1868, Northern Nevada
At the front of the train car, a man glanced in my direction. His friend sat three rows behind me on the opposite side. They both wore black derbies and sported black suits to match. They had shadowed me since Denver. At first, I took them to be a Pinkertons, but they lacked the brutal pragmatism I had come to identify with the agency. No, these men were from back east, they were softer, and of a much more devious sort.
I folded the newspaper and watched the Sierra Nevadas roll by through slightly fogged windows.
Three hundred years ago, this place did not exist in book or on map. When the Spanish first landed south of here, they brought with them their scholars and their priests, and they marked everything down, catalogued it, captured it forever on their cursed paper.
I had once thought the Indian superstition about photography was curious, but I understood the impulse now. Every map represents a land explored. Every new bird sketched, and plant catalogued, is but another robbed of its mystery. The frontier had once seemed endless, yet every day a little more of it was conquered, a bit more disappeared.
One hundred miles later, the train lurched to a stop. I grabbed my pack from overhead, while I kept an eye on my friends in black. I was of a mind to trail them, catch them unawares in some back alley, and discover the truth of their mission.
Unfortunately, both hurried off the train as I found myself stuck waiting in the aisle behind a very wide lady.
It was dark out and the station, if you could call it that, was lit by kerosene lamps. They flickered, lighting the gangway for a gnarled group of people, waiting patiently for both relatives and victims alike. For the West was still wild, and many a man arrived at their destination, only to lose everything—at the dance hall, or to bandits, and sometimes, to the law.
Reno was less a city and more a collection of tents, shambles, and shacks. It hummed with miners, thieves, gamblers, whoremongers, and disaffected Indians. Among the latter, I found my guide, and for a bottle of whiskey, he agreed to meet me two days hence, on the shores of Pyramid Lake.
Below me stretched the bright blue waters of Pyramid Lake, its shores lined with groves of willows. Further out, stands of cottonwood trees swayed in the summer breeze. The water had turned this place into an oasis. A blissful way-stop in the high desert.
There were legends about the lake. Tales of water babies. The ill-formed cannibal offspring the Paiutes had drowned in its crystal waters so long ago. They snatched men from the shores, never to be seen again. Most wrote the stories off as miner’s tales, but I had an idea they were derived from a much older story.
A yellow warbler flit above me and landed some ways off, his song as golden as his feathers.
I pushed the Bay down the trail, making my way towards the lake below. The Bay was new to me, but a good horse. Quick, with a desire to go, which I liked, but he occasionally fought me at the bit, a habit we’d have to break.
I twisted around in the saddle and looked for my shadows, but saw no sign of them.
The scorching heat dried my shirt faster than I could soak it. I took a drink from my canteen. It was U.S. Army issued, but not to me. Three years ago, I took it from a dead union soldier, mounted his horse, and rode West. My hat, originally rebel gray, was now brown with sweat and dirt. It was high time for a new one, for mine had two bullet holes and seemed about to fall apart. Why I didn’t buy or steal a new one had less to do with sentimentality, and more to do with giving up a way of starting fights with Northerners.
The warbler stopped singing.
I pulled on the reins, and the Bay fought against me once more. This drew my ire, for disobedience during times of danger was a sure way towards death. I pulled him roughly to a stop, and we stood in the uncanny silence, nature having gone quiet.
A twig snapped some ways off, and my hand found the revolver at my hip.
“You are a hard man to sneak-up-on,” Mahkah said, stepping out from behind a tree.
It was my Paiute friend from Reno, true to his word.
“Or you spend too much time in the white man’s bars,” I said.
He laughed and motioned for me to follow.
It was night when we entered the camp of the Kuyuitikadu. They are a band of the Northern Paiute, and while most were friendly to white men such as myself, there were some here who would lose no sleep over relieving me of my boots, stealing my horse, and taking my weapons.
The Paiute had up to this point retained a wildness about them that I found refreshing, and they had a general distrust of outsiders that I related to.
Mahkah led me down a row of wickiups. They were small, rounded shelters built of willow frames, and covered in reeds taken from the lake. The Paiute could make them in about a day, which they often did as they were constantly on the move.
A child cried in the distance, and warriors laughed around a fire at the far edge of camp.
