Terror in High Water

By Joe Powers

“The Man is comin’, Sheriff...bringin’ the hounds of Hell with him...”
On a hot morning In 1830s Texas, a cattle rancher limps into the tiny, isolated town of High Water. He’s battered, bloody, and near death but insists on speaking to the sheriff. “The Man is coming,” he warns, “and he’s taking over this town.” The townspeople fearfully brace for the newcomer’s arrival.
The Man arrives with his gang of Hell Hounds in tow, brutally kills the sheriff, and declares the town his. Thus begins the reign of terror by the sinister band who, as the people soon discover, are more than meets the eye. The residents of High Water are terrorized, threatened, and forced to pay tribute to their cruel oppressors with violent repercussions for any who dare to resist.
But there is hope.
A story begins to circulate, in hushed whispers, behind closed doors. The legend of a renowned gunslinger and monster hunter who walks the earth, his sole purpose to seek and destroy the minions of hell. The people are held in the grip of terror, fearful of the consequences should they take a stand. But one young man will risk everything to escape The Man’s clutches, to locate the Legend and bring him back to banish the evil from High Water.
Is the legend real? Does the gunslinger still live? Can one man defeat the overwhelming odds and destroy the great evil that grips High Water?
Do legends ever die?

• Language: English
• Publisher: World Castle Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Sep 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781950890606

Joe Powers

Joe Powers is a Canadian horror writer and long-time fan of the genre. From his introduction to the genre when he watched Bride of Frankenstein on a stormy Saturday night at the age of six, he’s been hooked ever since. Hundreds - or maybe thousands - of horror movies later, that one still ranks among his favorites. Among his many inspirations he lists Stephen King, Jack Ketchum, Alfred Hitchcock, Vincent Price, Peter Benchley, and Richard Matheson. In his own stories he enjoys introducing the reader to flawed, believable characters and leading them on dark journeys with unexpected twists. He isn’t afraid to mix and match genres, fearlessly weaving horror into noir, western, or sci fi.Joe’s short stories have appeared in various anthologies and collections, both at home and abroad. Terror in High Water is his debut novel. In his spare time he's a dog lover, avid hockey fan, and creative writing instructor. He lives in New Brunswick with his wife, Sheryl, and an assortment of furry creatures. Follow Joe at www.joepowersauthor.com.

Book preview

PART ONE: THE MAN

Chapter One

Death came to High Water on an ordinary Monday morning.

The sun rose early on the South Texas plain, bathing the barren landscape in a dim orange hue. Vague shapes in the darkness took on definition with the rising sun, and became rocks and scraggly brush. Snakes, lizards, and other creatures of the night sought refuge from the scorching heat that would descend upon the land almost as soon as the pre-dawn twilight gave way to morning.

The town of High Water lay nestled among a range of low hills to the west and north, and sprawling mesas to the south. It seemed an odd name for a town amid miles of dry, arid land. In its early days the Nuevo Alamo River ran alongside the eastern border of the town, but had dried up some years earlier. Only the wide, stony riverbed remained to give any indication it had ever roared through. The only other water source was a series of natural springs that allowed the nearby cattle ranches to scrape out an existence. Before Texas gained her independence, the town lay on a major throughway between the northern part of the territory and Mexico. The border dispute and ongoing struggle between Mexico, the United States, and the Comanche Nation over who owned the Republic of Texas drove the little town into a state of isolation. It was situated just fifty miles north of the Mexican border, the last sign of civilization at the southernmost edge of the new Republic, and was all but forgotten in the shuffle by all those who didn’t call it home.

Ben Steeves was a cattle rancher with about a hundred head of cattle on a modest spread a few miles west of town. He operated one of a dozen such ranches in the area, managing to scrape out a living in the dry Texas landscape. On this particular morning he was informed by one of his hired hands, a man known as Bud, that four head of cattle were missing. They recounted and searched around the ranch, but there was no sign of the steers. Ben sent Bud to saddle the horses, and together they rode out onto the land to see if they could find the missing stock.

By the time the sun was cresting over the low mountain range to the southeast, they had ridden several miles in a wide arc with no sign of the missing animals. Ben assumed they’d wandered off in the night and gotten lost. Wolves were always a consideration, but even a large pack of wolves would likely kill only one or two cows and consume them. It seemed unlikely that they would carry four off, even if they could. Cattle rustlers were a possibility, but not one he was ready to delve very far into just yet. First things first: eliminate the simplest explanations, and consider other possibilities after that.

There were no fresh hoof prints, no blood or bones, or anything to suggest they’d been attacked and consumed or dragged off. Bud suggested they sweep around to the west and take a look at a hilly area about five miles from town. If they’d escaped, it seemed likely they would seek out the shadiest spot they could find.

