“Yeah,” Tom chimed in. “I don’t care much for the dog, but we can’t stand to lose you. So stay here and wait for the mangy sack of fur.”
Opening his mouth to issue a sharp retort, Nate froze when from the cliffs high above them there came a whistle in every respect exactly like his own.
Chapter Seventeen
“My God!” Milo exclaimed.
“It must be an echo,” Tom said.
Spinning, Milo glared at his friend. “Damn your hide! You know what’s up there as well as we do! It’s not the wind, and it’s not an echo.”
“Has to be an echo,” Tom stubbornly argued. “Since when do animals whistle like we do?”
Another whistle wafted down from the high elevations, distinct in the crisp mountain air, a perfect copy of Nate’s own whistling only louder.
Milo faced the Crow warrior. “What the hell is up there?” he demanded in a strained voice. “What are we up against?”
“I wish I could tell you. No one has ever seen the beast and lived.”
“You must know more. There must be something you’re not telling us,” Milo said, and jabbed a finger at the mountain. “How can a mere animal rout twenty Blackfeet? How can an animal whistle like that?” He paused, his fists clenched, shaking from the intensity of his emotion. “What the hell is it?”
Red Moon bowed his head.
“I’ve had enough,” Milo snapped, glancing at Sublette. “I don’t care what you say. We’re fools if we stay. Let’s mount up and ride out before it’s too late.”
Tom stepped over and put a hand on Benteen’s shoulder. “What’s gotten into you? We have an agreement.”
“To hell with the agreement!” Milo roared. “Didn’t you see the bodies of those poor Blackfeet? Didn’t you see their crushed skulls and busted limbs? Whatever killed them is a monster! A living, breathing monster that will do the same thing to us unless we leave this valley.” He stared at the peaks, his eyes wide. “That’s it! That’s the answer! The thing calls this valley home and it doesn’t like intruders. If we leave we’ll be safe. It won’t follow us. I know it.”
“I’m not leaving,” Tom said softly.
Milo whirled, his face creased in stark disbelief. “Weren’t you listening to me? We must go.”
“Listen to yourself,” Tom said. “You were all set to fight it out with a Blackfoot war party when we were badly outnumbered, but now you’re willing to turn tail, to turn your back on a fortune in prime pelts because of a lowly animal?”
“We don’t know if it is an animal.”
“What else, then? A ghost? Ghosts don’t crush skulls and rip arms from bodies. This thing is flesh and blood like you and me, and like us it can be killed. All it takes is a well-placed ball in its head.”
Nate saw Milo frown, saw sorrowful resignation in the man’s eyes, and he felt sorry for him. Milo knew they were making the biggest mistake of their lives by staying, but he couldn’t convince his best friend. And since they were good friends, Milo couldn’t very well ride off and leave Sublette to face the creature alone. Milo was trapped by his friendship, just as Nate was committed because he had given his word and Red Moon because of his ailing grandson. All three wanted to leave. None of them could.
“If you say so,” Milo said to Tom in a forlorn fashion. Stepping to his bedroll, he rolled out his blankets and turned in without another word, cradling his rifle in his arms.
Tom made a clucking noise in reproach, then also spread out his blankets. After lying on his back he placed his right forearm over his eyes, and within a minute he sound asleep.
Coffee was in order, Nate decided, savoring the stimulating taste, his gaze roving over the meadow. The horses were all at rest. Nothing moved in the trees. Although he listened intently, he did not hear the whistle repeated.
For the rest of the night Nate drank coffee to keep himself awake and paced around the camp, seldom standing still for more than a few seconds. Worry over Samson bothered him and he longed to see the big dog loping toward him from the forest.
Eventually dawn created a crimson blaze in the sky to the east. Normally, the birds would rouse to life and chirp gaily to greet the new day. But here, in the oppressive shadow of the sinister mountain, few did so. A robin here. A sparrow there. For the most part the forest was as silent as a tomb.
Nate woke up Benteen and Sublette. Neither was in a pleasant frame of mind. Milo grumbled a sour “Good morning.” Tom scowled at the world in general. All four of them huddled around the fire to drink coffee and munch on jerked venison.
