Skinwalker! Summer of Stolen Souls

By Veronica Lawson

Old Bob, an aging Ute Medicine Man, is destined to fulfill an ancient legend. He and his closest friend, Jerry Cloud, keep this knowledge secret for over forty years.
This secret has its toll on them, and in spite of their life-long bond, distrust begins to eat away their friendship.
The old shaman's prophecy foretells the coming of a vi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Vine Press
• Release date: May 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781950955299

Veronica Lawson

Focusing on the Native American culture, Veronica Lawson was a successful artist, published freelance writer, and owned an art studio in Vernal, Utah. Her technical illustration skills, paradoxically, helped propel her into a Facility Configuration Management career in the Department of Energy's nuclear program. After developing and instituting the first formal CM process in the D.O.E. NNSA complex, she retired and re-entered the thrilling, combined world of art, literature, paranormal intrigue, and imagination. She is now authoring adult fantasy/science fiction novels. A Dark Feather Novel is the series' title of her books. Summer of Stolen Souls was the first novel written; the Cradle of the Water Babies is the second; In the Shadow of Bones will be the third installment.

Book preview

Acknowledgments

Thank you

To Becky, the most remarkable daughter in the world. Had it not been for your encouragement and other support, the characters in this novel would never have had the chance to come alive.

To my readers—Callie, Brad, Christie, Sam, Chade, and Erin. I appreciate your taking time to read my words and offer your thoughts.

To Zach, Joe, Rick, Art, Julius, and Chunky. Each of you gave me special points of inspiration. I did my best to capture them in the story.

To the Northern Ute Tribe of the Uintah Basin. The legends behind your rich culture were my motive for writing this novel and others in the future. I hope you enjoy this old white woman’s perspective.

Prologue

Startled by Coyote’s screams, Jake slid the sheet back and stumbled over the bedroom floor to peek through an open window. He pushed the framed glass shut and probed the dark gloom for movement. Nothing was there but the dark branches of primeval cottonwood trees warning the moonlight to stay away.

Jake prayed for the umpteenth time that his father was full of crap and this bullshit about a demonic creature coming to take his newborn son was another peyote vision gone wrong. God knows he and his wife had enough fights about it. If they could get through until morning, maybe it would just be an ill-fated prophecy. Thus far, the night had been quiet except for his noisy coyote up on the ledge.

Jake’s wife roused from her sleep and jolted out of bed. What’s wrong?

Something’s happened to Coyote. Hurry! Help me move the bed.

They shoved the bed a few feet across the floor to access a hidden compartment beneath the wooden planks. Jake flipped one of the boards and opened up a small hole.

Bring the baby. It’s time.

Jake, you’re crazy! We’re not going to put Manny under the floor! We’ve been through this!

Damn it, woman! I said get the baby!

A shriek shook the bedroom walls. Jaeeeke, Jaeeeke!

Jake and his wife stared at each other in horror.

Oh God! Oh God! Jake’s wife whispered. She flew across the room and grabbed her son from his crib.

Jake’s hand groped around under the floor and pulled out a Winchester and a beaded buckskin bag. When he placed the bag around the infant’s neck, a sparkling glimmer of light penetrated the pouch through the tiny green and red seed beads. The crystal will protect you, Manny.

After he laid his son in the space under the flooring, Jake brushed his baby’s smooth forehead with the backs of his fingers. Tears blurred his frantic efforts to replace the planks and move the heavy bed back in time to hide the infant.

Wearing pajama bottoms that stuck like melted wax against the sweaty small of his back, Jake engaged his rifle and crept through the living room. He knew his fate could be crouched on the other side of the door, and he shuddered at the worst of prospects. When he and his father had talked about this day and built the hiding place, Jake was only being condescending to a middle-aged medicine man. He didn’t think his dad was a liar, but come on—this was 1960—the twentieth century.

He stepped out onto the porch, and the stench of decayed flesh and burning sulfur overwhelmed him. The pale moonlight revealed a grotesque, flour-legged aberration lurking under a cottonwood.

The hideous creature inched closer and taunted, Jaeeeke. Your friend Coyote was old and weak but kind enough to lend his skin. How do I look in it?

Jake swallowed hard. The thing was not human! A bloody pelt draped over its slimy, transparent body. It raised itself from all fours and stood six feet tall, if not more. He could not make out its face because of skin flapping over it, but he instinctively aimed his rifle at the head.

What do you want? he demanded.

You know what I want. Give me the boy.

He isn’t yours to have! Jake pulled the trigger and pumped useless firepower into the screeching specter.

