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The Wendigo heard the sound of the sleds even though he couldn’t see them. He turned away and scaled the steep tree-covered slope. The feat of hiking the wintry terrain with its hidden barriers of downed trees and buried bushes took superhuman effort, and it felt safe; a human being would have to be in the best of physical shape to travel through the midwinter woods. As he vaulted over a downed maple, he fought against the hunger and decided to take the fight to his pursuers.
The sun filtered through the trees and the air was frigid—however, he was a manitou, a Wendigo. He scoffed at the stupidity of the posse. Their precious machines made so much noise he’d have to be deaf not to hear them.
He paused, taking a moment to study his backtrail, and froze. He detected movement on the lower slope. Someone was tracking him. He stepped behind a snow-laden pine tree and peered down toward the forested valley below. The figure looked familiar. The Indian. A mixture of rage and fear filled his entire being. He looked back toward the summit. If the warden wanted to track him, he’d give him something to track. He nodded to himself. Once he crested the peak, he’d find a suitable place to ambush the warden and, after that, take better care to conceal his tracks and movement.
He heard the sound of an airplane and looked upward. A small plane was slowly circling overhead. The warden must have requested an aerial search of the area. The Wendigo knew that from the sky he would stand out and if he was to lie in wait for the Indian, he’d need shelter from above as well as from the ground.
He turned and walked upward.
_____________
Sébastien Lavallée maintained a tight circle above Rocky Mountain. He saw a lone person in the woods and banked so he could get a closer look at him. When the solitary man waved and took his hat off, Lavallée recognized him.
He returned the wave with a wiggle of his wings and turned his attention upslope. He maintained his airspeed to just above stall-speed and peered down through the foliage-barren trees. Their trunks looked like black pins sticking in a white pincushion and all that broke the grayscale world below was the dark green of various types of evergreen trees. He saw something large standing behind huge pine tree and dropped down to get a closer look. Lavallée saw someone standing behind the tree in such a way that he would be undetected by anyone downslope—and the only person downslope was John Bear.
Lavallée snatched his microphone from its hanger and made contact.
_____________
John had turned off the speaker of his radio, electing to use an earbud instead. He was studying the terrain ahead when Lavallée’s voice came through advising him that the warden-pilot had spotted someone higher up the incline. The figure was hiding behind a large pine tree, no doubt hoping to ambush any pursuit. John knew immediately that he was close to the Wendigo. His belief was confirmed when a draught came down the slope, carrying the smell of rot and decay. He checked his rifle, ensuring that it was loaded and free of any ice and snow.
Climbing the mountainside was exhausting work. Even with snowshoes, navigating through the snow was like wading through thigh-deep water and in a short time John developed a sense of admiration for soldiers and marines who assaulted enemy beaches while wading ashore. He slipped off the surface of hidden rocks and on several occasions almost tripped over buried deadfall and other pieces of debris and plant life. His chest began to ache and breathing was an all-consuming activity. The snowshoes proved to be more of a hindrance than an aid on the steep terrain, so he removed them. Uncertain where the trail would lead him, John did not want to discard them and strapped them to his back in the event that he would require them on more suitable terrain. The sound of his progress was hidden or at least muffled by the snow. During any other time of year, dead foliage and trees that had been accumulating for years would make his movement loud enough to be heard for a long distance.
Knowing that the Wendigo knew his location made John even more cautious. Rather than keeping his attention on the tracks in the snow, he now divided it, watching up the slope as well as his backtrail and the woods to his right and left. After Lavallée’s warning, he paid particular attention to the pine trees, especially the large ones whose boughs were laden with snow and drooping downward, perfect cover for a lurking enemy.
Lavallée’s voice came through his earphone again: “… Suspect is on the move, headed toward the summit … over.”
“Roger,” John replied.
Lavallée said, “Suspect has just entered a pine grove. It’s too dense for me to see anything, over.” Then he said: “I can’t stay on station any longer, fuel is getting to the point where I’ll have to return to Eagle Lake to refuel, over.”
John keyed his mic and said, “Roger, thanks for the assist. Out.”
The airplane dipped its wings again and veered away in a southeasterly direction.
“John, I’ll try and get back if I can. Out.”
John acknowledged the transmission, but doubted that he’d see Lavallée again that day. By the time he flew to the DIF&W float-plane base on Eagle Lake, refueled, and returned, it would be close to dark. In minutes the sound of the plane faded and all John heard was the wind gusting, trees creaking, and the occasional call of crows.
He stared toward the top of the peak and began following the tracks up with his eyes. As he struggled against gravity and the deep snow, he vowed to end this hunt that day.
47
Rocky Mountain
John lost the Wendigo’s trail on the summit. The rocky ground was barren of snow and it had obviously taken to avoiding stepping anyplace where its tracks would show. He looked at his watch and then at the heavy overcast that blocked his view of the sun. It would be dark shortly and he would need to find shelter if he was going to spend another night in the woods.