At last Milo said, “Do we continue up the stream or should we begin trapping right where we are?”
“We go upstream,” Tom responded. “Why start here when we’re only about halfway up the fork? Think of all the beaver we’ll lose.”
“I’m thinking of staying alive,” Milo said.
“Now don’t start again.”
Nate could see an argument blossoming. He held up a hand to draw their attention. “Why don’t we compromise? We can use this spot as our base camp for a while and trap the stream in both directions. If all goes well, if we trap for a couple of days and the thing that killed the Blackfeet doesn’t give us any trouble, we can press on to the end of the fork.”
“I like the idea,” Milo said.
“Well, I don’t,” Tom declared. “But I know better than to waste my breath trying to change your minds. If you promise me that we’ll go up the fork once we’ve caught all the beaver there are in this stretch of the stream, I’ll agree.”
“I said we would,” Nate reminded him.
“All right. Milo and I will lay our traps northwest of the camp. The Crow and you can lay yours to the southeast,” Tom proposed.
Nate’s temper flared. “The Crow, as you constantly refer to him, has a name.”
“And we all know what it is, don’t we?” Tom retorted. Upending his coffee cup over the fire as he rose, he glanced at Benteen. “Come on, Milo. I find the company here as stale as week-old bread.” He walked off to the pile of trapping gear.
“Sorry, Nate,” Milo said, and trailed his companion.
Nate waited until they departed, each burdened with six traps, before he put his cup down and opened the pack containing his Newhouses. He issued a half dozen to Red Moon, took six for himself, then remembered to completely extinguish the fire before making for the stream.
They emerged from the undergrowth close to a large beaver damn. Nate found a likely spot and placed his first Newhouse of the day. Sticking close to the water’s edge, they hiked southeast and took turns positioning the rest of their traps. By the time they were done the sun was almost to the midday position. Not once had they seen or heard anything out of the ordinary.
Nate lent Red Moon a hand in climbing out of the frigid water after the Crow set the final one. “Let’s go hunting after we reach camp,” he suggested. “I’m tired of jerky, and since the beast knows we’re here there’s no reason not to fire our guns.”
“Fresh elk meat would be nice.”
About to agree, Nate gazed at the brush on the far side and spied movement in a thicket. Every muscle in his body tensed. He swung the Hawken to his shoulder, cocked the hammer, and took a bead on a dark form flitting through the vegetation toward the water.
“Don’t shoot,” Red Moon said.
From between two pines near the water appeared Samson. He spotted them instantly and without hesitation plunged into the gently flowing water. His legs kicking in powerful strokes, he swam toward where they stood.
Relief made Nate smile. Dropping to one knee, he gestured for the dog to keep coming. “That’s it, boy,” he encouraged. “You’re doing fine.”
“Something follows the dog,” Red Moon said.
Nate glanced at the forest rimming the opposite bank, his blood turning cold at the sight of the same thicket through which Samson had passed now swaying from side to side as something else moved through it. Standing, he clutched the Hawken and waited for wh
atever it was to show itself. But the thicket stopped moving and all was still.
“It watches us,” Red Moon declared.
“Do you see it?”
“No. But I know.”
Nate longed for a glimpse of the creature, just enough to see what it was. He thought he saw a pine tree shake, but the motion ceased so abruptly he wasn’t sure.
Splashing loudly, Samson reached the shore and clambered onto the bank. He paused to shake himself, spraying water in all directions.
Some drops spattered on Nate’s face. He tore his eyes from the far bank so he could give the dog an affectionate rub under the chin. “Where have you been?” he demanded as if talking to an errant child. “I’ve been worried about you.”
“We should leave, Grizzly Killer,” Red Moon said.
Nate nodded. Benteen and Sublette should be told that the creature had descended from the heights and was in the area. He backed from the stream until he bumped against a tree, then spun and hurried for camp. Samson stayed close to him. Where had the dog gone? he wondered. Up the mountain? Why? Had it somehow trailed the creature by scent to its lair, and then the beast had followed Samson back down? No, that couldn’t be. The creature would have killed Samson.
