Wilderness Double Edition 17, page 12
Shifting in the saddle, Nate extended the Hawken. The beast-man looked up, into his eyes, and snarled. Nate curled back the hammer, held the rifle as steady as he could, and fired just as the creature vaulted forward. He aimed at the head and the ball struck true, flipping the beast-man backward.
Facing front, Nate barely avoided a low limb. He wound past a wide trunk and up a small knoll. A glance showed the first beast-man down and the other two standing over him, nudging him with their weapons.
Nate rode on and didn’t slacken his pace until the west wall reared high overheard. Drawing rein, he reloaded again, tingling in expectation of being attacked. But the forest in his immediate vicinity was still. He had done it. He had eluded them.
Or so Nate assumed until a keening yowl split the dark and was chorused by others far and wide. He had heard similar cries earlier and mistaken them for the howls of animals. Now he knew different. It was the beast-men, signaling back and forth.
Nate worked faster. When the ramrod scraped the housing, he flinched. In his overwrought state, every furtive sound was made by a slinking beast-man. Every shadow was a beast-man about to spring.
Off toward the stream a new sound swelled, a Shoshone war whoop. Nate paused, listening, positive it was Only Hunts Elk. The whoop was not repeated, and Nate dreaded the worst.
Another keening wail, from high weeds an arrow’s flight away, stiffened Nate in alarm. Out of the weeds filed four beast-men, their wide shoulders stooped as they jogged northward. Nate thought for sure they knew where he was, but they vanished into the gloom without once glancing in his direction.
Nate waited a suitable interval, then rode southward. With the woodland swarming with beast-men, his wisest bet was to return to the rise.
Hugging the base of the wall, Nate traveled a hundred feet or so, abruptly halting when what he mistook for a small hill detached itself from the ground and shuffled due east.
The thing had a body shaped like a pine cone and was covered with either scales or armor. It also had a short armored tail tipped by a spiked ball. Of all the creatures Nate had seen so far, it was the most outlandish. He had never heard tell of anything like it.
The creature grunted nonstop, like a hog in a hog pen, its rolling gait reminiscent of a man who had downed too much firewater. Halting, the aberration bobbed up and down.
Nate heard an odd patter, like raindrops, only it wasn’t raining. He couldn’t imagine what the animal was doing. Then he saw its forelegs were clawing at the ground, that it was digging at a prodigious rate. The patter was dirt being flung in a steady spray.
Nate considered trying to ride on by, but didn’t. As enormous as it was, the thing could crush the stallion with a single swipe of its spiked tail. Nate was content to wait while it bored into the earth like a mole gone amok. Its head dipped into the hole, then the front half of its body.
To the northeast a beast-man yowled and was answered by several others off near the stream.
They were still hunting him. Nate scoured the woods, especially his back trail, without spotting any. Through an opening in the canopy he saw something else, though, a flickering pinpoint of light a mile or more away, halfway up the west rampart. It was a fire, and he had a pretty good idea who had built it. The beast-men must have a lair somewhere, and what better place than safely above the canyon floor and the marauding monsters that roamed there?
Nate turned toward the creature with the spiked tail — but it was no longer there. Kneeing the stallion, he passed the huge hole, his finger on the Hawken’s trigger. He breathed a lot easier when it was behind him.
More beastly howls sprinkled the canyon, to be eclipsed by the roar of the grandfather of all bears.
Within minutes Nate reached the rise and rode to the top. Entering the breastwork through the gap, he slid down. No one was there to greet him. Humpy’s mount was also gone, yet it couldn’t have strayed off, hobbled as it was.
Moving to the point of the V, Nate pondered his next step. It rankled him to think his friends were in dire trouble and he was powerless to help. If the beasts didn’t get them, the beast-men were bound to.
Adrift in the dark, Only Hunts Elk and Teeth Like A Beaver would be hard pressed to find their way back. Nate weighed the merits of firing shots to attract them. But with the canyon prone to echoes, sounds alone wouldn’t suffice. Gazing southward, he glimpsed the pinpoint of light again.
What worked for the beast-men would work for him.
