He thought of those unfortunate Blackfeet again, of how a single creature had dispatched nearly the entire war party, and he was troubled by an aspect to the attack he felt he was overlooking. He couldn’t isolate the reason, but something bothered him.
The distance seemed unending. He fought his way through tangled undergrowth time and again. Once his leg was hooked by a low limb and he fell, jarring his elbows in the process. He surged upright and raced on, ignoring the pain.
No other gunshots sounded. He began to think he was mistaken, that Red Moon had been out hunting game for their supper and had downed a deer or an elk. If the creature had attacked, surely the Crow and Milo would have gotten off more than one shot.
Over a mile from the creek he slowed, tuckered out, to conserve his breath and his energy. He thought of Samson, and glanced over his shoulder to see if the dog was still with him.
Samson had vanished.
Nate paused, but only for a second. His friends needed him. The dog could take care of itself and would show up when it was ready. Squaring his broad shoulders, he continued to run pacing himself so he wouldn’t be completely exhausted when he reached the meadow. If the creature was there he would need all of his strength and wits to dispatch it.
Sweat poured down his back and legs. He felt drops trickle down his cheek. His legs muscles protested the marathon but he forged ahead. Soon he would be there. Soon he would know.
It turned out he had miscalculated. The trees were to his rear and green grass was underfoot before he realized he’d emerged from the forest at the north end of the meadow instead of the south, where their camp was situated. He stopped, taking loud breaths, and saw with a sinking sensation in his gut that the horses were gone, every last one of them. They had yanked out their picket pins and galloped off.
Smoke curled skyward from the fire. He sprinted closer, seeking his companions. Their ruined supplies were still lying all over the place. Neither Red Moon nor Milo was anywhere in sight.
Nate stopped and wiped first one palm, then the other, on his leggings. “Red Moon?” he called, hoping against hope for a reply. “Milo? Where are you?”
Utter quiet prevailed in the meadow and the encircling forest.
“Red Moon?” Nate repeated, slowly stepping nearer to the fire, the stock of the Hawken flush with his shoulder. His thumb rested on the hammer, his finger lightly touched the trigger. “Red—” he began, and then beheld the body lying at the tree line to the south of the camp.
He surveyed the woods around him and drew abreast of the fire. To his left he saw Milo’s long gun, the stock shattered, the heavy barrel bent.
In the forest to the west something snarled.
Nate stopped in mid-stride and swung around, expecting to see the beast charge from cover. Nothing happened, though, and he resumed walking to the body.
It was Milo, prone with his arms out flung. His face, twisted sideways, revealed a countenance locked in unparalleled fear. There were four fangs marks on his neck, blood still trickling from the punctures. From the unusual angle at which his head lay, it was easy to see his neck had been broken.
“Oh, Milo,” Nate said softly. He studied the tracks, and read how Milo had been fleeing toward the trees when the creature overtook him from the rear. Poor Milo had not had a chance. In Milo’s panic, he must have discarded his gun back near the fire.
Nate turned from side to side, seeking Red Moon. The Crow must be nearby, perhaps dead, perhaps wounded. Red Moon would not die easily, and that shot he’d heard must have been the warrior selling his life dearly. He moved along the tree line, searching for footprints. Ten yards from Milo’s body he found moccasin prints leading into the forest. From the length of the stride, he concluded Red Moon had been running.
He peered into the gloomy woods, the gravity of his predicament hitting home. For all he knew, he was now alone. The horses were gone, leaving him stranded afoot hundreds of miles from his cabin. Even if he escaped from the valley he must cover a tremendous distance in a land teeming with grizzlies and wolves and panthers. Not to mention the Blackfeet. Few trappers left on foot lived to tell the tale. He would be lucky if he ever laid eyes on Winona and Zach again.
A moan issued from the forest, seeming to come from near a large pine twenty-five yards away.
