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  BANE COUNTY

  —Book 2—

  Returning 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 © 2017 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 Maureen & Michael

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map: Regional

  Map: Bane County

  Map: Silver Canyon

  Preface

  Epigraph

  Prologue: Silver Canyon, Autumn 1896

  CHAPTER 1: Lake Argent 1978

  CHAPTER 2: Mog

  CHAPTER 3: The Package

  CHAPTER 4: The Invitation

  CHAPTER 5: The Sabbatical

  CHAPTER 6: The Hole

  CHAPTER 7: Home Again

  CHAPTER 8: The Refuge

  CHAPTER 9: Never Cry Wolf

  CHAPTER 10: Down the Rabbit Hole

  CHAPTER 11: Hello, I’m Johnny Cash

  CHAPTER 12: Double Your Prophett

  CHAPTER 13: Dinner with the Devil

  CHAPTER 14: An Offer You Can’t Refuse

  CHAPTER 15: A Bad Idea

  CHAPTER 16: Hell is Empty

  CHAPTER 17: Hunka, Hunka Burnin’ Love

  CHAPTER 18: All Around the Mulberry Bush

  CHAPTER 19: Star 69

  CHAPTER 20: The Barbecue

  CHAPTER 21: Iggy Takes a Dive

  CHAPTER 22: Raising Cain

  CHAPTER 23: Liars Never Prophett

  CHAPTER 24: Blue Moon

  Epilogue: First Moon

  Author’s Note

  PREFACE

  The Saga Continues . . .

  Thank you for choosing Bane County: Returning Moon.

  Returning Moon is the second book in the Bane County Series, and a continuation of our character’s coming-of-age journey into darkness. While Book Two could be read as a stand-alone novel, I highly recommend starting at the beginning of our story with Book One of the series at the link below.

  Bane County: Forgotten Moon

  Starting with the first book of the series will greatly enhance your overall enjoyment of the story; and that, after all, is my primary goal as an author. Book Two contains numerous tie-ins and additions, and a great many subtleties that would go completely unnoticed by the reader if he or she passed over the first book of the series.

  All that being said, I would like to offer prospective readers—and/or their parents—the same forewarning as I did with Book One. While the story contains no scenes of a sexual nature, a fair amount of coarse language and four-letter expletives are used—although not much more than you would find in your average 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 after choosing to continue, please accept my sincerest, heartfelt salutations.

  Welcome back, to Bane County.

  J R RICE

  Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the Devil walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.

  —1 PETER 5:8 (NKJV), Circa A.D. 67

  Justice can span years. Retribution is not subject to a calendar.

  —ROD SERLING, 1960

  Only the dead have seen the end of war.

  — UNDETERMINED

  PROLOGUE

  Silver Canyon

  Autumn 1896

  EUGENE HOWELL HITCHED HIS MULE to the buckboard, the trip to Silver Canyon would take at least two hours and the sun was already above the treetops. He gave the ornery animal a wide berth as he moved behind her to check the rigging; there was no education in the second kick of a mule.

  “Papa, Papa!” A young girl sprinted from the house. “Can I go to town with you, Papa—can I, please?”

  “You need to help your mother with the watering,” Howell said. “We’re gonna lose the entire garden if we don’t irrigate—not to mention our livestock.”

  Bane County was experiencing the worst drought that anyone could remember. There hadn’t been a drop of rain in nearly six months and peoples’ crops and pasturelands had withered.

  “But Pa . . .” she whined.

  “Gladys,” he warned sternly. “Don’t sass me, girl. Now get in there and help your ma.”

  Gladys turned, stomping back toward the house, leaving a trail of dust in her wake. “I never get to go anywhere,” she grumbled.

  Gladys was the youngest of three children—only ten-years-old—and her two older brothers had already left home, making their way in the world. Now, she was stuck with all the chores.

  Gladys’s mother, Grace, stepped onto the front porch just as her daughter brushed past, storming into the house and slamming the door shut behind her. Grace sighed, shaking her head, and then went to speak with her husband.

  “She wanted to go,” Grace said.

  “I know.”

  “Why don’t you take her, Eugene? She needs to get out once in a while.”

  “You know why,” Eugene said gruffly, “and I’m gonna take care of it, first-thing, when I get to town.”

  Grace huffed. “Eugene, they were just having a picnic. I don’t—”

  “I said I’m gonna take care of it,” Eugene barked, climbing onto the buckboard.

  Grace sighed, nodding, her lips pressed tightly together. “Here,” she said, “I brought your rifle.” She knew he never left home without his Winchester 1876 Centennial.

  “I want you to keep the shotgun loaded and next to the front door,” he said in a commanding voice, “and don’t go outside after sundown—and keep the door barred.”

  “I will,” Grace said. She had a worried look about her face, but tried to hide it. She hated it when her husband was gone overnight, especially these days.

  “Nothing bad has happened this far south,” he said, trying to reassure her, “only up in the mountains, and near town.”

  “I know,” she said, forcing a smile, “. . . we’ll be fine.” Their eyes met for a long moment, but no words were spoken.