At length he saw the meadow through the trees and hastened his pace. He was still twenty yards off when he perceived that all was not well. First he noticed the horses. They were bunched together, their heads up, their ears pricked, their attention on the woods to the northwest. Then, through a gap in the trees, the camp itself came into view.
Nate halted in alarm. The contents of their packs lay all over the ground! He placed his right hand on a flintlock and broke into a run, bursting from the brush onto a scene of total, wanton destruction.
Every pack, every parfleche, every pouch had been upended. The food had been trampled into the dust. Their clothes and blankets had been shredded and scattered about. The water bags had been torn apart and flung aside. Even worse, many of their pelts had been ripped in half. And an axe handle had been broken in two as a man might snap a twig.
“The beast did this,” Red Moon said.
“How?” Nate responded in exasperation. “It was behind us. How did it do this?” He moved among the debris, seeking anything that could be salvaged. But the creature had done a thorough job of destroying every last article they possessed. Even the coffeepot had been smashed.
To the northwest there arose a crashing in the forest as something barreled through the brush toward their camp.
The thing! Nate’s mind shrieked, and he whirled with the Hawken leveled. A running figure materialized, a figure in buckskins, and seconds later Milo Benteen dashed into the open. He took several paces, spotted them, and halted. His breath came in great gasps. There were thin cuts on his cheeks where the brush had lashed his face, and his hat was gone.
“Milo?” Nate said, running over to him. “What is it? What happened?” He looked into the forest. “Where’s Tom?”
Benteen inhaled raggedly and tried to speak but failed. His features were pale, almost the color of milk. He motioned to his rear and croaked, “Gone. Tom is gone.”
“What do you mean?” Nate asked, grasping the terrified man by the arm. “Tell us what happened!”
“The thing,” Milo said, tears forming in his eyes. “The thing,” he repeated softly, and sank to his knees, his head bowed.
Nate hefted his rifle and came to an immediate decision. “I’m going after Tom,” he told Red Moon. “You stay here and try to bring Milo around.”
“Be careful.”
“You too. Keep an eye on the trees,” Nate advised. He leaned down and shook Milo. “Where did you see Tom last?”
Benteen stared blankly at the grass and didn’t answer.
“How far up the stream did you go?” Nate persisted.
“He is in shock,” Red Moon said.
“Damn,” Nate muttered, and took off in the direction of the stream. He checked to verify Samson was tagging along, then ran all out, bounding over logs and skirting trees and thickets, the Hawken always gripped in both hands. He knew the thing was close by. He could feel it in his bones. A lapse of alertness now would spell his certain death.
He reached the fork and stopped. In the soft earth next to the stream were two sets of tracks, both moccasin prints. Tom and Milo had been moving upstream seeking places to put their traps.
In order to make better time, Nate jumped into the water and then ventured upstream. The undergrowth hugging the bank dipped low in many spots, nearly touching the surface, and he shied well clear of those points, wary of being jumped by the beast. Trailing the Pennsylvanians was simplicity itself. They’d made no effort to hide their tracks and there were many in evidence at the water’s edge. He came to where they had placed their first trap, and halted.
Something had wrenched the stake from the earth, hauled the trap out, and bent the heavy steel as if it had been mere paper. The crumpled contraption now lay on the bank, completely useless. A partial print in the mud told the story.
Nate realized the creature had been shadowing the Pennsylvanians, observing them lay the trap line. After they had set this one and gone on, it had probably waited until they were out of sight and then slipped from concealment to do its dirty work. He studied the trap and discovered the jaws had been sprung prior to being twisted into so much useless metal. The beast must have used a stick to push the disk down and release the trigger.
He straightened in astonishment. There were many tales of wolves and wolverines that had raided trap lines and taken dead beaver off to eat, but in those instances the beaver were always torn from the traps and parts of their bodies were still held fast by the closed jaws. Never had he heard of an animal deliberately springing a trap. The creature must have done so to prevent the jaws from closing on it when it twisted the metal.
