’s hands were like bands of iron as they gripped my arms, picked me up, and slammed me against the rough bark of a tree. My head bounced off with a thunk and stars danced across my vision.

Kicking wildly, I felt the toes of my riding boots connect several times but did nothing to help release me as I thrashed from side to side. The man was strong. And big. And hairy as hell. That’s about all I could tell from the darkness of the forest we were in.

The man leaned in close towards my face and sniffed me.

That was an odd thing to do, I thought as my hand found the butt of the Colt and thumbed the leather thong safety off.

“Surprise, big guy,” I said as I drew the pistol and shoved the barrel against his stomach.

The man smiled at me. Large and canine-like teeth shone faintly against the darkened form of his misshapen face.

Shocked, I pulled the trigger.

The boom was muffled by meat, organs, and bone. But there was an odd sounding noise as the bullet blew out the backside of the thick man.

He dropped me and toppled aside with a guttural scream of mortal pain. Scared out of my ever-loving mind, I thrust the pistol back down and pulled the trigger on him again as he lay there twitching.

I stood there, breathing heavily, with my pistol in shaking hand as I looked down at the man.

He wasn’t the first person I’d shot. Or killed. But never this close. And never this… strange before.

Squatting down, I listened as the dark form took a final breath and shuddered slightly before laying still.

The stench of burnt hair and meat from the gunshot clogged my nostrils. I pulled my bandanna over my face to help block out the odor.

It didn’t.

Fumbling around in my pockets, I found and lit a match. The burst of flame gave off a small illuminating glow from my fingertips as I moved it close to the man’s face.

Startled at what I saw, I dropped the match. The flame died as it hit the damp leaves at my feet.

I quickly grabbed another and struck it, this time readying myself for the sight.

My initial thought was correct, the man’s face was misshapen. But it didn’t belong to a man. The dark brown hair surrounded its face, large canine-like teeth protruded from thick black lips below a flattened nose. Dark eyes, beginning to dull already stared upwards at the treetops above. Ears, if you could call them that, were on either side but larger than a man’s and pressed in against the side of the head.

I moved the match down over the body. Almost the entire… man thing… was covered in thick hair. Hands as big as dinner plates that’d gripped me tightly before, were now relaxed on the ground. Black skinned fingers and palms turned upwards. And the hairy beast’s feet… damn but they were big.

Sasquatch.

The match burnt down and touched my fingers. I flung it aside, the movement blowing out the delicate flame.

Sitting in the semi-dark, I stared at the fallen man beast.

Everyone out west had heard stories of sasquatch before. You couldn’t find a drunk in a bar who wouldn’t tell you a wild story about their run in with one for a free drink. They were all lies.

Or so I thought.

But sure enough, here was one. Dead by my hand. The rock chuckin’ bastard.

Must have been this fella that tore Old Billy up.

A loud hoot came from my left. The distance distorted by the thickness of the forest, but the sound itself was unnatural and like nothing I’d ever heard before. And I’d been out west for a long time.

Another hoot. This one from my right, certainly closer than the other.

I tightened my grip on the rifle.

A hoot.

Right behind me.

Spinning, I twisted around while moving my finger to the trigger. Startled like I was, I moved fast. But the sasquatch moved faster.

The barrel of the Winchester hit something, and I pulled the trigger. A blossom of bright flame shot from the muzzle, singing hair with the blast but seemingly missing anything of flesh.

A looming dark form that towered over me shifted, and the rifle was slapped out of my hands so hard that I thought it took my trigger finger with it. Scrambling backwards to get some space, I slipped and fell on the corpse behind me. Thrusting with my feet again, my boots found purchase, and I pushed myself backwards just in time for something large and dark to smack me across the side of my head.

***

I woke upside down.

My shoulders, waist, and legs were tied. The weight of my body pulled down against the ropes, cutting into my skin. My hands were tied behind me, and I could feel the log I was tied to moving up and down.

Twisting my head around, I saw the log was being carried by a sasquatch at either end.

The one at the back had my rifle slung awkwardly across its shoulder. Squinting, I tried to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. I’d taken peyote before, and while it’d given me some fresh thoughts, it hadn’t hurt anything like what I was feeling all over my body right now.