They reached the lower foothills by mid-morning and saw no evidence of anything moving, but pressed on. They made their way through the hilly area and followed a narrow trail that led them through a shallow valley. As they descended they heard the sound of a wolf’s long mournful howl from somewhere nearby. Both men scanned the hillside for any sign of the wolf, but saw nothing. The air suddenly felt much cooler than before, enough that Ben’s skin rippled with gooseflesh. He shivered and looked around nervously.

Now, where do you suppose…? Ben began, but the thought died on his lips as he spotted a man on a white horse round the bend ahead and ride in their direction. He was of average build, dressed in black leather with fringes down the sides of his chaps and along the outer edges of his elbow-length gloves. He wore a round, narrow-brimmed hat encircled with an unusual band and pulled down low over his eyes.

The stranger closed the distance between them, and as he drew nearer, Ben noticed the odd hat band was a series of small bones. He and Bud reined to a stop and watched the newcomer approach. His angular, clean-shaven face sported a broad, beaming smile. He reached up and tipped his hat with one finger.

Good morning, gents, he greeted in a low drawl.

Though he wore no guns and gave no impression of being a threat, Ben was unnerved by his presence. He was caught off guard at the man’s sudden appearance, and the fact that neither he nor Bud had heard the approaching horse until he was right on top of them. Ben tried to quell the uneasy feeling and tipped his hat.

Howdy, stranger, he answered. You’re a long way from anywhere. You lost?

Nope, I’m not lost, he answered with a grin. His smile struck Ben as an odd combination of natural yet forced, as if the mysterious stranger knew a secret that he wasn’t telling anyone. We’re on our way to your little town, as a matter of fact.

Ben tried to shake off the sense of foreboding. Where you coming from? he asked, clearly shaken by the sudden encounter. He looked past the man and added, What do you mean, ‘we?’ There’s more of you?

As if on cue the wolf howled again, much nearer this time. Bud’s horse snorted and stamped her feet at the sound. He tried his best to steady her as she flared her nostrils and rolled her eyes. He stroked her neck and scanned the low hilltops that surrounded the valley.

Odd time of day for wolves to be out and about, Bud muttered. You see any in your travels, mister?

Oh, I’ve seen my share of them, he replied.

The sound of hoof beats echoed along the trail from behind the mysterious stranger for only a moment before a small band of men on horseback could be seen as they rounded the bend. The group of five was led by the largest man Ben had ever seen. Ben gaped at the sheer size of him, his eyes wide with shock and fascination. He was broad across the chest and sat nearly a foot taller in the saddle than any of the others. His mount was the size of a draft horse, which made him appear even larger than he was. He wore a long, cream-colored duster and a hat that seemed comically small on his huge head. As he rode up beside the first man, he glared at Ben and Bud through narrowed, dark eyes.

Last to arrive were four men, remarkably similar to one another in size and appearance. Ben couldn’t help but guess they were closely related somehow, most likely brothers. They wore identical scowls as they assessed the ranchers, though they were far less imposing than their enormous companion.

As I was saying, yes, there are more of us. Six of us, as you can see. The smiling man, who was clearly the leader, looked around at the rest of his crew with something which seemed to approach pride. He returned his attention to Ben. So, how far is it to town from here? Feels like we should be getting close.

Something about the question made Ben hesitate. The leering smile made him shiver involuntarily, and didn’t for a moment fool him into thinking these men had anything other than bad intentions. He had no desire to lead this clearly dangerous gang of bandits into High Water, and decided he needed to figure out the best way to get away and warn the sheriff without either him or Bud coming to harm.

Bud was clearly anxious. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool of the shade as he glanced nervously from one man to another. The giant henchman frightened Bud, but there was something about the smiling stranger that made his skin crawl. He wanted nothing more than to put as much distance as he could between himself and those two.

When it was clear that Ben wasn’t about to answer the man’s question, Bud broke the awkward silence himself and gestured behind them. It’s just over yonder, five miles or so.

The leader nodded at him. Much obliged, cowboy. He tilted his head back and to one side without taking his eyes from Bud. Agamemnon, thank this man properly, would you?

The large man’s scowl faded, replaced with a toothy grin. He threw back the right side of his duster, reached across with his left hand, and hauled out a shotgun. He pointed it at Bud and squeezed the trigger before anyone could react or protest.

The still morning calm was shattered by a thunderous blast of gunfire which sent Bud flying from his saddle to the ground, where he sprawled and lay still. Bud’s horse reared up, whinnied in fear, and galloped off in the direction of its ranch. Ben’s horse skittered and he tried to soothe it, barely managing to stay seated as it attempted to toss its rider and follow Bud’s horse back home. He held onto the reins as well as he could, and held his free hand up in surrender.

