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  The biggest, boldest Uriah Moon adventure yet!

  Moon, the mysterious vigilante, was escorting the young, golden-haired Hooper sisters to Cougar’s Bluff, where they were to live with their aunt. But when they reached their destination, they made a shock discovery. Their aunt had been mercilessly slain by a shotgun wielded at point blank range.

  Fortunately, there was another relative willing to take them in over at Apache Springs. But there were others heading to Apache Springs for very different reasons … and pretty soon Uriah Moon found himself fighting for his very life … in a Cauldron of Blood!

  URIAH MOON 5: CAULDRON OF BLOOD

  By Gary Wayne

  Copyright © 2021 by Gary Wayne

  First Electronic Edition: September 2021

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Dedicated to my good friend, Chris Holt.

  Prologue

  IT WAS DARK. The kind of dark you only find in nightmares. The sun had dipped beyond the horizon hours earlier as the covered wagon had been stopped from advancing toward the ominous and mysterious forested hills known throughout the region as Satan’s Spell. Few who had ever ventured into its densely forested expanse had ever lived to tell the tale but one man had survived the wrath of its many demons. The notorious vigilante Uriah Moon was that man.

  Long before the sun had set, Moon had seated himself on his saddle beside a roaring campfire drinking pot after pot of strong coffee. His unblinking eyes watched the others of the small party he led quietly to this remote place, succumb to the ravages of tiredness.

  Moon had stopped their approach to the daunting forest and ordered the four troopers, who acted as sentries, to collect kindling and make a campfire so he, Cal White the seasoned wagon driver and the three fair-haired females could rest up before starting the next part of their dangerous trek.

  Yet Moon never required rest.

  All Moon required was time to consider the options which were available to him. Time to formulate his plan and as always his plan was to strike when his foes least expected it.

  Satan’s Lair was different to most other places and a lot more lethal to the unprepared. It was reputed to be filled with demonic entities but Moon knew that the most dangerous creatures within its vast expanse were not supernatural ones. It was the rogue Cheyenne warriors who obeyed the crazed shaman Grey Owl and the deadly outlaws who used the Lair as sanctuary.

  Ghosts might frighten but it was men who dished out death.

  The vigilante had barely spoken a word since he had unsaddled his gelded mustang and rested his aching joints. Yet unlike the others of the small band of travelers, Moon never slept.

  His crystal clear mind never faltered. It remained honed like a freshly sharpened Bowie knife at all times and Moon had grown used to it.

  Moon simply sat and drank the strong beverage and watched as one by one the troopers had succumbed to sleep across the fires flames as he sipped at his favored drink. Only the veteran Cal White was trusted among the soldiers who escorted the covered wagon on its treacherous journey to the distant settlement of Cougar’s Bluff with its precious cargo of the young Hooper sisters and their temporary guardian, the handsome widowed June Marcus.

  Uriah Moon trusted few men and he did not trust any of the four troopers who accompanied them from Fort Hook. Fort Hook was renowned for being a fortress which was manned by enlisted troopers who were sent there to die. Most would have been imprisoned in civilian life for their sickening deeds but the cavalry had chosen another way of punishing them. They were swiftly dispatched to the remote fort to face the hostile Apache braves who had constantly attacked Fort Hook.

  It was a death sentence.

  Few ever survived for long and there were always plenty of others to replace them. Moon had already encountered two of the four troopers before when he had caught them spying upon the young golden haired sisters. Moon had fought with them until they were left bruised and bloodied but now he simply watched them sleeping through the rising steam of his tin coffee cup.

  Moon had entrusted the wagon driver to protect the trio of innocent females while he left the small camp and set out to scout the infamous Satan’s Spell. Only Cal White was aware of the vigilante’s departure as he sat watching his fellow troopers.

  Fueled by coffee and his meagre ration of supper the vigilante had quietly saddled his trusty mount and left for the unknown dangers which reigned supreme in the forested hills.

  It was a lonely ride to the imposing forest yet Moon was unafraid of anything within its boundaries. He had been to this place before and knew that the most dangerous of creatures were not mythical monsters but those who walked upright on two legs like himself.

  Upon entering the darkness of the forest, Moon slowed his mounts pace. He was only here to see if there were any sign of potential danger. His sturdy mustang had moved steadily along the wide overgrown trail road which had been carved out years earlier by long departed gold miners. The animal had been totally calm until it suddenly caught the scent of those who watched the white-haired horseman.

  Then unexpectedly the gelding had started to fight against its master and buck beneath his saddle. Moon knew that the horse had sensed something that he was still unable to see.

  Yet unlike most men the vigilante was not willing to allow his skittish mustang to stop his advance. If there was danger lurking in the darkness, Moon wanted it to attack him and not the females he had led to the foothills of the forest. He drove his spurs into the flesh of the fearful animal and forged on into the eerie shadows which dominated this unholy place.

