“I’ll rouse the others,” Matt said to Dan.
“You do that.”
Matt went from door to door, awakening the others. “Let’s go, gang!” he yelled. “Head ’em up and move ’em out.” he added with a smile.
“Jesus, what time is it?” Dennis said, sticking his head out the door and rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“It’s 4:30,” Matt told him. “Time’s a-wastin’.”
“This must be like the army,” the man replied.
“Similar,” Matt said. “But only to a very small degree.”
He walked on, waking the others.
The campers gathered in the dining area of the small lodge and stood staring at the biggest breakfast many of them had ever seen. There were mounds of flapjacks, piles of bacon, biscuits and gravy, scrambled eggs, country butter, and jars of home-canned jellies and preserves.
The astonished stares brought smiles from both Dan and Nick. Whatever their background, the men knew how to cook and liked to do it.
Over breakfast, Nick laid down the rules of the trail. “You get tired and want to stop, sing out. One thing we’re not in is no hurry. You see a pretty flower, admire it and leave it alone. It ain’t yours to pick. The only thing you shoot in yonder is a camera . . .” His eyes briefly flickered to Matt and narrowed. The others did not notice the glance. “... It’s two days in to where I’m taking you, and two days out. That means you got ten days to fish and relax and enjoy the beauty. You start a forest fire, you pay for the damage it causes. I’ll show you all how to make a safe fire for cooking and for warmth. Don’t nobody wander off from the group alone. I’m told they’s some among you who knows how to use a compass. That’s good. Be darn sure you take your headings before we leave this area. You was good enough to spread your gear out for me last evening. You come well prepared, and you shouldn’t have no trouble in the wilderness. I’ll tell you other do’s and don’ts as we move along. So eat up, people. We pull out at dawn and it’s a long time ’til nooning.”
When Matt walked to his horses, just as dawn was breaking, he had put his .380 in his saddlebags and had a big Beretta 9mm 92F in a flap holster on his web belt. Four fully loaded clips were carried just behind the holster on the right side. Each clip held fifteen rounds. The 9mm had a round chambered and the hammer down. He carried his Mini-14 in a specially made hard leather-and-aluminum saddle boot which compensated for the long, thirty-round clip. The boot was a break-open type, eliminating the need to pull the weapon up and out. Matt had designed the boot himself while working in rough country in South America.
He attached the boot to the saddle, then saw to his pack animals, fixing the lead rope from one to the other.
Nick came to him, out of earshot of the others. “There ain’t no need for all that firepower, Mr. Secret Agent man.” He spoke in low tones, his lips scarcely moving. “The word’s done gone out. The Sataws has been rounded up and under guard. The leaders is talking over a way to come out of hiding and reveal themselves, try to work out a plan that’ll be acceptable to all.”
“I’m glad, Nick. I truly am. But there is still theCWA in there.”
“For a fact. I keep forgetting about those nuts. You really whip hell out of three of them bare-handed?”
“Me and a frying pan.”
The man allowed himself a faint smile. “Them pack animals I brought you are trained to follow the other. You shouldn’t have no trouble with them. Matt, no decent one among us ever bothered a child or a camper that didn’t come to kill. They’s been thousands of people walked the trails and paths admiring the beauty who was left alone. It’s only them that came to kill that was taken. And you was wrong about us giving them that was taken to the Sataws. Most died a natural death. The pure among us—like the one you shot—has got germs that will eventually kill a human. That’s how the taken died and they was given a decent burial. Maybe not the kind that you’re used to, but decent according to the tribe’s ways. You see, a routine physical won’t show nothing out of the ordinary among us that crossed over. But a lot of lab work would. We walk a fine line, me and Dan and the others. I ain’t sayin’ what we done was right or just. But it was the only way we knew to breed out the savage in us. We’re just like any other race of people: we got both good and bad among us. I just wanted you to know that.”
“I appreciate you telling me this. I sent word last night to my people. They’re meeting now—probably met all night—with certain people in government, trying to work something out. I hope they can.”
“I hope they can, too, Matt. ’Cause they’s a lot of us out here with fierce ties to the tribe. And like it’s said: blood is thicker than water. If we have to go down, we’ll damn sure take a lot of others with us.”