Red Moon? Or the creature? Nate entered the woods, keeping low, stepping with extreme care to avoid twigs and branches that might break underfoot and give his position away. If the thing jumped him he would put up the fight of his life. He had the Hawken, the two flintlocks, and his butcher knife. There was plenty of ammunition in his ammo pouch and his powder horn was filled to the brim. He’d give a good account of himself before he died.
Every shadow seemed menacing. Any movement, no matter how slight, set his nerves on edge. If a leaf fluttered, he froze.
The oppressive silence gnawed at him, increasing his jumpiness. He recalled the Indian legends about the thing that lurked in the dark. Here it was broad daylight, and the beast was abroad and on the rampage. So much for the reliability of legends. Or had the Indians meant the dark of the forest and not the dark of night?
He shook his head, dispelling the foolish conjecture. If he allowed himself to be distracted the creature would find him easy pickings. Moving ever closer to the pine, he listened for another moan. When he was fifteen feet off he heard one, low and brief. He thought it came from somewhere on his right and he headed in that direction. There were a number of trees growing quite near to one another with thick growth filling gaps among the trunks. On silent feet he slid in among them and stopped.
His head snapped up when he heard a peculiar noise, a slight tap-tap-tap as if someone was rapping on a tree. He cocked his head, striving to pinpoint where the noise originated, and happened to spy a leaf lying on the ground. As his gaze fell on it a crimson drop fell from on high and hit the leaf, then another and another. This was the tapping he had heard.
Nate inched forward and looked into the tree above the leaf. An inarticulate cry passed from his lips and he rose, dazed, his mind whirling.
Red Moon hung six feet above the ground. He had been bodily lifted and impaled on a broken branch, and the bloody point of the branch protruded seven or eight inches from his chest. His arms and legs dangled limply. Blood flowed from the wound, down over his shirt and leggings, and dripped from the heel of his moccasins. His head sagged, his eyes were closed.
“No,” Nate said. “Dear Lord, no.”
The Crow’s eyes flicked wide but it was a moment before he focused. He saw Nate and struggled to move his mouth until a word rasped out. “Run.”
“I can’t leave you,” Nate said, touching Red Moon on the leg. “I’ll try and get you down from there.”
“No,” the warrior said. “The beast has killed me. Save yourself. Get away before it comes.”
“I won’t desert you,” Nate insisted.
Out of the depths of a thicket to the north came a piercing shriek of bestial rage and the thicket shook as if in a violent wind.
Nate’s reaction was instinctive. He pivoted, took hasty aim, and fired into the center of the branches shaking the hardest. The shriek broke off and the underbrush crackled as something retreated through the forest.
“Run,” Red Moon said.
“Save your breath,” Nate responded, already beginning to reload. First he placed the butt of the rifle on the ground. Then his hands flew as he measured out the proper amount of black powder from his powder horn into his palm and fed the powder down the barrel. Next he took a ball from his ammo pouch and wrapped the ball in a wad. The ramrod came out easily, and after inserting the ball and wad into the end of the muzzle he used the ramrod to force both down on top of the powder. It took no time at all to replace the ramrod in its housing under the barrel. Turning, he looked up at his friend.
Red Moon had died. His eyes were open but blank, his mouth slack, a tinge of sadness lining his face.
“I won’t let you down,” Nate said
softly. Facing due south, he ran. Ran as he had never run before. For the next hour and a half he maintained a grueling, steady pace that an Apache would have been proud of, a dogtrot that ate up the miles. He steeled his mind to the pain in his legs. All that mattered was putting distance between himself and the creature. If he traveled far enough, if he could get close to the valley entrance before weariness prevented him from going any further, he just might get out of the valley in one piece.
He thought often of his shot into the thicket, and consoled himself with the idea he’d wounded the beast. If so, like any animal it would go to its lair or seek an isolated place to hole up and lick the wound. Or so he hoped.
