Wilderness: Mountain Devil/Blackfoot Massacre (A Wilderness Western Book 5)

by Robbins, David

  “The rest were awake in no time and fighting for their lives,” Red Moon continued as Milo shuffled up to them. “They fought bravely but they were confused and very, very scared.”

  “What do you mean by they were confused?” Tom inquired, hanging on every word the aged warrior spoke.

  Red Moon walked to a corpse and flicked his right foot out to touch an arrow jutting from the Blackfoot’s chest. “This one was shot by another member of the war party,” he said, and swiveled. “There are more, warriors who were slain by arrows or lances or were shot by a gun.”

  Nate looked and saw several examples. He’d missed it before because he’d been concentrating on finding evidence of the creature. But Red Moon was right. The scene must have been sheer chaos. Mental images of the frightened Blackfeet fighting valiantly for their lives in the frantic jumble of whirling companions made him see how easily the accidents must have happened.

  “The horses ran off, leaving the men on foot,” Red Moon detailed as he moved in a circle, his alert eyes missing none of the sign underfoot. “A few ran. The rest stayed. They would not desert their friends.”

  “But there were twenty or more Blackfeet and only one creature,” Tom said in exasperation. “How could one animal lick them?”

  Red Moon nodded at a brave whose head had been split open, exposing the brain. “The beast must have knocked many down, breaking their bones or cracking their heads, and then gone around later and finished them off.”

  “But they must have hit it!” Tom asserted. “They couldn’t all miss! Why didn’t it die?”

  “I do not know,” Red Moon said. “But I do know it went from man to man, killing them in its own sweet time. Look there.” He pointed at a Blackfoot whose neck and face had been gnawed down to the bone. “It ate parts of them.”

  “Oh, God,” Milo said. “Oh, God.”

  Tom kicked at the dying fire. “Damn it all! There’s no way one animal could have killed so many Blackfeet and gotten off without a scratch. The thing must be lying in the brush, about dead from its wounds.”

  “Perhaps,” Red Moon said.

  Milo pressed a hand to his stomach, his mouth curling downward. “You say a few got away?”

  “Three. They ran toward the valley entrance.”

  “Maybe they will come back with others,” Milo said. “No. They have learned their lesson. The only reason they entered the valley was to take our scalps, and now they will never enter again,” Red Moon stated.

  Milo gave each of them a quizzical glance. “What do we do? Stay or leave?”

  “How can you even ask?” Tom rejoined. “We can’t give up now, not when there are so many beaver left.”

  “I don’t much care about the beaver anymore,” Milo said.

  “And I suppose you don’t care about the stakes we’ve been counting on to buy the land we want?” Tom snapped. “If we leave now, we may never raise the money to have our own farms.”

  With an air of haunted indecision, Milo regarded the bloody carnage. “Is it worth risking our lives for?”

  Nate rested the stock of his Hawken between his feet and lightly gripped the barrel in both hands. “Since you’ve brought it up, Tom, we should decide now whether we stick this out or mount and get out while we still can.”

  “I vote we stick,” Tom replied.

  “Milo?” Nate asked.

  “Can I talk to Tom in private?”

  “Of course.”

  The Pennsylvanians moved to the east and began arguing in harsh whispers.

  “They will decide to stay,” Red Moon said.

  “I know,” Nate responded.

  “We are fools if we do.”

  “I know.”

  “And I am the biggest fool of all because I will not leave until they have all the hides our packhorses can carry. I need my share of the money for my grandson.”

  Nate grinned. “You’re no bigger a fool than they are.”

  “How about you?”

  “Do you think the thing will leave us alone?”

  “No.”

  “Tom could be right. It might be wounded.”

  “Yes, but that will not stop it,” Red Moon said. “The thing that lurks in the dark hates men. It will not rest until every one of us is dead or gone.”

  “Why hasn’t it come after us? Why attack the Blackfeet first when there were more of them?”

  The Crow looked at Samson. The dog was sniffing a corpse. “I do not know.”

