He didn’t seem unhappy with that thought. But I was still rather confused.
“That’s all very well, old man,” I said. “But why are we going to Montana?”
He laughed again. “I forgot the most important fact of all.” He took a photograph from his pocket, leaned over, and passed it to me. “This is part of it. The other part is in the form of a letter, but this tells you all you’ll need to know for now.”
The photograph had been crumpled into a ball at some point in its life, then smoothed out again. Fine white lines traced its surface, and one quadrant was so badly faded that almost nothing could be made out. That didn’t matter, though. The important features were right there in the foreground. A team of men stood in a row facing the camera; frontier types with buckskin jackets, leather chaps, and rifles. They were all smiling broadly and one of them pointed down at their feet. That’s where the thing lay, dead and spread out, its wingtips reaching from one end of the line of men to the other, the thing that had made sure Challenger would be going to Montana.
It was a bird, but like no other that I have ever seen. In wingspan it matched some of the Pterosaur specimens we had seen in the Amazon, but this was more eagle-like in its appearance, with black feathers, flared out like huge hands at the wingtips. The head was white and the beak, almost a foot long, looked sharp enough to tear any flesh.
“They shot one,” Challenger said, softly, a faraway look in his eye. “But they say they saw six.”
It was five days later before I learned any more details, and by then we were well on our way, steaming across the Atlantic in a well-appointed liner.
Challenger’s presence ensured that we dined with the Captain most nights. The food was top-notch and we were kept well-oiled with a fine selection of liquors. All in all it was a most pleasant way to pass the time. I knew in my heart that there would be rigors ahead that would test our resolve, but for now I fully intended to just enjoy the journey itself.
It was a cold, clear night after supper. Challenger and I took our smokes up top for a stroll on the deck, and it was only then that I heard the full story. I smoked, and let him talk.
“I’m sorry I haven’t shown you the letter,” he began. “But it was written in a crabbed hand by a man whose literacy leaves a great deal to be desired, and who is prone to the most atrocious colloquialisms imaginable. It took me several days to decipher any form of meaning from it, so, if it’s all right by you, old bean, I’ll just give you the salient facts.
“Tucker Dawson appears to be, or to have been, a man of action, given to rather bold—some would call them rash—courses of action. Two years ago, one of these rushes of blood took him and a gang of like-minded citizens to Montana in search of a legend: a ghost town from the mining days of the eighteen-sixties, and a lost sack of ore.
“They went with dreams of fortune and glory. All they found were derelict structures of rotted wood. They found no gold anywhere, despite tearing down what little had been left standing to look for it. They spent a cold night beside a high lake, intending to head back south, tails between their legs, in the morning.
“Instead they were awoken before dawn by the most fearsome sounds. Something had got at the horses.
“I think you can guess the rest,” Challenger said. “They lost two horses, and Carter, the man who took the photograph you saw, got a leg injury that meant he couldn’t follow the others. Dawson wrote the letter … to be sent to the Smithsonian, and gave it to Carter for delivery. That was just before he and the rest of his men went on the hunt, intent on capturing a live specimen of the bird.”
“And?” I asked. “What happened next?”
Challenger laughed. “That’s what we are going to find out. There are Thunderbirds in the skies over Montana, Malone. And where there are raptors, there is usually prey. Tell me, what do you think birds that size might eat?”
That question had me in a cold sweat for the rest of the night, and I’m afraid I did not sleep easily.
By the time the liner berthed in New York I was feeling rather corpulent, what with the excess of good food and liquor. The long train journey west soon put paid to any feelings of well-being. The Smithsonian had booked our passage ahead, but had not gone as far as placing us in a sleeping compartment. We sat in an open carriage for three straight days, and at the end of it I was as stiff as a board.
At least we were all in the same situation. However, the others took the journey better than I. Challenger continued to be in the best of humor and at least one or two new traveling companions from the museum proved equally cheerful. Thomas Smith and Jim Boyd were unlikely companions at first glance. Smith was tall, thin and dour, a middle-aged man who had seen enough of life to know that he didn’t like it very much. Boyd was barely out of his teens, stout and beefy, and as boisterous as a puppy, especially around Challenger, whose reputation, I think, intimidated the lad and made him nervous to the extent that it turned him overly garrulous. All in all, the lad’s enthusiasm became quite wearing, and I was glad to finally disembark at our destination in Missoula and get some time alone, for several minutes at least.
I was, however, greatly impressed by the efficiency of the Smithsonian operation. Smith and Boyd oversaw the unloading of gear from the train onto two covered wagons; a veritable warehouse load of crates, boxes, tents and cooking utensils.
“Do you think we have enough equipment?” I said dryly as I joined them for a smoke when the packing was done.
“Probably not,” Smith replied. He wasn’t smiling, and I was as yet unsure enough of his moods to know whether he was jesting.
