Cries of the Woods

The train roared as its massive wheels whirred to life, clanging steel against steel with each turn, riding away from the station. Killjoy stood still at the foot of the platform. He let the pumped steam of the train wash over him to get away from the stark cold, if at least for a moment. 

Killjoy looked ahead at the town before him, and it was nothing special. Custer was a town that sat at the mouth of the southern Black Hills, the oldest settlement in the area where gold was dug, but its age didn't fool anybody.

It was small, but humble, like most mining towns. Though the sparse buildings looked of nothing more than timber and coarse aggregate, only a few people ambling about in the streets, some of the buildings in front of him stood tall in the amber dawn, the bright lights peering from within the windows, almost melting the stacks of snow dragging itself off the roofs. 

He had somewhere to sleep tonight, at least. 

The bounty hunter took a step forward, making haste to find some lodging. But a gross scoff caught his attention. He wouldn't normally pay attention to the bickering of others, but it was directed at him. 

Killjoy turned his head and saw a paunchy bearded man looking back. His brows were low and his nose scrunched quite in suspicion. He had simple pants with suspenders, barely holding his shirt in from the round mound that was his stomach.

"Got a problem?" Killjoy asked out loud.

"Naw" the man replied with a strong accent, "But you do, partner," He then glanced to the long-sided object Killjoy was carrying on his back, held inside a leather bag, "Bad business up in those hills. No gun oughta' stop it."

The bounty hunter merely rolled his eyes. "Focus on getting back to the mines when I clear whatever's in there." He then strolled forward.

"But you won't."

Killjoy stopped in his tracks again. "And why's that, fat guy?" He asked as he turned back, wanting to entertain the idea.

"Because that's what all those folk from out-state said as well," the fat man dismissed. "They ain't never been back, since." He then took a step towards Killjoy, his expression souring. "I'm telling ya', there's trouble in those woods; must be the Indians—their magic, or something else—but it's dark."

"Like what?"

His eyes darted side to side as if making sure no one else was listening. 

He then leaned closer, whispering. "...Wendigoes…" the man said, dramatically hanging on the last vowel. 

Killjoy shook his head and sighed. He felt stupid having wasted his time on yet another clear num-nut. 

"Mmm, believe it or not, there's something that happened to all of those hunters, and you won't be special. Whatever you think is nonsense, it may turn out to be real…" the miner almost taunted, and then something caught his eye. 

He bellowed out a choked laugh, "If that harmonica is silver, you'd best use that, or fire if you come across one of them."

The bounty hunter noticed his harmonica hanging about from his belt and adjusted his coat to hide it. Not wanting to spend more valuable minutes, he then walked ahead and climbed down the flight of stairs of the station. 

Killjoy figured he'd set out at night when it was dark and frothy, so there was nothing else to do but find somewhere to hit the hay for now.

As he walked, something persisted in the back of his mind. Jane first talked about it, and now the fat man from earlier reminded him of it; how could so many hunters gone missing? It wasn't unheard of to him, because most who take up the trade come in young, and die young, unprepared, unready for the real horrors. But they were experienced, and though Indians could be violent, no amount of brutality can stop a good round to the head. 

Perhaps these Sioux got themselves a hold of more guns and knew well how to use them…Killjoy had to be a bit more careful this time around.

The soft, earthen snow swallowed Killjoy's feet with each step, like walking through muddy quicksand. It was at least as deep as a man's stature, caving with each turn around the flat snowshoes. 

His bones quivered from the countless hiking through the rocky trek. The labyrinth of soaked, dead trees soon became one with the murky darkness as the sun began to set, and it was barely evening. Dirty water from trapped snow sogged the hunter's boots, ankle-deep in the sleet, and his lips cracked from the dry, crisp winter air. Visibility was low, and his limbs croaked.

But he paid it no mind; Killjoy persisted. Biting back the discomfort, he marched on, regardless of whether the snow stretched to that of the mountains or as thin as the cold dirt underneath. He had a job to do. If his body couldn't keep up, he'd make it.

Killjoy continued climbing and paving his way through the dense, spruce forest, always snapping a glance above and behind him every second moment. It was harder to navigate, the little moonlight dripping through the canopies being all the illumination he could get. He knew his kerosene lamp would make him stand out too; it wasn't a gamble worth taking. The sight of Indians was as sharp as the eagles they worshipped.

