Sheriff Lauters was on his way back to his office when he heard the screams.
He had half a bottle of rye in his desk drawer and the thought of it warming his belly and lulling him into an easy sleep was all he cared about. He didn't pay any attention to the miners he saw fighting in the streets outside the saloons and gambling halls. He didn't pay no mind to the lewd behavior exhibited by a few ranch hands outside the parlor houses.
He saw nothing but the bottle and the sweet release it offered.
Then he heard the screams.
They stopped him dead.
He'd heard men cry out after being shot, knifed, and even scalped. But this was like none of those. This was a bloodcurdling screech that went right up his spine like spiders. And gave him about the same sense of aversion. It sounded again. Weaker now. It was coming from behind the smithy's shop.
A few others were running in that direction now, guns drawn.
Lauters raced by younger men and elbowed aside men and women alike. There was no time for courtesy here. When he rounded the shop and made it to the alley out back, people were already turning away in disgust. Rikers, the blacksmith, had a lantern going and what it revealed was a horror.
Lauters knew it was Dewey Mayhew.
Somehow, in the back of his mind, he'd suspected it.
Mayhew was lying in the hard-packed snow, blood sprayed out in every possible direction. He was curled up, fingers trying to press his internals back in through the ragged incision in his belly. He was open in half a dozen places and blood ran from all of them. The left side of his face was stripped clear down to the meat. His legs were broken and twisted out at odd angles, bone pushing through the tears in his pants. The left side of his neck was ripped open, a great chunk of flesh missing. He bled from nose, mouth, ears-too many places to count.
But he wasn't quite dead yet.
He was trying to talk.
Lauters kneeled next to him, trying to hear what he said. Blood gurgled from his mouth, his lips shuddering, his remaining eye staring off into space.
"What?" Lauters said softly. "Tell me."
Mayhew kept trying to talk. Lauters put his ear to the man's bloody, torn lips.
"…those eyes…" Mayhew sputtered. "…those red eyes…"
His body shook with spasms for a moment and went still.
"All right, goddammit," Lauters said, climbing to his feet. "The man's dead. All of you clear out of here. Now."
Slowly, the onlookers vacated the scene, leaving only Rikers and Lauters. Lauters went up to the man who, despite his powerful physique and girth, was trembling, the color gone from his usually ruddy face.
"You find him?" the sheriff asked.
"Yeah," Rikers said slowly. "I…I heard the screaming…lit the lantern and came out… Jesus, oh sweet Jesus…"
Lauters turned him away from the body. "What did you see?"
"Something…something running…I don't know…"
"Think man, dammit," Lauters commanded. "This is important."
Rikers swallowed. "It happened so fast…I'm not sure…"
"What? Tell me." He was shaking the man now.
With a look of anguish, Rikers broke free. "A shape…a shadow… gigantic…Christ, I don't know…something moving away fast, down the alley."
"What did it look like?"
Rikers' eyes were glassy, staring. "The Devil."