Human beings.
Much like wolves, humans were social creatures that sought the company of like-minded individuals. Also much like wolves, a man’s pack could accomplish great things to help ensure survival. There was a problem with these shared traits, however. Whether a group of wolves or a group of men, the result was always the same.
Put enough of them together, for any reason, and the result was inevitably violence.
The difference, in Roosevelt’s opinion, was that men possessed ego as well as id. It was this conflicted nature that often compelled men to curtail their baser instincts and appeal to their better angels. And even if a single man did succumb to his darker appetites, other men would challenge his transgressions. It was the rule of law. The cornerstone of civilized society.
A wolf knew no such conflict, neither within itself or its pack. They were driven only by a need to spill blood, whether for necessity or for sport. Either way, death did not follow them; they delivered it.
After mealtime on the ranch he used to call home, Roosevelt had often enjoyed a cigar on the porch as he watched the sun surrender to the night. It was during that changing of the guard that he would muse on a variety of challenging thoughts, dabbling in conjecture and the darker brooding that had crept into his mind after his wife’s death. Those shadowed thoughts often involved the wolves, their natures and their deeds.
He had come to the conclusion that he did not loathe the animals for their single-minded nature, nor for the wanton devastation they left in their wake. The real reason was that they represented the worst of humanity. Roosevelt had seen war. He had seen the worst that man had to offer. He had seen men who were no better than wolves.
Men with no use for family, or companionship, or society as a whole.
When the Rough Riders were formed, volunteers from all over the nation had applied. Most of them were good, decent men who wanted to serve their country, or had left the military and not yet found their place in the world. The brotherhood of soldiers provided a camaraderie seldom found elsewhere; the crucible of combat forged powerful bonds. For many men, the military was where they felt most comfortable. It was their home.
And then there was the othertype of volunteer. The kind that Roosevelt abhorred, even if he had found uses for them on occasion.
These were the men who wanted to kill. They enjoyed murder. Savored it. The type of men who not only took pleasure in killing other men, but took even greater pleasure in watching them die. Sadists. Degenerates. Cruel men who knew neither empathy nor honor.
Lone wolves.
While effective on the battlefield for their sheer blood lust, they disgusted Roosevelt. They had no code of ethics or sense of loyalty. They were opportunists of the worst sort: only happy once their hands were soaked in blood; hands that could have built homes, bridges and churches; hands that could have sown fields, reaped harvests or folded themselves into prayer. They were men who thrived on destruction and chaos and despised creation. Just like wolves.
Roosevelt drained the lukewarm coffee from his cup. He was not disposed to sleep, but knew it was a necessity. The day before them was long. The day after that would be longer. Hunting was not a game of pursuit, it was a game of patience. A tired man was not a patient man.
He returned to his sleeping bag and pulled it tight to ward against the crippling cold. He closed his eyes. The sound the wind carried was faint, but unmistakable.
The distant howling of wolves.
Jake Cutler cinched the cord around his bedding before loading it onto his horse. He looked around as Roosevelt and the Indian performed similar tasks. Jake knew the other men had more years of hunting experience between them than he himself had years of living. Roosevelt had brought him along for only two reasons.
The first was that he needed the extra hands. Jake was not yet old enough to grow a proper beard, but he was a hard worker and stronger than his lean frame suggested. He was as good with a knife as with an axe, and he knew just about all there was to know about wilderness life.
He owed those skills to the miserable son-of-a-bitch that had been his father. The man had been an intolerable and abusive drunk, but a skilled trapper. Once Jake reached his manhood, his father had decided it was time for him to learn the family trade. For the next five years, Jake had spent most of his time traveling the Territories with his father as the old man trapped just enough to put food on the table and keep himself in liquor.
Jake learned everything there was to know about living under the stars. He could fashion snares, start a fire in a thunderstorm, pull water from the driest soil, and even scavenge for plants to be used as food or medicine. He learned these skills because he had his mother’s wits, and because the price for failing a lesson or task was a savage beating at the hands of his soused father.
The second reason Roosevelt had hired him was that Jake was a crack shot with a rifle.
Jake had learned humility growing up and, for obvious reasons, seldom drank. However, on those rare occasions that he found himself in his cups, his humility disappeared and he spoke the truth. Crack shot was an understatement. If there was a better man with a rifle in the Territories, Jake had yet to meet him. He could take down a rabbit on the move at six hundred yards and most people on the western side of the Territories knew it.
Eventually, the word of Jake’s prowess spread to Bill Sewall and Wilmot Dow, friends of Roosevelt that had benefited from his interest in politics and the diminishing returns on Elkhorn. Roosevelt’s renewed presence in the Dakota Territories had become a sensational subject of conversation among the locals after his exploits in Cuba and his incumbent status as Governor of New York. However, it was still a surprise to Jake when a young Indian boy arrived at his homestead and handed him a letter written by the man himself.
Jake’s ability to read was limited as he had never had a formal education. Jake’s father had begrudgingly allowed his mother to teach her son rudimentary reading and writing in addition to basic arithmetic, but the letter had proved beyond him.
