Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [186]
Luke Honey shucked his soaked jacket and breeches and warmed his toes by the fire with a plate of steak, potatoes, and black coffee. He cut the meat into tiny pieces because chewing was difficult. It pleased him to see Mr. Wesley favoring his own ribs whenever he laughed. The Englishman, doughty as he was, seemed rather sickly after a day’s exertion. Luke Honey faintly hoped he had one foot in the grave.
A dank mist crept through the trees, and the men instinctively clutched blankets around themselves and huddled closer to the blaze, and Luke Honey saw that everyone kept a rifle or pistol close to hand. A wolf howled not too far off, and all eyes turned toward the darkness that pressed against the edges of firelight. The horses nickered softly.
Dr. Landscomb said, “Hark, my cue. The wood we now occupy is called Wolfvale, and it stretches some fifty miles north to south. If we traveled another twelve miles due east, we’d be in the foothills of the mountains. Wolfvale is, some say, a cursed forest. Of course, that reputation does much to draw visitors.” Dr. Landscomb lighted a cigarette. “What do you think, Master Scobie?”
“The settlers considered this an evil place,” Scobie said, emerging from the bushes much to the consternation of Mr. Briggs, who yelped and half drew his revolver. “No one logs this forest. No one hunts here except for the lords and foolish, desperate townies. People know not to come here because of the dangerous animals that roam. These days, it’s the wild beasts, but in the early days, it was mostly Bill.”
“Was Bill some rustic lunatic?” Mr. Briggs said.
“We Texans know the type,” Mr. Williams said with a grin.
“Oh, no, sirs. Black Bill, Splayfoot Bill, he’s the devil. He’s Satan, and those who carved the town from the hills, and before them the trappers and fishermen, they believed he ruled these dark woods.”
“The Indians believed it too,” Mr. Welloc said. “I’ve talked with several of the elders, as did my grandfather with the tribal wise men of his era. The legend of Bill, whom they referred to as the Horned Man, is most ancient. I confess, some of my ancestors were a rather scandalous lot, given to dabbling in the occult and all matters mystical. The town library’s archives are stuffed with treatises composed by the more adventurous founders, and myriad accounts by landholders and commoners alike regarding the weird phenomena prevalent in Ransom Hollow.”
Scobie said, “Aye. Many a village child vanished, an’ grown men an’ women, too. When I was wee, my father brought us in by dusk an’ barred the door tight until morning. Everyone did. Some still do.”
Luke Honey said, “A peculiar arrangement for such a healthy community.”
“Aye, Olde Towne seems robust,” Lord Bullard said.
Dr. Landscomb said, “Those Who Work are tied to the land. A volcano won’t drive them away when there’s fish and fur, crops and timber to be had.”
“Yeah, and you can toss sacrificial wretches into the volcano, too,” Mr. McEvoy said.
“This hunt of ours goes back many years, long before the lodge itself was established. Without exception, someone is gravely injured, killed, or lost on these expeditions.”
“Lost? What does ‘lost’ mean, precisely?” Mr. Wesley said.
“There are swamps and cliffs, and so forth,” Dr. Landscomb said. “On occasion, men have wandered into the wilds and run afoul of such dangers. But to the point. Ephraim Blackwood settled in Olde Towne at the time of its founding. A widower with two grown sons, he was a furrier by trade. The Blackwoods ran an extensive trapline throughout Ransom Hollow, and within ten years of their arrival, they’d become the premier fur trading company in the entire valley. People whispered. Christianity has never gained an overwhelming mandate here, but the Blackwoods’ irreligiousness went a step beyond the pale in the eyes of the locals. Inevitably, loose talk led to muttered accusations of witchcraft. Some alleged the family consorted with Splayfoot Bill, that they’d made a pact. Material wealth for