5_3

Samuel Harrow was lying in the sheep field, dead. He had been stabbed repeatedly in the chest and neck and was lying in full rigour mortis, staring at the sky with an expression of confusion and pain. Thatcher was holding a double barrelled percussion shot gun.
“He managed to fire once before he went down” Thatcher said cracking open the gun and extracting a spent cartridge.
De Hogue knelt by the dead man and examined the congealed wounds. At least two of them would have been instantly fatal he judged, and all had been made with the same triangular pointed weapon. He counted around twenty six wounds, but it was hard to tell. He turned his attention to the ground, and it was not long before he found more of the triangular points in the ground.
“What’ thee looking at there?” Thatcher asked. He came closer to see.
“I keep finding these marks” de Hogue replied. “The trees down there are full of dead sheep… and this mark” he pointed to the faint indentation in the ground, and then to Sam Harrows chest “is all over the place.
And that’s not all!”
“Nay?”
“No. I found the same marks around another dead sheep the day we found Mary Coleman.”
Thatcher stared at him; then bent closer to examine the wounds in Samuel Harrows body. He fingered one of the wounds and then stood up and looked about them at the empty landscape. Gradually it began to rain again.
“There’s his horse” Thatcher said, pointing.
Sure enough, all but hidden in a small dale, a fat old pony was standing alone, staring at them.

They tethered the pony to the wagon then walked it up to the field.
When they lifted his corpse onto the wagon, Harrows body, despite its rigour mortis, seemed to almost crack open, and blood, old and dark, ran from him to run down the cart and spill onto the ground behind them. As they turned the cart around again and made for the road, it shifted direction, and the two men ignored it with studied disregard.
Slowly they headed back towards Welles.
After twenty minutes or so, they met with Samuel Moss and his three sons returning home.
Moss shouted out a puzzled greeting, and Thatcher answered him in a dour tone. As they drew closer, the men of the Moss family saw the corpse on the wagon and the two older brothers pulled away young Harry Moss who was already starting to cry.
Samuel Moss stopped by the wagon, telling his sons to wait for him a bit further on. He stared down at his neighbour in amazement.
“When?” he asked.
“Probably last night” Thatcher answered. “Did thee hear aught? A gunshot?”
Samuel Moss shook his head no. He pulled his eyes from the body and swallowed nervously.
“Did they find the girl?” de Hogue asked.
“What?” moss stared at him. “Yes. Yes she’s dead as well.”
Thatcher swore softly.
“What did this?” Moss pointed at the corpse. “Who is doing this?”
Neither de Hogue nor Thatcher had any answer. Thatcher sniffed and felt in his pocket for more tobacco. Moss shook his head again sadly.
“I dunno” de Hogue told him. “But I think you should keep watch tonight. You and your family. Don’t let any one go off by himself. I think we are dealing with a very dangerous man. A man quite capable of the most appalling acts.”
Moss thanked them and hurried on his way. Neither he nor his sons had been carrying any weapons.
De Hogue and Thatcher continued along the long road and both walked in silent contemplation. With each step de Hogue let himself drift further and further into his mind, searching for the answer. He could not believe this was the act of a man, but how could he believe any other wise.
He’d heard of insane men who were capable of all manner of unspeakable acts, but he had never experienced one before. The question he kept turning over in his mind regarded the triangular marks. What sort of weapon, or tool made such a mark?No matter how hard he tried though, he could not think of an answer, and in the back of his mind he heard again, and again, McKee’s fevered voice; they are all dead, taken by the dragon!