Fear Weaver w-57

by David Thompson

  Creatures was the right word. They were no longer what they had been. They were like beasts, and yet worse than beasts, in that where wild animals killed to fill their bellies, these things killed for the sheer cruel joy of killing. The cow elk proved that. They only ate part of her. A mountain lion or wolves would have eaten her down to the bone.

  Ahead, a shadowy spot on the wall brought an end to Nate’s pondering. He leveled the Hawken. But it was only a shallow cavity where some of the rock had broken from the cliff. As he rode on he saw more of them.

  By Nate’s reckoning he was well past the cabin when he came on the first remains. What was once a squirrel was now bones and skins. Farther on was all that was left of a dead rabbit. After that, a fawn and a doe. Both had only been partially devoured.

  The rancid stink of decay filled the air. A harbinger of what awaited past a finger of forest that hid the next stretch of cliff. Nate rounded it and drew rein in stunned disbelief.

  A virtual carpet of dead things filled the space between the cliff and the woods. Some of the remains were dry and withered, others more recent, a few with flesh almost as pink as the finger. Nate counted parts of four elk and what had to be a dozen deer. It was if the valley had been picked clean of living things and all the bodies brought here.

  The reek was abominable. The bay shied, but Nate goaded it on. He tried to avoid the bay stepping on any of the remains, but several times bones crunched under its hooves and once a hoof came down on the skull bone of a doe.

  Nate drew rein a second time. Bile rose in his throat as he stared down at the gnawed but still recognizable features of Black Elk. The warrior’s glazed eyes were wide in the shock he must have felt at the moment of his death.

  Nate could think of only one reason for the Black-feet to have somehow gotten to the valley ahead of them. Black Elk hadn’t been content with a lock of Tyne’s golden hair; he’d wanted Tyne. He reckoned the Blackfeet had aimed to spring an ambush. Only the ambushers had been ambushed themselves.

  Nate didn’t care to share their fate. Constantly scanning the gloom-shrouded vegetation, he neared the end of the valley. Tall pines hid the junction of the sandstone cliffs. He had no idea what he would find, but he certainly didn’t expect to come on a cave.

  The opening was as big as the Woodrows’ cabin. Sunlight barely penetrated. There was enough, though, to reveal the bones and animal forms that littered the cave floor.

  Dismounting, Nate edged closer, placing each moccasin with care. He heard nothing to indicate the cave was occupied. They might be crouched in the shadows, waiting to rush out and overwhelm him before he could get off a shot. But nothing came out of the cave except the most awful reek. A stench so foul, Nate covered his mouth and nose. He held his breath for as long as he could and breathed shallow when he had to.

  Stopping near the cave entrance, Nate listened. The silence of the tomb prevailed. Acting on the assumption they were in there, he sought to lure them out into his gun sights.

  “I’ve found your lair! Show yourselves!”

  Nothing stirred within.

  “What’s the matter? You killed those Blackfeet. Now try me, and we’ll end this.”

  Continued silence. Nate might as well have addressed the cliff. Poking his head into the opening, he tried to tell how far back in the cave went. An odd buzzing caught his ear, and something small and dark alighted on his cheek. He swatted at it, and a fly took wing. A fly that was just one of hundreds—if not thousands—swarming over the grisliest of feasts. Nate had noticed a few others on the remains he passed, but nothing like this. The newest kills were covered with them. And those not covered with flies were crawling with maggots.

  Nate’s breakfast tried to climb up out of his stomach.

  Ordinary bloodletting seldom bothered him. But this was different; this was slaughter on a scale that shook the soul. He started to pull back, and saw a foot. It jutted out of the black recess, a moccasin, half-on and half-off. He assumed it belonged to another Blackfoot until he realized how white the skin was. “Ryker?” he blurted, and felt foolish for doing so.

  Nate had to make certain. Taking a deep breath, he darted into the cave. Maggots crunched under-foot. Flies rose in thick clouds, clinging to his hair and neck and buckskins. One got up his nose. An involuntary sneeze expelled it, and then he was next to the foot. Bending, he gripped the ankle, and pulled to drag the body into the light. The skin had a parchmentlike quality that told him the body couldn’t possibly be Ryker. This was an old kill. He kept on pulling anyway.

