“Come on...come on, you bitch. I owe you. This one’s for the boys.”
The growl changed into a snarl, the snarl into a roar. The Crota exploded off the starting blocks. The monster’s charge was met by the deadly accuracy of Lloyd’s shooting. Seven searing-hot slugs slammed into the Crota’s chest, but the bullets might as well have been spit wads. Lloyd knew even before he pulled the trigger that the .45 would be useless against the monster. He knew, but he still fired, still stood his ground. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move a muscle. Even when the Crota bore down on him like a Mack truck he held his ground, arms outstretched, hands clutching the barking automatic.
As Lloyd fell beneath the murderous jaws of the Crota, Skip crawled along the wall as fast as he could. He paused briefly at the crumpled form of Jay Little Hawk to check for a pulse. The Indian still lived. Thank God. He quickly checked for wounds, but the only thing he found was a nasty bump on his head. Hawk was unconscious but not seriously hurt.
His eyesight almost back to normal, Skip spotted the bow and arrow lying near the opposite wall. Jumping up, he made a run for it. He was halfway across the tunnel when the Crota spotted him. With a roar, the monster charged.
Skip made it to the bow and arrow a few feet ahead of the Crota. Scooping them up, his heart nearly stopped as the bow fell apart in his hands.
The bow was broken, useless; its wooden shaft had probably snapped when the Crota attacked Little Hawk. There was no time to fix it, no time to flee. The Crota was upon him!
Maybe he knew all along that it would come down to this. Maybe Little Hawk and Strong Eagle knew it too. Perhaps this was the reason they had picked him to face the Crota. Call it karma. Call it faith. Call it what you will. Skip didn’t try to understand it. He only knew that something beyond his control had put him here at this exact moment in time.
Faces flashed through his mind like images in a slide show, the faces of those killed by the Crota. Some of the people he knew quite well, others only in passing, some not at all. They all had one thing in common: their spirits begged him to put a stop to their endless torment, to avenge their deaths. He wasn’t about to let them down.
The Crota lunged, jaws spread wide. Skip stood his ground, didn’t flinch. His grip tightened on the tiny arrow clutched in his right hand as the Crota went for the kill.
“Eat this, you bastard!”
He pivoted to the left, striking upward with his right hand. The arrow pierced the Crota’s throat, the point penetrating deep into its scaly flesh.
Upward the tiny stone point traveled, through the creature’s throat and into its mouth. The arrow flashed blue, the icy flame encasing Skip’s hand. Blood spewed hot and steaming from the wound, splattered his arm and chest.
He pushed harder, pushed with all his might. The arrow skewered the Crota’s tongue, burying itself deep into the roof of its mouth.
Skip released the arrow and jumped back out of the way. The Crota tried to scream but couldn’t. It snatched madly at the arrow in an attempt to tear it free.
Blood spurted bright red from the Crota’s throat, spilled down the monster’s chest and over its legs. A shudder traveled through the creature’s body as it sank slowly to its knees. A hand reached out toward Skip, trying to grab him with claws that still dripped Lloyd’s blood.
The Crota tried to crawl, desperately attempting to reach him. One foot. Two. Muscles strained; its chest heaved. A gasping sound came from deep within its throat, followed by a cascade of blood frothed with white foam, like waves upon the ocean.
The monster raised its head to look at him, and Skip saw intelligence in its eyes. The Crota knew it had lost the battle, lost the war. To the victor went life; to the vanquished, only death.
The amber glow of the Crota’s reptilian eyes slowly faded, then flickered out like a candle in the wind. The creature collapsed, and died.
How long Skip stood there staring down at the lifeless monster he did not know. Tremors of fear rolled up and down his body as tears raced down his cheeks. The nightmare was finally over. They had won. The magic arrows had killed the beast.
“Thanks, Grandma.”
A soft moan came from behind him. He turned.
Little Hawk pushed himself up on his elbows and looked around. His eyes opened wide in astonishment as he spotted the body of the Crota. He turned toward Skip and nodded. “You did good, for a white man.”
Skip put his hands on his hips. “I’ll have you know I’m one quarter Indian and damn proud of it.”
Hawk smiled.
Skip walked over and knelt beside him. “Anything broken?”
The shaman thought for a moment before answering. “Nothing serious. I have a good-sized bump on the back of my head, but I think I’ll live. Lucky for me I have a hard head.”
“The Crota snuck up on us,” Skip said. “My vision told me to beware the river. I guess I should have listened.”
Hawk nodded. “In the teachings of the Indians, water has power. It is the home of the manitou, and the manitou can be either good or evil. The Crota must have known this. It used the energy of the rushing water to mask its power, making its presence undetectable.” He spotted Lloyd’s body. “Four. The circle is complete.”
“You knew about this?” Skip asked.
Hawk shook his head. “I knew only what Strong Eagle said--that there would be four of us.” A look of insight crossed his face. “That would explain why I was picking up two presences back at the city.”
The sheriff nodded absently. “He saved my life.”
“His actions will be remembered. Songs are always sung about the brave.”
“So what do we do now?” asked Skip.
“We go home.”
“What about Lloyd?”
“We will send someone back for him.”
Skip stood up. “It’s a long walk back to the Boot.”
“Yes, it is,” Hawk agreed. “We’d better get started.”
Chapter 33
It was early afternoon when they emerged from the Devil’s Boot. The sun shone hot and bright, the previous evening’s storm just a memory. Their sudden appearance gave the deputy guarding the cave quite a start. Not wanting to go into details about what had happened, Skip merely told the deputy and the two men from the fire department to go on home, that the situation was under control.
