“I saw something. In the woods.”
The little girl huddled in the corner of the root cellar, knees tucked up under her chin. She was hiding under a sturdy wood table lined with mason jars of all shapes and sizes. Pickled cucumbers and cabbage. Peaches preserved in syrup. Jams and jellies made from strawberry and raspberry and blackberry and elderberry. A gallon jar of dark brown apple butter and another of blackstrap molasses. On the dirt floor next to her sat a wooden crate filled with potatoes. Another filled with onions. Above her hung garlic bulbs, strung in neat rows, the skin still taut and fresh from harvest. On another length of twine was a bounty of dried herbs and flowers. Rosemary. Thyme. Sage. Hibiscus.
The little girl was trembling. Her tiny voice barely a whisper. The hem of her nightgown was soiled with streaks of brown and orange from the clay soil below. Her father stood over her, arms crossed, a piece of straw clenched between his teeth. Her mother was kneeling atop her apron as not to soil her dress. She was bent over at the waist and reaching under the table to console her daughter.
“What’s that, Hope?” asked her mother, gently patting her hand.
“Nonsense,” said her father, “that’s what.”
“Hush now,” she said, turning and shooting him a cold, hard glare. “Let her say her piece.”
“She’s daydreaming again,” he said. “I won’t entertain that twaddle under my roof.”
“Edward John Thompson,” she shot back in a low, angry whisper. “Keep your opinions to yourself. The girl has clearly had a fright. Whatever happened, your blustering isn’t going to help matters any. We’ve no need for it. Now either quiet that mouth of yours or leave us be.”
He paused a second and reconsidered, as any husband does when he hears his wife call him by his full and proper name. In that moment, she was a mother protecting her cub, and he was the encroaching predator. He saw a fire building in her eyes. And he didn’t intend to stoke it.
“As it was,” he said, sitting on a large oak barrel, “ever so it shall be.”
He struck a match on his fingernail and lit his pipe.
“Carry on, Mother,” he said through clamped teeth.
“Come now, my darling,” she cooed into the dark space under the table, gently stroking her daughter’s hand. “Tell us what you saw. Father won’t be angry, you have my word.” Her mother shot another look over her shoulder.
“Isn’t that so, Father?”
The little girl looked up at him with wretched and woeful eyes.
“Your mother speaks the truth,” he replied.
The little girl wiped her eyes, leaving dirty smudges across her pale cheeks. She climbed out from her hiding spot under the table and scurried into her mother’s lap, nestling into her embrace. For a minute, her thumb went back into her mouth, and she curled up against the pillowy warmth of her mother’s bosom. Then she pulled away and took a few steps back.
“I’m not a baby anymore,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I’m five and three quarters.”
“Suit yourself,” sighed her mother. “Only spent the better part of your life changing your soiled diapers.” She took her usual spot beside her husband, standing just over his left shoulder. She placed a hand on his chest, and he reached up and patted it as he puffed away on his pipe. He didn’t usually smoke in the root cellar, but something was bothering him. His rational brain was telling him it was just a child’s fantasies, the stuff of dreamscapes and nightmares. But deep down, he knew. He could see it in her eyes. She had seen something in those woods.
Something real.
Something terrifying.
“Speak then, child,” he said.
The little girl stood before them straight as an arrow. She was looking directly into her father’s eyes. In her look, he saw no tomfoolery. Not even a twinkle. None of the bashfulness that came when she got caught with her hand in the cookie jar. None of the steadfast determination that came when she tried to pull the wool over her parent’s eyes, assuring and re-assuring them that the dog had eaten the blueberry pie even though Buster was tied up outside and her lips were purple. No, she stood before them as solemn as a priest at a burial. Twice as intense. Her eyes were focused and true.
She took a deep breath.
“I saw a monster,” she said. “Out in the woods.”
She spoke.
They listened.
As she told her story, their eyes widened.
When she finished, they gave her a glass of milk laced with a few drops of Laudanum and waited for her to nod off. They laid her down in the center of their bed and returned to the sitting room. He brought out a gallon of whiskey, which at twenty-five cents a gallon was cheaper than beer, wine, coffee, tea, or milk. He poured himself a tall one, gulped it down, then poured another. He raised the bottle to his wife. She held out her teacup, and he gave her a healthy splash to go with her mint tea. As she sipped her tea, she picked at something with her hands. A doll, made from corn husks and twine. She was running the tip of one of the corn husks under her fingernail, lost in thought. The man watched her for a moment, then sat back in his chair and sighed.