The occasional squeak of birds reminded him that there was some life in the seemingly empty woods, even if it wasn't human. And around these parts, things that weren't human could easily kill you as any other man with a gun; they said cougars have been migrating here with the growing deer herds. 

He squeezed the handle of his rifle.

There. Up ahead, there was a clear break to the endless rows of trees; a clearing in the middle of the vast forest, right up next to a rocky cliffside. Killjoy crouched closer to the ground than he already was, like a cat hiding from its owner.

As he escaped the wilting woods behind him, the space opened to a large mining site. It had all the makings of one: wooden structures at the mouths of caves, lined with makeshift rails, carts, and crates of supplies. Various camps set up with tables and benches dotted the snow, and several dug-out pits with boxes, tools, and all piled on them. The only thing missing…were people.

Must be the Homestake mine, Killjoy figured. It was as Jane said, completely abandoned and rotting.

By the smell of sulphur, dirty rock, and the fumes of mined ores akin to rotting eggs: this was a coal mine. His daddy was a coal miner himself and would bring the young Killjoy to the mines once a week. Daddy said he could load sixteen tons a day, but what did he get? Every day older and deeper in debt, no proper life for a father and his family. 

When that man died before Killjoy was barely a man himself, he admonished the idea of living day to day, and thankfully, this work let him live year to year.

But other than the smell of coal, there was no burnt aroma or the intense oiliness of kerosene lighting that would've been up had the mine been active…had it been a week or two since anyone was last here? 

It was odd that the local army decided not to investigate themselves, since surely this would've been a blow to their pockets. But then again, when did the people round' these parts ever rely on the feds to fix their problems?

If all the activity happened around the mines, Killjoy figured this spot would've been as good as any to camp out. 

As he took another step to scout the area further, he felt his feet become uncomfortably cold and brittle inside the damp boots; the bitterness crawled up his legs. The hunter had to get to high ground—fast— if he wanted to weather the frost.

A tall tree caught his attention, with its thick base and strong web of protruding branches. Killjoy pulled himself towards it through the deep snow, each step making a heavy crunch.

He latched onto the wooden bark. Promptly scaling the tower of the tree, his stiff, frozen gloves clutching the smallest bits of wood that he could hold on to, the hunter climbed up to a branch that was a long drop from the ground. If he had to judge, around ten metres? Killjoy waved away the thought as he then sat on it, his back against the tree. 

The wood was spiky against his rear, but it was better than the cold ground. And at this height, Killjoy could see the vast forests, the rocky hills that crept to the low mountains, everything as far as the eye could see. And at this hour, in these conditions, anyone there would certainly have to be holding a fire or a light of some kind to navigate…a perfect breeding ground for him to find anyone.

Killjoy wasn't sure how long the mission would last, nor what he needed to find out. That uncertainty was always there in his past scouting jobs. What he did know was that the only thing the Wing wanted was that the job was done before the situation got worse. 

He smirked. Since when has that vague guideline ever made the job easier? From here, it looked like he could be stuck in Custer for at least a month.

A finger laid on his chin, rubbing his skin like that of a furball. Killjoy found himself ruminating on what that fat man said before: that hunters and scouts like him often went into these woods in the day and came back knowing nothing more than when they came. But those who went at night…never came back. 

A sharp pang ran down his stomach; not a feeling, but from hunger. Odd. Killjoy was sure he had already eaten before setting out. 

Digging into a satchel, he took out a hard piece of pemmican. Nothing was fancy, just a dried tallow, beef, and berry brick. He bit a chunk out of the tacky bar. 

He expected the hunger to subside a little since the pemmican was very fatty. Yet, a spike of further pain made him let out a short grunt like the hunger grew deeper.

Killjoy kept eating away at the pemmican until, within a blink of an eye, there was nothing but crumbs on his fingers. But he still starved.

The man squinted in confusion. Maybe it was just some stomach issues; he did have to hunt some of his food along his way to Bonucci's saloon, most being wild cardinal birds. 

Whatever, however, it had to wait. He dealt with much worse things while on the job before, anyway.

Then a scream. A bloodcurdling scream.