Before he could empty his gun, the crushing weight of the beast pinned Jake to the ground. He screamed, and when the hot, slobbering jaw encased his head, the last thing Jake saw was a bright white light burst in his brain.

Blood splattered on the walls of the porch and saturated the sandy turf. Sleeping quail scattered like so many bats into the darkness, and from a distance, his father’s chained dogs moaned and howled at the torturous noise. For a moment, the bloodthirsty being listened to their useless pandemonium. It then snarled and propelled Jake’s body into the branches of the cottonwood tree growing at the north end of the porch.

Jake’s wife peered from behind a green window curtain, but the yard was too dark for her to discern forms. She heard voices arguing. Gunshot blasts riddled the night, followed by screeching and her husband’s screams. She slid down the wall to the floor and sobbed. Oh God, please save my baby. Fear sucked breath from her lungs as sweat ran down her forehead and merged with her tears. The damned old fool was right. Jake’s father wasn’t crazy after all. The tormenting absence of sound augmented the agonizing tick of a grandfather clock. Come on, you bastard. Just try to get my baby. She expected the demon—or whatever it was—to storm in. The frightened mother clutched a butcher knife and concentrated on the front door.

A jeering voice pierced the brutal stillness behind her. Waiting for me, my dear?

She spun around and gasped in terror. Her screams rolled silently around in the bottom of her throat—never reaching her trembling lips.

Where’s the boy? Tell me where the boy is!

Jake’s wife could not answer and shook her head. Words would not formulate; they were stuck in her throat. She could not talk; but, by God, she could fight—she lunged at the surprised beast with her knife. You’re not getting my baby!

Where is…you little bitch! The enraged creature caught her by the neck, twisted her torso until her spine cracked, and then lifted her limp body and tossed it across the living room like packaged veal.

The beast spotted an open door; the baby had to be in that room. It pounced through the doorway and landed on the warm bedroom floor. After trotting over to the crib, it discovered an empty human nest. The creature was enraged and invaded every space small enough to hold an infant—shoe boxes, coats, hats. It pulled out empty drawers and threw them across the room. It hurled the bed frame against the wall and smashed it into splinters of cracked wood. It bashed family pictures and Jake’s rodeo trophies against a doorframe—for the hell of it.

The creature’s rage stopped. Something smelled sweet—milky— beneath the floor. It rubbed its three-toed claws on the wood and bent down to savor the odor. A sudden thrust of threatening flames flickered between the floor’s wooden planks. Ignoring the heated warning, the beast dug at the floor with undaunted determination to get to the baby and kill it.

Chapter 1

The two-cylinder V-twin Harley Davidson boomed at a hundred- decibel roar, making any hearing person within a mile cover his ears against the onslaught. At this time of morning, if humans were asleep, they were wide awake once Robert Caddarown had flown past. His bike stuttered and moaned as he rolled to a stop at the edge of his property. The valves sat growling, ready to fly again, so he juiced her. Keep the old girl happy.

He leaned back on the black leather saddle and clutched his fists over the handlebars, stretching his vibrating back. The horsehair cushion had long since crept out of the seams, timid to show its true self. His 1946 HD Knucklehead gave him pleasure. The year was 1960, and she was still running like a swift desert antelope. Bolted into cobwebs of steel pipe, her old body was balanced on Dunlop wheels, replaced dozens of times and still counting. Her once bright Venetian-blue paint was bleached from the sun, and the cream panels and rims were darkened from exhaust, yet she remained the epitome of power on wheels—queen of the asphalt.

This was his favorite means of travel—his Harley. She skimmed over dusty roads and flew him over swells and pits that threatened to obstruct his path. On this somber morning, she gave him cool wind in his face to clear his head—and thunder to bury the sound of death rushing toward Randlett Butte.

Some of the more conservative Utes considered it odd that a medicine man would boast a personal relationship with a motorcycle, but then Robert was not an ordinary shaman. Robert’s physical attributes could be disconcerting. His eyes were the color of coal, but the irises were a fraction wider than the average person’s, and it was enough to make a difference. If he was angered, the whites of his eyes were almost negligible. His mother had them tested when he was seven; the results were conclusive that he had an equivalence of 20/2 eyesight. Optometrists passed the results off as an anomaly—nothing more. Other physicians were more curious about his silver-white hair; against his deep, golden skin, it made him a shocking Indian specimen— unsettling, to say the least.