In the direction we were moving, a soft hooting started. Then got louder and louder the closer I was carried. Until I was surrounded by hairy things that weren’t supposed to exist. All of them hooting and one little one poking at me with big dark fingers.

I bit one that strayed too close to my face.

It was like biting a leather sausage. The finger jerked away, leaving a hint of blood in my mouth, and I was slapped hard enough to realize they didn’t like being bitten.

Well, I didn’t like being assaulted and carried.

So, I did it again. Narrowly missing this time as the same finger poked the side of my head.

The little sasquatch stopped poking at me then.

Unceremoniously, I was dropped on my face. Coughing and wheezing as the air was pushed out of my lungs, I rolled onto my left side and fought to gain my breath back while looking around.

I was in the clearing of some sort of village. Not the sort with huts and houses, or anything so civilized. But the kind with a bunch of rocks and logs pulled together that looked like they’d been used for some time. Past those were some rough shelters, just fallen timbers propped up with ferns and grasses twisted into the tops to give some relief from the rain.

I suspected these savage sasquatches preferred to be outdoors most of the time.

You know, so they could chuck rocks at innocent folks like a bunch of hairy assholes.

And probably tearing limbs off, like Old Billy’s.

As that thought hit me, I realized it wasn’t that cold in this mountain hideaway valley. Certainly not for the size of the fire before me…

With a pair of forked sticks at either end.

Frantically, I began contorting my head around to look. I still had my pistol in the holster. Miracle of miracles, they hadn’t taken that. And my Winchester rifle, bless the heathenish sasquatch for bringing it, was a few feet away tempting me with her battered beauty like a painted lady in the shadowed confines of a dimly lit bar.

If only I could get myself free of these squatches. I wiggled my fingers, pleased to realize that I still had my trigger finger. After all, that was the most important finger, followed by the middle one. There was my hunting knife tucked into its sheath near the small of my back, I could just barely touch the hilt of it.

I tried the ropes. Strangely, they were man made. Which made me wonder if they were Old Billy’s or some other poor fellow who found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Now that I was on the ground, there was some wiggle room between me and the ropes. I hunched my shoulders upwards, straining against them to try and get enough room to break free as all the hootin’ squatches started coming forward with broken off sticks and such to pile into the flames.

While they were distracted, I located a spur on the log near my tied wrists. A branch had been broken off, leaving a spike of wood. Frantically, I began jerking my wrists back and forth on the jagged edging.

God, I thought. I’m not ready to die here yet. You and me got some talking to do first.

The flames rose higher, and to keep my mind off the agony of sawing my wrists back and forth in what could be potentially a helpless situation, I started paying attention to the sasquatches.

There was half a dozen of them coming and going. One, the biggest who appeared to be the alpha male, had a fresh wound with singed hair on his side from my rifle shot in the darkness.

Good.

The rest appeared to make up a family or two. There were a couple large females, and a couple of smaller males. The smallest male, whose finger I’d bitten when poked, was the laziest. He brought the least amount of wood to the fire to cook me with and stood around watching the flames as the others walked off into the forest to get more kindling.

I eyeballed my rifle with a look that could only be described as desperation and lust.

The rope around my wrists came loose.

Only the small male was in sight. He idly poked the fire with a big branch and watched the green leaves sizzle in the flames with his back turned towards me.

I jerked my hands free of the tangle of loose rope and slid the hunting knife from its sheath. As quietly as possible, I bent myself into odd positions and quickly sliced through the rope with the razor-sharp blade.

Rising to my feet, the young sasquatch heard something and turned to look behind him. Just in time for me to lunge forward and lay the barrel of my pistol alongside his temple with all my strength.

With a meaty thunk the creature dropped beside the cooking fire, blood oozing from a cut across his head.

Taking a couple large steps, I picked up my rifle and checked the chamber.

Still loaded.

Good.

I took off running from the little makeshift village towards the far side of the valley. There looked to be a gradual growth of trees up the slope, and I hoped that meant I could escape that way.

I’d made it maybe fifty yards from the fire when I heard a frantic hooting come from behind. They must have found the little one, I thought as I leapt over a fallen tree trunk then ducked between a pair of young saplings.