  “But you think it has something to do with Samson?” Nate asked, and included the clearing in a sweep of his hand. “The creature can’t be afraid of him.” He frowned. “The creature can’t be afraid of anything.”

  “It is not fear. Something else.”

  “What?” Nate probed, but the Pennsylvanians chose that moment to return.

  “We’ve settled the issue,” Tom declared.

  “Yes,” Milo agreed hesitantly. “We want to continue trapping.”

  “I too will stay,” Red Moon stated.

  Nate was suddenly the focus of attention. If he had any smarts he would tell them so long and ride as if the Devil himself was hot on his heels. But he’d given these men his word that he would trap the valley with them and they were counting on him to do his share of the work. If he left now, it would take them twice as long to do it all.

  “What do you say, Nate?” Milo inquired.

  “Yeah, King,” Tom added. “I never took you for a quitter, but a man never knows. How do you vote?”

  An invisible ghastly specter seemed to tug at Nate’s soul and he felt a stab of cold deep within himself, but he ignored the disquieting sensation. In the certain knowledge of the sequence of events that would ensue, and with a full awareness of the implications for his future, Nate sighed and gave them his answer.

  “We keep trapping.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Somber and silent, the four men rode from the scene of slaughter to the junction of the forks in the stream. Each one of them rode with a rifle in hand, senses primed, eyes constantly in motion.

  Milo and Tom were most affected. Where before they had frequently joked or sang or related outlandish tales they had heard, they were now grim, their lips compressed, the very postures of their bodies testifying to the nervous tension permeating every pore.

  Before leaving the clearing, Red Moon had tracked the creature into the stream where the flowing water had erased its prints on the bottom. So they had no idea in which direction it had gone. Nor, from the few tracks found, could they determine if it had been wounded in the battle with the Blackfeet.

  Nate, riding in the lead, noticed Samson seemed unusually alert too. He wondered if the dog sensed their state of mind or whether its own instinct for self preservation had been aroused by the slaughter.

  At the junction they turned and rode up the left fork. Because there were more trees along this fork and the undergrowth was exceptionally heavy near the water, much heavier than it had been up the right fork, they were unable to stick as close to the stream as they would have liked. They were forced to follow the path of least resistance, riding where the trees and brush were thin enough to permit their horses to pass without difficulty. Often they were dozens of yards from the gurgling fork, unable to note the location of beaver lodges and to plan where they would set their traps.

  Nate’s uneasiness had been eclipsed by constant razor-edged apprehension. He was jumpy and knew it, but he made no attempt to calm his jangled nerves. He well knew that when a man was on edge he was more aware of his surroundings and his reactions were quicker. And he might need that extra bit of wariness and speed should the beast come after them.

  They had gone a quarter of a mile when Red Moon, who rarely spoke when they were on the trail, made an observation. “Few birds,” he said. “Few squirrels and chipmunks.”

  Suddenly Nate realized a hush enveloped the forest through which they were passing. On the other fork there had been the continual twitter of birds and the chatt
er of squirrels and such. Now there was only an oppressive silence rarely broken by the normal forest sounds.

  Where were all the small animals?

  His mouth had gone dry and he worked his tongue back and forth, getting his saliva to flow again. He licked his lips and berated himself for being an idiot. By all rights he should be on his way to his cabin.

  He came to a small clearing and bright sunlight stabbed into his eyes like a red-hot knife. The contrast between the gloomy forest and the clearing was startling. Squinting, he gazed at the trees, noting for the first time that the shadows were deeper and darker than they should be. He twisted in the saddle and peered upward at the regal mountain bordering the left fork on the opposite side of the stream. Over ten thousand feet high and rimmed with snow, the mountain was almost barren except along its lower slopes. It cast an enormous shadow over the entire left fork.

  He looked closer. Much of the mountain between the low slopes and the snow consisted of a series of sheer cliffs rising to dizzying heights. Brilliant sunshine reflected off the tops of those cliffs. The lower portions, however, were obscured in inky shadow. He spied a circular patch of black below one cliff that might well be a cave, but the distance was too great for him to be certain.

