Lamplight

The rider pulled back on the reins, and his mount came to a slow stop next to the stream. Across the water stood a dark, forlorn and utterly beaten down shack. Behind a dirty pane of glass burned the faint orange flame of a lamp. A light rain pelted the flat brim of his hat, and his horse’s ears twitched and moved about. He had been by this place only once before, and that was during the day. The trail was narrow, and the many low-hanging branches a constant bother. A series of minor calamities had put him behind schedule. If he had to camp out in the rain, so be it. But he was not going to camp in these hills. Too dangerous. This trail was but a shortcut reluctantly taken.

The rider looked at the flame as it burned small and meek behind the cloudy glass. This was indeed odd. Everything about the place was odd. In the dying light, the gnarled and twisted oaks seemed to stand guard around the structure. He continued to look at the lamp, but could make out no figure or movement inside. He cocked his ear in the direction of the door. This was of no use. All he heard was the gurgling of the stream. The longer he listened, the more the gurgling started to sound like voices. Grabbing its fob, he pulled his pocket watch out of a vest pocket. He could ride for a couple of hours and then bed down. Replacing the timepiece, he weighed his options. This improbable light merited investigation, though.

Suddenly, a scream—a scream like that of a woman being murdered—pierced the woods. His left hand instinctively reached over to his right hip for a cavalry draw of his pistol. The weapon was out and up in a wicked flash. No one gets used to that sound—no matter how many times he hears it. He shook his head, and muttered, “Damned lion.” As he holstered his weapon, he made out some distance ahead the faint form of a large cat as it flew effortlessly and ghostlike over the stream.

The rider noticed that his horse’s ears were back. He reached down and patted the animal’s neck. “It’ll be okay,” he said quietly. He then straightened up in the saddle, tapped the horse’s sides with his heels, and led it over the stream toward the shack, all the while never taking his eyes off the faint light. He dismounted and wrapped a rein around a branch before walking up to the porch.

The rider gently knocked on the door, and said, “Hello?”

“Hello,” replied a voice from the shadows.

The rider turned sharply to his right and made out a man sitting in a chair on the small porch. He was older, had a short, white beard, and despite the chill, wore only a vest over his shirt. On his head sat a bowler. The rider let out his breath, and said, “You gave me a start there, mister. Didn’t see you sitting there.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” said the man in the chair. There was a long pause, and then the man asked, “Where you headin’?”

“Over to the San Pedro. I was thinkin’ about campin’ there tonight and lookin’ for a way across in the morning. I imagine it’s a little flooded with all this rain.” As the rider spoke, he noticed that the man in the chair remained perfectly still. “I saw the light in the window,” he continued, “I didn’t think anybody lived here.”

After another silence, the man in the chair said, “I’m here.” The hitherto still form suddenly rose and faced the rider. “Looks like you have a bit of a ride ahead of you. Why don’t you come inside, and warm up?” asked the man in the bowler.

“I’d hate to be a bother, sir,” replied the rider.

“Not a bother at all,” said the man as he walked toward the door. “Not in the least.” Inside, he pointed to a chair next to the table upon which the lamp stood, “Why don’t you have a seat? But where are my manners?” The man extended his hand, and said, “Tom Fitzhugh.”

The rider grasped the man’s hand, and replied, “Moses Carson.” Carson's hands were cold from hours of riding in a winter rain. His host’s hand was like ice.

“Let me get a fire started,” said Fitzhugh as he pulled the globe off the lamp. He placed an already used matchstick into the lamp flame. Guarding this with his other hand, he brought the matchstick across the room to a potbelly stove. He pulled the door open to reveal carefully prepared kindling under which brown paper was wadded. The fire gaining strength, Fitzhugh closed the stove door, and turned to face his guest. “How about something to warm a weary traveler, Mister Carson, something spirituous?”

Carson instantly understood Fitzhugh’s intimation. After hours in the rain, this was indeed a capital suggestion. “Yes, please, Mister Fitzhugh. I could use a little warming up.”

Fitzhugh put the globe back on the lamp, and then walked over to a shelf from which he retrieved a bottle and two shot glasses. Fitzhugh uncorked the bottle and carefully filled the glasses with rye whiskey. “To a safe trip,” said Fitzhugh with glass raised.

“A safe trip,” replied Carson. After downing his shot, the rider asked, “How long have you been up here?”

“I’ve been up here since ’63. Got some workings in a side canyon,” replied Fitzhugh

“So, the Apaches don’t bother you?” asked Carson as he dried his whiskey-soaked mustache with a coat sleeve. 

“Oh, it’s been quite some time since I’ve seen one.” Fitzhugh topped off the glasses once again.

“You must lead a charmed life, sir,” observed Carson. “When Jim Tevis was running the Butterfield station over at Apache Pass, they got ahold of him, and burned the boots off his feet.”

“Old Jim got off easy from what I hear,” said Fitzhugh, his gray eyes piercing Carson. “They strung his two friends upside down over a fire and baked their brains out.” With this, Fitzhugh downed another shot, and noted, “All in a night’s fun.”

Carson stared back at Fitzhugh for a moment and then heard his horse whinny. The rider looked over his shoulder and out the window. When he turned to face Fitzhugh again, the old man’s bowler was on the table. In abject horror, Carson saw that the top of Fitzhugh’s head was nothing more than blackened, charred bone.

“I hate to be a bad host, Mr. Carson, but I think you should leave now,” said Fitzhugh flatly.

Carson shot up and turned to the door. Despite his frantic efforts, it would not open. He turned, and Fitzhugh was still sitting there, now smiling, smoke rising furiously from his head as if from a chimney.

“Oh, Lord!” gasped Carson. There was a backdoor next to the stove. He rushed it, and nearly kicked it off its hinges. He ran into the woods behind the shack and into the growing darkness. “Oh, Christ almighty!” Carson croaked, now barely able to talk. He turned to take a quick glance back at the building. The toe of his right boot then caught a stone, and he landed prostrate, his face only inches from a grinning skull. Springing up, his head became entangled in what felt like cloth. Stumbling back, he made out what seemed to be a pair of rotting trousers hanging from a rope.

Like a crazed animal, Carson ran back around to the front. He ripped the rein off the branch and flew into the saddle. Fitzhugh now stood on the porch, hat in hand. “Have a good trip, Mister Carson!” bade the old man as Carson’s horse tore through the stream and towards the trail.

Water dripped off the eaves of the sad structure. From its roof projected a cold, rusty stovepipe. A slight breeze moved oak leaves across its uneven porch and underneath a broken and rotting chair.

Several minutes later, six Apaches rode up to the shack. They did not like this place, the place of the dead miner. Their leader stared at the dark window, and then slipped off his horse to study the trail. The drizzle was now turning into a steady, determined rain. The headman took another look at the shack before getting back on his mount. The group then turned around whence they came. A mountain lion screamed in the dark.

END