Splashing through a small stream, I scrambled onto some wet boulders and looked over my shoulder.

A female was running towards me.

As she scooped up a river rock, I jerked the stock of the Winchester into my shoulder and pulled the trigger as she threw.

By some slight miracle, I managed to not only score a hit on the female squatch, but also not get beaned in the face with a wet rock. It smashed against the boulder beside me instead with a sharp crack.

The sasquatch tumbled and fell with a large splash. The water began to turn red downstream of her body. As more hooting reached my ears, I pulled myself above the boulders and ducked into the trees.

***

The big hairy creatures were certainly coming after me. I was pushing myself hard to make distance, but soon it was apparent from the hooting behind that not only were they catching up, now they were herding me.

That did not sit well.

Especially as the direction I wanted to go and the way they were chasing me didn’t align.

I needed a place to make a stand.

Back near the stream might have been alright, but the only thought on my mind at the time was to get as much distance between me and the squatches as possible.

Now I was going to pay for it. Probably by being ripped apart and eaten raw.

Which was probably what happened to Old Billy’s arm.

But I had something these big sasquatches didn’t.

Gunpowder.

And he who has the guns makes the rules.

I veered a hard right. There was a hooting from behind me in that direction. A noticeably softer hoot than the others. Hopefully that meant an easier one to fight past.

Reaching a thick pair of trees, I stopped. Panting heavily as I tried to catch my breath, I peeked around them.

There.

A hairy female appeared, her stride long and easy. She held what looked like a big log in one hand.

Raising the rifle, I gripped a tree trunk and balanced the Winchester against it. The sights were all over the place from my hard breathing. Up, down, side to side.

Luckily, she was a big target.

I squeezed the trigger.

The bullet slammed into a thick tree branch, showering her with fallen leaves. Swearing to myself, I quickly racked the lever on the rifle and sent another cartridge into the chamber.

Now she was closer.

I fired again. A hit this time as a splash of blood appeared below her hairy collarbone.

The log dropped from her hand, and she stumbled slightly.

But still she came on.

I racked another round, gritted my teeth, and dropped her with a solid shot to the chest. She fell with a loud oof, slamming into a small sapling and breaking it.

Jerking a cartridge from my belt, I ran and began thumbing a couple more rounds into the magazine tube of the Winchester at the same time.

It was awkward for me to do, but fear gave my fingers flight, and I reloaded that rifle faster than I ever had before.

The last round snicked in as a heavy weight barreled into me from the right.

Bouncing off the sasquatch, I smacked against a tree and crumpled.

Trying to gather my wits and breath at the same time, I looked up groggily to see the young male looking very angry and bloodied from the pistol whipping I’d given him.

I pulled the Colt from its holster only to have it slapped from my hand.

Then, grabbing me by the throat, he easily lifted me against the tree.

Pinned and with legs kicking, I twisted and thrashed to break free of the iron grip around my windpipe.

Nothing. My vision was going black as my neck screamed in pain.

I was going to die without telling God how I felt first about what he did to my family.

This was bullshit.

I dropped a hand to the hunting knife and jerked it free. The antler handle felt good in my hand as I began stabbing the young sasquatch between the ribs repeatedly.

He grunted in surprise and the hold on my throat loosened then relaxed as he dropped at my feet.

Wretching and heaving, I sucked in large gulps of air on all fours.

Someone kicked me in the side.

It felt like being hit with the cow catcher on the front of a freight train.

Something cracked inside me, and I knew some ribs were messed up as I was flung a good six feet to land on amongst some rotting leaves.

Tears sprung unwillingly to my eyes from the pain. Blinking away the unmanly wetness, I managed to roll to the side as a tree crashed to the ground where I’d just been.

No, not a tree.

Just a big damn rotten log.

Bits of it flew in the air as it was crushed against the ground. Small bugs and shards of rotten log splashed over my chest and face.

Sputtering, I tried to crawl to my feet only for something to grab me by the hair.

The other female had me.

Screaming in pain as my already gashed open scalp felt like it was being torn off.

I socked her in the face with a balled-up fist. It was like punching a hairy rock.

Then I jammed both my thumbs into her eyes and tried to gouge them out.

At that, she bellowed in agony and let go. I dropped at her big hairy black feet.

