Paul Grimsby, the Trapper

  They arrived after two days’ ride, just before blue twilight, at Kamen's Gulch, a place long abandoned after the Shift nearly tore it from the Red Mesa. Many bodies from local settlements had been brought here to be burned, tossed down the Kamen mines in order to stave off the plague. Smoke still billowed from the former mine’s entrance, making the jagged gulch a death trap to navigate with all the gray smoke. Ancient Plague Doctors are rumored to still carry out their dark mercy, ensuring the bodies of the burned do not return to stalk the living. This process creates the dreaded night hunter: the feared Creeper.

  Corris and Kaplan weaved their steeds on sure ground, stopping at the edge of the gulch.

  "Please tell me you aren't going in there to track him down?" Kaplan asked.

  “How else am I going to get him out? Asking him nicely?” Corris snapped.

  Kaplan wiped the sweat from her brow with her sleeve, watching the horizon for smoke trails. Being this wide open, an ambush would be easy to spot. Corris dismounted his gear steed. Mechanical gears ground together, expelling red dust from its clockwork innards.

  Corris traced the steps Paul took. It wasn't hard; the crucifix with fresh corpses was a clear enough sign. Tracking Paul Grimsby wasn't going to be easy. In the gulch. The man had a lifetime to learn how to hide his coming and goings, leaving a trail so faint the rain had nothing to wash away. He was following a wind pattern he felt against his face—a small curse. He used a broken twig to move aside desiccated grass, looking for the drag marks Paul had carefully hidden from years of family training. Training against human targets only. Jed Grimsby, the patriarch, wasn't a kind man. He operated solely on the opposite extreme of loving parental care. Abuse, hardship, agony, and attrition became the hallmark of the Grimsby family.

  They are men outside of society, exiled for their barbaric predilections. Cannibalism. Their preferred meat of choice. Their haunting reputation kept people at a wide berth. Today, Corris was the hunter on Paul's own ground. He had a rule for this kind of thing:

  Rule number 6: Fight them where they are comfortable.

  Paul Jacob had spent the past 34 years transforming his surroundings into weapons. A cracked tree? Not hardly. A nature-made slingshot of vines with a stone broadhead that would split a man's head in two. Human footprints heading in the opposite direction? Unlikely, when Corris could track them to a pack of hungry wolves by following the disguised paw prints. Everyone was at his mercy when walking on his land. Paul had become an apex predator in his domain. Now Corris came to challenge his crown.

  Wind blasted through the jagged walls of the gulch. The abandoned mines wailed like an ancient church organ played by the Reaper himself. Thunder vibrated the barren trees, startling the vultures that perched, watching for the next poor soul strung up by one of Paul's vile traps. I will feed them before night's end. But for now, it was time to inform Kaplan of his plan.

  "We're gonna do what? Did the sun cook your brain? We aren't gonna take Paul Grimsby down on his own ground?" Kaplan demanded.

  "It's not his to own. And I never said 'we.' I ain't French."

  “You arrogant bastard. You're gonna get us both killed.”

  "No, because you are my safety valve. You're the best shot the Judge has to offer, correct? A bona fide Billy Trigger? Well, now it's time for you to prove it. Watch my back from up in that tree. The one the king vulture is reigning from."

  Corris pointed to the tall, dead husk of a tree where a large vulture fanned its large wings. Its branches twisted in the form of a cross. Skeletons swung lazily in the harsh wind.

  "And if he comes after me first? I will be a sitting duck up there. He uses a bow like a butcher uses a blade."

  “Let me stop you there.” Corris cupped his hands together, standing at the edge of the gulch.

  “I am going to call Paul out. Then if I am unable to take him down it will fall to you Billy Trigger.”

  “What kind of plan is that? That doesn't…”

  “It what we have.”

  “Tell me you can take him down?”

  “I can take him down. But if I can't. It's on you Billy.”

  Kaplan moaned in frustration at this plan. Corris Lee told her to get up that tree. Snapping his fingers for her to be quick about it. Kaplan unfurled her cape to cover her in the tree. She climbed the husk like a jungle cat. The large vulture took flight after protesting with a screech.