He didn’t need to ask, but he did anyway.
“Well,” he said. “What do you think?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
He shot her a look that said you know exactly what I mean.
She picked at the twine doll, purposefully avoiding his eyeline. She did know what he was asking. He wanted to know what she thought of their daughter’s story. He wanted to know if she believed her. But Faith was still working through it herself. She knew each answer came with consequences. And while a piece of her mind was grappling with the story itself, she was much more worried about what would come next. If she said no, her husband was bound to get the belt and teach Hope a lesson about honesty. If she said yes, on the other hand… who knows.
Yes, she knew exactly what he was asking.
She was just too afraid to answer.
She took a deep breath.
“I believe her, Ed,” she said finally. “Every word.”
“I do too, Fay,” he said, staring into his whiskey.
He put his glass down and reached his hand across the table.
“Pray with me, Fay,” he said.
She just stared at the doll, turning it over and over in her hands.
“Faith, dear,” he said. “Look at me.”
Finally, she looked up.
“Pray with me.”
She nodded and tucked the doll into the pocket of her apron. She took his hand and squeezed her eyes shut.
“O Lord,” he started, “please give me the strength to protect my daughter. My family. My home. Give me the strength to defeat evil. Take my hands and let them be swift. Let thy will be done.”
“Amen,” they said together, opening their eyes. Her hands went back into her apron. Back to the doll. Ed finished his whiskey. He got up, walked over to the fireplace, and removed the shotgun from its perch above the mantle. An 1873 Winchester. The Gun That Won The West. He walked over to cupboard and pulled out a box of cartridges. He sat down and began loading the gun. Faith sat sipping her tea laced with booze, clutching the doll under the table. Hope slept peacefully in their bed.
When the gun was loaded, Ed pulled on his coat and hat. He threw another log into the wood-burning stove and headed for the front door. When his hand was on the doorknob he paused. He walked back to the kitchen table and kissed his wife, long and hard, in a way that was usually reserved for the bedroom.
“Love you, Fay,” he said.
“Love you too, Ed.”
He opened the door to leave, and someone was coming up the front walk.
“Hi there, neighbor,” the man said. “Can I sit I spell?”
“Hobbs,” Ed called out. “What are you doing here?”
“I need counsel,” Hobbs said. “On a matter of some importance.”
“Of course.”
Ed stepped aside to let him in. His wife stood to greet their visitor.
“Evening, Mrs. Thompson,” he said, taking a seat at the table.
“Mr. Hobbs,” she answered in kind, giving a small curtsy.
“Tea? Coffee? Whiskey?”
“Laudanum?” Ed added.
“Oh,” said Hobbs, “I suppose a dram of rye might be just what the doctor ordered. If it’s not too much trouble, that is?”
“Not at all,” she said, pouring a splash of brown into an empty jelly jar.
“So,” Ed started in, “what’s got you wandering up my hill so late at night?”
“My wife says she saw a monster,” Hobbs replied.
Faith locked eyes with her husband, then turned back to Hobbs.
“Earlier today in the woods,” he continued. “She was out picking mushrooms when she came upon a small hut, set deep in the woods. When she went to investigate further, she came upon a creature of some sort. She said it was performing a ritual sacrifice, trying to disembowel a goat with a jagged stone. Smeared up to its elbows in blood and guts and viscera…”
As Hobbs trailed off, they all painted a mental picture of the scene. Hobbs gulped, his throat suddenly gone dry. He took a sip of his whiskey and his stomach churned, the growl echoing through the quiet house. He sat there for another minute, collecting himself. Ed and Faith just sat and waited, listening to the crackle of the fresh log catching in the wood-burning stove.
Finally, Hobbs cleared his throat.
“Some sort of ritual,” he continued. “Sacrificing the goat. Chanting in a low, guttural voice, some ancient and foreign tongue. Temperance said she’d seen people speaking in tongues in the revival tent when she was younger. People overcome with the holy spirit, writhing on the floor and jabbering as they cast out their demons. But to see it out in the woods, in person, was a different matter. In the revival tent she felt god all around them. But out in the woods, she felt evil spirits wandering free, whispering in her ear and clutching at her ankles as she tried to run. She was afraid the earth might open her up and swallow her into the depths of hell. It chilled her to the bone. She ran all the way home and curled up in bed.”
Hobbes reached into his pocket and brought out a small cornhusk doll.
