by Brian Keene
“But you just said they were wild men.”
“Men, yes. But not human men.”
She paused, studying them warily, as if expecting them to laugh. When they didn’t, Crystal licked her split bottom lip and then winced.
“Go on,” Morgan urged. “What were they, if they weren’t men?”
“Well, he didn’t rightly know. There were all kinds in the tribe—men, women, and even some young ones. The biggest was well over eight feet tall, and O’Bannon said that it must have weighed well over three-hundred pounds. And all of the crazy bears were covered in long hair. Different colors, though. Some of them had black hair. Others had reddish-brown. The only place they didn’t have hair were on their palms and their eyes—and on the females breasts.”
“Well, that’s good to hear,” Johnson said. “Ain’t nothing worse than a hairy titty. I hate when that happens. Get a hair in your mouth—have to use it to clean your teeth with.”
Clara, Parker and Stephens laughed at this until a stern look from Morgan silenced them. As their laughter died, Morgan turned to Crystal and nodded.
“Please continue,” he said.
“O’Bannon said that they were all naked. He said their faces were human, except for their foreheads. And they didn’t have necks. Their big heads just sort of sat on their shoulders, all squat like. Y’all know what I mean? The cave stank—he described it just like the smell Mr. Stephens described earlier. But he said the crazy bears weren’t mean or nothing. More curious than anything else. Sort of peaceful.”
“Where did they come from, originally?” Morgan asked. “These crazy bears?”
“You’ll laugh at me.”
“No, I won’t.”
“The Indians told O’Bannon that the crazy bears came from the stars.”
“Oh, bullshit,” Parker exclaimed. “This is just like them two boys in Santa Fe that swore they’d seen a big, giant bird out in the desert—the Thunderbird. Ya’ll remember that?”
“I do,” Stephens said. “Them two fellas’ from the war. One was a Northerner. Weren’t they the ones who were also convinced that—”
“Shut up,” Morgan said quietly. “Both of you. You’re being rude to our new friend.”
Parker and Stephens fell silent. A moth fluttered around the kerosene lamp, attracted by the warm glow. Crystal’s gaze focused on that as she continued.
“The Indians said that long ago, a small moon came flying in over their village one night, and it hovered over the mountaintop like a giant eagle. A few men from the tribe went up the mountain to investigate, and when they reached the top, they saw the moon open up. The crazy bears walked out of the moon and stood there on the mountaintop, and then the moon closed up again and flew away.”
“Damnedest thing I ever heard,” Clara muttered.
Morgan rubbed his chin. “And you say you’ve heard them, but you’ve never seen one for yourself?”
Crystal shook her head. “No, sir. Don’t know that I’d want to, either.”
“Well, if you’ve never seen one, then how do you know that the lumberjacks weren’t just pulling your leg?”
She shrugged. “I don’t, I guess.”
“I heard tell of things like this before,” Gunderson said from his seat by the window.
They all turned to look at him. Gunderson appeared flustered by their attention. The normally-taciturn outlaw glanced out the window again and cleared his throat. Then he leaned back in the chair, met their glances, and continued.
“A preacher fella’ up near Spokane used to swear there were these furry giants living up in the mountains who used to steal salmon from the fishermen’s nets. Said they were over eight-feet tall and walked like a man. The Indians in that area called them skoocooms or some such nonsense. I’ve heard of similar creatures over the years.”
“Aw, it was probably just a bear with mange,” Parker said. “I seen a bear cub with mange once, back in Missouri. Looked kind of like what she’s describing. Patches of hair missing around its eyes and such.”
“But the rest of their bodies still had hair,” Morgan said. “And a group of bears wouldn’t let the Indians come into their cave, especially if there were young ones around. And that’s what Crystal says happened.”
She nodded. “O’Bannon said they weren’t vicious. They were just sort of like wild animals—but really smart.”
“I think O’Bannon made it up,” Morgan said. “Probably to keep you from running off at night.”
“Or maybe,” Clara said slowly, “she’s making it up now just to fool with us. Maybe she figures if she can scare us with this bullshit, we’ll ride off and leave her behind.”