The afternoon sun climbed steadily higher, causing the temperature to rise. He sweated profusely and his soaked buckskins clung to his frame. When he came to where the forks merged he turned and followed the main stream. Here the going was easier and he stayed near the water so he could quench his thirst whenever the need became too overpowering.
Nate often scanned his back trail. As the hours elapsed and he continued to see no indication of pursuit he let himself relax a trifle. His legs were afire with pain. From his hips to the soles of his feet he was in constant discomfort. Years of living in the wilderness had bestowed remarkable endurance on him, but even superbly conditioned muscles possessed limits. When he could stand it no longer, he halted.
The stream beckoned invitingly. He shuffled over and sank to his knees, then splashed handfuls of the refreshing liquid on his face and neck. The water trickled under his shirt and down his chest, cooling his overheated body.
Nate touched his lips to the stream and drank sparingly. Too much water might sicken him. When a man was on the verge of exhaustion and had sweated practically every spare drop of moisture from his body, it was best to take small sips and slowly slake the craving for water. Later he could drink to his heart’s content—provided he lived long enough.
He stood and stared northward. Where in the world was Samson? The dog had always been independent-minded, but it sure had picked a hell of a time to begin traipsing off wherever its whim led it. Samson’s superior senses would come in handy right about now and he sorely missed the dog.
The sun drew his attention. There was no way he could reach the valley entrance before nightfall. If all went well he’d arrive there sometime tomorrow, about mid-morning. Which meant he must spend another anxious night in the domain of the wicked devil that would no doubt be stalking him once the sun dipped from sight.
He resumed running, but slowly to conserve his strength. In the few hours before twilight he could cover another four or five miles. Then he must find a place to make a stand.
Yet his options were limited. He could climb a tree and spend the night high in its branches, but he’d be unable to get a good night’s rest and he badly needed rest if he wanted to flee the valley swiftly in the morning. He could dig a hole and crawl in, but for all he knew the creature tracked by scent and would find him without difficulty.
No, he needed another idea.
By the time he’d gone almost five miles and the sun had started its inexorable slide to the far side of the planet, he’d figured out what he would do. It was a simple plan, yet it might save his life.
He halted, drank some water, and stepped to the trees. There were plenty of broken limbs scattered around and he searched until he found three straight branches over five feet long, two of which had forked ends. Moving close to the stream again, he jammed the tapered end of one of the forked branches into the soil until it stood by itself, and then repeated the tactic with a second limb, placing it four feet from the first. Aligning the last limb in the forks of the uprights took but a moment.
Back to the forest he went to gather an arm-load of long, slender branches. These he leaned on the makeshift cross-beam to his lean-to in a neat row. Then he found smaller, even thinner branches, and weaved these among the longer branches to form a crude but serviceable wall facing to the north.
He collected more limbs and leaned these against the open end of the lean-to, leaving only a narrow space on either side to gain entry. This was deliberate. Should the beast hunt him down, it would have to tear the limbs aside to get at him. The noise was bound to awaken him and perhaps give him time to bring his guns to bear.
As an extra precaution he again ventured into the woods and gathered all the dry leaves and small dead twigs he could find. These he scattered in a wide circle around the lean-to until he had formed a carpet of crunchy material that would snap and crackle when stepped on.
Nate stood back and regarded his handiwork with satisfaction. The creature could not possibly reach him without making considerable noise, and a second or two of advance warning was all he needed to cock his rifle or pistols. It was the best he could do given the circumstances.
His stomach growled, but the sun was almost gone. He couldn’t risk trying to find game. Instead, he eased to his hands and knees and crawled into the lean-to. Lying flat on his back so he could roll either way when the time came, he drew up his legs, rested the Hawken across his chest, and closed his eyes. His exertions had taken a terrible toll and fatigue washed over him from head to toe. He needed to sleep but doubted he could. Worry over the creature would keep him awake through the night. He thought of his dead friends and frowned. They never should have traveled to this vile valley, never should have let the lure of money eclipse their better judgment. He hoped Winona would forgive him if he never returned and hoped little Zach would retain some memory of his ...