“She saw dozens of these little dolls tied up all over the place. Some sort of religious idolatry. I imagine it’s just some sort of pagan ritual. But she’s convinced otherwise.”
He looked at Faith and her lower lip was trembling.
“She thinks she saw the devil.”
Hobbs placed the doll on the kitchen table.
“And I must admit, I’m not a religious man, myself. People can believe whatever they want to believe, but all this talk of demons and devils and the holy spirits, well….”
Hobbes looked at Ed.
“I’m afraid she’s gone insane.”
Husband and wife looked at each other and decided what to do next. After a series of subtle nods and gestures, it was decided Faith would take the lead.
“Well, Mr. Hobbs,” she started, “I’m not sure what your wife saw. What I do know is that Hope came flying out of the woods and squirreled herself away in the root cellar. She was scared something awful. Shaking like a leaf on a tree. It took a good deal of coaxing to get her to come out. When she was finally able to speak, she said she saw a monster.”
She reached into her apron and pulled out the cornhusk doll.
“She was holding one of these.”
She placed the doll next to his.
“Whatever Temperance saw? I think Hope saw it, too.”
Ed took his wife’s hand and held it, then looked back at Hobbs.
“That’s where I was headed,” Ed explained.
“I was going up into the woods to take care of things.”
“Whatever do you mean?” asked Hobbs.
Ed nodded to the rifle leaned up against the door.
“You were going into the woods, guns blazing, based on the imagined tale of some little girl?” Hobbs asked. “Good god, man. What if she was telling tales?”
“You didn’t see her eyes,” Faith interjected. “She was terrified.”
Hobbs paused for a second.
“I’m no educated man,” he started, “but if I’ve learned anything in my half-century on this planet, it’s that man doesn’t need any help from the devil. Evil exists in this world, and plenty of it. Perpetrated by man, and man alone. I’ve seen my fair share. But I do not believe in monsters. So, if I’m forced to choose between my wife or my rational mind. Between monster and man. Well, I choose rationality. The devil does not exist. Evil men do.”
“Choose whatever the hell you want,” replied Ed, “that thing came after my daughter. Scared her half to death. Tried to lure her into its lair with that godforsaken doll. And if she hadn’t got away, then who knows…” He imagined a parade of atrocities being performed against his daughter. They could see a fire building in his eyes.
Finally, he stood.
“I’ve heard enough,” he said, walking over to the door and picking up the rifle. “I’m going to take care of this.”
“Let’s discuss this like rational human beings,” Hobbs pleaded.
“I’ll not be told what to do in my own house,” he said.
“Mr. Thompson, I beseech you.”
“You know I respect you, Hobbs. Our family owes you a debt of gratitude that I’ll never be able to repay. But this is my little girl we’re talking about. My family. And I won’t let anything happen to them.”
Ed started walking to the door.
Hobbs held up a finger to make his counterargument, when—
BANG! BANG!
A pair of gunshots exploded through the quiet night like thunderclaps, coming from woods past Hobbs’ orchard.
“Ed!” his wife shouted from the table. “Don’t go!”
But Ed was already gone.
Hobbs turned to say something, standing there for a moment with his finger in the air, but came up short. She gave him a nod and he disappeared out the front door after her husband.
Ed was already halfway down the dirt road leading up to their house. His rifle was properly shouldered and pointed at the ground. He was never a soldier, but over time he had become a seasoned hunter. When they moved first out to the farm, he hadn’t been a great shot, but it didn’t matter, as the soil was fertile and mother nature blessed them with lots of rain. For the first two seasons, they had a bounty so plentiful they couldn’t even store it all, far more than they needed to get through the harsh New England winter. But in the third year, mother nature turned a cold shoulder. A dry summer combined with an early frost left them with field upon field of dead and wilted crops. Winter came hard and fast, and they had eaten through most of the pantry before the first snowfall. They sold off Faith’s wedding band and bought the Winchester rifle. On the long ride back from town, they dreamed about cauldrons of venison stew and fricasseed rabbit keeping their bellies full and their bodies warm on those frigid winter nights. But thanks to Ed’s poor shooting ability, they almost didn’t make it through the winter. If not for the kindness of Hobbs and their other neighbors, they wouldn’t have survived. They spent most of the winter eating old bread and apple butter, but at least they lived to tell the tale. And every day, Ed went out with the rifle. He kept at it. Most nights, the large cauldron over the fireplace stayed empty. But by the time spring came around, he’d become a crack shot and an expert trapper. The day after the snow melted, Ed came home with not one, but three plump rabbits. A week later, he bagged a nine-point buck. They hadn’t gone hungry since.