  Once across the clearing he paid attention to the undergrowth and trees hemming him in. If the creature sprang from concealment he would have a second or less to bring his weapons to bear. He must be ready at all times.

  Hours went by. They didn’t bother to stop for a noon rest. The sun climbed high into the sky, and not until late in the afternoon, when a meadow unfolded before them, did Nate halt and look at his companions.

  “How about if we stop here for the night? It’s still early, but we’re all tired and the horses need a break.”

  “Fine with me,” Milo said, arching his back. “I’d like to walk around and stretch my legs.”

  “We’re awful far from the stream,” Tom complained. “It must be two hundred yards off.”

  Nate gazed at the intervening woods. Two hundred yards was a lot to cover when there might be an inhuman demon out there just waiting for an opportunity to pounce on one of them. “Since it’s my idea to make camp here, I’ll water the horses and fill our water bags,” he offered.

  “I will help you,” Red Moon said.

  They attended to their tasks with a minimum of conversation. After their saddles and supplies were stripped off their horses, Milo worked on their supper. Tom arranged their gear so it would be close at hand.

  Nate took half of their animals and headed for the stream, Samson padding beside him. Red Moon, with the rest of the stock, came along.

  The Crow kept looking through the trees toward the cliffs. “We do not need to worry until after the sun sets,” he said. “Then the thing will begin to hunt.”

  “Maybe it ate its fill last night,” Nate said. “Maybe it won’t come out tonight.”

  “Maybe.”

  The dense brush necessitated hard work on their part before they pushed their way through to the water. Nate led his animals in first so Red Moon could stand guard.

  Samson moved along the bank, sniffing the ground and testing the air.

  “He knows,” Red Moon said.

  Nate was inclined to hurry the horses, but the animals had worked long and hard and deserved to drink their full. He stood in the stream, the water up to his ankles, and scanned the other side, bothered by a vague sensation of being watched. If the thing was there, he’d never know. The trees, high grass, and weeds presented an unbroken green wall extending for as far as the eye could see. There were also numerous thickets where a large animal could easily conceal itself. Spotting it would be a fluke.

  Finally the last of Nate’s animals raised its dripping muzzle and he took them onto the bank. Red Moon led the rest of the horses into the stream.

  Nate watched the old Crow, thinking of the sacrifice the warrior was making to help his grandson. “My wife and I have some money put aside,” he mentioned casually.

  Red Moon glanced at him.

  “If the worst should happen and we’re driven out of the valley before we get enough hides, I’d be happy to give you the money you’ll need to reach St. Louis.”

  The Crow lifted his rifle and became unusually interested in his ramrod. At length he replied in a husky voice. “Thank you, Grizzly Killer, I will keep it in mind.”

  Soon the horses were done and Nate took the lead back to the meadow. Milo was pouring coffee into a cup. Tom had gathered enough dead branches to last them a week and was still collecting more.

  “See anything?” Milo asked.

  “Peaceful as could be,” Nate responded.

  During the meal no one said a word. Each ate with his rifle in ready reach. The sun dipped below the western horizon and plunged the meadow into murky darkness.

  Tom Sublette fed more limbs to the fire.

  “Who wants first watch?” Nate inquired as the flames hissed and spit sparks into the cool air.

  “Me,” Milo promptly answered. “I doubt I can sleep much anyway.”

  “Me either,” Tom said.

  Nate took a sip from his fourth cup of coffee. He doubted whether he would sleep very much either. Somehow, he must. They all must. Fatigue made men careless, and a single mistake now could well cost any one of them his life.

  It was then, as each man was lost in his own troubled thoughts, that a cry arose from the heights of the towering mountain beyond the stream, an eerie cry unlike that of any panther or other wild animal in existence, a drawn-out, wavering cry that rose in volume and diminished abruptly again and again without end.

  “What the hell!” Tom blurted out at the first note, and grabbed for his rifle.

