The Cave Of The Skull by John Engle

The Cave Of The Skull by John Engle

The early October air swept down the mountains of Wyoming, bringing with it a chill that seeped into the skin and clung to the bones. Tom McConnell tried to shrug off the morning frost, but it hung on his old, haggard body like a lead weight. He pulled his dusty coat tighter around his body and tugged his faded hat down further over his long, dirty hair. Even his horse let forth a whinny of complaint as her breath turned to mist in the cold air. Tom grunted in response. The winter snow would not be kind to him this year, he thought.

They wandered along a frosty road, meandering aimlessly alongside the Rockies as if too afraid to venture inward. They had been following this road for God only knew how long in Tom’s mind, and it seemed to continue on forever, sometimes flirting with the mountains, sometimes passing through quiet settlements or the leftover bones of the white man’s civilization.

Tom had grown a short, tired beard, as grey as the face behind it. He felt the coarse hairs ruffling through his fingers as he rubbed his chin and silently resolved to shave at the next outpost he found. He hoped to find one soon. As the days had stretched into nights fading into weeks, he had felt the unusual sensation of someone behind him, watching him dutifully, sizing him up. At times he had doubled-back, wondering if it was a wandering marauder, or some kind of animal stalking him. But despite the feeling, he never found his hunter, and each time he stopped, he inevitably turned and ventured further north, farther and farther from where he joined the road back in New Mexico.

Soon enough, he found his outpost. It was a quiet settlement, consisting of a makeshift barracks, a small provisioner, and a gutted earth lodge that was older than either. The buildings were poorly maintained, but Tom was happy enough to have shelter for the night. He dismounted and tied off his mare, wandering inside to take a look at what supplies were available. A bell on the door announced him. It was a small touch that reminded him of a faraway life before the war that caused him to abandon it.

He paid little notice to the bell as it rang again a few minutes later behind him, only casually passing a glance at the figure that had just arrived. The glance was followed by a second one as his mind processed what he had seen: a tall, well-built white man dressed in the style of a vaquero. He wore a plain sombrero and jacket, with twin Colt M1878s high up on his hips in cross-draw holsters and spurs that Tom typically only saw in border states like Texas. A third M1878 stuck out of his jacket at a slight angle. A shiny peso, shaped into a star, adorned his chest. The man had a horseshoe mustache that stood out from his stubbly, middle-aged face. He tipped his sombrero when he noticed Tom eying him. “Hola, neighbor,” was all he said before turning away.

Tom turned back to his provisions, questioning why a Texas Ranger would ride so far north. He’d heard of such cases before, like the capture of John Wesley Hardin in Florida in 1875. The man must have been on the hunt for some such personality, Tom thought as he reached for a bag of jerky. His hand brushed against another’s, and he yanked it back. The Ranger was standing next to him.

“Sorry, mister,” the Ranger said as he tipped his sombrero again. “I don’t presume to step between a man and his vittles.”

Tom stepped back, away from the jerky, and removed his dusty hat. “Please, begging your pardon, Ranger. I don’t presume to step between you and yours either.”

The mustachioed face broke into a grin. “A Ranger you say, eh? What gave it away, amigo?”

Tom blinked at the man standing before him in full Mexican cowhand dress but collected himself and pointed to the star. “That peso star you got there. It means one thing and one thing only.”

The Ranger laughed. “Guilty, fair and square. Sergeant Philip Braddock, of Lubbock, Texas, at your service.” Braddock gave a brief flourish of the arm and a small bow that amused Tom.

Tom stretched out his hand, and Braddock shook it firmly. “Tom McConnell, from someplace back east a long time ago. And you’re a long way from home. What brings you all the way out here?”

Braddock nodded. “Ah, a rebel, I’m guessing. That’s all right, Texas is full of them. And I’m up here on Ranger business. Truth be told, I’m hunting a fugitive. Got word down further south that he was out this way, and I’ve been on his trail ever since.”

A quizzical look spread across Tom’s face. “Further south? Hmm, I just came from there…” Tom noticed Braddock straightening himself up, his hands moving subtly to the center of his jacket, nearer to the third revolver than Tom liked. He asked, “So what did this feller do, anyway?”

