Fear Weaver w-57

by David Thompson

  “Did you see that?” Fitch breathlessly asked. “What on earth was it? A deer?”

  Nate didn’t know. He had never seen anything like it: a hunched-over form, as pale as a sheet, that was lightning quick. He would almost swear it was on two legs but that was preposterous. It moved too silently, too swiftly.

  “Mr. King?”

  Nate threw off his blanket. “I’ll keep watch awhile. You turn in.”

  “That wouldn’t be fair. You just laid down.”

  Of all of them, Nate had talked to the boys the least. Fitch and Harper tended to keep to themselves. They had their father’s reserve and were not as open as the girls. But Nate liked them. They were dutiful, decent young men who would soon make their own mark in the world. “I don’t mind.”

  “Whatever you say, sir.”

  Nate smiled in wry amusement. His own son hardly ever said “sir” to him. Zach was too independent, too much his own person. Nate wished Zach were there now. With his son to back him, he would take on anyone or anything without any qualms.

  Nate took Fitch’s place on the log. The night had gone quiet, a temporary lull in the beastly bedlam of predator and prey. It sobered Nate to contemplate that at that very moment, scores of meat-eaters, everything from martins to bobcats to wolves to grizzlies, were feasting on fresh, succulent flesh. It made a man thankful for the senses God gave him, and the brains to use them.

  Nate refilled his tin cup. His eyes were leaden, his limbs sluggish. He probably should have let Fitch continue to keep watch, but Nate was a firm believer in the old saw that if you wanted something done right, do it yourself. And while Fitch was able enough, the boy lacked Nate’s experience.

  Half a cup later, Nate was having trouble keeping his chin up when a feeling came over him that he was being watched. He gripped the Hawken and peered into the dark, but nothing moved. Dismissing it as nerves, he went on sipping and struggling to stay awake.

  The feeling persisted. Nate set the cup down and stood. His Hawken level at his waist, he warily stepped to the edge of the clearing.

  Everyone else was sound asleep. Erleen snored loud enough to be heard in California. The horses dozed.

  Nate grinned at his foolishness. He was about to turn back when he thought he saw, at the limit of his vision, a pair of tiny dots, virtually pinheads of light. It took him a few moments to realize what they were. Eyes, reflecting the glow of the campfire. Eyes fixed unblinkingly on him. As Nate looked on, a second and then a third pair of dots appeared. There were three of them. He snapped the Hawken to his shoulder even though he didn’t intend to shoot, not without knowing what they were. But the instant he raised the rifle, the three pair of dots disappeared, as if they had blinked out of existence, or melted away.

  A shiver ran through him. More nerves, Nate thought. Whatever those things were, they hadn’t tried to harm him or any of the others.

  What were they? Despite Nate’s many years in the mountains, despite his familiarity with every animal in the wild, he couldn’t say. And he didn’t like that. He didn’t like it one bit.

  Nate hoped he had seen the last of them.

  Hidden Valley

  From a distance the sandstone cliff did indeed look like a giant red V. The cliff was part of a horseshoe ring of stone that cut the valley off from the outside world. The only way in was through the open end of the horseshoe.

  As Nate and the Woodrows wound down the last slope, the hooves of their horses pinged on rock. Anyone in the valley was bound to hear them long before they got there.

  Ryker, in the lead, held up an arm, bringing everyone to a stop. He bent toward the ground, then straightened and beckoned to Nate. “You need to see this!”

  Nate trotted past the others. Tyne grinned as he went past. Aunt Aggie smiled and winked. Peter asked what he thought was the matter, and Nate answered that he had no idea. Which wasn’t entirely true. Nate figured Ryker had found tracks of some kind, and Ryker had. But not plural; just one track.

  “What the hell do you make of that?”

  The print was in a patch of soft earth. Whatever made it had five toes. Not claws or pad, but toes. Crooked toes, splayed wide apart. There was no sole or heel. Just the toes and a ridge of callus.

  “Someone barefoot, running on their toes,” Nate speculated.

  “That’s what I thought. But look at how those toes are twisted. They aren’t natural.”