We spent our last night in civilization in a boisterous saloon in the center of town. I found the ale to be somewhat thinner than I would have liked, but the rye whisky on offer proved much better than I would have expected, and I’m sorry to say I drank rather more than was good for me. Challenger, as ever, seemed to soak the stuff up with no discernible effect other than making him even louder than normal. His good humor, which had withstood the rigors of the train journey far better than mine, saw him leading the patrons of the bar in song after song, while young Boyd accompanied him with some piano-playing that made up in gusto what it lacked in musicality. It was a fine evening with which to launch our trip.
The next morning proved to be much less enjoyable. We left town in tandem, with Challenger and Boyd in the front wagon, Smith and myself rolling on behind. Smith took the reins, which was fine by me, as I felt quite delicate after my overindulgence of the previous night. Up front, I heart Boyd chattering away nineteen to the dozen, but my own companion was as taciturn as ever. I lit up a pipe and tried to ignore the roiling in my guts as we ascended a steep trail out of town, heading for the higher peaks beyond.
We rode into Big Hole Valley four days later. The trip had been a spectacular one, over mountain passes and alongside clear blue lakes beneath vertiginous cliffs. But for all that, it had been uneventful, with long days spent sitting in the wagon, smoking pipe after pipe and trying, unsuccessfully, to draw conversation out of Smith. Nights were spent in pitching tents, eating and sleeping. The only signs of wildlife we saw were some skittish deer that got out of our way right quickly, and the splash of trout in the icy waters of the lakes.
There was one conversation of note, although the import of it did not strike me until much later. Smith had been as quiet as ever, and sat by the fire reading. On being asked what had him so engrossed, he showed us. He was reading an old battered Bible.
Challenger couldn’t resist the bait.
“How you can believe in God when there are so many things that are going wrong in the world, and it is obvious that, even if he did exist, he doesn’t care?” he asked.
Smith smiled.
“The Bible says that God is love. And part of His loving nature is that He allows people to have free will. As a result, we have evil, pain and suffering, due to the choices we and others make.”
“So I was right?” Challenger said. He lit a cheroot,
warming to his task. “He doesn’t care?”
“Of course he cares. He sent his only son to die for us. That’s how much he cares. He could intervene and control everything about our lives, but then we would be just puppets and not truly free.”
“That is the thing I have never understood. He gives us free will. Then, when we use it, he punishes us for not doing what he wanted in the first place. That’s not free will. That’s tyranny.”
Smith’s smile never faded. “God does not violate our wills by choosing us and redeeming us. Rather, He changes our hearts so that our wills choose Him.”
“So, if, to be saved by Christ, I must give up my free will, then do we truly have free will? Is it really our choice to be saved if in the end we do not have the ability to choose salvation for ourselves?”
“There are some things you just have to take on faith,” Smith said.
“Oh, I have faith aplenty already,” Challenger replied. “Faith enough for both of us.”
“And what is it that you have faith in?” Smith asked.
“This,” Challenger said, and pointed at his skull. “My intellect is all I need.”
“Then I pity you,” Smith replied.
The conversation ended there, and I almost forgot about it until much later.
We followed the bends of the Big Hole Lake all day, picking our way along a track that was little more than a slush-filled bog with ruts in it. The sun was starting to go down beyond the mountains when we got our first view of Ruby Creek, our final destination.
At one time there had been ten huts on the left side of the creek, too ramshackle to call houses, but home to twenty or more prospectors intent on forcing a living out of the intractable rock.
But no more.
Only two huts still stood, and even from two miles distance I saw the fallen timbers and ruined bases of the other dwellings. Wreckage lay strewn over a wide area, and there was no sign of any movement. Not that we expected any; we had been told that the settlement was long deserted.
As we got closer it became obvious that our information was right. The whole place was little more than rotted timbers and shingle. Rather than attempt to set up camp in the last ramshackle remnants of the buildings, we elected to pitch the tents. Boyd and Smith had the job down to a fine art that was almost balletic to behold. That left Challenger and me time to get a fire going and prepare a basic meal of what I had come to know as baloney and beans, a salty mixture of ham and vegetables that served to heat up the innards and fill the gut in equal measure.
We had the stew bubbling on a roaring fire before the lads from the Smithsonian were finished. Challenger showed no sign of planning to help them, so I followed his lead, sat by the fire and lit up a smoke. It was the first time the two of us had been alone for any length of time since getting off the boat in New York, and I discovered that matters had been preying on the old chap’s mind.
“There’s nothing here, old man,” he said, staring into the flames as if they held a deep secret. “It’s all been for nothing.”
“We only just got here,” I replied. “It’s too dark to have a look around now, but I’m betting things will look better in the morning. Besides … what did you expect?”
“The truth? I half expected to find a troop of men with some Thunderbirds in captivity. Or a skeleton at least. The remains of the bird on the photograph might even be around here someplace.”
He looked as close to despair as I had seen him since leaving London. He looked around us, at the tall cliffs of the canyon looming high above.
“She would have loved it here,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I would give anything to be able to show it to her.”
He said no more. We smoked in silence until Boyd and Smith joined us. After supper, Boyd surprised me by producing a concertina from his traveling bag and regaling us with a selection of frontier songs. Challenger started to loosen up after Boyd produced a bottle of Scotch, and even joined in some singing, although not with his usual exuberance. By the time we started to bed down for the night, the atmosphere was once again one of hope for a better day in the morning.