Morgan grinned. “You wouldn’t do that now, would you, Crystal? You wouldn’t lie to me. Not after I set you free.”
“No, I sure wouldn’t.” Crystal’s eyes grew wide. “I swear, I’m not lying. That’s what O’Bannon always said. Every word of it is true, just like he told me”
Morgan stood up and slowly unbuckled his belt. His eyes never left hers.
“Well,” he said, still smiling, “whether the crazy bears are real or not, I reckon you’ll be safe tonight. You won’t get much sleep—but you’ll be safe.” Morgan walked across the shack and stood before her, his belt and pants undone. “Time to earn your keep, darlin’.”
Crystal hesitated for a moment, and then reached for him. Grinning, Johnson and Parker joined Clara on the other bed. Shaking his head, Stephens blew out the lamp and lay down to sleep. Gunderson sat by the window, alert and awake. He remained motionless, except to occasionally lean over and spit tobacco juice.
Night fell on the valley.
THREE
Gunderson shivered. It had been several hours since the cries, moans, creaks, grunts and smacks coming from the cots had finally died down, replaced with snores and the occasional muffled snatch of sleep-talk. The temperature inside the drafty cabin had dropped noticeably. He could see his breath in front of his face each time that he exhaled.
Farther down in the valley, the river sparkled and shimmered like polished glass in the moonlight. The forest had been quiet during the day, but it was alive now. An owl called out from a shadowed copse of pines, its cry haunting and melancholy. Insects buzzed and sang. The tree-tops swayed slightly, rocking in the breeze. It would have been enough to lull anyone else to sleep, but Gunderson had always been a night person. He felt more awake—more alive—after the sun went down, and the darkness, combined with the chilly temperature, kept him focused and alert now.
Rubbing his hands together, he shifted slightly in his chair and tilted his head from side to side, cracking his neck and back. The pops sounded very loud in the small shack. He glanced over at the others, but none of them stirred. When Gunderson’s stomach growled a few moments later, Stephens grunted in response and then went back to snoring. Otherwise, nobody woke. Gunderson breathed a sigh of relief. Morgan, especially, was a notoriously light sleeper. Gunderson could only assume that his prior activities with the new girl had worn the boss man out.
He glanced back out the window and tried to ignore the stiffness in his joints. Gunderson knew that he wasn’t a spring chicken anymore, but the pains had been growing worse over the last year, and that worried him. He hadn’t mentioned it to the others, but he knew that Morgan had noticed. The boss didn’t miss a damn thing. As if reading his thoughts, Morgan sighed softly in his sleep. Gunderson turned back to him.
Out in the darkness, the owl hooted again as Gunderson studied his sleeping companions. Parker had opted for one of the empty bunks after he and Johnson had finished with Clara. The man’s pasty white buttocks rose and fell in time with his breathing. Johnson and Clara were entangled on another bunk, legs entwined, breathing into each other’s face as they slept. Stephens was curled into the fetal position, his expression slack and content. Occasionally, he snored—a raucous, staccato sound that always left Gunderson wondering if the fat man was dying. Morgan slept on his back, pistol within reach. Crystal
slept on the floor beside him. Morgan had been enough of a gentleman to give the girl a spare pillow and a thin, coarse blanket.
Gunderson had never slept with Clara. He’d never wanted to, not even when he was drunk. He seriously doubted that he’d get the urge to sleep with Crystal, either. It wasn’t that he didn’t like women. He’d certainly had his share—both the willing and the unwilling, especially during the war. But pussy had always been more of an afterthought to him, a way to wile away the time when boredom threatened to creep in. He’d much rather be out in the woods, hunting, than he would lying in some bed with whore-stink all over his pecker. Also, there was something about sticking his dick where other men had stuck theirs that just didn’t appeal to him. It seemed unnatural. Uncivilized. Turned a man into nothing more than a wild beast, rutting with whatever was in heat. That was no good for a hunter like him. As far as Gunderson was concerned, a man needed to be better than the beasts he killed. Superior.
He turned his attention back to the task at hand, peering out into the moonlight, ever watchful, waiting for something to take the bait. Another thirty minutes passed before that chance came.