Look, mister, there ain’t no need to kill us, he stammered. He looked over at Bud’s crumpled form. The sand beneath him was stained red from the growing pool of blood which flowed from the two gaping holes in Bud’s chest. His head lay to one side, his mouth open in a silent scream, his eyes staring blindly up at the sky.

Not this one, the smiling man said to his henchman, who tucked his gun back under his coat, out of sight again. He addressed Ben again. Relax. If it’s any consolation, I don’t plan to kill you.

Ben’s hands trembled with fear as he stared at him, trying to determine whether there was any truth to the statement. What do you want from me? he asked. Are you cattle rustlers? Outlaws?

Outlaws? Well, I suppose we are in a sense.

Ben struggled to make heads or tails of the surreal situation. What do you want? he asked again.

Like I said before, me and my Hounds were just on our way to your little town, the leader said. And we were really glad to come across you and your friend. Isn’t that right, boys? His gang rumbled in agreement.

The four identical underlings nudged their horses forward until they encircled Ben. He looked around in a daze, vaguely aware he was being surrounded, yet unable to comprehend what was happening. He looked down with despair at his fallen friend.

Why are you glad to see us? I don’t even know who the hell you are. And why’d your man have to shoot Bud?

He could hear the four men get off their horses behind him and sensed their proximity. One of them reached up and took the reins from Ben, who surrendered them without protest.

Because we only need one of you. He gestured to the shotgun-toting henchman, who drew the weapon from beneath his duster once again and aimed it squarely at Ben. We’ve got a message for the people of your town, the man said with a broad smile. And you’re going to deliver it for us.

Chapter Two

Sheriff John Daley strode into the jailhouse, past the empty cells and the walls adorned with wanted posters and other notices, and made his way to his small office. He sat down at his cluttered desk and stared with exasperation at the assortment of notes and documents that covered its entire surface. He liked the morning sunshine, and preferred to sit by the east-facing window. What he didn’t like was the mass of paperwork that often fell to him to complete. He shuffled a few papers around with mild disgust, and made a mental note to growl at his deputies when they decided it was time to show up for work.

He had purposely showed up later than usual today to give Ken and Oscar a chance to get on top of things. Instead, he’d arrived to an empty office and a day’s worth of desk work. He stroked his moustache and decided the workload would wait until his deputies arrived. With a stretch and a groan he leaned back in his chair, slapped the dust from one of his boots, and propped it on the desk. He tipped his hat down over his eyes and settled in for a nap.

He was just getting comfortable when the door to his office burst open. Startled, he recovered his balance and leapt to his feet, instinctively reaching for his sidearm. He sighed with relief and holstered his gun when he saw who had barged in. As angry as he was at the sudden interruption, he was pleased to note that his reflexes were as sharp as ever.

Jesus, Lester. You can’t just bust in on me like that. You damn near got yourself shot.

Lester Hammond was the town’s barber. He was far from overworked in the rough frontier town, but made up for his lack of activity by serving as the unofficial news reporter. He was a small, jittery man who always managed to be the first to hear and spread the latest rumors and gossip, but at the same time went out of his way to avoid conflict whenever possible. His sudden appearance and agitated state caught Daley off guard.

Sheriff, you better come quick, Lester said, ignoring the admonition and struggling to catch his breath. Ben Steeves just came riding in. He’s in bad shape, and he asking for you.

Daley lurched to his feet, his plans for a nap immediately forgotten. Where is he? Over at the doc’s?

Lester waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the doctor’s office and nodded, still gasping for air. Jake Smith brought him over there, just a few minutes ago. I was passin’ by on my way to the shop and he yelled at me to come fetch you. I came here as fast as I could.

Daley grabbed his hat and brushed by Lester on his way out the door, and hurried down the street toward the doctor’s office. As he approached he saw a small crowd gathered on the sidewalk. The front window had heavy black curtains drawn across it, but some pressed their faces to the glass anyway and tried to get a look at what was going on inside. Others milled around nearby and discussed the facts as they knew them. When they spotted Daley they turned their attention to him, looking for some insight as to what was going on. Daley shouldered his way through the small crowd, ignored their questions, and ordered them to step aside and let him pass. He reached the door, burst through without knocking, and slammed it shut behind him before anyone else could sneak a look inside.

