Fantastic Tales of Terror

by Eugene Johnson

  Avonaco tipped the brim of his derby upwards as he eyed the younger man with a cold stare more commonly seen in reptiles and dead men. Regardless, Jake met the Native’s gaze and decided not to demure.

  Of the few lessons worth learning from his father, one was that you never broke eye contact with a wild animal. Jake did not consider Avonaco an animal in any way, but he knew a man with talents when he saw one. Avonaco was such a man, and Jake suspected his skills were both very particular and very dangerous. He was also certain that the Indian was still forming an opinion about the young man’s worth.

  “Am I right?”

  Avonaco offered a slight nod in response.

  “Except it can’t be wolves,” Jake stated.

  “And why is that?” Roosevelt asked as he stood.

  “That boy’s chewed up, but ain’t nothing missing,” Jake observed. “Wolves would’ve taken the meaty parts down to his ass and pecker.”

  Roosevelt studied him for a few seconds before starting toward the embankment. Avonaco began following him as Jake continued to gawk at the body. As the two older men mounted the embankment, Jake called after them.

  “HEY!”

  Both men turned to face Jake, expectantly.

  “Am I the only one who finds it peculiar that this boy ain’t wearing a stitch of clothes?”

  Avonaco remained impassive, but Roosevelt allowed himself a thin hint of a smile.

  “I told you,” Roosevelt said to Avonaco with a tinge of self-satisfaction.

  The Indian gave the barest shrug, turned and walked away. Roosevelt chuckled softly. Jake watched as Roosevelt followed his friend over the embankment and disappeared from sight.

  Jake resisted expressing his own satisfaction at Roosevelt’s nod of approval, but internally he was beaming. He cast one last look at the naked corpse decaying on the wet rocks before starting after the two men.

  As he climbed the embankment, Jake began to wonder about Roosevelt’s agenda. It was obvious he was not a scheming man, but it was equally obvious that he was a methodical planner. Jake had no idea what his plan was, or why the two men were reticent to share it with him. He wished they would tell him soon, but he trusted Roosevelt and his judgment.

  Jake did not know it then, but soon he would wish that he had never laid eyes on the dead brave. He would wish that he had never left his homestead. He would wish that he could sit by the fire with his mother one last time.

  But most of all, he would wish that he had never met Theodore Roosevelt.

  The sun had almost set when Avonaco discovered the tracks. There were no distinct paw prints, only divots and depressions leading toward the horizon. That was not unusual after such a heavy snowfall, but the erratic direction of the tracks unsettled Avonaco.

  By his count, the pack now consisted of seven members. Another disconcerting revelation. When they began tracking the pack there had been nine. Seven males, two females, all very large.

  Most male wolves in the Territories averaged one hundred pounds. The females were smaller by about twenty or thirty pounds. The largest Avonaco had seen outside of a traveling carnival or Wild West show was nearly one hundred and thirty pounds. It had taken half a dozen braves to run it to ground, and it still managed to maul and cripple two of his tribesmen. An anomaly. A rare example of nature unbridled.

  This pack was different. By Avonaco’s estimation, the smallest members of the pack weighed somewhere between one hundred ten and one hundred thirty pounds. And those were the females.

  The males weighed significantly more. It was possible that a few of them exceeded two hundred pounds. They were not animals. They were monsters.

  Even as a child, Avonaco had been a gifted tracker. His father had been the first to recognize his potential and had encouraged his son with a quiet sense of pride. His talents had not escaped the attention of the tribal elders, either. Even before Avonaco had reached the age of manhood, he had been allowed to join the hunting parties, and he was soon after considered indispensable.

  If it were not for the US Army Cavalry and the Dakota Wars, he would have been one of the youngest braves to sit on the tribal council. However, the United States government had different plans for his people. Bloody designs that, once the smoke had cleared, left Avonaco’s people broken and scattered. The few that were left attempted to adhere to the old ways, but that behavior was often rewarded with persecution, imprisonment and death.

