On the outskirts of a desolate Colorado ranch, something far more sinister than greed or corruption lurks. Abel Reed, a man resurrected from the dead and cursed with immortality, is forced into a deadly mission by a powerful sorceress. His target: Colonel Heinrich Bauer, a ruthless landowner with a dark secret buried deep within his mine.
As Abel navigates the eerie silence of the Bauer Ranch, he uncovers a horror that defies understandingâa monstrous creation born of dark rituals and ancient evils. But Abelâs greatest challenge lies not in confronting the abominations lurking in the shadows, but in resisting the sinister forces pulling at his soul.
Trapped in a half-life between the living and the dead, Abel must choose between fulfilling his mission or seizing a rare chance at freedom. The stakes are high, and the cost of failure is unthinkable. Will Abel find redemption in the heart of darkness, or will he succumb to the malevolent forces that seek to claim him?
The Bauer Ranch is a harrowing journey into the unknown, where the line between man and monster blurs, and the true horror is what lies within.
On the outskirts of a desolate Colorado ranch, something far more sinister than greed or corruption lurks. Abel Reed, a man resurrected from the dead and cursed with immortality, is forced into a deadly mission by a powerful sorceress. His target: Colonel Heinrich Bauer, a ruthless landowner with a dark secret buried deep within his mine.
As Abel navigates the eerie silence of the Bauer Ranch, he uncovers a horror that defies understandingâa monstrous creation born of dark rituals and ancient evils. But Abelâs greatest challenge lies not in confronting the abominations lurking in the shadows, but in resisting the sinister forces pulling at his soul.
Trapped in a half-life between the living and the dead, Abel must choose between fulfilling his mission or seizing a rare chance at freedom. The stakes are high, and the cost of failure is unthinkable. Will Abel find redemption in the heart of darkness, or will he succumb to the malevolent forces that seek to claim him?
The Bauer Ranch is a harrowing journey into the unknown, where the line between man and monster blurs, and the true horror is what lies within.
THE HOUSE WAS SILENT and so was I. Creeping through the first floor, past doily covered tables and ornate, claw foot divans, I found no one. It was well after midnight and as bright moonlight illuminated the interior of the Federalist mansion, I had the sober thought that tonight I would kill someone.
Mounting the stairs, I pulled my Colt from its holster. It shook in my hand as dread crept through my body. Taking a manâs life was no small thing, and yet the compulsion to do so grew within me. A compulsion not wholly my own.
On the first landing, there was a side table holding a vase filled with dried wildflowers. Above it hung an oval shaped French Rococo style mirror, its horizontal frame carved in an undulating vine and leaf pattern. Looking at my reflection, I realized that, aside from my tattered clothes, I looked no older than the day Iâd been hanged for murder and robbery.
Despite the years, there were no wrinkles on the dark brown skin of my face, and my eyes were still clear and sharp. My hair remained thick, coiled, and black as night, with not a bit of gray in it.
I adjusted the filthy kerchief on my neck to cover the rope burns that disfigured it. These scars, the last bitter reminder of my mortal life, inexplicably persisted despite my resurrection. I held my Colt up to the mirror and wondered which the Colonel would find more dreadful tonight; a black man with a gun or a ghoul returned from his grave.
A searing pain pierced the center of my back. I writhed like a pious man at a tent revival, my body lurching back and forth, and almost dropped my gun down the stairs. As the pain receded, I silently cursed Madame Laroque. Somewhere she was sitting comfortably, a languid smile on her face, removing a long steel pin colorfully topped with a bit of wax from a crude effigy of me.
Was she laughing as she did it? Did she take satisfaction from the predicament sheâd put me in? I doubted it. Madame Laroque had always managed her affairs in a cool, professional way. It was likely that after prodding me to complete my task, she would put the doll in a drawer and forget about itâuntil necessity required her to seek it out again. Either way, she had sent a clear message; I would go where she said, I would do as she asked, and I would have no say in the matter. Masters never ask the opinions of their slaves.
At the top of the stairs, I turned and crept through the hallway that formed the spine of the second floor. All the doors were open and, as I slunk forward, I peered through each. I found nothing but judiciously decorated guest rooms, each charming and lifeless, like drawings in a Sears Roebuck catalog.
Removing my fatherâs pocket watch from my vest, I confirmed that I had ten minutes until the Pinkerton on patrol returned. I wondered what my father would make of me now, brought low by my lofty ambitions and forced into the basest of occupations as a killer. Like the Prodigal Son, I would have sought him out and begged forgiveness were it not for Madame Laroque and the power she had over me.
Should I have listened to him and given up writing novels to become the teacher heâd wanted me to be? Perhaps. Instead, I sought my own path, and it had been my undoing. His habit of pointing out my limits, and the limits the world imposed on me, chafed and I bristled at him. A cold man, a driven man, he was determined to make me the next step on our familyâs path from slave to freed man to respectable citizen.
But I wanted more. More than what the world would give me. More than what he envisioned. Between his ambition and my rebellion, there was no room for anything else, so we broke apart. My fatherâs vision of who I should be was all that mattered to him. When I rejected that vision and pursued my passion, he had no use for me. I faded from his life forever, without so much as a word. Looking back, I wonder how he could so casually trade away the love of his son.
The sound of snarling jerked me from my thoughts. Before me, framed by the final doorway at the end of the hall, a ferocious hound bounded into view. The beast was a hundred pounds of muscle, bone and teeth and it launched itself at me with savage glee. I raised my left arm in self-defense and the creatureâs massive, slathering jaws clamped down on it. The weight of the beast pulled me off balance and we crashed to the floor, my pistol flying from my hand and my arm twisting with a sickening crunch.