  Eugene slapped the reins and called to the mule, “Hyah!” Then he headed north through the parched grasslands, trailing a plume of dust.

  The extended drought wasn’t the only thing plaguing Bane County these days; over the past couple of months, a great number of people had gone missing. At first, it was only up in the mountains, around the mines; one by one, lone prospectors started to disappear. Later, entire crews had gone missing, three or four men at a time. Blood was everywhere, no bodies, mind you—just blood. Mineshafts and campsites were painted red with it.

  There had been a lot of bold talk from hunters around the town of Silver Canyon; talk of a rogue bear or a crazed mountain lion, even rumors of a pack of ravenous timber wolves—but in private, people whispered darkly of, other things . . . of demons, of monsters, and of old Indian legends of the Ba'cho Najin: the Standing Wolf.

  Even Reverend Finney at the Silver Linings Gospel Church spoke of “Lucifer walking among us” and of a “Dark Angel” sent to punish us for our wicked ways. Like every frontier town, Silver Canyon was bursting with saloons and dancehalls, not to mention, gambling and houses of ill repute.

  It hadn’t been until two weeks prior, that terror truly found a home amongst the citizens of Silver Canyon. An entire family—husband, wife and three young children—had been slaughtered in their beds on the outskirts of town, only a stone’s-throw away from the livery stable, and the Lucky Rabbit Saloon.

  The high-pitched neighs and whinnies of terrified horses in the stable masked the family’s screams—at least, for a while. When the patrons of the Lucky Rabbit finally arrived, the home was a slaughterhouse, the family ripped to shreds, devoured.

  There had been wild talk of glowing yellow eyes, and of an enormous animal running away into the darkness—running—on two legs. However, the inebriated patrons of the Lucky Rabbit Saloon were not considered reliable witnesses.

  Regardless, after that horrible night, the townsfolk of Silver Canyon created a nightly patrol, keeping watch over the town’s borders. Each night, several well-armed men built large bonfires around the periphery of town, to ward off whatever wild animal was attacking its citizenry; and so far, their efforts had been successful.

  As Eugene Howell neared town, his eyes were fixed on the northern horizon. High above the mountains, large billowy-white thunderheads towered into the heavens, and behind them, the world grew dark. An ominous wall of raven-black clouds painted the distant sky. A storm was coming . . . and it looked like a bad one.

  Dear God, please let it rain, he thought, hoping, praying.

  Howell
slowed his buckboard as he approached the narrow wooden bridge a half-mile south of town; it spanned a small seasonal creek that ran along a heavily wooded ravine; an unnamed wash that Eugene knew all too well.

  When he first arrived in Bane County—over eighteen years ago—it had taken him hours to detour around the deep ravine; it ran for miles in either direction. Now, with the addition of the bridge, it took less than a minute. That wasn’t to say that he enjoyed crossing the long, narrow bridge; in fact, the old wooden structure made him quite uneasy. The heavy wooden planks popped and squeaked, moaning ominously beneath his wagon wheels; and he hated the acrid smell of the timbers. Each year, the town coated the bridge with creosote to prevent rotting, and deter the onset of wood-boring insects.

  “Easy, Molly,” Howell told his mule; she disliked the pungent aroma and creaking planks, as well. They crossed over the deep wash and followed the dusty road toward town.

  Up ahead, a large, brightly colored wagon was leaving Silver Canyon; it met Howell on the road a quarter-mile south of town. It was a vardo—a Gypsy wagon—a small cottage on wheels. If it weren’t for the fact that most of the townsfolk despised the Gypsies, Howell might have thought the wagon beautiful, with its intricately carved woodwork and vivid colors; as it was though, important people like Eugene Howell—a town founder—didn’t associate with Gypsy mineworkers.

  Ordinarily, Howell wouldn’t have acknowledged the Gypsies as they passed on the road; but today, something remarkable drew his eye. Sitting next to the old man on the wagon was a small child, a young girl, no older than six or seven; and unlike other Gypsies Howell had seen, this girl’s hair was blonde—almost white.

  When the little girl met Howell’s eyes, a chill crawled up his spine; her eyes were a piercing shade of gray. It was like peering into the limpid depths of a fathomless pool, and he found it extremely disquieting.

  “Do not stare, Cătălina,” the old man said. He spoke with a heavy Romani accent. “It is not polite.” He tipped his hat, nodding to Howell as their wagons passed on the road.

  Jesus Christ, Howell thought, her eyes were full of ghosts; and there was something else in those haunting eyes: a sadness . . . no, not sadness—pity, regret; a strained and mournful farewell. Howell shivered, trying to banish the eerie feeling.

  He twisted in his seat and glanced over his shoulder; the white-haired girl peered back at him, her head peeking around the corner of the vardo. Timidly, she raised her tiny hand, offering a slow and sorrowful wave.

  Howell quickly averted his eyes, and then snapped his reins roughly. “Hyah!” he called, hastening the animal’s gait toward town. He couldn’t understand how this little Gypsy girl had filled him with such an ominous feeling of dread.