  Avonaco had fought fiercely and bravely during those times. Like most of his tribe, he had conducted himself with valor and honored the memories of his forefathers. He had spilled more than his fair share of the white man’s blood, but a noble defeat was still a defeat.

  During those years, he had turned many wives into widows. Too many. Sometimes when the nights grew long and the darkness too deep, the spirits of those slain soldiers cried out to him. He heard them as clearly as he heard the pleas of his own fallen brethren. At times the cacophony of voices had been almost overwhelming, but the world had moved on from those blood-soaked days. Like many of his people, Avonaco had learned that escaping the past was impossible. His only option was to bury it. And there was only one way he had found to do that.

  Whiskey and rye.

  He was under no illusions about what he had become. He was a drunk. A man out of place in a world that was unforgiving of his kind. Yet he was still one of the best trackers in the Territories, and that was a valuable skill. The kind of skill that kept a roof over a man’s head and a bottle in his hand.

  The night he and Roosevelt had crossed paths, Avonaco was in just such a state. After spending his last dollar, the Native had stumbled out of the saloon and into the presence of two equally intoxicated men. White men.

  Even steeped in alcohol, Avonaco’s brain registered alarm. They had a look and demeanor about them that Avonaco had seen far too many times in his life. They were stupid, angry and looking for someone to blame for whatever perceived misery had befallen them.

  Perhaps their wives had abandoned them. Perhaps they had lost their livestock or their claims. Perhaps a beloved family member had passed away. Perhaps someone had shot their trusted and faithful hound. Avonaco did not know, nor did he care. All he saw was the hate burning behind their dull eyes and it made him angry.

  If they had witnessed an enemy’s people repeatedly raping their wives and slaughtering their children, he would have understood their rage. He was certain that those men had not experienced such horrors.

  Avonaco had not been so fortunate.

  He had no memory of who landed the first blow. He did have a vague recollection of knocking one of the men flat, but he attributed the memory more to wounded pride and revisionist history. Regardless of how the altercation began, Avonaco had quickly found himself in the dirt doing his best to ward off a seemingly endless barrage of kicks and punches.

  Bruises spread and blood had flowed as Avonaco’s consciousness had begun slipping away. In his alcohol fueled fugue, he had decided he was ready. He had tried to carve a life in the White Man’s world, but every day saw new obstacles and new setbacks. Not to mention that he was not welcome in his own lands. The ancestral lands of his people.

  He did not remember the exact moment of surrender. Avonaco had only two clear memories after reaching that moment.

  He recalled that though the beating grew more severe with each kick, he felt an overwhelming sense of peace at the thought of seeing his family again. In that moment, he had wished his attackers had been wearing their pistols. His misery could have ended, his journey to the sacred land could have begun with a single pull of a trigger. One shot would have freed him.

  The second thing he remembered was the abruptness with which the assault had ended. His eyes had been screwed shut and his ears bleeding, so all Avonaco heard were raised, muffled voices. Seconds later, a few loud thumps sounded, followed by two heavy thuds. When Avonaco did open his eyes, he was staring into the face of a bespectacled, barrel-chested Wašicu who appeared to be more m
ustache than man.

  “I don’t know what you said to them fellas,” the man began as he bent and offered his hand, “But it sure got their dander up.”

  Avonaco reached forward and gripped the man’s hand, however it was apparent to them both that the wounded man was going to require medical attention. The good Samaritan curled his arms beneath Avonaco’s shoulders and hauled the Native to his feet.

  “Looks like we’re waking up Doc Myers tonight,” the man said as he steadied Avonaco, “Do you think you can make it?”

  Avonaco had been dazed and not fully comprehending. His words slurred as he spoke.

  “No medicine.”

  “What? You don’t believe in the white man’s medicine?”

  “No money,” Avonaco had murmured.

  “We’ll discuss that when the sun comes up,” the man had stated, “But you won’t live to see it unless you come with me.”

  Between the alcohol and the thrashing, Avonaco was in no condition to refuse. He did manage to mutter a few words before the night dimmed into complete darkness.

  “Many thanks,” Avonaco offered.

