Redbone

By Jimmie Barnes

The world has been free from the dark side's demons for eighty-two years, thanks to the battle won by James Mathew Trinton between good and evil. But that time of peace and safety is coming to an end, and there will be a reckoning should the coming confrontation not be met by the same determination as it was in the past! Tim Jones has no idea what life is about to put on his plate, but he alone can fight the horror that is about to confront the world. Can he save normalcy for all including his newfound love? The test of a lifetime is waged between life and death. A sinister wind blows and the desert is with an air of evil!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781641147699

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Redbone

Jimmie N. Barnes

ISBN 978-1-64114-768-2 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64114-769-9 (Digital)

Copyright © 2017 by Jimmie N. Barnes

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

296 Chestnut Street

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

As in the realm of good,

Just as great is the whole of evil,

And though good may pass through

And strive to exist in the desert,

This vast, heated wasteland is the breeding ground

For the dark side.

A sinister wind blows

And sends a chill to the very bone

And soul of one not possessed of a black heart.

And that one cry’s out—run!

And run you should,

For the air is filled

With the taunting laugh

Of Redbone.

Canyon Rim Settlement

May 1, 1904

Grand Canyon, Northern Arizona

The paint stallion’s hooves clapped like thunder in the still night as Territorial Marshal Jim Reardon rode his mount across the Barren rock street of the small settlement in northern Arizona known as Canyon Rim Township. As he passed the canvas tent saloon that served the few settlers who had decided this was where they would stake their claim for a new town, he acknowledged the barkeep with a nod. He softly spoke to his steed as more to a friend than a means of travel through this all but secluded wilderness, Steady boy!

Except for the out of tune piano music coming from the makeshift tavern that grew quieter as the horse slowly made its way past the general store, Jim said, If it weren’t for that racket back there behind us, it would be deathly quiet out here! Better the quiet if ya ask me! The marshal passed a few settlers who were minding their own affairs, milling around the night. He patted the horse’s shoulders not only to calm the steed but his own nerves as well. Something just didn’t feel right. An unnerving, chilled breeze blew across the path and broke the heat of the night. Suddenly the mount spooked with fear. He snorted in anxiety and bolted to the left so fast the lawman lost his balance and fell to the hard rock surface of the trail that served as the main street through this new community. He rose, cursing the animal and favoring the pain of a chipped bone in his elbow. He had landed hard on the slate surface where his ride had been carrying him. The air grew measurably colder. He heard the heavy breathing of another entity right behind him, as he stared at his horse running fear-stricken in the other direction. Marshal Reardon, with an instant cold sweat, turned to face a giant black stallion. So close, the horse’s nostril’s breath hit him hard in the face, and he realized what the smell of brimstone must surely be like.

The rider, all dressed in jet black, leaned forward on his saddle, and with a demonic chuckle from under his bandana, spoke in a soft, mocking tone, What’s the matter, marshal? Did I scare ya?

The seasoned lawman’s thoughts raced as they came alive with the realization his life must surely be in danger. Where did this rider come from? No hoof sounds, no breathing, no rocks clanking from this mammoth steed’s weight on the rough terrain. He just appeared!

He was also aware that, as strange as this appearance was, there was something even stranger about this obvious outlaw sitting atop his devil horse. He glanced at the stranger’s guns hanging there at his sides. The handles were bone, but they were bloodred and glistening as if they were wet.

Before this peacekeeper could form words from his quivering lips, the stranger began to speak as if to some other dark realm rather than to him. Yet they were the only souls present within the sound of his voice. You, Jim Reardon, have been an honored official among these insect-like creatures you represent. A fitting sacrifice to the King of Darkness who sits on the thrown of hell where I worship! So by the five points of the pentagram, I take your soul on this night in homage to Satan, my master.

The marshal finally managed to break loose from the grip of fear that had consumed and controlled him. He drew his .45 caliber Peacemaker, and at point-blank range, fired four shots into the chest of his tormentor.

He lowered his revolver and gazed through the powder smoke, only to see this creature bellowing with evil laughter. The shots drew the attention from some of the folks the marshal had passed down the street, but they were all but out of sight in the darkness. With a slow, deliberate movement, this dark rider reached up and lowered his scarf from his face. Like a child scared stiff in the night, the sheriff screamed in shock.

