by Thomas Hopp
“Eat,” he said.
Astonished by our change of fortune, McKean and I sat on the log without speaking. Crickets chirping in the sagebrush lulled me into a semblance of security and the fire glow relaxed me a little. I picked up a piece of Moses’ goose breast and savored a small bite. Suddenly realizing that I’d grown ravenous with hunger, I devoured the rest as avidly as the coydogs had eaten Tanner. McKean followed my example. We gorged ourselves.
Moses ate a drumstick and threw the bone into the coals. The little fire flared, hissing and popping and giving off meat-scented smoke. Outside the ring of firelight, crickets sang a nighttime chorus and small creatures rustled in the bushes, but there were no sounds of larger animals. By turns, McKean and I told Moses all we’d seen since we’d last met.
“Why haven’t you been attacked?” McKean asked when we’d finished our story.
“Don’t exactly know,” Moses replied, using a small pointed bone as a toothpick. “Maybe “cause I’ve seen “em around here for years. Sometimes I share my catch with them. Gave that white-faced one a whole duck carcass when she was a scrawny little pup.”
“You fed that Death’s-Head bitch?” I exclaimed.
“Death’s-Head bitch?” Moses chuckled. “You white guys got crazy names for things. I call her Tashota. Tashota is Woyotl’s wife.”
A coyote howled a few hundred feet away in the dark moonless night, reminding us we were not out of danger despite our brief interlude with Moses. Another coyote howled a little nearer on the other side of the camp. I shivered despite the warmth of the fire. A third howled somewhere to our rear. Moses calmly watched the flickering embers.
Rustling in the tall grass along the lakeshore caught my attention and I stared into the blackness. The coppery glow of two canine eyes sent a ripple of adrenaline through me. I nudged McKean and pointed them out. A moment later, he pointed to another pair opposite the first. A small twig snapped, drawing our eyes to a third pair behind us to the left. Another pair appeared to the right and soon we were ringed by glowing eyes. I whispered to Moses, “What do we do now?”
Without answering, he reached into his lean-to and took out a tambourine-shaped drum and a small mallet with a rawhide head. He lay the drum in his lap and began gently pounding out a soft beat in Indian time. To this he added a thin, reedy voice in a high register, singing, “Ho-wey-oh-wey-ey-ey-yeh - ” in a supplicating melody. He kept this up for some minutes as we watched the circle of glowing eyes draw nearer.
Moses sang placidly, voicing unfamiliar sounds: a tsoo here, a tlay there, Salish words that might have told a story or asked a favor. He seemed entranced by the slow bum-buh, bum-buh, bum of his drum and for lack of a better option McKean and I allowed ourselves to fall under his spell. We joined him in a calm, ethereal trance that felt somehow beyond our predicament.
After many minutes, one of the animals came forward. It was a big, coyote-colored beast as tall as a Great Dane. I recognized it as the animal I’d seen at Tanner’s throat, but it now glanced at each of us with no sign of aggression.
Without pausing his song, Moses reached out his free hand and drew the goose off the spit and tossed it at the bold coydog’s feet. The animal stood still, contemplating the three of us.
“Wuy, Woyotl,” Moses chanted. “Share our feast.”
The beast mouthed the carcass and trotted off with it into the darkness. The other eyes shining around the campfire followed. Moments later we heard excited yapping in the distance as the pack tore into Moses’ offering.
After a time, the crickets resumed their chirping and the night grew calm.
“I don’t know ‘bout you fellas,’ Moses yawned, ‘but I’m gonna turn in.’ He crawled inside his lean-to and lay down on a woven cattail mat and soon was snoring lightly.
McKean and I sat by the campfire, too edgy to sleep. After about an hour McKean lay down on the grass beside the fire. I was determined to stand watch but at some point exhaustion overtook me and I lay down opposite McKean and closed my eyes.
* * * * * * * * * *
The piping shriek of a curlew in flight over Tule Lake awoke me. I sat up with a start. The fire had died but the morning sun was warm on my shoulders. McKean awoke too. He stood and stretched his long body.