The last wickiup was larger than the others we passed. Inside, Micco Tocho sat cross-legged. He motioned for me to sit. Mahkah made himself at home, and drew a glare from the old chieftain.
“Welcome Gray-Man,” the Chief said.
I nodded in response.
“Makah tells me you chase ghosts,” the Chief said.
“The red giants,” I said.
“The Si-Te-Cah,” the Chief said slowly, his eyes narrowing. He leaned forward. “The Tule-eaters. Once a great evil upon this land. And what have you brought in return?”
I unrolled a blanket to reveal four rolls of tobacco and a bottle of whiskey. The Chief’s eyes glinted in satisfaction, and I lifted the blanket of gifts in offering. He grabbed it from me, his eyes flashing greedily.
“I tell you tale,” he said.
“But afterwards, you take me?” I asked, pointing first at him and then to myself.
“Place of evil. I no go,” the Chief said.
I stared until he feared I may take my gifts back.
“Mahkah, go,” he said in a huff, “Be warned, Gray Man, you disturb the dead. But…” He paused for effect, “They are not ours, so, I will tell you tale.” He took a bite off the tobacco, chewing slowly. Yellowed teeth turned black. The fire crackled between us and the smoke pooled below the hole in the shelter’s roof.
“Many moons past, too great a number to count, we shared this land with the Si-Te-Cah. They came from the West. Peoples of the sea. They rode on great baskets and a furious wind drove them against the rocks,” the Chief said. “They were giants. Giants with flaming red hair.”
“How big?” I asked.
“Two men tall, and broad, like men you have never seen,” the Chief said. “My people feared fighting this new race. And for a little time, we made peace.
“Our daughters found them beautiful, and some left to join them. But they always died with their first child, for the unborn grew too large.
My skin crawled. I felt for the wood grip of the Griswold on my hip, and its touch steadied my breath.
The Chief continued. “It was then that war broke out between us, and the giants drove us before them. We left our lands by the sea. We crossed the mountains and found this place.
“But Pahi, one of the red giants, the daughter of their chief, loved a warrior of our tribe. She came with us, for she was not like the others.
“For a long time, we lived here in peace. And after a time, Pahi died. Her son, Pahi-zoho grew large for a man, but small for a giant, and he grew hair on his face like the giants.
“Pahi-zoho was a fierce warrior, and the day came that the people made him chief.
“But the Red Giants found us. Though their numbers had grown smaller, they crossed the mountains in search of their lost queen. The mother of Pahi-zoho.
“The wilderness had made the red giants even more wild, and as their numbers were small, the younger giants had lost their ability for language.
“They again harassed our people, stealing children when they wandered from the rest of the group. Pahi-zoho tried to make peace, for he was of two peoples. But the red giants would not stop.
“He made a great army then, swearing to wipe the giants from the face of the earth. In a great battle, my people killed many of the red giants. To escape our arrows, the they floated to the middle of the lake in reed baskets. They survived their for many moons, eating the tule. This why called Si-Te-Cah.”
“The tule-eaters,” I said.
The old chief nodded and went on, “Pahi-zoho called together the tribes, and they poisoned the waters, driving the red giants to the land. They retreated to a great cave in the mountain. There, my people fought them, but it was still no use.
“Pahi-zoho grew tired of this, and the people built a great fire at the mouth of the cave. In this way, they killed all the red giants within.
“After that, the other tribes called us Say-Do-Carah, which means conquerors,” the Chief said, and he beat his breast with a closed fist.
“And did any of the giants escape?” I asked.
“Some still live,” the Chief said. “Even now, they are known now as Pahi-zoho, and they still haunt the mountains. They fear men now, and they fear fire, but they still steal the children.”
“And this cave? Mahkah knows the way?” I asked.
“Mahkah, show you,” the Chief assured. “Now go.”
We left the Chief to his gifts, and I made my bed at the edge of camp. Beneath a line of willows, I lay awake watching the stars above. I slept naught that night. When the morning sun rose, so did my spirits, and my dark thoughts left me.
Before we left, Mahkah took me to their medicine man. The old man prayed over me in his own language, and I understood naught that he said. When we had left, I asked Mahkah what he had prayed.
