He heard movement in several directions. At least he knew the way back out-downhill. He was tempted to turn and run, but duty held him. Plus the woman showed no fear, indicating that he should continue to follow her. He was a Warrior, a Sioux warrior, and his entire upbringing had taught him to stand fast in the face of danger; indeed, this was the time to excel, to earn honor.
He turned left as he heard something crashing through the trees. A man, dressed in a strange garment, staggered toward him. He held up his arms, and blood sprayed from bloody stumps halfway down his forearms. He reached for Crazy Horse as if he still had hands, smearing blood down Crazy Horse’s chest.
‘’Leave him,” the woman yelled over her shoulder as she ran through the trees.
Crazy Horse hesitated, but then the man slumped over, dead.
Crazy Horse stepped over the body, but when he looked about, the woman had disappeared into the mist. He heard a yell, the woman’s voice directly ahead. Although it was hard to judge the distance in the fog. Bathed in blood, Crazy Horse let go of his fears and charged forward. A tree limb smashed into his face. Breaking his nose. He snorted, blowing out blood, and continued, dodging limbs. Something snatched at him, something red and long like a whip, and he ducked under, rolled, keeping the hatchet tucked tight across his belly, and sprang to his feet.
“Hurry!”
A woman giving orders-it was unheard of. But Crazy Horse didn’t argue. He scrambled to catch up with the woman, following the sound of her voice. He spotted her about ten feet ahead. Beyond her was a black circle about eight feet in diameter. She waved at him to follow and then stepped into the circle. She was gone.
Crazy Horse reached. The circle and hesitated. He could hear things moving, branches snapping under a heavy Weight. He spun about as a tree crashed to the ground, his eyes widening in disbelief at what he saw; a massive snake with seven huge heads, each as large as a horse’s.
Crazy Horse turned back to the circle and jumped into it.
He landed bard, rolled, and was on his feet, the hatchet at the ready. There was no sign of the fog, and within a second the black circle he had come through disappeared. All that remained was the woman.
“What was that?” Crazy Horse demanded. “What happened?”
“They tried to ambush me, To stop me,” She shook her head. “And someone else was using the gate.”
“Who? What are you talking about?”
“There are those who invade the world, just like the whites invade your hunting grounds and sacred lands.”
‘’Who?’’ Crazy Horse repeated.
“Those of the Shadow.”
‘’What is this Shadow?”
“Your mother foretold your future. Yours and your brother’s.”
Crazy Horse spit. “I have no brother.”
“He is your brother in fate,” she corrected.
Crazy Horse held back his irritation. “What do you know of my mother’s vision?” he demanded. All his mother had told him was that he would meet his half-brother in a great battle, one that would determine the future of the people, and that while winning the battle, his people would eventually lose the war to the whites.
“You will fight a great battle that will open a gate through which the salvation of the world will pass.” She paused and looked to the southeast. “Even now, your brother comes closer. Come with me.”
Bouyer woke to the sound of thunder. They were camped on a flat spot high on the side of the creek they’d been following up into the mountains. They were high enough so that if it rained above them, the water coming down wouldn’t flood the site. Bouyer had been in many storms in the mountains and his oil slick that he had wrapped around his body would repel even the heaviest downpour, but he didn’t go back to sleep. He lay still. Listening to the approaching thunder, seeing the immediate area lit up by lightning strikes higher up. He heard Bridger unwrap from his slick and Bouyer immediately did the same, picking up his Hawkins, his fingers checking the priming, making sure it was ready.
In the next flash of light, Bouyer saw Bridger kneeling at the edge of the camp, peering upslope to the north, weapon In his hands. Bouyer silently crept up to a position next to the old man.
“Something’s coming,” Bridger said in a whisper.
Bouyer glanced hard at his mentor. Something? What did he mean by that? Bridger could tell any animal in the mountains by track, scent and just plain experience. And they’d seen no sign of Indians for more than a week.
“Something bad,” Bridger added. He nodded to the right and up. A white fog was rolling down the slope. Bouyer had never seen the like. The front edge was smooth, and it moved without a wind to propel it. He felt a knotted ball of fear in his gut. He agreed one hundred percent with Bridger’s comment-his was bad, whatever it was. During the brief moment of illumination from another bolt of lightning, he saw that the fog was a boiling mess of white and yellow, a very unnatural color. It was now about four hundred feet away and approaching slowly.
“We should leave,” Bouyer suggested.
But Bridger was looking to his left. Bouyer shifted his attention from the strange fog to that direction. As another bolt lit the mountain, he saw two figures coming toward them. He saw one was a woman, but little detail else. He had to figure the woman was the one who had sent for him. Next to her was a young brave, a hatchet in his hand.
In the next flash, Bouyer could see that the woman had halted. And she was signaling. Indicating that he and Bridger should come to her.
Bridger saw the same thing. “Let’s go. Leave everything but your weapon.”
Bouyer hurried after the mountain man, scrambling along.e steep terrain to where the woman and brave waited. During another flash he could see the woman was middle aged, with short brown hair. She had a pack over one shoulder. When he shifted his gaze to the young warrior, he felt the bond that had always been distant begin to solidify. The brave had blood on his chest and was smeared with war paint. As he got closer, Bouyer could barely make out the images: a lightning bolt on his chest along with hailstones. strange symbols. The brave was staring back at Bouyer, his dark eyes emanating hate.
The woman raised her hand in a peaceful greeting, but her first words, spoken in Lakota. Contrasted the gesture. “Shoot for the eyes.”
“Whose eyes?” Bridger asked in the same language.
“Their eyes.” The woman was pointing behind them at the strange fog.
Bouyer turned. Three figures were floating in the front edge of the fog, three creatures unlike anything he had ever seen. All white, With red bulging eyes and hands that ended In blades.
Bridger had his Hawkins tight to his shoulder. Bouyer followed suit, sighting down the long barrel as his mentor fired. He sighted in one movement, smoothly pulling the trigger. The stock bucked against his shoulder as the half-inch-diameter bullet sped down the barrel. It smashed into the left red bulge in the creature’s face. The impact knocked e ~g back a few feet, but it remained upright, even as black smoke-not blood-issued forth from the hole.
Bouyer was watching the creatures even as he reloaded, his movements so well practiced that he didn’t need his eyes to ensure he was doing it correctly. He saw that Bridger had hit the middle creature in the same spot with the same result. Both were halted, but the third continued forward, fewer than a hundred yards away now. Bouyer packed the powder he’d poured down the muzzle with his ramrod, noting out of the corner of his eyes that he was still slightly behind the older man, who was already tamping a.54-caliber ball in his own gun.
Both were startled when the brave let out a yell and dashed forward, hatchet raised. Bouyer was so shocked he even paused in his loading, but not Bridger. The old man was Priming his weapon quickly but carefully. The white figure, till moving, had raised both arms, claws extended, accelerating toward the charging brave, moving out of the forward edge of the fog. The two were fewer than five feet apart when Bridger fired. The ball passed just over the brave’s left shoulder and hit the creature’s right eye, smashing through.