Ed crossed the road and ducked into the apple orchards on Hobbs’s farm. He walked along with his eyes peeled, taking notice whenever something moved in the underbrush. He wasn’t sure what the gunshots meant, but the feeling in his gut told him wasn’t good. Folks didn’t hunt at night. Especially not with the clouds covering the moon like that.
As he got within view of the farmhouse, he could see two people standing on the front porch and talking. A man in a cowboy hat was chatting up Hobbs’ wife. Ed couldn’t make out who it was, but he didn’t know the man. A cowboy getup stuck out like a sore thumb here in Massachusetts. He damn sure didn’t know any cowboys.
Temperance Hobbs was holding out a glass of apple cider and looking on in a daze. The cowboy was swinging his arms around wildly as he spoke, almost knocking the glass out of her hand with every gesture. As the men approached the front porch steps, the cowboy turned to greet the new arrivals.
“You must be the calvary,” said the cowboy.
“Ed Thompson,” he replied, and stuck out his hand.
They shook. Hobbs came lumbering up the steps a few seconds later, huffing and puffing as he caught his breath.
“And you must be the veritable Mr. Hobbs,” the cowboy offered.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Hobbs said, giving one firm pump.
“What’s going on here?” Ed chimed in.
“If you’re asking what brought me around these parts in the middle of the night,” said the cowboy, “well, I was just fixing to tell Mrs. Hobbs here. It’s like I was saying, I was out walking in the woods—”
“The gunshots,” Ed cut in. “Did you hear them?”
“Let the boy speak,” said Temperance.
“I’ll let him speak when I know where those gunshots came from.”
“You don’t understand, mister,” the cowboy said.
“Don’t understand what?”
“I fired those shots,” the cowboy replied.
Ed paused and looked him up and down.
“I killed it,” said the cowboy. He leaned in towards the group, so close they could smell chewing tobacco and whiskey on his breath.
“I killed the monster.”
Ed turned to Hobbs.
“Can we go inside?” he asked.
Hobbs looked at his wife and asked permission with his eyes.
She nodded.
“But of course,” Hobbs answered.
The foursome went inside and set up inside the sitting room.
Mrs. Hobbs poured them each a glass of cider.
“Thank you, Temperance,” Hobbs said to his wife, gesturing towards the kitchen door. She shook her head no. He gestured again, this time with his thumb, and she shook again. Finally, she had enough of the pantomime.
“If you think I’m not sticking around to hear the end of this,” she said, “you’ve got another thing coming.”
“So be it,” said Hobbs, turning back to the cowboy.
“Go ahead, son.”
The cowboy tilted back the glass of cloudy brown liquid and drained it in one long pull.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “If that isn’t the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“Best cider around,” chimed in Temperance, beaming. “And if you think that’s tasty, you should try my dumplings.”
“I’d like that,” he said, placing his glass down on the table next to him. He noticed a small porcelain ashtray.
“May I smoke?” he asked, looking at Hobbs.
Hobbs looked at his wife.
“You may,” she replied.
As he pulled out his pouch of tobacco and rolled a smoke, Ed looked him over closely. The cowboy was squirming as he settled down in the easy chair, looking uncomfortable amongst the lace doilies and throw pillows of the formal sitting room. Something was all over the sleeve of his coat. Dried now, but easily visible against the blue denim. Dark splotches. More on his boots, splattered like ink on parchment. Whatever tale cowboy had to tell, he wasn’t bluffing. Something died in those woods.
The cowboy lit his smoke and took a drag.
He cleared his throat.
He began.
“So,” he said, “I was taking a walk through the woods, up behind the dairy farm. I’m staying there with relatives. Do you know it, the little farm up there on the hill? Big old barn?”
“Don’t bury the lede, boy,” snapped Ed. “get to the gunshot.”
“You Yankee boys sure are in a rush up here, aren’t you?”
He took a drag on his smoke and eyeballed Ed.
“I’ll get there, mister, in my own time. Let me tell it.”
The cowboy knew a captive audience when he saw one.
Ed kept his mouth shut.
“So, I’m having a smoke, minding my own business, when I hear something rustling around in the woods. At first, I assume it’s an animal. Maybe a rutting buck out looking for a mate. I shoulder my rifle and I’m a-looking out into the woods, listening to the branches crackle. Waiting. When the sound stops, I start creeping through the woods, slow as molasses, holding the rifle steady and waiting to see the whites of its eyes.”
