The Tears of God

by David Thompson

  “I’m surprised they came all this way,” the Texan commented at one point when they were high up.

  Nate wasn’t. In the name of hate men drove themselves to deeds they wouldn’t otherwise do.

  “That one you called Kuruk must want you dead awful bad.” Maklin echoed Nate’s thought.

  “The feeling is mutual.” Nate wasn’t a killer by nature. He only did it when he had to, when circumstances left him no choice. He had no choice now. He must slay Kuruk not only for his own sake but so that no one else lost their lives. The farmer and his family and the wrangler had died because of him; he would be damned if any more would.

  The sun relinquished its reign to the mantle of darkness. Soon a crescent moon added its radiance to the shimmering of the stars.

  Out of their dens and thicket hideaways came the fanged creatures of the night. Legions of predators were on the prowl in search of prey to fill their bellies. Their cries and howls and wails were constant, a bestial chorus that once heard was never forgotten.

  The farther they climbed, the slower they went. Nate constantly tested the wind with his senses. It blew down off the heights in spurts. A gust would fan him and rustle the trees, and then everything would be still.

  The rim was a black silhouette against the stars. They were several hundred feet below it when Nate drew rein and announced, “We’ll go the rest of the way on foot.”

  Maklin didn’t argue. Swinging lithely down, he tied his mount to a fir and loosened the pistols wedged under his belt. “We can cover more ground if we separate.”

  “We’d be easier to pick off, too.” Nate preferred that they stick together so they could watch each other’s back.

  Maklin didn’t argue.

  Taking the lead, Nate rapidly climbed until he came to a stone wall fifteen to twenty feet high. He groped about him but couldn’t find handholds. “This way,” he whispered, and bore to the left, on the lookout for a gap or some other means of reaching the crest.

  “Maybe they’re not up here now,” Maklin whispered. “It could be we came all this way for nothing.”

  Nate hoped not. He crept along until a puff of wind drew him to a split wide enough for a man to slide through. He had to turn sideways and wriggle. Intent as he was on not getting stuck, he forgot about his Hawken and bumped the stock against the rock. The sound was much too loud.

  Nate came out on a flat rocky parapet. Crouching, he glided to the edge. Below lay the Valley of Skulls. Light showed in the windows and a fire had been kindled near the wagons.

  “Any sign of them?” Maklin whispered.

  Nate was about to say no when from off to their left, as clear as could be, came a cough. Dropping into a crouch, he moved more warily than ever.

  The cough was repeated.

  Something about it troubled Nate. A boulder hove out of the pitch and he was making his way around it when he happened to glance up and saw a shape crouched on all fours. A long tail flicked and lashed.

  The tail of a mountain lion.

  Chapter Twelve

  Nate King reacted in a twinkling. He whipped up his Hawken and started to thumb back the hammer. Even as he did, the cougar whirled with astounding speed and in a starlit tawny blur leaped off the other side of the boulder. It happened so fast that it took a few seconds for Nate to realize the cat had fled and not attacked him. “That was close,” he breathed.

  “What was?” Maklin whispered.

  Nate twisted in the saddle. “You didn’t see the mountain lion?”

  “Where?”

  “On that boulder.”

  “I was looking down there.” Maklin’s arm was a black bar, extended toward the Valley of Skulls. His voice dropped until Nate barely heard him. “Tell me I’m seeing things. Look over yonder and tell me what in God’s name those are.”

  Puzzled, Nate turned. The valley floor was a mire of ink save for the lit windows and the fire by the corral. Across the valley reared the opposite heights. He looked, and his skin crawled with goose flesh. “I see them, too.”

  “What are they?”

  Nate wished he knew. Pale things appeared to be moving down the mountain. Long and slender, they writhed like snakes. As he watched in stunned amazement, one of them changed shape, expanding until it was bloated at the middle and thin at both ends.

  “Hell spawn,” the Texan said.

  A gust of wind fanned Nate’s face. The next moment, the shapes did something even more wondrous; they broke apart. Each became two or three smaller shapes that continued to crawl and writhe.

