Blood Trail

by J. R. Roberts

  They would learn . . .

  * * *

  There was a sliver of a moon, not much light, but that didn’t seem to stop Talbot from moving quickly.

  Clint tried to follow and step as surely, but still occasionally tripped on a tree root or rock.

  “Shhh,” Talbot urged.

  “Sorry,” Clint said. “I can’t see as clearly as you obviously can.”

  “Just step where I step.”

  “I’m trying.”

  But at that moment instead of stepping, Talbot stopped. Clint almost walked into him from behind.

  “What is it?”

  “Listen.”

  Clint listened, but didn’t hear a thing.

  “I can hear it breathing,” Talbot said. “It knows we’re coming for it.”

  That was bad. They had been hoping to catch the killer watching the camp, perhaps even coming up on it from behind.

  “Not good news,” Clint said.

  “Nevertheless,” Talbot said, “it is out here—and that is good news.”

  Clint thought that remained to be seen.

  THIRTY

  Clint still could not hear anything—moving or breathing—so he had to depend on Talbot, who seemed to have both senses in an eerie quantity.

  Talbot started to move again and Clint followed. He found himself wondering if he should have let Talbot make him some silver bullets, after all, then immediately pushed the thought away. If only silver bullets would work, that would make his gun—and his abilities with it—useless. It would also mean that he was out here virtually unarmed. That was not a thought he wanted to carry with him. He had to be ready and alert, and confident in his own ability.

  Again, Talbot stopped. Clint turned and looked over his shoulder. He could no longer see the lights of the camp. They were in almost total darkness. Was this really an environment in which Talbot preferred to hunt?

  “Frederick—”

  “Shhh.”

  Talbot stopped again. This time, Clint thought he heard it. Was that actually the sound of . . . breathing?

  Talbot looked back at Clint.

  “We need to separate,” he said. “All right?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you hear or see anything, shout,” Talbot said. “I will be there with my gun.”

  “I have my gun.”

  “I have the silver bullets.”

  “Ah.”

  “For my sake,” Talbot said, “shout out and I will come.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “And do not take any chances,” Talbot said. “Believe me, you do not know what you are dealing with.”

  “All right, Frederick,” Clint said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “I will go this way,” Talbot said, pointing, “and you go that way.”

  Clint nodded.

  Talbot melted into the darkness. Clint wished he could do it that easily.

  * * *

  Back at the fire, Sarah sat nervously rubbing her hands together. Across the fire from her was Gerhardt, standing and staring off into the darkness. She knew he was thinking of his dead son, Carl.

  The other man, Mueller, was standing at the other end of the camp, watching. From where they stood, the two men could see each other clearly. That was why Gerhardt was able to watch in horror as something came out of the darkness, grabbed Mueller, and dragged him back into it. Mueller barely had time to scream, and Sarah heard nothing. All she saw was the look of horror on Gerhardt’s face.

  “Oh, my God!” Gerhardt cried.

  “What?” Sarah asked, jumping to her feet. She turned and looked. “Where is Mr. Mueller?”

  “He is . . . gone!”

  Sarah screamed . . .

  * * *

  Clint heard the scream, knew it came from the camp. He and Talbot had made the wrong decision. They should not have left the camp, not the both of them. One should have remained behind.

  Soon after the scream there was a shot.

  Clint knew Talbot must have heard both. Was he on his way back to camp? Or was he still out in the darkness?

  His own first instinct was to run back to camp, but whatever had happened there was done. There were no more screams or shots. One of each meant that something had happened, probably very quickly, and it was over.

  Still, he was caught in a dilemma. Stay out here in the dark hoping to run into the killer and also hoping that nothing serious had happened in camp? Or head back to camp to see what had occurred, while the killer got away?

  * * *

  Talbot heard the scream, knew it was Sarah. But he also knew the worst thing he could do was storm off into the darkness, trying to get back to camp. After the shot he came to the same decision Clint had come to. Whatever had happened was done, over. He just had to hope that the only thing that had happened to his daughter was that she’d been frightened into a scream.

  He listened, and heard movement in the brush. He tried to push all thoughts of his daughter aside, so he could concentrate on the moment. Many hunters had been killed simply because they had been distracted. He had been careful for many years not to allow that to happen.

  He didn’t intend to change that now.

  He took his pistol from his belt.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Clint was moving back toward camp—slowly, not in a panic—when he heard the second shot. It was not from a rifle and not from camp. It was Talbot’s gun. He’d fired one of his silver bullets at someone—or something.

  Then there were no more gunshots. He could hear the sounds of voices from camp. They were frightened, anxious voices, but he couldn’t let that influence his movements.

  The sounds in camp came from people who were unsure of what to do. They were not the cries of people being attacked.

  Still, he continued to move in the direction of camp. Something had been close enough to it to elicit a scream from Sarah. Maybe something had even entered the camp, and then fled.