“He prayed protection over you, to give you good sense, and that you might not be seen, even when you should be,” Mahkah said.
I was thankful for the prayers, and crossed myself, thinking the protection of two gods better than one.
It was another two days before we reached the cave. And when we did, the mouth of it gaped wide, a baleful black void. It opened before us, an ominous doorway into the mountain.
Behind us, the way we had come, was a dry lakebed. What had once teemed with life was now a dusty lunar plain.
“We should not be here,” Mahkah said.
He looked frightened.
“We’ll be fine,” I said, slipping from my horse. Gravel crunched beneath my feet.
“It is not good to disturb the dead,” Mahkah said. “This you must do on your own.” He whipped his horse around and took off across the lakebed. Clouds of white dust hung ruefully in his wake. I watched him ride off, saddened by my sudden lack of company. The Bay snorted and I gave him a pat, more for my benefit than his.
I set my pack of tools down on a slab of basalt. I had brought a Davy lamp, a coil of rope, and my canvas bag full of odds and ends.
Kneeling by the cave, I felt a slight breeze, and goose pimples crawled up my arms. It was the same feeling one got when spied upon. I checked my surroundings, but nothing stirred.
Caving is dangerous business with a partner, and foolhardy by oneself, but I consoled myself by remembering that I had never once in my entire life expected to see old age. I am a better caver than most, having explored caves during the war while hunting for saltpeter. But even before that, I had explored all the caves near our farm in Virginia.
“Fuck it,” I muttered to myself.
I tied the Bay off on a long lead where there was a bit of grass and gave him one last pat.
Returning to the cave, I checked my pack. Inside was a notebook, my canteen, a bundle of candles, matches, magnesium strips, climbing spikes, and a can of red paint.
The mouth of the cave was scorched black from long ago. Perhaps the story was true, and not some tall tale, for there had certainly been a fire.
The Davy lamp was made for mining. It used a wick enclosed by a mesh screen to prevent explosions from firedamp. I lit the lamp, held it before me, and took my first step within.
The air was stale, and there was a scattering of animal bones on the dusty floor.
As I journeyed further in, the cave grew darker. My lamp cast a dim light on the rock walls. I found odd paintings drawn in red ochre. There were stick figures and other drawings, now undiscernible.
The ground changed beneath my feet even as I walked. I bent to inspect it. Guano covered the floor.
About a hundred feet inside, the cave curved for the first time, and it was here that I took out my can of red paint. With my brush, I painted an arrow in the direction I had come.
I had scarcely gone ten more feet when I felt the sudden movement of air. A tremendous noise rushed towards me, and a swarm of bats flew past, eager to escape, their tiny bodies brushing me. I covered my face, and as swiftly as they had come, they were gone, and I was all the more glad for it.
Behind me and before me was darkness, for I had fully rounded the bend by this point, and I could no longer see the opening of the cave. The Davy lamp burned with an even flame, which was good, because it meant there was no firedamp.
A bit further, and the cave floor dropped off before me. I swung the lamp out over the void. I could barely make out the ground several feet below.
I came to a stop and painted another red arrow, always erring on the side of over-marking. I had learned my lesson once before, finding myself lost for the better part of two days.
Gathering my coil of rope, I found a crack in the cave wall and drove a spike to tie off to. I gave it two good yanks and looped the rope around my body.
The rope sturdy, I backed into the void. Gingerly, I started downward, letting the rope slide through my hands. The Davy Lamp hung from two of my fingers.
My foot slipped and I lost my grip.
The rope slid through my hands, burning them through my gloves, and I plummeted downward through that black well. I caught my grip on the rope and swung hard into the rock face. I slammed against it face first, and feared I had broken my nose. Through all this, my rope and the wedge held, but my Davy lamp slipped from my hands as I had clawed for the rope, and was dashed on the rocks below.
I hung in total darkness.
When I at last caught my breath and steadied my nerve, I continued downwards.
Unable to see anything without my light, I had no idea I had reached the bottom until I nearly squatted on the ground. Yet still I clutched the rope, not trusting that this was indeed the bottom. After a time of gingerly testing the area around me, I at last released myself to fate.
It was indeed the bottom, for I did not tumble downward.
