“The cops are after me, I just know it!” Phil’s voice was whining and frantic. “I blew it, Harold, I’m sorry.”
“But you tried,” said Bly, comforting Phil as a father would comfort his struck-out Little Leaguer. “That has to count for something.”
“Oh, man, you shoulda been there.”
“She must have been quite a fighter.”
“She was a maniac; she was like an animal. And my ear . . .”
Bly sounded intensely concerned. “How is your ear, Phil? Is it still on?”
“Yeah. But I’ve got to see the doctor.”
“Then come back and we’ll get it taken care of.”
“But the cops are looking for me.”
“Phil, don’t worry about the police. I’ll take care of that. We’ll work something out. I know Sheriff Collins, and he’s a reasonable man.”
“Are you sure?”
Bly smiled as he thought of the poor fool on the other end. “The sheriff listens to me. If I tell him you were right here, working for me last night, he’ll buy that.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“Well—okay.”
“Come on back to Hyde River. I’ll get you in to see the doctor, and we’ll work it all out. Trust me.”
“Okay.”
“That’s a good man.”
“Hey, Harold, thanks.”
“No problem.”
Harold hung up and looked at his watch. Then he punched in the number of Tracy Ellis’s mobile phone.
“Deputy Ellis.”
“Tracy, this is Harold Bly. I’ve heard from Phil Garrett.”
“I’m listening.”
“Phil called me from a pay phone up in Wyler County somewhere. I convinced him to come back and face the music.”
“He’s coming back to Hyde River?”
“Mm-hm.”
“When?”
“I’ll let you know.”
Tracy seemed a little dubious as she signed off. “Okay, Harold. I’ll wait to hear from you.”
“Good-bye.”
He hung up, satisfied. Now he had the ingredients to get folks stirred up, and once folks around here got stirred up, all they needed was a nudge in the right direction. His hand went to his chest. The mark was still there. No problem. Within a few days he’d be rid of it.
SADDLEHORSE MOUNTAIN was a towering crag of rock, heavily forested on its lower flanks but scarred and bare along its ridges and summit. Here and there, like wounds that could never heal, the tailings and muck from the century-old mines formed gray, gravelly aprons down the mountainside through which only the hardiest trees now attempted a slow-growing comeback. There were still old roads snaking and coiling around the mountain, rutted, overgrown, and rarely traveled. Steve backtracked on Service Road 63 past Potter’s mine, then, following Jules Cryor’s directions, found an unnamed, unmarked road that circled the mountain in the other direction. He followed that road as far as his truck could negotiate it, pushing over the tops of low brush and sickly young trees that had established themselves on the road, and carefully dipping into and then back out of deep washouts. It was slow going.
After an hour of driving, virtually carving a new road on top of the old one, he finally came up against a massive fir that had toppled across the road, blocking any further progress.
End of the line. He climbed out, got his backpack and firearms, and continued on foot, ducking under the huge fallen tree and making his way up the road.
The trees began to thin out. He was breaking free of the heavier forestland and moving into the higher reaches of Saddlehorse, where rocky crags and bare fields of gravel were the rule and trees were the exception. He moved slowly, scanning the environment all around, mindful of Cliff, Maggie, Vic, and Charlie, and his own encounter with this so-called dragon. If the dragon wanted to pounce, it certainly wouldn’t advertise. There would be no warning.
Up ahead, through the thinning forest, he could see the old road cutting through a field of mine tailings, and at the top of this expanse of lifeless, sun-baked gravel, he could discern some old pilings, now collapsed upon each other like jackstraws. He’d found the first of the two original mines.
He concealed himself behind the toppled, bug-eaten corpse of an old fir to appraise his situation. There was no cover between him and the mine entrance; he would have to run across wide open space. He slung the shotgun over one shoulder where he could grab it easily. His .357 was ready on his hip, the 30.06 was in his hands. In the event he might have to explore some of those tunnels, he took a small flashlight from his backpack and clipped it to his belt. He was wearing camouflage trousers and shirt, which would have helped had there been any greenery around, but would be of marginal effectiveness against bare, gray rock. Of course Steve had no idea whether or not the dragon could see color; he just had to assume it could.
That led to the question: What else could it do? Sense body heat? See infrared? It had to have excellent night vision. Perhaps it even employed sonar, as bats did. Being reptilian, it might be able to sense low-frequency vibrations through the ground—footsteps, crawling, any movement. For all Steve knew, it might have such a sophisticated array of sensory inputs as to make detection unpreventable.
As far as the dragon having an excellent sense of smell, Steve counted on it. But with that, he could already see he was at a disadvantage. The day was warm, the rocks were hot, and the air was moving uphill. If he tried to approach the mine from below, the air would carry his scent ahead of him. If the dragon was up there, he’d know Steve was coming.
Steve studied the mountain face. There was one chance of avoiding detection, at least by smell. If he climbed directly to the top of the ridge, he could get out of the airstream moving toward the mine entrance. Then, if all went well, he could descend from the ridge to the mine, opposite the wind. There was also a little more cover directly above him; he might be able to stay out of sight a little longer. He chose that route and after slinging the rifle over his other shoulder, he set out, leaving his backpack stowed beneath the fallen fir.
