We went back to the car.
“It’s a rather rough trek up those hills,” Gardiner said, as he started the engine. He let it idle for a moment. Perhaps he’d seen my doubts mirrored in my expression. “I suppose you can handle a horse all right?”
“I’ve ridden,” I said. “Not for some time.”
“Best to let the horse pick his own way. Good, sure-footed animals here.”
“Well, the worst I can do is fall off.”
Gardiner looked horrified.
“A gentleman never falls off,” he said. “He is thrown.”
He was chuckling happily as we drove off.
MacPherson wasn’t in the Gran Parque.
This distressed Gardiner, who hated to have people behave out of character, and hated to have his predictions proven wrong. We found him in the next bar down the street, however, so it wasn’t too unjustifiable. MacPherson was classically sandy haired, proving that truth has less regard for triteness than literary convention. He was standing at the bar, talking with a villainous-looking man with a drooping moustache and splendidly hand-tooled boots.
Gardiner drew me to the bar at the far end.
“He’s talking business. We’ll wait here until he’s finished.”
“What a remarkable looking fellow.”
“Mac?”
“The other one. Looks like a Mexican bandit.”
Gardiner grinned. “He is rather traditional, isn’t he? A Yugoslav. Free zone trader.”
“What would that be?”
“A smuggler. Works from here up to Rio Grande through the Gortbaldi Pass. Quite a bit of that goes on. This fellow is very respected in his line, I understand. Not that I would have any dealings with him, of course.” Gardiner looked amused. The Spanish barman came over, running a rag along the bar, and Gardiner ordered gin and tonics, after checking his wrist-watch to make sure it wasn’t yet time to switch to the afternoon whiskies. I expect he lived by a rigid code in such matters. The barman set the drinks down and wiped his hands on the same rag he’d wiped the bar with.
Gardiner said “Cheers,” and took a large swallow.
I was unaccustomed to drinking this much, and certainly not this early in the day, and sipped cautiously. Gardiner drank fast. I could see that Clyde Jones, in many ways, would fit into this society much more readily than I; that my first impression had been hasty and ungracious and single-minded. But I resisted the temptation to drink more quickly.
Presently the Yugoslav departed, walking very tall and proud with his spurs clanking, and we moved down the bar. Gardiner introduced us and I bought MacPherson a drink. He drank Scotch, but I expect his code was more accountable to nationality than chronometry.
“Lived here long?” I asked.
“Too long,” MacPherson said. Then he shrugged. “Still, it’s not a bad life. It’s all right.”
“Brookes is interested in this thing that’s been killing your sheep,” Gardiner said.
“Oh?”
“Came all the way from London to investigate it.”
“I don’t suppose there are many natural predators here, are there?” I asked.
“Ah, there’s the odd fox and the hawks and such. Never been anything like this before, though.”
“It’s a curious business, from what I’ve heard.”
“It is that.”
“What do you make of it?”
He considered for a few moments and a few swallows of Scotch, the skin on his brow like furrowed leather. “Well, it’s not serious, really. Not enough damage been done to do me any financial harm. I guess I lost half a dozen sheep all told. But it’s the way they were killed that bothers me.”
“How was that?”
“Well, they were torn apart. Mutilated. Throats torn out and skulls crushed. Never saw anything quite like it. Whatever did it is not only powerful but vicious. And the strangest part is that my dogs seem helpless.”
Gardiner signalled for another round of drinks, and MacPherson seemed to be thinking deeply while the barman brought them.
“Have you tried to find it?”