I retrieved a candle from my pack and fumbled around for the matches. Within a minute, I had it lit, and that tiny flame gave me all its courage.
I stood in about an inch of water which moved slowly through the darkness. Some sort of underground creek. I crouched, and looked in awe at the crystalline water. Smooth, wet pebbles glistened beneath amber light.
The chamber before me stretched off in two directions, perpendicular to the way I had come. I was at a crossroads.
Left or Right? I knew not which.
A scream pierced the black silence, and my blood ran cold.
Its sound echoed down the chamber before making its way back once more, this time from an entirely different direction. I froze, my hand tight around the Griswold’s checkered grip.
I had never heard a scream like that. It wasn’t human, but it wasn’t a catamount either, for I had heard my fair share of panthers.
It had come from the left, upstream of the water at my feet, which answered the question of my new direction. For, if I chose the opposite, it would force me to think myself a coward. How much of my life was ruled by that singular fear? The fear of cowardice.
The moving water at my feet gave the air a certain freshness, and the distinct smell of batshit no longer burned my nostrils.
I walked forward, gun in hand, the candle’s tiny flame flickering softly in the cave’s draft.
I left the stream, never having found its headwaters. Neither had I heard that ghostly scream again.
It was when I had used the last of my red paint, and feared I should start back that I found the hole in the wall. It was shaped like a doorway, and I examined the rock, holding my candle close. There were chisel marks. This was the first sign of human presence I had found.
Cobwebs hung in the doorway, and the candle’s light could not penetrate the dark on the other side. I rubbed a sweaty palm on my shirt and checked my surroundings again. I had ventured deep into the cavern by this point and imagined it must be night outside.
Behind me came the sound of footsteps. I whirled, waving the Griswold wildly, but I saw naught.
I cleared the webs from the hole. The doorway was the entrance to a tunnel, a sort of rock hallway that continued for about twenty-five paces before turning into a cavernous void my candle refused to penetrate.
The webs were thick and clung to my clothes as I ventured inward. They brushed the back of my neck, and gave the sensation that all manner of possible evil was crawling upon me.
At the end of the tunnel, just before whatever lay beyond, I stopped and again drew my pistol. Nothing stirred, so I stepped forward into the great room before me.
At my feet, the floor was littered with bones. I found whole skeletons. Human looking, but twice the size of even the largest man.
I bent to look at the nearest skull, bits of red hair still clinging to it. The thing was like a watermelon. Massive. Eye sockets like saucers. Brittle teeth sharpened to razor points.
The remains were laid out in proper rows, as if purposefully laid to rest here. Rows and rows stretched across the room, as far as the light could reach. An ancient burial place, a mausoleum for a race of creatures long dead.
On the far wall leaned shields and spears with bronze points. At the wall, I set my candle down. I lifted one spear with a tremendous effort, for it had been built for a man three times as big. The shields were five feet in diameter and made of a bright red wood. Natural or stained, I could not tell.
Again, the sound of footsteps. This time from the tunnel by which I entered.
I extinguished the candle, plunging myself into sudden darkness, and immediately I wished I hadn’t. I stood breathlessly in that grim cavern, surrounded by bones I could no longer see, my ears straining for sounds that never came.
Something moved behind me.
When I awoke, the first thing I saw was another Davy lamp. My hands were tied firmly behind me. My feet were bound as well. I struggled to make sense of the situation. One second, I had been standing in the darkness, and the next I was here.
A pair of booted feet entered my field of vision—black boots. I followed them upwards to black pants, and then to a black jacket, and then a black derby sitting atop a bald head. It was the men from the train.
“Did he wake up?” a voice from behind me asked.
“He’s up,” the man in front of me said. He bent over and grabbed me by the shirt, setting me upright. It was the bald man.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Should we tell him?” the bald man asked his friend.
“He won’t be telling anyone,” his friend said.
“We’re from the Office of Protective Services,” said the bald man, bending close, revealing crooked and gapped teeth.
“And that is?” I asked, stalling for time.
“We work for very important people, Mr. Ryker,” the man said. He took off his hat and wiped his egg white head with a dirty rag. “The Smithsonian Institute.”
How long had they watched me?
“History is a delicate thing,” the man continued, “history is doomed to repeat itself, unless you…” The man put his hand out for me to finish.