His mother had read it to him. He could still remember her scarred face transforming in the lamplight as she read aloud. Jake had listened halfheartedly as he watched her read. It was not for lack of interest; it was that his attention was arrested by the change in her disposition. The further she read, the more her spirits lifted.
Her son was being considered for employment by the great Theodore Roosevelt. A national hero. A man of station and respect, the exact opposite of the monster she had wed. An esteemed man who had taken interest in her only son. For the first time since his father had died, she looked genuinely happy.
In his mind, Jake had already accepted the job, whatever it may have been. He was eternally grateful to Roosevelt for giving his mother that single moment of joy. She had suffered too much in her life for Jake to deny her the pleasure of telling the other women in town that her son had been hand selected by none other than the legendary Roosevelt.
“Secure that tight, son,” Roosevelt called from across the camp, “We’ve got some rough terrain ahead and we’ll be picking up the pace. We need to make the valley by nightfall or we’ll be wishing for the Devil himself to warm our beds tonight.”
“Yessir,” Jake responded, “I don’t suppose we’ve got a resupply anywhere out there?”
“The Garnett ranch,” Avonaco offered.
Though Jake was careful not to show it, the sound of Avonaco’s voice startled him. It was not because the Indian’s voice was loud, in fact, it was low and raspy due to a lifetime affinity for tobacco and alcohol. It was simply because the man rarely spoke; and if he did, it was never more than a handful of words. Jake originally assumed the Native’s English was simply limited, but after a few nights of shared campfires, he realized that the man’s taciturn demeanor was far more calculated.
Avonaco was what Jake’s mother would have referred to as a quick one. He listened more than he spoke; and as Jake had learned, when he spoke, he spoke carefully. He chose his
words for maximum efficiency and minimum scrutiny.
At first, Avonaco’s reserved nature had roused Jake’s suspicions. He had known many Indians in his time, and he felt that the majority of them fell into one of two categories: broken spirits or silently enraged. The broken spirits had simply accepted the new world order imposed upon them and were doing their best to carve a niche in a society that viewed them as less than human. The silently enraged held their tongues and averted their eyes, but their contempt and fury was palpable on the rare occasions they had dealings with anyone of European descent.
Avonaco fell into neither of those categories. He, like Roosevelt, was a unique beast. He was a survivor, not a victim. It was evident in his posture, demeanor and his speech. He was neither angry nor afraid. However, it was most evident in his interactions with Roosevelt.
The Native spoke to the American legend as an equal. They always met one another’s gaze when they spoke, never equivocated their positions and, most importantly, always ended their conversations in agreement. Jake had never seen a relationship between two men built on such deep levels of respect. That had led the young man to one inescapable conclusion.
What he knew about the world beyond the Territories amounted to a little less than a cup of horse piss.
“That ranch is too far,” Roosevelt countered. “If we wind up within shooting distance of Garnett’s land, we’ll have lost the pack.”
“Not these wolves,” Avonaco said in a tone that implied the statement should have been common knowledge.
Jake had never been very keen when it came to social dynamics, so he was usually reticent to join conversations in progress. However, there was something about Avonaco’s statement that unsettled him. It was not the content, but the context. Jake was suddenly struck with the feeling that Roosevelt and Avonaco were aware of information to which he himself was not privy.
“What makes these wolves so special?” Jake asked.
Avonaco turned to face the younger man. Despite the distance between them, Jake could clearly see the Indian’s coal black eyes narrow. Even Roosevelt ceased packing. Jake sneaked a glance in the man’s direction and saw what he expected: Roosevelt’s expression was passive and relaxed. Jake had come to learn that meant their employer was observing and evaluating.
“The wolf huntsprey,” Avonaco began, “It stalks. It separates the herd. It kills.”
“And these wolves are different.”
“These beastsare not hunting,” Avonaco explained, “They are leadingus.”
Jake pondered his response.
“Maybe they’re just running scared.”
“Not this pack,” Avonaco dismissed, “These animals do not know fear.”
Jake opted to stand his ground.
“All animals know fear, Avonaco,” Jake rebutted, “If you’ve ever come across one in a trap, you’d know that.”
Avonaco nodded in agreement, turned and resumed readying his mount.
Jake looked over at Roosevelt.
“Did I miss something?”
Roosevelt eyed Jake for a long moment. The younger man felt an overwhelming urge to avert his eyes, but a voice inside him, a voice his drunken, tyrannical father had done his best to silence, urged him otherwise.
Jake held both his ground and Roosevelt’s gaze. The pregnant moment hung in the crisp, morning air. Whatever was happening, it was a crucial moment. An excruciating moment.
Just when Jake concluded he had made a critical miscalculation, Roosevelt produced a wry smile.
“You didn’t miss a thing, young man.”
Jake opened his mouth to respond, but the older man had already turned away. Jake considered pressing the point, but it was obvious the other two considered the matter settled. Whatever the matter had been.
Whatever it was, I guess I’ll know the answer soon enough.
Another voice quietly chimed inside his head. A voice he had not heard since the night his father died. A voice Jake had hoped he would never hear again.
Are you sure that is what you want?
I can’t answer that until I know the thing I don’t know.