It was dark inside the doctor’s office, and he blinked to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness. He stood in the waiting area in the front, which was separated from the back of the room by a low counter. Daley stepped around to the back where the commotion was taking place. The doctor, a thin, white-haired man named Roy Cortez, had his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, and was fussing around wearing his usual harried look. Jake Smith, a laborer, stood next to the table in the middle of the room, covered in blood that was clearly not his own. Ben Steeves lay sprawled on the table, his clothes blood-soaked and shredded, and his face, chest, and arms sporting a number of ugly gashes.

Cortez and Smith had Ben’s jacket and shirt off and were tending to some of the more serious wounds, all of which bled profusely. There was too much blood for Daley to determine what the wounds actually were, but he thought most of them looked like they were caused by a blade of some sort, or claws.

How is he, Doc? he asked.

About as good as he looks, Cortez snapped. He plugged a wad of cloth into a wound near Ben’s shoulder and waved Jake over. Hold this right here, tight. Don’t let go no matter what he does. He brushed past Daley and made his way toward an assortment of tools that was spread out on a nearby table.

Daley looked on, doing his best to stay out of the way. What happened here? Jake, did you bring him in here?

Found him like this, Sheriff, Jake said. He was barely alive, by the look of him. Passed out a couple of times. But he told me he needed to talk to you. I brought him here to the doc. I didn’t think he’d make it otherwise. Saw Lester on the way and sent him over to find you.

Ben, can you hear me? He stepped aside to let Cortez by. Can you put him back together?

I’d say if you’re going to talk to him, do it now, Cortez said quietly. And you’d better talk fast.

Daley leaned in, his nose inches from Ben’s face. What happened, Ben? Who did this to you?

Ben’s eyes fluttered open, but they were out of focus and stared at the ceiling. His face was contorted in a grimace—he was clearly in a great deal of pain. He moved his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

Daley took his hand and gently squeezed. I’m right here, Ben.

That you, Doc? Ben managed to ask, his voice barely a whisper.

It’s me, Ben. John Daley, he said, leaning in close. Can you tell me what happened to you?

They got me good, Sheriff, he said. Killed Bud, too. Shot him right outta the saddle.

Who shot you, Ben? Did someone attack the ranch?

The big ‘un shot me fulla buckshot. Burns like hell. Then the other ones carved me up pretty good.

Step aside, Sheriff. Let me in there, Cortez said as he shouldered his way by and began fussing with the cloth over one of the wounds to his chest.

Ben coughed and winced at the pain. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. You’re wasting your time, Doc, he rasped. Bring me a shot o’ that whiskey you keep in your bag, and keep me alive long enough to say what I gotta say.

Without looking up, Cortez gestured absently toward Jake, who went to the black bag on the table and rummaged around until he came up with a clear bottle of amber fluid. He brought it to where Ben lay and gently tilted his head forward. He held the bottle to his lips and tipped it so he could have a drink.

Not too much of that, Cortez warned. A little goes a long way.

Ben took a small sip, which made him cough again. He winced at the pain it caused, and looked up at Daley. A bit of color returned to his pale face, and some of the clarity had returned to his bloodshot eyes.

The Man is comin’, Sheriff, he said, his voice barely a whisper. Said to tell you…get ready for The Man and be afraid. He closed his eyes and the three of them stood still, listening for signs of life. Ben’s eyes fluttered again and he drew a ragged, shaky breath.

Who is The Man, Ben? Daley asked in desperation, sure that Ben was going fast and needing answers. Is that who did this to you?

The Man is comin’, he repeated. Bringin’ the Hounds of Hell with him. Takin’ over High Water. He’s one bad hombre, Sheriff. They…. His voice trailed off. His eyes closed and his head sagged to one side.

Doc? Daley looked to Cortez for confirmation of what he already knew.

He’s gone.

The three stood quietly for a moment out of respect for their dead neighbor while they mulled over his last words.

Daley broke the silence. Doc, pour us a drink, would you? Cortez rounded up three glasses and poured a stiff shot into each. They tossed them back and set the empty glasses down.

Daley grimaced at the burn of the alcohol and gave his head a little shake, but quickly recovered. He looked down at the still, badly damaged form of the rancher. He was no stranger to death, but was still unnerved at the brutality which had been inflicted upon Ben. His body was zigzagged with deep gouges, some of them several inches long. There was extensive bruising over much of the rest of his body. He had surely suffered greatly before he died.

Get him covered up before the undertaker comes over, he said. Whatever you do, don’t let anyone else get a look at him. And you, he pointed at Jake. Keep your trap shut. I don’t want it all over town that some guy and his gang tore Ben all up like that and threatened to come to take over the town. You hear me?

I got it, Sheriff, he said, his hands held up in supplication. "Far as anyone knows, poor Ben didn’t say a word, he just died peacefully a minute before