On Stolen Land

By Stephanie Rabig

When a prairie-mad settler murders Milton Allen's brother and his family, the wealthy rancher offers an enormous bounty to bring the culprit in. Ada Marshall and Pearl Beckwourth, bounty hunters with twenty years experience, assume this is yet another straightforward job. But when a fellow bounty hunter is torn to pieces not fifty feet away from their camp, their natural wariness grows, and in the tiny, isolated valley town of Woodlawn, they learn that the attacker may not even be human...

 

 

"If you like your Westerns more James Wan than John Ford, you'll enjoy this."
-- Janine Pipe, author of SAUSAGES: The Making of Dog Soldiers

"Gritty and bleak, On Stolen Land makes for a harrowing read, one filled with moments that'll remain with you long after you've read it."
-- Steve Stred, Splatterpunk-nominated author of Sacrament

"Like a yeehaw version of The Thing."
-- Bethanie, a reviewer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephanie Rabig
• Release date: Aug 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223955979

Stephanie Rabig

Stephanie Rabig has been a horror fan all her life (her grade-school librarian remembers her because she tried to check out Dracula while in kindergarten). Favorite subgenres include creature features; isolation horror (esp. snowbound. Thanks, John Carpenter's The Thing!); and ocean horror.  She also writes romance-- paranormal and alternate-history--with her partner-in-crime, Angie Bee (check her out on Tumblr @ zombeesknees). Author photo by ctrlaltcassie on Instagram

Book preview

For those who need them, trigger warnings can be found at the back of the book.

Cover art is by Kealan Patrick Burke.

Thus the art of destroying life seems destined to advance with a speed which the science intended for its preservation is never able to attain.

———

Practical Observations on Gunshot Wounds, Louis Appia, 1862.

Do not make the mistake of thinking

history will never repeat itself,

no matter how horrifying,

no matter the amount of dead,

and no matter the lies we tell ourselves.

———

from The Siege of Caffa by Sara Tantlinger.

PROLOGUE

Ada Marshall sat in the dust outside of an elaborately-painted tipi, waiting for her wife's brother to die.

She and Jim hadn't always seen eye-to-eye: some of his remarks to Pearl over the years had seemed less the teasing of an older sibling and more his sincere belief that he was better than she was. But even her own considerable temper had been swayed to compassion by the hardships he'd suffered these past few years.

At least he was dying as much on his own terms as any man was likely to get. He hadn't been struck down by a bullet or an arrow, as both she and Pearl (and, to be honest, Jim) had long expected. He was surrounded by his family, both blood and adopted.

She could hear low voices inside, and despite herself strained to hear what they might be saying. Then one of the Crow women walked by, and though she didn't so much as give her a reproving glance, Ada still scooted away from the flap, ashamed of her snooping.

Inside the tipi, Pearl held her brother's hand, staring into a dear face that she'd never grown to know as well as she'd like. There were the powder burns in his left cheek that remained from when he'd grabbed the barrel of a gun that had been aimed at him; the bags under his eyes, while a more recent development, still seemed like they'd somehow always been there, even as a boy. Her brother, carrying a weight beyond his years since the day he'd been a child and discovered his playmates massacred in front of their home.

He'd been closer to those children than he had been to his own brothers and sisters, a habit that had continued throughout his life. Their father choosing to emancipate Jim and not any of the rest of them (Freedom is a difficult thing, her father had said, in a tone he'd thought was kind. You're safer here with me.) had created an inescapable rift, one that she'd never been able to mend to her satisfaction.

Two of her siblings had eventually escaped alongside her―Charley, who had followed Jim's footsteps as a mountain man, and Della, who had settled with her husband Alonzo in New York. She had been able to write Della, at least, tell her of her upcoming visit to Jim, but though she'd checked for a return letter at the nearest post office several times, none had come in. She doubted Charley would have come, either, even if she had known how to contact him. Jim, as Della had told her on their visit to New York years ago, was little more than a stranger―a famous stranger other people spoke of fondly and his own kin barely knew.

His mustache was stained with blood from a nosebleed that barely gave him a moment's peace. She reached out with her handkerchief to dab it clean again, but then he murmured something.

What? she asked.

Though he repeated it, the word made no more sense to her, and she realized then that he wasn't speaking English.

My wife, he whispered.

She smiled. Which one, Jim?

He smiled back, which heartened her, if only for a few seconds. His skin felt like old paper, and the look in his eyes, even more than the frailty of his body, let her know that he wouldn't be here come nightfall.

Blackfoot. As-as-to's daughter. I...I hurt her bad, Pearl.

I know. He had told her about the incident one drunken night, about how he'd become infuriated at his new wife taking part in a scalp dance he'd told her to sit out, being that some of those men had been his allies. When she'd ignored his orders, he'd struck her a blow that had nearly killed her.

At the time, Jim had told it as a younger man still certain in his convictions. She, equally certain in hers, hadn't spoken to him for years. They had finally reunited only after his unwilling role in an event that eclipsed all of their arguments, both petty and serious, in the scope of its horror.

Shouldn't have done that. Shouldn't have done a lot of things.

Thought you told me you were going to the grave content.

Thought I was.

Well, I'll miss you. And I don't like many people enough to miss them, so you can take solace in that, she said, giving him the teasing smile they'd shared for such a short time as children, before their father had emancipated him and he'd been off first on blacksmithing work and then on trapping expeditions deep in the mountains.

She would miss him, was the damnable thing. But she'd spent most of her life missing him, so at least it'd come natural.

CHAPTER ONE

Boys! It's time for bed!