  Maybe he’d run right into it . . .

  * * *

  Talbot knew he had fired too quickly. He’d been away from hunting too long. His next shot would be more assured, more carefully fired.

  He was moving quickly through the dark, chasing the figure he’d fired at. If he could catch the creature before the change, it would be easier to kill. He wouldn’t have to worry about the bullet making its way through fur and sinew, just human flesh.

  He held the pistol in his hand, uncocked. He didn’t want to take a chance on the gun firing before he was ready.

  He stopped, and listened.

  There.

  Moving through the brush. Not running, but moving with purpose. He tried not to think about Sarah, hoped that she was still safe back in camp.

  He moved toward the sounds, hoping to intercept the creature before it was ready. He could use all the help he could get, and the element of surprise might swing the balance in his favor.

  Now he cocked the hammer back and moved . . .

  * * *

  Clint heard the movement in the brush, and it was coming toward him, from the camp. Whatever it had done, whoever it might have injured or killed, it was now coming toward him.

  He took out his gun.

  * * *

  Sarah was remarkably calm, considering it was she who had screamed. But once she’d screamed, Gerhardt said to her, “Stay near the fire,” and he ran toward the other end of the camp. She didn’t think he could see anything, but he raised his rifle and fired into the dark.

  She ran after him, knocked the rifle barrel down before he could fire again.

  “You might hit Clint, or my father,” she said. “What did you see?”

  “I—I—I don’t know,” he said. “It happened so quickly. First he was there, and then he was not. Something—something too
k him.”

  “What was it?”

  “I do not know,” Gerhardt said. “Something . . . big.”

  The others came running out of their wagons in response to the scream and the shot.

  “Don’t tell them,” she said quickly.

  “W-What?”

  “Do not tell anyone what you saw.”

  “I do not know what I saw.”

  “Good,” she said. “Do not start a panic.”

  “All right,” he said. “All right.”

  They both turned to face the other members of the train.

  * * *

  It loomed up in front of him, surprising him even though he was prepared. It was a huge shape with fur and teeth and yellow eyes. The creature saw him at the same time and they both reacted. The wolf rose up and roared at him, took a swipe at him with one huge paw. Clint fired his gun twice, was sure he hit the thing, but it turned and ran off.

  He chased it, and then realized he had been clawed.

  * * *

  Talbot saw him just a moment before he saw Talbot.

  He was large, with long hair, wild eyes, and was totally naked. The look on the poor wretch’s face was one of both hunger and suffering. Talbot’s heart went out to him, as it always went out to all his prey. He hunted them as much to put them out of their misery as to save himself and his people.

  “Stop!” he shouted, but the man-beast came at him and he had no choice.

  He fired.

  * * *

  Clint heard the shot. The wolf was moving too fast for him to catch it. And it was leaving a trail behind it that would be easy to follow when the sun came up.

  He decided to go back to camp to find out what had happened, and see if Talbot had returned.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Talbot walked back into camp as people milled about, eyes wide, looking around, wondering what was going on.

  “Papa!”

  Sarah ran into his arms and he hugged her tightly.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “You were hardly gone and then—and then—”

  “I heard you scream,” he said. “I was afraid . . .”

  “It wasn’t me,” she said. “It was Mr. Mueller. He was . . . taken.”

  “By . . . what?”

  “Mr. Gerhardt saw.”

  They heard someone behind them and turned quickly.

  * * *

  Clint reached camp, saw Talbot and Sarah standing together. As he approached, they turned to look at him.

  “You’re hurt!” Sarah said right away.

  Clint had his hand over his left shoulder, which had been torn by the wolf’s claws.

  “I’m okay,” he insisted. “What happened here?”

  “Mueller,” Talbot said.

  “How?” Clint asked.

  “I don’t know,” the other man said. “I was about to ask Gerhardt.”

  They walked over to where Gerhardt was standing, looking dazed and pale.

  “Sarah,” Clint said, “there’s a bottle of whiskey in my saddlebags.” Bullet had left it with him. “Would you get it, please?”

  “Of course.”

  She ran to get it and brought it back to him. Clint picked up a coffee cup and poured a little into it.

  “Drink this!” he said to Gerhardt.

  The German did not hesitate. He drank the whiskey down and color immediately returned to his face.

  “Okay?” Clint asked.

  “Yes, yes,” Gerhardt said. “I am all right.”

  “Now, what happened?” Clint asked.

  “It was . . . huge. It came out of the darkness and just . . . took Mueller.”

  “Did it kill him?” Talbot asked.

  “N-Not here in camp,” Gerhardt said, “but out there . . .”

  “We heard Sarah scream,” Clint said, “and then a shot.”

  “I fired,” Gerhardt said, then admitted, “blindly, I am afraid. I don’t think I hit it.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “okay. I don’t think it’s going to come back into camp tonight. Try and calm these people down and get them back into their wagons.”

  “Yes.”