  As he trotted his mule down the middle of Main Street, people parted before him like the Red Sea; not many people liked Eugene Howell, but everyone respected him. He was the first person to discover silver in the mountains of Bane County and he owned the largest mining company in town; although, you wouldn’t know it to look at him, he didn’t flaunt his money. In fact, Howell was widely known as a miser.

  “Whoa,” Howell called, pulling his reins. He stopped his buckboard in a cloud of dust outside Rickman’s Mercantile. He alighted the wagon, dusting off his clothes with a few loud slaps from his tattered old hat, and then strode resolutely into the store, a determined look about his face. He had told his wife he would take care of this problem first-thing, and—by God—that’s exactly what he was gonna do.

  “Rickman!” Howell called, stomping through the door.

  Lester Rickman poked his head out of the back room, puzzled. “Oh, hello Eugene, how are you today?”

  “Never mind that, Rickman,” he barked. “I need to talk to you about your son, Bill.”

  “What about William?” Rickman said defensively, furrowing his brow. He didn’t like the tone of Howell’s voice, and only the boy’s mother called him Bill.

  “I caught that boy of yours with my Gladys a few days ago,” Howell said sharply.

  Rickman’s eyebrows went up, eyes wide. “Caught him?” he said nervously, “. . . doing what?”

  “Havin’ a picnic,” he said. Howell spat the word “picnic” from his mouth as if it had a foul flavor.

  “A picnic?” Rickman asked, frowning.

  “That’s right, a picnic,” he said again. “I found them over on that two-hundred-acre-plot of yours, the one just north of that cedar-lined creek.”

  “Having a picnic,” Rickman reiterated flatly, scratching at his ear, a crooked smile forming on his lips, “. . . over by Cedar Creek, you say.”

  Howell glared at him harshly. “You listen to me, Rickman,” he warned, wagging a stern finger. “My Gladys is only ten years old, and that’s too damn young to be a courtin’!”

  Rickman offered a broad grin, holding up his hands in a placating fashion. “Now just calm down, Eugene—I couldn’t agree with you more,” he said. “I’m just relieved to know they were only having a picnic. I’ll have a long talk with William, and I assure you, it’ll never happen again.”

  Howell’s face began to soften; he scratched at his cheek, and said, “Well . . . all right, then.”

  “Now,” Rickman said cheerfully, rubbing his palms together. “How about we step into the back room and cut some of that dust you’ve been chewing on? I’ve got a bottle of rye whiskey that’s gettin’ a might lonely.”

  Howell smiled. “Now you’re talking.” The two men turned, heading toward the back room.

  “How’s business been, Lester?” Howell asked cordially. He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder; the two men had known each other for nearly sixteen years.

  Taking up the bottle, Rickman pulled the cork with his teeth and filled two large shot-glasses. “Oh, not too bad, Eugene,” he said. Then on a more somber note, he added, “. . . been sellin’ a lot of kerosene lately—lanterns, too.”

  “Yeah,” Howell said grimly, “I bet you have.”

  With the nightly patrols and bonfires around the perimeter of town, it only made sense that each man would carry a torch, or a lantern.

  A shrill whistle sounded in the distance. The Union-Pacific was making its weekly run, hauling train cars of silver-ore from the mines. “Guess that’s my cue,” Howell said. He finished his whiskey in a single gulp. “I better head down to the office and see how business is doing.”

  Howell was basically retired, only coming into town one or two days per week. Several years back, he had hired a foreman to run his business and handle his day-to-day affairs.

  “Yeah, I better get back to work, too,” Rickman said. “I have to close early today, and help haul wood for the bonfires. I’m on the night-patrol this evening, and my shift starts at sundown.”

  Howell nodded and shook Rickman’s hand. As he headed out the door he turned, and said, “Be careful out there tonight, Lester—there’s a storm comin’ . . .”

  Later that evening, as a golden-warm sun left the world behind, Lester Rickman patrolled the withered grasslands outside of town.

  Darkness gathered—the bonfires were lit.

  Rickman, and three other men, guarded the town’s borders, each responsible for a different sector: north, south, east, and west. Rickman was stationed on the north side of town, the side facing the dark mountains.

  Each man was well armed, and responsible for four bonfires along the border of their sector. The large fires were spaced about fifty yards apart and roared brightly into the night sky. Rickman walked his post holding a large torch, a Winchester rifle tucked into the crook of his arm. As he made his way from fire to fire, his eyes followed the capering shadows—born of firelight—as they frolicked in the sable gloom.

  He hated being away from his family at night, but he also felt a sense of duty to protect the town; this was the second night he had volunteered this week. As he made his way to the next bonfire, he prayed his family would remain safe at their ranch south of town.

  When the strange sound first came to Rickman, he froze. Turning slowly, he faced the mountains, gaping into the coal-black night. A deep roar rumbled far in the distance—faint at first, but growing steadily.

  It wasn’t the sound of a marauding beast, it was the roar of a river, or perhaps, a waterfall—the rumble of whitewater as it rushed over boulders . . . and then there was another sound: trees splitting, crashing to the ground.