Now I was getting angry, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. My rifle and saddle bags weren’t near me anymore, but thankfully I had my Colt.

Jerking it free, I whipped the barrel upwards in her rough direction and pulled the trigger as she raised a large rock overhead with both hands. The blast of flame and gun smoke singed my beard and eyebrows, nearly blinding me and certainly deafening me.

The bullet impacted the female squatch’s face, blowing out the hairy top and showering me with blood, bits of bone, and gore.

A lucky shot.

She collapsed with the rock on top of her.

Pushing myself upright, I scrambled over to my dropped rifle and hunting knife. Picking them up, I looked around real quick then limped towards the valley’s exit.

There was only one left now, the big male. The alpha.

I stopped abruptly.

There wouldn’t be a better time than now. I wouldn’t make it far out of breath and battered like I was.

This was no place to make a stand, but it’d have to do.

I quickly ducked into a bit of brush as a loud, deep hoot came from my far right. That had to be him. The alpha squatch.

I checked the area around me. It was a dark patch of forest. Luckily, there were some gaps in the tree tops overhead, letting a bit more of the dusky light down around me. Hopefully, he’d come at me from an angle I could line the sights up on him from.

“Alright God,” I whispered quietly. “There might not be another mountaintop to speak to you up close and personal, so this will have to do. You took my wife and baby from me. I did everything I could, and it wasn’t enough.” I spat off to the side angrily. “They died because you let them, you rotten sonuva-”

A rock hit me in the face.

***

But it didn’t kill me.

Instead, I bit my tongue so hard that I spat blood onto the ground. And it felt like my jaw was danged near busted.

Shaking my head and working my mouth painfully, I rose in time to see the alpha sasquatch pick my rifle up from where I’d dropped it and smash it against a tree. Over and over, he roared in anger and hatred as he did it.

I drew the Colt, lined it up on him and fired.

The bullet hit him square in his hairy back.

Before I could cock the hammer on the Peacemaker for another shot, he whirled around and threw the remains of my Winchester at me.

Raising both hands, I attempted to fend off the broken rifle flying through the air.

The bent barrel hit my forearms and sent streaks of pain through my hands and fingers. The pistol dropped from my numb grip to the leaves below.

Going on the offensive, I lunged to meet the squatch moving towards me. My shoulder connected against his meaty waist. I wrapped my arms around his thick body and tried to grapple with what felt like an ox.

Even as blood from the exit wound in his chest dribbled onto my back, he easily flung me off.

I hit the ground rolling.

Sliding up against a sapling, I drew the antler handled hunting knife from its sheath with stinging fingers.

“C’mon you,” I taunted him, waving the knife with a ‘come and get me’ motion.

He came at me alright.

But first he jerked a small tree out of the ground and snapped it in half.

I ducked when he swung it. The dirt on the bottom of the mass of roots flew everywhere as he used it like a medieval mace.

It swished through the air above me.

Flinging myself forward, I buried the blade to the hilt in the alpha’s thigh.

Roaring in pain, and probably a lot of anger, he slammed a thick fist against my back.

Pain shot through my back and the cracked ribs may have broken. The pain was overwhelming. Somehow, I’d managed to hold onto the knife and gashed his leg open something fierce when he decked me.

Blood poured from the wound in a thick river.

The squatch was dying.

But not fast enough.

There.

A slight bit of nickel plating amongst the leaves.

I desperately grabbed for the pistol as the alpha wrapped a big hand around my leg and pulled me back towards him.

My fingers found the Colt’s grip.

I twisted around, my broken ribs screaming in pain along with everything else on my body and pulled the trigger.

***

The climb out of the hidden valley was a good bit easier than falling in. But it was more of a slow climb and at times a crawl, with lots of sitting down, swearing, and moaning.

But I made it above the white tendrils of fog, onto the top of the mountain edge around the valley bowl.

Lowering myself onto my back, I looked up at the sun that was beginning to set. I thought of my wife and child.

“Lord, we ain’t done. I’m still living. And I want my family back, you rotten sonuva-”

From below the dense fog in the valley, I heard a loud hoot.

Drawing my pistol, I thumbed the trigger back to cock the Peacemaker.

Maybe I’d found death after all.