Moses fed us dried salmon and some sort of boiled root for breakfast. Then he drew a map in the dirt with a stick, showing us how to drive back the way we’d come.
“The coyotes may be back that way,” I worried.
Moses laughed. “Coyotes are everywhere.”
He pointed to his map. “When you get to the sand, don’t drive straight down the wheel ruts. Run up high on one side or the other. You’ll go right through. If you get stuck, just honk. I’ll hear you and I’ll come and help you. You’re gonna be okay.”
I asked, “Are you sure you’re safe here? You could ride out with us.”
“I’m safe enough.”
“I believe you are,” McKean agreed. “By sharing food with the pack you’ve made yourself acceptable to them.”
“Never gave it much thought,” said Moses. “Thought they liked how I sang.”
As we went to the Mustang McKean called back to Moses, “One thing. How did you know about the coyote-man connection in those blood stains?”
“Cousin of mine works in the State Patrol Labs. Not all us Injuns are wild like me.”
* * * * * * * * * *
The ride out was placid compared to the panic of the day before. I drove high on the sides of the sand ruts and passed them without incident. Farther along, I paused at the saltpan to look over the scatter of bones that had been Sheriff Joe Tanner.
“Interesting,” McKean observed. “The coydogs he shot have disappeared.”
McKean’s cell phone rang and he put it on speaker. Vince Nagumo shrilled, “Where’ve you guys been? Lots of action around this farmhouse. They helicoptered in a National Guard task force under General Salazar to go after those coydogs. By the way, Derek Curman might be up that way. Turn when you get to County Road J. About a mile north, he’s got a hunting cabin. Been meaning to check him out but I’m busy dealing with Salazar.”
“We’ll go there,” McKean stated without asking how I felt about it.
Road J, it happened, crossed our path just beyond the saltpan. I shook my head and muttered, “Deeper and deeper, Peyton,” turning the wheel and heading for whatever awaited.
I drove without comment for a while over a rough country of basalt barrens with sparse grasslands in the hollows and sagebrush and huge boulders strewn everywhere. Passing through the open gate of a barbed wire fence, I eventually reached an unpainted wooden shack with a rusted metal roof and a weather-beaten pickup truck beside it in a graveled parking area surrounded by old rusted farm equipment.
I pulled my Mustang in beside the pickup and we went to the house. Our footfalls on the dried boards of the veranda porch provoked some rustling noises within the house, and then the twin barrels of a shotgun protruded from the opening where the dilapidated front door was ajar.
“That’s close enough!” a thin and raspy voice challenged.
We stopped in our tracks.
The man pushed the door open and followed his shotgun out onto the porch, backing us away with our hands raised. We stared in astonishment at the human wreck confronting us. The man wore a filthy cotton T-shirt, dirty pajama bottoms, worn out sandals, and a growth of dark beard that would have been the pride of any mountain man of the Old West, if it hadn’t been knotted and tangled and as filthy as the rest of the man’s face. The reek of whiskey and rot followed him from within the house.
“Derek Curman?” McKean asked.
“What of it?” the man snapped back.
“We’ve come to ask some questions.”
“What kinda questions?” The man’s eyes darted from McKean to me and back. He fingered the twin triggers.
“About dog 106.”
Curman had been trembling and now his tremors intensified until the weight of
the shotgun became too much for his skinny arms. The weapon’s muzzle sagged toward the porch boards. “What about dog 106?”
“She came here four years ago with you, so we hear.”
“That’s right,” Curman answered defiantly, baring his teeth enough to show that one front tooth was chipped. “So?”
“She’s apparently bred with coyotes.”
Curman turned the shotgun and set its butt on the porch boards. “Wasn’t loaded anyway,” he muttered, leaning it against the house and sagging into an antique rocking chair that squeaked under his weight, negligible though it was. “Outta ammo.” He looked at the floorboards and murmured, “Nanna’s been a very naughty doggie.”
“Nanna? You mean animal 106?”
“Don’t call her that!” Curman glared at McKean and me with maniacal intensity. Then he shifted tack, looking at us contritely. “You got any booze?”