Enough pieces of wood were scattered about for Nate to build a heaping pile just beyond the section of breastwork crushed by the bear. A handful of dry grass served as kindling.
Opening his possibles bag, Nate groped inside and palmed his fire steel and flint. Then, dropping onto his hands and knees, he struck the steel and flint together, showering sparks onto the kindling. Blowing softly, he ignited it, and once small flames were licking the grass, he added larger and larger bits of wood until he had the whole pile ablaze.
Stepping back through the opening, Nate climbed the logs. The fire lit up the rise from end to end. The old warrior and his son were bound to spot it. So would virtually every living creature in the canyon, and some, inevitably, would investigate, but it was a gamble Nate was willing to take. Cradling the Hawken, he mentally crossed his fingers the two Shoshones showed up before anything else did.
Minutes dragged by with no sign of them.
Scanning the tree line for the umpteenth time, Nate saw a lone figure appear. “Teeth Like A Beaver?” he called.
The figure started up the slope toward him. Nate smiled, only to have his hopes dashed as its hunched form and loping gait became apparent.
Behind it another appeared, and then another.
His gamble had not paid off.
The beast-men had found him first.
Ten
Nate King had no regrets about the risk he had taken, not when the lives of two fine men were at stake. Besides, it was too late to put out the fire even if he were so inclined. Sighting down the Hawken, he fixed a bead on the chest of the foremost beast-man. When the brute was so close that its beady eyes reflected the firelight, Nate stroked the trigger.
The blast rolled off down Bear Canyon, and the beast-man rolled back down the rise. Its body came to rest at the feet of the other pair, who stopped to examine it.
Their mistake was Nate’s salvation. He reloaded, and was ready when they roared in unison and barreled up the slope. A shot from the Hawken dropped one, a shot from a smoothbore pistol felled the other.
Hopping off the breastwork, Nate set to reloading both guns, one eye on the forest. He was about done with the rifle when two more hide-clad towers of muscle bounded into the open and streaked toward the barrier.
Nate aligned the Hawken between a couple of logs. He hadn’t had time to reload the pistol, but he had another tucked under his belt. The beast-men would never reach him.
Then several others hurtled from the woods, and more on their heels. Seven, eight, nine, and still they came. More than Nate could bring down before they reached him. More than enough to do to him as they had done to the long-tooth.
Nate glanced at the black stallion, then at the cleft. He had time to escape. But the beast-men might follow him — and Winona and Evelyn were on the other side.
Since there had been no evidence of beast-men at the spring, Nate suspected they were unaware of the passage. Once they found a way through to the outside world, they would roam the Rockies at will, slaying countless Indians and whites alike.
Nate resolved to make a stand, to fight until he couldn’t fight anymore, for the sake of both his loved ones and untold scores of potential victims. Aiming at the foremost brutish terror, he fired. The slug cored its cranium, jolting it off its feet, but this time the other beast-men didn’t stop to examine their fallen comrade. Howling with bloodlust, they converged on the crest.
Nate yanked his other pistol out, extended it between the logs, and squeezed off a shot that pitched a beast-man onto its craggy face.
All three guns were empty. Nate started to reload the rifle but saw the rest would be on him before he could. Dropping it, he drew his Bowie and his tomahawk and clambered to the top to await the onslaught.
Eleven or twelve were rushing up the slope, braying like a pack of coon hounds. The first two reached the breastwork and sprang upward. Grabbing hold of the top log, they sought to bring their clubs into play.
Nate sliced his tomahawk into the creature on the right, then slashed his Bowie across the throat of the one on the left. The first beast-man toppled but the second clung on, spurting like a fountain, and swung, narrowly missing Nate’s head. Twisting, Nate buried the tomahawk in the beast-man’s beetling brow.
Arms windmilling, the abomination fell. Nate had to firm his grip on the tomahawk so it wouldn’t be wrested from his grasp.
An instant later five beast-men surged to the barrier. Springing upward, they sought to overwhelm him by sheer force of numbers.
