Soon the underground cathedral was empty save for the wafting smoke from the burnt gunpowder and the five dead men lay on the floor of the place. Howard, deafened and blinded from the blast of his Colt’s muzzle, sat paralyzed, waiting and praying for his senses to return to to him before the horde returned and ripped him apart.
His eyesight drew accustom to the semi-darkness faster than the return of his hearing and the continued internal reverberations. He crawled over the bodies and to the altar, grabbing the radiating gem and starting to smash the crystal idol, but the sound of movement from somewhere deep in the recesses of the dark cave, necessitated his withdraw.
And because he could see again, the mistiness of the gun smoke as it found its way out of the grotto, marked an avenue of escape. He crawled in the direction of its exodus, leading him to a passage and eventually the same secreted door venting to the outside, over looking the lighted town below Sun Mountain.
Staggered by what he’d witnessed, Howard stumbled down the now familiar path, with barely enough glow from the gibbous moon, throwing down on the ground so he might find his way off the mountain. The path led to the red-light district, vaguely quiet following a night of lessening attention.
Still Harold stumbled forward and to the lavishly adorned crib of Mademoiselle Julia Bulette. He toppled hard against her door frame and then rolled into the pathway beneath her stairs.
Having heard the sound and felt the vibration at her door, she opened it with a once-concealed derringer in her palm. See that it was the Marshal, and that he was half naked and shoe-less, she without thought sought to render the man her aide.
It would be hours before she could make sense of his rantings, those that came in fits of screams and still others, in the mumbling of a mad man. Julia did her best to nurse the disheveled man back to his mind and physical self.
“I know that it’s hard to believe,” he told her, “but I’m not insane. I know what I saw!”
“I believe you,” Julia said, trying to comfort him, “But honestly, no one’s missing.”
“I have proof,” he excitedly claimed, “The red gem stone.”
“Gem stone?,” she asked, adding, “My poor man, the only thing you had was your gun.”
“Then someone stole it!” he frantically exclaimed.
Harold clambered from the bed and began searching for the missing rock. Quietly, Julia sent for the doctor.
Soon a number of citizen came to the district to hear and see for themselves the wild actions and ramblings of Marshal L.C. Howard. This included the once missing Thurlby, who smiling, asked, “Are you alright, Guv?”
Howard eventually slipped away, unnoticed and on foot, down into the valley, deep into Six-Mile canyon, as far as he could to escape the horror captured in his shattered mind. He spent his final years. drunk on cheap whiskey, searching for proof of what he’d seen, of the wild images and that odious chant, “Voquulo Zaa-q’ran,” which had been so thoroughly pressed into his damaged mind by the beings that continue to dwell underground.
Old timer’s say he could often be heard sloppily muttering the meaningless phrase, “Should’ve smashed it to pieces when had the chance.”
The Old Blog in the Desert 
Leave a comment