A Stalking Death

By Dan Baldwin

“I was so shocked that I threw a cabbage at a cat!” A startled reaction starts a chain of events that sets cowhand Grey Cochran on a trail into mystery and danger with death stalking each step of his journey. Believing that his boss, the woman he loves, has been kidnapped by the mysterious and much feared Black Legion, Cochran rides into Arizona’s Superstition Mountains only to become the legion’s prisoner. As he struggles to earn his freedom, his boss struggles against memory loss and the attentions of the madman who has kidnapped her.
As Cochran learns the legion’s secrets he discovers the fate of his boss and startling identity of a serial killer stalking the backroads of the territory. The chain of events leads inevitable to a series of explosive confrontations with the killer, the legion, and the man who has stolen the woman he loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan Baldwin
• Release date: Jan 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370106370

Dan Baldwin

Dan Baldwin is the author of westerns, mysteries, thrillers, short story collections and books on the paranormal. He is the winner of numerous local, regional, and national awards for writing and directing film and video projects. He earned an Honorable Mention from the Society of Southwestern Authors writing competition for his short story Flat Busted and  a Finalist designation from the National Indie Excellence Awards for Trapp Canyon and Caldera III – A Man of Blood. Baldwin received a Finalist designation in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Awards for Sparky and the King. Bock’s Canyon earned the Winner designation in the 2017 Best Book Awards. Baldwin’s paranormal works are The Practical Pendulum – A Swinging Guide, Find Me as told to Dan Baldwin, They Are Not Yet Lost and How Find Me Lost Me – A Betrayal of Trust Told by the Psychic Who Didn’t See It Coming. They Are Not Yet Lost earned the Winner designation in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Competition. How Find Me Lost Me won the Winner designation in the Best Book Awards 2017 competition and the Finalist designation in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Competition.

Book preview

Chapter One

I was so shocked that I threw a cabbage at a cat.

And then all hell broke loose.

The little pumpkin or a squash would have been a better weapon. Neither would have splattered all across the floor like that damn sloppy lump of green. The cat was probably chasing a rat in Mrs. Lopez’s kitchen- just doing its job. The animal launched itself at something, but the flesh of my chest fell victim to its claws rather than the intended mouthful. Half asleep in the half-light of false dawn, I sat up on the makeshift cot and grabbed the edge of the kitchen table. I felt the cabbage and that’s when I did what started the whole ruckus that put me in the unexpected position I find myself in today.

I missed the cat as the black beast clawed his path across the wooden counter. He kicked over a clay jar of wild honey which shattered on the floor. The noise woke up Mrs. Lopez. I heard her trying to wake up old man Lopez. I slipped on my boots, walked toward the water bowl, but slipped on the honey and fell with a loud and painful crash. Mrs. Lopez’s voice rose as she berated her husband – something about the wisdom of renting out overnight sleeping quarters to unemployed cowhands. I don’t speak Spanish, but I suspect that’s a good thing because I’m sure some, if not all, of her ranting was blasphemous.

I grabbed the counter to pull myself up and in doing so knocked over a clay jar full of red pepper which flew into the air in fine mist. My sneezing added to the symphony of clawing and meowing. I swear I heard that black cat laughing. I also heard the pounding of Mrs. Lopez’s large feet coming across the hard-packed dirt of their small adobe, her voice shrill and full of threats in her native and very angry Spanish. Old Man Lopez stumbled behind her. I could hear his grunts. I suspect he was trying to hold back her wrath for a while; they hadn’t collected the fifty cents they were charging me for a roof and a meal.

Mrs. Lopez threw open the door, stepped on half a cabbage and fell to the floor with a shriek and a fat thud. I tried to help her up, but slipped on the red-dusted honey and fell against her large bosom. She shrieked again. I don’t know the Spanish word for rape, but I bet that’s what she bellowed. Old man Lopez stumbled across the room and saw what he didn’t really see – a dirty gringo pawing his portly wife. He turned quickly and stalked back across the room. A shotgun pegged above the front door was certainly his goal. I grabbed my gear and escaped out the back door as fast as I could run. I scrambled outside, found my footing, grabbed my saddle, threw my bridle on my mule and rode off bareback. I didn’t stop and properly saddle up until I was a good half mile away. I could still hear angry shouts from back at the adobe.

I felt plumb awful about what happened, especially about running away owing good folks good money. Of course, it was their cat that started that snowball rolling. Its name was Ratter. I rode around a while trying to figure out a way to make things right without facing Mr. Lopez and the shotgun or the sizeable Mrs. Lopez and her accusations. I believe that woman’s all too familiar with multiple uses of the frying pan and rolling pin.

Well, a change of pasture makes for a fatter calf. I patted my mule. Let’s move on, Skittert. I rode away, but with a bad case of the guilts over a debt unpaid. I looked to the stars to get my bearings. North was easy to find. The Big Dipper was below the horizon, but its opposite number, Cassiopeia pointed out the North Star just as well. One of the stars looked like a tiny lit up fuzzball. I blinked a couple of times, but it didn’t blink away. It was a curious sign, but I didn’t give it no thought.

