The Revenger

by Peter Brandvold

  The bear had smelled gamey and sweet, not unlike the den of a bobcat he’d once holed up in—sans the bobcat, that was.

  He could smell nothing now but the faint loamy smell of the creek and the stony smell of the cold air. There was snow lashing his cheeks and ticking against the tree boles and branches around him.

  “Sartain!”

  The Revenger turned to see Scanlon’s head turned sideways to peer behind him. “I think he’s done got around you, Sartain! I think he’s over there now—to the south! I heard another one o’ them crunching sounds!”

  Sartain strode back into the camp, quartering to Scanlon’s left. At the edge of the firelight, he stopped.

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Well, I heard somethin’. He’s out there, I tell you. That bruin’s out there! Come on, Sartain, I realize you got no love for me, but you can’t leave me here like a goat to lure in a mountain lion!”

  “Sure, I can.”

  The Cajun moved farther out away from the fire.

  “Oh, hell,” he heard his prisoner lament behind him.

  Holding the Henry high across his chest, Sartain strode between the trees and brush clumps. He occasionally stepped over a blowdown or deadfall.

  As he walked, he looked around slowly, thoroughly, at one point turning in a complete circle while keeping his feet moving. Scanlon was little more than a blurred shadow now from this distance of forty yards or so—a black silhouette slumped low against the cottonwood he was tied to. The man wasn’t moving, just staring toward Sartain in bald-assed fear for his life.

  The firelight shone amber in the man’s eyes.

  Vaguely, The Revenger felt a vague satisfaction at the killer’s trepidation. Why shouldn’t he feel fear, though likely, Jim Rafferty hadn’t had time to feel much of anything but spasming pain in the seconds before he’d died in the arms of his bereaved wife.

  Sartain couldn’t help but grit his teeth at the prospect as he continued moving through the woods, farther and farther away from the fire’s amber glow, peering intently into the shadows around him, listening...

  A soft thud ahead on his right.

  Sartain stopped abruptly and lowered the Henry’s barrel while clicking the hammer back to full cock. His heart hiccupped.

  He began to tighten his trigger finger but stayed the movement when he saw the rabbit, small and pale in the darkness, hop out from behind a tree ten yards ahead and bound off into the night, its harried footfalls making soft, fast-fading snicking sounds in the snowy brush.

  Sartain loosed a relieved breath and lowered the Henry, easing the tension in his trigger finger.

  A ripping cry rose behind him, from the direction of the camp.

  “Sartain!” Scanlon bellowed shrilly.

  The Revenger wheeled to glimpse movement around the camp, but he didn’t make out details before, starting to run toward the fire, he got his right boot caught under a deadfall hidden beneath the snow. He fell forward hard, slamming onto his chest and feeling the aching burn of a small branch raking his right cheek.

  He gave a grunt, dropping the rifle to break his fall, which he failed to do. He lifted his face from the burning chill of the snow, spitting the cold slush from between his cut lips.

  Beyond, there was another shrill scream, and Scanlon called, “Sar-tainnn! Sar-tainnn! Sar-tai—”

  Chapter 4

  The Revenger clambered onto his knees.

  His cheek was on fire, chill blood dribbling down across his jaw. He blinked snow from his eyes and stared toward the camp, his mind foggy from his unceremonious meeting with the lumpy ground.

  At first, the fire was an amber blur. Sartain squinted, scowling. The camp clarified.

  Scanlon’s shadow was no longer against the base of the tree. Sartain could hear a distant, quickly fading wailing, which he recognized as his prisoner’s.

  “Damn!” the Cajun muttered, feeling snow snaking icy tentacles down his back, realizing he’d lost his hat in the fall.

  He saw it lying to his right, quickly donned it, then looked around for his rifle. He saw the butt slanting up out of the snow just ahead. He grabbed the Henry, brushed it off quickly, and heaved himself to his feet, wincing at an ache in his right ankle and right thigh.