The creature tore into me as I clutched at the knife on my belt. Thrashing back and forth, it dragged me across the hallway. I pulled my knife free and plunged it into the beastâs rippling flesh again and again. It disengaged its yellowing teeth and reeled backward, blood running from its wounds.
As I staggered to my feet, the hound regained its senses. It hurled itself at me again, jaws wide, white strands of drool arcing through the air. I braced myself and raised the knife. We collided, and I drove it deep into the beastâs belly, using the creatureâs momentum to hurl it against the wall. It landed with a thud, and I watched it slide to the floor, unmoving.
Laying in a crumpled heap, immobile and utterly used up, the beast looked like a pile of discarded rags. I wiped my knife on my worn cotton trousers and placed it back into the sheath on my belt. The dog had only been following its training, had only been fulfilling the wishes of its master, and so I felt pity for it.
Reaching down to collect my pistol, I noticed that my left arm was broken and hanging at an odd angle. I watched as it began to mend and straighten. The sound of bone and flesh being restored hung in the still hallway. I tried not to hear it.
A terrible wonder filled me as I considered the power of the curse that animated me. What were its limits? Could a thing brought to life by evil be anything else?
When the arcane power finished, I pushed these thoughts from my mind. I made my way toward the doorway at the end of the hall. At present I could be naught but what I was. There was no point in dwelling on alternatives.
Upon reaching the doorway, I heard liquid being poured into a glass. Inching around the frame, I saw the back of a woman sitting in a chair. She was illuminated by moonlight streaming through a large window. There was a crystal bottle, and a finely engraved glass filled with a dark liquid resting on a baroque marble-topped table next to her.
I looked around the room. It was filled with floor to ceiling bookshelves, and I marveled at the cost of amassing such a collection in Colorado Territory. Those few patches of wall that remained uncovered were packed with framed maps and small paintings of strange landscapes.
The ancient leather-bound books that lined the walls shared the shelves with various oddments, like animal skulls, crudely carved stone idols, and glass vials containing murky solutions.
âIf youâre looking for my husband, heâs not here,â the woman said in a husky voice.
Turning my attention to her, I felt a murderous impulse but, with effort, pushed it aside. I had learned there were limits to Madame Laroqueâs control and with sufficient determination, I could still assert myself. But that independence was always short-lived. Eventually I would do as she willed. Her business was ever impatient and would not forever abide delay.
âWhere is he?â I said, pointing my pistol at her.
âIâm going to miss Ajax,â she replied not bothering to look in my direction. âHe was a brute but obedient and loyal. A useful combination.â
âWhere is he?â I repeated emphasizing my words and raising my voice.
âNo need for that tone,â she said as though I was a child. âHe is where he has been for weeks, with our son at the mine.â
That was puzzling.
Prior to this evening, I had observed the ranch and its mine from up on a ridge in the surrounding mountains. For days I watched, trying to understand its rhythms and patterns. In that time, Iâd witnessed no activity. No men came to work the ranch, no ore was extracted from the mine. Only a few Pinkertons shambled about on patrol.
There had been one exception to that stifling monotony of silence. On the second day after I arrived, a mob of men had walked up the narrow road that led to the main gate of the ranch. There was an exchange between those men and the smaller, better armed, group of Pinkertons.
I could not hear what the men shouted, but it was clear they were dissatisfied. The confrontation escalated until one of the Pinkertons fired his shotgun in the air. As the report echoed across the valley, I feared I was about to witness the type of bloody confrontation that had been so frequent of late back east. Cooler heads must have prevailed. Only moments after the shot, the men dispersed, shuffling back down the road.
âWhat will you do when you find him?â the Colonelâs wife drawled.
âKill him.â I responded. There was no reason to obscure my intention, though I filled with guilt at the thought of it.
âI see,â she replied, taking a long drink from her glass. âWill you kill me as well?â
âNo.â
âMore's the pity,â she said, turning to look at me directly.
She was a handsome woman, with high cheekbones and creamy white skin that glowed in the moonlight. She had, no doubt, been much sought after in her youth. She let out a brief, bitter laugh before continuing, âItâs fitting that Heinrich will be killed by a negro. Itâs no better than he deserves. Now then,â she said, turning away from me, âif youâre not going to kill me, get out of my house.â
I stifled the impulse to pistol-whip her. There would have been little point to it. In the end, it would change nothing and confirm everything she thought of me. My violence would not change her ignorance.
I left the room, slipped my Colt into its holster, and went out through the rear of the house.
In the rugged lands of Colorado, where the dead don't stay that way, and mines contain doorways to hell to let out the unimaginable, it takes an otherworldly bounty hunter to take care of business. That is just the world that Michael Stiehl introduces to the reader in his novella, The Bauer Ranch.Â
The Bauer Ranch is a plot-driven weird western that is as quick to read as a bounty hunter with their steal. As short as this novella is, Stiehl takes the reader on an exciting hunt while providing all the rules for the world he created. The reader is never left wondering just who or how Abel Reed is. Like many weird westerns, this is not a cowboy on cowboy, good versus bad, shoot-em-up. The heroes in Stiehl's story don't wear white hats, and the villains are not as evil as they appear. Stiehl blurs the lines without affecting the story.Â
As quick and fun as this story is, Stiehl leaves the reader wanting more. It was over way too quickly. As someone who lives in Colorado, I know the dangers of these mines and have met those who are "something less than fully alive." There is still a lot of drama and danger that could have found its way into this story. That does not change the fact that this is a fun, quick read with a satisfying ending.Â
Fans of weird westerns and paranormal plots will find a story that fits both categories. Stiehl's novella is a great afternoon read after a grueling morning riding the range or mining for gold. Even those who don't live the life of a cowboy or bounty hunter and prefer their action in print will enjoy this tale. So, dust those boots off, don your best cowboy hat, and join the action at The Bauer Ranch.Â