I woke in the night, unsure as to what had brought me up out of sleep. Then I heard it again, a high keening, far overhead. I poked my head out of my tent to see Challenger standing near the remnants of the fire, staring up at the stars, the moon shining on his face.
“What is it?” I whispered.
He didn’t reply, but pointed up toward where an almost-full moon hung above us. I heard the keening again, louder now I was out in the open. I have heard buzzard cries over the South Downs, and hawks squeal in the Amazonian jungle but nothing, even the harsh screams of the Pterosaur, had chilled me to the core as did that sound I heard there in the canyon. It seemed to vibrate through to my spine, sending a chill running through me. I was about to turn to Challenger with a question when I saw the source of the sound. It passed in front of the moon, banking into a left turn, wingtips flaring like an open hand. It was hard to get a sense of scale, but I now knew one thing for certain.
There were indeed Thunderbirds here, and they were most certainly alive.
~2~
Our search began early the next morning.
We started with a thorough examination of the settlement itself, but found little of importance. At one time it had been the center for quite an extensive mining operation, but any machinery had long since rotted or rusted beyond repair. There was most certainly no sign of any gold. An abandoned shaft led into the cliffs to the East, but it was blocked solid by an old landslide only five yards in.
We did find one thing of note, but it did nothing to quell a growing feeling of apprehension in my stomach. Someone had lost blood—a lot of blood, in one of the huts still standing. It had happened many years ago by the look of things, but it was another sign, if any were required, that this had not been a pleasant place in the course of its short existence.
The whole morning was spent in the fruitless survey of the area, and I was about to suggest that we raise camp to try our luck elsewhere, when Boyd let out an excited shout.
We found him in a narrow cleft in the cliff, standing beside a contraption of pulleys and ropes. The rope went up into the distance high above us. My heart sank when I saw the look on Challenger’s face, for in that very instant I knew there was no other path now but for us to see where that rope led.
First we had to work out the mechanics of the system that had been employed. In the end, it was simple enough. We discovered a hefty rock that was employed as a counterweight. After some heaving, we managed to raise it high above until the rope jerked as it locked in place. The section of rope now in front of us had hand and foot holds in loops.
“After you, old man,” I said to Challenger. I do believe he might have taken me at my word and gone up there and then, had Smith not proved to be the voice of caution.
“I think it best to make proper preparations,” he said, and Challenger finally saw sense when both Boyd and I concurred.
“Proper preparations” took the best party of half an hour. By then Challenger was champing at the bit, but we had managed to get him to don clothing more suitable for the colder climes we might encounter if we went much higher than our current altitude. He also carried, slung across his back like a weapon, a stout oak walking stick and a haversack containing enough provisions for several days at least. I was similarly dressed and kitted out, although I forsook the walking stick in favor of my service revolver, which I slung in a holster under my left arm, along with a cross-torso belt of ammunition.
And to irk Challenger even further, I told him in no uncertain terms that I was going first. I didn’t want to be heroic in any way, but the old man had grown portly in recent years. I was by no means sure that the system of ropes and pulleys would take the strain if there were not someone already up above to watch out for potential problems.
My heart was in my mouth as I put feet and hands into their respective holds.
“Heave,” Challenger shouted, and my ascent started.
I went up in a series of jerks and halts, each pull lifting me some six feet higher. There was little to do except hang on and try to enjoy the view which, I have to admit, was stunning in itself. I hung on a cliff facing down the length of the Big Hole Valley. The lake stretched away on the valley floor as far as the eye could see. Cold, blue Rockies bounded the valley. The highest peaks still held some snow; the sky was almost completely cloudless, and there was a chill in the air despite it being July. As I ascended I became ever more grateful for Smith’s demand that we wear the proper gear; it may have been summer on the valley floor, but up here it felt decidedly like late autumn.
I looked down once, from a height of over a hundred feet, but that only proved to me, as if any more proof were required, that I was in a rather precarious position. The lurch that occurred on the next heave of the ropes almost threw me out of the loops, and after that I just concentrated on holding on.
My ascent seemed to go on forever. I knew by now I must be hundreds of feet above the valley floor, but I could not bring myself to look. Instead I chanced a glance upwards, and was glad to see that I had almost reached some kind of high point. I came to a stop with a jolt and was able to step out of the loops and onto a wide ledge. I gave the rope three hard tugs, our pre-arranged signal that I had reached the destination. There was a whine of rope scratching on the pulley that had been driven into the rock face above my head, then the rope-holds started on their trip down as the counterweight came back up. I did not envy those below the task of having to haul someone of Challenger’s bulk up to where I now stood, even with the benefit of the counterweight.
While the rope descended I had a quick look around. Someone, or, rather, a group of people, had been here. A large fire had been lit at one time on the flattest part of the ten-foot wide shelf, and several empty crates told of food supplies having been ported up to this station. It had been some time ago, though. There was nothing to suggest anyone had been here for at least a year, and maybe more.
Professor Challenger: The Kew Growths and Other Stories Page 16
