Jake looked across the rising flames of the campfire as he answered the question.
“Can’t say that I am,” Jake acknowledged, “But to be honest, I’m mostly concerned about catching the drip. I really don’t ask too much about being eaten alive.”
“Then I’m sorry, Jake,” Roosevelt’s expression was as sincere as his voice. “Because you’ll never see this world the same way once we’re done. I wish I could have done this differently. I wish I could undo a lot of what’s been done. But that ship sailed long ago,” Roosevelt concluded. “What’s done is done. Now we need to focus on the task at hand.”
“And what is the task at hand, sir?”
Roosevelt nodded as he addressed Avonaco.
“Now’s as good a time as any. Give ‘em over.”
Avonaco’s only acknowledgment of Roosevelt’s order was to stand and disappear into the darkness beyond the campfire. Jake watched as the night swallowed Avonaco. He turned his attention back to Roosevelt. The elder statesman clenched a cigar between his teeth as he plucked a sliver of wood from the fire. He touched the glowing splinter to the tip of the cigar and inhaled.
“How familiar are you with Native lore, Jake?” Roosevelt asked as he exhaled a plume of thick smoke. Jake watched as the smoke tumbled and expanded in the firelight. As the cloud dissipated, Jake answered.
“If I take your meaning, not much, sir. I’ve heard a few stories about medicine men and witch doctors, but nothing that didn’t sound like superstitious nonsense.”
Roosevelt took a keen interest in the smoldering tip of his cigar. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger as he spoke.
“So you don’t give much credence to tales of witches, ghosts and goblins?”
“No, sir,” Jake confirmed, “I’m not going to say I haven’t heard a few things in these parts that made my nape hairs stand up. Some of these night creatures can give you the willies when you’re out late and alone. But it’s never anything unnatural. Just an angry owl or a fox with his horn up.”
Roosevelt chuckled. “What if I told you that some of those stories weren’t for children, and some of those midnight calls were something other than a fox looking for company?”
“If it were anybody else, I’d tell them to lay off the hooch,” Jake admitted, “But on account of your reputation and your plain-spoken mind, I’d be inclined to listen.”
Avonaco appeared at the periphery of the campfire.
Christ Almighty, Jake thought. That man is as silent as a shadow.
The tracker was holding small boxes that Jake immediately recognized, boxes of ammunition. Avonaco held them for Roosevelt to inspect. Roosevelt nodded his approval and Avonaco stepped over to Jake as he presented the boxes.
Jake looked up at the Native with querulous eyes. Avonaco’s expression remained impassive as he patiently waited for Jake to relieve him of the boxes.
“Thanks.”
Avonaco offered the slightest of nods before returning to his seat by the fire. Jake looked over at Roosevelt who simply indicated the boxes with a casual wave of his cigar. Jake turned his attention to the boxes.
The print indicated he was holding a box of .56-56 Spencer rimfire cartridges. Jake’s brow furrowed. It was not the caliber of the ammunition that perplexed him. They were the correct rounds for his rifle, a Spencer 1860. It was the fact that it was common knowledge among the group that he had five boxes totaling a hundred rounds in his saddle bags and about half that for his double-action Colt revolver.
“I don’t understand,” he said as he looked over at Roosevelt, “Just as you asked, I brought enough rounds to fight a whole tribe of Apaches.” Jake glanced sideways at Avonaco, “No offense.”
“None taken,” Avonaco did not look away from the campfire as he spoke. “I’m not Apache.”
“One of those boxes is for your rifle and one for your pistol,” Roosevelt explained, “Why don’t you open it up and take a gander?”
Jake obeyed. He leaned forward into the firelight as he pulled the top from the box. For a moment, he stared, uncomprehending. With a hint of amusement, Roosevelt watched as realization spread over Jake’s features. Jake plucked a rifle round from the box and scrutinized it in the firelight.
“Is this what I think it is?”
“Can’t read your mind, son,” Roosevelt responded as he took a long drag from his cigar.