  Before flapping away angry.

  Kaplan pulled her rifle from her back and checked her ammo. She cleaned off the long scope with her shirt. Then braces herself with an outstretched tree limb. Giving her steady aim. The heavy wind swayed the skeletal tree. Kaplan wrapped her legs around the tree limb to add extra stability. Then she waited.

  “PAUL JACOB GRIM! I'M COMING TO CLAIM YOUR CROWN OF BONES!"

  Birds emptied the entire gulch in a flutter from his challenge. Corris Lee wanted Paul to know he was here for what Paul held precious. His fearsome reputation. He had terrorized the locals for nearly a decade with no one being able to track the monster among men. Paul Jacob had just enough religion to be miserable. His father wasn't satisfied until hate became Paul's milk—his sword and shield.

  "You now want to antagonize him? You are insane." Kaplan said to herself. Her scope sweeping back forth across the gulch’s wide sight lines.

  "CORRIS? CORRIS LEE, IS THAT YOU?" Paul Jacob hollered back. The wind carried his message.

  Corris Lee looked back at Kaplan as she muscled her way up the symbolic tree for a better vantage point. She looked back at him with a growl in her mouth. "YEEAH!"

  "I AIN'T DID YOUR BLOOD NOTHIN! WHY YOU HERE FOR ME?"

  "I TOLD YOU WHY! I WANT YOUR CROWN!"

  "COME ON THEN, CORRIS LEE! I'M WAITIN' FOR YA!"

  Corris stretched his arms before descending into the tight gulch. Lightning cast sickly shadows from the crude rock formations from fissures that burst from the earth. The blue glow of twilight began to cover the land as the gibbous moon shone its brilliance.

  Pebbles randomly tumbled down, startling all manner of creature coming out of their dug holes. The night always beckoned to its own children. A call for their instincts to be tested against being both prey and predator. Survival of the fittest started in man but is recognized most in the animal Man has yet to be usurped. Man is the only animal out of balance with the world. Our temptations have appetites all their own. Paul Jacob and Corris understood those tastes well. Man flesh, the dish best served as you conquered it. To the victor goes the spoils.

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  Each footstep Corris took was carefully measured. He shifted his weight when he spotted a hangnail tripline—a classic trap used to fishhook a man in the jaw using a rock and makeshift twine. The victim wouldn't hang very long, of course. He would be at the mercy of the trapper to decide his fate. Ten yards up ahead, Corris came across a recent rock slide. Recent, as in it was made to appear that way. This is a Rabbit's Hat Trick. Not easy to make, but it yielded solid results if you needed to bring a bull down. Step wrong when crossing, and you could guarantee a dislocated hip, ruptured knee, snapped leg and a broken ankle as the rocks beneath shifted.

  If you were lucky. The worse was if the trapper was feeling cruel. That is what Corris found 20 yards ahead.

  The Magician's Hat Trick. Simple enough to rig but not very easy to trigger. Paul Jacob rigged this device to trap a man's arm if he braced against a rock wall for balance. The minute the man leaned to balance himself: Snap. Rocks would collapse in, pinning him. Jagged rocks would shred his arm to flank steak. Blood would draw the local wildlife in for an easy meal. A wicked way to go.

  "WHY YOU AFTA ME? I AIN'T BLED ANY OF YOUR KIN!"

  "ASHER! ASHER'S MY KIN!"

  Thunder roared through the gulch, shaking rocks loose, causing mini rock slides to make their way in the crevices. Corris's pathway was growing more and more dangerous. Paul Jacob was skilled, Corris gave him that.

  "YOU WORKIN' FOR THE JUDGE? THAT DOESN'T SOUND LIKE THE CORRIS LEE I KNOW!"

  "SURPRISED ME TOO BROTHER!"

  Thunder and lightning filled the sky.

  "NIGGERS AND WHITES AREN'T THE SAME! YOUR SKIN DON'T MATCH MINE!"

  "HALLELUJAH, THERE IS A GOD!"