The rare combination of eyes and hair caused unwelcome gawking. It was a continued source of embarrassment, but with onslaught of age, it became a nonissue. Human hair goes gray, and besides, he could care less what others thought of him. There was something more important to worry about; he was destined to be a Ute Poowagudt. The elders had appropriately named him Old Bob at his naming ceremony, but his uncanny wisdom was not something he could share. At times, the burden was unbearable. Today was no exception.

Old Bob parked the Harley between an aged juniper and a jumble of sandstone rocks and climbed the steep slope to a ledge overlooking two houses—his son’s house and his. If he were lucky, he would find his spirit guide, Coyote, taking a nap after a night of chasing nocturnal critters. He wanted to talk to Coyote one more time, before nightfall, but the rocky formations offered no

sign of him.

The early morning’s lavender shawls, lavishly draped around the cragged shoulders of the Uinta Mountains, sprawled on the north side of the Uintah Basin from Wyoming to the Wasatch Mountains. The color would give way to greens and blues when the sun reached its noontime resting place. The radio tower’s flashing red light was becoming less noticeable in the bright morning light. On the surface, everything around him looked the same as it had yesterday and last year—and the years before that. It was an illusion. Things had changed; an insidious blight had grown inside the mountains to the north—out of sight of ordinary people.

Old Bob pulled a tin of Skoal out of his jacket pocket and grabbed a nice, round pinch of tobacco. After poking it alongside his jaw, he relished its sharp bite and quickly spat on the sand. He was responsible for ensuring fulfillment of the prophecy.

There was movement down below. His son’s backside was visible under the hood of his Chevy pickup, and Old Bob’s two dogs, a red bloodhound and a black-and-white shorthaired mongrel, were romping after a loose, pissed-off rooster. They stopped, in unison, when the hound spotted him on the top of the butte, and they both barked with acknowledgment. His son maneuvered out from under the hood, looked up, and waved. Old Bob returned the gesture with a broad swoop of his right arm and stepped back out of sight.

He wanted to ask his son if he was ready—but Rainbow Spirit forbade him from interfering. Events had to happen as destined. Old Bob’s head was spinning. He wanted to look into Jake’s handsome face one more time; hug him and feel his warm, young strength; tell him he loved him and was proud to be his father. He did not want to go to Jake’s house just to ogle over his son’s new baby; in fact, Old Bob wished the kid had not been born—but he was born; that was that.

A sudden chill came over him, and he pulled his brown leather jacket closer to his chest. Where is Coyote? He glanced around once again. No Coyote, so he began his trek down to his bike. There was no one to could talk to, not even his friend Jerry Cloud. How would he get through this day?

In 1939, when World War II began, Robert Caddarown was eleven years old. The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor woke a sleeping warrior spirit in many Native Americans, and Robert’s father was no exception. He understood the fundamental importance of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness and told his son the war was not just the white man’s war. Of course, I will return, he had promised. Sharing life’s gifts was an honor, not the least of which was Robert’s naming ceremony. Robert knew his father would not be coming back but did not tell him.

On the eve of what was to be the beginning of Robert’s preparation for his vision quest, an elder from the council and a uniformed black man went to his home and spoke of his father’s death. They handed a letter, a small metal box, and a brown leather bomber jacket to his mother and left without giving more details. He did not want to hear them, anyway. Why bother? They said he was brave and died a hero, but death was death, and after all, he had been away for three years. So, at fourteen, Robert was ready to get on with his vision quest without his father’s presence at the circle.

Robert held the brown leather jacket up to his nose and absorbed his father’s leathery smell. The soft, pliable material had been alive—an animal once. It had given its life to be of service, like his father. He slipped it over his shoulders and wore it every day for the rest of his life, and that proved to be a long time.

Before he met with the elders, he called Jerry and told him about his father’s death. After about twenty minutes, Jerry showed up at his house, and the two walked in silence to a sweat lodge, where he began his formal journey as a medicine man. The elder said, "Robert, it is your destiny to be shaman for the Ute People. Your heart understands the mysteries of the old ones. Your name is Old Bob. Stay on the path of goodness, kindness, service. Refuse self-righteousness, arrogance, and self-pity when they seek your indulgence.

The pinto beans had been soaking for over twelve hours. Probably like mush by now. However, a pot of beans with some ham hock thrown in might be good, and there was one beer left in the refrigerator. He shook his head in disagreement with his own thoughts. Food was the last thing on his mind, but he might boil the beans anyway, for later.

Back on the bike’s warm saddle, he turned the key. He deliberately forgave his Harley for not turning over right away. Today was one for forgiving—absolving life for being so unforgiving in matters of death, and forgiving death for its role in the natural scheme of things. What was natural about the inevitable deaths of his son, his wife, and Coyote?