The climb was not difficult, but Steve stopped frequently, standing motionless, a plant-green speck on the vast mountainside, scanning the mountain and the sky above for anything out of place, any clue to the dragon’s whereabouts.
He had to remind himself that his own imagination could deceive him. As he scanned the rock formations above him, or the fields of gravel and mine tailings across the mountain face, or even the forests below, he realized that it was remarkably, maddeningly easy to see a dragon concealed in them. He continually had to weigh his perceptions against the real sightings he’d had and the descriptions he’d heard from Clayton Gentry and Jules Cryor. He looked for mirrorlike images, for any unusual shadows, for lines breaking with any movement. As he moved, he looked for any shape that might emerge from the background.
No dragon. At least, he didn’t see one.
Steve pressed on and made it to the top of the ridge. From here, he could see the mountains in every direction, stretching to the horizon, green and rolling like a vast stormy ocean frozen in time, their edges and detail softened in the distance by a thin blue haze.
Maybe that thing really could hide up here for years and years, he thought. There’s plenty of room.
Now he could see the tailings from the old mine below him. He would approach slowly, continually scanning for signs and also sniffing for scents; the wind was in his favor now.
He started down, taking one careful step at a time over the bare, jagged rocks. Occasionally a rock would teeter. Some pebbles would roll and plink down the slope. Low frequency vibrations! he thought.
He could make out the scattered timbers and then a nearly buried set of ore-car tracks emerging from the mountain. How in the world had those early miners gotten all that stuff up here?
He froze again, scanning the area. He could imagine all kinds of things, but he saw nothing.
He reached the level shelf of h
ewn rock outside the mine entrance. He was feeling a little more at ease now—a dangerous condition if it caused him to drop his guard, he knew. But the mine entrance was small, not much bigger than a standard door, and now partially hidden by fallen rocks and timbers. No creature the size of the dragon could pass through that. Scattered around that small, black hole were old timbers in a precarious pile, pieces of steel, a virtual carpet of broken core samples, and two rusted ore cars still sitting on the half-buried tracks.
Steve pressed his body tightly against the side of the mountain and scanned the area carefully. The rocks, the scattered debris, the dusty rails, the ore cars—all seemed to have been undisturbed for a century of seasons.
He sighed with some relief, and took a moment to rest and consult the map Jules Cryor had given him. Mine number one had turned up nothing so far. He could come back to investigate it further if the situation warranted it. For now, he decided it might be best to locate mine number two and the cavern Jules Cryor had indicated, and in the process become more generally familiar with the mountain.
According to the map, mine number two was farther around the mountain and could be reached by following the same old road— what was left of it—that brought Steve here. As for the cavern, Jules Cryor was strangely vague as to its exact location. He’d marked a few possible locations, but couldn’t be sure about any one of them.
Steve walked down a fairly easy slope of hewn rock and found the road again, dusty and barren in the sun. He consulted the map as he walked along, his feet raising little clouds of dust and leaving tracks behind him. Cryor seemed to think the road would dead-end at mine number two, meaning Steve would have to find his own trail in search of the cavern. Steve figured he might make a circle around the crown of the mountain, cross over the ridge from the backside, and eventually come back to his starting point, where he could regather his backpack and call it a day. Judging from the distance and terrain, he should have enough daylight to do that.
He continued on, constantly scanning until it became wearisome. Even his imagination became tired of the game, which he regarded as a blessing: now he was seeing less imaginary, magical dragons in the rock formations.
He walked for the better part of an hour, following the road as it curved around the mountain toward the south, catching some breathtaking views of Hyde Valley and the opposite mountain range. Finally, just about when Steve’s boredom threshold was being challenged, he caught sight of another mound of mine tailings high above the road.
Okay, same procedure, he told himself. Ascend to the ridge, sneak up on the mine from above, keep an eye out.
He did, and it took him another hour. When he reached the mine entrance, it didn’t look much different from the first one. Again, the entrance itself was not much bigger than a standard doorway, certainly too small to accommodate a forty-foot reptilian something-or-other. There was debris around this mine as well: some steel scrap, a few old timbers soaked in black creosote, a rusted pickhead without a handle. Steve studied the ground carefully, looking for tracks, droppings, those familiar claw scratchings.
There was nothing here.
He circled the mountain, finding the backside not much different than the front except that mining operations had not come this far, so there was no scarring. He did catch sight of a black bear galloping across a draw far below, and a squirrel perched on a limb gave him a sound scolding. The bear was no problem; the noisy squirrel was only a nuisance.
As for any cavern, he found zilch.
By now his camouflage shirt was streaked with sweat. He rolled up his shirt sleeves then turned and climbed to the top of the ridge, where a cool breeze stroked his face. Again, he scanned all around, and again he detected nothing. He was starting to feel a little foolish.
Now he could see the tailings from mine number one and the old road below that. He chose a route that would bring him back down to the road just past the mine. From there, he could double back to his starting point. He was careful as he descended, but he could feel fatigue catching up with him and knew he’d had enough for one day.