  In the cross-like tree, jagged lightning bolts struck in the distance, briefly highlighting the entire landscape, followed by the slow build of hot rain, slowly thumping against the dried ground, quenching the thirst of the firmament from months of drought. Kaplan counted between the sounds of thunder to gauge its distance. Paying close attention to the ground beneath her, she hissed to herself.

  "I'm a sitting duck if I stay in this tree," Kaplan said to herself. The next lightning bolts spider-webbed the entire sky, blanketing it in a dazzling display near sunlight brightness. She smiled when she noticed her shadow didn't cast during the three-second cascade. "Who are you, Corris Lee Carson?" she thought to herself while scoping out Carson, scanning for the direction of the elusive Paul Jacob. Elusive was an understatement for her but Corris Lee clearly knew where Paul had walked on the gulch floor.

  "WHEN DID YOU START DEFENDING WHITE FOLKS?"

  "THE SAME TIME WHEN YOU HURT THAT BOY!"

  "ASHER? ASHER NAGY? HE AIN'T NO BOY NO MORE!"

  Thunder boomed again, closer this time. Rocks fell with more frequency with the storm's thunderous boom. Kaplan moved in slow, incremental movements, scrutinizing the shadows for sign of their hidden hunter. Kaplan had felt fear before. She grew fond of its warnings that had spared her from the fate many in the Judge's employ hadn't. But this fear possessed different teeth. Kaplan had never hunted a man of the caliber of a Paul Jacob Grimsby. He had skinned nine of the Judge's men in their homes once as revenge for his grandfather Jed Grimsby’s incarceration. That sparked a blood feud that had grown more than personal. Young Asher was caught in the middle. They all were.

  "CORRIS YOU OUT THERE? TALK TO ME, BOY!"

  Paul Jacob wiped the rain running through his beard from his face. His trapper's hat diverted most of the water from his eyes. If he couldn't see, he was a dead man. Using his looking glass, he lost sight of the familiar outline of the man stalking him. Movement to his left caught his attention. Corris Lee slunk through the rock spaces, careful not to give away his position. Adjusting his gun sight, Paul Jacob lost him again.

  "CORRIS? YOU OUT THERE, BOY?"

  "I WANT THAT CROWN, PAUL!"

  Grimsby took the shot. Ricocheting off a rock, sending the round whizzing by Corris Lee’s cheek. Corris listened for the cartridge ejecting and moved. A second shot careened near his ear, hitting a dead tree, splitting it in half with an audible crunch. He listened again for the brass casing to land near Paul Jacob's position. When he did, he cleared the gap in the tight crevice, landing on its edge. Paul didn't shoot. Thunder vibrated the rocks near Corris. That wouldn't spook him. No, Paul Jacob was patient.

  Corris got the scent of Paul's rancid body odor and wool. A distraction. A lure to get Corris to follow it. He went the opposite direction behind another tall formation of rocks, creating good cover. If it wasn't booby-trapped. It was. A Tow Line, a classic trap that loops twine around the unsuspecting target, dragging them across jagged rocks, skinning the victim's chest on the way up the rock face to bleed out.

  "CORRIS, THIS FIGHT AIN'T GOT NOTHIN' TA DO WIT YOU! IT'S A FAIR BLOOD FEUD!"

  Paul Jacob shot again. This time the rifle report was louder, with more punch. Sniffing the air gave Corris more information. Paul packed his own rounds. Dumb bastard rushed making that. He used a Lucky 13 Lever Action rifle. The spur-like sound, the hammer made when striking the primer rang like a spur—very distinct, unmistakable. In the hands of a shootist, it could drop a man from some impossible max ranges if the wind and luck were on their side. Paul Jacob was a good shooter, Corris thought. Not great. Otherwise, he could have easily hit him at least once.

  "DID YOU BRING HELP? HAHA, THE CORRIS LEE NEEDED A WOMAN TO BACK HIM..."

  The thunderous shot cracked a rock edge, splintering stone fragments in a fine dust plume. Corris's ears twitched. Rustling. Scrambling to his feet, Kaplan found him. Billy Trigger indeed. Corris sprinted the crevice, hurtling rocks, clearing cactuses, and running into an old caravan. Buried by time and dirt, the wood was brittle as crackers. It wouldn't make good cover. The glint of a scope came from his right.

