Curse of Seven Troughs

In the shadow of the rugged peaks near the old mining town of Seven Troughs, Pershing County, Nevada, lingers a tale as old as the wind that carved the canyons.

If the four riders—hard men with a taste for the wild unknown—had ever caught wind of it or reckoned what dark truth fueled its whispers, they might’ve turned their horses back toward the sagebrush plains. Or maybe, being the restless souls they were, they’d have spurred on faster, chasing the thrill of danger.

But they hadn’t heard a lick of it. Of those four, only one staggered out alive, a man so haunted by the nightmare of that ride that he’d draw a pistol at the mere mention of Seven Troughs, his mind teetering on the edge of madness.

Among the Paiutes who roamed those hills—fierce folk with blood older than the stones, who’d run off the whites years back with their quiet, unyielding ways—the story passed in hushed tones, a prayer to the spirits woven through every word. To them, it wasn’t just a yarn spun by firelight–it was a living terror, a curse that prowled the high country. But now, praise the heavens, a stubborn white man had broken its grip, and the Paiutes spoke of it only as a shadow of days gone by.

It was Cal Withers who’d rounded up the crew. Cal was always itching for a hunt, a man born with a rifle in one hand and a map in the other.

Word had drifted to him of a rare breed of bighorn sheep, their twisted horns glinting like treasure in the crags of Seven Troughs. They might not’ve been grander than the ones down in the valleys, but the challenge of the chase sang to him like a lonesome coyote’s howl. He roped in three pards—Jess Harper, Luke Harper, and Sam Tully—and they set out, dust trailing behind ‘em.

The little cluster of sunbaked shacks where they left the stage was a drowsy speck in the desert, no cooler than the rattling coach that’d hauled ‘em in. But it was a jumping-off point, and within an hour, they’d wrangled horses and a scrappy pack mule loaded with gear. The Paiutes who lingered nearby watched with dark, knowing eyes as the four saddled up, the village settling back into its sleepy haze once they rode out.

Then, quick as a rattler’s strike, it came. Jess Harper’s voice cut the air first–sharp with dread, “Lord almighty, look at Luke!”

The others wheeled around to see Luke, Jess’s kin, frozen beside his mount, staring into the jagged hills beyond the shacks. His face twisted like a man wrestling demons in his soul.

Before a word could pass, he vaulted into the saddle and tore off at a gallop, dust exploding under his horse’s hooves. The Paiutes scattered, signing wards against evil, while the mongrel dogs that usually nipped at riders’ heels slunk away, tails tucked as if they smelled death on the wind.

The three left behind traded wide-eyed looks. Sam Tully broke the spell, lunging for his horse with a curse under his breath.

Cal and Jess followed, quick as lightning. One of the Paiutes, a wiry fella with fear etched deep in his weathered face, grabbed Sam’s reins and rasped, “No, don’t ride! One death’s enough—let him go, and we’re spared another year. You follow, you’ll only die with him.”

His voice trembled, his sun-dark skin gone ashen, but Sam yanked the reins free without a word and spurred after Luke, the others hot on his trail.

Luke’s path didn’t stick to the main trail but veered onto a faint, overgrown track—scarcely more than a memory of a road worn deep by feet long turned to dust. Paiutes hadn’t trod it in generations, not since they’d driven the white man out, and it showed.

Gravel choked the ruts, chaparral clawed at the edges, but Luke rode like a man possessed, his horse flying recklessly over ground that begged for a broken neck. The three behind pushed hard, though they couldn’t match his pace, and within a half-hour, he’d vanished around a bend in the ridge. By the time they caught up, he was gone, swallowed by the vastness ahead.

They pressed on, stopping only once where a lone cottonwood shaded a trickle of spring water—knowing it might be the last they’d see. Every twist in the trail brought a stab of fear, expecting to spot Luke’s crumpled form sprawled among the rocks.

But the only sign was the churned earth where his horse had thundered through, gravel flung wide. Night crept in, the desert heat giving way to a bone-chilling cold, and their mounts stumbled, spent. They made camp, firelight flickering on grim faces, words few and far between.

Jess broke the silence first, his voice low. “What’d that Paiute say to you, Sam?”

Sam shrugged, uneasy. “Just some wild talk—superstition, is all.”

Jess pressed, “I heard him say Luke’d die, and they’d be free another year. You reckon they did somethin’ to him?”

Sam snapped, “I told you, it’s nonsense! Somethin’ hit Luke—fever, maybe—and he lost his head. Let’s not jaw about it.”

That shut Jess up.

Cal lit his pipe, staring into the stars. “This whole damn country’s off. You see them hills? Scarred up like landslides hit every day. Could be quake land, but some o’ them rocks didn’t roll straight down—saw one cut sideways ‘cross a slope.”