“Are these bullets silver?”
“Indeed they are.”
“These must have cost a fortune,” Jake quietly exclaimed.
“I wouldn’t say a fortune; I will admit they were not cheap,” Roosevelt clarified, “But they are essential.”
“I’m man enough to admit that I’m a might bit confused, Mr. Roosevelt.”
“I’d feel the same way if you weren’t confused, Mr. Cutler. However now that we’ve arrived at this moment, I can indulge in some of that plain speech of which you are so fond.”
Roosevelt stubbed his cigar into the damp earth and sipped a lukewarm cup of coffee before continuing. “I’m afraid I told you a half-truth at the beginning of our journey. The politicians in New York would refer to it as a lie of omission. I prefer to think of it in military terms.”
For the first time since meeting Roosevelt, Jake experienced something truly unexpected. Doubt. Despite the older man’s and Avonaco’s occasional cryptic behavior, Jake had never questioned their intentions or integrity. Roosevelt was known for both his honesty and strength of character and Jake had long decided the Indian was a straight shooter.
“I never enlisted, sir,” he began, “So, you understand I might need a little explaining.”
“In the Cavalry, information is only offered on a need to know basis,” Roosevelt said, “And the further you are down the chain of command, the less you need to know.”
“If we’re not out here to hunt wolves, Mr. Roosevelt, then I would sure appreciate you telling me why we’ve been churning earth for the last four days. Not to mention,” Jake added as he tapped the box of ammunition, “what I’m supposed to do with these.”
“Well, son,” Roosevelt said between sips of coffee, “We are here to hunt wolves and we aren’t.”
Jake stared at him with a blank expression.
“Maybe I should let Avonaco take it from here. Mr. Avonaco?”
Avonaco looked from Roosevelt to Jake as the younger man turned toward him, expectantly. Avonaco removed a long-stemmed pipe from his jacket and began unrolling his tobacco pouch.
“The English word is skin-walkers. They are wicked outcasts from many tribes. Men and women who consort with dark spirits.”
“Think witches,” Roosevelt interjected.
Avonaco lit his pipe before resuming.
“The skin-walker forsakes his ancestors and the ways of his people for unnatural power. They live in the wild lands. They answer to no man. No spirits other than those that dwell in the shadows.”
Jake was mesmerized by Avonaco’s explanation. His voice was low and his speech deliberate. Avonaco and Roosevelt seemed to genuinely believe the tale the Native was spinning.
Avonaco believing, Jake could understand. It was part of his culture. He had lived with it all of his life. But Roosevelt was an educated man. A practical man. The idea that Roosevelt would entertain such ghost stories as truth went against everything Jake knew about the man. If Jake had learned anything about him during their association, it was that Roosevelt was not a fanciful man.
“What are you saying, Avonaco?” Jake asked, although he suspected he already deduced the answer. He decided to follow his intuition. “Are you saying that the wolves we are hunting . . . aren’t wolves?”
“The skin-walker has the power to become a beast,” Avonaco clarified. “A wolf, a coyote or even a fox.”
“And you’re saying these wolves aren’t wolves? They’re really people?”
“They werepeople,” Roosevelt clarified. “The way Avonaco tells it, the longer they live as wolves, the harder it is for them to change
back into men.”
“And you believe all this . . . ” Jake searched for the least insulting word in his limited vocabulary. “This . . . superstition?”
“It is only a superstitionuntil you see it with your own eyes,” Roosevelt replied.
“And you saw something,” Jake concluded.
“A few years back, I was a rancher in these parts, as you know.”
Jake nodded as Roosevelt continued, “One night, I was on the porch enjoying a cigar and a wee sip of brandy when I heard an unholy ruckus in the main barn. I got my rifle and went to investigate. I’d had trouble before with thieves on that land and I was eager to catch one of them with their hand in the till. That’s what I thought I was stepping into.”