* * *
The campers climbed into their saddles and pulled out, heading east. Nick was at the head of the column, Matt brought up the rear. The kids were placed in the center of the column for safety’s sake.
A mile from the lodge, they were already plunged into wilderness that had not changed in thousands of years. Nick took a trail that was foreign to Matt, but Matt had taken his heading and knew where he was.
“What’s that?” Sara called, pointing to a fallen building.
“Call ’em wanigans,” Nick told her. “They used to log in here, float the timber down the river. A wanigan is slang for a floating bunkhouse. All kind of timber in here, but some kinds don’t float as good as others. Eastern oak, beech, maple, and birch have to be tied together and rafted with lighter woods. Some loggers let them dry for months so’s they’ll float better. They don’t log in here no more, thank the gods.”
Not God, Norm noted, and he seemed to be the only one who picked up on that. But “the gods.” Strange.
Norm twisted in the saddle—and almost fell out of it—to see if Matt had heard the strange comment. But Matt was far back of the pack, riding like a real cowboy, the reins held in his left hand, his right hand free. Norm wondered what Matt had in those bulky packs on the horses.
When Nick finally called a halt for lunch, the kids jumped from the horses to play and the adults climbed carefully from the saddles, sure they would never be able to walk again.
“Nice horsy,” Dennis said. “Stand still now.”
“Ungainly brute!” Tom muttered. The horse swung its head around and stared at him. “Now, now,” Tom forced a gentler tone. “I was only kidding.”
Nick had them gather around and showed them the proper way to build a campfire in the wilderness. Dig a pit and circle that with stones. “Don’t never build a bigger fire than you need,” he warned. “Wastes fuel, cooks your food too fast, catches the grease in your skillet on fire, and throws off too many sparks. Now let’s see what you-all brought to eat.”
After lunch—which Nick made the campers cook and which was edible, but just barely—Matt fixed his own lunch. Nick showed them how to cut out a piece of sod, dig a hole to bury their trash, and then replace the sod. “That way it don’t disturb the beauty of nature, and in two or three days you won’t be able to find where you buried it.”
Matt noted that whatever else Nick was, he knew what he was doing in the wilderness, he loved it, and he cared for his charges and wanted them to take care of the wilderness.
Matt lagged far behind the group, always scanning his surroundings for trouble. He did not expect any trouble from the Unseen, for he believed that wiser heads would prevail and, if at all possible, they would accept the terms offered them and come out of hiding. Matt believed the trouble would come from the CWA. They were a large group, although the entire membership was not centralized in the primitive areas of Idaho by any means, and they were a dangerous group. Monroe Bishner—“Hairy Ears”—would be gunning for Matt after the frying pan incident.
Matt put his horses into a trot when he saw the group was stopped and a half a dozen strange horses, with riders, were in front of them, facing the campers. When he rode up, Nick was facing the men, who were clad in tiger-stripe
battle dress.
“What’s the problem, Nick?”
“This trash,” the guide said. “They seem to think they own the whole damn place.”
Matt untied the rope to his pack animals and handed the free end to Norm. “Hold that, please.” He rode up to the bigger and uglier of the survivalists. “What’s your problem, buddy?”
“We ain’t got no problem. We were just ridin’ along, mindin’ our own business, when cowboy here come up leadin’ this bunch of niggers and Jews. I said, ‘well now, would you boys just take a look at the niggers and Jews.’ That’s what they is, ain’t they? If that chubby feller right there,” he pointed to Dennis, “ain’t a kike, I’ll climb a tree and howl at the moon.”
Dennis climbed down from the saddle and said, “Let me handle this, Matt.”
“Dennis . . . ?”
“No, Matt,” Milli said. “Let him. Please.”
Matt looked at Nick, arched an eyebrow, and Nick did the same. Both men backed their horses out of the way.
“Kick his ass, Dad!” Walt said.
“I intend to,” Dennis said.
“Son of a bitch is crazy, Luther!” One of Luther’s buddies yelled. “Jump down there an’ whup his ass, boy!”
“Everybody get down and picket your horses,” Nick said. He pointed. “Over there. I don’t want them spooked when all this fightin’ starts.”