“Shot a mayor a few months back,” Braddock replied. “It was at night, probably over a card game. Might even have been warranted too, considering the nature of the man, but his wife was none too pleased about it. But that’s what a trial is for. If I take him alive. Which I never do.” Braddock’s mouth twisted into a wry grin.

Tom’s mind flashed back to an evening three months previous when he’d had too much to drink. It hadn’t been over cards. A fat, dirty man with more liquor on his breath than sense in his head had bumped into him and fallen onto a nearby poker table. The game had cleared out, and the fat man had shouted at him and drawn his sidearm, so Tom ended him first. He had paid and left immediately, never enjoying the feeling of killing a man. Wandering was a form of penance and escape. But he hadn’t known the man was a married mayor.

Tom fixed his hat on his head, eying the intense glare of Braddock. “If I see him, I’ll be sure to let you know,” he mumbled and turned toward the door.

Braddock followed him outside to where their horses were tied side by side. “See to it that you do. But don’t you worry too much about it, I won’t need the help.” Tom looked over his shoulder in time to see Braddock’s stone face break into a grin. “The hunt is my favorite part.” Tom mounted without a reply and rode away to the sound of Braddock’s laughter. He didn’t look back over his shoulder in time to see Braddock shape his finger like a pistol and fire at his back.

He rode south, over roads he had previously trodden. His mare kicked dirt and left tracks, but he drove her on faster, knowing the full force of a Texas lawman would soon be breathing down his back. As the miles flew past, he searched in the growing dim for a dried ravine he had seen earlier that day which cut into the side of the hills and allowed easy access beyond their brush. Only as the sun’s rays dipped behind the mountains did he find it, and though the ground was treacherous, he pushed his horse as hard as he dared.

Hoofs clanged on rocks and struggled in the raw dirt. Tom knew Braddock would be able to find him. He forced the mare through the cut, up the hill. She grunted and struggled with the footing, her breath a mist that flew back in Tom’s face. Still he pushed her onward and upward, breaking free only when he felt they had put enough distance behind them. He needed a clearing or an outcropping, and he needed to find it before all of his light was gone. Already in the distant eastern sky behind him he could see night’s black shade drawing over the earth.

It was pure luck by which he stumbled across the clearing in untamed land. He leapt off his horse, tied her reins to a sturdy branch, and pulled off his gear swiftly to build a makeshift camp. He threw out his bedroll and packed it with pine straw into the loose outline of a body, hastily dug a shallow pit for a fire, and lit a small lantern. It was a poor diversion, done with obvious haste, but he hoped it would be enough. He climbed further up the hill to a small, rocky outcropping that surveyed the faux camp. Tom drew his pistol, a Gunfighter model Single Action Army, and waited for a fight in the cold, gray light of the waning half-moon.

An eternity passed. Perhaps it was only an hour. Tom said nothing and breathed into the collar of his coat to hide his breath. He felt his bare skin freeze as the temperature dropped and chilled the mountain air. He let his mind go blank, far beyond the reach of mortal men, beyond his bloody history and long gone happier days. Beyond the blood and the corpses of the rebellion and war, or the memories of the smile and caress of his wife now long gone. Only emptiness and death held his focus.

Something shuffled in the darkness. Nothing stirred in the camp; the mare had long since lain her body to rest. Tom did not strain to see or shuffle but held his position.

A rifle reported suddenly in the dark, the round sparking off a rock close to Tom’s position. In the flash he had enough time to see the silhouette of the sombrero on top of a man who grinned in his direction before drowning again in the darkness. “Poor trick, Tom! I’d heard you were a mite smarter than this!” Braddock’s voice mocked him from the darkness.

Tom froze in the dark, hoping Braddock was not entirely sure of his position and would give himself away again. He strained to listen in the dark and caught the sudden rush of footsteps just in time. He turned and rolled as a second rifle shot came from his side, impacting the dirt where he had been stretched out just a moment before. “Hell,” he grunted and fired a round off in Braddock’s direction as he jumped to his feet.

The shape of the Ranger’s sombrero became a darker blotch in the moonlight, and Tom saw it shift and twist as the man slung his Winchester and drew his M1878s. They were now only a few yards from each other, and Braddock unleashed Hell with both of his revolvers. Tom dove and swayed, ducking behind trees as bullets tore away bark and shattered their branches. Over the sound of gunfire, Tom could hear Braddock laughing and whooping, coming closer to him. The man had a hunger for blood that was more than a little unsettling.