“Of course. I almost had it once. That was the strangest part of all. It was a month or so ago and I was sort of keeping an eye out for it. Had my gun with me, and four good dogs. Well, we found a sheep that had just been killed. Couldn’t have been dead more than a few minutes. Torn to pieces. I put the dogs on to it and they started howling and growling and sniffing about, then they got the scent and took off after the thing. The land’s rocky and I couldn’t see a trail myself, but the dogs had it sure enough. I followed them and they tracked it a few hundred yards in to a ravine. I thought I had it then for sure. But when I was coming up behind, the dogs suddenly stopped dead and for no reason I could see, the whole pack started yelping and came running back with their tails between their legs. Made the hair stiffen on my neck, I’ll tell you that. They came back so fast they almost knocked me down, and they all crowded around my legs, whimpering. Gave me a funny sensation, that. I kicked ’em and beat ’em but damned if I could make them go into that ravine. Even when I went up to the edge myself, they wouldn’t follow. I looked around a little, walked along the edge for a little way, but it was rocky wasteland with heavy undergrowth all along the bottom and I had no chance of finding it without the dogs. But I was sure that it was in there, waiting.”
He paused. He looked a little shaken.
“Matter of fact, I was scared to go in after it.”
MacPherson didn’t look the type to be afraid of much.
“Any trouble recently?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s still there all right. Whatever the hell it is. I’ve tried setting traps for it and poisoned one of the carcasses, but it did no good. Cunning brute. I got the idea, you know the feeling, that it was watching me all the while I was putting the traps out.”
“Could it be a wild dog or something of the sort?”
“I doubt that. No dog could have put the fear into my pack that way. And no dog could’ve crushed those sheep’s skulls that way, either. No dog I ever saw.”
“A man?”
“Maybe. I thought of that. Used to have a few sheep carried off by the Indians. But they always stole them to eat. This thing just mangles them and leaves them where they died. Maybe eats a mouthful or two, the carcasses are so shredded I can’t really tell. But no more than that.”
“Few animals kill purely for pleasure,” I said. “Wolverine, leopard maybe . . . and man, of course.”
“If it’s a man, it’s a madman.”
MacPherson bought a round. I had a glass in my hand and two waiting on the bar now, and felt that I’d soon be in no condition to pursue any investigations.
“Would it be possible for me to stay at your place if I find it necessary to look for this thing?” I asked.
“Surely. I don’t know if you can find it, but I’ll give you every help I can. I’ll have to take you out, though. You’d never find my place on your own. It’s in the mountains west of here and there are no roads and only crude maps. I’m not even sure if I’m in Chile or Argentina.”
“I have some other things to do first,” I said. “I may not have to take advantage of your hospitality.”
“I hope you get the bastard. What gun are you using?”
It took me a moment to comprehend that.
“I didn’t come to shoot it,” I said.
MacPherson blinked.
“Then what the hell are you going to do?”
“That depends on what it turns out to be.”
MacPherson snorted. Then he looked serious. He said: “Well, it’s none of my business, but if you’re going to look for this thing, you’d better take a gun with you.”
“Surely it wouldn’t attack a man?”
MacPherson shrugged.
“You haven’t seen those sheep, son. I have. Believe me, you better take a gun.”
The way he said it was quite impressive.
It was past noon now, and Gardiner had swit
ched to Scotch. MacPherson approved. We had not had lunch, and Gardiner and MacPherson both seemed content to spend the afternoon at the bar. I’d had more than enough to drink, and the barman brought me a coffee with the next round. A few more customers wandered in and stood at the bar, talking and drinking. I noticed them vaguely, my thoughts on what MacPherson had told me. It was virtually the same story that I’d read in the reports, but hearing it in person, and seeing the man who told it, was far more effective than reading it in the grey safety of London. I was far less sceptical, and ready to believe a great deal more. Perhaps the alcohol had stimulated my imagination; it had certainly fired my impatience to get to the bottom of the mystery. I was convinced now that something very strange indeed was roaming those all but inaccessible mountains, and much too excited to waste any more time in that bar.
“Would this be a good time to see Gregorio?” I asked.
“Good as any,” Gardiner said.
“If you could direct me – ”
“I’ll drive you there. It’s not far.”
He looked a shade disappointed at the prospect of leaving the bar.