John cautiously slid sideways down the icy surface, trying to control his descent with his leading foot. There were just enough patches of bare rock and dirt to allow him to reach the trees below the summit while staying on his feet. Once he entered the shelter of the forest the temperature seemed much warmer, almost comfortable in comparison to the windswept peak. He looked skyward and shook his head. The clouds hung low in the sky and presaged yet more snow. Any accumulation of more than a couple of inches could obscure any tracks he might find. John was also cognizant of the fact that for safety, he’d have to make a cold camp, as even the smallest fire would shine like a beacon and lead the Wendigo to him. He turned to his right, planning on circling the summit until he came across his trail.
_____________
The Wendigo easily eluded the Indian warden and moved swiftly down the mountain. He heard the sound of snowmobiles and turned in that direction. He descended the mountain as if it were a gentle, rolling hill and hid beside the snowmobile/ATV trail near the bottom. He squatted behind a massive pine tree, letting the snow-laden lower boughs conceal him. He studied the surface of the trail and saw that the fresh snow was undisturbed. He settled in. If these men were serious about finding him, they’d check out every trail and road in the area. All he had to do was wait.
_____________
Murphy slowly followed the logging road, breaking trail as he progressed. He scanned the trees on either side of him and, other than a small doe, saw little. The recent snows had driven most of the smaller denizens of the forest deep into their burrows. He saw a set of tracks where a moose had crossed the trail, and coyote tracks not far from them. All of the signs were what one would expect in the forest after a couple days of snow.
Even through the smoky dark face shield the winter world made him feel as if he were watching a black-and-white movie. The entire world appeared in grayscale; white snow, black and gray trees, and dark overcast clouds. The only thing that broke up the monochromatic scene was the green of the evergreen trees and the occasional colored plastic ribbons the logging companies used to indicate various things, such as property lines and trees slated for harvesting. To add to his discomfort, the wind was whippin
g the fresh powder into mini-hurricanes that covered him with a fine coating of snow. The snow penetrated the opening between his insulated suit and the helmet and melted, causing cold water to soak his undershirt.
The miserable conditions distracted Murphy and he stopped beside a huge pine. He removed a glove and fished around in his coat pocket, removing a white handkerchief with which he wiped his neck. He turned and looked back, wondering where the Dowds were.
The attack was sudden and lethal.
Murphy detected movement from the corner of his eye, but before he could react, the Wendigo was upon him. The last thing the astonished warden saw was the large claw-laden hand as it penetrated his chest—ripping into him again … and again … and again.
_____________
Earl and Louis Dowd were about one hundred yards away when they saw the huge figure bending over a prone figure. It heard their approach and when it looked up, Earl recognized it. He quickly stopped his sled and grabbed for his rifle. He used his teeth to pull his right hand glove off and quickly centered the crosshairs on it. The boom of the .30-30 rifle broke the silence of the forest and echoed across the mountain.
The Wendigo jumped up, which convinced Earl that his bullet had found its mark, and fled into the woods.
Louis raced past his father. Earl slid his rifle back in its sheath and sped after his son. They reached the body on the ground and saw the blood that stained the snow red.
“Jesus Christ,” Earl swore. He grabbed his rifle, leapt off his sled, and scanned the trees in the immediate area.
While his father kept watch, Louis squatted beside Murphy. A horrific gash had laid his chest open. “He’s dead, Dad.”
Earl continued searching the trees and replied, “I knew that without lookin’.”
“What we gonna do?”
“He got his radio on him?”
Louis quickly studied the corpse, taking care to avoid touching the lacerated organs and blood. He found a small black device attached to the suit near Murphy’s right shoulder. He took it and handed it to his father. “Ever use one of those, Dad?”
“No,” Earl said. “But it can’t be all that difficult.” He studied the device for a minute and saw that it was powered on. He spoke into it, “John? You there, John?” and then listened for a reply.
“There must be a button you have to push,” Louis said.
Earl looked at the radio, turning it over in his hand. “Looks kind of like a cell phone,” Earl commented. “Here, you take it.”
Louis took the radio and pressed the talk button. “Warden, you there?”
Immediately he was answered. “Murphy?”
“No, sir, this is Louis Dowd.”
“Where’s Murph?”
“He’s dead. The monster ambushed him and killed him.”
“Where are you guys?”
Earl took the device from Louis, who showed him which button to push. “John, this is Earl. We’re at the base of the mountain, on the tote road directly below the watch tower.”
“Stay there, I’m on my way. It’ll be at least a half hour.”
“I got a shot at it, think I hit him—he run off into the woods. Maybe I should follow while the trail is fresh.”
“No. Stay where you are. It’s gonna be dark in a couple hours,” John said. “You get caught in the woods after sunset and he’ll have the upper hand.”
_____________
It was dark when John Bear came off the steep mountain slope, wading through knee-deep snow. He was hypervigilant, not sure whether or not the Wendigo was in the area. He came out of a copse of leafless willow bushes and stepped onto the tote road. Even though the snow was as deep as it had been in the woods, walking was easier on the unplowed road. He used his radio to contact Earl and Louis. They confirmed their location, and John turned south.
