Sam Zwick

Every winter, Black Devil’s Pass becomes one of the least welcoming places west of the Mississippi. Situated in the heart of the Rocky Mountains, the pass represents the only reasonable route between the bustling frontier town of Greenville, Colorado, and the fast-growing mining settlement of Silver Lake, Utah.

In late November, the warm air of the desert sails north and collides with the frigid gusts from the mountains to create storms that quickly cover the landscape in an unrelenting torrent of snow. Most travel ceases, with only the occasional brave, some might say foolish, soul embarking across the frozen hellscape.

It’s not impossible, but the two-week journey becomes at least twice that once the first flake touches down. The spring thaw in early March often reveals the frozen corpse of a traveler whose journey was cut short…

———————————————

The offer was too good to ignore. A new mine had opened in Silver Lake that promised to make every soul in town rich. As it sat, the small settlement was populated almost entirely by rough and rugged men who spent more of their lives with dirt under their fingernails than not. If Silver Lake was to become more than a glorified campground, it needed citizens of differing backgrounds and occupations to round it out.

A small group of five would become the newest to call Silver Lake home. They couldn’t have had less in common. In fact, the only things they did share were a final destination and the desire to get to town before anyone else could.

The man in the black robe and white collar was easy enough to figure out. He was young, only a year removed from the seminary, with a smooth face and a head full of chestnut hair. His calling was a Godly one, and if any place needed the word of the Lord, it was one where the heart of greed ran straight through the earth.

The girl was also on a mission. She, too, was ready to provide relief to the hardened souls of Silver Lake, but rather than the words of the Lord and the Rosary, her tools and methods were more carnal in nature. Some souls needed saving, but all needed satisfaction.

Big blue eyes and a shock of long yellow hair drew plenty of glances, but a voice like a songbird and a smile that felt like a secret were what sealed most deals.

The old woman was unusual. She had commissioned the trip, insisting that she needed to travel at once. Most who made the trek, even during the better season, were young and full of youth and life enough to seek adventure, fortune, and the thrills promised by such a journey. She, though, seemed hardly the type. Her clothes were nice, if not well-worn. A frail frame and dust grey hair left her looking weak in the faces of her companions.

Last among the travelers was the duo without whom the other would not exist.

The lawman looked every bit the part, his thick mustache sitting on an upper lip stiffer than a cedar plank. The gold star on his chest did most of the talking, but when he spoke, a deep, quiet voice demanded the ear of those near and far. A wide hat never left his head, save for the times it covered his face as he slept.

The criminal was his opposite in every way. Small, wiry, and sporting a pair of heavy manacles on both his hands and feet, his voice conjured the squeaks and squeals of a rat caught in a hawk’s talons. Beady eyes that darted left and right gave him an air of well-earned distrust.

The Preacher. The Scarlet Girl. The Old Woman. The Lawman. The Criminal. Five souls bound by circumstance, now responsible for the survival of their fellow travelers in the most unforgiving of environments.

The caravan was small, consisting of a single horse and a covered wagon pulled by two muscular oxen. The wagon held the group’s belongings, most contained to a single bag, as well as the necessary provisions and supplies for the journey. The Lawman and the Preacher would alternate between driving the wagon and riding the horse. The women would ride in the back while the Criminal would remain up front, his hands and feet bound.

There were three guns: a shotgun and a six-shooter belonging to the Lawman that went where he did, and a hunting rifle that remained strapped to the saddlebag of the horse.

The first four days of the journey lacked much excitement. The air was cold and thin, carried on a breeze that rustled the browned grasses and dead leaves on the trees. The first snow had yet to fall on the lower portions of the mountain, but higher up, the white caps loomed large, blotting out all color and reflecting the sun’s light.

On the fifth day, they crossed the river. It was shallow but wide. The water was almost impossibly frigid, but it would only get colder as the winter months took hold. Not far beyond the water’s edge, the mountain began to close in around them. 