  “What are they?” Maklin said again.

  Nate racked his brain for an explanation. That both he and the Texan saw them proved they weren’t an illusion. That they moved as they did suggested they were alive. But if they were, they were creatures the likes of which mortal man had seldom set eyes on. Maybe—and his mind balked at the idea but it was the only one that made sense—maybe they were creatures from the Indian legends. Maybe they were the animals whose skulls and bones littered the valley floor.

  Then, with disturbing abruptness, the pale shapes faded and were gone. One moment they were there, the next they weren’t.

  “What the hell?” Maklin blurted.

  Nate searched in vain for further sign of them. When it became apparent they were gone, he shook his head and said, “ ‘There are more things in heaven and earth…’ ”

  “What was that?”

  “A quote that a friend of mine likes to say a lot.”

  Maklin shifted toward him. “Damn. We forgot about the Pawnees.”

  Alarmed, Nate whipped around. The crest was still and quiet. As near as he could tell, they were the only two human beings atop the mountain. “They’re gone.”

  “They were here, though. We both saw them.”

  Nate had seen something earlier. What he took to be the heads and shoulders of men spying on the valley’s new inhabitants from on high. At that distance it had been impossible to say for certain that it was the Pawnees, but he was willing to bet his poke it was.

  Nate dismounted and walked to where he could see the sweep of mountains to the south. At night the rolling tiers of forested slopes were a sea of ink, which was why the one bright orange finger stood out like a lighthouse beacon. “There.”

  “I reckon a mile, maybe less,” Maklin guessed. “They must have been going down while we were coming up.”

  “Let’s have a look-see.”

  They became tortoises. They had to be, for the sake of their animals as well as their own hides. The snap of a branch would carry on the wind. The peal of hooves, too, so they rode at a walk until the mile had become half a mile and then a quarter of a mile and finally they were a few hundred yards above the fire.

  Nate drew rein. “I’ll go. Wait here with the horses.”

  “Why just you?”

  “One is quieter than two.” Nate slid down and held the bay’s reins for Maklin to take.

  “It should be me. I don’t have a wife and kids.”

  Nate whispered back, “You don’t fool me anymore.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Not now.” Nate nodded toward the fire. “Whatever happens, stay with the horses. We can’t afford to lose them.”

  “I don’t like this.”

  “You don’t have a wife and kids, true, but I know Pawnee,” Nate explained. He didn’t mention that he knew very little.

  Pines reared in darkling ranks. The brush was thick and dry. Nate placed each moccasin as lightly as he could. Bent low, he stalked to within earshot.

  They were there, all eleven Nate had previously counted, hunkered around the small fire, talking in low tones. Kuruk was doing most of the talking. Only a few words reached Nate clearly and they were not enough to give him any idea of what the Pawnees were discussing.

  Nate raised the Hawken. Kuruk was the key. Kuruk’s hate had brought the rest. Were Kuruk to die they might decide to return to their village. Nate sighted down the barrel. He couldn’t
see the bead at the end, but he was sure he could hit Kuruk square in the chest and that should do the job.

  Unexpectedly, a Pawnee rose and came toward the pines. He was scratching himself, down low. He came directly toward the spot where Nate was crouched and said something over his shoulder that caused some of the others to laugh.

  Nate froze. He was far enough from the fire that he should be invisible. The warrior came closer and closer until he stopped barely ten feet away and hitched at his buckskins. Nate heard the splatter and smelled urine. He didn’t so much as blink.

  The warrior let out an “Ahhhhh.” He said something to the others and they laughed again. Then he was done and turning and his face rose until he was staring right at Nate.

  Nate held his breath. It would take exceptional eyesight to spot him.

  The Pawnee paused. He bent forward and his hand rose to a knife on his hip. For fully half a minute he peered into the dark. At last he straightened and took his hand off the knife hilt and headed back to the fire.

  Nate exhaled. That had been close. Quickly he took aim again only to find that the warrior was between him and Kuruk; he didn’t have a clear shot. He raised his cheek from the stock, waiting for the warrior to sit back down. But the warrior didn’t. Instead, he stopped and quietly said a few words, and the next moment they were all grabbing weapons and scrambling to their feet.