  Nate had to agree.

  “And look at how deep the toes dig into the dirt. Whoever or whatever made it was either very heavy or has iron leg muscles.”

  Nate thought of the pale specter the night before, and the eyes gleaming with fire shine.

  “I wanted you to see it before the others rode over it.” Ryker paused. “I wonder if it has anything to do with those howls we heard.”

  Nate shrugged.

  “I still can’t get over Sully Woodrow coming this far into the mountains. What in God’s name was he thinking?”

  “Peter says he wanted to get away from people.”

  “Well, he picked a damned good spot. This is as off the beaten track as you can get. His wife must have been fit to be tied. Most women wouldn’t like living in the middle of nowhere.”

  Erleen cleared her throat to call out, “Mr. Ryker, can we keep moving? We have a long ride ahead of us yet, and I, for one, would like to get it over with.”

  “Sure, lady. Keep your britches on.”

  “Mr. Ryker!”

  Nate lifted his reins. “I’m going on ahead. I’ll blaze trees as I go so keep your eyes peeled. Take it nice and slow. If you hear a shot, have the rest wait and you come on alone. We don’t want any of them harmed.”

  “Hell, I don’t want me harmed. But why this sudden urge to scout around? Do you know something I don’t?”

  Nate bobbed his chin at the track. “I wouldn’t call it sudden.” He went past Ryker and made his way lower. He was on the lookout for more of the strange tracks but didn’t see any. Soon he came to the base of the mountain and the valley floor spread out before him. Trees formed an impenetrable phalanx except where a game trail threaded among them.

  Nate had only gone a few yards when he drew abrupt rein. Other riders were ahead of them. Hoof-prints merged with the trail, coming from higher up but not from the direction of the pass. The horses that made the tracks weren’t shod. That meant they were Indian mounts.

  Nate thought of the Blackfeet. If it was them, he couldn’t begin to explain how they got there ahead of him. It didn’t bode well. Drawing his bowie, he cut a notch in a tree for Ryker, then rode on at a walk, his thumb on the Hawken’s hammer.

  The woods were primeval, as woods must have been at the dawn of time, the pines so closely spaced, the branches formed a canopy that blocked out the sunlight filtered over the towering cliffs. It was like being in a whole new world. Or maybe an old world.

  Suddenly the bay nickered and shied. Nate calmed it, then spotted the cause: a dead elk, a cow on her back with her innards ripped out. Keeping a firm grip on the reins, he dismounted and moved closer. The stink was abominable.

  As best Nate could reconstruct the cow’s death, she had been brought down by blows to her legs; both front and rear leg bones were shattered. Once she was on the ground, whatever attacked her had rolled her onto her back and tore at her exposed belly. Her throat, though, was unmarked. That in it self was remarkable. Mountain lions and other meat-eaters nearly always went for the neck.

  Climbing back on the bay Nate cautiously wound deeper into the valley. He hadn’t gone far when he came on another dead animal. This time it was a horse. It had been struck a terrible blow to the head, above one eye, that nearly caved in its skull. The force had popped the eye from its socket, and now the eyeball dangled by its stem.

  Nate gave a start. He had seen this particular horse before. It belonged to one of the Blackfeet.

  Nate’s unease returned. He scanned the woods, but if anything was out there, it was lying low. Riding on, he shifted to ke
ep an eye behind him. The skin between his shoulder blades wouldn’t stop prickling.

  Somewhere to Nate’s right a stream gurgled. He angled toward it. Maybe it wasn’t smart to leave the game trail, but the bay could use a drink, and the banks of a stream were prime places to find tracks. Every living creature needed water to live.

  The gurgling grew louder, but the trees and undergrowth screened the stream from him until he was right on top of it. Any notion he had of finding tracks was dashed by the thick grass that covered both banks.

  Climbing down again, Nate stood guard while the bay drank. Utter silence prevailed; silence so complete, it was uncanny. He listened in vain for the chitter of a squirrel or the warble of a bird.

  Behind him, a twig snapped.