The Black Devil’s Pass was imposing and anything but straight. Like a bolt of lightning carved into the stone walls, it zigged this way and that, often turning back on itself, leaving only a few hundred feet of trail visible before travelers were forced in a new direction.

The snow began to fall as the Lawman eased the horse to the rear. The Preacher drove the wagon through an opening too narrow for anything outside of the wooden wheels. 

“How’re we doing back here?” the Lawman asked as he peered into the cavity of the wagon. 

The Old Woman was bundled up tight under a thick coat and a pile of furs. The Scarlet Girl, meanwhile, donned only an old, worn men’s coat. It fell well below her knees, but the brown fabric was tattered and, in places, more patchwork than original. 

“Well, thank you, sir,” the Girl replied.

The Old Woman tilted her head in agreement but said nothing. 

To this point, most conversations between the travelers mirrored this one. The Preacher was by far the most vocal, always working diligently to spread the good word. That his audience was less than captivated hardly seemed to deter the young man.

The Criminal would offer little more than a contemptuous smile, rejecting tales of God and the Devil as the forces behind good and evil. “Ain’t no God,” he said on the third night as they stared into the dancing flames of a small fire. “Ain’t no Devil, neither.”

“So you don’t believe you need to repent?” the Preacher asked in a tone of genuine concern. “You don’t fear an eternity of torment for your sins?”

The Criminal snorted, his breath wheezing in and out of his chest. “Life is torment,” he sneered. “Don’t see how death could be any worse.”

A small smile crept across the Old Woman’s face, but only the Scarlet Girl saw it. 

Hoping for better luck, the Preacher turned to the Lawman. “Surely, a man dedicated to upholding the law subscribes to the teachings of the Lord?”

The Lawman removed a tarnished flask from his jacket and put it to his lips. “With all due respect, Preacher, I’ve seen plenty of good,” he nodded politely towards the two women, “and I’ve seen more than my fair share of bad.” He eyed the Criminal. “Those things are undeniable, but I’ve yet to see any reason beyond what’s in a man’s heart for either.”

Undeterred, the Preacher looked to the Old Woman, his eyes avoiding the piercing blues of the Scarlet Girl. “Ma’am?” he pleaded, looking for support from the group’s matriarch. 

“I believe in the Devil,” the Old Woman grinned, her white teeth gleaming in the firelight. 

Finally, the holy man turned to the Girl. “And you, miss? Surely you know that your sins require the forgiveness of Him above?”

The Girl glanced up from the fire and stared at the Preacher. He was only a year or two older than her, but they had chosen wildly different paths in life. 

She knew only two types of people: those who appreciated her services and those who vilified them. The young man before her was the second, but she doubted it would take much to convert him into the first. 

“Perhaps you’ll have to take my confession, Father,” she said, the final word hanging on her lips. 

It was enough to send a torrent of blood to the Preacher’s face. Unable to gather himself, the conversation melted away in the flames of the fire. 

The Lawman was pulled from the memory as the wagon struck a large rock and bounced, eliciting a surprised yelp from the Girl. 

“Everything okay up there, Preacher?” the Lawman shouted. 

Moments later, the landscape opened up as they entered another wide clearing. Thick, tall pines stood guard around a small lake. Beyond the edge of the water, a steady slope presented itself as the next leg of the journey. 

Snow came down in chunks as the oxen ambled on. A harsh wind whipped through the trees and sent more powder into the air. 

“The snow is getting awful deep,” the Preacher said as the Lawman rode back to the front. “I’m not sure how much farther we’re going to get if this keeps up.”

The Criminal chuckled between chattering teeth. “Turn back now, or you’re all going down with me.” 

The other two men ignored him and pressed on. Within minutes, the sky was nothing more than a blanket of grey as the setting sun fought in vain to pierce the storm. 

“I’ll scout ahead,” the Lawman shouted over the roaring wind. 

The path before them was much the same as what they were leaving behind. The snow kept coming, and before long, it was threatening to swallow the legs of the horse.