  Nate whirled and ran.

  Howling like wolves, the Pawnees were after him. Several had yanked burning brands from the fire and held them over their heads. The combined light was enough that one of them pointed and yelled to his companions.

  Pumping his legs, Nate churned up the slope. The brush tore at him. Tree branches threatened to gouge his eyes. He had gone ten yards when he realized the mistake he was making and veered away from the horses and the Texan.

  The Pawnees were in full throat, screeching and yipping and brandishing their bows and lances.

  An arrow buzzed past Nate’s ear. He dodged around a pine. Weaving, he ran harder. Another shaft thudded into a tree. He came to a flat stretch and poured on the speed only to be confronted by a dense thicket. Without hesitation he plunged in, lowering his head and throwing an arm in front of his face to protect his face and throat. He went eight or nine steps and stopped.

  On both sides the thicket crackled and rustled to the passage of Pawnees. They had lost sight of him, but they knew he was in there somewhere. Kuruk barked commands.

  Nate hunkered low. It was dark enough that a warrior could pass within a few feet and not spot him. So long as none of them ran smack into him, he might escape detection.

  Then Kuruk switched to English. “I know you are in here, Grizzly Killer. I am not a fool. We will find you and we will kill you.”

  Nate peered through the thicket, hoping for a shot.

  “How did you find us? We have been most careful in covering our tracks, as you whites would say.”

  Nate didn’t take the bait. He stayed silent. Feet moved stealthily to his right. Legs appeared to his left. The warriors were so close he could practically reach out and touch them. They went on by.

  Another warrior said something in Pawnee. Kuruk, forgetting himself, started to answer in English with, “He has to be. We would have heard him if—” Kuruk switched to Pawnee.

  Nate raised his head. No one was near him. He was about to get out of there when the thicket parted and in front of him reared a warrior he hadn’t noticed.

  The Pawnee uttered a sharp cry and raised a lance.

  Nate shot him. He hiked the Hawken and fired. The muzzle flash lit the warrior’s painted face and betrayed his surprise at being shot through the heart. Heaving erect, Nate bolted. He burst out of the thicket and flew. A lance missed his shoulder. An arrow nicked the eagle feather in his hair.

  After him came the Pawnees, yelling their war cries.

  Kuruk bellowed something.

  Nate considered himself to be fairly fleet of foot, but two of the Pawnees were as fast if not faster. A glance showed them hard after him and gaining. Neither let a shaft fly; evidently they intended to take him alive. Kuruk’s doing, Nate suspected. Kuruk wanted to stake him out and torture him.

  Nate tried to shake them. He cut back and forth at right angles. He weaved among benighted boles. The Pawnees not only kept up; they continued to gain. One of them called out to those behind.

  Nate had lost his sense of direction. He wasn’t sure which way he was running. He turned right.

  From out of nowhere a warrior appeared. The man had a tomahawk and the instant he saw Nate, he raised it to cleave Nate’s skull. In the span of a heartbeat Nate had a flintlock out. He fired and sidestepped as the tomahawk descended. Another second and he was in the clear while the warrior flopped and gurgled. He jammed the spent pistol under his belt and sprinted full out.

  Kuruk was shouting again, sounding beside himself.

  Nate ran. He was growing winded, but he could last a good while yet. He nearly tripped over a log. A boulder almost broke both legs. He took two more bounds and suddenly he was falling. He had gone over a bank. It was a short drop, but he hit hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Tumbling, he wound up in high grass. He lay there catching his breath while around him the night was broken by yells and the beat of moccasin-clad feet.

  They had lost him again. They were searching, roving from side to side. A figure appeared on top of the bank. It was Kuruk, overseeing the hunt.

  Nate felt at his waist for the other flintlock. He wrapped his fingers around the wood and went to tug it free.

  Almost at his elbow another figure materialized. The Pawnee was staring ahead, not at the ground, and went by in a rush.