Gunderson’s first sign that a predator had entered the clearing was the sudden overwhelming silence. The sounds of nighttime in the forest—the owl and the insects and all of the other creatures—ceased abruptly. One moment, a nocturnal cacophony. The next moment, the only sound was that of his sleeping companions and the muffled drone of the river. Even the horses were quiet.
Then came the stench. It wafted in on the night breeze, subtle at first, but quickly coalescing into an almost permeable cloud. Wincing, Gunderson reeled back in his seat, turning away from the window. His eyes watered and his nose burned. He reached in his back pocket and grabbed his dirty handkerchief. As he wrapped it around his nose and mouth, he wondered if he was smelling the same thing Stephens had reported earlier. It was acrid, nauseating, and somehow wet. He’d never experienced anything like it in all of his time in the wild. It wasn’t a skunk, or the musk of a bobcat or wolf in heat. And despite what Stephens and the new girl had said earlier, it wasn’t the stench of decay, either. Squinting, he blinked the tears away and looked out the window again.
A shadowed form moved in the moonlight, loping across the clearing. It walked upright on two thick legs. Two long arms swung by its sides. It paused, turning toward the horses, but then it resumed its stride again, heading straight for the corpses. Morgan’s idea had obviously worked. The creature was attracted by the smell of the bodies. From his vantage point inside the bunkhouse, Gunderson couldn’t see much else, but it was obvious that the animal was covered in fur, and even at this distance, its size was huge—easily well over eight feet tall.
That ain’t no bear, he thought, slowly reaching for his rifle. Its forelegs are too long and no wild bear could walk on its hind legs like that for so long.
He’d heard tell of gorillas—human-sized versions of monkeys—before, but he’d never seen one in real life. But from what he’d been told, gorillas were shorter, and used their forearms and hands to help when walking. The creature in the clearing walked more like a man, and it was very tall. It wasn’t a bear. It wasn’t a gorilla. It wasn’t a man. What else could it be? A crazy bear? Sure. Or at least, the source of the Indian legend. But what was a crazy bear?
Doesn’t matter what it is, Gunderson mused. In a second, the only thing it’ll be is tomorrow’s breakfast, lunch and dinner.
He raised the rifle, rested one elbow on the windowsill, and set the weapon’s stock between his shoulder and armpit. He swallowed his tobacco juice, rather than spitting. His stomach gurgled. Outside, the horse whinnied nervously. The worst of the stench dissipated as the animal drew further away from the shack. The creature approached the pine trees where Stephens had hung the corpses with a mixture of trepidation and eagerness. It darted forward, then stopped and sniffed the air, turning its bullet-shaped head from side to side. It glanced back at the horses once more, as if trying to decide which prey to go after. Then it ran forward again, heading toward the dead lumberjacks.
Gunderson took a deep breath, sighted, drew a bead, exhaled, and then squeezed the trigger. The rifle kicked against his shoulder. He saw the creature drop, and then its form was obscured for a moment by the gun smoke swirling around his head. Gunderson didn’t mind. It helped cut down on the animal’s stench. The explosion boomed through the cabin, shattering the stillness. The others were instantly awake. Gunderson didn’t have to turn around to know that Morgan would already be on his feet, pistol in hand, surveying the situation. The rest would be a split second behind him, reflexes sharp, reaching for their various weapons. The only one whose behavior he wasn’t familiar with was Crystal’s, but he assumed she’d be awake, too.
“God damn,” Parker groaned.
The ringing in Gunderson’s ears still hadn’t subsided but the gun smoke had cleared. Gunderson stared out into the moonlight. The crumpled form was still there, lying motionless at the feet of the pines. He spat a stream of brown tobacco juice and nodded in satisfaction.
“One shot,” he said. “I might be getting older, but damned if I ain’t still got the touch.”
“What’d you get?” Johnson came up behind him, tugging up his pants. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Not sure,” Gunderson said, turning around to face them. “Wasn’t like any animal that I’ve ever seen. One of them crazy bears, I suspect. Or at least, the source for the stories about them.”
“Was it a bear?” Morgan asked, crossing to the window and peering out.