“… learn from it.” I said, irritated at the philosophy lesson.
“Wrong. Unless you control it, Mr. Ryker. And that is our job. To make sure things stay the same, to make sure history doesn’t change,” he said. “To write history is to write the future.”
So, they weren’t here to steal my find. They were here to make sure it was never found.
“How did you know?” I asked.
“Oh, we know all about you. Kurt Ryker. Studied Physical Anthropology and Linguistics at the College of William and Mary in Virginia. Had hopes of being an archeologist. We were going to recruit you when you graduated, had the war not broken out. During the war, you made a name for yourself as a cave diver. It was because of you, the confederacy even stayed in gunpowder as long as it did. After that, we knew you would never join us. After all, your thoughts on the United States of–”
“—carpetbaggers,” I spit the words.
He wiped his face with the dirty rag from his pocket. Once finished, he tucked it gently back into his front pocket, then backhanded me, splitting my lip.
Something screamed outside the cavern. That same otherworldly scream from earlier. My captors ran to the tunnel, guns drawn.
They fired wildly down the tunnel as the terrific cry came again.
The whole cavern rang with the sound of gunfire.
I looked around, and there, glinting in the lamp’s light, no more than ten feet away, was a war axe with a bronze blade four times the size of my head.
I rolled to it quickly. Paying no mind to the gun battle, I brought the cords which bound me against the blade. It was still sharp, even after so many centuries, for I cut through the cords with a single swift movement.
The gunfire abated, and my captors disappeared down the tunnel, chasing after whatever they thought was there.
I was free, but they had left me nothing. Not my guns nor my pack. Only the lone Davy lamp they had been using.
I tried to heft the axe, but it was far too big. While I could lift it, I could never swing such a thing.
I glanced around and spotted a second exit. This room led to another.
Did I follow behind the men in black, or go the other direction? I didn’t know how much oil the Davy lamp still had. I had to follow them. Without my pack, I was as good as dead.
Then I glimpsed it. A chest of treasure that my candlelight had never reached. I ran to it, and there was the giant’s precious treasure. Coins and bracelets, gauntlets of silver, and copper rings.
From the old chest, I grabbed a golden chalice, sized for a human, which was odd in and of itself. Perhaps, the spoils of war that were never melted down. I secured the goblet in my shirt and made for the tunnel.
I had no sooner exited the tunnel, when the amber light of my captors disappeared around a corner. Had I been a second slower, I would have never known which way they went.
I hurried to the bend, my cheek pressed flat against the cold stone wall. The two men trudged up the tunnel. Two hunters on a night stalk with their lamps held nervously in front of them.
I hid the light with my jacket, but I feared I might smother it. I could either extinguish my lamp, with no way to relight it, hoping not to lose them, or leave it lit, and risk being caught.
The men disappeared around another bend, and I hurried to catch up. Here, I made my decision, extinguishing the lamp. With the darkness now a friend, not an enemy, I took full advantage of it, creeping behind the two fools who were no less than twenty paces away.
The scream came again, and the men in black looked at each other in panic. Their pathetic looks of terror stole mine away, replacing my fear with good humor.
To their credit, they continued up the tunnel, and so I followed.
I followed the men through several hundred feet of tunnels and switchbacks for what seemed like hours, until I thought us hopelessly lost.
I moved along the rock wall, my fingers finding solace in the rough stone, and the wall helping with my balance. The golden goblet pressed against my stomach.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight on end. I froze. I stood frozen like that for several minutes, watching the men proceed up the tunnel. But still, I didn’t budge. I stood rooted in place, my gut twisting in every direction. It was a sixth sense that stalled me.
Short, heavy breaths came from somewhere behind me. I still didn’t move.
A great, lumbering shadow moved past me. The hulking figure, now silhouetted between me and the other men’s light, stalked silently behind them.
It was at least ten feet tall, and as broad as two men. Tufts of knotted hair caught amber light, and flashed crimson, of a shade I had rarely seen.
I felt a primal compulsion to cry out, to let bygones be bygones, for at the end of the day, men, when faced with monsters, had an instinctive urge to band together, to forget petty differences. But my mouth was wired shut by some unseen force.