About noon I spotted a good sized mule deer on the edge of a little ridge. He looked up and paused just long enough for me to put a .44 round through his chest. I gutted him on the spot, threw the carcass across Skittert and brought it back to a large mesquite tree a couple of hundred yards behind the Lopez place. I hung the fresh meat up on a limb and fired my pistol three times in the air. Old man Lopez stuck his head out the kitchen window. He saw what I had done and waved as I rode off.

That should have evened things up a bit, but I still felt ill at ease over what had happened. What if I had caused trouble for fat old Mrs. Lopez? Men have been known to abandon a good woman who ran into bad luck. That feeling peppered my thoughts as I headed aimlessly north over the flatlands south of what folks were calling the Superstition Mountains. The closer I got to those ragged peaks and the further I got from the Lopez place, the worse I felt.

I’m no Catholic, but I figured any house where the Good Lord called home would welcome a man who needed a little conversation with his Maker. A little wooden cross sticking up over the rise just ahead was like one of those lighthouses they have next to the ocean. It was guiding me in. Don’t get me wrong; there’s no wanted poster tacked up on some sheriff’s wall with my name and picture on it. It’s just that… well, like a miner or a trapper in town to pick up supplies, a God-fearing man has to restock his soul now and then. I figure God doesn’t so much matter where you do your praying just as long as you do the work.

The little rain shower that had settled the dust on me set free the earthy perfume of desert sage. If you’ve ever been in the desert after a rain, you know that alone is worth a Thank you, Lord or two just for the experience. I breathed in a chest full of clean air and prodded Skittert with a gentle kick.

The little church in the distance served a little town, not much more than a couple of tan adobes damn near invisible against the desert sands. I kicked Skittert again and we eased on slowly. These Mexicans had it rough and some of them weren’t too friendly to outsiders. Between the Anglos in Tucson and the Apaches snaking their way through the Superstitions, they lived a hard life. Who could blame them for being a bit on the wary side? They were tough folks, too, not at all like the terrified peons a man hears about in the saloons. Hell, more than one stupid hombre had swaggered into one of these villages wanting to raise some high hell only to be carried out horizontal-like with his head cut half in two by a sharp machete.

The fields were empty and nobody was in town. There weren’t even any kids kicking up dust and getting into who knows what kind of mischief.

They all must be in church. Maybe some kind of fiesta.

Maybe I should have kept on riding and not interrupt the service, but about the time I was thinking on turning away the wind changed.

Damn!

Rot. The smell slipped in and out on the wind and the swirling dust, but… well, if you’ve ever come across a dead carcass in the desert, you know what I mean. Damnation, it was powerful. Skittert stopped in his tracks and shook his head, pawing the ground. I nearly gagged. The smell came from in or near that little church. I dismounted and tied off Skittert before moving on. The church was whitewashed and it reflected the sun like a pearl in the desert. It’s only stain was a faint brown all around the base where the wind and rains showers had kicked up the dust. I had to pull my kerchief over my nose as I got closer. The heavy wooden door was shut and there was resistance when I tried to push it open. I put my shoulder to it, shoved and it creaked open.

A man’s body moved across the floor with it. For a second I thought some demon floated out. The smell was so potent I backed away. I would have thrown up whatever was in my stomach if I had eaten anything in the last day. I controlled my gut and made myself step inside.

Merciful Lord.

The pews were full just like it was a Sunday service. The people were for the most part bent over as if in prayer. It was almost like I had walked into the middle of a service. A man, a couple of women and a kid were keeled over. A large man made larger by heat and decay was sprawled on the floor. His arms were spread wide as if crucified face down on the dirt. A wine goblet, a bowl of communion wafers, and some kind of religious table cloth were scattered on the floor behind the body. I didn’t see nobody in a priest’s robe.

I backed out. There was no use checking the bodies to see if anyone was still alive. They were already swelling up like the man on the floor. I walked around the little village and checked into some of the adobes. I shouted a couple of times, but no one was home. They were all good Christian folks and they were all dead. I shut the door good and tight back at the church before mounting Skittert and moving through town toward the north. Mesa City was the closest real town. The ride wouldn’t take more than an hour or so. I stopped at the top of the little rise above that village of the dead. Their small fields of corn waved like a golden sea in the wind while the blowing dust in the afternoon wind gave the whole scene a misty, ghostly look. Vultures circled the old church and off behind the brush several coyotes waited for me to disappear. I took off my hat and looked up.

Well, Sir. I guess I’ve seen something you wanted me to see. Those folks are now in your hands. I’ll do about what’s left. If you can see your way to help me along.

Skittert and I headed north and east.

What the hell happened back there?

Skittered snorted twice, like he was blowing something evil from his lungs. I spit out the same.

I think you might be right, old boy. Let’s get out of here.

Chapter Two

Unlike the old pueblo town of Tucson with its maze of narrow traffic ruts, the streets in Mesa City were wide. The Mormons who founded that place were good farmers and better businessmen. They designed the streets so they were wide enough for 20-mule team wagons to turn around right inside the city. With all those mules, plus the horses from townsfolk, ranchers and others you can imagine the smell dominating that stretch of downtown. It was a welcome change from the stench I’d endured that morning. A man sweeping off his storefront at the edge of town pointed me to the sheriff’s office.