A bald eagle’s shrill cry overhead reminded him that he had no right to question such things. After all, he was a shaman. Always had been—always would be.

This was a good time to harvest some goat weed. A good crop grew alongside Harold Jennings’ barbwire fence just off the Ouray highway. It was imperative he keep his heart and mind occupied, lest he succumb to insanity. He passed the Randlett cemetery and imagined all the bones laid out like spilled toothpicks, hiding just below the surface. It was not a sad thought, rather one of neutral observation. He did not know many of the souls that had departed; to him they were no different from the weeds spilling out of the graves.

A reddish-brown heap of fur lay mangled on the road about a quarter of a mile ahead. Old Bob slowed down and angled the bike a little to the left to avoid hitting it. Telltale bloody smears on the asphalt led up to the crumpled body, a testimony of a driver’s vehicle not avoiding a direct hit. By the evidence of fresh blood, it appeared a vehicle had hit the dog a short time ago.

The legs, of a Labrador retriever, twisted abnormally under its torso, and its head lay back against the ground with eyes open as if searching for something lost. Old Bob sped up and passed the dog. After a few yards, he slowed the Harley and turned around. He could not leave the animal on the highway—maybe it was not too late to save it.

When he stepped off the bike, he could see she was nothing more than an overgrown pup, with a peculiar white spot in between her eyes. He gently picked her up and placed the limp body in a narrow rocky culvert. She had been a pretty thing. Too bad. All animals die, but they should not die this way. No collar—someone might have dumped her here, and she hadn’t had enough time to learn about two-thousand- pound metal predators that would kill her with unthinking, heartless ease.

For a while, he forgot about his own problems and concentrated on the retriever. He rubbed matted fur away from her eyes and closed the lids. As he gently scratched the white spot, it reminded him of the sun shining through a dark July sandstorm.

His fingers lightly glowed with each stroke. Her hair was long— silky to the touch, all the way down her back to a tail that would never wag again. Old Bob glanced up and down the highway. It was clear of traffic. Cupping her jaw in his hands, he leaned down and breathed into her dried, bloody nostrils. A pulsating light traveled from his lips and engulfed her carcass, but there was no reaction from the pup. It was too late.

The medicine man wept over the body and prayed for her soul to find happiness in another life.

Old Bob stirred the beans in the black iron Dutch oven and tossed one of three remaining ham hocks in the simmering brew. His two dogs had returned home from Jake’s house and had eaten the last crumble of dog food. They did not have to beg; he tossed a hock to both of them. Good boys. He scratched each hairy head behind the ears and sat, cross- legged on the floor, in front of the fireplace.

After stoking the wooden embers until they flared yellow flames, he glanced out the window at the shadows forming under his porch. Sunlight glanced off a wood column on the west side, forecasting the coming of night. He stirred his goat weed tea with his finger, smelled the concoction’s grassy aroma, and then sipped—it was little stronger than usual.

The two dogs curled up on each side of him and fell asleep. He waited for an inevitable sound. That was all he could do.

The moon was halfway through its celestial journey over the Precambrian landscape when a disturbance on Randlett Butte broke the silence of the quiet dark. The long-standing radio antenna oscillated— one crimson beat at a time, casting red streaks on the resident great horned owl. The great bird had executed a successful kill from its metal- maze perch. The final squeaking of its small, furry victim escaped the owl’s attention; something else required its deliberation—something not seen in millennia. Evil was loping its way from the north and was bearing down on the butte.

Old Bob listened to a swarm of crickets banded together outside on his porch. Their chirps stopped when torturous screams reverberated across the bench, rattling the glass in his windows. After a few moments, more wails shattered the stillness, curdling his blood. He placed his hands over his ears and shut his eyes tight. An unearthly howl exploded across the butte.

The medicine man picked up the phone receiver and dialed.

Chapter 2

Nervous and alone on his rocky fortress, Coyote stood guard over the obscure frame house nestled beneath the hardened stones of the sandy, flat-topped bench. He raised his leg and slurped his thick, warm tongue over his genitals. A couple of slick strokes, and he was clean again. Breathing in a deep sigh, he thought how good it felt to have flesh and bones; he could touch, smell. Being an animal spirit guide inside the body of an average coyote was not exactly what he had in mind. Whatever Rainbow Spirit said to do—he did it. He posed as a coyote.

He was the first to admit he had grown to appreciate his earth form. He sat on his haunches, preparing to howl at the moon again. They expect coyotes to yelp. They said so—whoever they were. A nap sounded better.