  He wanted to run, but the leg was stiff and painful, so he had to hold himself to a limping half-jog, meandering through the brush and trees, the fire growing larger before him although the flames had died somewhat since he’d last tended it. The stiffness and soreness abated a little as he moved, so he increased his pace and soon stood staring at the scuffed, blood-washed snow at the base of the cottonwood.

  The ropes he’d used to tie his prisoner to the tree had been cleanly cut, and their ends now drooped into the snowy slush.

  Scuffed tracks led off around the tree and into the darkness to the east.

  The wailing had stopped. The only sounds now were the mockingly calm crackling of the fire and the soft ticking of the snow beneath the moaning of the wind and the creaking of jostling branches.

  Sartain ran limping out around the tree and into the brush he’d trod into a few minutes ago, following the tracks. They weren’t hard to follow, as there was plenty of blood. Scanlon had been bleeding out as he’d been dragged away from the camp. Sartain continued to run, risking another bad fall, breathing hard, lungs burning.

  But then the tracks disappeared into heavy brush and more blowdowns lumping up horizontally, faintly from beneath the snow.

  Whatever beast had carried Scanlon off had to be a strong son of a buck, because he’d carried the big killer through one hell of a snag—a snag that would have been hard for Sartain, normally fleet of foot, to make it through even if his right leg hadn’t been gimpy. The Cajun stopped at the edge of the snag. He was well beyond the fire now, and the only light was the ambient light reflected by the snow.

  An eerie silence closed around him.

  He removed his left glove and dipped a finger into a dark place in the scuffed snow atop a blowdown before him. He rubbed his thumb against the finger, feeling the oily slickness.

  Blood, all right.

  He brushed his finger against a tree, returned the glove to his hand, and stared off across the snag.

  Bafflement mixed with the fog lingering from his fall. Befuddlement and a tight, impenetrable fear planted at the base of his spine like a chill hand.

  What in the hell had carried Scanlon off? Judging by the tracks, if it had four feet, it had been using only two of them.

  A wolf, a lion, or a bear would have stayed and fed on him. It obviously hadn’t feared the fire, so it likely wouldn’t have feared Sartain, either. And neither a wolf, a lion, or a bear would have toyed with him like that, circling the camp and thrashing around to make its own diversion as though it had been planning all along to sneak in behind Sartain and take his prisoner.

  Sartain licked his lips, swallowed, and continued to scowl off into the snowy darkness. “What the hell...”

  Then his puzzlement and fear were edged with anger. He’d truly been looking forward to bringing the killer back to Elaine Rafferty for proper disposal.

  He cursed loudly, shouted into the darkness: “Go to hell, you son of —!”

  The yell was torn asunder by the wind.

  Since there was nothing he could do now about Scanlon, who was likely dead and being consumed in a cave somewhere nearby, Sartain turned and walked back through the camp and into the woods where he’d picketed the horses. Both, of course, were gone, but he’d had to see for himself. They’d been so frightened by what they’d heard and likely smelled that they’d pulled so violently against their ropes that they’d ripped off their halters.

  They were both probably still running.

  Boss was loyal, though. He’d make his way back to Sartain once he was sure the beast was gone. Or so its rider hoped. If he didn’t break a leg out there in the darkness. If so, Sartain would be afoot out here, still a good ten miles or so from Sundance and the train
station. A long way to walk in this weather.

  On the other hand, he was now in no hurry to get back to Elaine Rafferty. He was in no hurry to inform the woman he’d had her husband’s killer in hand and had let him get away. Taken by a beast of the wild, of some kind. It sounded like a tall tale even to The Revenger’s own ears.

  The beast...

  Fear rippled along his spine again. He walked back into the camp and tossed some fresh wood on the fire. The wood didn’t burn well because it was damp, but it would have to do.

  Sartain had to keep the flames built up. No telling if the beast would be back or not. Of course, the fire hadn’t deterred it before, so it wouldn’t do so again. But if the predator did return, the Cajun wanted to be able to see what he was shooting at.

