Paria, Utah Territory, The house of Clint Mecome, May 8^th, 1888, 0313 hours

2^nd Lieutenant Woodruff Freeman of the second platoon of the Utah militia garrisoned at Fort Panguitch approached the house cautiously from the east, his hand lay gently on his old single action Smith and Wesson model 2 revolver in its holster. His other hand nervously went to his face and he ran is thumb along his mustache putting the tip of his glove in his mouth and pulling it off tucking it into his belt. He left his campaign hat, as well as his saber, behind with his horse, his hair a brown dirty mop from hours of ridding in the heat. He stole himself for what lay ahead, a prayer on his lips. His Sergeant, Thales Heachel, walked next to him approaching a small gate in the hog fence that surrounded the small home that lay beyond. Thales was a man of detail, his blue fatigues impeccable, his forage cap and gloves tucked into his belt, his tall frame moved fluidly, every step calculated, he looked like a stalking cat in blue military uniform. The one story clapboard home was well kept, recently white washed. Clint had always kept a nice home despite his wife having died many years previous. As they passed the gate the Sergeant started to circle to the north, keeping his Winchester Model 1887 double barrel shotgun level with the ground. He placed each foot carefully so as not to move a single sage. Behind them to the east on the top of the low rise was Private Alfred Ford. Private Ford was laying across his horse blanket with a Sharps rifle chambered in .50-90 propped across his saddle for stability, their 3 horses and remainder of the platoon lay behind the rise prepared to move if needed.

Lieutenant Freeman wished it was darker, the moon was waning but still bright.  Even from here he could make out the shape of a body on the front porch, blood, jet black in the darkness, covered the top stair. It seemed as if multiple lamps were lit in the house, the 2 small windows were shining brightly. Lieutenant Freeman stopped as he saw one of the windows darken, then the other, then back again. “Something was moving in the house” he thought.  The Sergeant continued around to the side of the house and placed his back against the wall and squatted down, moving along the side wall and then under the south window.  He slowly stood and looked in, the house was open and its entirety could be seen from the window.  He looked back and forth, lowered his shotgun and waved a hand to signal the all clear.

            The Lieutenant relaxed his gun hand and began to move forward, but again tightened his hand as the lamps flashed briefly.  He approached more quickly, his body tense.  The Sergeant climbed the stairs, carefully avoiding the gore of the scene.  The Lieutenant pulled his pistol as he did the same.  The door had a simple latch with a padlock on the door.  “Strange” thought the Lieutenant “Why would someone lock the door after robbing the place.” “Sergeant Heachel” the Lieutenant whispered “Are you sure you didn’t see anything in house? I keep seeing shadows.” The Sergeant shook his head no and produced the key to the lock given him by the hired hand who had found the bloody scene. He gently placed the key in the lock and began to turn, unbeknownst to the them the lock had been fitted with a special spring to assist the owner of the home who had lost a hand years before.  As soon as the key had made a full turn the lock almost jumped off the door and clanged to the ground.

            There was a rumble in the house, sound of foot falls.  The element of surprise was lost.  “GO” screamed the Lieutenant as he swung the door open and aimed his pistol.  He scanned toward the right and his Sergeant the left, guns leveled across the one room house.  No one was there. There were no other exits from this house.  The Sergeant began to squat down to see under the edge of the table in the northeast corner of the house. A blur of pink skin shot out from the table toward him and began to squeal.  Sergeant Heachel yelled “Shit” and then began to turn red. “It’s a damn piglet! Clint told me about it last Sunday, the sow died during birth, he couldn’t get her open to save the rest. He has been feeding it in the house.  I bout shot the damn thing.” The piglet obvious used to human interaction stood at the Sergeant’s feet looking expectantly, almost a human smirk on his face which said “feed me.”

            “Search the house Sergeant, let’s be sure, I don’t feel like that piglet caused the shadows I saw.” The Lieutenant looked across the room to a small bed in the southwest corner that was well made. Next to that a small bookshelf, which doubled as his nightstand, extended from the bed to the east wall. Clint had been an avid reader and had a collection to rival any normal person in the territory.  Above the bookstand hanging on the wall was a saber in a brass scabbard with brass handled wrapped in leather, and below that hung a sharps rifle, which appeared in perfect repair. The Lieutenant squatted down to look under the bed and saw a small box, which he extracted.  It contained Clint’s journals.  The Lieutenant stood and looked at the top of the book shelf where Clint’s bible set.  The bible was open and a large hole was present through its right half. 

“Lieutenant, no one is here, just the pig and what remains of Clint” said the Sergeant with a look of unease, the whole scene just felt wrong.  Well any murder scene feels wrong, but something here was more “wrong.”

“Give Private Ford the all clear, tell him to keep his eye out.” The Sergeant saluted and walked out the door as the Lieutenant picked up the bible.  As he did he noticed the sticky substance and sudden burst of iron smell coming from the back of the book.  He turned it over and saw the red-black coagulating blood and pinkish white brain matter along its back.  The Lieutenant set the book down gently and noted the passage marred by a bullet hole. Romans 2:1-3 obliterated from the word of God. Sergeant Heachle came back in the room and looking back over his shoulder saw the Lieutenant was looking at the verse. He recited from memory.