Nate blocked a club, ducked under a spear, and sheared the tomahawk into a hairy arm. Cold steel bit deep through flesh and bone. Another beast-man swung, a bone club flashing. Nate tried to dodge, but balanced as precariously as he was, he couldn’t move fast enough. The club connected, slamming into his shoulder.
The strength behind the blow was incredible. Nate was knocked from his perch and flung like a rag doll to the ground. He landed with a bone-jarring thud, then scrambled upright as beast-men poured over the logs. One leaped straight at him, a wooden club held overhead to bash out his brains.
Behind Nate, a rifle boomed. The ball caught the creature between the eyes and cartwheeled him backward. A second brute fell to a second shot.
Backpedaling to gain room to maneuver, Nate heard a bow string twang. An arrow blossomed in the chest of a beast-man about to jump down.
Shoshone war whoops rose above the din. Suddenly Man Without A Wife and Rabbit Tail were there, Man Without A Wife thrusting his lance into a wildman’s belly, Rabbit Tail notching and loosing shaft after shaft.
They weren’t alone. Winona planted herself at Nate’s side, a pistol in each hand. She shot a beast-man on the verge of springing, shot another that had vaulted through the opening made by the bear.
It was too much. The creatures were savage, but they weren’t stupid. The remaining beast-men broke and ran.
Man Without A Wife and Rabbit Tail whooped and clapped one another on the shoulder.
Nate couldn’t credit his eyes. Facing his wife, he touched her cheek. “You saved my bacon,” he said softly in English.
“What were you trying to do? Throw your life away?”
A small hand grasped Nate’s wrist and he looked down into the angelic features of his daughter. Wisps of gun-smoke curled from the muzzle of her rifle. “You too, little one? You shouldn’t have come.”
“If we had not come, you would be dead,” Winona said matter-of-factly in her own tongue.
Man Without A Wife turned. “I tried to talk her out of it, Grizzly Killer. But when she heard about Humpy, about the bear and the wolf and the thing in the sky, there was no reasoning with her. She insisted her place was with you.”
“As it always is,” Winona said, beginning to reload.
Nate knew better than to argue. He reloaded, too, as quickly as he could.
Man Without A Wife was gazing around the rise. “Wait. Where are Teeth Like A Beaver and Only Hunts Elk?”
Briefly, Nate related the sequence of events since Man Without A Wife had left. Both Shoshones were thunderstruck. Man Without A Wife reacted by pounding the breastwork in impotent rage.
Rabbit Tail stepped to the opening and stared down into the canyon. “Where can they be?” he asked in blatant misery.
“As soon as it is light, I am going to go hunt for them,” Nate said.
“I will go with you,” Man Without A Wife volunteered.
“I, also,” Rabbit Tail chimed in.
“We will all go, husband.” Winona declared in English.
Over my dead body, Nate thought. Aloud, he said, “You don’t realize what you’re saying. You haven’t seen what we saw. You have no idea what we’re up against.” She had something to say but he wasn’t done. “They are worse than any grizzly, Winona. The stories weren’t exaggerated. The legends are true.”
“Be that as it may, what would you have Blue Flower and I do? Wait out by the spring by ourselves?”
“It would be safer there, yes.”
“I would rather be with you,” Winona said with a finality that implied she would brook no dispute.
Nate gripped her by the shoulders. “Please. Listen to me. If you truly love me, if you truly trust me, you will do as I ask and take Evelyn back out. I have never begged you to do anything in all the years of our marriage, but I am begging you now. Please, please, for God’s sake do as I ask.”
Winona bit her lower lip, a sign of indecision.
“I appreciate your feelings,” Nate pressed her. “I understand why you don’t want to go. Your devotion does me honor. But if you stay, I will be so fearful for your lives that I will be of no use to anyone. Please, Winona.”
Her mouth quirked downward. “My spirit is torn. My rightful place is by your side. But you have never begged before. As for trusting you, there is no person I trust more. I have given you my heart, haven’t I? So if you say it is necessary, I will go, even though I do not like being separated.”