“Sorry, no.”
He leaned back in the rocker and stared up under the porch roof where hundreds of cobwebs rustled in the light breeze. Then he burst into tears. “Gave up my career for her!” he blurted. “Saved her life! She’s so sweet, so smart. Why’d she go?”
He looked up at us as if we might offer some explanation, with tears streaking the grime of his cheeks.
McKean shook his head.
“I loved that little pup,” Curman sobbed. “Named her after an old girlfriend from high school.” He chuckled at a memory. “That pup was different from the start. She learned ‘sit’ and ‘stay’ before she was weaned. She learned to sort rubber cubes, balls, and triangles into separate piles before she was two months old. She was a genius.”
“Where is she now?” McKean asked.
Curman shrugged. “She went away. Left me here all alone. Started running with that coyote pack. Came around a few times but she’d gone wild. Wouldn’t come near me.”
McKean protested, “But surely you, a scientist, must have known what would happen.”
“Screw everybody,” Curman snarled. “My career’s over. My life’s over.”
A yip alerted us to the presence of coyotes. Second and third yips from other directions made it clear the house was surrounded on three sides by the animals. Behind the house, a basalt cliff dropped into a small lake.
McKean and I turned as another yap caused the brush to come alive and several dozen coydogs showed themselves, including the Death’s-Head female, Tashota, and her huge coyote consort, Woyotl. From among them, a small dog rushed forward, not threatening but wagging its tail and wiggling with canine joy at greeting a friend. It came toward Curman, who jumped up and ran off the porch to greet her.
“Nanna!” Curman cried, kneeling and hugging the Border collie. The dog responded with a rapidly wagging tail. She licked his face profusely despite its grime.
McKean called to Curman, “I’d urge a little more caution. They’ve proven themselves quite dangerous.”
Curman shook his head. “Nanna won’t let them hurt me, will you girl?” He kissed the dog’s graying muzzle and let her lick his mouth repeatedly.
“Don’t stake your life on it,” McKean warned. “She’s not the alpha dog in this pack.”
As if in response, the Death’s-Head dog yapped several orders and the pack moved forward at a walk, closing in around Curman and Nanna.
The happy reunion ended when Death’s-Head barked orders, “Yap-yap, yip-yip!” The pack jumped Curman. Several chased Nanna away howling in fear. Their movements were as coordinated as any platoon’s I’d seen in Iraq. With others grappling Curman’s arms and legs, Woyotl sank his teeth into Curman’s throat and gave a vicious, blood-spattering shake.
McKean and I had watched in horror but now another call from Death’s-Head sent four coydogs breaking out of the melee and charging toward us.
“Get inside!” McKean cried but I was already halfway through the door. He dashed into the cabin after me and I slammed the plank door in the face of the leading animal and held it shut against the impact of several more animals’ bodies.
I glanced around the one-room cabin but apart from dilapidated furniture, there was little to fight back with. “There are windows on four sides,” I said desperately to McKean. “We’ll never defend this place! What are we going to do?”
For once, Peyton McKean was at a loss for words.
On my left a coydog shattered a dusty window and began clawing its way over the sill. Leaving McKean to hold the door, I picked up a wooden chair and splintered it across the animal’s snarling mouth, knocking it back before it was entirely inside the cabin. It ran away yowling in pain. I turned to look out a front window and saw Death’s-Head standing over Curman’s lifeless body and yapping orders. She seemed to be marshalling the pack around her for what I guessed would be a concerted attack on the house.
“This is it!” I roared at McKean with an overdose of adrenaline in my veins. “If I get out of this, I’m never going anywhere with you again!”
McKean smiled wryly. “That’s an idle threat,” he said coolly. “Neither one of us is getting out of this.”
A loud whup-whup-whup noise came from overhead and a large shadow crossed the open ground where the animals had congregated.
“A Blackhawk helicopter!” McKean exclaimed, looking out the door’s small window.