The sheriff was named Allende and he had a friendly manner that hid a probing mind. His eyes had the look of a man grown to suspicion. He was the kind who know that no matter what you told him, there was always more to the story. Allende leaned across the desk and looked deep into my eyes. You say there was no sign of gunplay… just a church full of dead Mexicans?

Well, sir, I didn’t spend much time looking around. But there was no blood I could see. I didn’t see anything of bullets or arrows. It was like they all died praying. I didn’t look into all the adobes. I saw enough as it was.

Damn odd, that’s for sure.

I eased back in the chair. Well, I thought somebody ought to know. I started to get up, but he stopped me short.

Just a minute, Mister… Cochran is it?

Yes, Sir. Call me Grey.

Grey, you’ll be staying in Mesa City for a while. You don’t look like the kind of man who’s got a stage to catch.

No, Sir. I’m drifting. Broke and looking for work.

Well, you’re hired as a… guide. Your pay is whatever the wife has on for supper plus a night or two lodging on the back porch at my place.

I had nothing to do with those dead Mexicans, Sheriff.

I tend to believe you, Grey, but you’ll be sticking around anyway. I’ll be putting together a buryin’ detail tonight. You’ll lead us back there first light. Do you have a problem with that?

Allende was smart and careful. He didn’t need a guide to find a village smack in the middle of his territory. I wasn’t going anywhere until he checked out the death church with his own eyes. What the hell. Seems like the decent thing to do.

The Catholics got a little church down towards the edge of town. They don’t have a regular padre, but the preacher that rides a circuit is in town. He’ll want to know about this.

The look in those hard eyes meant that I was to be the one to do the telling. All right. You want me to go now?

If you ride out on me….

You have my word, Sheriff.

He leaned back, reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a couple of coins. I’ll be damned if I don’t believe you, Grey. He handed me the coins. The barber, halfway down the street, offers a decent bath out back. Make that your first stop.

I looked at him with a puzzled look on my face.

Allende wiped his nose with his fingertips. You got the smell of death on you.

I took his money and his advice and I took the bath. The barber gave me some better directions to the Catholic church, so I made that my next stop. Up the street Allende spoke to a few men huddling in front of his office. He pretended not to be watching me, but his eyes followed me to where I had Skittert tied. I grinned and waved and instead of mounting up, I led my mule down toward the edge of town.

The church was an old adobe building, a small structure with little adornment. An old man sweeping dust from the front door said the preacher man, Brother Lowe, was picking fruit in the garden out back. The old man said he’d let him know I was there. As he rushed off, I stepped inside, enjoying the cool air. The church was lit by a few candles and the smell of burning wax was heavy in the air. Brother Lowe’s sometimes parish was a poor one, but the church was clean and well-tended. I took off my hat, sat down and looked around. There were a bunch of little statue-like things mounted on the walls and there was a big statue of Jesus up front. It was colorful and I was sure some Mexican had carved and painted it all up. The place was all at the same time strange and welcoming.

I looked at the Jesus, but I didn’t feel quite right talking to a chunk of wood, so I looked up to the ceiling. It was wood, too. I cleared my throat and spoke real quiet to whoever was on the other side.

Well, Sir, I don’t rightly know where you’re leading me, but like I always say, you point and I’ll follow.

Now that’s one of the finest prayers I believe I’ve ever heard, sir. A man in dirt-stained workers clothes smiled at me. A large cross hung from his neck. More than the cross, the smile told me I was looking at Brother Lowe. He stepped forward with a brisk walk.

I am Brother Lowe. Welcome to Mesa City.

He offered me his hand and we shook. He said, You are not Catholic are you, son?

How can you tell?

Your manner and the way your eyes dart around unfamiliar territory. You are a believer?

Yes, Sir. I’m what they call a deep-water Baptist.

Then you are not here for confession.

You’d better sit down, padre. I got some bad news for you.

A concerned look stole the smile from his face. He sat down and I joined him.

He cleared his throat. Before you get started, understand that like you I am a protestant.

The sheriff told me.

I ride a circuit. Lots of folks up this way do not have a full-time preacher or padre. I sort of fill in wherever I am needed.

Well, Brother Lowe, I reckon there’s a mess of souls south of here needing your services. I told him all about the little church in the desert and all the dead church folk inside.

Lowe was a healthy middle-aged man, but my words seemed to age him. He sank back against the pew. I was just there a day or so ago.

I’m sorry, padre… preacher….

Brother Lowe, will do. He blinked as if in disbelief. How?

That’s a puzzlement. They was all in church… I don’t know.

Everyone?

All of ‘em. It was like church was the last thing they were doing when it happened.

Every man, woman and child?

I can’t say for sure, but there was nobody else in that little village when I left. I held up speaking for a moment. It looked like he needed to catch his breath in a mental sort of way. When he seemed to catch up with the world, I said, Sheriff Allende is getting together a burying detail. They’ll be heading out tomorrow. I suspect you’ll be wanting to go.

Of course. I will go see him now.

"Well, then, I’d best be on my