Taking a chance, Tom pulled a hunting knife from his boot and bent his knees to pounce. Braddock’s footfalls were too heavy, and Tom realized the man had thrown caution to the wind. His boots and spurs impacted the hard ground, and Tom dove out of his cover and onto him with the knife held high. He landed on Braddock, but the Ranger linked a forearm beneath his and tried to push him away as they both twisted to bring up their revolvers. The pine straw that crunched beneath their feet slid away beneath them, and they tumbled down the hill and into the darkness below.

Tom pulled his arms to his chest, but a hard impact sent his knife and revolver spinning away from him. He landed flat on his back, pain running in a sharp wave down his spine. Slowly the world stopped spinning and came into view, and with a grunt he struggled to come to his knees and stand. Braddock was gone, but Tom could hear thrashing around in the distance and suspected he would soon return. He brought his hand to his head in the hopes the throb would subside and looked around.

The dull moonlight revealed he was standing in a cleft of earth with a small pool of water that ran into a stream. The stream flowed inward, toward the mountain, but disappeared into a rocky outcropping overgrown with vines. Tom reached out and pulled the draping of vines to the side, revealing a man-sized entrance to a cave. He peered into the inky black within and then glanced up to the top of the hole. A human skull framed the center of the entrance. Tom grimaced as he gazed at it. He glanced over his shoulder art the pool. A glint of moonlight attracted his eye, and he stepped over to find his Single Action Army lying on the pool’s bank. Tom scooped it up and checked to ensure it wasn’t damaged. Thankfully it was dry, and he rotated the cylinder to remove the spent cartridges.

In the distance, Braddock roared, “I’m coming for you, Tom! Damn it, I will get you!” Tom cocked his head to listen and examined the ground again for his knife but failed to see it. He leered warily at the cave entrance but decided to push through, using the barrel of the revolver to push the vines away as he stepped inside.

He wandered into a dark tunnel and hunkered himself to the floor. His outstretched hands felt mud and dirt between his fingers, intermixed with the occasional cold rock. His boot splashed into water, and Tom found the stream. He followed it down the tunnel and around a bend, which opened into a large cavern, lit by the ethereal greenish glow of a bioluminescent moss. The stream trickled along the edge of the cavern until it pooled into a much larger lake, which reflected the glow in strange dancing lines along the cavern ceiling. Large stalactites hung from the ceiling, accompanied by the occasionally drip into the lake. Rocks jutted from the floor at odd angles, casting pools of black shadows across the floor.

The glimmer provided enough light for Tom to orient himself, and he stood and wiped the mud from his hands. There were no signs of animals living in the cave, and his mind wandered briefly to the skull that had been mounted over the entrance. No signs of people were present either though, and Tom saw no sort of tracks save his own. His feet had left impressions in the mud, and he suspected Braddock would be able to track him if he was lucky enough to find the cave entrance. The Ranger seemed to have reveled in the violence he had caused. The thought turned Tom’s stomach.

There was a shuffling down the darkened tunnel that led to the entrance, and Tom wondered if he had been found. He sought for a place to hide and settled into the shelter of a larger rock. Though he kept his revolver in his hand, he worried that firing it would echo in the cavern and deafen him. But nothing much else could be done. Again he found himself clearing his mind for the coming fight.

It was when he cleared his mind that he noticed a new sensation. Beyond the repetitive slow drip into the lake and the trickle of water, he felt a gentle breeze on his cheek. Air flowed from the shadows across the cavern wall beside him, and stretching out his hand, Tom realized that what he had suspected to be rock was instead another hidden tunnel. He leaned forward and pushed himself into it, crawling into the darkness and once more feeling his way with his hands. The dirt and mud between his fingers gave way to uniform rock, and he turned and twisted as the tunnel wall guided him down.

His fingers detected subtle ridges in the rock forming into a uniform grid. The air continued to flow up, and occasionally he inhaled a subtle whiff of smoke, as if from a distant fire. The tunnel grew warmer the further he crawled, and he wondered how far he had gone. Braddock was most likely searching for him in the cavern far above, he thought. He halted for a moment, cocking his head and listening behind him. Only silence greeted him, and Tom quietly wondered if Braddock would find the tunnel and was stealthily slinking down behind him, a knife ready in the dark. Or worse, Braddock was long gone, and Tom had instead doomed himself by crawling into the black abyss with no supplies whatsoever. He realized he was holding his breath and exhaled as loudly as he dared. Another breath, another fragrant hint of smoke. Something was burning beneath him.