Frightened by the noise and the sight of the war machine, the coydogs converged around Death’s-Head. The chopper made a slow turn in the sky and then fired a single missile that arced quickly to the center of the pack. The detonation flung bodies and parts in all directions and blew out the remaining windows of the cabin, knocking McKean and me off our feet.
We got up and watched in astonishment and relief as the helicopter circled and strafed the few animals that had escaped the first explosion.
* * * * * * * * * *
An hour later, Vince Nagumo and General Salazar arrived with a dozen armored Humvees. Soon we were inspecting a pile of coydog corpses gathered by the soldiers. Death’s-Head and the big dog were there, as was poor little Nanna, dog 106. Beside her, a black body bag held what remained of her creator, Derek Curman.
McKean surveyed the coydog corpses. “They were fast learners but nothing had prepared them for a helicopter airstrike.”
Salazar, a dark, thick-set man in Army helmet and camouflage fatigues, coordinated ground and air attacks from a Humvee near Curman’s front porch. Late in the day he gave McKean a metal ice chest filled with the left ears of sixty-seven coydogs, preserved by a block of dry ice and awaiting DNA analysis.
“Despite all the surprises I’ve seen,” McKean asserted, “one outcome was never in doubt. My DNA test works just fine. I’ll tell you what I expect to find in these ears, General. Plenty of F2 hybrids.”
“And I’ve got a simple response,” Salazar muttered. “We’ll exterminate every canine in the east half of the state if necessary. We’ll wipe them out whether they look like dogs or coyotes.”
We loaded the cooler in my Mustang’s trunk and drove away while an entire squadron of Blackhawk helicopters roared overhead, blasting this way and that with missiles and chain-gun fire. On the road out, McKean requested that I stop at the saltpan. “I wonder what became of the coydogs Tanner shot?” he asked, getting out and wandering around the saltpan, inspecting it minutely. After a few minutes he called me to join him at a grassy clearing in the sagebrush nearby. The ground had been dug up and then replaced in two mounds that looked like -
“Graves!” I marveled.
“Precisely,” McKean remarked. “They’ve learned to bury their dead. To mourn them too, I suppose.”
“You don’t really think coydogs did this?”
“Answer: yes,” McKean replied. “Look at the headstones.”
At the head of each grave, three basalt stone markers about fist sized were arranged in a line. “Observe their shapes, Fin. Familiar?”
“Some are cubic,” I said, “others round, and one is three-sided.”
“Curman’s cubes, balls, and trian
gles. Note their arrangement. One cube and two balls on this grave, a cube, ball and triangle on that one.”
“Meaning?”
“Names, perhaps? A crude means for identifying the departed?”
I felt queasy, struggling to grasp the enormity of what Curman had created. “Do you want to dig them up for DNA?” I croaked, not really wanting to lay eyes on the murderous beasts again.
“Answer: no,” said McKean. “As much as I’d like to have their DNA, I don’t think we should disturb these graves.”
“Why not?”
“Out of respect for their humanity.”
“Humanity!”
McKean tugged at his angular chin with his long fingers, looking thoughtfully at the graves. “Care for the dead is a hallmark of humanity. Just like General Salazar’s soldiers, these dogs don’t leave fallen comrades behind without at least a proper burial.”
We both jumped about a foot when a voice spoke behind us.
“Coyotes is men and men is coyotes.”
We spun in unison. “Charlie Moses!” McKean exclaimed.
“That’s my name.” Moses smiled at our surprised expressions. “Lotta crash, boom, bang, today.”
“I hope they get them all,” I exclaimed.
Moses shook his head. “Coyotes can’t be wiped out any more than my people could. I think maybe Woyotl came back to lead his people against the modern world.”
“But not against Indians?” I asked.
“You were right about something you said, Fin Morton. When Lewis and Clark came here in 1805, that was a transformation time. We greeted whites in peace but they brought us disease, booze, and boarding schools where we forgot our old ways. Maybe Woyotl came to bring another change. He was no threat to my kind. We’re poor and we sing all night just like coyotes. But you white folks better watch your backsides. Coyotes are transforming back to the time when animals was people and people was animals.”
