Wolf Night
by Martha Wells
It was the dead end of winter and Parker was riding through the Little Sally pass, his saddlebags filled with a payroll he really oughtn’t have, wearing every stitch of clothing he owned and wishing he was someplace warm, like Hell. Up in the highest notch, just before the canyon started to slope down, he saw an old Indian standing alongside the trail.
The old man was knee-deep in snow, a ragged hide robe wrapped around him, his head slumped down and stringy gray-white hair falling forward so Parker couldn’t see his face. He looked as if he had come just so far and couldn’t go a step more. At the moment, it wasn’t hard for Parker to sympathize.
He reined in, leaned forward and tipped his hat back. “Old man, do you need some help?” The horse couldn’t carry two for long, but judging by the bony shoulders outlined by the shabby leather, the old man couldn’t weigh much more than a child.
The Indian didn’t answer. The horse stamped and snorted, uneasy. It was late afternoon, thick gray clouds overhead and the wind rustling the fir trees down the pass. Snow was falling, very gently, little flakes catching in the old man’s hair. Parker wondered uneasily if the man had died like that, frozen stiff, standing up.
Then the Indian lifted his head.
His eyes were red, as if the vessels had burst and filled the whites with blood. The pupils were open slits of blazing light.
Parker’s feet came out of the stirrups as he fell sideways off the horse, dragging the rifle out of the saddle sheath on the way down. As he landed hard, the startled horse leapt away like a deer and Parker had the gun aimed, all in one furious heart-stopping, scared-witless moment.
The Indian hadn’t moved. Parker expected him to be doing something by now: turning into a wendigo, growing horns and batwings, or big teeth to eat the meal that had stupidly stopped to chat, but he hadn’t moved. Parker kept the rifle trained on him but didn’t fire. On the off chance that this was a shaman who hadn’t decided to kill him yet, he didn’t want to make this worse than it already was.
The eyes he didn’t want to look at were fixed on midair. Very quietly, the old man started to speak. The voice was raspy and hollow, but human. Parker couldn’t understand him; there were three tribes around these mountains and the language could belong to any of them. Parker stayed where he was until the old man stopped speaking, and his head slumped again.
Cold was creeping through Parker’s blood. He pushed to his feet, chilled from the snow. Nothing happened. He started to make a wide circle around the Indian, but when he got even with him, the figure disappeared. Damn, Parker thought, irony coloring his fear. This is going to be a day. He took an experimental step backward, and from that angle he could see the old man again. Someone coming up the trail from the other direction would never have noticed anything.
Clumsy in the deep snow, Parker went on up the trail and spent a while catching his wary horse, and another while calming her down. And calming himself down. It had to be a warning, but he had come this way last year, and he knew this wasn’t anybody’s sacred ground. So what was the warning for? It was undoubtedly clear as glass, if you understood whatever language the old Indian’s chimera spoke. Common sense said to heed it anyway and turn right around and go back. “Can’t do it,” he told the nervous horse regretfully. The payroll in the saddlebags said he had to go forward.
Parker mounted again and urged to horse on, slowly picking a path through the snow. It was getting colder and there was no use looking for answers where there weren’t any.
It took a long time getting out of sight of the place, and Parker didn’t look back.
But he wanted to, the whole way.
* * *
A storm chased Parker down the mountain and into the deep pine of the valley. It was dark and he was leading the horse by that time, battered by the wind and drenched by freezing rain. The snow at the top of the pass was nothing but ice down here in the pines, just wet enough to find its way inside his coat and soak him to the skin.
There was a stage stopover and outpost a little way ahead, and he meant to stay the night there. It was far too early in the year for a stage to run through here, but there would probably be a caretaker. Unsure of what condition he would be in when he arrived, Parker had cached the saddlebags back along the trail, under a pile of flat rocks.
He hadn’t encountered any man- and horse-eating demons on the way down the pass, or anything to show what the chimera’s warning meant. But maybe it was such a lousy night even the demons were tucked up in bed.
