Big Ben Loving gazed across the frozen bog and checked his compass.
Heavy days on the saddle through Missouri had brought him to the eastern edge of Kansas Territory, a lonesome track of rolling prairie that teemed with giant foxtail weeds. The late-evening sky churned with deepening shades of purple and gray. A blustery wind drove across the hushed plains, battering his cheeks.
Returning his compass to his coat, Big Ben spurred his bay mare and tramped across the bog to the western bank of a slow-moving stream. He dismounted and stretched a thorny ache out of his back. He glanced around the low sandstone hills, sensing his attendant was near, but nothing stirred on the prairie except the brown grass.
Big Ben estimated fifty more miles to ride before he reached the garrison. He desired a short rest before traveling on. He searched the area for a suitable campsite, a place near the stream where a fire wouldn’t be visible. A sprinkle of snow fell from the purple clouds, an unnatural shift in the weather that brought a smile to his face. The flakes gathered on the flat brim of his hat, and when he turned his head, the snow shook free and salted his red beard.
He found a clear spot beside a mulberry tree, a good place to settle the horse and prepare her protection. The creature who traveled behind him did his bidding, but its bloodlust couldn’t be trusted in the dead of night. Big Ben had woken before to a slaughtered horse.
He tied the mare’s reins to a drooping limb, then retrieved the large pigskin pouch of bloodroot from his saddlebag. Out of habit, he let his fingers graze the other pouches nestled inside the bag. He rarely needed to open those pouches, but Big Ben yearned for the day when he could use each of his conjurings, particularly the Marsh Bane, a concoction he had brewed to be especially wicked. It was the stuff of nightmares for those unsuspecting men who were foolish enough to cross rivers infested with the brew.
Big Ben dipped his hand inside the pigskin pouch, scooped out a handful of red powder, and proceeded to spread the bloodroot in a broad circle around his bay and the mulberry tree. The horse looked on, accustomed to the routine.
The day’s light disappeared over the horizon, and the plum sky turned the color of spilled ink. His small campfire blazing, Big Ben placed his saddle on the ground, leaned back against the seat, and hummed a cowboy tune.
He sniffed the air. Something gamy rode the wind, the barest scent of rotten meat. Near the mulberry tree, his horse nickered in fear.
His attendant had arrived.
Big Ben called out to the darkness. “Come closer.”
Silence returned his command. A sense of reluctance tugged at his mind.
“Obey me, beast.” Big Ben peeled off his gloves. He pressed a finger to the spiral mark that had been charred upon his other palm. The Reverend’s Prime stirred within his hand, his arm, his entire body, then gripped the mind of the thing waiting in the dark. There was a wounded cry.
Big Ben said, “I’ve a job for you.”
A jagged claw scraped across a nearby tree—skritch scratch—and the creature approached the cold fringe of the camp.
Big Ben searched the dark but saw only the mulberries and the delicate profile of the sandstone hills. Yet over the crackling campfire and murmuring wind, he could hear the hellish rasp of his companion’s breath.
“The Reverend has sent us a task, and we shall not fail him.”
A low grumble vibrated the night. After years of commanding the creature, Big Ben knew the beast understood his words well enough to obey its master’s orders.
“An enemy is moving west. Five children,” Big Ben said.
The grumbling grew louder as the creature stalked closer.
“There is a boy among them. An important boy. Bring him to me.” Big Ben pulled a piece of brown wool cloth from his overcoat and tossed it over the protective barrier. “This rag carries the scent you need. Kill the other lambs if you wish, but bring the boy to me alive and unspoiled.”
The figure slipped through the shadows and sniffed at the rag.
“Now go.”
A guttural growl followed the sound of soft padding, as if a wolf had suddenly run past him and dashed away into the frozen night.
Big Ben Loving finished humming his tune and settled in for the night’s rest. Tomorrow, Coward was expecting him at the garrison.
There was much work to do.