  Uriah Moon believed that fate was chiseled in granite and everyone’s life was written out upon stone tablets. He believed that the time and manner of his death could not be changed and so he simply accepted it. If this was where he was to die, it was pointless for him to be afraid.

  Fear was a wasteful and futile exercise. When the Grim Reaper decided to visit and take you, it was utterly pointless protesting or arguing. So he travelled on deeper into the land of looming trees.

  Satan’s Spell was still as lethal as it had been the last time he had entered the forest. The mustang grew more fearful the further along the trail road that its rider forced it to travel. Moon gripped his long leathers tightly in his hands and scanned the black depths of every shadow to either side of the trail.

  Then as the gelding turned a corner Moon’s eyes saw a glowing red light just over a crest in the road. He slowed and then stopped his mount in its tracks. The light danced against the night sky like a swarm of magical sprites as the alert horseman slowly advanced to the crest of the hill.

  Moon had no sooner reached the top of the hill crest when he saw flaming torches set across the trails width sending their crimson flames high into the sky. A deathly crimson hue flickered against the surrounding trees and created animated monsters in his fertile imagination but Moon was not deceived so easily.

  He knew that the monsters only existed in the minds of the those who believed in them. His eyes narrowed as he s
teadied the frightened mustang beneath his saddle. His hands gripped his reins tightly as the horse bucked and shied.

  ‘Easy, horse,’ Moon calmly drawled as he fought with the gelding as it attempted to turn and flee from the blazing torches ahead of him.

  The expressionless vigilante surveyed the area vainly. It was obvious that someone had spotted him entering the forest and was attempting to halt his progress but Moon could see anyone beyond the flaming smoking torches.

  A hundred eyes might have been watching him but the skilled horseman could not see them. Wherever they were, they were close and the silver haired horseman knew it. He could feel it in his bones as he wrestled with his long leathers and fought to steady his mustang.

  Then suddenly a deafening volley of rifle shots rang out from the trees and echoed around the area as bright red tapers of lethal lead came at hurtling at him from each side of the trail.

  It was as if every one of the trees within the depths of Satan’s Spell had an assassin hidden behind its broad trunks and every one of them was trying to claim the uninvited intruder’s life.

  Uriah Moon swiftly ducked as shots rained at him in the shadowy terrain.

  With bullets passing above and around him from every direction the vigilante fired back with venom. Through the choking gun smoke Moon saw their painted faces emerge from the trees clutching smoking rifles in their hands. His lethal accuracy did not fail him as he blasted back at the Cheyenne warriors as they stormed out of their hiding places toward him with screaming howls.

  Howls which sounded more akin to the insane ravings of madmen rather than those which usually bellow from the lungs of attacking warriors.

  Sane or demented made no difference to Moon. He kept blasting at them with the same amount of defensive expertise than he always showed to anyone who fired their weaponry at him.

  If they wanted him dead, he would make them work hard for their prized trophy. Moon did not die easily.

  The charging Cheyenne Indians fell like rain before the vigilante managed to turn his loyal gelding swung around and kick his heels into its flanks.

  The startled mustang immediately obeyed its master’s spurs and bounded toward the trees and dense undergrowth.

  The horse galloped at the entangled brush and into the forest as Moon leaned over its neck and urged it on. The sharp thorns tore at the legs and body of the saddled animal as the vigilante shook the spent casings from his smoking six-shooter and started to recharge its chamber with fresh bullets.

  Within a mere heartbeat, the horseman heard the unmistakable sound of warriors behind him. Moon glanced over his shoulder and saw their painted pony’s following the trail his fleeing mustang had left in its wake.

  Shots continued to cut through the blackness he rode through as they sought their fleeing target. Chunks of tree bark exploded from the tree trunks as the rider continued to spur his horse on. Again Moon glanced back and saw the howling Cheyenne chasing him.

  It was a terrifying sight. A thought suddenly occurred to the vigilante.

  Had the Grim Reaper finally decided to deal him the death card? Was this where it was going to end?

  Moon swung his body around and faced forward as the gelding charged through the undergrowth. The wide-eyed mustang swerved between the numerous trees and obstacles but did not slow its pace under the constant barrage of rifle fire which dogged it and peppered the tree trunks.

  Clouds of sawdust filled the air that Moon thundered through. Moon screwed up his eyes as he vainly tried to see ahead of the galloping animal beneath his saddle. The only light to reach the ground ahead of him was that of the stars that filled the sky above the vast tree canopy.

  Rays of haunting blue light filtered down from the heavens upon the labyrinth of trees ahead of the charging horse. Enough light for the horseman to see his salvation.

  Moon had spotted a massive boulder.

  It was set just behind a score of straight trees. The vigilante turned the head of his mount and charged through the brush toward it. He did not slow his pace until the gelding had just passed the boulder.