  The dead man, or what was left of him, matched the description Nate had been given of Sullivan Woodrow. Sully’s nose was gone and the cheeks had been chewed on, and empty sockets gaped where the eyes should be, but there could be no mistake.

  Placing his arm over the lower half of his face to ward off the stink and the flies, Nate backed out. He couldn’t take the abomination any longer. Hurrying to the bay, he mounted and headed back the way he came. He was doubled over, wrestling with his stomach, when a rock sailed out of the woods and struck him on the shoulder.

  Instantly he brought up the Hawken, but no one was there.

  “Not me you don’t,” Nate said, reining sharply into the trees. He plunged through brush and circled thickets. He looked behind trees. He looked up in trees. But he found no one.

  Frustrated, Nate headed for the cabin. He hadn’t liked leaving Aggie and the girls alone. The things that slew the four warriors would have no trouble slaying a woman and two girls.

  Glimpses of the chimney spurred him on. He came up on the cabin from the rear and slowed as he drew near the corral. The horses still in the corral heard him and had their ears pricked, but when they saw it was him they didn’t whinny or stamp.

  A low murmur brought Nate to a stop, someone speaking softly in a singsong voice, as if reciting poetry. It took him several seconds to recognize the voice. Puzzled, he quietly alighted and crept into the trees.

  Philberta was on her knees next to a small mound of earth. Her back was to him, her head bowed.

  Nate stopped. The mound must be the grave of the baby she lost. He was intruding on her private grief. Then he caught the words she was saying.

  “Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Mama’s going to pluck you a mocking bird. And if that mocking bird won’t do, mama’s going to get a worm for you. And if that worm is covered with dirt, mama will wipe it with her skirt. And if that worm still won’t go down, mama will buy a goat from town. And if that goat you don’t like, mama will kill it with a spike.”

  Nate was rooted in place.

  “Hey, diddle, dinkety poppety pet. How I bet you wish we never met.” Bending, Philberta patted the mound. “It’s not my fault, my dear. Stomachs are stomachs, Sully always said. But now my Sully is dead, dead, dead.”

  Nate wished he could see her face. He couldn’t tell if she was truly expressing sorrow—or something else.

  “I have always liked them, you know. Lullabys and nursery rhymes. When I was a girl they were my very favorite things. I always made my mother sing Tome before I went to sleep, or else had her read a rhyme. I would have loved to do the same for you.”

  Feeling foolish, Nate started to back away.

  “I would have read to you. Or skinned a kitten and made mittens of the skin. Or stuck a needle in its eye so it would die, and chopped up the meat for kitten pie,” Philberta tittered. “Aren’t I just the silliest goose? I was never so tight but that I was loose.”

  Nate froze.

  “Birds of a feather flock together, and so will pigs and swine. Rats and mice will have their choice, and so will I have mine.”

  Dear God, Nate thought.

  Philberta abruptly stood. “A fond adieu to sweet little you.” She laughed, and merrily whirled, and seeing him, she recoiled as if she had been slapped. “What have we hear, my dear?”

  For the life of him, Nate couldn’t think of what to say.

  “An eavesdropper, I fear.”

  N
ate forced his mouth to move. “I’m sorry to intrude.”

  “Did you find my Sully?”

  “No,” Nate lied.

  “Or my dear, sweet boys?”

  Nate shook his head.

  Philberta’s hands rose from her waist. In her right hand was a long-bladed knife. “I can’t say as I like that one little bit.”

  Prelude

  Nate King thought Philberta Woodrow was about to attack him. She had a certain gleam in her eyes, a gleam he had only ever seen in the eyes of warriors in the fierce heat of battle or in the eyes of wild beasts driven berserk. Instinctively he leveled the Hawken. “Don’t.”

  Philberta stopped. She trembled slightly and the gleam faded. “Why Mr. King,” she said, as calmly as could be. “Why are you pointing that thing at me?”

  Nate didn’t say anything.