Coyote had purposely avoided Old Bob during the day. Saying good-bye to an old friend was more difficult than he had anticipated. It was not as though they would not see each other again. It would be different—through dreams, visions, and such. Nonetheless, he felt guilty.

Coyote stood up on all fours and turned a couple of short, ceremonial canine circles. After scratching the dirt to prep his invisible bed, he laid his bare belly on the smooth sand and stretched his head out on his paws. In the darkness below, beyond the dimly lit bedroom window, lay his man friend, Jake Caddarown, and his new man pup. His eyes furrowed in a deep frown. He dreamed of a life he would never know—fathering a pack of furry, little dog-looking things that would follow him around as if he were the big dog on the hill. It was not to happen—not in this life, anyway.

Spirit guides. Some humans called them angels. Native Americans— and, he had heard, other cultures—called them animal spirit guides. They helped humans through rough times, taught them the ways of nature, and laughed with them when they did something stupid, which was often. Regardless, spirit guides loved those in their care.

Other coyotes avoided him, but not because he was the size of a grey wolf; he was unlike them and preferred the company of humans and small animals. Undaunted by their shunning, Coyote savored his times with his friend, a prairie dog. He chuckled at the games they used to invent. The prairie dog’s favorite was to pop up from different holes, making him—the fastest coyote in Utah—dizzy from chasing his fuzzy, pint-sized opponent in circles.

Once, in a soulful moment, the rodent had asked him if he would eat him if he got hungry enough. Coyote had answered, Of course I would, because I am a coyote. He quickly retracted the statement when he saw the disappointment in the small animal’s eyes. Their exchange had taken place last September. Three days after the touching conversation, a Volvo ran over the prairie dog and killed it. Coyote removed the mangled body from the murderous asphalt and buried his friend so the crows could not eat the remains. Coyote could not bear the thought of his friend in some bird’s belly.

His life had been a long one, almost twenty years—part of the rewards of being a spirit guide, he guessed, but there were limits. Even so, he intended to ask Rainbow Spirit to do this gig again. Spirit and flesh—he relished being a grungy desert coyote.

Coyote’s earth body aged faster than humans did. Taut muscles were dissolving into weak tissues, and arthritis was crumbling his once powerful legs. Blindness was most alarming; it could keep him from performing his final assignment by Rainbow Spirit with dignity. He squeezed his filmy, yellow eyelids together, wishing he could expel the growing cataracts. A gorged flea finished its midnight snack on his ear, and he rolled his head down to scratch it off.

The odor of rotten flesh and sulfur penetrated the air surrounding Coyote’s ledge. His old eyes squinted at the obscure darkness in the direction of the stench. There was a swirling, indistinguishable shadow bounding toward his rocky mantle. When he growled a warning at the apparition, it halted a few yards away.

Who goes there? Show yourself, Coyote demanded.

He heard a hoarse whisper roll around in the dark, along the stone, and up the trees. It said, I’ve come for Jake’s baby. He belongs to me now.

Coyote snarled and spit through his teeth, positioning himself for battle. Being of aged flesh was not to his advantage at a moment like this, but Rainbow Spirit forbade him to use his powers. He lurched at the disgusting creature, and the two beasts collided in midair. They thrashed through the cowering junipers until the weaker of the two waned from the duel. In spite of Coyote’s natural rawboned feistiness, this opponent, strengthened by destiny’s prerogative, was the winner.

Coyote’s fur peeled from his body like a boiled tomato. As he struggled to free himself, his wrenching cries traveled through cliffs and crevices of Randlett Butte. Stripped of his golden hide, his lifeless torso sank to the ground in a bloody heap of flesh and bones.

Even the moon heard Coyote’s tormented wails.

A distorted replica of the once regal Coyote stepped over the body and screeched. Eeeah. Having skin again feels good. Thanks, old friend.

The beast admired the new fur and threw it over its broad shoulders as it advanced toward Jake’s house for the next slaughter. Coyote’s severed skin conspicuously flopped at every movement. It would be a subtle but crucial factor in the beast’s demise.

After the creature killed Jake and his wife, fire boiled out of the floor and ignited the fur on Coyote’s loose hide. It sparked, crackled, and burst into flames, consuming the creature’s body. Incinerated alive, it wailed and struggled to pull the flaming pelt off, but the skin tightened its hold.

As the beast dissolved into sulfurous slag, Coyote’s vengeful laughter rumbled across the benches of Randlett Butte.

Chapter 3

Officer Jerry Cloud was mesmerized from watching the hypnotic crimson light rhythmically blinking for hours.