The Lawman steered his way through the trees, hoping to find a respite wide enough to shelter the wagon. What he found was even better. “There’s a cabin,” he shouted as he galloped back toward his companions. “We can ride out the storm there.”

The shelter was small but fairly sturdy for having been abandoned. A creaky wooden door opened into a modest space split into two rooms. A single bed occupied the smaller one, while a table and two chairs sat near the stove in the main area. There was even an overhang off one side of the structure that dipped below the pines and offered some cover for the animals. 

It only took a few minutes for everyone to gather the supplies they needed and congregate inside. A fire was lit, and in short order, the space was a welcome refuge from the conditions outside. 

Dinner consisted of rehydrated beans, dried apples, and pemmican, a combination of dried meat and fruits common among the natives of the area. As had become customary, the Old Woman refused to eat with the others. “Hardly a meal worth my station,” she huffed, taking her rations to the bedroom to eat in solitude. She would rejoin them, but not until the meal was over. 

“Odd one she is,” the Criminal mused. 

The unspoken agreement among the rest was to ignore most of what the man said, but the comment was enough to draw a soft chuckle from the Scarlet Girl. 

After the food had been consumed, everyone claimed their place near the fire and laid out sleeping mats on the hard wooden floor. It was far from comfortable, but it was warmer than the frozen ground. The Old Woman took the bed, opting for her furs over the warmth of the stove. 

Outside, the wind howled and thrashed against the log walls, but inside, all slept soundly. 

———————————————

The Lawman heard it first. The blood-curdling scream of an animal in its final moments. He sprang to his feet, lit an oil lamp, and dashed to the door. 

The scene outside was one of stark contrast. The snow continued to fall, coating everything in a pristine, smooth layer of unblemished white. High drifts surrounded the space where the oxen had stood, but a splash of color marred the picture. A long splatter of red across the snow led back to the throats of both animals. They were dead, killed by something powerful enough to rip through their tough hides and fast enough to avoid the deadly points of their horns. 

The Lawman put his hand on his holster, ready to draw his sidearm. His first thought was a bear. He scanned the area in search of a wide trail in the knee-deep snow that such a creature would make but saw nothing. To his relief, the horse was not among the dead. The long-limbed animal had created a path that showed it had escaped, at least for the moment.

He returned to the cabin, prepared to share the grim news with his companions. 

“He’s gone!” the Scarlet Girl shrieked as the Lawman stepped back into the warmth. 

“Who?” he asked, scanning the room and knowing the answer before it could be provided. 

The Criminal. 

“Damn him to hell,” the Lawman muttered as he reached into his pocket, expecting to find it empty, but the keys to the Criminal’s cuffs were still there. “He took the horse. And a bear got the oxen.” 

As the Preacher scrambled to his feet, the Lawman reached under his bed roll and pulled out the shotgun. If the Criminal had the horse, he had the hunting rifle as well. “Preacher, have you handled one of these before?” the Lawman asked, handing the young man the gun. 

“Yessir,” the Preacher replied, his hands shaking as he grasped the weapon. 

“Miss, you stay here with her,” the Lawman glanced to the bedroom where the Old Woman remained nestled in the bed. “We’ll find him.”

The Scarlet Girl nodded as the two men stepped outside. The cabin was left in silence save for the occasional pop and crack of a wet log in the stove. 

The Preacher fell in behind the Lawman as they pushed through the snow, following the only visible route through the trees. 

“Even with the horse, he can’t have gone far,” the Lawman said. “He’s still bound, too, so getting a shot off at us will be difficult for him.”

Each step was laborious. The ground was far from level, littered with rocks and twisted roots, but more than two feet of snow made it impossible to see what the next footfall would bring. 

“What did he do?” the Preacher asked. “The Criminal, what was his crime?”

“Horse thief,” the Lawman responded, the irony of the situation not lost on him. “Committed his crimes in the Utah Territory, though, so that’s where he’s to stand trial.”