He forced himself ahead again, following the tunnel wall and the crevices in the rock. It was a path of some kind it seemed to him, as if someone had shaped the stone into the tiles of a walkway. He found the thought somehow disturbing, and his mind returned to the dull shine of the skull in the moonlight over the cavern’s entrance. Whoever or whatever lived within, he dreaded to meet.

But the cave air grew sweeter despite its stuffiness. Instead of the smells of moisture, dirt, and rot that he expected, he suddenly found himself detecting elements of sage and cedar within the smoke that he could now taste. And below him, Tom spied the slightest glimpse of light. His pace slowed, and he crawled as silently as he could manage down the tunnel. Steadily his way grew brighter, and he wondered if he had somehow found a way outside and it was now day. But the light was too yellow for the sun, and he realized it must be the fire he could smell.

Tom moved on hands and knees to a round opening and found himself in a massive room. It was no longer a cavern, as the walls and floor had been worked and shaped with hands Tom could only assume were human. Beneath his feet the stone was carved into an intricate pattern of lines directing the eye to a massive brazier set into the floor, where a glowing fire raged that lit the room. Large bundles of tobacco sage, mint, cedar, and other fragrant woods and plants burned in the brazier, and the smoke lifted into the air and entered a hollowed space in the high ceiling, disappearing off somewhere into the caverns beyond to dissipate. The walls were lined with mosaics of men with animal features fighting, hunting, and offering sacrifices on spiked mountain tops. Columns carved in the shapes of animal heads jutted from the walls in orderly rows toward the far wall.

There was a sense of faded grandeur that left Tom in a state of awe, and he unconsciously removed his hat and crumpled the rim as he looked about. Silently he wondered if any man had set foot in the ancient hall for a thousand years, but the fire seemed recently fed. Someone must have gathered the materials, but whom?

He turned his attention to the far wall and struggled to suppress a shudder. For all of the grand and vivid imagery of the hall, none of it compared to the sculpture which sat at the end. The body was that of a powerful and well-built man, clothed only in a loincloth and resting on a bench in a pose of meditation. Across his knees rested a large and ancient weapon, a wooden sword lined with black jagged rocks. But the head of the man filled Tom with revulsion, for instead of a man, it was that of a grizzly bear. His eyes were closed, and his mouth hid his fangs, but there was a fierceness to the form that made Tom suspect he could spring to life at any time.

“My, what a magnificent sight this is.” Tom’s blood froze cold in his veins. He slowly donned his hat and turned back to the tunnel from whence he had crawled. Braddock now stood there, two revolvers draw, the third from inside his jacket missing. He had a large scratch running down the side of his face, caked with dried blood, and his sombrero was dirtied and misshapen. “Almost makes it worth the trouble it took just to crawl down that rat hole you found. Raise your hands, Tom, where I can see them.”

Tom stretched out his arms, slowly, and lifted them up, spreading his fingers to show he was not holding a weapon. “Figures you’d follow me. You’re like a bloodhound, and a tough one at that.”

“That I am, Tom. Best I can be. Makes good work for the Rangers, and I certainly enjoy the hunt, amigo. Texas likes a man who is comfortable with killing. Now, I figured with what I was told about you that I’d have to take you dead. I’d prefer it that way, but if you prefer a hangman’s noose to a gun, I suppose I can oblige.” Braddock curved his wounded face into a smile, though the effort pained him a little.

Tom’s response was terse. “No thanks, I don’t much fancy dying on another man’s terms.”

Braddock nodded. “That’s the spirit. You’re a brave man, Tom. Old and beat, but brave.”

“I ain’t brave. Courage is something that left me back in the South long ago,” Tom muttered with a sneer.

