Hawthorne: Tales of a Weirder West

Hawthorne: Tales of a Weirder West Read Online Free PDF Page B

Book: Hawthorne: Tales of a Weirder West Read Online Free PDF
Author: Heath Lowrance
Tags: General
it and, with some trouble, managed to get the reins in his hand and the horse calmed enough to mount.
    He continued on up the tracks.
    Around another bend, and the pines receded enough on each side of the tracks to allow the washed-out moon to illuminate the way better. About twenty-five yards or so ahead, Hawthorne could see something else on the tracks, something bulkier. And bloodier.
    It was moving slightly, like weak branches in a light breeze. The moaning was coming from it.
    Hawthorne dismounted again and tied the horse to a tree so it wouldn't wander off. He drew his Schofield and made his way along the rails toward the thing.
    He was about ten feet away when the thing stopped moaning. A pair of dark eyes turned to look at him, and Hawthorne stopped cold, hardly believing what he was seeing.
    It was a man, to some extent, or at least it had once been a man. Now, it was a torso and a head, arms and legs gone, stomach and chest ripped open. The lipless mouth opened and closed and opened, and the haunted eyes stared at Hawthorne with abject misery.
    "What the hell," Hawthorne said, his fingers tight on the revolver.
    The thing moaned, and this close it sounded more like a desperate plea than before. Hawthorne tore his eyes away from it long enough to glance around the darkness, wary for whatever monster had done this. He saw and heard nothing.
    The thing croaked, "
Kill ... kill me ...
"
    Hawthorne faced the thing, frowning. He sat on his haunches, close.
    He said, "What happened to you? Who did this?"
    The thing moaned, its head moving back and forth, its eyes rolling back. "
Kill me ...
" it said again.
    "Tell me who did this."
    "
The train ... the long black train ... please ... kill me ...
"
    The thing was already dead, Hawthorne figured. Through the gristle and gore of its open chest, he could see that its heart and lungs were gone, ripped out. No one could survive that. No, this thing was dead, some sort of revenant kept animate by dark, dark forces. Animate and in agony.
    Hawthorne glanced south, down the length of the train tracks.
    He stood up, aimed the gun at the thing's head. He said, "I'll find who did this. They'll pay."
    The thing moaned once more, and Hawthorne put a bullet between its eyes.

-
Part Two
-
Hell on Wheels
     
     
    He rode on, following the train.
    The moon was almost full, taking up a huge chunk of the black sky, casting a silvery veil over the woods. The tracks wound ever-southward, over hills and creeks. About every two miles, he would find another piece of human refuse—a foot, a hand, part of a leg—and each one quivered with tortured life. Hawthorne was an expert at killing things, but he didn't know how to put an end to that sort of life. Even the ghastly creature he'd shot in the head had continued to jerk and spasm like a living thing as he rode away from it. He did his best to push it out of his mind.
    About five miles farther on, he came across a severed head lying alongside the tracks. A pack of wolves were tearing at it, and the ruined mouth cried and moaned. Hawthorne shot in the air to scare off the wolves, then put two bullets into the head. It stopped the crying, but he had no way of knowing if some sort of life still existed in it.
    Alive or dead or somewhere in-between, the head would be food for the wolves the moment Hawthorne rode away.
    Well
, he thought.
Wolves gotta eat, too. Nothing for it.
    He felt the tracks humming. They skimmed low around some foothills and wound up into a shallow mountain pass. Hawthorne could see black smoke against the face of the moon in the distance. He was gaining.
    He spurred the Morgan, ignoring the tracks and cutting through the thick woods, up the gentle incline of the hills. After half a mile of riding rough, he crossed over the tracks again on their steady climb, and kept pushing the horse up the hill. The horse sweated and huffed, but didn't complain.
    By the time the horse had come to the tracks again, it was running out of steam,
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