  “I’m sorry if I acted a little distraught. Visiting Esther’s grave always makes me near mad with grief. Surely you can understand?”

  “Yes,” Nate admitted. He would feel the same if he lost either of his children. They were part of him, given life and form.

  Philberta waggled the knife. “As for this thing, I didn’t think it wise to come unarmed. And Aggie needs the guns to protect the girls.”

  “I’m surprised she let you come out at all.”

  “Agatha isn’t my keeper,” Philberta said testily. “I had been cooped up inside so long, I needed air.” She gazed sadly down at the grave. “That, and I do so miss Esther. Granted, she came into this world dead.But she was my daughter, Mr. King. Had she lived, she would have been the light of my life. To think! A daughter, after all these years.” She appeared about to cry.

  Nate quickly changed the subject. “How are Tyne and Anora holding up?”

  Jerking her head away from the mound of dirt, Philberta said, “Remarkably well. Children adapt better than adults. So long as they are fed and comfortable, they can endure most anything.”

  “After you,” Nate said, motioning. He let her go by, then snagged the bay’s reins and led it around front. To his dismay the door was wide open and no one was standing guard.

  “Girls! Agatha!” Philberta hollered.

  Aunt Aggie came out, holding a rifle. She smiled warmly at the sight of Nate. “You are the first one back. How did your search go?”

  “I will wait and say when the others are here.”

  Tyne and Anora emerged, Tyne squealing in delight and dashing up to give Nate a warm hug.

  “I was worried about you, Mr. King. I don’t want you to disappear like my Uncle Sully.”

  The image of Sullivan’s ravaged face floated before Nate, and his stomach churned. “I intend to be on this earth a good long while yet, young one. I have a family of my own I very much want to see again.”

  Anora said, “I hope Mother and Father are all right.”

  “And Fitch and Harper,” Aunt Aggie reminded her. “Don’t forget your brothers.” To Nate she said, “Are you staying, or are you going out again? I can fix a meal if you are hungry.”

  After the horror of the cave, Nate had no appetite.

  “A cup of coffee would be nice. Then I have more searching to do.”

  They all went in and Nate made sure to shut the door after them. “You shouldn’t leave this open like you did. The things that killed Sully could sneak right in.”

  “I left it open in case Philberta needed us and called out for help,” Aunt Aggie explained. “What do you mean by ‘things’? And how do you know Sullivan is dead if we haven’t found his body yet?”

  Nate noticed that Philberta had given him a sharp glance. “We don’t know what is behind all this,” he said, angry at his lapse. “But we can’t be too careful.” He bobbed his head toward the girls to stress his point.

  “I would die before I would let harm come to them,” Agatha said. “But your point is well taken. Philberta will just have to stay inside with the rest of us from now on.”

  “Honestly,” was Philberta’s response, and she turned away.

  Nate placed his Hawken on the table and sank onto a bench. Anora brought a cup of steaming coffee and bowed slightly as a maid might do as she set the cup and a saucer down.

  “For you, kind sir.”

  Nate grinned. “I thank you, gentle lady.”

  Giggling, Anora scooted over to Tyne, who was poking a stick at the flames in the fireplace.

  “The girls are bored, I am afraid,” Aunt Aggie said. “They don’t think it fair that their brothers got to go out and they didn’t.”

  “They’re safer here.”

  Aggie pulled out the chair across from him. “I wholeheartedly agree. I am only saying.”

  Philberta joined them, remarking, “This is rough on all of us. On me, most of all. I’m the one who lost a husband and a daughter.”

  “Don’t forget your three sons,” Nate said.

  “Them too, of course.” Philberta placed the knife in front of her, the hilt close to her hand.

  Aunt Aggie sighed in sympathy. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t know how you held up so long. The terror of being in this place alone would be more than I could bear.”

  “Oh, pshaw,” Philberta said. “You are stronger than you let on. I’ve always thought you were hardier than Erleen could ever be.”

  “She is no weakling,” Agatha said in defense of her sister.

  “Perhaps,” Philberta said. “But I can’t help think that if it were her husband and sons, she would be in hysterics by now.”

  “You never did like her much.”