Roosevelt paused as he retrieved his cigar and lit it again. He inhaled a lungful of smoke before continuing. “Instead, I found the barn doors open and one of my prized stallions dead and gutted. Blood everywhere and chunks of him all around,” he stared into the fire as the memories surged through him, “I’ve seen a lot of ugliness in my time. I’ve seen too much bloodshed, watched as good men lay praying and pleading as they died.”
Roosevelt looked away from the fire as he fixed his eyes on Jake. It was a haunted gaze.
“But I’ve never seen a slaughter so savage. Vicious. My mares were still bucking and whinnying. I won’t mince words. My short hairs were at full attention. So was my rifle. And that was a good thing.”
Roosevelt took a moment to sip his coffee.
“The wolf came out of nowhere. It happened fast. I shot it once. That slowed it down, but it wasn’t stopping. I had maybe a couple of seconds to get off another shot and there must have been an angel on my shoulder that night.”
“You hit it in the head,” Jake concluded.
“No, son,” Roosevelt corrected, “My shot went overhis head. What I didn’t know then was I could have shot it a dozen times, and it would have kept coming. What saved my life was the lamp I was carrying.”
“The lamp?”
“The beast leaped and knocked me ass over tea kettle. It was on me a moment later. All I could see were red eyes and fangs. I didn’t think. I just swung the lamp and smashed it against the murderous creature. The lamp shattered and the next thing I knew the whole world was on fire. The thing howled as burning oil covered its whole side and half its head. It was an ungodly sight for certain.”
“I slipped out from under it, grabbed another oil lamp hanging by the door and hurled it at the flaming monster. It exploded, and then the wolf was fully engulfed. I watched it spin and squeal like a hellhound chasing its tail. It was something out of a nightmare.”
“But you killed it,” Jake stated.
“I did.” Roosevelt confirmed. “That’s when the real nightmare started.”
Roosevelt paused as he took another long drag from his cigar. Smoke spilled from his mouth as he resumed.
“I watched the thing burn for I don’t remember how long and then it collapsed. I thought that was the end of it, but then it started to . . . ” he considered his word choice, “change. It was as charred as those embers, but it started growing.”
“Growing?”
“The skin stretched and split as it got . . . longer. I heard the cooked flesh tear and bones snap as it turned back into a man right before my eyes. It was burnt to the bone so I couldn’t see any features, but it was a man. Make no mistake about that.”
Jake leaned away from the fire and rubbed his eyes with his palms. Roosevelt’s tale was beyond implausible. It was impossible fiction. The kind of thing boys fabricated as a prank to dupe their unsuspecting friends.
However, Jake could not reconcile the idea that Roosevelt and Avonaco had concocted the story, hired Jake, rode hard for four days in the miserable cold and spent a king’s ransom on silver bullets just to have a laugh at his expense. Whether or not it had happened, Roosevelt believedit had. And Avonaco did not strike Jake as the kind of man who would indulge a man’s delusions to simply swindle Roosevelt out of a few dollars.
In the Territories, the boxes of bullets alone would have fetched more than most men would earn in a decade. If it was about money, Avonaco would have lit out into the night long ago.
“What did you do?” Jake asked.
“Only thing I could,” Roosevelt answered, “I dug a deep hole, buried the remains, polished off the bottle of brandy, went to bed and tried to forget the whole nightmarish encounter. After that, I never spoke a word of the incident. Until I met Avonaco that is.”
“And he told you about the skin-walkers?”
“Indeed he did,” Roosevelt replied.
“For the sake of argument, let’s just say I believe all of this. Why would you seek these things out? Why not leave well enough alone?”
“Because these . . . creatures possess the basest instincts of both man and beast.” Roosevelt responded as he exhaled a cloud of smoke, “That means their only function is to kill, eat and breed. Do you understand?”
“I think I do.”
“Avonaco tells me their pack, for lack of a better word, is still small, but growing. He also tells me the only way to kill them is with fire or with silver. Fire consumes everything it touches, and according to my Native friend, silver poisons them.”
“You can take heads as well,” Avonaco added. “No living thing can live without its head.”