Matt looked over at Dennis and changed his mind quickly about the man. Dennis had pulled off his shirt to stand in his T-shirt. The man’s arms were massive, his stomach looked flat and hard, and his shoulders were wide and thickly muscled. Milli walked up to Matt.
“He was a street fighter in Brooklyn, Matt. He can take care of himself.”
“I believe it. But this scum has no intention of fighting by any rules.”
Milli allowed herself a small smile. “Neither does Dennis. I can assure you of that, believe me. Two thugs broke into our house last year with plans of terrorizing us. When the police got there, the two thugs were unconscious and had to be taken to the hospital. Dennis did that with his bare hands . . .”
Matt was listening to her and watching both Dennis and the bigger and taller man from the CWA get ready for a fight.
“Five years ago, Dennis worked late at his law firm and a mugger tried to rob him. Dennis broke the man’s back. There have been other incidents, but you’ll soon see what I mean. Several very hardened and street-wise cops have told me, off the record, that Dennis can be one mean son-ofa-bitch when he’s pushed.”
The five other cammie-clad survivalists had dismounted and picketed their horses. Matt had watched as Norm had taken something from his saddlebags and shoved it behind his belt, under his windbreaker. Matt had a pretty good idea what it was. He hoped none of the survivalists tried to interfere in the fight, for Matt remembered Norm as having a hair-trigger temper, and after Nam—judging from his military records—Norm would not hesitate to shoot.
The big pus-gutted CWA man was standing near his friends, laughing and making very rude remarks along racial lines when Dennis walked up to him and smashed him in the mouth with a hard right fist. Luther went down in a sprawl of arms and legs, his mouth bleeding.
Dennis didn’t hesitate nor change expressions. He drew back a boot and kicked Luther in the gut. Matt relaxed a bit. Brooklyn-born and streetwise, Dennis had no illusions about fair fighting.
As if reading Matt’s thoughts, Milli said, “He’s also an avowed Republican.”
Matt had to chuckle at that.
Luther got up cussing and hollering and swung at Dennis. Dennis ducked the punch and blasted the man two hard blows to the stomach, a left and a right. Luther staggered back, a hurt look on his unshaven face. He kept backing up, trying to catch his breath. Dennis had not said a word. He was too wise in fighting to waste his breath talking.
Dennis faked Luther and drove a left hook into the bigger man’s jaw. Luther spat out blood and part of a broken tooth and back-heeled Dennis and sent him to the ground. Dennis rolled quickly, avoiding the kick, jumped to his feet and came in swinging. Luther connected with a couple of punches, but they seemed to have no effect on Dennis.
Luther’s friends made movements that indicated they wanted to jump into the middle of the fight. Matt dropped his right hand to the butt of his 9mm and that stopped Luther’s friends before they could get started. They stood in silence and watched Luther get the shit beat out of him.
Dennis hit Luther a combination left and right to the face. The left broke the man’s nose and sent blood squirting, and the right bored in and hit Luther flush on the mouth, smashing his lips.
There was a darkening mouse under Dennis’ left eye and a cut on his cheek, but he paid no attention to them. He relentlessly stalked Luther, his big fists smashing the man’s face and hammering at his belly.
Luther was knocked down and Dennis backed up, his fists held chest high. “Get up, you ignorant son-of-a-bitch!” Dennis spoke for the first time in the fight. “Get on your feet and fight, goddamn you!”
“He’s had enough,” one of the CWA men said.
“Shut your damn mouth or step over here and take a swing at me,” Matt told him.
“I ain’t got no quarrel with you, mister,” the CWA man said.
“Then button your mouth.”
The survivalist shut up.
Luther staggered to his combat boots. His face was a mess: eyes swelling closed, blood dripping from his nose and mouth. The thought managed to work its way through the maze of seldom-used gray matter in his brain that Dennis was not going to allow him to quit. If he came up with a knife, that hard-looking, pale-eyed man would shoot him. Luther didn’t know how he knew that, but he knew it was a fact. There was only one way this fight was going to be over: either he’d win it, or Jew-boy would. And Luther knew he didn’t have a chance in hell of winning. They’d sure misjudged this bunch of campers.
“I’ll give you this much,” Luther panted the words, the blood dripping from his busted mouth. “You can fight.”
“Thanks,” Dennis said, then stepped in and hit the man twice, a left and right to either side of his jaw.