Sam growled, “Quit it, Cal. You’re seein’ ghosts, and I ain’t in the mood.”

Cal just puffed smoke. “You saw that busted brush too, Sam. Don’t tell me I’m the only one.”

No one said more that night.

Come dawn, they took up the chase. Cal’s talk of rockslides stuck with ‘em, and they eyed the strange trails crisscrossing the brush—paths too big for critters, too wild for reason.

Some didn’t even slope downhill, defying all sense. At one spot where a trail gouged across their path, Cal swung down and looked before climbing back up with a shrug that didn’t hide his worry.

“Find anything?” Sam bit out.

“Nothin’ you didn’t see. Takes legs to drag a mark like that—unless rocks walk here.”

Sam’s jaw tightened. “Footprints?”

Cal hesitated, then said, “Not a one. But a rock that size’d smear any tracks. Still—what’d drag a boulder that big just to smash brush?”

Jess cut in sharp, “Enough! We gotta get Luke!”

The sun was dipping low on the second day when they found him. The queer trails had thickened, the hills plowed up like a mad giant’s playground.

Rounding a bend, they hit a wide open, bare stretch—a natural bowl in the peaks, its floor stripped to naked stone. Lines etched the rock like the ghosts of walls, worn flat by some unholy force.

“Ruins,” they all muttered, reining up.

Anyone who’d roamed the Southwest knew the shape of old Indian villages, though these gotten ground to nothing but echoes.

For a heartbeat, they forgot Luke—then spotted it. Near the center lay a bloody heap, unrecognizable at first.

Jess saw it clear, wailed, and stumbled forward, only to recoil as the truth hit. The others pushed past, staring at the pulped mess of Luke Harper and his horse. A smeared trail of blood and rock dust led to a monster of a boulder—fifty feet long and worm-shaped like it’d crawled over and crushed ‘em flat.

Sickened, they gaped from the rock to the ruin of their friend, then at each other. No quake could’ve shifted that basalt beast without rattling their teeth loose.

What, then, had done this?

Before they could reckon it, Jess screamed, rooted where he’d stopped, his face a mirror of Luke’s last mad look. They followed his stare and froze.

The boulder was moving—pivoting like a living thing, not rolling on, but turning toward them. It slid forward, grinding stone to powder, aiming for Jess.

Cal yelled and bolted, Sam right behind, but Jess stood fast, caught in its path. Torn, they skidded to a halt, lunging back to drag him clear—only to slam into somethin’ unseen, solid as a canyon wall.

They pounded it ‘til their hands bled, but it wouldn’t budge. Then Jess’s final cry echoed, and they wheeled for their horses, terror driving ‘em blind.

They were nigh out of earshot when the sound faded. In the lead, Sam heard Cal’s horse slow and turned to see him swing back toward the ruins.

Sam hollered, but Cal didn’t flinch. Sam cursed and followed as Cal rode like a man chased by death.

When Sam caught sight again, Cal stood dead center, the worm-rock gliding toward him from across the stone floor. Sam charged, hit that invisible wall again, and sank to his knees as the truth sank in.

The white sticks littering the ground weren’t brush—they were bones, flesh long ground away. Two bloody smears marked the rock now, and Cal waited, still as stone, for his turn.

Sam turned tail and ran, the horror clawing at his back. It dogged him all the way—sometimes fading, other times brushing his neck with icy fingers, spurring his horse to a lather.

Night fell, but he didn’t stop, riding blind ‘til dawn broke, and his horse staggered into the Paiute camp, half-dead and bearing a man who looked like he’d clawed out of a grave.

The stage was rumbling up the trail, and Sam gulped water the Paiutes fetched, eyes locked on his salvation. They asked after the others, but he rasped just one word—“Dead”—and they drew back.

As the stage screeched to a halt, that cold touch grazed his neck again, urging him back to the hills. But Sam Withers was a fighter, and with the memory of his pards’ fate burning in his skull, he battled it. He thrashed and roared like a man possessed, the Paiutes scattering ‘til the stage crew tackled him, thinking him sun-struck.

They hauled him aboard, chalking it up to heat fever as he lay there, pale and trembling. As the stage rattled off, the Paiutes whooped, reckoning he’d beaten the curse—a fiend from the days when the old hill-dwellers got wiped out. Legend said it’d claim it’s due ‘til some soul defied it, and then it’d fade, scars and all.

Sam never once heard that tale. He knows too much already and clings to the notion it was all a fever dream.

But the hills of Seven Troughs stay quiet now, and the Paiutes speak no more of it.