“That’s not necessary. Actually, I could use some air to clear my head. I’ll walk.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. It’ll give me an opportunity to look around a bit more, too. I couldn’t see much at the speed you drive.”
Gardiner laughed. He was possibly a certain degree in his cups by this time. MacPherson seemed absolutely impervious to intoxication. I took my note pad out to write down the address, but Gardiner laughed more at this, and when he’d given me the directions, I saw why. They were accurate but somewhat unusual. Gregorio lived in the third orange shack on the western approach to town. There was a grey horse in a tin shed beside the shack. The shed was green and the horse was gelded. It was surely a more exact method of location than street names and postal districts, as any stranger who has asked directions in London will know.
I finished my coffee.
“One last drink before you leave?” Gardiner asked.
“Not now, thanks. Will you be here?”
“Undoubtedly.”
I turned to leave and Jones came walking down the bar. He was wearing a purple sports shirt and smiling. His hangover seemed to have been effectively reduced by drowning.
“Hello there, Brookes. Have a drink?”
“I can’t just now. I have some business to attend to.”
He looked disappointed. He had a very American friendliness, and was probably lonely. I introduced him to Gardiner and MacPherson and he shook hands eagerly.
“You fellas live here? Quite a place, this.”
Jones bought drinks and merged easily into the group. I felt obliged to wait for a few minutes and not leave him with strangers, but it proved unnecessary. He was perfectly suited to the situation. When I left, Gardiner was telling him how the Explotadora company used to virtually rule the territory and give the governor his orders, and Jones was agreeing that government by private enterprise was vastly superior to Democrats and communism.
I walked out beyond the town.
The wind was stronger here, without the shelter of the sturdy buildings of the town. A pasajero rode past me, leading a pack horse burdened with all his possessions and trailed by a pack of mangy mongrels. There were shacks on both sides of the road, hideously bright and clattering metallically. Indians sat huddled in the doorways and on the crooked steps. Men of ancient leather and twisted cord, their eyes turned listlessly after me, not really interested but simply following a motion, the same way that they watched a ragged newspaper tumble before the wind; sullen and listless and uncomprehending, perhaps sensing their lives were changed and unnatural, but not recognizing their defeat. A few sheep grazed behind the shacks, facing away from the wind with splendid unconcern, placid and eternal, and forming perhaps the only bridge between the present and the past.
Gregorio was sitting on a gnarled log beside his door, smoking a hand-made pipe. God knows what he was smoking in it. He wore a poncho with a hood roughly sewn on and shadowing his eyes. His hands were strangely delicate, despite the horny calluses, the fingers long and mobile. He peered at me suspiciously. He’d had enough experience of civilization to be wary, unlike the Indians who had watched me walk past.
“Are you Gregorio?” I asked.
The head nodded under the hood.
“You speak English?”
He nodded again.
I squatted down beside him.
“My name is Brookes. I’d like to speak with you for a few moments if you can spare the time.”
There was no reaction.
“I’ll gladly pay you for your time.”
He nodded again I began to wonder if he actually did speak English.
“It’s about the creature you claim . . . the creature that you saw in the mountains.”
Gregorio rustled within the poncho and the hood fell back from his head. He had hair like black wire and a face like a Cornish farmhouse, sombre, grey and grim. But his eyes were bright with intelligence and perhaps something else – perhaps it was fear.
“Bestia hombre,” he said. His voice rasped. I felt certain then, looking into his face, that this man was not faking or pretending. He had seen something and that something was very terrible indeed.
I took a small bank note from my pocket and offered it to him. He took it without looking at it, with a vestige of pride long vanquished by necessity. He held it crumpled in his palm.
“Tell me what you saw.”
He hesitated.
“Is that enough?”
He motioned with the hand holding the note, a scornful gesture. “It is enough,” he said. His English was surprisingly clear, with a faint North American intonation. “It is not a good memory, Señor.” He puffed on his pipe, his lean cheeks sinking inwards. I felt he was gathering more than his thoughts, and waited anxiously.