Six shots rang out. Five in symmetrical dimension around the heart of this man who had hunted outlaws all of his adult life and won. The sixth shot penetrated directly through the center of his life-giving organ. The bloody outline of a pentagram. The creature grinned as the sheriff dropped to his knees, then uttered the last words this man of the law would ever hear.

Your soul has been claimed by Redbone! As he drew his final breath and his world faded to darkness, Jim Reardon’s gaze was fixed on the only object hanging in the night sky—a glowing, full moon!

Chapter 1

The Link to the Past

As it is and has been for as long as one can remember, the summer days in Arizona are as close to torture as a person can voluntarily endure, and this August 5, 1985, was even worse than usual.

Tim Jones, a husky but mild mannered young man of twenty-seven, with dark brown hair and brown eyes, pulled his less than perfect ’78 Nova SS into the Circle K just off the interstate with just two things in mind—an ice-cold Big Gulp and a phone book. He had been driving for two days and nights, sleeping an hour here and there in roadside parks or at gas stations and truck stops to reach Phoenix, and now that he was here, the hard part of the trip was about to begin—finding James Mathew Trinton.

Tim drank down over half of his forty-two-ounce Pepsi without stopping, as he reached for the Phoenix Metro White Pages. Before he could even find the T section, Tim realized he was soaked with sweat. Shit! he thought to himself. It must be a hundred and ten degrees out here! Actually, it was a hundred and eighteen there in the great southwest, and the monsoon season was in full swing, making the humidity unbearable. Not being used to the damp heat made Tim so light-headed and queasy. He took the phone book and decided to sit in his car to look for the name that was more important to him right now than enduring the Arizona sun.

As he closed the door on the Nova and turned the key, the engine started with a roar. Even with the air conditioner blowing full blast, the heat was sweltering! Man, leave it to me to pick this time of the year to go on a ghost hunt in the middle of the desert, he thought to himself. Just then, he noticed the temperature gauge in the Chevy’s dash panel creeping up toward Hot. "I’d better get this crate moving or I’ll be walking in this heat. Guess the best thing to do right now since I don’t know where I’m going is get a room, let the Nova cool off, and clean up a bit. Then, I’ll try to figure out how to find James Trinton!"

Not knowing how long the search would take or even if James Mathew Trinton was still alive (since according to his information, the man was in his mid-nineties), Tim decided to find the best room for the most reasonable rate available. To do this, he pulled into the first service station he came to.

Fill her up? asked the attendant.

Yeah, and check under the hood, too, please. This heat is a killer!

You bet it is, and harder on engines than most realize.

Tim noticed the attendant’s name on his shirt opposite the bright red Texaco Star emblem. Say, Jim, where can a guy get a decent room that won’t cost him an arm and a leg?

As a matter of fact, not far from here, the attendant replied. It ain’t the Hilton, but there’s a clean, air-conditioned motel with a TV, phone, and a nice pool right up the street and to the right on Van Buren. It’s called the Coconut Grove!

Tim paid for his gas and oil. The beast did have a thirst for the black crude, as well as a 10 mpg gasoline habit when running the air. He thanked Jim for the information, cranked up again, and with a belch of dark smoke, drove off in the direction of the motel, now in desperate need of a cool shower, a soft bed, and maybe a bite to eat before a much-needed nap. The search would start early in the morning, and he wanted to be fresh for the undertaking.

Tim, a novice writer, had come to Arizona seeking a legend. He had held the desire to write for a long time but seemed to have to spend too much time just earning a living and getting by to actually get around to researching something, and then writing about it. Then, last July—the twenty-eighth to be exact—Tim’s chance at his dream was handed to him, but not without its price. He had spent as much time with his grandfather as possible, knowing his illness would take its toll sooner than later. And they had had more of a father/son relationship than a grandpa/grandson affinity. During afternoons spent fishing or just out for a drive in Gramp’s old ’53 Chevy pickup (which still ran like a top!), Tim would talk for hours about wanting to paint pictures with words and write stories you just couldn’t put down. Unknown to Tim, everything that Ole Grandpa Jones had ever saved, he had decided to leave to Tim and his dream; for being the one person who never forgot a feeble old man. So long ago, they had both suffered such a loss to the war in Korea—Gramps had lost a son; and Tim, his father.