The cowboy mimed holding his rifle.
“And just then… I see something moving in the brush.”
“What did you see?” Temperance squealed. She was leaning forward in her chair and chewing on her fingernails.
“Pipe down, woman!” Hobbs yelled.
“You pipe down,” she threw back. “You old coot.”
“Sorry boy,” Hobbs said. “Continue.”
“So,” he continued. “There I am. Gun at the ready. Trigger finger in the kill position. Sweat dripping down my forehead. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled, and I picked my head up for just a second. And right at that very moment, something came charging out of the woods. At first, I couldn’t see it in the darkness. Then the moonlight hit it. I nearly died on the spot.”
“The devil!” shouted Temperance. “I saw it too!”
“Maybe it was the devil,” the cowboy mused, taking another drag of his cigarette, “or something touched by the devil, at the very least.”
“Enough of this devil talk!” Hobbs challenged.
“It was the devil,” his wife shot back.
“The devil,” said Hobbs, shaking his head. “Poppycock. How do you know it was the devil? Not some beast? Or some abomination of man? Why reach into the fantasy books instead of the science books? Have you any idea of the breadth of nature?”
Temperance glared at her husband.
The cowboy spoke up.
“I don’t mean to get between husband and wife,” he said, “but this thing was no man, that’s for sure. It wasn’t like any beast or creature or fairy tale or anything on god’s green earth. But my mama taught me when I was just a whipper that the devil takes many shapes. Walks the earth in different forms. Appears as different things to different people. So, it stands to reason that, well, the lady saw what she saw. And my eyes couldn’t place it neither. That’s all I’m saying…”
He trailed off and nodded at Mrs. Hobbs, then sat back and took a puff on his cigarette. Temperance crossed her arms over her chest and nodded back decisively, as if to say and that’s the end of that matter.
“What did it look like?” Ed asked.
“The creature was on all fours, but when it came at me, it stood upright like a man. It was covered in thick black scales, save for some lumpy patches that looked dry and cracked like stones in the desert. Sores running up and down its back. They oozed with pus, so vile that even a single drop looked deadly enough to stop a man’s heart. Eyes black as coal.”
“What did you do?” she squealed.
“I did what had to be done.”
He mimed pulling the trigger.
Then he pointed his imaginary gun down towards the ground.
He pulled the trigger again.
That explained the mess on his boots.
The group all looked down at the ground.
They nodded solemnly.
The cowboy pulled something out of his pocket.
He placed it on the coffee table, and the group leaned in to look.
A small cornhusk doll, tied with twine.
The same one Faith with fidgeting with as she drank her tea.
The same one Hope was clutching under the table in the root cellar.
“There’s more,” said the cowboy.
All three heads snapped up at once.
“There’s a house out there. Smoke coming from the chimney. A horrid smell drifting through the pines. The smell of death. Worse than a Texas slaughterhouse on the hottest day of summer. Whatever that creature was, there might be more of them.”
They looked at each other.
“I came to get a few good men together,” said the cowboy.
He looked at the men sitting in front of him.
“Any of those around?” he said.
“Hold on, hold on,” said Hobbs. “What are you suggesting here?”
“That we take care of things,” said the cowboy.
“It sounds like you want to form a mob, pitchforks and all,” said Hobbs.
“Not pitchforks,” said Ed, slamming the butt of his rifle on the ground with a heavy THUNK.
“I say we burn it down,” said the cowboy, “unless y’all have a better idea.”
“What if there are people inside?” Hobbs insisted.
“Demons aren’t people,” Temperance said, turning to her husband. “Evil hath no place here. And if you don’t help these men, you don’t either.”
She walked out of the room and into the kitchen. Hobbs dropped his head into his hands and held it as if it might fall and tumble across the floor. His wife had said her piece and left the room. That meant it was settled in her eyes. There was nothing left for him to do but give in. He’d lost too many battles over the years. She’d won the war.
“Well, I’ve got my marching orders,” Hobbs said.
“Suppose I’m in.”
“That makes two of us,” said Ed, getting to his feet.
“The Three Musketeers,” said the cowboy, standing up next to Ed.
“Four,” came a voice from the kitchen.
Temperance emerged with a large meat cleaver.
“You’ll do no such thing, woman!” shouted Hobbes at his wife.