  “Don’t thank me,” the man advised as he prompted Avonaco to take a step, “You’re not out of the woods yet.”

  “Still,” Avonaco mumbled, “I am in your debt.”

  The man urged Avonaco forward.

  “Do you have a name?” the man asked in a completely conversational tone.

  Upon reflection, Avonaco had realized that the man’s questions were designed more to keep him conscious than to gather information. However in that moment, Avonaco’s thinking had been far from lucid and his mind had been operating on conditioning and instinct.

  “Means Lean Bear,” the man speculated, “Is that right?”

  If Avonaco had not been impressed with the man before, he was definitelyimpressed with him then. He had never met a white man who had taken the time to learn even the most rudimentary elements of his language.

  He offered a weak nod to the man and the man rewarded the effort with a smile.

  “In that case, it is my pleasure to meet you, Avonaco,” the man announced, “And allow me to introduce myself.”

  The man’s words had sounded like distant echoes in a long tunnel.

  “My name,” the distant voice began, “is Theodore Roosevelt. It is good to make your acquaintance.”

  Avonaco liked to believe he responded, but all that was left in his memory was an expanding pool of blackness.

  Where are they headed? And why?

  The thought pulled the tracker from his reverie. This pack was subtler than others, but their tactics were still detectable by a trained eye. They were doing their best to conceal their ultimate destination while attempting to prolong the pursuit as much as possible.

  They are trying to exhaust us.

  Avonaco knew that tactic well. He and the other braves had employed it many times when warring with neighboring tribes. The idea was simple; tire your enemy with unnecessary travel in senseless directions. The end result was fatigued men on weary horses. Not only was your quarry physically drained, but their minds would begin to buckle.

  Strong, intelligent men would begin to bicker over incidental behavior. Disagreements would balloon into arguments and those arguments would escalate into violence. The tactic was designed to sow the seeds of distrust and paranoia. When it worked, Avonaco and his men often found themselves facing a disorganized assembly of men too aggravated to function as a unit.

  As a pack.

  Avonaco had no such worries. His debt to Roosevelt was far from being repaid and thus his allegiance to the man was unwavering. As for the kid, Avonaco had begun to understand why Roosevelt chose him. He was different from most of the white men Avonaco had dealt with.

  Jake was still young and not the most worldly of men. However, he was sharp and even more importantly, respectful. Not only to his employer, but to Avonaco as well. When Avonaco met the younger man’s gaze, he saw no resentment or hatred in his eyes. This told Avonaco something very crucial about Jake’s character. Whatever problems Jake had had in life, he did not blame others for his misfortunes. Avonaco had learned that was a trait that only truemen possessed.

  The Indian had been waiting and watching for Jake’s prejudice to reveal itself. It had yet to emerge. Even in moments of exhaustion or frustration, Jake had remained calm and affable. He had kept his good humor and had never flagged in his obligations. All totaled, Avonaco was forced to arrive at one inexorable conclusion.

  Jake Cutler was not a bigot, and a basically decent human being.

  Avonaco was a little disappointed with that conclusion; not with the boy, but with himself. With as much respect and lifelong loyalty he had bestowed upon Roosevelt, he should never have doubted his friend’s judgment. Avonaco had let his own prejudices cloud his perceptions and, in that way, he was no better than the men who had beaten him outside the saloon. It was a shameful admission, but facing unpleasant truths about one’s self was yet another measure of being a man.

  Avonaco came to two realizations as he stood alternating his gaze between the tracks and the horizon. The first was that he should be less guarded when dealing with Jake Cutler. The second was that their party needed to become less reactive and more proactivein their pursuit. Avonaco was convinced that the pack was leading them into a trap.

  But where? Where would they have the advantage?

  Wherever it was, it would have to be some place where their weapons were useless and the pack would have the—

  The answer bloomed like a thunderclap in his mind. Avonaco had found yet another reason to chastise himself. It was an old tactic. A Nativetactic. If he was correct, there were only two places the wolves could spring their trap. Unfortunately, those points on the map were separated by two days of hard riding. And that was at a full gallop.