  Nate spun, every nerve jangling, but nothing was there. He started into the woods but caught himself before he blundered. Whatever had killed the elk and the horse would not hesitate to do the same to the bay. He dared not leave it alone. Backing away, he pulled the bay’s muzzle out of the water and forked leather.

  Nate returned to the trail. The walls of vegetation became thicker the farther he went. Enclosed spaces never bothered him—but this did. Nate had the bizarre impression he was riding into the gullet of some gigantic beast. Silliness of the first order, but there it was.

  Nate shook himself. He passed a pine carpeted with moss. He passed a rotting log amid a profusion of mushrooms. He passed a cluster of thorn apples.

  Up ahead, a clearing appeared.

  Nate’s skin prickled worse than ever. At the edge of the trees he drew rein and said the first thing that came into his head. “I’ll be damned.”

  On the other side of the clearing stood a cabin. The front door was shut. Red curtains covered the window. From the roof rose a stone chimney but no smoke climbed into the sky.

  The cabin and the clearing were so quiet and still that Nate was almost sure no one was there. But he didn’t take chances. He rode with every sense alert, the Hawken to his shoulder.

  “Is anyone there?”

  No one responded. The door stayed closed, the curtains were undisturbed.

  Nate was halfway there when he noticed splotches of red mixed with the green of the grass. It was blood. Dry blood. A lot of blood, spilled not all that long ago. Newly dry blood always had a bright sheen and this was as bright as could be.

  Nate drew rein. The logical conclusion was that the four warriors had killed the people in the cabin.Or been killed by them. But if that was the case, where were the bodies?

  “Is anyone home?” Nate called out.

  There was no answer.

  Nate walked up to the front door and tried the latch. The door wasn’t bolted. It swung in on creaking leather hinges.

  “I’m a friend. Don’t be afraid.” Nate poked his head in and smothered a cough. The place had a strange smell. Not a foul odor, as such, but different from the odor of any cabin he had ever set foot in. The cause eluded him. It wasn’t tobacco or any food he was familiar with.

  Keeping his back to the wall, Nate sidled inside. The room was dark, even darker than the gloom of the forest. He paused, letting his eyes adjust. “I’m a friend,” he repeated.

  Nate made out a table with benches instead of chairs. Over by the fireplace was a rocking chair. And that was about it, save for cupboards and pots and pans.

  A dark doorway yawned to his right. Nate went over. “Anyone in here?” He poked the door with the Hawken. The thunk of metal on wood seemed un-naturally loud. Within were empty shelves and a metal hook speckled with dry blood, suspended from the ceiling. It was a pantry.

  The strange smell was stronger.

  Nate closed the pantry door and went back outside, grateful for the fresh air. He checked the ground. The grass near the door was flattened, the earth scuffed and scraped. There weren’t any clear prints, but it was enough to tell him that someone—or several someones—used the cabin regularly. He opened the door and poked his head in again. The floor and the furniture were free of dust, which they wouldn’t be if neglected.

  Nate hastened to the bay. He disliked leaving it untended. The unease he’d felt since entering the valley hadn’t gone away.

  The logs used to build the cabin weren’t trimmed. Here and there stubs poked out. One was long enough to wrap the reins around to keep the bay from wandering away.

  Nate stared up the trail. Peter and Erleen would arrive soon. He used the time to prop the front door open with a broom and to open the curtains to clear out the smell. Logs stacked next to the fireplace simplified kindling a fire. He also lit several candles scattered about. He wanted the place to be as cheerful as he could make it. He was thinking of the girls, of Anora and especially Tyne.

  Nate debated what to do about the blood. A shovel suggested a solution. He dug dirt from the side of the cabin and sprinkled it over the red splashes and spots. Next, he put coffee on to boil.

  The Woodrows still hadn’t shown up. Nate went to the door. He hoped they were all right. He hadn’t heard shots or screams, and he doubted the Black-feet could take them completely unaware.

  The wait tested Nate’s patience. He paced back and forth in front of the cabin. He paced back and forth in the cabin.

  Once, when he was outside, rock clattered against rock off in the trees. The sound wasn’t repeated.