  Nate stood and turned, his body tingling. It sounded more like a moan than a cry of rage, as if the creature making it was in acute misery.

  “It’s the thing,” Milo said breathlessly.

  “It is hurt,” Red Moon stated.

  On and on the cry lingered until, minutes later, it was replaced by the subtle rustling of the breeze in the trees.

  Milo took two steps away from the fire. “That thing must be up there right this minute watching us. It knows we’re here.”

  “That was just the wind,” Tom said.

  “You know better,” Milo replied.

  Rising, Tom nodded at the black bulk of the mountain that loomed above them like a menacing giant. “Get a grip on yourself. At times we’ve both heard the wind whistling through the high peaks. It can make all kinds of sounds.”

  “Not like that,” Milo said.

  “It’s the wind,” Tom insisted.

  No one else believed him. Nate could see that. He also guessed that Tom didn’t believe it himself. So why was Sublette being so stubborn? Couldn’t he face the truth? Or was Tom simply afraid and unwilling to acknowledge his fear?

  Red Moon drew a blanket over his shoulders. “It would be wise to have two men stay on guard at a time,” he mentioned.

  Nate agreed. If one should doze off the other could rouse him. “All right. Milo and Tom, take the first watch, then wake Red Moon and me.” He finished the coffee, made himself comfortable in his blankets, and closed his eyes. Despite his weariness, he doubted he would sleep a wink. He couldn’t, not with that thing up on the heights above them. Not in a million years.

  ~*~

  A firm hand on his shoulder brought Nate around. He blinked and sat up, gazing in bewilderment at the low fire. “What is it?” he asked drowsily.

  “The night is half done,” Milo told him. “It’s your turn to stand guard.”

  Half done? Nate tilted his head to see the stars in the heavens and recognized from the position of the Big Dipper that Benteen was right. He’d slept after all, for hours, but he felt no more refreshed than he had when he’d lain down. In fact, he felt worse. His muscles ached and his bladder was about to burst.

  Red Moon was pouring coffee for both of them.

  “The night has been
quiet,” Milo reported. “Once we thought we heard something moving through the brush to the north of us, but the crackling stopped.”

  Yawning, Nate rose. He swung his arms in circles and stamped his legs to get his blood flowing.

  “Where’s your dog, King?” Tom asked.

  Pivoting, Nate searched the grass revealed in the flickering firelight but saw no sign of Samson. “I don’t know,” he said uncertainly. “I thought he was right at my side when I fell asleep.”

  “We noticed he was gone about an hour ago,” Milo disclosed. “Didn’t think too much of it at the time because he’s always wandering off when the mood strikes him.”

  “But not at night,” Nate said, anger flaring at their neglect in not letting him know sooner. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  Milo shrugged. “We didn’t think it was important. Sorry.”

  Nate inserted two fingers into his mouth and whistled shrilly, hoping the dog would return. He’d never had cause to whistle to it before so he didn’t know what it would do. If he was lucky, the dog’s previous owner had taught it to respond to whistling. He waited expectantly, hearing only the wind.

  “Samson might be a mile off by now,” Milo said. “Perhaps he didn’t hear you.”

  Undaunted, Nate whistled again, even louder than the first time. Again he waited.

  “Try once more,” Milo urged after a while.

  The whistle pierced the night, louder than the hoot of an owl or the screech of a bird of prey, carried by the wind across the valley to the steep slopes of the massive mountain. A minute went by. Then two.

  Nate stooped to retrieve his Hawken. “Keep the fires going. I’ll be back as soon as I find Samson.”

  “You’re not going out there?” Milo asked in amazement.

  Nodding, Nate took a stride, but the old Crow barred his path.

  “It would be foolish, Grizzly Killer, to go into the forest before daylight. The thing that lurks in the dark might be waiting for one of us to make such a mistake. Samson can take care of himself.”

  Nate paused. Red Moon made sense, but he was loathe to stand idle when the dog might need him. He’d grown attached to the mutt over the past few weeks and he intended to take it back to the cabin and surprise Winona and Zach.