Early the next morning, just before light, Dr. Perry was up and about. His back wasn't too bad today, a bit sensitive. His cells were content, having been fed their ritual breakfast of morphine. Perry made rounds in his wagon, treating two cases of frostbite and mending a shattered leg up at one of the mining camps. When day broke, the sun came out, parting the clouds. There was every indication that today-though cool-would be a lovely day, Perry decided.
He couldn't have been more wrong.
On a whim, he stopped by the church.
He didn't like to think that Lauters had killed the reverend. It was the last thing he wanted to believe, but, as Marshal Longtree had pointed out a few days before, the sheriff was entirely out of control. And Reverend Claussen was missing.
In the church, much to the doctor's surprise, he found Claussen at the altar, reveling in something. He soon saw what. The altar had been destroyed. It was smeared with excrement and worse things. Everything was destroyed and defiled.
"Good Christ," Perry said. The church smelled like an abbatoir.
Claussen turned. "Do not profane in this house, sir," he said.
Perry was speechless. The reverend's face was bruised and swollen.
"What happened to you, man?" he demanded.
"Baptismal under fire," the reverend laughed.
Perry went to him, but the reverend pulled away. "I don't need your help, sir."
"Tell me who did this."
Claussen grinned. "Oh, I think you know."
Perry sat down on the first step of the altar. Claussen was right, of course: Perry did know. Lauters. The sheriff hadn't been lying to Perry the night before when he'd said he hadn't killed the reverend. He hadn't committed murder, he'd merely assaulted the man. Perry had always known Lauters to be a bit heavy-handed and particularly in the past few years-there'd been more than one feisty prisoner he'd had to stitch up and set-but never nothing to this degree. A beating of such magnitude could never be blamed on mere self-defense except in a lunatic's brain-this was a crime and the man who had committed it, a criminal.
"When did this happen?" the doctor inquired. "Did he do this, too?" He indicated the altar, the jackstraw tumble of pews, the shredded tapestries, the ravaged statues.
"Hardly."
"When?"
"In the dim past."
The doctor took a deep, pained breath. "You'll have to press charges, of course."
"Nonsense."
Perry just stared at him. He wanted nothing more than an injection right now; nothing else could hope to sort this mess out.
"Lauters will face punishment, yes, but not by the law," Claussen said with abnormal calm, "but by His hand."
"God?" Perry said without knowing he had.
Claussen smiled again: It was awful, like a cadaver's grin. "God? Yes, perhaps, but not the one you mean, not the one I've thrown my life away on."
Perry stroked his mustache. "Easy, Reverend." He had a nasty feeling Claussen had lost his mind. "I'd like you to come back to my home with me," he said, picking his words carefully. "You've been through a shock, you need rest. I can see that you get it. I'll have Deputy Bowes and Marshal Longtree come by."
"For what possible purpose?"
"To arrest the man who did this."
Claussen laughed softly. "I don't need them, Doctor. None of us do. You see, there's only one law now- his law."
"Who are you speaking of?"
"You know, you know very well. You borrowed my books-"
"I didn't read them," Perry lied. "There hasn't been time."
"Much to your disadvantage, then, I would think." Claussen went back to the wreckage of the altar. "When he takes command, when he assumes his throne, he'll need educated men like you and I to help him sort out affairs. But you must read the books, you must know of his past…"
Perry just looked at him.
Claussen grinned. "You see, Doctor, he is a king. He ruled this land once. When our relations came from Europe, they brought European gods with them. This was a mistake. They know nothing of this land, its history, its needs, its course."
"Yes, well-"
"The Indians know they weren't the first race here, that there were older races." Claussen smiled at the idea. "So wise, those people…and we call them savages." He shook is head. "No matter. The old race were called the Lords of the High Wood. When the Indians first migrated into this land countless thousands of years ago, the Lords were still here. Not many still survived, but some. Enough, I would say."
"What does this have to do with anything?" Perry wanted to know.
"I'm instructing you, Doctor, on the new religion which is actually quite old. These are things you'd do well to remember." Claussen touched a finger to his chin. "Now, at present, our lawmen are hunting a beast, a creature that is slaughtering people. But this creature is not new, in fact it is very old. It is a direct descendent of these Lords, the Kings of the Hunt. You see, in ancient times, the Indians worshipped these creatures. They were gods. They made sacrifice to them, offered them virgins to breed with. Eventually the Lords died out-oh, due perhaps to changes in climate, destruction of their habitats-but a few survived."
"You're insane," Perry told him.
"On the contrary, I'm probably the only sane person left," Claussen said, stabbing a finger at the doctor. "I told you once of the Skull Society. Do you remember? Well, this Skull Society is an ancient cult. At one time they were priests of the order that selected sacrifice to the Lords. They were the law-makers, holy men of a cult of barbarity."
Perry sighed. "Are you trying to tell me one of these… things still exists?"
Claussen massaged his temples wearily. "Yes, exactly. Most of these Lords, these gods of old died out long ago, but a few survived into modern times. Certain tribes believe until quite recently."
"Stop it, Reverend. You-"
Claussen silenced him with a look, lost in his new religion. "Do you know what are meant by the 'dog days,' Doctor?"
Perry nodded. The dog days referred to the pre-horse period of the tribes when all activities were accomplished with canine assistance: camp moving, hunting, etc.
"Many of the tribes, our own Blackfeet included, believe a few of these Lords survived into the dog days-which, would mean within the last four or five-hundred years or so."
Perry's back was aching fiercely now. Claussen explained all this with such cold, compelling logic, it was hard not to believe him. But it was fantasy. Had to be. Perry was something of a naturalist himself and he didn't doubt for a moment that the earth had been populated at various times by bizarre animalistic peoples and nameless beasts. But they were all extinct now. To accept, even for a moment, that some primordial horror had survived…
"Nonsense," Perry maintained.
"Is it?"
"Of course. Even if there were such creatures, they are long gone."
"Not at all, Doctor," Claussen said as if he were addressing a child. "One has survived."
Perry just stared at him. It was insanity; there could be no shred of underlying truth in this.
"Read the books, Doctor. It's all there. What we know comes from legend, tribal memory, but legend is the only glimpse we have of those ancient times and ways."
"You need rest," Perry said weakly.
"The Blackfeet call him Skullhead."
"Why?"
"Because his head is like a huge skull. The Skullheads, you see, wear their skeletons on the outsides of their bodies like insects. Throwbacks to prehistory, Doctor. Lords of the High Wood. Beings whose savage appetites can never be satisfied." Claussen grinned ghoulishly.
It was all madness; Perry did not want to hear it. Claussen had kept his left hand stuffed inside his coat the entire time. Perry had not wanted to ask why. But now he did.
"That doesn't concern you. When the time comes…"
Perry stood up and began walking to the door, silently.
"He's here to feed on us," Claussen gloated. "To destroy all we've built, to take back his lands. And to breed. Blood is his wine…give unto him…"