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  BANE COUNTY

  —Book 1—

  Forgotten Moon

  J R RICE

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by J R Rice

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  for Aimee

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map: Regional

  Map: Bane County

  Map: Silver Canyon

  Preface

  Introduction

  Epigraph

  Prologue: Winter 1878

  CHAPTER 1: Autumn 1953

  CHAPTER 2: Summer 1991

  CHAPTER 3: Ghost House

  CHAPTER 4: Forgotten Moon

  CHAPTER 5: Wife’s Tale

  CHAPTER 6: Legend

  CHAPTER 7: Missing

  CHAPTER 8: Hunter’s Moon

  CHAPTER 9: Believer

  CHAPTER 10: Blue Moon

  CHAPTER 11: Tracker

  CHAPTER 12: Truth

  CHAPTER 13: The River

  CHAPTER 14: Dime Store Cowboys

  CHAPTER 15: The Clarion Call

  Epilogue: Returning Moon

  Author’s Note

  PREFACE

  A Cautionary Tale

  BECAUSE AT ONE POINT IN MY LIFE, many years ago, I was the parent of two impressionable young children, and because I know that some individuals have no stomach for tales of horror, I felt compelled to forewarn prospective readers—or their parents—of the nature and substance of this novel.

  While the story contains no scenes of deviant or sexual behavior, there is a smattering of coarse language and four-letter expletives; though nothing that you couldn’t find in a PG-13 rated movie.

  On the other hand, the tragic and gruesome demise of both man and beast, and the pain and emotional turmoil that follows, is somewhat prevalent throughout the story; and in a few cases, the graphic descriptions can be quite explicit.

  In short, the story is one of suspense and mystery, of discovery and terror, and of the horrifying realization that not all things that go bump in the night are imaginary.

  So, having been forewarned, and if you choose to continue, please allow me to offer the following historical introduction and set the stage for our journey into darkness—to a remote small town at the edge of a vast wilderness.

  Welcome, to Bane County.

  J R RICE

  INTRODUCTION

  Historic Bane County

  BANE COUNTY was completely surrounded by water. It wasn’t a tropical island in some distant ocean; it was a river-island, formed by a long anabranch of the mighty Carantina River.

  Sixty miles long, and forty miles wide, the large river-island of Bane County was almost the size of Delaware, and was located in a remote rural area, far removed from any large city or town.

  For the most part, Bane County was unpopulated. The bulk of its landmass consisted of rugged mountains covered with dense forests. Only in the southernmost part of the county—where the mountains ended and a large canyon opened into grasslands—could you find the small populace of Bane County.

  The Town of Silver Canyon—the only town in Bane County—was home to just under two thousand residents, and like any other small town, everyone knew each other.

  In 1878, a prospector by the name of Eugene Howell discovered silver in the mountains of Bane County. Howell—an avid explorer—had been surveying a large cave-system, when he came upon a sizable vein of silver ore. Soon after, the Canyon area near the mountains had become a large mining camp, and the Town of Silver Canyon was born.

  A hand-drawn cable-ferry had been built, providing access to and from the river-island; but a bridge quickly replaced it, as mining companies and private prospectors flooded into the canyon.

  As ore production increased, a train trestle and railway spur were constructed, connecting Silver Canyon to the Union-Pacific mainline, and train cars filled with silver ore flowed from Bane County.

  Then, in 1896, tragedy struck. A tremendous wildfire engulfed Silver Canyon and destroyed the entire town; not a single structure survived. Survey maps and property deeds for the entire county were incinerated during the intense blaze, casting the region into total chaos. The carnage of the disaster was unspeakable, and it claimed an untold number of lives.

  Even though the survivors of the fire were hesitant to speak, news of the conflagration spread quickly. Gossip and rumors were rampant. Various stories of fire-and-death abounded, ranging from the mundane to the surreal; and some of those stories—the ones whispered by hesitant lips—those stories, became legend.

  In the weeks following the fire, mining operations halted, and eventually ceased altogether. The dwindling ore reserves hadn’t warranted a resumption in production. A small handful of survivors—those willing to remain—began the slow and arduous process of rebuilding the Town of Silver Canyon.

  Five years later, in 1901, President William McKinley was shot by an assassin and mortally wounded. Upon his death, Vice President Theodore Roosevelt had been sworn into office. Roosevelt—considered by many to be the country’s first conservationist President—created the nation’s premier wildlife refuge.

  In 1903, by executive order, the Pelican Island National Wildlife Refuge had been established on the Atlantic coast of central Florida, the first of its kind. By the end of Roosevelt’s second term in office, he had issued 52 executive orders, establishing wildlife refuges in 17 states and 4 territories. The large river-island of Bane County had been one of those territories.

  In 1905, about ninety percent of Bane County—over one million acres—was annexed by the government, and the Silver Canyon National Wildlife Refuge had been established. Only the southern tip of the county—the large canyon area south of the mountains—remained as private property.

