The Marshall and The Monster

Arizona. 1882

US Marshall John Cooper walked into the sheriff’s office of Hayden, Arizona shortly after sunrise. He paused briefly before opening the door and entering, setting himself into a confident, authoritative demeanour to ensure that whatever small town lawman waited inside knew straight away who was boss.

He need not have worried. The sheriff was a bespectacled, portly man who was sweating profusely despite the early hour of the day. When he saw Cooper enter the office, his eyes lit up, the man grasping desperately at a handkerchief on his desk to wipe the sweat from his brow.

“I’m so glad you’re here Marshall,” said the sheriff.

He rose quickly from his desk and waddled over, extending a clammy hand out in greeting. Cooper tried to hide his disgust at the man in front of him. A lawman should be fit. Strong. Able to stand up for the weak. This man could barely stand up for himself.

The sheriff lowered his hand, realising his gesture would not be returned.

“I’m gonna make this quick sheriff…”

“Woodrow,” said the sheriff.

“Sheriff, I have been called away from the hunt of a very dangerous outlaw to help your backwater town. I do not wish to be here any longer than I have to. I want you to tell me everything you can about this man-“

“It’s not a man,” said Woodrow.

“Excuse me?” said Cooper.

“It’s a monster.”

Cooper sighed, removing his hat from his head and running his free hand through his greying hair. “They didn’t tell you?” said Woodrow.

“They told me to come here and help catch a killer. I heard some rumours on my way down. That the man is eight foot tall. That he tears animals apart with his bare hands. That he is not one man but several sewn together. All sorts of superstitious nonsense. Are you a religious man Sheriff?”

“Occasionally,” said Woodrow, “When the need arises.”

Cooper paused to let the sheriff’s blasphemous words pass. “Well let me tell you something. The lord created each and every one of us and I’ll be damned if I’ve ever hunted a monster. Men who have done monstrous things, but never a monster.”

“There’s a first time for everything Marshall.”

Woodrow walked back around his desk and opened the top drawer. He reached inside and delicately removed a folded cloth from inside. He placed it down on the desk and unfolded it, revealing a torn piece of paper resting inside. Speckles of blood dotted the page.

“A cow was found butchered last night. The rancher managed to scare the…monster off. It left this behind.”

Cooper carefully lifted the piece of paper off the desk. It appeared to be some sort of diary entry, written in crude, unrefined handwriting.

“When the sun sets out here in the hills, I often think of praying for some kind of hope. To look up at the stars and ask for some release from the anguish I feel. The blood on my hands will not wash clean, no matter how clear the dead greying skin may appear to be. Who can I repent to? Who can I ask to forgive my sins? My creator is dead. I am not one of god’s children. I am a bastard, an amalgamation of horrors made into life. I have no creator to pray to. When I call out in the night, only darkness responds. Perhaps when the creator died, he took me with him and I am now in hell. Condemned to wander the earth, not as a man, not as an animal. But a monster.”

“An interesting piece of fiction,” said Cooper, “Where is the dead cow now?”

“At the ranch. One of my deputies will take you there,” said Woodrow.

Cooper put the piece of paper back onto the cloth. He looked Woodrow in the eyes and saw fear. “Truth be told, I’m glad you’re here to take over. All the stories of the monster lurking around town, watching through windows. Gives me the creeps,” said Woodrow.

“How exactly did you become sheriff?” asked Cooper.

 “The townsfolk elected me. Why?” said Woodrow.

“Just wondering how a town of so called civilised people could believe in monsters and ghouls. Seeing as they made you sheriff, I’m starting to realise why.”

“What do you mean?” asked Woodrow, blankly.

“I mean its time I end this goose chase. Take me to the dead cow.”

*

Cooper followed Woodrow’s deputy to a ranch a few miles out of town. He was no more impressed with the deputy than the sheriff. He was young. That was the solitary compliment he could pay the man. The stench of cowardice hung around him like flies on rotting meat. The more time Cooper spent in Hayden, the more he thought this was just another small town unwilling to do the dirty work, calling on a real lawman to come in and tidy their mess.

