There were sounds on the air—shouts, screams, the cry of a baby, the whinnying of horses, occasional gunshots. The stink of the Wendigo grew stronger, a disgusting stench of rot and wet decay, rancid meat and rotten fruit, wet hair and old leaves. It coated my lips and tongue. I desperately wanted to close my mouth and breathe through my nose, but that would have meant smelling the noxious odor, and the smell was enough to make me throw up.
With the light and sounds to guide me, I urged my horse forward. But I could feel it slowing, almost as if it was reluctant to approach the unearthly smell. I knew that at any moment, it was going to rear up and throw me. Lying forward across her withers, I whispered in her twitching ears, promising her all sorts of treats if she would take a few more steps. She did; that bay was the best horse I ever had.
We rose over another low rise in the ground and I looked down upon horror.
In the light of three low campfires, I counted perhaps fifteen people. Navajo. They were in a tight knot, with the men and women facing outward, protecting two or three elderly and some children in the center of the circle. I saw Black Hawk moving around the outside of the circle, tomahawk and knife in either hand. I wondered if he’d run out of ammunition for his rifle.
Strutting around the circle was a creature from the very depths of nightmare: the Wendigo. It was tall, maybe three times my height, with curling antlers jutting from a hairless head. I was abruptly grateful that I could not see its face. Lighting it from behind, the flickering campfires washed across gray-dead skin, revealing yellow bones and the curl of exposed ribs. Its torso jutted forward on what looked like goat legs, and unnaturally long arms were tipped with curling claws, like a bear’s. The beast moved in absolute silence.
It darted in close to the knot of Navajo, claws slashing, and was met with jabbing spears and stabbing knives. I watched a warrior loose an arrow at the monster. I distinctly heard the twang of the bow and the crack of the arrow as it struck the Wendigo’s breastplate, then snapped in half.
Black Hawk rushed forward, tomahawk a blur. The Wendigo raised a claw and the metal head of the ax struck sparks off it. The creature lashed out at Black Hawk, almost taking his head off, sending him stumbling back.
Clutching my rifle, I leapt off my horse and tried to aim into the chaos below. But the monster was moving too quickly, and the tightly packed group of people constantly shifting. I dared not risk a shot, just in case I missed.
Sliding down into the hollow, I grabbed a burning log from a fire and ran forward.
I could see the monster clearly now. I’ve come across rotting carcasses on the trail—dead horses, cows, or deer—and this creature looked like every one of those, except that it was alive, and I could see muscles moving and bones shifting through its torn skin. It was wearing scraps of fur and hide; I recognized bear and wolf, coyote and buffalo.
I came up behind the beast and jabbed at him with the burning torch. Rancid furs popped alight, and abruptly the creature was wearing a blazing poncho. Snatching off the flaming rags, it turned to look at me and its mouth moved, almost as if it was trying to form words, but nothing came out.
I was really grateful that I’d not eaten, because I’m sure I would have been sick. Even leaving aside the height, the stench and the antlers, the rotting skin and jutting bones, what made the creature even more terrifying was just how human it looked. The enormous head was a skull, with solid black eyes and ragged pointed teeth, but outlined in flaking skin, I could see the face of the man it had once been.
I jabbed with the burning log again and the Wendigo’s claw closed over it, crushing it to sparking cinders.
I was less than two feet from the creature when I opened up with the Winchester. The gun holds twenty .44-caliber rounds, which travel at over twelve hundred feet per second. I reckon I got off six or seven shots—and hit true with every one—before the Wendigo snatched the rifle from my grasp and sent it spinning into the night. The sudden blow numbed both arms, and I knew, in one heart-stopping moment, that even if I managed to draw my Colt, my fingers were too numb to pull the trigger.
I’d always known I’d die in the West. I thought I’d be shot down—probably by someone who called themselves a friend—but I never imagined I’d fall to a centuries-old monster.
I closed my eyes as something hit me and sent me flying back into the night…and opened them again when I hit the ground and discovered Black Hawk on top of me. He’d leapt out of the circle of Navajo, slamming into me to push me away from the monster’s grasp.
Black Hawk: Was that the first time I saved your life? I believe it was.
Billy: We crashed through one of the low fires in an explosion of sparks and tumbled into the scrub.
“Well, you found your Wendigo. Now what?” I asked. I was amazed to realize I still had all my limbs and nothing was broken.
“It’s grown stronger since we last fought,” Black Hawk gasped out as he clambered to his feet.
We were behind the monster now, who was still circling the group. “Who are these people?”
“Three generations of a Navajo family heading to Huerfano Mesa,” he explained. “The Wendigo came on them just as they were settling down for the night.”
“I thought I saw children…”
“There are three little ones in the middle of the circle with their grandparents.”
We watched the monster move around the group, probing its defenses.
“My bullets just bounced off it.” I raised my Colt and blew dust out of the barrel. “I can shoot at it again, maybe draw it toward us. If it chases us, maybe the people can flee into the night.”
Outlined against the firelight, I saw Black Hawk shake his head. “No, once they break out of the circle, the Wendigo will pick them off one by one. At the moment, the spears, knives, and tomahawks are keeping it at bay.”