Then ahead in the dark he saw a flicker of light. He pushed toward it, stumbling over invisible rocks in the dark, thinking, That better be the post.
As he got closer he started to make out details. The light came from a couple of hurricane lamps, the muted glow illuminating a row of wooden posts that had to be a stockade wall. He could see a broad wagon gate standing open, two men looking down at something crumpled on the ground.
The light caught blood, bright against the muddy ice. The damage was mostly concealed by the dim light, but what Parker could see told him it had been a man.
“Oh, fine,” Parker muttered. This was just about all he needed. His horse, finally catching the scent of blood in the freezing wind, jerked her head and sidled.
The men looked up, startled, and there was suddenly a rifle pointed at Parker’s chest.
“Easy!” he said, lifting his hands, showing one was empty and the other held the horse’s reins.
One of the men picked up a lamp and carried it over, staring hard at Parker. Parker tugged his scarf down from his face so they could see he was human and opened his coat. He didn’t have a speck of blood on him and the gutted body was covered with it, steaming in the frigid air. “Who are you?” the man with the rifle demanded.
“I was coming down the pass when the storm started, wanted to take shelter here for the night,” Parker told him. The cold rain was stinging his cheeks. “What happened?”
Nobody answered, and the one with the lamp withdrew.
“Hey, are you going to let me in?” Parker felt helpless, trying to pretend he could still feel his toes. He could hear they were arguing, but couldn’t make out the words. If he had known he was going to end up like this, he would have let the army catch him and save the whole damn trip over the damn mountain.
“All right, come in!” someone shouted finally.
They had to throw a tarp over the body and drag it aside before he could get the horse through the gate. There was a sheltered lean-to just inside with another hurricane lamp; standing in the lee of it, out of the wind and rain, was like stepping into a warm parlor. Something short and wrapped up in furs started to talk to him but Parker’s attention was caught by the young man with the shotgun who was closing and bolting the gate.
The short furry figure pointed past him, into the compound. “… Stable’s that way, son. Got here at a bad time, you did—”
That was an understatement. Parker followed him out of the shelter. The freezing wind struck again, broken somewhat by the stockade. Parker staggered across muddy ground slick with ice patches. They blundered around the big dark shape of a stagecoach and into the stable, which was blessedly warm and far better than the lean-to. Parker waited until his guide got a lamp lit and asked, “You had a little trouble tonight?”
“You might say that now. This is wolf country tonight.” It chuckled, face still invisible under the fur hood. “It’s bad too, real bad.”
There was a team of matched grays and a couple of tired pack mules already stabled. Parker picked a stall without waiting for permission, unsaddling the horse and starting to rub her down. His hands were numb inside his gloves and clumsy, and his frozen ears were beginning to thaw, giving him a po
unding headache. The fur-covered figure just stood there and watched. Parker guessed they were starved for entertainment around here. He decided to play naive, and asked, “So that fellow was killed by wolves?”
The figure laughed, shed the hood and a couple of knitted scarves and turned into a little old man with a salt-and-pepper beard, small eyes, and big yellow teeth. He reminded Parker of a chipmunk, and not in a good way. “Not wolves, one wolf. We got wolf trouble. A werewolf.”
Parker gave him a hard look. “A werewolf? It won’t be a full moon for another two weeks.” Besides, he didn’t think an Indian shaman would bother with a chimera to warn about a werewolf.
“This one don’t need a full moon, don’t need nothing. He ain’t under no curse. Likes it probably. Sinful.” He shook his head, a sad chipmunk. “Killed two men, and a horse, earlier today. I saw him, took a couple of shots at him, but he just faded away into the snow.” He grinned. “You don’t have to look like I’m daft, young fella. You can ask the stage passengers, they believe.”
Parker wished he could ask the mules; they probably had more sense. “Yes, I might do that.”
“You’ll see, we’re gonna have wolf trouble tonight. That’s for sure.” The chipmunk laughed again and headed for the doors. “Come on into the post when you’re done. Stabling is half-price for the night, ‘cause of the storm.”
