Excerpt from Duel at
Skinwalker Canyon

I hurried downstairs while trying to control the butterflies in my stomach. Mrs. Carmody stared up at me, arms crossed and tapping her feet. Oh dear, she was going to be fussy. A gilded wall mirror halfway to the landing caught my eye. The looking glass showed ruffled blond curls and a smudge on my face. Not good. I made a show of admiring myself while whispering what Momma called a make-me-pretty spell. My hair fell into place, a dark spot on my cheek disappeared, and a skin blemish dried instantly.

Mrs. Carmody twirled me around when I reached the main floor. “Goodness, child, you can’t leave these men waiting while you admire yourself. Now, follow me.”

 “Yes, ma’am.” I hurried to keep pace as Mrs. Carmody breezed through the open French doors.

 Two men rose to greet us. “Mr. Jonas Bayack and Sheriff Vance, I wish to present Miss Miriam Goodspeed of Denver. I’ll have my housekeeper bring in coffee and cakes while you discuss your business.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Carmody,” Vance said. “We’re not staying long.”

 “As you wish.” With that, the matron left, sliding the frosted glass doors shut. The sheriff tossed his hat to a nearby chair. “Let’s make ourselves comfortable before discussing the present situation.” 

Mr. Bayack, perhaps the most portly human I’d ever seen, huffed his way to Mrs. Carmody’s wing chair and wedged himself between the arms. He yanked off his Bowler hat and mopped sweaty brows with a handkerchief while the sheriff sat in an adjacent chair. I positioned a footstool facing both men.

Vance cleared his throat. “The best way to begin this investigation is to surmise the villain’s purpose behind these hauntings. By determining a motive, we can narrow down who may be responsible for these acts and decide in what direction to take the investigation. Any thoughts?”

Bayack scowled. “Never mind all that. What is this tiny slip of a girl doing here? She’s barely off her mama’s teat. Wilbur, the Board sent you to find an expert, and you hired a child? Is this the best you can do?”

 I jumped to my feet, ready to silence this buffoon, but the Sheriff waved me to sit. “I’ve already explained this to you, Jonas. Miss Goodspeed has gifts that will come in handy during this inquiry. She knows how to calm people's fears and anxieties. If Miss Goodspeed can awaken the afflicted women, they may be able to provide us with answers, such as a description of the person who is causing this havoc.”

“So, you say.” Bayack leaned forward, giving me a hostile stare. “Are you of age, young lady?”

“I’m nineteen, sir.” I imagined his bloated face on the body of a toad.

Bayack threw up his hands. “Before you left, Wilbur, I requested you recruit a marshal or Pinkerton man to help us. Not a girl still wet behind the ears.”

 Vance’s neck grew red, but he kept his composure. “I’ve talked to the Pinkertons, Jonas. They laughed me out of their office before I finished my story. When I took the matter to the marshal in Denver, he wanted to know who I suspected was responsible for the incident.

When I told him I didn’t have one, he referred me back to the Pinkertons, a perfect runaround.”

 “You should have pushed harder.” Mr. Bayack found the matron’s fan and used it to cool his face.

“Forget it, Jonas.” Vance dismissed the man’s grumbling with a sweep of the hand. “We’ve already done this your way. Remember those experts you hired? There must have been a dozen of them. Remember the spiritualist who demanded her money the day she rolled into Durango? Next day, she skipped town. How about the overpriced alienist who called the hauntings a form of mass hysteria? Or the mesmerist who thought it was simply the excitable nature of childbearing women? Now, we’re playing this my way.”

Bayack harrumphed but did not comment.

A train whistled at intervals, near at first but growing fainter with each blast. With a sinking heart, I knew the relics were leaving town.

“Sheriff?” I tried to keep my voice calm. “I have a suggestion where we can begin our inquiries.”

 “Let’s hear it.” The lawman’s relief gave me confidence.

