The Man from Salem

Anthology Series

Armed with only his black Stetson and a pair of LeMat revolvers, the Man from Salem is a grizzled forlorn figure. Nobody knows his name and he prefers it that way. He travels across America, fighting devils, vampires, werewolves and other beasts that most people would prefer to pretend do not exist. He has a job to do and someone has to do it...

An anthology collection of Weird Western short fiction for fans of Charles Moffat's adventure stories.

EXCERPT

The Atchafalaya Basin is a home to giants.

Alligators, boars and other strange things that an unwary traveler may fall prey to when traversing the swamp alone. Such foul creatures stalk the waterways and pockets of dry land, shrouded by ancient trees that survive amongst the muck, that only a fool would travel through such a place on foot. Let alone late at night.

The sucking sound of mud on boots added to the deluge of noises in the twilight of the swamp. A narrow path made its way through the swamp, but the man from Salem, Massachusetts, was unbothered by the noises or the fading light of the sun in the west. What nocturnal creatures fed here, or during the day, didn't seem to bother him. Even the mosquitoes stayed out of his way.

The most dangerous creatures in this swamp were likely men after all. Thieves. Bank robbers. Murderers. From both west and east of Louisiana, it mattered not where they came from. There was a long list of outlaws who would seek refuge in such a place, braving the alligators rather than face the long arm of the law.

But the man from Salem was no law man. He was tall and well built, handsome even, despite the black beard and wavy black hair, with a lean waist and scars on his well muscled arms and hands. His piercing grey-blue eyes stared into the darkness, shrouded by the brim of his black stetson. How old he was was anyone's guess. Thirty? Forty? Fifty? There were touches of grey in his beard and hair, but his face seemed to be grizzled more by the mileage he had traveled rather than by the years he had lived.

One might have mistaken him for a law man, perhaps, but just as likely they might think he was an outlaw too. An outlaw down on his luck as he had no horse, but carried over his left shoulder a dark brown saddle speckled with dried blood. He could be a Confederate soldier too, or a deserter, judging by the twin LeMat revolvers snug in their holsters of his well worn gun belt, but he bore no other markings of such a man.

The LeMat revolvers were unusual. Made in France, they featured a nine cartridge cylinder with a buckshot in the middle destined for a secondary barrel. Dubbed grape shot revolvers by soldiers, many of them had been smuggled into the south via Bermuda. Others had been stopped by blockades from the north and ended up in the hands of others. Due to its oddness however the revolver only took thirty-six caliber bullets and twenty-eight gauge buckshot, which meant the owners frequently had to cast their own bullets.

The sun dipped beneath the horizon, the twilight announcing the arrival of long shadows that spread across the narrow path that bent its way through the swamp. Everything was darker, even the darkest of recesses and pools of black water seemed blacker still. Still he walked onwards, striding into the oblivion of the unknown wilderness that lay before him.

Miles back was the tiny settlement of Livonia, but there was no going back there now. Even if he turned about now and walked all the way back, it would be hours before he reached civilization and it would be darker still. No. There was nothing else to do, but to keep on walking. He was more than halfway through the swamp already. So long as he kept to the trail.

Barely able to see his own feet as he walked, he had the unshakeable feeling that he was being watched. Observed from afar. By alligators perhaps? Or something far more dangerous?