  It was the geographical uniqueness of Bane County that had caught Roosevelt’s eye. The rugged fault-block mountains—some as high as 6000 feet—shaped and carved over eons, sculpted by ancient glaciers. Giant old-growth forests, so dense and green they were virtually impassable. A large, subalpine lake that encompassed over fifty square miles of crystal-clear water, and a labyrinthine warren of interconnected caverns that spanned the entire refuge.

  The abundant verdure of the mountainous river-island was nourished by orographic rainfall, and its diversity could rival that of any South American rainforest. Rare plants and animals abounded within the unique microclimate, with many species still undiscovered.

  Over time, Bane County had become somewhat popular due to the wildlife refuge. Each year, hundreds of backpacking enthusiasts flocked to the secluded region, eager to explore its pristine, untouched wilderness. In addition to backpackers, the rare flora and fauna of the area were a Mecca for scientists: biologists, botanists and speleologists—just to name a few—visited the region on a year-round basis to collect scientific data and search for new species.

  No roads existed inside the one-million-acre wildlife refuge, and it was not a recommended destination for the average tourist. Only highly experienced, able-bodied individuals were encouraged to enter the grueling and sometimes perilous terrain.

  In addition to the
treacherous landscape, the wildlife refuge also remained littered with hundreds of abandoned silver mines, however, due to the lack of survey maps—and the heavy regrowth of the forest—the whereabouts of most of these mines were unknown.

  While it was unlawful for a person to enter an abandoned mine, many thrill seekers were willing to take the risk. Exploring an old mine could be extremely dangerous and it wasn’t unusual for people to go missing from time to time.

  In fact—during some years—it was quite common.

  Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

  —DANTE ALIGHIERI, 1320

  The devil's best trick, is to persuade you that he doesn't exist.

  —CHARLES BAUDELAIRE, 1864

  Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

  —GEORGE SANTAYANA, 1905

  PROLOGUE

  Winter 1878

  A DENSE, LOW-LYING FOG HUNG IN THE DISTANCE. A murky harbinger of death, it spread across the land like a funeral pall, heralding the coming slaughter.

  Today would be the young one’s first kill.

  Moving silently across the canyon floor, concealed within the waist-high grass, he edged closer to his prey. Keeping his chest low to the ground, he crawled on his belly, gliding stealthily through the cold, dank weeds. Plump drops of early-morning dew clung to the tall grass, beading each blade like gemstones, shimmering in the orange light of dawn.

  Slowly inching forward—parting through the grass—a continual cascade of dewdrops showered him. His body soaked, unaffected by the harsh elements, he focused only on the kill.

  The shrill bugle of a bull elk resonated across the canyon, his presence obscured by the cottony shroud of mist. The young one moved into position, lying patiently in wait behind a large thicket.

  A tiny field mouse scuttled across the ground in front of him, stopping only inches from his nose. Motionless, the little mouse cowered with fear, his bulging, black eyes searching for an escape. With a momentary loss of focus, the young one cocked his head and studied the small creature.

  Again—much louder—the bull elk bugled in the distance; it was closer now, the time to attack was near. Hidden behind a thorny briar, the young one rose to his knees, peering through the thick underbrush. Through the morning murk, he watched the herd of elk. They had come down from the northern mountains to graze in the verdant canyon. There, in their midst, was the large bull, his towering antlers reached to the sky.

  Within the dense thicket, the young one rose cautiously to his feet, heart pounding in his chest. The attack needed to be perfect—and it would have been—were it not for the appearance of an unexpected breeze.

  One of the elk released a high-pitched bark; she had caught the scent of a predator on the wind. The entire herd reacted, their eyes searching for danger, unsure of which direction to run. Now, out of time, the young one leapt from the thicket and attacked the bull elk.

  He raised his bow and loosed an arrow. Slipping through the morning mist the arrow struck home—hitting the elk’s ribcage, it punctured his lung. The massive elk flinched at the arrow’s sting, and then galloped away with the herd.

  Behind the young Indian boy, the proud cries of his father were heard; they echoed across the canyon. The young boy looked back at his father, a huge smile on his face; he knew he had done well. Quickly, the boy turned and raced across the canyon floor, pursuing the wounded elk through the grasslands.

  They followed the blood-trail north, to where the elk had re-entered the mountains. The young boy looked to his father, and then sadly hung his head. He was heartbroken. He knew they couldn’t follow the wounded elk into the northern mountains; it was against tribal law.

  The mountains to the north were forbidden. Every tribe of the Indian nation knew the legend of this canyon; the elders had passed it down since the first dawn. The mountains north of the canyon were the hunting grounds of the Ba'cho Najin: the Standing-Wolf.

  The Standing-Wolf was an ancient creature who existed long before the Great Spirit created man. It was a fierce, gigantic beast, much larger than the Great-bear. It walked upright, on two legs and ran faster than the pronghorn antelope. Sleeping in caves by day, deep within the earth, it waited for darkness to fall. The Standing-Wolf was a ruthless hunter of men, and would devour anyone who entered his lands.