Braddock grunted and spat. “Hell.” He tilted his head to the side to stare at Tom and then shook it and smiled. “Yeah, just another wandering rebel with no idea what to do with himself but fight and kill. That’s fine, I don’t mind obliging the urge.” He slid one of his M1878s back into its holster and lowered the other. “Tom, you refuse to be captured, even with guns already on you, but you’re not arrogant. I like that. It’ll be a shame to have to kill a man like you, but a real honor too. Draw your weapon, and we’ll make this fair.”

Tom dropped his arms slowly but straightened himself up. “Now I got no intention to-“

“I said draw your weapon!” Braddock shouted and fired his revolver in Tom’s direction. Tom dove and rolled as swiftly as he could, aiming for the columns to provide him cover. He ducked behind them and made his way along the wall as Braddock squeezed off more shots after him. The ricocheting rounds sparked off the mosaics and the tiled floor, until Tom found himself at the foot of the sculpture he had found so grotesque just a few minutes earlier.

Braddock fired another shot with a shout and stepped on the far side of the sconce to reload. He ejected out the spent shell casings one by one and let them fall to the ground before sliding new rounds home in the cylinder. “Well Tom, I was being kind. Now, you gonna be a coward about this, or are you gonna fight?” He hopped up and pulled the trigger.

Tom dove to the ground as the round impacted on the sculpture. He rose to his feet steadily, an anger growing inside him. “I don’t want to kill a Texas Ranger, but if I have to…” Tom paused as he noticed Braddock’s attention was no longer on him. Behind him there was now a peculiar huffing sound, and Tom followed Braddock’s gaze to it. Where had sat a sculpture, now sat a creature of human form, and it made his anger at Braddock wilt and quiver. The bear-man loomed over him, his glossy eyes turning down to stare into his. He took the wooden sword in hand and stood. Tom backed away as swiftly as he dared, but the bear-man leaned forward and opened his jaws to roar in a long-dead language that caused the very foundations of the hall to quake.

The creature swung his sword at Tom, but Tom leapt backwards in time and fell on his back, rolling away and trying to draw his Single Action Army. Braddock hollered and fired, and the bear-man charged him with a howl. The beast cleared nearly half the room with a leap and raced after Braddock with his sword held high despite Braddock’s frantic firing.

As the creature bore down on him, Braddock finally managed to blast a round into his left shoulder. The creature bellowed with pain and let his arm fall limp to his side but swung the wooden sword with added ferocity. The tines of the sword caught the barrel of one of Braddock’s M1878 and wrenched it from his hand to fly off into the darkness. Braddock’s balance gave, and he crumpled to the floor just as the bear-man loomed over him with murderous intent in his glossy eyes.

As the bear-man raised his sword to hack away at Braddock’s body, Tom aimed and fired into his back. The bear-man howled again and clutched at his back while falling forward. Braddock pulled his other M1878 back and whipped it sideways into the bear-man’s knee and groin as hard as he could. The bear-man fell, and Braddock pushed himself out from under him and crawled away.

Tom moved over to the bear-man as he struggled to rise and stood behind him with his gun at the ready. The creature rose on one knee and looked back over his shoulder as his grizzly mouth opened and clenched with rage. He reached for the sword again in a flash, but Tom fired into his side as he twisted his body around. The sword flew at an odd angle and crashed into the large sconce with a ringing bang that caused the walls of the hall to shudder. The burning contents spilled across the floor, but a bundle of tobacco sage smacked into Tom’s leg, and the blaze caught on his coat. He slung off the burning garment as swiftly as he could, but suddenly the bear-man barreled into Tom’s gut with his shoulder, and they spilled to the floor.

Now on top of Tom, the bear-man’s hands grasped his face like a vice. Pain drilled into Tom’s skull as the bear-man’s fingers tightened like a vice. He flailed and tried to punch and beat at the muscular arms, but he lacked leverage, and the bear-man was oblivious to the pain of his many wounds. The pressure built, and Tom shouted but failed to hear himself over the ringing agony that wracked his skull. His vision faded to a milky white, and he failed to see Braddock’s shadow suddenly rise over the bear-man’s shoulder.

Braddock kicked the side of the bear-man’s head, and the vaquero spur caught the flesh of his shoulder and tore it open. The creature fell off Tom with a heavy thud, and Braddock emptied five rounds from his M1878 into the side of his head. With a yelp, the bear-man collapsed as his blood pooled around him and into the grooves between the tiles in the floor.