Nate opened his eyes with a start and held perfectly still, listening. He’d fallen asleep! For how long? He bent his head to see out the nearest opening. The night was pitch black except for the many stars dotting the sky, and a stiff wind from the northeast was bending the upper limbs of the trees. He had the feeling he’d dozed for hours but he couldn’t be certain. His muscles ached, particularly those in his legs, and he still felt extremely tired. He was surprised he’d woken up at all.
Outside, dried leaves crunched.
Instantly Nate sat up, scarcely breathing, his fingers fumbling for the Hawken and closing on the barrel. Something was out there! He heard the stealthy pad of a step, heard more leaves crackle, and quickly cocked his rifle. The metallic click sounded loud enough to rouse a corpse. For a minute afterward the night was silent, then whatever was out there came closer to the lean-to.
Was it Samson? Nate hoped. Suddenly he could hear heavy breathing and knew it wasn’t the dog. The creature had stalked him and was now out there, not more than a few feet away, perhaps baffled by the lean-to and trying to make sense of the structure. Nate peered at the opening opposite his feet.
The wind increased, whipping the trees, and the shaking leaves made enough noise to muffle the creature’s steps.
A foul odor assailed Nate’s nostrils, so rank it made him want to sneeze. He took his hand from the Hawken to pinch his nose tight, suppressing the impulse. In front of his eyes a great bulk loomed beyond the opening and a huge, hairy hand or paw reached inside. Dropping his hand to the rifle, he slanted the barrel at the beast and fired from the hip.
Flame and lead rent the darkness and a fierce howl filled the night. The looming bulk vanished, followed by the sound of something splashing across the stream.
Nate drew his right flintlock and moved to the opening. Near the far bank reared an enormous figure, well over seven feet in height, water spraying out from under its feet with every stride. It reached the far bank and disappeared in the undergrowth.
A second howl seemed to echo off the high cliffs above.
Elated, Nate commenced reloading the Hawken. The shot had driven the beast off! It could be killed just like any other animal. If he stayed awake he would be able to hold out until morning. He carefully poured black powder into his palm, having to guess at the proper amount by feel alone, and listened to a third howl from across the stream.
As if in response, from the forest close at hand came a shrill, bestia
l shriek.
A shiver rippled down Nate’s spine and he glanced in that direction. There were two of the things! A high-pitched wail from off to the north indicated there were three, perhaps more. Shocked, he sat still while his mind raced. Now he understood how the Blackfeet had been wiped out. The creatures must have hit the war party from several directions all at once and slaughtered the confused braves before the Blackfeet could rally.
He continued reloading while pondering. If all three beasts attacked simultaneously, he’d be overrun and slain in moments. Oh, he might get one shot off, but the others would be on him before he could fire again. Creatures that size would be able to plow through the sides of the lean-to with no effort whatsoever.
Instead of feeling safe, he now felt boxed in. The lean-to was flimsy and his carpets of leaves wouldn’t do much good if the creatures came in a concerted rush. His warning time would be next to nothing.
Nate finished reloading, then poked his head outside. The air was cool and invigorating, the night deceptively tranquil. Lurking somewhere out there were the beasts; they might be closing in already. He had a decision to make and he must make it swiftly.
Rising into a crouch, he tip-toed away from the lean-to, heading south along the stream. Maybe the things wouldn’t notice, he told himself. Maybe they would think he was still inside. It might give him time to gain a substantial lead.
When he had gone fifty yards he straightened and ran full speed, heedless of the risk of stepping into a hole or tripping over an obstacle and seriously injuring himself. He had no intention of stopping for more than a brief rest until he reached the valley entrance. Once he was safely out the creatures might leave him alone.
Wilderness: Mountain Devil/Blackfoot Massacre (A Wilderness Western Book 5) Page 14
