Fear Weaver (7 page)

Nate added a piece of tree limb to the fire and the flames spat and hissed.

“Tell me about your girl, Evelyn,” Tyne requested. “What is she like?”

“She will be seventeen her next birthday. She likes flowers and pretty dresses, but she can shoot the eye out of a buck at fifty paces, and she can ride like the wind when she has to.”

“You sound very proud of her.”

“I am. When she was younger, she didn’t like the mountains. Her mother and I thought she would move back East one day, but she hasn’t talked about doing that in over a year now. I guess she decided the mountains aren’t so bad, after all.”

“Are they?” Tyne asked.

Nate stared at the encircling veil of darkness. “The mountains are as they have always been. They have beauty, and they have perils. We can admire the beauty, but we must watch out for the perils.”

Erleen was suddenly there, her hands on her hips. “I will thank you not to scare my daughter. We have made it this far without mishap. It puts the lie to all those tales about savages behind every tree and beasts behind every bush.”

“All it proves is that you and your family have been very lucky But no one’s luck lasts forever.”

Erleen patted Tyne’s shoulder. “Don’t listen to him, dear. He’s lived in the wilderness for so long, he has forgotten how to behave in polite company.”

Nate resented the accusation, but he bit off a reply. He reminded himself that Erleen Woodrow was used to the tame and peaceful East. He sincerely hoped she made it back there without having to learn that her world and the West were not the same. It could be a painful lesson.

The aroma of boiling stew filled the clearing. Everyone settled down, making themselves comfortable. Nate remarked that if all went well, tomorrow they should learn the fate of Sullivan and his family.

“I pray to God they are all right,” Peter said.

“They will be,” Erleen predicted.

“I hope we can talk them into coming back with us,” Peter remarked, adding for Nate’s benefit, “That’s another reason I came in person. I would like to convince Sully that enough is enough. He should buy property near mine so we can be like we were before he got it into his head to live in the Rockies.”

“He loves the outdoors too much,” Aunt Aggie said.

The stew was mostly water with bits of squirrel meat and some flour for thickening, but it was hot and it was filling. Nate poured coffee into his tin cup and sat back on a log to relax, but just as he raised the cup to his lips the night was shattered by a howl to the southwest.

“A wolf!” Tyne exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “I have yet to see one this whole trip.”

Nate wasn’t so sure. He listened for the howl to be repeated, and it was. A long, high, wavering cry, shrill and piercing.

The next moment Ryker was at his elbow. “Have you ever heard a cry like that?”

“Never,” Nate admitted.

“Me neither. It wasn’t no wolf, though. And it wasn’t a coyote or anything else I can think of. What the hell?”

Other howls rent the night. There was more than one of the beasts, whatever they were.

“Mr. Ryker, you swore again.”

“Sorry, ma’am. I will stop cussing when I stop breathing. Until then you’ll just have to put up with it.”

Erleen looked mad enough to smack him. “I am sorry to say this, Mr. Ryker, but you frontiersmen are a scurvy lot. Some of you, anyway.”

“And I’m not sorry to say this, ma’am, but I ride a horse and not on a ship, and my name isn’t Black-beard.”

Aunt Aggie chortled.

“Had I known you could be so petty, Mr. Ryker, I would have hired someone else to be our guide.”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but there aren’t many who will come this far in. Bridger would do it, but last I heard, he was guiding wagon trains. Walker would do it, but last I heard, he was in California. Jedidiah Smith went and got himself killed by Comanches. That leaves King, here. You’re getting two for the price of one.”

“Was that a barb, Mr. Ryker?”

“Perish the thought, ma’am.”

Peter broke in with, “As soon as everyone is done eating, we should all turn in.”

Fitch raised his face from his soup. “But I’m eigh-teen. I should get to stay up as long as I want.”

“I want to get an early start, son, and we all need rest.”

The howling stopped. Whatever gave voice to it had gone quiet.

“We should take turns keeping watch,” Nate proposed. “Two hours each. I’ll take the first turn. Then Fitch, Harper, and you, Mr. Woodrow. That will leave an hour or so for Edwin.”

“Don’t call me that. I hate that name.”

“Very well, Mr. King,” Peter said. “If you feel it necessary.”

“I do.”