True, but by then it will be too late.
Jake shrugged the voice away and finished preparing his mount. His enthusiasm for the day ahead had waned considerably.
Though dark clouds hovered in the sky, the snowstorms had abated. The horses cut shallow furrows of mud and slush as the three men urged them onward.
Like many men, Roosevelt viewed horses as companions. And like many men, he had learned the consequences of that sentiment in the most brutal fashion imaginable. War was the ugliest of enterprises, and not all of its casualties were human.
As dark as those days had been for man and beast, Roosevelt had also learned that the friendship between men was no different than that between a man and his horse. Both required fundamental respect and communication. Over the years, his attitude toward the animals had elicited more than a few belly laughs from his contemporaries.
Their ribbing had not perturbed Roosevelt. Those men saw horses as beasts of burden; nothing more than tools used to accomplish goals. Roosevelt had a different perspective. He had never gone into battle with an untested rifle. Only a fool gambled his life with nothing more than blind faith. Preparation was the key to success in any endeavor. Thus, he maintained his firearms with meticulous care, and he felt his animals should be treated no differently.
The end result of Roosevelt’s attitude was that his horses did not resist when pushed by their riders. They made good time, even under poor conditions. The animals tolerated the most unpleasant weather without complaint and if the need arose, they would run themselves into the ground if he deemed it necessary.
Roosevelt truly hoped their situation would not come to that. If he and the others were smart and fleet, they might resolve their hunt efficiently and decisively. Although he knew that was only if everything from the timing to the weather broke in their favor. Unfortunately, in Roosevelt’s experience, those were long odds.
Very long odds.
Avonaco discovered the body.
The party had stopped for lunch. Avonaco had led them to a small stream where the horses could slake their thirst and Jake had provided venison jerky in addition to canned peaches, an unexpected treat. After the brief meal, Avonaco and Jake had excused themselves to tend to nature’s call.
In the interim, Roosevelt had busied checking each of the mounts’ shoes. He was carefully inspecting Jake’s mount when a voice sounded behind him. Startled, Roosevelt dropped his hand to his pistol. It was an act of pure instinct, and he felt almost foolish as Avonaco finished speaking.
“Follow me,” the Native instructed in a tone devoid of urgency.
I swear that man is part ghost, Roosevelt thought.
Not many men could get the jump on Theodore Roosevelt Jr. Avonaco was among that elite group. By all outward appearances, the Native was, at best, an aging man with less years to spend than years he had banked. At worst, he looked like a career drunk who split his time evenly between the bottom of a bottle and the ditch behind the saloon that served it to him.
In Roosevelt’s experience, judging a man from his appearance was often a critical mistake, sometimes fatal. When he had been a much younger man, Roosevelt had taken up boxing, a noble sport that tested both the mind and body. During that time, he witnessed more than one cocksure lad laid out by a fat opponent that they had believed to be slow, or a small opponent that they believed to be weak. It was one of the most valuable lessons that his time in the ring had taught him.
Never assume the outside of a man is his is total measure. If you do, prepare yourself for disappointment.
“What is it?” Roosevelt asked as he stood.
Avonaco’s face remained inscrutable.
“Best if you see.”
The corpse lay prone at the edge of the icy creek. Three things immediately struck Roosevelt. The body was Native, naked and had been shredded by teeth and claws. The dead m
an’s back and thighs had been sliced to ribbons in an unusually brutal and savage fashion.
He had not been eaten.
There were no signs of predation. The flesh had been mutilated, but not consumed. Both the tissue and muscle had been riven to the bone. Purple bruising had formed at the edges of the ragged wounds, although most of the blood had been swept away by the running water. The entire milieu led Roosevelt to a single conclusion.
It had not been an act of hunger. It had been an act of murder.
Roosevelt knelt beside the corpse as he spoke.
“No sign of clothing? Horse tracks?”
“None,” Avonaco replied in his usual terse manner.
“Then . . . ” Roosevelt began as he faced Avonaco, “Why? Why murder him?”
Avonaco scanned the opposite bank of the creek as he considered his response. After a moment, he spoke.
“A challenge,” he replied, “Or an offense.”
“What kind of offense?”
“Mating. Theft. Disrespect.”
“I’ve known more than a few men who’ve been shot for less,” Roosevelt quipped as he continued to inspect the wounds. “We should—”
“What the hell is that?!”
Both Roosevelt and Avonaco reached for their sidearms as they pivoted. Jake was oblivious to their actions. His attention was tightly focused on the mutilated corpse laying at the water’s edge. Roosevelt and Avonaco exchanged glances, then relaxed as the stunned youth continued to stare at the naked body.
“Christ on a cross!” Jake exclaimed to no one in particular, “What happened here?”
“That is what we are trying to discern,” Roosevelt said as he returned his attention to the corpse, making a mental note about Jake’s silent approach. Apparently the elite group, of which Avonaco was a member, was growing larger by the day.
Jake traversed the bank with ease as he spoke.
“No mystery there, sir.”
“Why’s that?” Roosevelt asked without turning away.
“That’s the work of some mighty big wolves if you ask me.”
Fantastic Tales of Terror Page 36