“Will it slink away when the sun rises?” I asked.
“Not this one. Some Wendigo only hunt at night, but that’s a choice. It will be worse when the sun comes up, because the Navajo will be able to see the creature clearly and recognize it for what it is. That will make them even more terrified. Also, they’re getting tired. It’s only a matter of time before the Wendigo gets one, and then another and another. It wants the children.”
“Well, how do we stop it?”
“I don’t know,” Black Hawk said, and I could hear the despair in his voice.
“There must be something we can do,” I said desperately. “Think! You’ve been hunting these for nearly a century. What kills a Wendigo?”
“Some I shot, others I caught in traps. But you can see that this one is immune to bullets.”
“How else did you kill them? You didn’t shoot or trap all of them, did you?”
“No. Most I took by hand. A Cree shaman made me a silver tomahawk. Silver is deadly to them.”
“What happened to the silver tomahawk?”
“Lost it in a fire. Always meant to replace it. Never got around to it. What I wouldn’t give for a silver blade right now. Or even a silver bullet.”
“What about a silver page?” I asked.
Black Hawk looked at me blankly.
From my inside pocket I produced the cloth-wrapped silver map. I looked at it ruefully as I unfolded the page. “It’s supposed to show the location of a great treasure that’s somewhere around the Valley of the Gods.” I handed the rectangle of silver to Black Hawk. “Maybe you can put it to better use.”
Without a word, Black Hawk took the silver sheet, bent it in two, and then tore it in half. He pulled out his knife and wrapped the metal blade in crumpled silver. “Here’s what I’m going to do,” he said. “I’m going to get in close to the monster and let it grab me. It’ll draw me close to its mouth to take a bite and then I can stab it once or twice before it…well, before it takes a bite out
of me. If I can stick the knife in, the metal will poison the creature in a couple of hours, so all you and the others have to do it to keep it busy until then.” His iron-hard fingers closed over my arm, squeezing tightly. “You must make me a promise, Billy. If the Wendigo bites me and then dies before it eats me, I will become a Wendigo. Kill me and burn my body. Don’t let me become a monster. You must promise me this.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” I said. Taking the other half of the silver page, I folded it over my own knife, smoothing away all traces of the treasure map. “Let’s see if we can do this without either of us getting bit. Two silver knives are better than one.”
Black Hawk stretched out his hand and I took it in mine. “When all this is over,” I said, “you owe me a treasure map.”
“If we survive this, Billy, I will make sure you get the greatest treasure of all: immortality. And a map of the treasure in the Valley of the Gods.”
“You know where it is?” I asked
“I don’t,” he said. “But I know a man who does!”
10
Niccolò,
So, Black Hawk’s phone ran out of memory. Apparently, you’re not supposed to record hours of audio in one sitting.
You know we survived the battle with the Wendigo because we’re both still here. Neither of us got bit, thought I was slashed with those filthy claws, and Black Hawk broke two fingers when he stabbed the monster with the silver-covered knife.
I could tell you that we fought that monster for hours. But that would be a lie. It was all over and done in a matter of minutes. The beast was focused on the Navajo, determined to get at the children. We crept up behind it. Black Hawk leapt on its back, wrapped his arms around its neck, and stabbed it. It spun around and I jabbed it in the thigh with my silver-wrapped knife. That’s when it slashed me across the chest. I had those scars for years. The beast dropped to its knees, desperately trying to shake Black Hawk off its back. It bucked and thrashed, but he hung on for dear life. The Navajo people swarmed forward, driving the beast to the ground, piling on top of it, and holding it there as the poison worked through its system. Black Hawk clung on to the bitter end, his body pressed against that rancid flesh. He stank of Wendigo for weeks afterward.
If this were a werewolf story, then the creature would have turned back into its human form before it died. But nothing like that happened. It didn’t turn to dust, and it was as ugly in death as it had been in life. We burned the body.
In the morning, the Navajo resumed their journey to their sacred mountain, and Black Hawk and I set off on the beginning of our own great adventure.
However, before I could become immortal, I had to return to Fort Sumner to die. Oh, and I did stop in Albuquerque on the way back and let that Jesuit padre know I’d survived
Oh, before I go. I managed to source some of that Black Ivory coffee you like. You do know it’s fed to elephants first and then the digested beans are collected from it droppings? I’m guessing you do…and you still drink it!
Stay safe,
William
(see, I took your advice, and started using William rather than Bill or Billy)
What is lost will be found.
Discover more Lost Stories from the world of the New York Times bestselling Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel series
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Perry Hagopian
An authority on mythology and folklore, MICHAEL SCOTT is one of Ireland’s most successful authors. A master of fantasy, science fiction, horror, and folklore, Michael has been hailed by the Irish Times as “the King of Fantasy in these isles.” He is the author of the New York Times bestselling Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel series: The Alchemyst, The Magician, The Sorceress, The Necromancer, The Warlock, and The Enchantress.
DillonScott.com
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The Ballad of Black Hawk and Billy the Kid Page 5