The deputy stopped his horse a few hundred yards from the farmhouse. “This is the place,” he said, pointing at a large red building beside the house.

“Why aren’t you taking me to meet the rancher?” said Cooper.

“He’s waiting for you. I ain’t goin’ any closer.”

“Jesus Christ, is every lawman in this town a coward?”

“Call me what you like sir. I would rather be scared than deal with black magic.”

“Fine,” said Cooper, “Leave a real lawman to do the work.”

The deputy took no offence; turning tail and galloping quickly back towards town. Cooper watched him leave, shaking his head.

Watching the deputy ride away, he thought of George Hardwicke, the horrible murdering son of a bitch he had chased across two states. He thought of how far away George must have gotten by now, how many more innocents had been murdered, whilst he wasted time chasing fairytales. He swore an oath that if this all turned out to be a hoax, he would personally put a bullet in the head of the sheriff and the deputy.

Cooper rode on towards the barn. As he drew near, the doors opened and an elderly, wiry man emerged into the sunlight, a large double-barrelled shotgun slung across his shoulders.

“Marshall,” he said, tipping his hat in greeting.

Something about the man relaxed Cooper. Here was a real man, someone who had spent his life working the land, knew hard labour. “Morning,” said Cooper, dismounting.

He walked over and shook the rancher by the hand, a strong firm handshake that pleased him. “I’ve heard a lot of crazy stories,” he said, “Show me something real. Something you don’t find in fairytales.”

“This is real all right,” said the rancher, “Can’t say I find it much easier to believe, even if I can reach out and touch it for myself.”

He gestured for Cooper to follow him inside. Straight away, the Marshall noticed the smell, a stench of blood and gore that overpowered the senses. He could hear flies buzzing furiously in a nearby stall, what sounded like thousands and thousands of them. The sound made the hairs stick up on the back of his neck. He had never heard anything like it before.

The old rancher stopped at the edge of the stall. His expression changed briefly as he looked inside, unable to control a moment of intense disgust. “Still makes my stomach turn no matter how many times I see it.”

Cooper looked into the stall. What once had been a cow lay splayed across the barn floor, a gruesome mess of torn flesh and broken bones. Entrails and organs spilled out of the creatures torn torso, as if something had reached inside and pulled them out.

“Took me and my boy a coupla hours to drag her inside. Both had to stop often to vomit. My stomach hurt it was so empty by the end of it all. Even so, I had no appetite, no sir.”

The Marshall nodded.

“You say a man did this? Not a mountain lion or coyote?” said Cooper, covering his mouth in case he vomited.

“Yep,” said the rancher, “The bastard was tearing it apart with his hands as if there weren’t nothing to it.”

“How can that be possible? No man is that strong, he must have had a knife.”

“No knife,” said the rancher, “I know what I saw. The man was pulling the animal apart. Almost as if he was in a rage, tearing into the cow because he was angry. He couldn’t control himself.”

“The sheriff said you shot him,” said Cooper.

“Managed to hit him in the shoulder. Didn’t seem to have much physical effect. Scared him though. Sent him running.”

“Which way?”

“Towards the hills in the west.”

Cooper walked away from the stall, having seen enough. “What more can you tell me about him?”

“I didn’t see him up close. But he was big. Bigger than any man I ever did saw. There was something wrong with his face too, it was swollen and lacked shape. Seen something like it in one of those circus shows that came through town once.”

Cooper nodded. He had seen the shows first hand. Bearded ladies, men with no arms and legs. Nothing that could butcher an animal like this.

“Anything else?”

“Yeah,” said the rancher, “There were vultures following him. Circling around above. Seemed to be waiting.”

“To eat the cow?”

The rancher shrugged. “Maybe. Though they didn’t stick around after he was gone. I’ve heard other folk say they saw the vultures following him.”

Cooper took off his hat and stroked his hair with his free hand. This was getting stranger by the minute. “Do you know what vultures mean round here?” said the rancher.

The Marshall nodded. “Death is close.”     