  The legend told of a foolish young brave who decided to hunt in the mountains north of the canyon. Knowing the Standing-Wolf slept by day, the young brave believed it safe to invade its land. After the hunt, he traveled many miles back to his village, believing he had outwitted the mighty beast.

  That night, the creature followed the young brave’s trail across the canyon and attacked his village. The men of his tribe fought the Standing-Wolf, but their spears and arrows could do no harm. Only a few women and children that fled into the riparian forest had survived, the rest were slaughtered by the beast.

  The boy and his father wouldn’t make the same mistake as the foolish young brave. They would never follow a wounded elk into the northern mountains. There were plenty of elk in the canyon, and there would be other days to hunt.

  In the distance, the bray of a complaining mule could be heard, followed by a scolding voice—the voice of a white-man. The boy and his father quickly concealed themselves in the rocks, behind a large thorn-bush. They couldn’t allow this white-man to see them. If he did, they would have to kill him. Then again, they might kill him anyway. No white-man was allowed to enter the sacred canyon.

  As the white-man rode past, they saw that he didn’t wear the bluecoat of the soldiers. His buckskin clothing was dark and wet—soaked while fording the deep river. He sat astride a tall, roan stallion, tugging at the reins of an overladen pack-mule who complained and followed reluctantly.

  Resting under his hand was a Winchester 1876 Centennial, it sat sideways across his saddle. The big-bore repeating rifle instilled a healthy level of fear and respect in all those who saw it. This was the first white-man they had seen since leaving the reservation, and that was five winters ago.

  The small tribe of Indians had been living in the secluded canyon, hiding from the bluecoats who searched for them. They had been lied to by the double-tongues, and forced to live on a reservation; but they had refused, escaping to the distant canyon.

  They traveled far to take refuge in the hidden canyon, a sanctuary known only to the tribes of the nation. It was a land completely surrounded by a mighty river—cloaked from prying eyes. No white-man had ever seen the hallowed canyon, or even knew of its existence.

  The canyon was a secret place, a holy place, a place that was drenched in tribal lore. It was the one place thought safe to hide—and it had been safe—until just that moment. Seeing a white-man after all this time, was a bad sign. Soon, the bluecoats might be coming, too.

  The letters E. HOWELL were stenciled on a wooden crate strapped to the mule’s back, but they couldn’t read the white-man’s words. They only knew it wasn’t the same symbols as used by the soldiers.

  Suddenly, the young boy was overcome with dread. He watched in disbelief, as the white-man rode unknowingly into the northern mountains. He looked to his father with pleading eyes, as if to say, “We should warn him,” but he knew they could not.

  No white-man could ever know that his tribe lived in the hidden canyon. A white-man would tell the bluecoats; then, the pony-soldiers would come, and force them back to the reservation.

  As the white-man disappeared into the dark, forbidding forest—into the hunting grounds of the Standing-Wolf—the boy’s father felt a sense of relief.

  There was no need to kill the white-man, he realized. Perhaps, this hadn’t been a bad sign after all.

  As the boy and his father continued on to their village, the boy asked, “What will become of the white-man, Father?”

  His father replied, “The Standing-Wolf will take him.”

  The boy nodded, and then asked thoughtfully, “Why is the Standing-Wolf here, Father? Why does he choose to live in
these mountains?”

  His father smiled and mussed his son’s hair. “The Standing-Wolf lives here for the same reason we do,” he said, “ . . . because it’s a good place to hide.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Autumn 1953

  IT WAS A CLOUDLESS SEPTEMBER AFTERNOON when Gladys Rickman set out from her farmhouse down the long, dirt road that led to her mailbox on Ranch-Road 10. Gladys was spry for a woman of sixty-seven, and she moved quickly, like a woman on a mission.

  “It better be there,” she warned.

  Up ahead in the road, her dog, Rusty—a large tan-and-black bloodhound—stopped and looked back at her. Gladys was annoyed. In fact, she was hotter than a billy-goat’s ass in a pepper patch, and she didn’t care who knew about it.

  “It should’ve been here days ago . . . lazy, no-good mail-service,” she grumbled. Laboring forward, she left a trail of dust in her wake.

  As she spoke, Rusty stared at Gladys and cocked his head with concern. He was very protective and her tone was making him uneasy. Gladys made a habit of talking to herself on a regular basis and Rusty knew her every mood by the tone of her voice.

  When she arrived at the mailbox, Gladys jerked open the door and quickly looked inside. “Well, it’s about time.”

  She smiled and pulled her new Farmer’s Almanac from the box. Gladys had ordered another copy of the publication last month, replacing the one she forgot outside the night of the big rainstorm.

  Rusty had found the lost book the next morning, while patrolling the garden. He had retrieved the remains and brought them to Gladys, but when the almanac fell from his mouth, it had landed like a giant spit-wad. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry upon seeing the remnants of her book, but she still praised Rusty for his thoughtfulness.

  On the long walk back home, Gladys riffled through the pages of her new almanac. “I’m almost certain it happens tonight,” she muttered.