  “I’M COMING PAUL!”

  Adrenaline exploded through his body.

  His muscles burned from his boots digging into the soil, using the forming mud as leverage to propel him further. His nerves fired as the world around him became a blur. The downside of adrenaline is the tunnel vision. Praise God, Paul Jacob was just a good shot. Close quarters was his forte. It happened to be Corris's as well. Paul must have read his mind. Corris could hear the ching of the hammer, the shot, and the brass casing clang on the ground from Paul Jacob's position, missing him by inches. Each shot was getting closer and closer to the mark.

  The rapid thump of Corris's heartbeat pushed him forward to the coming turn. There was his cover. He dove when a bullet whistled past his ear, sliding under an abandoned iron carriage skeleton. The dust trail provided excellent cover. The flickering tattered canopy would give Paul hell in trying to find him. The precious sound of rain evened the odds some, with Corris being nearly out in the open. Paul Jacob would need to contend with the weather, and his visibility would become next to zero. The hissing sizzle of nature's water cooled the Kamen's Gulch, filling the area in steam and brutal humidity. Long scopes would fog if Paul Jacob was in the crevice with Corris. Kaplan had the advantage of height.

  "CORRIS? YA STUBBORN SON OF BITCH! WALK AWAY!"

  ”Crack.” The sound of Kaplan's rifle tore through the gulch, hitting a jutting ledge with a dead tree leaning into the crevice below. Paul Jacob gave up his position when he called out. If the man had a bit more patience, he would still have a functioning rifle. Kaplan's shot was brilliant. A single round obliterated the cartridge breach, rendering the lever action useless.

  Paul Jacob flinched from the striking pain radiating through his hand. The combination of his sudden movement and heavy rain caused him to lose footing, sending him down the jagged walls with mud and rock adding to his momentum. With a loud smack, Paul Jacob came to rest against an old iron wagon wheel, half-buried, consumed by years of terrible rain and mud the Red Mesa is known for.

  Dizzy, the trapper shook his head from side to side, trying his best to clear the fog from his vision. He understood where he landed. Flipping his wet hair back, Paul Jacob stared at the iron skeleton of the carriage. The same one Corris Lee took cover in.

  "CORRIS LEE? YOU ALIVE, BOY? YOU BROUGHT BACKUP. YOU YELLOW-BELLIED COWARD! YOU SCARED TO FACE ME LIKE A MAN!"

  Paul Jacob yelled out, his hand on his Buck Knife, easing it out of his holster. Water ran down his face, a constant annoyance as he kept his eyes trained on the iron frame. His adrenaline spiked. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. Paul Jacob prepared himself. Only one of them would be walking away from this fight, and they both would see to that.

  "Why are you yelling?" Corris Lee finally answered.

  This is where Paul Jacob thrived, in his element. He had the perfect vantage point. He had Corris dead to rights. But Kaplan now had Paul Jacob in her sights. One shot is all it would take with the ammo she was using. Then Kaplan would put a thumb-sized hole through the man's skull. A trade-off Corris Lee refused to accept. So Corris waited it out. The twilight blue finally enveloped the whole region in a matter of minutes. The moon made their world take on the appearance being submerged under water. Shadows darkened impossibly black, and they were dense. Seemingly alive. Pulsing with a strange life of their own.

  This Mexican standoff couldn't hold for long. Something would have to give.

  Marshal Gary Evans and his deputies tried to use patience to root out Paul Jacob when they thought they had him trapped the Rockies. They hunkered down thinking they could flush out the Trapper the elements and superior firepower on their side. The suffering each of those men experienced is what catapulted Paul Jacob to to his ferocious reputation. Eight men. Trapped. Skinned and dismembered. All for consumption. Paul Jacob lived on those men's meat for months as he evaded law enforcement and bounty hunters. When it was settled Paul Jacob had left over thirteen men butchered. Their bones hung and strung on the trees as a warning. There is no waiting out Paul Jacob. It just ticks the death clock in his favor.