Nate embraced her and kissed her on the neck. “When this is all over,” he whispered, “we’ll leave Evelyn with Zach and go off by ourselves for a week or two.”
“I will hold you to that, husband.”
Nate walked her to the cleft, Evelyn’s hand in his. As they reluctantly entered, he thought of how scared his daughter would be, wending their way back in the dark, and said, “Hold on.” Dashing to the fire, which had burned low, he selected the best brand and gave it to Winona. “So you don’t stub your toe.”
Evelyn hugged his leg. “Be careful, Pa.”
“Always.” The stomp of a hoof reminded Nate of another step he should take. He handed the stallion’s reins to his wife. “We’ve already lost two horses,” he explained.
Mother and daughter led the horse in.
Nate stared after them until the torchlight faded. He was glad Winona had gone along with his wishes. Now he could focus on the matter at hand.
Turning to the Shoshones, Nate said, “We will keep the fire going all night.” Enough wood was scattered about to suffice. Since the beast-men knew they were there, extinguishing it served no useful purpose. And it might help keep the wild animals at bay. “We can take turns standing guard so everyone can catch some sleep,” he added.
Man Without A Wife regarded the sinister veil of darkness. “I doubt I will be able to shut my eyes, Grizzly Killer.”
“Me, either,” Rabbit Tail said. He was standing over a fallen beast-man, riveted in amazement.
That makes three of us, Nate reflected.
After stoking the blaze, they took up posts along the breastwork, Nate in the center, at the point of the V. The woods were exceptionally quiet, which he took as a bad sign, as proof the beast-men were still below. Perhaps gathering strength for another assault.
After an hour or so, though, the roars and screams of the canyon’s many monsters were once again mingling in raucous racket. Nate frequently heard the crash of undergrowth and often saw large fierce eyes flare like burning embers, only to fade because the creatures fought shy of the fire.
Along about four in the morning, the uproar dwindled to an occasional cry. By five the canyon was perfectly still. Every last creature, it would seem, had retired to a den or burrow to rest up until twilight, when another orgy of violence and gore would commence.
The sky gradually brightened. Nate stayed put until there was enough light to pick off a target at fifty yards. It surprised him greatly that the beast-men hadn’t reappeared. He speculated the guns had something to do with it, although he couldn’t quite conceive of the brutes being afraid of anything.
A more logical likelihood, Nate reckoned, was that one of the slain ogres had been a leader. Among many Indian tribes, when a warrior of note or a chief was slain in battle, the rest sometimes construed it as bad medicine and retired from the conflict.
Then again, Nate realized how silly it was to try and think like the beast-men did. They were so different, so primitive, so much more like animals than men, there was no telling what went through their minds. Maybe they were a superstitious lot, and one of their superstitions had been a factor. Nate simply couldn’t say.
“Where should we begin our search?” Man Without A Wife asked, bringing an end to the reverie.
“I heard Only Hunts Elk off toward the stream,” Nate recollected. It was as good a place as any to start, and he headed out, avoiding the hairy bodies that dotted the slope. As he passed the last one, it stirred, and a forearm slowly rose toward him. Nate leveled the Hawken but didn’t shoot.
The beast-man had taken a slug squarely in the chest, in the sternum, and lay in a pool of drying blood. Scarlet stained its torso and upper legs, and pink froth rimmed its mouth. Eyes the color of coal fixed on Nate and the creature uttered guttural grunts.
“Let me finish it off,” Man Without A Wife said, hiking his lance.
“Not yet,” Nate said. Cautiously, he bent down, studying the beast-man’s features. Intelligence glinted in those dark eyes, intelligence and something else. The brute grunted again.
“He sounds like a bear,” Rabbit Tail commented.
Nate thought it was more like a wild boar. Then the beast-man grunted a third time, and Nate divined why. “He is trying to tell us something.”
“They have their own tongue?” Man Without A Wife sounded doubtful, to put it mildly.
“Maybe they are more like men than we think.”
“I respect you, Grizzly Killer. But in this you are mistaken. They know no more of the ways of human beings than a grizzly does. They live to hunt, to kill. They are more like rabid wolves than like us.”