Nate stared at the forest, staggered by the discovery. This thing—this fiend—must be extraordinarily intelligent, far more intelligent than any animal he’d ever encountered. He dared not underestimate its intellect.
Samson began testing the air with his nose.
What did the dog smell? Nate surveyed the forest on both sides but saw no cause for concern. He headed up the stream again, his feet soaked to the ankles. In due course he found a second trap lying on the bank of a beaver pond. This trap had been accorded the same treatment as the first.
The tracks of Milo and Tom were still fresh. Apparently they’d had no idea they were being pursued. Now and then they’d position a Newhouse and go on. Exercising stealth and cunning the creature had closed in, gradually overtaking them.
Nate tramped for over three miles and spotted seven ruined traps. Then he rounded a bend and saw a tributary on his side of the stream, a narrow creek wending off among the trees. At the junction he stopped and scoured the ground.
The tracks told the story. Milo and Tom had halted and talked, and one of them had gone off up the tributary, perhaps to check for beaver. From the length of the stride and size of the footprints of the man who had gone to investigate the creek, Nate knew Tom had volunteered to handle the chore. Milo had continued up the stream, finished setting the traps, and returned. He’d promptly proceeded along the creek at a rapid clip, no doubt worried because Tom hadn’t met him at the junction.
Nate gave Samson a pat on the head and jogged along the creek bank. The brush was thinner and he made good time. In a quarter of a mile he came to a beaver pond and saw a lodge out in the water. The tracks of Sublette and Benteen circled the pond so he did the same until he stood beside a dam where he halted to study the terrain.
Tom Sublette was straight ahead.
Nate stiffened on seeing the stocky form of the Pennsylvanian seated in front of a log near the water. Sublette’s arms were draped casually at his sides, his rifle resting across his thighs. The shadow of a towering pine partially obscured Sublette’s head and shoulders, and Nate couldn’t tell in which direction the man was looking. “Tom!” he crie
d.
Sublette didn’t move or acknowledge the hail.
Fearing the worst, Nate ran forward, covering almost the entire thirty feet before the awful truth drew him up short in unspeakable horror. He gaped, finally seeing the ragged flesh rimming the neck and the flies buzzing greedily about.
It was Tom Sublette, all right.
But just his body.
His head was gone.
Chapter Eighteen
Stunned, Nate cautiously advanced. Goose flesh broke out all over his body and his scalp tingled. Samson glided past him and sniffed Sublette’s feet, then growled.
Evidently Tom had hiked this far and sat down to rest, his spine braced against the log, his back to the deep woods. How long he had sat there was impossible to gauge, but clearly long enough for the creature to slink out of hiding, creep up on the unsuspecting man, and tear Tom’s head off. Strips of skin hung like tiny flaps over the collar of his buckskin shirt. Because of the copious blood that had spurted out when the head was ripped off, the shirt had been dyed a shade of pink.
Nate suppressed an impulse to be sick. He glanced at the log and slowly inched up to it. Beyond lay the missing head.
Tom’s visage was oddly tranquil, as if death had seized him before he was aware of the creature’s horrid grip. Perhaps, Nate reasoned, the end had come swiftly.
He noticed a hole in the top of the head and leaned down for a closer examination. Again his stomach heaved and he drew back, appalled to his core. The top of Tom’s head had been peeled back in the same manner as an orange and the contents of his cranial cavity scooped out. Nate looked for the brain but saw no sign of it. A grisly idea occurred to him and he shuddered.
At that moment, faint but audible, from the vicinity of the meadow came the retort of a rifle.
The camp was under attack! Nate pivoted, darted around the log, and raced off. Instead of following the stream, which entailed taking a circuitous route, he made a beeline for the meadow. He plowed through heavy brush and thickets, using the Hawken to batter a path where the vegetation was especially dense, oblivious to the many tiny branches that bit into his face and neck. All he could think of was Red Moon and Milo. They were in dire danger and he must reach them before the beast did to them what it had done to Tom and the Blackfeet.
Wilderness: Mountain Devil/Blackfoot Massacre (A Wilderness Western Book 5) Page 13