  “Sarah,” Talbot said, “help him.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  After Gerhardt and Sarah had left, Clint and Talbot turned to each other and both said at the same time, “I saw it.”

  “I shot it,” Clint said.

  “So did I.”

  “We better have a drink ourselves,” Clint suggested. “And a seat.”

  “Agreed,” Talbot said.

  They sat by the fire and Clint poured whiskey into two coffee cups.

  “You first,” he said.

  “I saw him,” Talbot said. “He was in the form of a man, but his eyes were still those of a beast. I fired once, but I do not know if I hit him. Yet I must have! I do not often miss at that close range.”

  “Did he leave any blood behind?” Clint asked.

  “We will have to go and look when the sun comes up,” Talbot said. “I could not tell in the dark, and I wanted to get back to camp to see if Sarah was all right.”

  “Well,” Clint said, leaning forward to speak more softly, “I saw him, too. At least, I saw something. A wolf, I think. But an incredibly large one.”

  “You saw him in his werewolf form,” Talbot said.

  “Well, I’m not going to say that,” Clint said. “When I saw it, it may have been up on its hind legs.”

  “Or standing,” Talbot said.

  “I shot it twice,” Clint went on, “and I know I didn’t miss. If that wolf is out there, it’s injured, or dying. If it’s injured, in this country that makes it even more deadly. But here’s the thing . . . we fired very close together. How could I have seen it one way, and you another?”

  “It must have changed soon after you encountered it,” Talbot said. “You did not have silver bullets, but perhaps your shot caused it to change, and then I encountered it.”

  “I think it’s more likely,” Clint said, “that we saw two different things.”

  “You would rather believe there are two killers—man and beast—than believe it is one killer who becomes two beasts.”

  “I admit,” Clint said, “my way is easier for me to believe.”

  “We will go out in the morning and look for a blood trail,” Talbot said.

  Sarah came over at that moment, with water and bandages, and said to Clint, “You must let me treat that wound.”

  “A good idea,” Talbot said, standing. “While she does that, I will talk with Gerhardt. We will set another watch, this time four men.”

  “How many men do we have?”

  “Enough to set two watches for the remainder of the night,” Talbot said.

  “I can stand watch,” Sarah said. “So can some of the other women.”

  “No,” Talbot said, “the men will do it. Just clean Clint’s wound.”

  As Talbot walked away, she said, “He still treats me like a child.”

  “He treats you like his daughter,” Clint said, “but he is right. The men will stand watch. The women should keep themselves and the children safe.”

  She washed the wound thoroughly, then fashioned a bandage from some torn bits of cloth.

  “There,” she said, “is that too tight?”

  “No,” he said, flexing his left arm, “it’s fine. Thank you.”

  She reached out and put her hand on his bare chest.

  “Sarah . . .” he said warningly.

  She pulled her hand back as if her fingertips had been burned.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “I will go to my wagon.” She stood up, then looked at him and pointed. “It is that one.”

  He knew which wagon was hers, but he didn’t bother
pointing that out. He was too busy wondering if that was some sort of invitation. She was a child, but a child on the verge of becoming a woman, and a beautiful one, at that. But she also had her father in camp, a father who was a hunter who would probably kill him if Clint looked at Sarah like she was a young woman.

  He pulled his torn shirt back on. He’d change it in the morning for a clean one.

  With his shirt buttoned, he poured himself a cup of coffee and waited for Talbot to return and tell him what the watch schedule was. He stared out into the dark, wondering if the killer—or killers—was watching them once again. Or had it—they—gone off to lick whatever wounds they had?

  He replayed the events in his mind, wondering if Talbot’s rendition could possibly make more sense than his did? One killer who had changed shapes in between encounters?

  Two killers traveling together made infinitely more sense to him—and his sanity.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The killer held his hand to the wound. It was not serious, he knew, but it hurt. He stroked the fur in a soothing gesture.

  He watched as the people in the camp composed themselves after the attack. He could have launched another attack, catching them completely by surprise, but the wound had to heal, at least partially.

  He knew he was still in control, though.

  They were frightened of him. That was half the battle. Only the two hunters were dangerous. They had already proven that, and he had the wound to further prove it.

  He was going to have to remove them permanently first before he went after the rest. Once that was done, they would be at his mercy. They would be like a flock of sheep with no master. But he needed a little while—perhaps a day or two—to heal, and then he would be ready.

  The next encounter with the two hunters would be their last.

  * * *

  Sarah sat in her wagon, waiting. Would Clint Adams accept her invitation? Or would he be wary of her father? She was willing to take the risk to be with the famous Gunsmith. She was sorry Carl was dead, of course, but Carl was a boy. The wagon master, Captain Parker, he was just a brute and a lecherous old goat. But Clint Adams, he was a legend. Perhaps he thought of her as a child, a virgin? She would have to convince him otherwise. She had been with men before in her country, but never a man like the Gunsmith.