  Sartain’s coffee cup had been kicked over. He hooked the pot back on the tripod, to heat it up, and then rubbed brush from his log with a handful of snow, and sat, hunkering deep in his coat. He rested the Henry across his thighs and stared into the darkness, where the beast and its supper had disappeared.

  He still couldn’t work his mind around what had happened to Scanlon.

  Neither bears nor wolves nor mountain lions acted that way!

  He used a stick to adjust the logs, coaxing them into a better burn. Finally, the pot rumbled, boiling, and Sartain refilled his coffee cup, which was also marked by several drops of Scanlon’s blood, he noticed. Keeping his ears pricked, trying not to stare into the flames and thus compromise his night vision, The Revenger sipped his coffee.

  A half hour passed. Then forty-five minutes. Sartain poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and rolled a cigarette from his makings sack. It would be a long night and he doubted he’d get much sleep. He wasn’t sleepy, for one thing. A man didn’t sleep well after seeing what he’d just seen. And under the circumstances, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to let his guard down.

  Sartain reached inside his coat to fish a lucifer out of his shirt pocket. He dropped the match when he heard the soft crunch of a foot in the snow somewhere off over his left shoulder. He grabbed the Henry and, bounding to his feet, pumped a cartridge into the chamber.

  “Who’s there?” he said, vaguely embarrassed by the tremor he heard in his voice.

  He felt doubly foolish to find himself expecting the beast...or whatever it was...to answer him. But the feeling of embarrassment faded when a young woman’s high but sensual voice said, “Don’t shoot.” A slight pause. “I’m not dangerous.”

  The voice had nearly been drowned by the wind, but it was a human voice, all right. A girl’s voice. Again, Sartain felt heavy befuddlement close over him. He’d been so expecting a bellowing snarl preceding the charge of some fanged beast that hearing the girl’s voice was almost even more alarming than the former would have been.

  “Walk on in where I can see you,” Sartain instructed.

  “You won’t shoot?”

  “Not if you’re real.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Again, the wind had nearly ripped her words away, but he’d picked up the brunt of the question.

  “Nothing. Come on in.”

  A shadow moved in the darkness beyond the flickering firelight, between two stout cottonwoods and behind some dancing, snow-tufted brush. The brush parted. Sartain glimpsed a flash of blond hair beneath a fur hat. He also glimpsed a rifle.

  “Put the rifle down,” he called, noting the brittle edge in his voice.

  The girl stopped moving. She was just inside the brush now. He could see her dark, round eyes staring toward him. “I will if you will.”

  This was no night for setting his rifle down. But, under the circumstances...

  “All right.”

  The Cajun depressed the Henry’s hammer, reluctantly set the rifle against the log he’d been sitting on. He turned back to the girl.

  She came out of the shrubs, and The Revenger’s heart quickened when he saw the tall, long-legged blonde moving toward him. She wore a rabbit-fur cap, blue denims, and knee-high, handmade, buckskin boots with fringes of wool along their tops. She wore a heavy coat made of the same material. It was big and cumbersome, but Sartain still detected the swell of breasts pushing out from behind it.

  “Hey,” the Cajun said, noting the rifle still in her hands.

  She looked at the Winchester from which a leather lanyard drooped.

  “Can I just sling it behind my shoulder?” she asked. “I don’t wanna set it down in the snow. Might foul the action.”

  Sartain considered her once more. A tall, leggy, buxom blonde on such a night? Was all of this real or had he gone to sleep and was merely dreaming?

  “All right,” he said and watched her sling the rifle over her head and back behind her right shoulder. She strode cautiously forward, looking around as though she were expecting others in his camp.

  “I’m alone,” he told her. “Haven’t been for long...but I am now.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked, still looking around, as cautious as a cat in an attic full of rocking chairs.

  He didn’t blame her. In fact, he felt the same way. In fact, he wasn’t sure she wasn’t some transformation of the beast that had snuck into camp and snatched his prisoner. That seemed as likely as anything else on this crazy night.