Parker finished with the horse, swearing under his breath. He was trapped for the night with a stage full of other people’s problems and townsmen who thought everybody they met was a werewolf. “Probably all on their way to Miller’s Crossing for a witch burning,” he said in disgust to the horse, who flicked an ear.
Outside again, he couldn’t see much of the posthouse in the dark but got the impression of a long rambling building. When he opened the heavy wooden door what little conversation there was stopped. He stepped inside, letting the wind slam the door shut behind him. This was the long public room of the post, where passengers would wait while the horses were changed. The lanterns were smoky and most of the light came from the fire in the big stone hearth. The place smelled musty, like it hadn’t been opened up in some time, and the walls were patched with yellowed newspaper.
There were three men — one sitting at the plank table, one standing at the hearth, and one looking as if he had just stopped pacing and was anxious to get back to it.
Parker tipped his hat politely. He hadn’t seen an unfriendlier set of expressions since the last time he and Harry had robbed a train. He wished Harry were here now, instead of waiting for him in Piscaro, but there was nothing to help that. He headed for the fireplace and put his back against it, dripping on the sooty stone as the ice caught in his coat melted. “Quite a night.” From this angle, he saw there was a woman seated at the table too, gloved hands around a mug for warmth. She wore a long black dress and her hair under her bonnet was very straight and very dark. Her face was calm and still, like something from an old Spanish portrait, but her skin was pale.
“Who the hell are you?” That was the pacer, apparently not in a very genial mood.
“Easy, mister, I just came in out of the cold,” Parker said, sounding sociable to save argument. In his career he had always been more interested in acquiring money with as little notice as possible, and not shooting people. He didn’t like trouble for trouble’s sake. The obviously overwrought man glaring at him was well-dressed, in his forties, graying, built stocky but going to fat.
He snarled, “How can we be sure of that?”
Parker’s mouth quirked at the nonsensical question. “Guess we’re just going to have to take my word for it.”
The woman said quietly, “Mr. Abernathy, please.” Parker liked her voice.
“Quite right, ma’am,” the man standing at the other end of the mantle said. His coat was still dripping on the floorboards, and Parker figured he had been one of the two men at the gate. “No reason to be unfriendly.” He looked at Parker. “I’m Gunderson. That’s Preacher Johnson.” He nodded to the dark-clothed man still sitting quietly at the table, “Mrs. Johnson,” Damn, Parker thought, “and Mr. Abernathy. We were heading to Twin Rivers on the stage, but the ice storm hit and we had to stop off here.” Gunderson was about Parker’s age, with a droopy mustache and a flashy red waistcoat.
“That was a mistake,” Abernathy muttered, starting to pace again. That was going to get on Parker’s nerves sooner rather than later.
“There wasn’t a choice.” The preacher stood to put a comforting hand on his wife’s shoulder. He was droopy and mousey-looking, and seemed to need the comfort more than the composed figure of his wife.
“Kind of early in the season to run stages through this route, isn’t it?” Half-assed was more like it, but Parker wanted them to talk about themselves and not ask him questions.
Abernathy shrugged. “The weather was clear at Chandler’s Ford. I thought it would hold. I have to get to Twin Rivers—”
“It wasn’t your fault, Mr. Abnernathy,” the preacher interrupted kindly. “I have a position at a church further west. My wife is going to teach school there. We wanted to get there as soon as possible, so we took the risk of the weather.”
Gunderson glanced at Parker, a little more pointedly. “And you’re…?”
“Heading to Miller’s Crossing.” He wasn’t heading there, but it was a logical destination for anybody coming down the Little Sally pass. “So you think wolves killed that man out there?”
They stared at him, stricken, except for Mrs. Johnson, who lowered her head a little and lifted a hand to her mouth.