*

Cooper left the farm and rode west; the direction the rancher had pointed him. The Marshall still felt sick to his stomach, the sight of the mutilated cow stuck inside his mind and showing no signs of shifting. He had seen many dead bodies in his life, both animal and human. This was something different. It was the rage that scared him. The violence. The power.

The hills loomed larger on the horizon, civilisation disappearing behind him. He scanned the terrain, searching for any sign of life. It was the perfect place to hide; he had chased many fugitives through terrain like it. Cooper stopped and checked his Colt .45 pistol that sat securely beside his hip. He knew the gun was loaded, that the barrel was clean. Still, he wanted to double check. Just to ease his racing mind a little.

All thoughts of George Hardwicke had gone. A little stop over in Hayden was no longer a waste of time. The Marshall had been called there for a reason. He was rarely a religious man, and yet now he felt like this was his duty. He was destined to come here. To kill the monster. To make a name for himself. Thirty years a Marshall. He would be remembered for this hunt more than any other.

A sudden shriek in the sky above snapped his attention back to reality. He looked up and saw two large black birds flying overhead.

Vultures.

If the rancher was right, it was a sign the creature was near. An omen.

Cooper watched the birds fly above him, tracking the direction they took. They flew towards a cluster of birds almost a mile ahead, a large group of the scavengers circling lazily above. Waiting.

For a moment Cooper’s heart began to race. Had the monster killed again?

He began riding towards the birds, trying to focus on the task at hand. He thought of the note, the scrap from the monster’s diary. One line in particular stuck with him.

“Condemned to wander the earth, not as a man, not as an animal. But a monster.”

Every man Cooper had hunted, he had some knowledge of his target. To try and get inside the fugitive’s head. See how he worked, how he thought.

When it came to this monster, he had only two pieces of information. The brutally slaughtered cow. And the diary excerpt. One the work of an animal. The other the work of a man suffering at his own existence. Was that what made a man a monster? To be aware of the atrocities man could commit and to do them anyway?

Cooper neared the vultures. They circled above a large area of closed brush land, all thorns and needle like branches. He thought he could see movement somewhere in the centre. Something large rustling in the brush.

He considered climbing one of the nearby hills to get a better vantage point and thought better of it. He couldn’t afford to be spotted. He would need the element of surprise.

The Marshall quickly dismounted, drawing his pistol and heading into the brush. He ignored the thorns that scratched at him, pushing deeper. He slowed as he heard talking, a distorted howl coming from nearby.

“Father! Why did you build me this way? To be a coward, too scared to end his own life. Why must the only life I cannot end be my own? Answer me!”

Cooper froze when he saw the shape moving between the branches. The rancher had not lied.

The creature was huge, at least one and a half times his size. Its skin was pallid, yellowed as if jaundiced. Torn clothes hung from nearby branches, drying in the sun. Water tinted red with blood dripped down from the clothes, forming small pools on the dirt. Crude stitches ran up and down the monster’s body, holding it together. A crude white bandage had been tied around its shoulder, where the rancher had said he shot the monster. The bandage had lost its white colour, becoming stained a sickly brown. Not like any blood the Marshall had seen before.

Cooper wiped sweat from his eyes. The heat seemed to intensify, he felt a little delirious. He couldn’t really be seeing what he thought he was. He felt a sudden urge that he had to get out of there right away, to get out into the open.

Slowly, he started to back away out of the brush. Now was not the time to strike. He would wait until sundown.

*

The wait for the sun to set was long and arduous, punctuated by screams of impotent rage from the monster, hidden inside the brush. Cooper thought about the creature’s words. Again, they were not what you expected from a monster. For the first time since seeing that butchered cattle, Cooper felt his resolve fade. His desire to kill diminishing. He reached into his saddlebag and removed the small hip flask from inside. His hand shook as he unscrewed the cap and brought the flask to his lips. On normal missions he would not touch alcohol.

This was not a normal mission.

The screams from the brush had stopped, replaced by a loud, laboured breathing. Almost like snoring. Cooper readied himself.

The stars shone brightly in the clear sky above. Cooper was thankful that the moon was waning, providing little light, aiding his cover as he entered the brush.