“1 Therefore thou art inexcusable, O man, whosoever thou art that judgest: for wherein thou judgest another, thou condemnest thyself; for thou that judgest doest the same things.

2 But we are sure that the judgment of God is according to truth against them which commit such things.

3 And thinkest thou this, O man, that judgest them which do such things, and doest the same, that thou shalt escape the judgment of God?”

“Paul sure was damn pushy” said the Lieutenant in a matter of fact tone “I judge folk all the time, its part of the job.” He said, sarcasm on his lips “Shall I escape the judgment of God Sergeant?”

Sergeant Heachle looked at him coolly, Thales was former minister in the congregational church and took his letters from Paul very seriously. “Lieutenant I’m not sure this is the time for a lesson on the bible, but we can discuss the difference between the judgment of God and the Judgment of man if you wish.  In this cause Paul…” The Lieutenant cut him off.  “Another time perhaps Thales” He said firmly as he picked up the bible and showed the back to the sergeant.  He looked back at the Lieutenant disgusted. “Well let’s get done what we come to do, let’s see Clint.”

            They went back outside, the platoon had come up with lit lanterns, the Lieutenant waved a man over and grabbed his lamp, getting down on one knee to see what became of Clint Mecome. Clint was lying face down, the back of his head and most of the left side of his face were gone.  His left arm was extended, ending in a stump, that hand had been missing as long as Lieutenant Freeman had known him. Blood, bits of skull and brain matter surrounded him.  “So he was shot here in the back of the head” thought the Lieutenant, looking down along the body, his legs were tied.  “This was an execution” the Lieutenant said to the surrounding crowd.  “S’far as I can tell the house looks just like every other time I’ve been in it.  Nothins’ missing, not that Clint had much to steal.” Said the Lieutenant to no one in particular “Let’s turn him over.”

The group tried to flip Clint without covering themselves in his blood. Clint was wearing blue waist coat over a white shirt with dusty tan cotton pants and brown leather calf high boats all stained in the blood of the dead man. The top button of the shirt was undone, the chain leading to his pocket watch crossed the vest just over the belly button. As they continued to role, they saw something no one expected, the right hand was now missing, bone and tissue came out of a blood soaked right sleeve, the bone appeared hacked, not sawn, it had obviously bled significantly. “This happened while he was alive” said a man from the crowd. It was Private Samuel Pollock, a doctor by trade, a former Union soldier and all around hardened man. He smoothed his long white beard as he approached the body and nonchalantly grabbed the arm with his gloved hand. Rigor mortis had set in the body wasn’t easily moved. He examined him closely, bright blue eyes looked intently as a man practiced in the evaluation in worst wounds humans can produce. “I am sure, this happened while he was alive, he bleed a while before they shot him. The round took off half his head, had to be something bigger than a pistol.”

            The Lieutenant considered for a second and decided “Sergeant go back in the house and bring his saber and rifle” Sergeant Heachle did so, first handing the Lieutenant the saber handle.  It was a classic Dragoon saber marked 1840 on the hilt, the brass obviously well cared for the leather on the hilt oiled and supple.  The Lieutenant tried to pull the saber, but to no avail.  He stood and offered the scabbard end to Doctor Pollock, who grabbed it with both hands and pulled.  The sword came free, but it was covered in coagulated blood, which had stuck it to the inside of the scabbard.  It’s curved blade appear blotched in black in the moonlight.  All the men looked at it uncomfortable at the thought of what had occurred.  The Sergeant looked down at the rifle in his hand and open the chamber, an empty Sharps cartridge fell out and clanked on the wooden porch, a hint of  burnt powder now in the air.  Silence reined.

            The piglet squealed from behind the door and everyone jumped but quickly recovered.  The lieutenant looked around squatting above Clint’s body and appraised the situation “His hand was hacked off with his own saber, shot in the head with his own gun, through his own bible.  Nothing missing from the house, which was relocked with a damn piglet running around inside” said the Lieutenant, anger growing in his voice “What the hell happened here?”

            The doctor continued to look at the body checking him for other wounds, finding none.  He began to undo the pockets of the vest, the chain to his pocket watch fell out of its button hole and off the body.  No watch was attached.  The Lieutenant looked perplexed, he had never once seen Clint without that watch.  He put two fingers in the small pocket on the right of the vest and found nothing.  “So the watch is missing” He considered why they would take the old railway watch and nothing else. “Bring me a sheet from his bed and let’s wrap the body and get him on a horse” the Lieutenant said rubbing his eyes with exhaustion “Also Sergeant bring the rifle, saber, the bible, and there is a box of journals under his bed, bring those too. Everyone else spread out and check the yard and back of the house for anything else we may have missed.  And somebody grab that piglet, we will drop it off at the next homestead, up to the Lantel’s place.”

With a salute the group began to disperse to search the yard. The Lieutenant holstered his gun, and watched as the platoon wrapped Clint in his own sheet. He noticed something else strange. “His hand…where is it?”

Part 2 coming soon….