Braddock looked to Tom and put his pistol away. “What in Hell is this thing? Is it a man?”

“I’ve no idea. I thought it was just a statue.” Tom grimaced and rubbed his pounding head as he struggled to rise to his feet. He shook his head, but his vision doubled, and his head throbbed with renewed fury. He nearly collapsed, but Braddock grabbed his shoulder and held on.

“A living statue of a thing with a bear’s head, inside a mountain, with some strange kind of weapon,” Braddock said. “Damnedest thing I ever saw, and I’ve seen some strange things.”

Tom limped away from Braddock, toward his coat, but discovered it was still aflame and burned to ruin. He grunted with disgust but spotted his Single Action Army. He looked between it and Braddock, who stood beside it. Braddock followed his eyes and scooped up the revolver. “I can continue fighting you, if you like. But you’re in a sorry state for it. Tom, face it, I much as I’d love to kill you, you wouldn’t be any fun now. You’re gonna face justice in Texas.”

Tom spat. “Justice? For shooting a drunken bastard who drew his gun first, because his shrew of a wife is angry that I killed him? And after getting run down by a murderous bloodhound who likes his killing a mite more than he should?” He grabbed his head and shuddered.

Braddock waited for Tom to stop shaking and nodded. “That’s right, a murderous lawman is gonna take you back, amigo. Because I had to go catch a cantankerous old son of a bitch who probably gave a man what he deserved. Who has probably given a lot of men what they deserved, all things considered. Do this, Tom.” Braddock frowned and stared at him. “Go to Texas. I like the fighting, but I don’t rightly want to kill you now, not after us dealing with this thing.” He nudged the dead bear-man with his boot.

Tom swayed slowly and opened his mouth to answer, but a rumble deep in the mountain piqued his interest, and he held still and slowly cocked an ear to listen over the dull pulsing in his skull. From deep within the bowels of the earth, something seemed to shift and awaken.

Rock ground against rock at the far end of the hall, and Tom and Braddock turned in time to see the wall behind the stool where the bear-man had rested slide open. Out of the doorway beyond streamed forms and shapes, other men with animal heads, howling, barking, and whooping violently. All were clad in similar loincloths, and all were armed with the same ebony and wood swords that the bear-man had wielded.

“Hell, there’s no time,” Braddock shouted and grabbed Tom’s collar. The two men rushed toward the tunnel entrance they had climbed down and threw themselves into the darkness. They fumbled and tripped as they fought their way up, but the air steadily became less fragrant and more stagnant. The two burst into the ethereal glow of the cavern, but the sound of animalistic grunts and calls followed behind. Braddock pushed Tom forward despite his headache, and they soon found themselves at the mouth of the cave adorned with a skull.

Outside, the sun was rising over the eastern plains, and its warm glow shined through the trees despite the growing autumn chill. The two men burst forth through the vines that concealed the cave entrance and nearly fell into the small pool that fed into it. Behind them, the savage calls from within the bowels of the earth faded away and were replaced by the soothing sounds of a nature they were both familiar with.

Braddock turned and faced Tom. “Well, what’ll it be? Die here, or come with me to Texas?”

Tom wheezed and bent double to catch his breath. He winced as he fixed his hat on his head and rose slowly to look at the distant sun. His muscles ached with fatigue, his skin was worn and haggard, and pain coursed throughout his body. His heart beat like a Gatling in his chest, and the air pierced his bare flesh with a deeper chill that he could see as a mist when he exhaled. Yet despite the fatigue and the pain and the loss, he had to admit he did not feel like dying. He looked up at Braddock to speak.

As he opened his mouth, the vines were ripped aside, and hands reached out, grabbing Braddock and dragging him back into the cave. The man shouted and fumbled for his revolver as he vanished in the darkness. Tom backpedaled as gunfire echoed from within, lighting silhouettes that he could see in brief glimpses on the cave walls. There were howls of pain and fury. Tom forced himself to turn and run.

He returned to the fake camp he had setup as a trap. His horse was half frozen but alive. His things were mostly undisturbed from the fight the night before. He gathered his belongings as quickly as he could and wondered if he would ever see Braddock again. Probably not, Tom wondered. Probably he was already dead. But violent men die violently. Like Braddock. Like himself.

Tom shuddered at the thought and saddled his horse.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright John Engle 2025