Tyne gave Nate a hug before she turned in. Soon he was the only one not bundled under blankets. Perched on a log by the fire, his rifle across his thighs, he sipped coffee and listened to the night sounds.
And there were a lot. The meat-eaters were abroad. Coyotes yipped. Owls screeched. Occasionally the roar of a griz announced that the monarch of the land was on the prowl. The screams of mountain lions were rarer yet. Twice, Nate heard howls that he was sure were made by wolves. He didn’t hear the strange howls again.

Before long, Fitch took over.

Nate lay on his back with his saddle for a pillow and a blanket pulled to his chin. He gazed up at the myriad of sparkling pinpoints in the night firmament, waiting for sleep to claim him.

Nate was on the verge of dozing off when Fitch whispered, “Mr. King, are you awake?”

“Yes.”

“I think something is out there.”

Smothering a yawn, Nate rose on his elbows. “I didn’t hear anything.” He saw only darkness.

“It was there.” Fitch pointed to the southwest. “Something moved. I didn’t get a good look at it.”

Nate stared until his eyes ached. “There’s noth—” he began, and stopped. Something
did
move, a flicker of white against the backdrop of black. He sat up and grabbed his Hawken.

“Did you see that?” Fitch breathlessly asked. “What on earth was it? A deer?”

Nate didn’t know. He had never seen anything like it: a hunched-over form, as pale as a sheet, that was lightning quick. He would almost swear it was on two legs but that was preposterous. It moved too silently, too swiftly.

“Mr. King?”

Nate threw off his blanket. “I’ll keep watch awhile. You turn in.”

“That wouldn’t be fair. You just laid down.”

Of all of them, Nate had talked to the boys the least. Fitch and Harper tended to keep to themselves. They had their father’s reserve and were not as open as the girls. But Nate liked them. They were dutiful, decent young men who would soon make their own mark in the world. “I don’t mind.”

“Whatever you say, sir.”

Nate smiled in wry amusement. His own son hardly ever said “sir” to him. Zach was too independent, too much his own person. Nate wished Zach were there now. With his son to back him, he would take on anyone or anything without any qualms.

Nate took Fitch’s place on the log. The night had gone quiet, a temporary lull in the beastly bedlam of predator and prey. It sobered Nate to contemplate that at that very moment, scores of meat-eaters, everything from martins to bobcats to wolves to grizzlies, were feasting on fresh, succulent flesh. It made a man thankful for the senses God gave him, and the brains to use them.

Nate refilled his tin cup. His eyes were leaden, his limbs sluggish. He probably should have let Fitch continue to keep watch, but Nate was a firm believer in the old saw that if you wanted something done right, do it yourself. And while Fitch was able enough, the boy lacked Nate’s experience.

Half a cup later, Nate was having trouble keeping his chin up when a feeling came over him that he was being watched. He gripped the Hawken and peered into the dark, but nothing moved. Dismissing it as nerves, he went on sipping and struggling to stay awake.

The feeling persisted. Nate set the cup down and stood. His Hawken level at his waist, he warily stepped to the edge of the clearing.

Everyone else was sound asleep. Erleen snored loud enough to be heard in California. The horses dozed.

Nate grinned at his foolishness. He was about to turn back when he thought he saw, at the limit of his vision, a pair of tiny dots, virtually pinheads of light. It took him a few moments to realize what they were.
Eyes
, reflecting the glow of the campfire. Eyes fixed unblinkingly on him. As Nate looked on, a second and then a third pair of dots appeared. There were three of them. He snapped the Hawken to his shoulder even though he didn’t intend to shoot, not without knowing what they were. But the instant he raised the rifle, the three pair of dots disappeared, as if they had blinked out of existence, or melted away.

A shiver ran through him. More nerves, Nate thought. Whatever those things were, they hadn’t tried to harm him or any of the others.

What were they?
Despite Nate’s many years in the mountains, despite his familiarity with every animal in the wild, he couldn’t say. And he didn’t like that. He didn’t like it one bit.

Nate hoped he had seen the last of them.

From a distance the sandstone cliff did indeed look like a giant red
V
. The cliff was part of a horseshoe ring of stone that cut the valley off from the outside world. The only way in was through the open end of the horseshoe.

As Nate and the Woodrows wound down the last slope, the hooves of their horses pinged on rock. Anyone in the valley was bound to hear them long before they got there.

