Dawes County, Nebraska, Mid-December 1895
Jack Lewis tipped the collar of his coat up and pulled his hat down against the wind, which rolled across the prairie and seemed to catch at the edge of the gully. He turned in his saddle and glanced back at the roaring campfire. Cookie hung a pot over the fire, and Jack’s belly growled at the sight. The others were setting up camp for the night. He’d be back in a minute; he just needed to be alone for a bit first.
“Don’t go wandering too far, you hear?” shouted his boss. “Remember that cow we found.”
“Yes, sir,” Jack answered.
How could he forget? It was a scene like no other. Just this morning, they’d come across a heifer. Her throat was torn open, and blood had spewed all over the fresh snow. For the rest of his life, he would remember the contrast of the bright red blood against the white snow. His hand instinctively felt for his Colt .45.
The worst part about the morning was listening to Charles talk about the mutilated animal for the rest of the ride. This was the first time he’d ever ridden with Charles, and he hoped it would be the last. The man talked about everything, all the time. But today, he talked about blood and mangled cows and how he’d seen a monster-madman attack one of them. He’d told about how the man would knock the creature to the ground then bite and claw at its throat, using incredible strength. After that, the madman would drink his poor victim’s blood.
Jack shivered all the way to his toes, and it wasn’t because of the December prairie wind. He eased himself out of his saddle and down to the ground. He’d be wise to get back to the others quickly, but he needed a few quiet moments away from Charles’s endless chatter. Besides, it wasn’t dark yet, and he had his gun. He’d just take a minute or two alone then head back to camp.
Jack kicked at the ground and saw a footprint in the snow. In the light of the setting sun, he bent to take a closer look.
From behind, he heard a branch crack. He spun around and found himself face-to-face with a man whose eyes were wilder than a rabid ’coon’s. The man seemed to be foaming from his mouth, which was upturned in a slight, menacing smile.
Before Jack could process what was happening, the strange man lunged and began to claw at Jack’s neck. Jack instinctively tried to push the man off, but the man attacked with such ferocity that Jack was no match.
As the beastly attacker alternated between choking and clawing wildly at his throat, Jack drew his gun from his holster. Unable to take aim, he fired off two rounds into the ground, hoping to draw the attention of the other men at camp.
Jack could hear the sounds of feet pounding against the snow and twigs snapping under boots. His comrades rushed to a sight that, most certainly, shocked them. By the time they arrived, the vampire had begun to use his teeth on Jack’s throat as if trying to suck his blood.
Jack thrashed wildly beneath the creature, but despite its slim frame, the beast seemed to wield an otherworldly strength that left Jack defenseless.
Hearing the shouts of the others, the vampire leapt from his victim and dashed behind the trees.
“Jack!” His boss stood above him and quickly pressed a handkerchief against his wounded neck.
The others approached, but Jack’s boss shouted, “Get after that thing!”
They scrambled to do as they were ordered.
The boss pulled the handkerchief away from Jack’s neck. “He got ya good, but they’re not too deep. You’re going to be fine.”
After getting Jack back to the fire, his boss used some boiled water to clean Jack’s wounds. Cookie wrapped the gnarled neck in clean dressings that he kept in his knapsack, along with a skin of whiskey. He called that knapsack his “doctoring kit.”
As the shock began to wear off, Jack felt an aching that burned in the wounds around his throat and face. He took a long swig from the skin of whiskey.
The sound of hooves coming closer made Jack jump.
Cookie put his hand gently on Jack’s shoulder, “It’s just our guys coming back.”
“I pray they got that sick bastard,” the boss said, rising up to meet the men at the edge of camp. “Well?” he shouted as the first of the men drew near.
“Nothing, sir,” the man replied. “Once the sun went down, it got too dark to track him. The man—or whatever he was—is gone.”