They arrived back at Hawk’s cabin a little after two P.M. George Strong Eagle was waiting for them on the back porch. A full pot of coffee sat on the small wooden table. Next to the table a six-pack of beer chilled in a washtub filled with ice. The old Indian rose and happily embraced each of them. He said a few words of greeting to Hawk, then turned and spoke to Skip. There was humor in the medicine man’s eyes. Hawk translated what was said.
“He says he is very proud of you. You acted very bravely and followed the right path. He feels the blood of your Indian ancestors runs strong in your veins. With time, and the right teacher, you could one day become a great warrior, maybe even a medicine person like your grandmother.”
Strong Eagle reached up and removed the choker of blue and white beads from around his neck.
“He wants you to have his choker. It is a great honor to receive such a gift; wear it proudly. He says that you and your family will always be welcome in his home and that he hopes you will someday come to visit us.”
“Us?” Skip looked at Hawk.
Hawk nodded. “I’m going back with Strong Eagle. I will stay with him for a while, then I will return to the reservation of my people, in Oklahoma. My work is finished here. I am needed there.”
“But what about your home...your belongings?”
“Some of my things I will keep, some I will sell, most I will give away. The cabin will stand for a time, but after a while it will be taken over by the forest. Eventually no one will know where it stood. Like all things, it too will return to the earth.”
Little Hawk stepped closer, taking Skip’s hand. “It has been an honor knowing you. Before I take y
ou back to town we must smoke the pipe together one last time. Maybe afterwards we will get a little drunk; I think we both need it. Who knows, if we are lucky, Strong Eagle will sing for us.”
Skip didn’t arrive home until late that night. Like Little Hawk predicted, they had gotten a little drunk together--not to the point of staggering or falling down, just enough to make the nightmare of the past few days seem like a bad dream. Slipping quietly into the darkened kitchen, he removed his mud-caked boots and set them by the door. He dropped various other articles of clothing as he made his way down the hallway towards the bathroom.
The hot shower seemed to do him as much good as the beer. He didn’t shut the water off until his skin turned a nice shade of pink. Drying off, he wrapped a towel around his waist and doused his clawed thigh with a good helping of disinfectant. The wound looked pretty good, considering. The stuff Little Hawk smeared on it had worked great. In a couple of days the old leg would be as good as new.
Slipping out of the bathroom, he retraced his steps back down the hallway until he came to his crumpled trousers. Removing his billfold from the back pocket, he slid his sheriff’s badge into the palm of his hand. Stepping into the kitchen, he raised the lid on the trash can and tossed the badge in with the leftover food scraps and empty milk cartons.
There would be other jobs, other towns. Logan was getting just a little too crowded lately. With the discovery of the lost city it would probably boom into a first-rate city--a city packed with cheap hotels, bargain stores, tourists--and crime. Skip guessed it was time to move on, time to find someplace a little quieter, a little more restful, a place where a man could settle down and spend some time with his family. Maybe they’d open that flower shop Katie always wanted. He could just see himself, down on his knees, talking to a rosebush or two.
As he started down the hallway, he noticed that the light was on in the bedroom. Katie must still be up. He was about to open the door when he heard singing--a soft, sweet melody--coming from inside. He stopped and listened.
“Old McDonald had a farm...”
Skip slowly opened the door. Katie was kneeling on the floor, tears flowing down her cheeks. Standing in front of her was Billy, singing. They both turned in his direction as he opened the door.
“Billy... he’s...” Katie tried to talk but couldn’t.
Billy looked up at Skip, his eyes bright as silver dollars.
“Hello, Daddy.” He held out something in his right hand. “See what the old Indian gave me, Daddy? It’s an eagle feather!”
The feather was a golden eagle tail feather, its shaft beaded with turquoise and red beads, a length of leather attached to it so it could be tied to the hair. It was the same feather Strong Eagle had worn tied to his braid.
“He says he likes you, Daddy,” Billy continued. “He says you’re a good friend. He made my ears all better. I can hear now, Daddy. Honest. I can talk, too. Would you like to hear me sing, Daddy? Would you?”
Tears flowed down Skip’s face. He wiped his eyes and nodded. “Yes, Billy. I’d like to hear you sing.”
He slowly closed the door behind him, shutting out the blackness of the night, shutting out the outside world, leaving behind all the hurt and suffering. Crossing the room, he kneeled before his son and listened, listened as one would to a songbird for the very first time, as Billy sang:
“Row, row, row your boat....”
END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Having served in the Air Force, and the former owner of a restaurant and lounge, Owl Goingback became a full time writer in 1987. He has written numerous novels, children's books, short stories, screenplays, and magazine articles.
His novel Crota won the Bram Stoker Award for Best First Novel, and was one of four finalists in the Best Novel category. His novel Darker Than Night was also a Stoker Nominee for best novel of the year. The Bram Stoker Awards are given annually by the Horror Writers Association, and are considered the highest honor a writer can receive in the horror genre. Both books draw upon his Native American heritage to tell a story of supernatural suspense, as do his other novels Evil Whispers, Breed and Shaman Moon.
Owl's children's books, Eagle Feathers and The Gift have received critical acclaim from parents and teachers, and are currently used in numerous reading programs. Eagle Feathers is a Storytelling World Awards Honor Recipient.
In addition to his writing, Owl has also lectured throughout the country on the customs and folklore of the American Indians. He is currently working on a new novel and several screenplays.
Connect With Owl Goingback Online
Official Website
http://www.OwlGoingback.com
Twitter
http://twitter.com/OGoingback
OTHER WORKS BY OWL GOINGBACK
Darker Than Night
Breed
Evil Whispers
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VISIT HIM AT:
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