  Sartain shrugged. “Offer you a cup of coffee?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, rolling her eyes from right to left and wrinkling the skin above her fine, straight nose. “Who’s the son of a bitch?”

  “Huh?”

  “You goddamned a son of a bitch a while ago.”

  “Oh, that. Well, the son of a bitch was whoever or whatever charged in here and took my, uh...my friend.”

  The girl jerked frightened eyes to Sartain. “Was it the beast?”

  “Do you know about the beast?”

  “I heard it. Scared the wits out of me. I was about to set up camp on a hill yonder, and then I saw your fire. I was heading this way, looking for company, when I heard you yell.”

  “So, you heard it, too?” Sartain picked up Scanlon’s coffee cup, brushed the blood off of it, and filled it. Handing it to the girl, he said, “Got a name?”

  “Dorian.” She lifted the cup in her mittened hand and blew on it. “Dorian Rasmussen. I live around here. Or at least I used to.” She frowned through the steam wafting from the cup. “Who’re you?”

  “Mike Sartain.”

  “What are you doing out here, Mike Sartain?”

  “On my way to Denver.”

  “Did your horses run off? I heard what sounded like galloping horses as I headed this way.”

  “The beast spooked ‘em.”

  “I have a horse. I’d best fetch him in, but I think I’ll drink this coffee first. You brew a good pot.”

  Sartain indicated the log. “Have a seat, Miss Rasmussen.”

  The pretty girl raked her gaze across him. “Can a girl trust you, Mr. Sartain?”

  Sartain smiled. “Not one who looks like you. But I reckon I got problems enough for one night without invitin’ more. Anyway, you look like you can take care of yourself right fine, Miss Rasmussen.”

  She flushed a little as she sat on the log and grinned crookedly at him. “You got that right. But it’s Dorian since I’m drinkin’ your coffee an’ all.”

  Chapter 5

  As Sartain sat to Dorian’s right and about three feet away, giving her plenty of space, she looked across his knees at the base of the cottonwood. “Is that...blood?”

  Sartain sighed. “Yeah.”

  “Your friend’s?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The beast took him?”

  “It circled around behind me and got him while I was scouting the woods to the south.” Sartain sipped his coffee and shook his head as he swallowed. “The damnedest thing. It acted just like a man would act. Sneaky, like it thought the whole thing out first before making its move.”

  “Didn’t your, uh, friend, have a gun?”

  “No
. I took his away from him, seein’ as how he was a killer an’ all.”

  Dorian studied him closely, frowning. Her eyes were Nordic blue. The rest of her face, from her high forehead and craftily chiseled, tapering cheeks to her spade-shaped chin, was Nordic, as well. A Nordic fairy queen who’d just wandered in out of the howling, snowy night to bewitch him, which she was doing in spades.

  She was a nice distraction from the trouble of only a few minutes before, but the Cajun reminded himself not to allow himself to be too distracted.

  “Are you a lawman, Mr. Sartain?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “A bounty hunter?”

  Sartain sighed, nodded. “Not really, but you might as well call me that.”

  “What do you call yourself?”

  “I reckon I call myself what others call me. Revenger.” Sartain flushed a little with sheepishness as he took another sip of his coffee.

  “Oh,” she said, leaning away to get a better look at him. “I heard about you.”

  “You have?”

  “Word has a way of getting around about a fella who exacts justice for others who can’t...especially when it all started with a girl.” Dorian gave him a pensive smile as she stared straight into his eyes. “That’s you, huh?”

  “I reckon it is, Dorian.”

  “Well, you’re famous.”

  “What about you?” Sartain asked her, wanting to change the subject. “What brings you out here in such weather?”

  Dorian drew an ear flap tighter against her cheek then leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, holding her steaming coffee cup in both mittened hands as she stared into the fire. “My pa and me are woodcutters. Leastways, we were. Pa disappeared a couple weeks ago. I’d heard that same critter howling around that time that Pa rode into town for supplies...and never came back.”