John saw the Dowds before they saw him. He trudged onward, ignoring the throbbing ache in his legs, which were fatigued from hours walking in the snow. As he closed with them he saw the tarp-covered lump in the snow. Even though he’d been told that Murph was dead, it didn’t really register with him until he saw the silent shape.
He was within fifty feet of the Dowds when Louis spotted him. He spoke and Earl spun around, his rifle ready if needed. He recognized John and lowered the rifle. “Am I glad to see you,” Earl said.
John stopped beside the two tired men and asked, “How’d it happen?”
“Don’t really know,” Earl said. “He got ahead of us somehow and when we come around that bend it was bent over him—I got a shot at the sonuvabitch, might even have hit him.” Earl point toward a white birch tree. “These silver bullets must work, though. He took off and headed up the mountain like a homesick angel—through there.” Earl sounded wistful when he added, “Still think one of us should have gone after him.”
“You’d have ended up like Murph.” John raised the tarp and looked at the body of his colleague and friend. He saw the gash in the chest and said, “Was he mutilated?”
“I think his heart’s gone, I ain’t no doctor, so I cain’t say if anything else was took,” Louis said.
John dropped the tarpaulin and then dropped, exhausted, onto the seat of Murphy’s sled. He looked skyward and said, “Be dark soon, let’s get him out of here and up to the warden cabin. This is gettin’ out of hand. It’s time I call in reinforcements.”
48
Warden’s Cabin, Rocky Mountain
John Bear placed his radio on the table and reached for the mug of coffee that Louis placed before him. The hot beverage burned his mouth and he felt the burn continue as the liquid traveled down his esophagus to his stomach. In spite of that, after hours in the arctic-type cold, it felt good.
Earl sat back and said, “You change your mind yet?”
“About?” John said.
“Bringing this sonuvawhore in alive. If there was ever anything needed killin’ it’s this.”
“Maybe he has no control over what’s possessed him.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Earl asked.
“Sounds like Indian mumbo-jumbo to me,” Louis said.
John took another drink of coffee. “Okay, it’s about time you guys learned everything about what we’re fucking with here.”
“I would think so,” Earl said.
_____________
Rocky Mountain
The Wendigo stood in the woods, looking down upon the cabin. He knew that the rules were about to change—killing the warden was certain to escalate things. He was dealing with a dilemma. The Indian warden would bring in reinforcements. By midday every available member of the warden service, state police, and possibly even the border patrol would be involved—and they’d be looking for any excuse to kill him. His dilemma was that on one hand he desired to attack, assault the three men in the cabin. He reached down, felt the gaping wound in his side, and a small flame of fear sparked. The men were armed with weapons strong enough to kill him. He thought about the eons he’d spent drifting in the void, waiting for someone to summon him and did not want to be relegated to that existence again.
His other choice was to flee, run into the thousands of square miles of wilderness in Canada, but food was scarce in the tundra and frigid country to the north; if he went there he’d be forced to find a lair where he could go into hibernation. Years of sleeping was not something he looked forward to.
He turned and started up the mountain. As he scaled the steep slope he stopped on several occasions to look down on the cabin, fighting against the impulse to turn back and attack—before he did that he needed to find out what sort of weapon they were using. Whatever they’d shot him with hurt him badly.
He would have to do something soon though—the hunger was becoming all-consuming.
_____________
John stared into the fire, letting its heat penetrate his body. As he warmed, the soreness and aches of prolonged exposure to the elements became more evident. He heard the Dowds as they moved around the cabin,
but was so engrossed in his thoughts and anger that they may as well have been on the moon. Murphy’s death had rattled him more than he would have thought. They were friends and had worked together for more than ten years. John realized that the longer he pursued the Wendigo, the more personal the hunt was becoming. He smelled frying potatoes and heard the scrape of someone turning them in a black castiron frying pan. Earl appeared beside him.
“Supper’s ready,” Dowd announced. “It ain’t much, just some coffee, fried potatoes, ham, and biscuits that Amy packed for us.”
John stood up and turned toward the table that was centered in the room. “Smells as good as any feast I’ve ever eaten.”
Louis carried the heavy twelve-inch frying pan to the table and placed it in the center. He used a spatula to serve the ham and fried potato hash onto three plates. He returned to the stove and retrieved a pan of biscuits that had been warming and the coffee pot. Once he was seated and they began eating he broke the silence. “What’s our game plan?”
Earl looked at John. “You got anything planned?”
“First, we should have reinforcements here in the morning. I contacted Lieutenant Michaud. He’ll have a task force here in the morning.”
“Task force? You sound like we’re at war, not after one asshole,” Earl said.
“This asshole has killed how many people?” John replied.
“Don’t have a clue,” Louis said.
“Exactly,” John retorted. “We know of seven—and he almost killed Buster. That, along with the fact that he knows these woods like the back of his hand, tells me that the three of us ain’t got a snowball’s chance in hell. He’ll pick us off one at a time. So in the morning we’ll have every warden north of Bangor, along with the state police, border patrol, and county sheriff’s department up here.” John ate a mouthful of food. “If I was Michaud, I’d be bringing the National Guard along too.”
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