  The intrepid Moon hauled back on his reins and stopped his horse in its tracks. Before the animal had even managed to halt its progress the tall figure had pulled his rifle from its scabbard and leapt to the ground with his Winchester in his hands.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he climbed the boulder until he reached the top. The air was filled with the acrid scent of gunpowder as the warriors continued to unleash their bullets at the bearded intruder.

  Uriah Moon did not waste any time returning fire.

  Shot after shot he fired with his Winchester. Warrior after warrior fell lifelessly to the ground until there were only a handful of them left. Moon could see their crazed faces as they charged at him in defiance of his deadly accuracy.

  Moon could not understand why they were literally charging to their deaths. It was as though they were under the spell of some unseen power. As bullets cut through the eerily haunting surroundings from the warrior’s rifles, Moon dispatched the last remaining Cheyenne braves with emotionless precision.

  Dishing out death like this did not sit well with the vigilante who was used to a different kind of prey. The men he had just dispatched to the happy hunting ground were under the spell of something or someone else, he thought as he had clambered back down to his waiting mount.

  Moon threw himself up on to the back of his gelding and started to ride through the sickening air. He brooded over the faces that he had seen as they had attacked him.

  No sane men of any color or creed ran into the jaws of certain death the way those Cheyenne had done, he kept thinking. His mount obeyed its master and kept thundering through the undergrowth at breakneck speed.

  So why had those braves charged him?

  The thought of men in a trance troubled Moon. It was as if they had been hypnotized into believing that they were invulnerable to his bullets.

  Suddenly the light within the depths of Satan’s Spell grew and the vigilante became aware that they were nearing a large clearing. A clearing which allowed the light of a thousand stars to reach the ground unheeded by the dark overhead canopies.

  Moon stopped his lathered up mount. He stared at a lake surrounded by reeds and various other types of vegetation before looking directly ahead at an impressive waterfall. The sight of its unrelenting water flowing over its high lip and crashing about twenty feet to the lake was a stunning sight.

  The vigilante dismounted and allowed his gelded mustang to drink from the fresh water. Then his ice cold eyes caught the sight of something he had not expected.

  For an instant he was chilled to the bone.

  He felt his guts turn in horror as he moved toward the sickening sight. Two headless bodies lay close to the lake water as though they had been propped up in some macabre ritual. These were obviously not Indians, he concluded.

  These bodies belonged to white men by their clothing.

  As Moon turned away he saw an even more horrific vision close to the edge of the lake. It was the severed heads on crude spikes driven into the damp soil. The pair of skulls stared with unseeing eyes as the vigilante approached. Moon had barely discovered the unholy heads when his unblinking noticed more heads on similar sticks about twenty yards from where he was standing.

  Moon stroked his long bearded thoughtfully. Was this discovery the reason he had not seen or heard anything about the outlaws which had been in Satan’s Lair on his previous visit?

  Had they fallen victim to the Cheyenne warriors in the same manner that he had nearly done?

  The thought had no answer in his sane mind. This was the work of insanity. Those who had done this were being guided by a darker entity than the one which had always steered his actions. The vigilante turned away from the horror he had stumbled upon and began to return to his still drinking mustang.

  Then as he neared the gelding another sound caught his attention. A sound which competed with the relentless noise of falling wat
er crashing into the lake.

  It was drums being pounded.

  Moon felt his heart quicken as he slowly raised his head and looked up to the top of the waterfall. Two Cheyenne braves suddenly appeared and stood with folded arms bathed in starlight.

  They stared blankly down at the vigilante.

  The eyes of the tall man narrowed as they squinted up at the Cheyenne warriors. Moon’s hands automatically dropped to his holstered six-shooters and curled around their grips.

  Moon was startled by the unexpected sight.

  The vigilante had imagined that he had killed all of the crazed braves back at the large boulder but as usual, he had been wrong.

  Moon stepped away from his mustang.

  He was about to shout at the two warriors when a third figure emerged from behind them and moved to the very edge of the falls as water cascaded down into the starlit lake.

  Uriah Moon frowned as he stared hard at the third figure.

  This Indian was very different to the others, Moon thought.

  This was a shaman. A medicine man who was highly decorated in golden trappings and bright colorful trimmings to his buckskin clothing. He sported a buffalo skin headdress with two horns protruding from it. Even from the distance between them, Moon could see the paint that his face was covered in. He held a tall lance which had feathers and what looked like scalps dangling from its length. This had to be the infamous Grey Owl, Moon reasoned.

  The shaman started to chant.

  It sounded like a voice from the hollows of hell to the vigilante as his fingers curled around his gun’s triggers. Moon knew that this would not end well.

  Even more blood was going to be spilled.

  He just hoped it would not be his blood.

  As the menacing shaman’s rantings grew even louder, Grey Owl suddenly paused and aimed his lance down at the watchful vigilante. He screamed at the two warriors who had then reached down and both pulled repeating rifles off the ground.