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-- OR -- Frank Moulton, prospector, traveller, and man of leisure, can also be seen in these previous issues of Electro-Graphic Monthly courtesy of his literary agent Brad Keefauver: February
2004 . . . |
A
Letter from Frank Moulton The Dark
Lantern League Clubrooms Fellow League members, Living in this great big town of London, I don't know if my good League friends can fully appreciate just how dark a night can get in the lonely expanses of Colorado or New Mexico . . . or how far from science and civilization those nights can get as well. I've heard talk of Dartmoor and its denizens, but let me tell you: there's worse things in the American West than big ol' dogs. I remember one night on the great downhill ride from Pueblo to Santa Fe, me and a couple fellows named Jimjohn and O'Rico had settled down to campfire. We were miles and miles and more miles from any town or settlement, and the night was quiet . . . quiet like it gets when nothing bigger than a prairie dog is crawling around and there's no weather at all, other than a cloud that just seems to want to stick itself in front of the moon. It was so quiet, in fact, that when this big grinning fellow comes walking out of the night and up to our fire, two of the three of us quick had a weapon pointed at him, just because not a one of us heard this joker before the fireplight caught him. He said his name was German Smith. He seemed harmless enough, and we gave him some coffee. He hadn't come by horse, and yet all he could talk about was a cathouse he had just been at where the women were something special. The madame that ran the place, a lady name of Madame Quixtla, seemed to have caught his fancy. It was a plain and ordinary enough thing for a travelling man to talk about, but this fellow's eyes were a little too wide with excitement about the whole thing. Our horses seemed nervous about him, and Rico did his best to calm them. Smith giggled as he talked, going on about how his Madame Quixtla had come from some isolated area of Peru known for its beauties. He got more and more excited, until all at once, he rushes Jimjohn and just shoves him out into the darkness, before O'Rico or I could do a thing. Outside of the campfire's light was a pitch blackness we could do no good in, and as we considered our options, the screaming started, far off to the East. It didn't last long, and O'Rico and I figured it best to look out for our own interests at that point. Guns and knives in hand, we stood back to back next to the fire until we couldn't stand, then sat back to back until the sun came over the horizon. We took the horses and rode toward that sun, eventually finding JimJohn. Well, what was left of Jimjohn, anyway. No gun or knife had been used in ending our companion's life, and beyond that, I'd rather not go into details. "Chupa cabra," O'Rico breathed, words I had never heard before and hope to never hear again. We covered him as best we could with dirt and stones, and went on our way. And that's all I have to say about the subject at hand. Make of it what you will. Vaya con
dios, |