  Avonaco began the trek back to the others. If they were to get ahead of the pack, Roosevelt had to make a choice.

  And Avonaco was certain that he was not going to care for his options.

  “Are you certain?”

  Avonaco nodded.

  “Do you see any alternative?”

  Avonaco responded with a faint shaking of his head.

  Jake, who had been nurturing the beginnings of a campfire, ceased his efforts and stood. Whatever was being decided in that moment was obviously of great importance and though he had not been invited to participate in the discussion, Jake felt it deserved his full attention.

  Roosevelt looked skyward and sighed.

  “How is that fire coming along?” he asked while he continued to study the emerging stars.

  “She’ll be roaring soon enough, sir,” Jake answered. “Do you want me to heat a few tins of beans?”

  “You should tell him, Theodore.”

  Jake was not sure if he was more surprised by Avonaco’s unsolicited remark or by Roosevelt’s reaction to it. If it had been any other man, the reaction would have been negligible. Roosevelt was not just any man, and for him, his reaction was nothing short of an emotional outburst.

  Abandoning his usual measured demeanor, Roosevelt swiveled his head toward the Native and furrowed his brow. His hands came together. Jake noticed his employer was worrying his palms with his thumbs. Avonaco appeared unfazed, but Jake had observed the man long enough to recognize that he was uncomfortable with Roosevelt’s response. It was his face. His expression was almost always inscrutable, but when Avonaco was anxious, it became tight. Immobile.

  The moment hung in the air as the last of the daylight surrendered to the oncoming night. To Jake, it felt like an eternity, when in actuality only seconds had passed. Roosevelt glanced between the two men before nodding to himself as he accepted Avonaco’s suggestion.

  Roosevelt sighed, again.

  “I suppose we have reached that juncture,” he admitted in a soft spoken tone.

  The big man walked to Jake and looked at the young man and looked him straight in the eye.

  “
What do you say you get those tins and put on some coffee,” Roosevelt suggested as he placed his hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Because we’ve got a lot to talk about, son.”

  Firelight flickered and danced across Jake’s face as Roosevelt finished speaking. The hour was growing late, but Jake was not the least bit tired. Truthfully, he doubted he would sleep at all if one tenth of what Roosevelt had said was anything other than pure fantasy.

  The man had detailed every event leading up to the day of their departure. It was an incredible story. The kind of thing one might have read in a penny dreadfulor heard in a campfire yarn. Even though it came straight from, arguably, the most respected man in the United States, Jake would have thought his leg was being yanked if Avonaco had not occasionally interjected to support Roosevelt’s recounting of events.

  Despite the fantastic nature of their tale, the two men were serious. Deadlyserious.

  The cracklingof the fire was the only relief from the silence that had settled over the camp. Roosevelt and Avonaco exchanged curious glances as Jake studied the twirling flames.

  “I know it sounds like a whopper, son,” Roosevelt admitted, “But, I can swear to you, it’s the God’s honest truth. Every word.”

  “I’d never call you a liar, sir,” Jake said as he watched the popping embers. “I know you to be an honest and plainspoken man.”

  “Most men would think I’m off my chump,” Roosevelt chuckled, “Don’t tell me you haven’t even considered the possibility that I’ve gone batty.”

  “The thought crossed my mind, but . . . ” Jake looked up from the campfire, “Both of you? No. Neither of you suffer fools, so I can’t reckon you indulge in foolish pursuits.”

  Roosevelt leaned back and smiled as he spoke.

  “I can’t say I disagree with you, son, but I’m not above confessing I’ve played the fool for more than one lass with a pretty smile and a coy wink.”

  “I’ve met a few of those myself, sir,” Jake replied, his tone devoid of mirth. “But I never met one that turned into a wolf.”

  “Are you certain?”

  The question caught Jake off guard. It was not only the fact that if they had been shining him, he doubted they would carry such a charade so far for so long. It was also because it was not Roosevelt who asked the question, but Avonaco. Jake still knew very little about Roosevelt’s Indian friend, but he would bet a round of drinks that the man was not much of a practical joker.