“If it was,” Gunderson replied, “then it was a mighty strange one. Mighty strange. I couldn’t get a good look at it in the dark, but to tell you the truth, boss, it reminded me more of those gorillas you hear talk about at the zoos than any—”
A loud, anguished cry interrupted him. It echoed from some-where deep in the forest. A moment later, a second mournful howl joined the chorus. Then another and another, until there were dozens of cries.
“What the hell is that?” Parker gasped.
Morgan strode across the floor and flung the door wide open. He stepped out onto the porch and stared into the darkness. Gunderson, Parker, and Johnson joined him. Their breath clouded the air. The boards were wet with frost beneath their feet. Clara, Stephens and Crystal hovered in the doorway. Both women clung to Stephens’ side.
“That’s them,” Crystal said. “That’s the crazy bears! That’s what they sound like. But I’ve never heard so many of them at once. And not like this.”
Morgan turned around and glanced at her as more shrieks echoed all around them.
“What do you mean ‘not like this’?”
“They sound angry. They’ve never sounded like that before.”
Parker stepped forward. “You want us to go get the carcass and clean it, boss?”
“Not with all that damned noise going on, I don’t.” Morgan gestured towards the trees. “No telling how many are out there—or what they even are. Sounds like a cross between a bobcat and a bear, if you ask me. I’ve never heard anything like it in my life.”
“Me neither,” Gunderson said. “And I’ve heard lots of strange things in my time.”
“We could drag the carcass back here,” Johnson suggested. “If we’re quick about it, shouldn’t be no harm. We’ve got our guns.”
“Good luck dragging it back here on your own,” Gunderson said. “You boys didn’t see that thing when it was standing up. It weighs a good three-hundred pounds, I’d imagine. Maybe more.”
Johnson whistled. “Too heavy to move without the horses, then.”
Gunderson nodded. “I reckon it—”
A third volley of cries drowned him out.
“The hell with this,” Morgan said. “Everybody get back inside the shack. Ain’t no sense messing around with a pack of wild animals. The posse is enough to worry about. We don’t need this on top of it. We’ll wait till morning. Cold as it is out here, that meat won’t spoil be
fore morning. Soon as the sun is up, we’ll field dress it and cook some up. Have ourselves a late breakfast. Then we’ll cure the rest, so we can take it with us.”
One by one, they hurried back into the shack. Stephens shut the door behind them. Parker volunteered to take over the watch for Gunderson, and Morgan had Johnson join him, so that neither man would fall asleep. Parker and Johnson took their positions as more howls and shrieks rang out. The others lay back down again, clearly disturbed by the noise.
“Hey, Gunderson,” Morgan said.
“Yeah, boss?”
“Good shooting out there.”
“Thanks, boss.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Eventually, the strange cries faded, but it was a long time before any of them slept.
FOUR
Despite their interrupted slumber, the group was up early the next morning. None of them spoke much. They grumbled and groaned, bleary-eyed and stiff. Crystal knew where some coffee was located among the lumberjacks’ stores, and she endeared herself to the others by making a fresh pot. The aroma filled the room—rich and bold, lifting their spirits. Once they’d woken up a bit, Morgan walked outside, tin mug full of steaming coffee in his hand.
The valley was full of early morning fog. It had risen overnight, after they’d all gone back to bed. He could hear the river in the distance but he couldn’t see it. Indeed, his visibility was limited to a few feet in front of the cabin. The trees, rocks, and wildflowers were all lost beneath the thick, swirling haze. He’d only seen fog this thick twice in his life—once on a boat in Louisiana, and another time on the battlefield. He shuddered, recalling that second time, when Union soldiers had come charging out of the mist with a horrible cry. A lot of blood had been spilled that day, and Morgan swore the fog had turned red.
The porch boards creaked as Gunderson walked out and joined him. The big man placed a fresh wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth, worked it around with his tongue, and spat off the side of the porch. Then he scratched his cheek and stared at the swirling mists. Morgan waited for him to speak, but he didn’t. Morgan waited a few moments, but Gunderson only cleared his throat and shuffled his feet.