“That may be true, my friend,” Roosevelt acknowledged. “But I’m hoping we don’t get near enough for that. Seeing one of those things up close once was enough for this lifetime.”
Roosevelt took a swallow of coffee as he nursed his cigar. Several minutes passed with the only interruption of the ensuing silence the popping and crackling of the campfire. Jake studied the silver round as he considered Roosevelt’s tale.
Finally, Jake broke the stillness.
“I want to believe you, sir,” he began, “but you have to admit, it’s a wild tale by any measure.”
“It is,” Roosevelt agreed.
“But the way I see it, I signed on to hunt wolves,” Jake said as he looked up from the rifle round. “And that’s still the job. You say I have to hunt them with these,” he held up the round to accentuate his point, “then that’s what I’ll do. Lead or silver, it doesn’t matter. They all kill just the same. So no matter what I believe, this will kill them, right?”
Roosevelt and Avonaco shared a mutual glance across the diminishing flames. After a moment, Roosevelt offered a sage nod to Jake.
“Then that means the only thing that’s changed is the bullets I’m using,” Jake surmised. “After all, dead is dead, and it don’t matter how it got that way. Are we good with that?”
Roosevelt crushed the remainder of his cigar beneath his boot and smiled.
“I think we understand each other, Mr. Cutler,” Roosevelt stated, “Now, let’s discuss tomorrow night.”
“What happens tomorrow night, sir?”
Roosevelt’s smile widened as he leaned forward. The dancing flames of the campfire were reflected on the lenses of his spectacles.
“Tomorrow night, son,” he answered in a low voice, “tomorrow night, we hunt.”
Roosevelt had not slept well.
After his discussion with Jake, he had conferred with Avonaco. The Native had been correct. Roosevelt did not favor either of the options the tracker had presented. The two men had debated and deliberated until the fire had reduced itself to ash. As the moon dipped toward the horizon, they came to an agreement, but Roosevelt was still unhappy.
Choosing the lesser of two evils still meant that you were making a bad choice.
Avonaco was of the opinion that the pack was either leading them to a box canyon south of their position, or to a sharp bend in the river to the north. Both locations had the virtue of essentially being dead ends. The canyon would put their backs against a wall. One way in, one way out. The bend in the river was too deep and the current too fast for the horses to attempt swimming, so it was equally as effective in blockin
g any retreat.
The main difference in the two locations affected the wolves more than it did Roosevelt and his men. The canyon had the benefit of truly trapping the men, but it was narrow, and that meant the wolves would be funneled into what would effectively become a shooting gallery. The river was not nearly as confining and allowed the pack to split and attack from multiple angles. It also allowed multiple possibilities for retreat. Any break in the wolves’ ranks was a potential point of egress for Roosevelt and his comrades.
In the end, Roosevelt and Avonaco agreed that the canyon was the better option. Though there was little chance of retreat, it put the wolves at a significant disadvantage when facing firearms. If Jake had time to find higher ground and Avonaco and Roosevelt could entrench themselves, their weapons should do the rest.
He mentally reviewed the conversation as he readied his horse.
“And if they choose the river?” Avonaco had asked.
“They won’t,” Roosevelt had stated, confidently, “But on the off chance they do, they’ll realize their mistake and come running.”
“Perhaps,” Avonaco sounded unconvinced. “Perhaps not.”
“Remember, my friend, they know that we are not just hunting any wolves. We are hunting their kind. They know that we know what they are and I’m confident that they don’t want what we know to become common knowledge. They’ll seize this opportunity, just as we have.”
“And you are certain of this?”
“Not in the least,” Roosevelt acquiesced. “But there are certain critical mistakes a leader cannot afford to make and assuming you are smarter than your opponent is at the top of the list.”
“You are assuming that they would do what you would do.”
“Exactly.”
“There is a flaw in your logic, my friend.” Avonaco stated in his usual neutral tone.
“And what is that?”
Fantastic Tales of Terror Page 38