The great figure, still silent as a ghost, carried with him a weapon of some sort, possibly a club. It raised the club, and, at the critical second, the moment before sudden doom, the men turned to find the brute behind them. They fired wildly.
I crouched behind a boulder, taking shelter from their bullets for I was still behind the giant.
The beast took big, heavy swings, showing not the slightest concern for their guns.
Several times I heard the dull thwack of lead finding flesh, but the giant never slowed. Getting a hold of one of the men, the giant took him by the arm. The beast flung him against the wall, much the same way a child would fling a doll. The man’s panicked screams were cut short by the crunch of bone dashed against rocks. It sickened me.
The bald man, upon seeing this, fled up the tunnel, disappearing into total darkness.
In the dim light of a lamp left behind, the giant wavered, and slipped slowly to its knees before tumbling over.
I watched the motionless lump for quite a long time, fearing to even breathe. If it were merely wounded, I dared not rouse it.
At last, I grew tired of waiting, and convinced myself the giant was dead. I approached cautiously, and gingerly took up the lamp somehow still flaming.
His head was thrice as big as mine, with a long, sloped brow. His face dominated by an overly large, flattened nose, underlined by thin lips. His hair long and his beard thick, a brilliant red in color. This hair extended over the whole of his body.
His skin was pale, but heavily mottled with large splotches of pinks and browns. He possessed a physiognomy unlike any I had ever seen.
I peeled back the lids of his eyes and held the lamp close. They blazed sanguine. I imagined the effect would have been more pronounced had he been living. Eyes like these I had never seen on man nor beast.
From his wounds, he bled red, for he had been hit no less than eight times.
I found my pack beneath the crushed and broken man by the wall. He had my revolvers as well.
When I moved him, he groaned, foamy blood upon his lips. A punctured lung, I had seen the signs before. I put the gun to his head, and his eyes thanked me. To dispatch a man in such a state was but kindness.
With my pack, my guns, and my goblet all back in my possession, I started down the tunnel.
Thinking myself hopelessly lost, I reaped the reward of my prior wisdom, for I had gone only fifty paces when I found it. A scarlet arrow.
It was one month later when I returned to the cave this time outfitted with two mules and more gear.
Seeing a great commotion, I stopped some distance off to spy with my telescope. Soldiers guarded the cave. U.S. Cavalrymen, from what fort I knew not. Chinese workers, leased or poached from the railroad, scurried in and out like so many ants. They filled a nearby wagon with bones.
Then exited Mr. Derby. The old bastard had escaped. He lifted his hat and wiped his smooth egg-shaped head as he surveyed the scene before him.
As I watched, his head snapped up and his eyes locked in my direction. He pointed towards me, and I saw him wave wildly at the soldiers.
He had spotted me, likely from the telescope’s glint. It didn’t matter. I mounted the Bay and sped off, gone long before the soldiers arrived.
As I left that place, I thought of all that occurred and had, by this time, worked out several theories. I imagined the giant to be some vestige of a lost bronze age race. Perhaps, one from which Goliath of Gath had hailed, his legend literal or perhaps the legends were from another time, one even further back.
Regardless, this race, having been shipwrecked on the shores of the Pacific, had hopelessly devolved through in-breeding and pagan practice, rewilding as feral monsters. The fact any could still survive puzzled me. It was a piece of the puzzle that required more investigation.
As for the Smithsonian Institute, I sensed a grand conspiracy. One that had been long in the making. I had a new foe, an agency that desired to hide the past as much as I sought to find it. One which was backed by the Federal Government. A shadow agency passed off as a museum.
As for Pahi-zoho, I would later learn that the word was not just a name, but rather a description. While translations varied, the most direct and perhaps literal meaning of the words meant big-foot or big-footed.
It mattered not, for there was more to discover, more mysteries to seek. I whipped the bay to a run, setting him in the direction of California.
Gave it a look based on Brian's recommendation and... I have to say... this is the first time in a long time... that I resisted the temptation to sneak off to another tab just to check something or get hooked on the next distraction. I couldn't put it down! I was hooked. I was drawn in. Very nicely written and I appreciate the attention to detail and the names of things in that world.
Fantastic read, Frank! I really enjoyed this, and a very imaginative take on the actual origins of Bigfoot.