A gasp came in reply.

The Lawman spun on his heel, ready to question the fortitude of his hunting partner, but stopped short. Just past the trunk of a tree, he spotted the color again. The unmistakable deep red flung across the snow. This time, the source was not an animal but the object of their chase. 

The Criminal’s corpse sat propped against a pine. His eyes were open, but thick clumps of snow stuck to his eyelashes. His head rested on his left shoulder, pushed over more than was natural. The reason for the increased flexibility was quickly apparent; a large chunk had been ripped from the other side of his neck. Blood covered the right half of the body. 

The Preacher quickly turned away and began to pray. Dealing with death was a part of his teachings, but this was more than death; this was carnage. 

“Back to the cabin,” the Lawman instructed. “Nothing we can do for him now.”

The Lawman tightened his grip on the shotgun. Only a bear, and a big one, could have done that kind of damage. Likely the same one that got the oxen. He began to worry about their final mode of transportation, the horse. 

The mood the rest of the day was a somber one. Nobody had liked the Criminal, but his death, or more accurately, the violent nature of it, hung over the survivors like a storm cloud. 

Outside, the real storm kept at it, battering the valley. It was as if a higher power were trying to scrub clean the landscape until nothing but pristine white remained. Hours passed in silence save for the whistle of air through small cracks in the walls. 

“Do you know how this pass got its name?” the Lawman said to no one in particular. 

The Scarlet Girl looked up from her stitchwork while the Preacher put down his Bible. The Old Woman had been staring into the fire for hours and continued to do so. 

The Preacher spoke first. “The tale I know tells of an enormous white bear that hibernates in the summer, waiting for the snow to obscure the landscape and provide a blank canvas on which to spill the blood of unsuspecting travelers…” He trailed off, the narrative feeling eerily familiar.

The Girl jumped in. “I’ve heard legend of a storm that the mountains release once every ten years. The sun is blotted out for weeks at a time. Harsh winds rush over the land, making it impossible to know if the snow swirling about comes from the sky, the ground, or both in the darkness.”

A powerful blast shook the cabin, drawing the Girl’s story to an abrupt end.

“You’re all wrong.” The words came from the Old Woman. Her eyes remained locked on the glow of the flames. “The name comes from the legend of the White Devil.”

A long moment passed in silence before she continued.

“The creature wanders the valley, searching for its other half, the Black Devil, for whom the pass is named. The legend says that they were early travelers attempting to make the crossing at the height of winter and became separated. While he survived to spring and watched the buds of new plants stretch open in the sunlight, she became lost in a perpetual winter, trapped forever in this land of frozen death.”

The Lawman laughed, the deep sound echoing around the small room. He patted the gun in his holster as he spoke. “Not to worry, ma’am, should the great bear return or even a devil, I’ll be ready. Now, best we get some sleep. I reckon that horse will be looking to make its way back here in search of food soon enough. Once it returns, we’ll assess her condition and determine what to do next.”

A supper, same as the last, followed, and everyone settled in for the night. 

———————————————

It was early morning when the Scarlet Girl woke. The room felt cold, and a quick glance at the fire revealed that only few glowing coals remained. She tiptoed her way through the dark to the small stack of logs in the corner. 

Once a flame jumped to life, she turned back for bed and observed her companions. The Preacher lay on his side, his chest gently swelling and contracting with each breath. The Lawman was on his back, but something seemed off. His head was angled hard to one side like an invisible force was pulling it down to his toes. 

“Sir?” she whispered. 

There was no response. 

She crept closer and bent down to touch his hand. It was colder than the room. 

“Sir?” she repeated, a note of fear rising in her voice. She gently lifted the hat from his face. His eyes were open but lifeless. A pool of thick, dark liquid had formed near the Lawman’s shoulder. 

The Girl felt her chest tighten. Air was suddenly in short supply as every gasped breath seemed to take place underwater. She stumbled back, her legs working independently, on a mission to put space between her and the horror she had discovered. 

