Lou was all for striking off overland to the glacier, but Zach talked her out of it. “We should stay close to water for the horses’ sake.” He had another reason, one he did not share.
That night they camped in the lee of a hummock. It sheltered them from the worst of the wind and hid their fire from prying eyes higher up. Lou did not think of that, but Zach did. Zach thought, too, of scattering dry twigs around their camp so that if anything came near, they were bound to hear. He scattered the twigs while Lou was busy washing the supper dishes.
The third day Zach again made it a point to stay close to the stream. He often rode with his gaze glued to the ground and not to the slope above. If Lou noticed, she did not comment on it. But she was sure to guess why.
Water was life. Without it, wildlife perished. Every animal, from the smallest to the largest, came to where water was to be found. Some only came once a day. Some came more often. Deer liked to drink at dawn and again at dusk. So did elk. Mountain buffalo drank during the heat of the day and then retired into the timber. Rabbits, squirrels, even mice, everything came to drink, and everything left tracks.
It was the middle of the afternoon when Zach rounded a bend and drew rein at a gravel bar. He had found what he was looking for.
“Why did you stop?” Lou asked, gigging her dun up next to him.
Zach pointed.
Lou glanced at the gravel bar and gave a start. “What in God’s name made those?”
“I wish to God I knew.”
Five
There were two tracks. Just the two, where something had leaped from the bank, landed in the middle of the gravel bar, and then apparently bounded into the stream and on across it. To judge by the distance from the bank to the prints, whatever made them had jumped over twelve feet. To reach the other side would take another jump of ten feet. Zach doubted he could do it, even with a running start.
Another aspect to the tracks was even more disturbing. Their outline was vaguely human, but the clear imprint of claws suggested they were clearly not. The left foot also had a spur or bulge for which Zach could not account. He placed his foot next to one of the prints, and whistled. His was dwarfed. The tracks were three to four inches longer and two to three inches wider.
Lou was just as impressed. “Whatever made those was huge.”
Zach hunkered. He ran his fingers along the edge of each track and then placed his palm flat in one. The edges were not well defined and the bottom was pockmarked with tiny circles. “These are old. It’s rained since they were made, and it hasn’t rained for weeks.”
“How long ago, exactly?” Lou wanted to know.
“A month or more,” was Zach’s best deduction. Straightening, he thoughtfully regarded the white mass of ice up near the mountain’s summit. “We’re miles away yet.”
“Maybe there will be more sign the closer we get.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t get any closer.”
Lou looked at him. “Why not? You want to know what made them, don’t you? I certainly do.”
“Some things are better left alone,” Zach said.
“That sounds like something your father would say,” Lou responded. “The man I married should be bubbling with curiosity right about now. He would never pass up a chance to investigate something like this.”
“The man you married is worried about the woman he married.”
“Why? We have our guns. We have our knives. What can harm us?”
“A lot of things.” Zach scanned the gravel bar for other tracks, but there were none. “Grizzlies, mountain lions, wolverines, wolves, rattlesnakes, hostiles, rabid chipmunks.”
A snort burst from Louisa. “Rabid chipmunks? Now you’re reaching. And need I remind you that the woman you married can take care of herself?”
“So she keeps saying,” Zach said. “And need I remind her that she is flesh and bone just like everyone else, and flesh and bone can be clawed to shreds?”
Lou regarded him with a half-smile. “All right. Who are you and what have you done with my husband? Where is the headstrong lunkhead I am used to?”
“We came up here to make a baby,” Zach reminded her. “Not to put our lives at risk.”
“This from the man who once wanted to take on the entire Piegan tribe single-handed?”
“I was young and I was mad,” Zach said.
“Really, I am fine with going on.” Lou started up the bank. “The glacier isn’t that far off. If we push, we can reach it before the sun goes down and set up camp.”
“I am not fine with it.”
Lou stopped and half turned. “You’re serious? You would give up when we are over halfway there?”
“Is it that you don’t want to make a baby?” Zach rejoined.
“What are you talking about?” Lou asked. “Coming up here was my idea, remember?”
“Then we should do what we came up here to do and not let your curiosity be the death of us.”
Her brow knitting, Lou came back down. “What’s gotten into you? You never talk about death or dying.”
Zach came over and lightly kissed her on the brow. “I have been doing a lot of thinking. About how much you mean to me. About what my life would be like without you.”
“Oh.”
“The thing at the glacier has not bothered us the whole time we have been in the valley. Why should we bother it? Let’s leave well enough alone, and if we are going to start our family, then let’s by God get started.”
Lou gazed at the distant bulk of ice and snow, then into her husband’s evergreen eyes. “You’ve convinced me. That last meadow we passed is as likely a spot as any to set up camp.” She giggled. “Although we might not live long enough to reach it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Zachary King, the voice of reason?” Lou glanced at the sky and then at the ground and then all around them. “The world should come to an end any second now.”
Zach laughed and embraced her and their lips met. “You are a hopeless tease, do you know that?”
“It’s just one of the many sterling qualities you adore about me,” Lou said.