  “And she has never liked me. I overheard her tell Peter once that as a sister-in-law I leave a lot to be desired.”

  “Ladies,” Nate interrupted, “this isn’t the time or place for family squabbles. We are all in this together.”

  “True,” Aggie said.

  Philberta shrugged. “No one asked you to come. Not that I’m ungrateful. But you would be smart to leave while you can.”

  “That’s the thanks we get for caring?” Aunt Aggie bristled. “For putting our lives at risk to save yours?”

  “You have my undying gratitude. But I don’t want to lose all of you, too. And I mean that sincerely.”

  Nate sipped his coffee and felt it burn a path down his throat. “Have you seen any sign of Indians the whole time you were here?”

  The question gave Philberta a start, but she recovered quickly. “No. No Indians at all. Why do you ask?”

  “The Utes are to the southeast, the Nez Perce to the north. The Shoshones live northeast of your valley, other tribes to the west. A hunting party might have happened by and paid you a visit.”

  “If any Indians knew we were here, they never showed themselves. And I am glad they didn’t. I don’t like Indians, Mr. King. They are despicable and mean. But what else can we expect from people who live like animals?”

  “Philberta,” Aggie said softly.

  “What?”

  “My wife is Shoshone,” Nate said. “Maybe you didn’t know that.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Philberta said. “But it wouldn’t change my opinion. Perhaps she is the sweetest woman in the world, but she is still a heathen, is she not? She doesn’t believe in God Almighty.”

  “Since when did you become so religious?” Agatha asked.

  “I am speaking in general.”

  Nate held his resentment in check. “Her people call God the Great Mystery or the Great Medicine. Many are as religious as you can ever hope to be.”

  “Belief in a false god isn’t religion. Why haven’t you converted her? Don’t you care that she will burn in hell?”

  “Philberta!” Aggie said severely.

  “I would be remiss not to bring it up. If he loves this Shoshone, he should want her to change her heathen ways.”

  Nate’s coffee had lost its savor. He set down his cup, picked up his rifle, and stood. “I should be going. Expect me back by sunset.”

  “Finish your coffee, at least,” Agatha urged.

  “Y
es, please do,” Philberta said. “I am sorry if my strong talk upset you. But it was for your own good. And for your Shoshone’s.”

  “Her name is Winona.”

  “A pretty name. But I could never marry an Indian, Mr. King. As for loving one, well, to each their own. I would as soon marry a bear as some greasy buck who spends his days lifting white scalps and his nights scratching himself.”

  “Philberta!”

  Nate headed for the door. He decided he didn’t like Philberta Woodrow. He didn’t like her at all. “I’ll go check on the others.”

  “Be careful, Mr. King,” Tyne said.

  Aunt Aggie followed him outside. “Pay no attention to Philberta. She has always been that way.”

  “I’ve met her kind before,” Nate said. “The ones who think the only good Indian is a dead Indian.”

  “There is hate on both sides. It’s deplorable, but what can we do? Too much blood has been shed. I’m not a bigot like Philberta, but I sometimes think we won’t have true peace until all the Indians are on reservations.”

  “I hope it never comes to that.” Nate climbed on the bay and gripped the reins.

  “What would you do if war ever broke out between the Shoshones and the whites?” Aunt Aggie asked.

  “It never will. The Shoshones are the friendliest tribe on the frontier.”

  “But if it did. Whose side would you be on?”

  “My own. I would do what I thought best for everyone.”

  Aunt Aggie smiled. “You’ve chosen a hard path, Nate King.”

  “I’ve followed my heart. And I have no complaints, Agatha. My wife is as fine a woman as ever lived. My children try my patience at times, but they are blood of my blood, and I will stand by all three of them, come whatever may.”

  “I envy them.”

  “Remember to keep the door closed.” Nate wheeled the bay and crossed the clearing to the stream. Fitch and Harper were supposed to be on the other side, scouring their half of the valley. It wasn’t long before he found their tracks, and within the hour he spotted the brothers near the cliffs. Unlike the other side of the valley, here there were no bones and no maggot-infested remains.

  “Mr. King!” Fitch said as Nate rode up.