Her hand drifted behind her in search of the door, the wall, anything to provide support, but instead, she found the stove. A shrill shriek flew from her lips as she felt the hot iron sear her skin. 

The sound was enough to rouse the Preacher, who sat up and looked at her with concern. “What…?” he began. His eyes started on the Girl but quickly shifted, following her gaze to the Lawman lying a few feet from him. 

His brain fought to process the scene as a distinct metallic smell filled his nostrils. 

“Is he?” 

The Girl nodded, her eyes unblinking and glued to the body. 

The Preacher felt a wave crash over him. The urge to pray, to offer last rights, to do his Godly work was swallowed by an even more overwhelming urge to vomit. He ran to the door, threw his shoulder into it, and stumbled through a large bank of snow. 

The Scarlet Girl looked to the other room where the Old Woman was still asleep. She rushed in and roused her, doing her best to explain, though words were difficult to come by. Every syllable felt thick on her tongue as if a spoonful of molasses was gumming up her mouth and her brain in equal time. 

Eventually, the Preacher returned, his face white as the landscape outside. “We need to find the horse,” he said. “We need to leave this place.”

The storm had slowed some, but snow continued to fall from the trees, shaken loose by the wind. The sky remained dark in the early morning hour. 

“I’ll venture out,” the Preacher continued. He reached to the ground and carefully collected the shotgun from the Lawman’s resting place. He also grasped the pistol and pulled it free, offering it to the Girl. “Miss, it shouldn’t be asked of you, but someone must stay with the Old Woman.”

She took the revolver and nodded. Moments later, the Preacher was gone. 

“He’ll never find that animal,” the Old Woman groaned from below her furs. “Could be anywhere by now or even dead and buried in all that snow.”

The Scarlet Girl hated to agree. The Preacher was not the Lawman. He was hardly equipped for whatever might be waiting outside the door. Not that the door mattered. The Lawman was killed inside the cabin, ripped open, and not a sound was made. Whatever killed him was something beyond any creature she knew of. 

The sooner they left this place, the better. 

“I’m going to search as well,” the Girl announced several anxious minutes after the Preacher left. “Please, take this and stay safe.” She handed the pistol to the Old Woman and rushed out the door. 

The very first rays of light were attempting to break through the veil of clouds that smothered the pass, but the visibility remained poor. Snow had drifted and settled in low spots, turning the space between the trees into an ocean of frozen waves. 

The Scarlet Girl stumbled her way through one pile and another, wandering aimlessly in hopes that the horse would step out from behind a tree and offer some relief in this waking nightmare. Each gust of wind, snap of a branch, and crack of the frozen lake made the hair on the nape of her neck stand on end. While leaving the pistol with Old Woman was the right thing to do, the Girl missed the comforting feel of the steel in her hands. 

Every minute that passed brought with it more cold that threatened to push past her worn coat and seep deep into her bones. While the elements did their work on the Scarlet Girl from the outside, fear created an icier chill within her. 

Two of their party were dead, and their only means of leaving this place were either deceased or missing. Even if they could locate the horse, there was no way the animal could carry all three of them back to safety. One person would have to ride for help while the others stayed behind. 

A sharp cry rang out between the pines. 

The Girl turned, trying to locate the source of the sound. The snow muffled everything, and the trees created a labyrinth that made it difficult to pinpoint the origin. 

The explosion of a gunshot followed.

This time, she got a sense of where the sound came from and turned toward it. 

The Girl moved through the snow as fast as she could until a color other than white caught her eye. There, on the ground, half covered in snow, lay the Preacher. His hand was wrapped around the crucifix that hung from his neck, or at least what was left of it. Like the Lawman, his head was pulled to one side, and a steady stream of blood bubbled from his throat, melting the snow below. 

She ran towards him and knelt. The Preacher’s gaze was fixed straight up to the heavens so the Girl leaned over him. 