“Just try to stop me, dear,” she said, twirling the cleaver in her fingers. “I’ll show you how the business end of this works.”
“Anyone who can handle a knife like that is okay in my book,” the cowboy said. “Suppose that makes four.”
“Five,” came a small voice from the front porch.
“Faith?” said Ed. “What do you think you’re doing here?”
“I’m coming, Ed. If there really is evil in those woods, I want to be rid of it, once and for all. End of story.”
“Where’s our daughter?”
“She’s fast asleep,” she said, “I let Buster inside to stand guard.”
“Goddamn dog better not be sleeping in my bed,” Ed muttered.
He turned to the group.
“Five.”
“The more the merrier,” said the cowboy, picking up his rifle from its spot leaning against the fireplace. He examined the ragtag group in front of him. Two rifles and a meat cleaver, leaving two to carry torches. They couldn’t defend the Alamo, but enough for the task at hand.
“Okay ramblers,” the cowboy said.
“Let’s get rambling.”
A few hours later, the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. The group was on their way back, having done what they set out into the woods to do. Their faces looked different now, and not just because of the light of the moon had started to wane and dawn was breaking over the horizon. They looked pale. Pallid. Almost as if the lifeforce had been drained out of them. As if evil had won. They walked along the road next to the apple orchards, none of them talking. None of the nervous chatter or false bravado that had accompanied their sojourn into the woods. None of the jokes or sly remarks. None of the hushed whispers of what was to be. They walked along in absolute silence, listening to the rustle of the branches in the wind. The occasional thump as one of the apples got too big for its britches and gave way to the ground below.
Up ahead, they saw a single torch bobbing down the road.
“Who goes there?” yelled Hobbs.
“Doctor Marvin!” an elderly voice called out.
Soon they could see him through the mist, a man bent over slightly at the waist, hustling towards them with some urgency. He had an odd limp about him, but it didn’t slow him down. He charged ahead at full speed, closing the distance between in a hurry. He was carrying his medical case.
“Morning folks,” he said.
“Morning,” Temperance said. “Already up doing the lord’s work, I see?”
“I go where I’m needed,” he said simply.
Hobbs gestured to the case. “House call?”
“Out into the woods,” he said. “A bit of a hike.”
“The woods?” she asked.
“Yes,” the doctor replied. “There’s a family living out there.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, a family,” the doctor said. “The husband has leprosy. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s such an advanced case, his entire body is covered in granulomas, so thick in places it looks like lizard scales. His eyes so bloodshot, they appear dark crimson, almost black. His skin so prone to lesions that he has a line of sores up and down his back that are constantly getting infected.”
A moment passed.
Nobody spoke.
“They’re from Haiti,” he continued. “They don’t speak a lick of English, only Haitian Creole. I don’t speak much French, so initially it was impossible to communicate. But then I found a man in town who can parlez-vous a little français, and we figured out how to communicate adequately. I helped them get some materials and build a little house out there. They skin goats for money and sell them in town. You should smell the place, it’s devastating. Worse than a tannery. And not easy work, believe me. Gutting animals all day, hearing their screams, going home covered in blood. Still, their circumstances have improved dramatically. In their home country, the husband was seen as a monster. Can you believe that? An evil spirit. They still believe in voodoo over there.”
“Voodoo?”
“Yes,” he said, reaching into his pocket.
He handed her something.
“They make these and place them throughout the forest.”
A small cornhusk doll.
“For good luck,” he explained. “They’re supposed to watch over the woods. Protect the family from evil spirits.”
Temperance turned it over and over in her hands.
“Well, I must be going,” said the doctor.
“Good day to you all.”
He tipped his cap and went on his way.
A few seconds later, he came scurrying back the group.
“Did you folks see that?” he said, pointing back in the direction from which they had come. “There, over the horizon?”
They turned and saw a thick plume of smoke rising into the sky.
“They’re on fire!” he exclaimed. “The woods are on fire! We must go help this family, help them escape the flames. Please, come with me!”
Nobody moved.
“We have to help them,” the doctor pleaded, “they have children!”
Still, nobody moved.
“Oh, dear god,” the doctor said, grabbing Temperance by the shoulders and shaking her. “It smells like burning hair. We may already be too late.”
Behind them, Ed raised his rifle.
“Don’t you smell it, woman?” asked the doctor.
Ed pointed the rifle at the cowboy’s head.
“What are you smiling at?” the doctor said.
He pulled the trigger.
THE END.