Luther swayed for a moment, his eyes glazing over, then dropped like a rock and didn’t move. He was out cold.
Dennis walked back to his horse, got his canteen, and began cleaning up.
Nick smiled and lifted his right hand from his side. Matt had not seen him get it, but there was a long-barreled single-action pistol in the guide’s hand, the hammer back. Nick lowered the hammer and stuck the gun behind his belt.
Matt walked to his horse and swung into the saddle. The others slowly followed suit. They rode off, leaving the CWA men still gathered around the prostrate Luther.
Nick chuckled as he rode ahead of the others. “I like this bunch of folks,” he said to his horse. “Best group I think I ever took in. Good people. Fair-minded people with well-behaved children. And that was the best fight I’ve seen in many a year. I’d like to have these folks for neighbors.” He turned in the saddle in time to see Tom Dalton almost fall off his horse. “Well,” Nick concluded. “Most of them, anyways.”
10
They made camp in mid-afternoon, Nick choosing a site by a rushing stream. “Don’t drink the water without first purifying it,” he warned them. “There was a time you could, but them days is long gone. The place I’m taking you is by a stream like this. It’s good water, but you-all still should doctor it up ’fore you drink it, just to be on the safe side.”
By themselves, Matt asked, “Nick, can you drink the water without being affected by it?”
“Not no more. When my momma and daddy and me first crossed over we could. But it didn’t take civilization long to catch up with us. Once we get out here with all the chemicals in the water and in the food, it does something to our system. Changes us. And I ain’t real sure it’s for the better.”
“How many in the tribe, Nick?”
“It’s down to about six or seven hundred now. The t
hing I’m worried about is the Sataws breaking away. The rest of the tribe can read and write and figure and speak English.” He smiled at the look on Matt’s face. “Oh, yeah. We have schools. Those of us on the outside bring back books.”
“Nick, what about those who killed Gene Gaston and his wife?”
The guide sighed. “A problem there. We’re all over the country, Matt. From New York City to Los Angeles. From Canada to Mexico. We been comin’ out for two or three centuries. You got to try to understand the fear that many on the outside feel. If the general public was to learn they come from . . . well, hell, animal-like savages, how many would be shunned and lose their jobs or hunted down and killed? It’s a problem that them still in the wilderness can’t do nothing about.”
“You can revert, can’t you, Nick?”
“Some can,” he admitted. “I can’t. I . . . feel the urge to run free from time to time. But it isn’t an overpowering emotion. I used to do it as a boy. Just strip off and run through the woods, talkin’ to the animals and being free. My momma and daddy caught me once and whaled the livin’ tar out of me. I never done it again. And as I grew older, I understood why my parents forbade me.”
“The ones that are coming out now, they’re, how do I say this, purer than those who came before?”
“Yeah. You see, Matt, it’s kind of like when you cross a shepherd or a husky with a wolf. They call them hybrids. But you never know what you got until they grow older. Genetics, I’m talking about. You might get a 75-25 hybrid, with the dog at the low end of that percentage. As the animal matures, he or she might be almost pure dog in behavior, or they might be total wolf in behavior. It’s not quite the same with us on the outside, but close. It ain’t regression in a physical sense. There are no fangs protruding or hairy-clawed hands or anything like that. Not like you see in the movies. It’s mental. And I’ve had to kill some that couldn’t cope with it.”
Matt stared at the man.
“Yeah. A lot of us on the outside have had to do things that we didn’t really want to do in order to protect the others. It isn’t easy, and it don’t get any easier with time, either. We’ve known for a long time that Gaston had a file on us. His office in Denver was under twenty-four-hour watch. You show up there and then you show up out here and Dan made you quick. I don’t know who killed the man and his wife. We got some on the outside that shouldn’t be there; they slipped through our screening. Once there, they moved. They changed the names we gave them and got new social security numbers. The whole bit. They have their own network and they don’t fight the urge. It’s pleasant, Matt. Just go back to nature and be like a big animal. But these big animals, they like to kill. Dan told you I was visiting my kid over in Washington. I wasn’t. I was helping track down and destroy those with more Sataw in them than human. And that’s going to be another mark against us, I reckon.”
Watchers in the Woods Page 10