The loss had bonded them together until that July afternoon in Texas when they came to the welding shop down on Ferguson Street where Tim was working to tell him of his grandfather’s passing. Gramp’s next door neighbor, Mr. Fielding, had planned to play checkers with him the morning of the twenty-eighth. When no reply came to the door knocker, Mr. Fielding went in to find his friend in an eternal sleep in his favorite old easy chair.

Two days after the funeral, Tim received a call from the lawyer in town. Big Pine, Texas, only had one lawyer. In his office, Mr. Kipling, Attorney at Law, shook Tim’s hand, paid his respects to his grandfather’s demise, then handed Tim a sealed envelope. In it was a key and a letter.

The letter read:

"By now, my son, I am gone. Weep for me no more, for I am with my Maker, and you, my loving grandson, have a new endeavor to master. A new life to begin—your destiny!

"With this key, you can unlock your future. In a safe-deposit box at the bank, you will find the deed to the farm, the title to my old truck, and all my savings from over the years. Not enough to live on forever but plenty enough for you to start your career as a writer. This way, you will always have a home to come back to, and if you use it wisely, the money will provide a chance at your dreams.

"Now, Timothy, my son, you need, as every good writer needs, a story to write. Before we venture further, you must understand, with what your future holds, there may be danger. But you are my only blood, and this story, though I never told you, you must know. You must find a man whom I knew and befriended as a child. He will still remember me, and if he is still alive, he’ll tell you a story. A legend from our childhood days. It is his story to tell; his legacy. That’s why I never told you. But his days are few now, if he is still alive. And deep in my bones, I feel I would know if my old friend had departed before me.

"Soon, my grandson Tim, you will know the bond of a blood brother. This legend you should write about—for him. Use what I have left you for this old man’s sake. Knowing I helped you in some way with your dream is satisfaction enough for me in this life. Then, fulfill your dreams for yourself.

"The only thing I can tell you is the old man you have to find, last I heard, was in Phoenix, Arizona. His name is James Mathew Trinton—my blood brother Jamie! Find him! Tell him who you are and of my demise. Then, my Timothy, find your dreams in your pen. Paint your pretty pictures with words as you have told me so many times you desire to do. And know that Gramps will always be with you.

"Go now, for only the fears you fall frail to can hold you back.

God be with you, my Tim. I’ll always love you, Gramps.

As Tim read the letter—Gramp’s last will and testament—once again in his Coconut Grove Motel room, he drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 2

Finding James Mathew Trinton

The bright Arizona sun begins its intense shining very early, and a small crack in Tim’s motel room curtain let a beam of morning gold in to tell him his day was about to begin. As he lay there in the (for the most part) comfortable bed, Tim stretched, yawned a Grand Canyon sized yawn, rubbed his eyes, then headed for the shower. He felt good about today.

I’ll take a long shower, he thought. Go to the restaurant for some breakfast and a morning paper. Then the search will begin! But where to start? The phone book, I guess. Can’t believe I fell asleep so quickly last night.

Then Tim’s thoughts recalled deep but pleasant dreams of Gramps. Maybe that’s why he had such a positive attitude this morning. He recalled his dreamscape with an almost frightening clarity of Gramps and him on their favorite creek bank in Texas. And the bobbers floating gently in the dark cypress water. Then Gramps favorite saying when someone would come by and ask, Catchin’ anything? Gramps reply would be Nope! Just drownin’ worms! That never failed to bring a smile to Tim’s somewhat larger than normal mouth. Grandpa would tell Tim, Boy, you got a smile from ear to ear!

The shower felt good. Something about this climate made you naturally take a cooler shower than you’re used to. As Tim rinsed his hair, he remembered the end of his dream where Gramps looked at him and said, Now, son, go and find Jamie Trinton. As these words echoed in Tim’s mind, Gramps faded lighter and lighter … Find Jamie Trinton … until the sound of his voice and Gramps were both gone from his side, and he sat alone on the creek bank. At that very instant, the bobber on his fishing line plunged under the water. He had a bite. A big one. Tim fought to reel it in, but it felt as though it was as big as he was. What could this be? he thought. A big catfish? Maybe a large mouth bass? Then, as suddenly as the fish fight started, it was over. Did he break the line? Tim reeled in his line only to find on his hook the key to Gramps’ safe-deposit box. That’s when the bright ray of sunshine peered through the curtain and brought Tim out of his much needed sleep.