 I explained how Mr. Johannson, a fellow boarder at Carmody House, collected Indian pottery from the desert and packed them aboard the eastbound train. “The relics may include sacred items that hold displeased spirits. Their anger could affect sensitive train passengers. It’s a far-fetched idea, but we should examine Mr. Johansson’s shipment for likely objects.

Vance rubbed his gray stubble. “It sounds fantastic, but until we have a better explanation, we should entertain the notion of hexed relics.” He glanced at Bayack. “Has the eastbound already left?”

I expected the train official to shoot down my idea, but he merely consulted his pocket watch. “It left only five minutes ago.”

“Can we send a telegraph ordering the train back to the depot?” I asked.

Bayack gave me a withering look. “A moving train cannot receive telegraphs, but its first passenger stop will be Bayfield, thirty miles away. We can wire the stationmaster to hold the cargo long enough for an inspection.” 

Vance rubbed the b

ack of his neck. “Is there another eastbound today?”

Bayack nodded, “At one p.m. The only westbound trip that leaves from Bayfield is at three that afternoon.”

Vance nodded. “Miss Goodspeed and I can catch the one o’clock.”

 Bayack shook his head, frowning. “I don’t see how looking at a bunch of worthless pottery will help you. What could you learn? If I held a clay jug in my hands, I wouldn’t know if a witch doctor cast a spell on the thing, and I doubt you or Miss Goodspeed would either.”

 “I believe I can, Mr. Bayack,” I said.

His lips pressed in a thin line as he gave me the once-over. “What makes you so special? Are you a spiritualist—or dare I say it—a witch?” 

I scanned the room, taking note of the closed French doors. How could Bayack have guessed? My fright was instinctive. We—the Moonborn—fear humans for their insatiable lust for dominance and gleeful willingness to attack any perceived threat, real or unreal. Yet here I was, in polite conversation with the predators. All I wanted was to find adventure, solve a mystery, and prove my worth. Now, my fate rested on answering an offhand question.

 I looked to Sheriff Vance for help, but he chose to fiddle with his tin star.

I needed a yarn worthy of Mark Twain. “I have worked with inmates at the Denver Asylum for some time. Like the afflicted passengers on your trains, inmates can be sensitive to objects previously owned by another person, especially if that person recently died. Often, these objects, such as jewelry or a hairbrush, will hold the personality of its deceased owner. I’ve learned, quite by accident, how to find and remove these objects.”

Bayack leaned forward as far as his belly would allow. “How did you discover this remarkable talent?”

“While trying to calm an unfortunate girl on my ward, I found she wore a locket around her neck. The locket contained the portrait and strands of hair from her dead stepmother—a woman of mean reputation. After removing the locket, she became much calmer and soon recovered from her mental fatigue.” The story was true, except there was no locket. I ignored the surprised look on the sheriff’s face and watched Mr. Bayack. Would he buy my story?

Bayack leaned back, mopping his brow. Nearly a minute passed before he spoke. “Intriguing. I must confess, Miss Goodspeed, I have personal reasons for asking about your abilities.”

 I blinked in confusion. Earlier, Bayack thought I was a fraud. “How so?”

“I have a daughter.” He paused, biting his lip. “Carrie was the third passenger to suffer from this…spirit attack. Before it happened, she was so full of life. Now, she is only a shell of the girl she was. You must see her—today.”

Vance rubbed his neck. “Miss Goodspeed and I are taking the train to Bayfield to see about these relics. The lives of three other women hang in the balance. Not just your daughter.”

 “I could see Carrie tomorrow,” I suggested.

But Bayack shoved up from the chair, stepping forward to loom over me. “Don’t worry about the damned relics. I’ll telegraph the stationmaster to hold the crate ’til hell freezes over if it takes that long for you to get there. But today, you will see my daughter.”

 I could sense the desperation behind the official’s pompousness. “What is her condition, Mr. Bayack?”



 He wiped a glistening tear from his round cheek. “Carrie is about to give birth. And she’s dying.”