“I had forgotten how humble you are,” Zach retorted, and kissed her again. Laughing, he turned her around and swatted her bottom. “Let’s get to that meadow while you have me in the mood.”
Lou batted her eyelashes at him. “The mood for what, kind sir?”
“Making babies.”
“Did you bring a picnic basket?”
That gave Zach pause. “A what?”
“When I was little, one day I asked my father where babies come from,” Louisa related. “He told me the stork brings them in a picnic basket. As ungainly as you are, you are sure not a stork. And I don’t see a picnic basket.”
Grinning, Zach gave her another playful swat. “Picnic baskets are how they did it in the old days. They have invented a new way that is a lot more fun.”
Lou’s eyelashes underwent another flurry. “What way would that be, handsome stranger?”
Zach threw back his head and roared. “Egads, woman. Or should I call you wench?”
“Egads?” Louisa repeated. “You have been hanging around Shakespeare too long. And you may call me whatever you like so long as you leap to do my bidding.”
Their spirits high, they climbed on their mounts and headed back down the mountain to the sunlit meadow with its gentle waving grass and colorful patchwork of wildflowers.
High above, deep in its dark and frigid lair, the Thing in the glacier stirred. Growling, it rose and shuffled to the opening but was careful to stand well back so its silhouette was not outlined against the ice.
The Thing was restless. It could not say why, but it had been restless for some time. It did not sleep soundly. It could not lie still for days at a time doing nothing. It felt a newfound urge to roam, to prowl, to release the impulse in physical activity.
But the Thing did not like the daytime. It did not like the sun. It had dwelled in the dark for so long tha
t the light hurt its eyes.
Squinting, the Thing edged outward, and sniffed. Its sense of smell, like all its senses, was exceptionally keen. So it was that the movement far below was immediately noticed.
A snarl escaped its throat as the Thing hunched forward, its glittering eyes slits against the bright glare. It stared until its eyes watered, with an unholy intensity that did not bode well for whatever had attracted its interest.
Far down the mountain two riders appeared. They were so far off they were little more than stick figures, but the Thing knew them for what they were. They entered the forest and were lost to view.
The Thing dropped flat and crawled to the edge of the overlook. After that it did not move, not so much as a muscle, as the sun slowly climbed the vault of sky and started on its long descent. The Thing might as well have been carved from the ice for all the life it showed. Only its eyes betrayed it. Only those glittering eyes, with their bestial vitality.
Eventually the Thing’s patience was rewarded.
The riders reappeared lower down, in a meadow. They stopped and dismounted.
Another snarl filled the lair. The creature rose slightly, every nerve aquiver. Even at that distance he saw that the pair were moving about doing things that suggested to its mind they intended to stay for the night.
All of a sudden, the Thing spun and retreated into the dark depths of its den. It crouched, placed its forehead on the ice, and whined. It clawed at the ice, the whine becoming a growl, the growl becoming a snarl, the snarl rising to a roar that seemed to shake the ice walls.
The Thing fell silent. It did not move. But it was not sleeping. It crouched with its eyes open, staring at nothing, an occasional scratch of its claws the only sign it was alive, as the light in its lair faded to gray and then to black. Even then the Thing did not rouse.
More time passed.
Finally the Thing rose and moved to the opening. It rose to its full height and stood sniffing the air. A vast black gulf stretched below. A sea of emptiness mantled in night. Only eyes as keen as the Thing’s could discern the shapes of trees and boulders.
In all that great ocean of black was a solitary splash of color, fingers of red and orange that licked at the dark.
From lower down the mountain came the howl of a wolf, and to the north the shriek of the biggest of cats. But the Thing had no interest in them. Not tonight. It was only interested in the fingers of red and orange. It knew what fire was, although it could not say how it knew, just as it could not articulate how it knew what the riders were.
A feral grin creased the Thing’s mouth. Its tongue flicked over its sharp teeth. Its stomach rumbled, reminding the Thing how hungry it was.
Savage elation filled its veins, and the Thing opened its mouth to roar its challenge. But the roar was never uttered. Abruptly, it lowered itself over the edge of the ice cliff.
There was no moon, but the Thing moved sure-footedly down the face of the glacier and into the trees. Here it stopped to again test the wind, and listen. As silent as the stars above, it moved to where the stream flowed out from under the glacier and off down the mountain. Squatting, it drank its full of the deliciously cold water.
In a crouch, the Thing followed the stream. It went slowly, for it was not the only predator abroad. Twice it spooked deer that bounded off in fear, but it did not give chase. Not this night. Tonight the Thing was only interested in the beings that had made the fire.
Eventually the Thing came to where a gravel bar jutted from the bank and drew up in midstride to noisily sniff and turn this way and that. Its movements became almost frantic as it lowered its nose to the ground and bounded down the bank to the bar. It sniffed at a large set of prints and then at a small set, and then stood stock-still, sniffing the small set again and again.
The night was host to a new sound, a whine such as a puppy might make. The Thing scurried back up the bank and turned in the direction the scent led him, down the mountain toward the distant meadow.