He moved as quietly and as quickly as he could, watching each footstep to avoid treading on anything that could reveal his approach. Brittle twigs and sticks slowed his progress. One snap would be all it took.

The monster was lying in a small clearing amongst the brush. It had built itself a woodpile for a fire, yet chosen not to light it. Perhaps afraid of setting fire to the surrounding brush. Cooper considered burning the creature out. A fire to cleanse the area of its evil. Even with fire, there was a chance of escape. The Marshall knew he had to make sure. One shot to the head. Up close. No chance of missing.

He stepped into the clearing, pistol drawn and trained on the creature. The big hulking mess before him made it difficult to discern where to shoot. He would have to get closer.

Suddenly a vulture dropped down onto the ground beside them, landing a few feet from the creature. It walked up towards the sleeping monster and began pecking at its skin. The monster woke with a start, grabbing the vulture by the neck, a sick crunch as it closed its fingers around it. “Leave me alone.”

The monster turned and saw Cooper approaching towards him, gun drawn. Before the Marshall could react, the monster threw the dead bird at him, knocking him to the ground.

“Why are you here? What do you want from me?”

The monster spotted the gun in the Marshall’s hand and shuddered, “You’re here to kill me?”

Cooper looked up at the monster’s disfigured face bearing down on him, eyes yellow and lifeless staring at him with nothing but hate and anger inside. He stumbled for words, a mumbled “cow” all that could escape.

“Cow? You execute me for the life of an animal? I didn’t mean to kill it that way. I was hungry. I...I didn’t want to butcher it, it just wouldn’t stay quiet. It was drawing attention. Don’t you understand? It was a mistake?”

Cooper tried to raise his gun. The monster stepped over and grabbed the Marshall’s arm. Bones snapped instantly within its grip, Cooper screaming out in agony. The monster flinched at the sound. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...You see what you made me do? I didn’t want this to happen!”

He let go of Cooper’s arm. “Why can’t you just leave me in peace? I only want to be left alone, why must you hunt me like...like an animal? Answer me!”

Cooper said nothing, the pain unbearable. He looked down at his broken arm and saw bright white shards of bone piercing through the flesh. “Please...”

“No!” said the monster, “Enough. You came here to kill me. All I did was hurt an animal. I have tried to be good. I do not deserve to be hunted.”

The monster stepped closer and picked Cooper up by the neck, two impossibly big hands lifting the Marshall up until they were face to disfigured face. “I...I am sorry,” said the monster, its mood shifting in seconds, “But if I let you go. More will come. Seeking revenge. Seeking my death. I am not yet ready to die. I am not ready for hell.”

“Plea-“

Cooper’s final words were stopped short. In one swift action, the monster shook its arms back and forth, snapping the lawman’s neck. The creature dropped the lifeless body to the floor. Dirty grey tears began to form in its clouded, yellow eyes. “Yaaaaaaaaaaargh!” it screamed.

The creature turned away, unable to look at Cooper’s dead body. “Another death. Another death at my hand. Another step closer to hell.”

Cooper stared lifelessly towards the sky, his head at a horribly unnatural angle. The monster walked over and knelt beside him. “No one must ever know.”

It turned to the woodpile it had built, removing a set of matches from its pocket. He watched the match head burst into flames as he struck it, staring into the fire. “Hell must wait.”

It dropped the match onto the woodpile, the dry sticks igniting instantly. When the flames had grown, the monster kicked it towards the brush land around it. The dryness in the air carried the flame, spreading rapidly through the brush. The creature took one last look at the dead body before disappearing through the smoke and fire that was the Marshall’s funeral pyre.

END

Author's note: This short story began as an exercise for a writer's group, where we were tasked to write the continuation of a story we liked in a different genre or setting. I was re-reading Frankenstein at the time and always liked the idea of the creature heading to the Americas in a bid to escape its past. I imagined the creature crossing the Arctic, making its way south and then ending up in the gold rush. Perhaps I'll return to this story one day, but for now, I hope you enjoyed this excerpt.