Ryker, in the lead, held up an arm, bringing everyone to a stop. He bent toward the ground, then straightened and beckoned to Nate. “You need to see this!”

Nate trotted past the others. Tyne grinned as he went past. Aunt Aggie smiled and winked. Peter asked what he thought was the matter, and Nate answered that he had no idea. Which wasn’t entirely true. Nate figured Ryker had found tracks of some kind, and Ryker had. But not plural; just one track.

“What the hell do you make of that?”

The print was in a patch of soft earth. Whatever made it had five toes. Not claws or pad, but
toes
. Crooked toes, splayed wide apart. There was no sole or heel. Just the toes and a ridge of callus.

“Someone barefoot, running on their toes,” Nate speculated.

“That’s what I thought. But look at how those toes are twisted. They aren’t natural.”

Nate had to agree.

“And look at how deep the toes dig into the dirt. Whoever or whatever made it was either very heavy or has iron leg muscles.”

Nate thought of the pale specter the night before, and the eyes gleaming with fire shine.

“I wanted you to see it before the others rode over it.” Ryker paused. “I wonder if it has anything to do with those howls we heard.”

Nate shrugged.

“I still can’t get over Sully Woodrow coming this far into the mountains. What in God’s name was he thinking?”

“Peter says he wanted to get away from people.”

“Well, he picked a damned good spot. This is as off the beaten track as you can get. His wife must have been fit to be tied. Most women wouldn’t like living in the middle of nowhere.”

Erleen cleared her throat to call out, “Mr. Ryker, can we keep moving? We have a long ride ahead of us yet, and I, for one, would like to get it over with.”

“Sure, lady. Keep your britches on.”

“Mr. Ryker!”

Nate lifted his reins. “I’m going on ahead. I’ll blaze trees as I go so keep your eyes peeled. Take it nice and slow. If you hear a shot, have the rest wait and you come on alone. We don’t want any of them harmed.”

“Hell, I don’t want
me
harmed. But why this sudden urge to scout around? Do you know something I don’t?”

Nate bobbed his chin at the track. “I wouldn’t call
it sudden.” He went past Ryker and made his way lower. He was on the lookout for more of the strange tracks but didn’t see any. Soon he came to the base of the mountain and the valley floor spread out before him. Trees formed an impenetrable phalanx except where a game trail threaded among them.

Nate had only gone a few yards when he drew abrupt rein. Other riders were ahead of them. Hoof-prints merged with the trail, coming from higher up but not from the direction of the pass. The horses that made the tracks weren’t shod. That meant they were Indian mounts.

Nate thought of the Blackfeet. If it was them, he couldn’t begin to explain how they got there ahead of him. It didn’t bode well. Drawing his bowie, he cut a notch in a tree for Ryker, then rode on at a walk, his thumb on the Hawken’s hammer.

The woods were primeval, as woods must have been at the dawn of time, the pines so closely spaced, the branches formed a canopy that blocked out the sunlight filtered over the towering cliffs. It was like being in a whole new world. Or maybe an
old
world.

Suddenly the bay nickered and shied. Nate calmed it, then spotted the cause: a dead elk, a cow on her back with her innards ripped out. Keeping a firm grip on the reins, he dismounted and moved closer. The stink was abominable.

As best Nate could reconstruct the cow’s death, she had been brought down by blows to her legs; both front and rear leg bones were shattered. Once she was on the ground, whatever attacked her had rolled her onto her back and tore at her exposed belly. Her throat, though, was unmarked. That in it
self was remarkable. Mountain lions and other meat-eaters nearly always went for the neck.

Climbing back on the bay Nate cautiously wound deeper into the valley. He hadn’t gone far when he came on another dead animal. This time it was a horse. It had been struck a terrible blow to the head, above one eye, that nearly caved in its skull. The force had popped the eye from its socket, and now the eyeball dangled by its stem.

Nate gave a start. He had seen this particular horse before. It belonged to one of the Blackfeet.

Nate’s unease returned. He scanned the woods, but if anything was out there, it was lying low. Riding on, he shifted to keep an eye behind him. The skin between his shoulder blades wouldn’t stop prickling.

Somewhere to Nate’s right a stream gurgled. He angled toward it. Maybe it wasn’t smart to leave the game trail, but the bay could use a drink, and the banks of a stream were prime places to find tracks. Every living creature needed water to live.