“Woman…” he coughed, blood flowing faster from his neck and spilling between his lips. The Preacher wheezed, the red liquid bubbling as he tried again to speak. “…save…Old Woman.” 

The Preacher’s eyes went wide as his jaw fell open. It looked as if he were about to scream, but nothing came out except for more blood. 

The Girl stood. The shotgun rested against the Preacher’s shoulder. She picked it up and began to run. Her mind felt surprisingly clear. Get to the cabin, get the Old Woman, get out. 

The Scarlet Girl had never been one to concern herself with the well-being of others. Few chose her line of work because they wanted to, and she was no exception. Life was cruel and unforgiving in her experience, but coming face to face with so much death suddenly made life seem almost kind. She could easily leave the Old Woman to fend for herself, but something inside her said that being together was better than being alone. 

The door to the cabin was open when she regained sight of the structure. 

Images of the Preacher and the Lawman flashed through her mind, followed by a sick feeling that beyond the threshold, she might find the Old Woman splayed out, her throat half gone as some horrible beast ripped her apart. 

She steadied the shotgun on her shoulder, mimicking how she’d seen the Lawman hold it earlier in the trip. With a sharp breath, the Scarlet Girl threw herself through the entrance. 

The body of the Lawman was on the floor, just as it had been, but it wasn’t alone. The Old Woman was down on her hands and knees near the corpse’s head. Her mouth was pressed against the dead man’s neck. Her shoulders and back pulsed as she sucked and slurped on the ribboned flesh. 

The Scarlet Girl stood frozen. If finding the Lawman dead not an hour early had stunned her, this scene nearly broke her completely. By reflex, she jerked her hand down, pumping the gun with a sharp click. 

The Old Woman’s head snapped up. She cocked it to the side as she stared at the Girl. Her lips were covered in thick blood that ran down her chin, dripping back onto its source. 

“Find the Preacher?” she hissed. She had taken on an animal-like quality. Gone was any color in her eyes, replaced by black disks that nearly drowned out the white below.

The Scarlet Girl opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. 

The Old Woman pushed off the floor like a startled cat and landed on her feet. She held up her hand, her palm facing the Girl. “Bastard pulled out his silly little necklace,” she growled.

Across the white flesh was a deep black mark in the shape of the Preacher’s cross. 

“The White Devil…” It came out as hardly a whisper between the Scarlet Girl’s lips, but the Old Woman heard it. 

“White Devil, Great Bear, Ten Year’s Storm, I’ve heard them all, girl, and they’re all half-truths at best; that one’s just my favorite.”

The Old Woman took a step forward. The Girl placed her finger on the trigger. 

“For as long as I can remember, people are foolish enough to think they can cross this pass in winter. Some make it, others don’t. I’ve seen smart men die in the smallest of storms and dumb men survive ferocious blizzards.”

The Old Woman took another step forward, blood running down her chin and soaking into her black night dress. 

The Girl raised the gun. 

“This place is known for death. When it happens, no one is surprised,” The Old Woman continued, “so I take what I want.”

The Girl’s finger trembled on the trigger. 

“What are you?” she asked. 

The Old Woman smiled. Her lips curled over her gums, revealing snow-white teeth stained red.

“Ohh, I’ve been called lots of things, dear. Strigoi back home, Revenant by the French. Draugr is one of my favorites, but I’m sure the term you know is vampire. Not that it matters. Truthfully, my name is Lilith…”

The Scarlet Girl had heard enough. She pulled the gun to her shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The recoil nearly knocked her off her feet, and the sound was deafening inside the small cabin.

The Old Woman staggered back as the shot hit her in the chest and the face, tearing apart skin and cracking bone with a sickening crunch.

The Girl regained her balance and looked ahead only to find the Old Woman was gone. 

A second passed in silence. The Scarlet Girl thought perhaps it had all been a horrible dream until she felt a warm drop of liquid land on the back of her neck.

An icy breath chilled her ear.

“As I was saying, my name is Lilith, and that gun isn’t going to help you, dear.”