This puzzled Tim, as he dried off with the big white motel towel. What does it mean, if anything? Just a kind of crazy dream. But one thing for sure, if it wasn’t for Gramps, I wouldn’t be here, so you can bet I’ll find this old guy and his legend!

The monsoons bring many uneasy realities to one not used to the desert climate. Tim was finding out about one as he dried (or should we say, tried to dry) his hair. No sooner had he toweled off and cranked up his 1000-watt hair dryer than he realized he was soaked again. Wow! How does anyone live out here? Tim dried his large frame once again, brushed back his hair, threw on his Dallas Cowboy T-shirt and a pair of cutoff blue jeans, and headed out for the restaurant.

Good morning! Can I get you some coffee?

The waitress was a pretty girl. About twenty-three, Tim guessed.

Sure. And I know what I want to eat if you want to take the order now. Once again, Tim glanced for a name tag. You’re Sally, Tim stated.

Yeah, Sally Wallace. What’s your name?

Tim Jones.

Well, Tim Jones, what will you have this fine morning? the waitress asked with a smile.

I’ll have two eggs over medium, sausage, hash browns, wheat toast, and a large milk with the meal.

Coming right up, the waitress said cheerfully.

As Sally walked away, Tim watched her and thought to himself, There sure is some nice scenery in Phoenix! Whoa!

Tim sat back in the booth of the Denny’s restaurant to sip his coffee (black) and scan the Phoenix Republic and Gazette he had picked up on his way in for breakfast. Nothing much happening here or around the world today. Guess no news is good news! Then with an ominous feeling, he had turned to the Obituaries. After reading over the names, he sighed with relief. At least today, Mr. James Mathew Trinton, I know one place you’re not.

Sally brought Tim’s breakfast, and after devouring every crumb, Tim took the phone book he had brought with him and started thumbing through the Ts. No James Trinton here. His concentration was broken by a More coffee? It was Sally once again with a coffee pot and a check.

Yes, please. Thanks!

After Tim paid his check, he headed back to his room.

Since there was no listing for James Mathew Trinton, Tim called the two J. Trintons and the one M. Trinton listed with no luck. Well, he thought to himself. Time to start looking for relatives. Tim spent the entire day calling all the Trintons in the book with no luck. He had four numbers left where no one had been home that he would try again after a short break.

Tim walked outside to the Coke machine to get something to drink. It was late afternoon. He had talked to so many people today, but no one knew of a James Mathew. He thought to himself, I sure hope one of the remaining numbers would be the one. But what if it wasn’t? What would he do then? City records maybe? Tim tried the four numbers again with no luck. Still, nobody was home. So, he flipped on the TV to see what was on. Before the local six o’clock news was over, Tim had drifted off to sleep and dreams slipped back into his mind. Only this time, he was walking in the dark in unfamiliar surroundings. He looked up and the moon was full and bright. Tim loved the outdoors day or night, but this moon made him feel uneasy and he felt someone was watching him. There were eyes peering through him. As he walked in his dream, it felt so real and scary he began to walk faster, faster until he was running but not knowing where he was running to or from what. He could hear steps behind him. The silver of the moon cast a shadow of a figure he caught out of the corner of his eye. Tim ran harder, as hard as he could. Gasping for breath, he looked behind him. Whoever or whatever this thing was, it was reaching for him—almost on top of him! A huge hand reached out to grab him. Tim jumped with a scream. He was awake in his motel room in a cold sweat. His heart beating so hard it hurt. In a moment, he laughed at himself, still scared. What a nightmare! Tim noticed that the news that had been on the tube had changed now to an old Lon Chaney movie. He had been asleep for about an hour. Still tired from the trip, I guess. He sipped his Coke and shivered as he looked outside the motel room window to see a silvery full moon. Damn! Full moon, Lon Chaney movies, nightmares … guess I should write all this down!

After a good laugh at all the coincidences surrounding his nightmare, Tim checked the time and tried calling the four remaining numbers again of which now