  The high cliffs lent an oppressive gloom to everything. Nate noted that the valley continued for another quarter of a mile past the cabin, ending where the cliffs met. It was worth a look-see but it would have to wait. He wanted to be at the cabin when the others got there.

  Nate’s unease grew. The last time he had felt this way was in Apache country. He couldn’t shake the notion that at any moment something might rush out at him. He told himself he was being ridiculous, but it didn’t help.

  Over an hour passed.

  Nate thought hot coffee would soothe his nerves. Several cups were in the cupboards but he felt compelled to use his own. He went out to the bay and opened the parfleche. As he reached in, a twig snapped.

  Nate spun, leveling the Hawken, and caught movement in the trees near the cabin. “Who’s there?”

  No one answered.

  Nate could make out a vague two-legged shape. “I know you’re in there. Show yourself.”

  The figure moved, but only a couple of steps.

  Nate’s thumb and trigger finger twitched, but he didn’t shoot. “If you are one of Sullivan’s family, I won’t harm you. I’m here with Peter and Erleen. They should show up shortly.”

  “Don’t shoot! I’m coming out!”

  It was a big-boned woman in a dress and a bonnet, clasping two long knitting needles and a partially knit shawl. She smiled an anxious smile, as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether he was truly a friend, or a foe.

  “I am with Peter and Erleen Woodrow,” Nate repeated, lowering his rifle. “I mean you no harm.”

  The woman came closer. “Intery, minstery cutery corn, apple seed and apple thorn.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not really you, are you?”

  “Lady, I am as real as you are,” Nate assured her.

  “You think I am really real?”

  “Of course.”

  “If all the world were water, and all the water ink, what should we do for bread and cheese? What should we do for drink?”

  “Why do you keep saying nursery rhymes?”

  “Why do you not say them?” The woman laughed.

  “Are you Philberta?” Nate asked. She answered the description he had been given.

  “This little pig went to market, this little pig stayed at home.”

  “Talk sense, will you?”

  “This little pig had roast beef, this little pig had none.”

  “Cut that out. And tell me. Are you Philberta or aren’t you?”

  “To be honest, sir, I’m not sure anymore.” She laughed again, a sad sort of laugh. Then she swept a knitting needle over her head and cried, “Let’s see
which of us is real!”

  And with that she attacked him.

  Vanishings

  The wild gleam in her eyes, her wild talk, had warned Nate she was unbalanced. He was ready when she lunged. Screeching, Philberta stabbed the knitting needle at his eyes, her face twisted in pure hate.

  Nate swept the Hawken up, one hand on the barrel and the other on the stock, blocking her blow. She was strong, this woman. The force jarred him onto his heels. He could have shot her but instead he sought to reason with her, saying, “I’m not here to harm you! Get that through your head.”

  “Liar!” Philberta cried, and came at him again. She had the second knitting needle in her other hand, low against her side.

  Nate backpedaled. He hadn’t counted on this sort of reception. He’d figured that the survivors, if any, would be overjoyed to see him and learn their relatives were on the way. “Stop it!” he commanded. But she paid him no heed. He dodged a needle to the neck, shifted, and evaded a stab to the groin.

  Philberta crouched to try again. She was quick as well as strong, and unless Nate did something, fast, she was bound to skewer him.

  “For the last time, I’m not your enemy!”

  Philberta grinned. “Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. Jack, jump over the candlestick.”

  “Why do you—?” Nate began, and got no further. She came at him, thrusting high and low, and it was all he could do to stay out of her reach.

  “Stand still, consarn you!” Philberta’s bosom was heaving and a sheen of sweat dampened her brow. “You are worse than a jackrabbit.” She feinted and went for his groin, but he sidestepped.

  Nate had taken as much as he was going to. Springing back, he leveled the Hawken. “The next step will be your last.”

  “One, two, buckle my shoe.” Philberta raised both needles. “You might get me but I will get you.”

  “Philberta! What on earth?”

  At the shout, Philberta turned. Shock replaced the hate, shock so profound, she shook from her bonnet to her shoes. “I must be dreaming.”