Gunderson shifted uneasily. “That was the stage driver. Two other men have been killed since we pulled in at dusk. Old Jim, the post caretaker, saw…something attack his helper outside the stockade. He fired at it, but by the time he got out there the boy was dead. It wasn’t pretty. So the stage outrider went for help. He came back tied to his horse, tore up so much that Halday, our driver, hardly recognized him. The horse was bled so badly, it didn’t last long either. Kind of left us trapped here, at least until morning.” He smiled thinly. “You see why things are a little tense.”
Parker frowned, trying to make sense of it. It sounded like whatever it was hadn’t been stalking the area for long, or Jim and his helper would have been dead before this. It had to have been here at least long enough for some shaman to find out about it and put up the chimera to warn his people off. “You think it’ll let you alone in the morning? You aren’t going to try to leave when the storm lets up?” From what they had said, the thing liked to pick victims off one at a time. A stageful of armed people should be safe, even moving slow in the dark.
“These things don’t have any power in daylight,” Abernathy said, taking out a handkerchief to wipe his face. “A Haunt got stirred up in Pines one night, frightened a couple of folks to death. But it lost its power in the morning and just drifted around. You could see right through it, like frosted glass, and it couldn’t do a thing.”
Yeah, but that was a Haunt, Parker thought. Haunts didn’t eat you. It was probably a mistake to attempt to talk rationally to these people, but he tried, “Why are you all so sure it’s a werewolf? They don’t usually—”
The door banged open, letting in a blast of cold air, Old Jim, and the man who had let Parker into the post. He took a hard look at Parker and said evenly, “I’d like you to turn over your pistol.”
Parker lifted his brows. “Considering what’s happening here, that doesn’t sound like too good an idea.”
“We didn’t have to let you in,” the man countered, still eyeing Parker unkindly.
Jim chortled at him. “Halday, I run this place, and just cause you people jinxed it with a wolf-curse is no reason for me to turn folks away on a night like this.”
Glad the chipmunk was on his side, Parker said, “Look, the thing he described isn’t going to have to sneak in here. It’ll just climb the stockade.”
“That could be right,” Halday agreed evenly. “It could also be that Jim’
s ‘werewolf’ is a crazy man playing games.”
They stared each other down. Parker could see the man was afraid. Maybe frightened enough to do things he wouldn’t ordinarily do. “What does that mean?” Parker asked him quietly. “You’re going to run me out of here?”
Halday didn’t answer and his expression didn’t change. The others were watching like it was a stage drama; whatever happened, Parker didn’t think they would interfere. Then Halday said slowly, “You can stay. But I want to keep your gun until you leave in the morning. I already took the rifle out of your gear in the stable.” He added, suddenly a little self-conscious, “It was the only thing I touched.”
Parker’s eyes narrowed, but it was almost fair, under the circumstances. He debated being jumped by Halday and Abernathy and probably Gunderson and Johnson too, and ending up out in the cold with the thing the chimera had been left to warn about, versus being stuck in here unarmed with the thing the chimera had been left to warn about. Either way, it was better without the cold. “It’s a deal.” Smiling affably, he unbuckled his gunbelt and stepped up to hand it to Halday.
* * *
Somebody suggested food, and Jim said, “That’s a good idea. Come on back to the kitchen and I’ll get us some dinner.”
But it was Mrs. Johnson who silently took charge, taking meat and bread out of Jim’s larder. She turned the meat over on the table, studying it, nose wrinkled thoughtfully, before she cut it up for sandwiches, did the same for the bread, and sifted the coffee like she was looking for weevils. Jim allowed her free rein, chuckling to himself about a woman’s touch in the kitchen. Considering how bad Jim smelled at close range, Parker didn’t think she was doing it out of a sense of duty at all, and he had never been so grateful in his life.
She took her gloves off to work, and when she handed him the plate he noticed her hands were pale and neat, the nails filed back nearly to the quick.
The kitchen was a smaller room and the potbellied stove kept it almost warm. Nobody seemed to want to talk, but Parker still wanted to know more. “So what did you see?” he asked Chipmunk Jim. Jim stared at him blankly, and Parker clarified, “When the first man was killed. He was outside the stockade? What did he go out there for?”
Martha Wells Page 1