A new eagerness animated the Thing. Every so often it whined. It stopped whining when it came to the edge of the forest that fringed the meadow. It did not venture into the open. It crouched and stared at the creatures by the fire. The smaller of the pair interested it most.
The Thing yearned to get closer. It circled the meadow, seeking in vain for a way to reach the pair without being seen. But the ring of light cast by the fire reached almost to the trees.
Suddenly the Thing stopped. In its preoccupation with the small creature, it had forgotten about their mounts. A whinny reminded him. One of the animals had raised its head and pricked its ears.
The pair by the fire stood. They had long sticks in their hands. Strange sticks unlike any the Thing ever saw. A sense of unease came over it. The Thing smothered a growl.
The larger of the pair—the male—bent and reached into the fire. Or so it appeared. When it straightened it held a thick branch, one end of which glowed red with flames. Holding the brand aloft, the male strode to the animals. He stared toward the forest—stared directly at the spot where the Thing was crouched.
The smaller of the pair—the female—made sounds. The male responded, then slowly advanced. Both the male and the female pressed the long sticks to their shoulders.
The Thing’s unease grew. It did not like the fire, did not like the light, did not like that the pair suspected it was there. It started to rise with the intent of hurling itself at them, but instinct took over. Staying low to the ground, it slunk from the approaching light.
The male was wary. Twice he stopped and peered intently into the undergrowth. He came halfway to the trees but stopped when the female made more sounds. He made some, she made more, and the male turned and went back to her.
The Thing could not take its eyes off the female. A hunger that had nothing to do with food caused a gnawing ache deep in the pit of its being.
In time the female lay down to sleep. The male made as if he would sleep, too, but after a while, when light snores came from the female, the male sat back up, added broken branches to the fire, and sat cross-legged with his long stick cradled in his lap. Clearly the male was not going to sleep any time soon.
The breeze brought the scent of a doe. The Thing did not want to leave, but the hunger in its belly eclipsed the gnawing hunger deep within. The Thing faded into the night. It would hunt, and feast, and then maybe return to watch the pair in the hope the male would sleep. A swift rush, and the male would be dead.
And the Thing would have the female.
Six
Lou was having a marvelous dream. In it, she and Zach had not one, not two, but three children, three bubbling founts of joy and playfulness, and their family was as happy as any had ever been or would be. Two girls and a boy, with the boy in the middle, and all three handfuls. They kept Lou on her toes with their antics. But they were good kids, sweet kids, and they adored her as deeply as she adored them. They would go on walks around the lake. Zach would take them fishing and hunting. If they were going to live in the wilderness, and Lou could not see her husband living anywhere else, they must learn to live off the land. They must learn not only how to survive but how to live comfortably so that their existence was not hand to mouth.
The Shoshones were examples of both.
The eastern Shoshones, or the Snakes as whites usually called them, lived much as the Crows and the Sioux and the Cheyennes. They depended heavily on the buffalo for food, for hides for their lodges, and for much else. They owned many horses. The doeskin dresses of the women and the buckskin shirts and leggings of the warriors were well crafted. All in all, the Snakes lived comfortably.
Contrast them with the western Shoshones, or, as they were more commonly called, the Diggers. The Diggers wore little in the way of clothes, and a large part of their diet consisted of roots they dug out with sticks, hence their name. Instead of buffalo-hide lodges they lived in brush-and-stick dwellings scarcely sturdier than paper. They were a poor tribe, one of the very poorest, their
daily lives an unceasing toil of hand to mouth.
Lou did not want her family to stoop to that level. Which was why her dream pleased her, with its sumptuous meals and her children nicely dressed and their cabin warm and cozy.
Then came the harsh squawk of a jay, and Lou’s dream dissolved in shards, replaced by the bright glare of the morning sun. She blinked, then rolled onto her back and stretched. It was a few seconds before she remembered where she was: a meadow high on the mountain to the northwest of the lake. She was surprised Zach had let her sleep so late. Normally he was up at the break of day.
With a start, Louisa remembered the nervous behavior of their horses the night before and how Zach had been sure something was spying on them from the woods.
Lou glanced to her left, where Zach had spread his blankets the night before. He was not under them. They were smooth and flat, and plainly had not been used. Alarm spiked through her. Sitting up, she glanced anxiously about, smiling when she beheld the apple of her eye seated by the fire, his Hawken in his lap, his chin on his chest, asleep. She was about to tease him when she realized he must have stayed up all night without telling her he was going to.
Warmth filled Lou. She loved that man, loved him with all her soul and all her heart. He could be pigheaded—Lord, could he be pigheaded!—and he could be stubborn—Lord, could he be stubborn!—but he was as devoted to her as any woman had any right to expect her man to be, and she did not regret taking him for her husband.
Throwing off the blanket, Lou sat up. She was set to call to Zach and wake him when she thought how nice it would be to fix breakfast first and start his day with a hot meal. Accordingly, she quietly got up, took the coffeepot, and made for the stream. It flowed along the north boundary of the meadow, just inside the trees.
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