“When I tell them, they do not believe me,” he said, turning his eyes toward the town. “They laugh. They think I see things that are not there.”
“I believe you.”
His eyes shifted back to me.
“I’ve come all the way from London to speak with you, and to find what you saw.”
“You will look for this thing?” he said, incredulously. He couldn’t believe that anyone would voluntarily seek the creature he had seen – or thought he’d seen. A curious mixture of disbelief and respect moved his expression.
“Yes. And I will find it, if you help me.”
“Help you?”
“Tell me all you can remember.”
“I will tell you, yes.”
“When was it that you saw this thing?”
“It was some weeks ago.” He shrugged. “I have no calendar.”
“You were in the mountains?”
He nodded and looked westward. The land rose steadily away from us and the clouds seemed to tilt down to meet the far mountains. Gregorio stared into the distance. And, without looking at me, he began to speak. His voice moved musically over the foreign English words, but it was music without gaiety, a tragic overture introducing his sombre theme.
“I was looking for work on the sheep ranches. I had the horse and two dogs.” He stabbed the stem of his pipe toward the green tin shack. “That is the horse. The dogs – ” he hesitated, his face still turned away from me, and I saw the cords knot in his neck. “The dogs were running after me. They were happy to be away from this town, in the mountains. They were good dogs. One especially, a dog of great courage and strength. El Rojo he was called. His breeding one does not know, but his loyalty was firm. He was mine many years, although I had been offered much money for him.” He paused again. His hands were restless. Then he seemed to shrug, although his shoulders did not actually move.
“We rode on a narrow trail through trees. The trees there lean and turn because of the great wind. The wind was very loud then, and the horse made great noise on the rock. It was becoming night. I d
o not know what hour, I have no clock. But it was time that I make camp, and I looked for a place. I went from the trail and was among dark trees. And then there was no noise. It was like a storm about to break, that silence. But there was no storm, the sky was clear. It was something else. I knew it was not good. The dogs also knew. The little dog cried and El Rojo had stiff hair over his neck. I felt the horse tremble between my knees. All up my legs I feel this, and the eyes are white, the nostrils wide. I kicked at the horse with my heels, but it did not walk.”
Gregorio turned to face me then. His face was terrible. He was reliving those moments vividly, and perhaps this was how his face had appeared then. He seemed scarcely aware of me, his eyes turned on the past.
“Then I heard the sound of this thing. It was a snarl. Not like a dog. A warning, perhaps a challenge. I am not sure what it was. I turned to the sound and then I saw it. It was in a thicket, but I saw it plainly. I looked at it, and it looked at me. We regarded one another. I was unable to move and my throat would not work. My backbone was of ice.
“It was not tall. It bent forwards with long arms. Its chest was huge and shoulders heavy. There was much thick hair, and where there was not hair the skin was dark. For some time we do nothing, and it made the sound again. The hindquarters raise, as if it is stiffening its tail. But it has no tail. Something was beneath it. A sheep, I think. It was woolly and red with blood, and this thing was red at the mouth. Blood dropped heavily from the teeth. But they were teeth. They were not fangs of a beast, they were teeth. And the eyes are on me all this time. It has the eyes of a man . . .”
He was staring into my eyes as he said this. His pipe had burned out, but his teeth were clamped on the stem. I didn’t move, afraid to break the memory that held him, and the belief that gripped me.
“I wished to run from this thing, but the horse was filled with fear. It would not run. And I, too, am frozen. Only El Rojo has sufficient courage. He feared nothing, that dog. He moved toward the thing. The other dog was not so brave. It ran. The movement makes the horse able to run, also, and he followed after the dog. The horse ran faster than he could run. Faster than I think any horse can run. I am a horseman. All my life I have ridden horses, and I knew this horse well. But Señor, I could no more stop this horse than stop the wind. And I did not want to.”
The Mammoth Book of Frankenstein (Mammoth Books) Page 66