Twin groans reached her ears, and Ruby smiled. If it was up to them, her boys wouldn't sleep at all.

But the Braselton's chickens are over here again! John called. We've gotta chase them back!

You can do that in the morning, if they're still lurking around.

They're bothering our hens!

Those hens are fine; they're all tucked away for the night. Exactly how you should be.

Another groan. She held back a chuckle as her boys trudged into the house, taking their muddy boots off and then jostling each other for first to give her a hug goodnight.

Then Daniel bit his lip. I need to go to the outhouse.

Daniel...

I do! he complained.

She leveled a look at him, silently letting him know that if he was using this as a stalling tactic―again―she wasn't going to stand for it. Seeing the distress on his face, she nodded once, and he tore back outside, running for the outhouse.

Never should've let him go. Now he'll be chasing chickens, Hiram said, and she glanced over at him, smiling.

Hush.

Her husband got up from his chair and gave her a kiss, snatching John up with his free arm. The boy yelped, trying to keep from laughing as Hiram ruffled his hair. Go on, off to bed.

But I have to go to the outhouse, too, John said, his attempt at wide-eyed innocence betrayed when he had to choke back a laugh.

Bed, Hiram said, and John pounced into his bed, burrowing under the quilt. Ruby walked over to him and leaned down to give him a kiss on the forehead.

Did you say your prayers? Hiram asked, and John groaned.

Can I just say them in my head?

Hiram nodded to the side of the bed, and John scooted out from under the covers to kneel.

God bless Mother, and Father, and God bless Daniel and me and all of our friends and neighbors and also the Braselton's chickens, because if they keep getting out they're gonna get eaten by a fox.

Prayers aren't time for jokes, son, Hiram said, and John let out a huff of protest.

It's not a joke! A fox'll eat them!

Back into bed, John, Ruby said. She crossed the room to Hiram, lowering her voice. Shouldn't Daniel be back by now?

He nodded. I'll fetch him.

Ruby listened after he'd shut the door behind him, expecting to hear him lecture Daniel on chasing chickens again. The boy did have an affinity for the birds; if she let him he'd carry one or another of their flock around with him all day instead of attending his lessons or taking care of his other chores.

Then an inhuman howl tore through the night's silence and she flinched hard, rushing over to John when he sat up in bed with a frightened cry.

It's all right, she said, tucking him to her side and stroking his hair. It's just a coyote.

She could tell he didn't believe her; the sound had rattled her enough that she hadn't been able to put one bit of confidence into her voice for her boy. She kissed the top of his head and then got up, grabbing the shotgun.

Ma...

Stay under the covers.

She threw open the door, aiming the shotgun, her voice poised to yell at an attacker.

Instead the barrel lowered immediately, her heart dropping right along with it.

The howl came again, but this time she could see that the sound came from her husband's throat. He was staggering toward the house, carrying their youngest son.

Daniel was in pieces.

As she stared, frozen, his leg fell to the ground and Hiram sobbed, picking it up, taking two more steps forward before he collapsed, cradling Daniel's blood-soaked body.

Dropping the shotgun, she ran forward, her hands fluttering above what was left of her child, torn between the urges to hold him and the urge to not feel that blood on her hands, not make this real instead of some God-cursed nightmare.

What happened? she whispered, her voice high and thin, so pained that she barely recognized it.

I don't know, I don't know, he sobbed, and that was as frightening as the sight of what was in his arms. She had never once seen her husband cry.

Then something splashed her face and she reared back, coughing, her throat tightening around a scream as she saw a fall of bright red spilling from her husband's throat, the life leaving his eyes as he collapsed forward.

Behind him stood a man, but she didn't take the time to look at his features, saw nothing other than a vague enormous shape and a knife stained with her husband's blood, before she was up and running, tears blurring her vision as she grabbed the shotgun from off the porch and slammed the front door behind her, bolting it shut.

John was up, standing next to the bed, trembling but holding his father's revolver in his small hands.

She didn't tell him to put it down.

Watch the windows, she told him. They had already been shuttered for the night, but she felt they might be a weaker point than the sturdy wooden door.

Yes ma'am, he said, his hands steadying somewhat at the order. He didn't ask where the blood all over her face and chest came from, and for that she was glad. To talk about it now, to acknowledge it now, would be to descend to a depth neither of them would be able to recover from.

They remained silent, watching the windows and the door, trying to make their breathing as shallow as possible so as to hear any approach.

Footsteps, then. Outside on the porch. They sounded far too light to belong to the towering figure she'd seen.

Mama?

Daniel. God in heaven, it was Daniel's voice.

Mama? he called again, the handle of the door rattling, and then John was rushing forward, shoving the bolt back before she could tell him to stop, tell him that it couldn't be his brother speaking.

He opened the door and the shape surged into the room, no less vague now in the light from three candles, and as it hoisted her son up and wrapped one amorphous hand around his throat and another around his ankles, pulling him apart, she aimed the shotgun and fired.

*~*~*

Had to've been Indians, sir.

Of course it was Indians! Milton shouted, then lowered his voice―not because his latest assistant, Young, had flinched like he'd just been struck, but because people had turned to stare. Who else would...would... he stammered, affected despite himself at the sheer carnage that had waited for him at that cabin.

If it could even be called a cabin. The entire thing was smaller than his own bedroom back in Abilene; how could this be what his brother had chosen? A log shack, the gaps in its walls blocked by sticks and mud.

Hadn't he told Hiram, time and time again, that the city was safer? That the sheer number of whites settling there had scared off all but the most bloodthirsty of Indians?

But staying out here,