  Nate looked at the bank. Kuruk was gone. Nate stayed where he was while the sounds of pursuit faded. The Pawnees had gone on down the mountain. For the moment he was safe. Or was he? Nate wouldn’t put it past the wily Kuruk to be lurking close by in the hope Nate would give himself away. Silently, Nate made it to his knees. Silently and slowly, he stood.

  No outcries split the night.

  Nate sought the North Star. It would tell him where he was. By his reckoning, the Texan and the horses were to the northeast. After all the running he had done, the climb taxed him. He skirted the Pawnee camp and would have kept on climbing had one of the Pawnee horses not nickered. A brainstorm struck, and he quickly wheeled. Every animal had been hobbled so it couldn’t stray off. Drawing his bowie knife, Nate cut the first hobble and then the second. Once they were all free he would spook them and leave the Pawnees stranded afoot.

  Nate moved to the third horse. He bent, and saved his life. A lance speared the space where his chest had been. He spun as a warrior sprang. A knife sought his neck. He grabbed the Pawnee’s wrist and the Pawnee gripped his. Locked together, they struggled furiously, each seeking to wrest loose and stab the other. The Pawnee was shorter, but he was broad at the shoulders and immensely strong. For long seconds the outcome hung in the balance. Then the unforeseen occurred; Nate blundered into the fire. He felt intense heat. Searing pain shot up his legs. Instinctively he tried to leap back, but the Pawnee held him fast and grinned a vicious grin. The pain worsened. Smoke was rising from Nate’s moccasins and his pants. He was about to burst into flame.

  Exerting all his strength, Nate wrenched and flung the Pawnee from him. The warrior was up in a heartbeat. His knife held low, the man came in low and quick, slashing at Nate’s groin. A twist and a step and Nate sank the bowie to the hilt between two ribs.

  The Pawnee’s back arched and his mouth gaped wide, but no sounds came out. He gulped breath, or tried to, and died.

  Nate yanked the bowie out as the warrior fell. A shout warned him others were converging. Spinning, he got out of there. His feet hurt from the flames and each stride made him grimace. But he didn’t slow. He ran until he was near where he thought Maklin should be, but the horses and the Texan weren’t there. For a panicked instant Nate thought Maklin had run out on him. He should have known bett
er.

  Hooves drummed and a strong hand gripped Nate by the arm and swung him onto the bay. Side by side they rode for their lives while behind them the Pawnees rent the air with yowls of frustration.

  “Thanks,” Nate said.

  “We’re not safe yet.”

  A glance at their camp showed Nate several had mounted and were giving chase.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nate reined down the mountain. The Texan’s pistol boomed and the Pawnees howled in rage.

  The ride was a nightmare. Obstacles loomed so abruptly that avoiding them took all the skill Nate possessed. His fear was for the bay more than himself. A mistake on his part could bring the animal to ruinous harm.

  They rode and they rode and gradually the sounds of pursuit faded. They were nearly to the bottom of the mountain when Nate brought the bay to a stop and shifted in the saddle to listen.

  “I think we shook them,” Maklin said.

  “I hope so.”

  “How many did you rub out?”

  Nate had to think. “I shot two and stabbed another. I expect all three are dead.”

  “And I shot a fourth, so there are only seven left. Maybe Kuruk will give up and go home.”

  “Anyone who hates as much as he does won’t quit easy.” Nate clucked the weary bay on.

  Maklin came up next to him. “What do you think those things were we saw earlier?”

  “I have no idea,” Nate admitted. But he was determined to find out. “I reckon a visit to those caves is in order.”

  “When you do, I’m tagging along.”

  Nothing else was said until they neared the Valley of Skulls. The weary bay was about tuckered out and Nate was looking forward to letting it rest.

  Suddenly a voice split the night.

  “Halt! Who is that?”

  Nate drew rein in surprise. “Haskell, is that you? It’s King and Maklin. We’re coming in.”

  The freighter lieutenant and another man had their rifles in hand. “It’s good to see you safe. We heard shooting far off, so the captain decided to have us take turns standing guard until morning.”