The shadows on the west side were growing long as he reached the dusty road and absently noted his footprints, heading for mine number two. Suddenly he started to shake. Instinctively, he dropped to a crouch and with unsteady hands reached for the rifle slung over his shoulder.
Ahead of him there were new prints in that dust, some of them directly on top of his own, obliterating them. They were the tracks of the creature, at once marvelous and terrifying. Because of the soft dust and the fact they had been made recently, these were the clearest tracks he’d seen. The vague scratchings Levi Cobb had shown him were merely a sketch—these were the completed painting. Steve could recognize the prints of front paws, feet, or hands, and those of hind feet. Each print clearly showed three elongated toes, with a sharp puncture out in front of each one indicating a long, curved claw. Extending from the heel was an opposing toe, much like a thumb, its clawmark less definite. The hind feet were longer than the front, with a pronounced heel and the opposing toe extended rearward. Steve shuddered as he realized the implication of these prints: They were headed in the same direction as his own.
That thing was following him.
Carefully scanning all around, rifle ready, he half-stood and approached the footprints for a closer study. He estimated the front print to be at least four feet from the heel to the tip of the center toe. The hind prints were even larger.
He had no idea how much of a lead he had on the beast, how far it might be behind him. But if it was still following him . . .
He had to make some decisions—and quickly. Did he really want to take this thing on? Alone? And, if so, where did he set his ambush?
He might never have a chance like this again; he had to conquer his terror; he had to take the beast on.
The decision made, he looked around for a place to wait in ambush. The top of the ridge would probably be the best spot, he thought. He might be able to see it coming from there, but if he couldn’t, the creature might reveal its position in other ways— sounds, moving brush, teetering rocks, anything.
He chose a different path back up to the ridge, staying low, constantly scanning the area. Once over the top, he found a niche in the rocks where he could conceal himself and maintain a wide perspective of the mountain below. He could see the way he’d come, just along the edge of some small pines and scattered shrub. He began a careful scan of his route, focusing on small segments at a time, studying each segment for movement. He listened. He sniffed for scents. So far, nothing.
That squirrel wasn’t chattering anymore, not that that meant anything. But at least it wouldn’t be covering up other sounds.
The air was still moving uphill; Steve could feel it brushing over his face. It carried no odd smells.
He looked at his watch. There were just a few hours of daylight left. When it turned dark, he would have virtually no advantage and the dragon would have it all.
Suddenly he tensed. A rustling.
His eyes darted to the spot, apparently on the route he had taken, about a hundred yards down the slope and far to the left. There was no movement.
Wait—he had been wrong. A small pine stirred as something scraped past it. The rocks behind the pine shimmered and wavered as if distorted by heat waves.
Farther along, another small tree bent . . . and then it broke in the middle, the top half lagging behind.
“That’s it,” Steve whispered.
He concentrated on that area and just ahead of it, waiting for another indication of the creature’s presence. All his senses were on alert.
Then on the ground he saw something. A shadow, just a shadow, with nothing there to cast it. It slithered eerily along the rocks like a thin black film, up, down, rippling with the terrain, sometimes disappearing behind obstructions.
Steve had the 30.06 ready. But what could he shoot at? He could see only the shadow. From that, he could estimate where the creature was, but where
would the vital organs be? Without a clear shot at the heart and lungs or the head, he couldn’t be sure of a kill. He might nick the creature, or wound it, and he might rile it. If he didn’t kill it when he shot he would be giving away his position and risking his own life.
He could feel panic starting to well up, but he forced himself to overcome it. He remained where he was, just sitting, waiting, watching.
The shadow was gone now, invisible beyond a rise in the terrain. But Steve saw the tops of some small trees wiggling. The forest just beyond them seemed distorted.
For only an instant, he could see a distinct area of distortion pass in front of a stand of trees like a bubble bending the light, like a long, elliptical lens. He was using his imagination, he knew, but he could almost make out a long, slithery shape, a lizardlike creature with a gracefully arching spine.
Then he saw nothing. He’d lost contact.
He sat and waited. He listened, he watched.
Then some treetops quivered almost directly below him, but farther down in the forest, nowhere near his original route. The creature had diverted downhill. It may have lost his trail, he didn’t know, but now some rustlings and cracklings from dry branches came wafting up the slope, and he had another fix on the dragon’s position. It was definitely moving away.
“Huh-uh, Mr. Dragon. You won’t get away that easily.”
Steve left his hiding place and set off down the mountain as quietly as he could, trying to keep the creature’s movements and sounds within sight and earshot. It was moving quickly; he’d have to hurry.
He quickstepped down over a rockslide until he reached the edge of the forest. The trees and brush were sparse here, which meant he still had a chance of seeing the dragon before it evaded him entirely. He could still hear it moving farther down the mountain. Trees and undergrowth hissed and cracked as the creature brushed by them, but as heavy as that beast had to be, Steve could neither hear footfalls nor feel any vibration of the ground. Steve followed the rustling sounds, moving quickly while trying to gauge how much cover remained between the dragon and himself.
The Frank Peretti Collection: The Oath, the Visitation, and Monster Page 32
