Quester, ready to leave, asked, “Are you sure it’s not your dog?”
“Maybe.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Shell gathered firewood from beside the banks of the stream and scooped several handfuls of cold water to drink. He looked up and down the stream for a deeper hole where he could use his fishing line. The coil and hook remained in a pouch in his backpack, but Shell didn’t see pools of water more than knee deep. Besides, fishing after a flash-flood didn’t make sense. He had saved the last of the hard crackers his mother placed in the bag, but tomorrow he needed to either gather food or hunt.
Travel would become secondary unless Quester had food he was willing to share. Fortunately, there was more than enough water in the area. Food became the issue. The edges of the stream he searched, held no evidence of animals drinking from it. But hunting, tracking, and living wild were not Shells strong points. However, most animals lived near water. He’d heard edible plants grow on the banks of rivers if you know what to look for, but he didn’t know which ones.
He built a fire and spread his blanket, then settled in to wait. Quester hadn’t provided a timetable, but he’d made it sound as if he wouldn’t return quickly. Shell watched the fire until his eyes closed. He decided to rest them for just a moment.
He awoke with a start as if still lost in a dream. A red dragon wanted him to travel across the world until they met. A convoluted mass of sensory overload kept his mind unsure of his state, sleeping or awake. It was not a nightmare or a vivid dream about his quest. Instead, it was soft, and demanding, a harsh whisper in the forefront of his mind, down deep where emotions are kept and didn’t fade when his eyes opened.
One fact rose above others as he cleared his thinking. He believed the whispers were the same ‘voice’ of a dragon he’d heard at night for almost a year. The calls hadn’t been as forceful or intense before tonight, but they ‘sounded’ similar enough to be the same. The primary difference was that the whispers tonight implied something more, they cried danger. Danger and speed. The calling voice wanted him to hurry.
Before Shell could get his thoughts fully in order, Quester stumbled into camp. Shell turned to him, taken by his sudden appearance and general demeanor. “You look terrible. Did you find it?”
“No. I found where the animal had been several times,” he sat heavily beside the stack of firewood and tossed more on the coals. “It was like it knew where I was and it moved to avoid me, like a game where it stayed one step ahead. I tried sneaking up on it four times, but each time it moved before I could see it. It’s still on the other side of the river.”
“Maybe it heard you? Or smelled wood smoke like I did.”
“No, I’m good at this. Remember how I sneaked up behind you?”
“Okay, I’ll agree with that. What happened?”
“I wish I knew. I never caught a look at it, but there were signs,” he held up his hand, fingers splayed. “Footprints this size.”
Shell refused to allow his eyes to roll, but barely.
“Some kind of wolf, I think. Bigger than any I’ve heard of. Not your dog, for sure, unless your dog’s head reaches my chest.” Quester said, as he settled down and pulled his blanket over himself.
The answers provided relief, of a sort. Shell would not have to make decisions about the old dog, Max, but he would have to worry about what was out there. “Listen, more than half the night has passed. You get some sleep while I stand watch on the river from the bank where I have a good view. If it crosses, I’ll let you know.”
“Wake me early.”
“You’re tired. Sleep until you wake up and then we’ll leave. By the way, I’m out of food.”
“By the way, me too.” Quester tried to smile, but when his eyes closed, they didn’t open again. He breathed the soft, exhausted snores of a man who had gone beyond his normal reserves.
Shell slipped from camp and found a place on a small rise that gave him a full view of the river. Anything the size of a dog swimming would make a wake he would see in the moonlight. Since rising, the stars and quarter moon, let him see almost as well as in daylight, but without the colors. He allowed his eyes to roam up and down the river, not focused on any single thing, but knowing that they would detect movement instantly.
That proved itself later when a small deer slowly emerged and carefully took a drink from the water on the far bank. He mentally marked the spot. In the morning, Quester could perhaps help him track the deer, and they’d have food for days. He watched it slip silently back into the brush.
A coyote pack emerged from somewhere behind him and loped to the water with their curious gait, five of them. While four lapped water, one stood guard. Suddenly, the guard froze and emitted a low growl that raised the hairs on the back of Shell’s neck as well as drawing the attention of the other coyotes.
But they were not looking in Shell’s direction. Like Shell, they watched across the river, where Shell saw nothing, near where the deer disappeared. The other four coyotes, now as alert as the first, stood ready to react. One sniffed the air for scent, his nose held high into the air, then it cowed and backed away from the water, the others following suit as if terrified.
Shell held still. They were backing in his direction, but long before they reached his position, they turned and ran, their tails between their legs. He didn’t watch the coyotes for long. Shell kept his eyes on the far bank where nothing moved or showed itself.
When the sun rose, Shell held perfectly still. If whatever stalked them was going to follow, it would have to show itself by crossing the river.
Later, when the sun rose high enough to provide heat, Quester slipped to his side. “All quiet?”
“Yes, and no.” He told Quester about the coyotes and their odd behavior. “There was a deer over there getting a drink, and I watched where it went. And there is something else over there I can’t make out. See that large white rock on the hillside? Now, look at that stump on the river bank?”
Quester nodded again.
“That’s where the deer went. Now, look directly between the rock and stump. See that patch of brown that doesn’t match the surroundings?”
“I see it,” Quester said. “What is it?”
“I’ve been watching it, and I think I see blood on the rocks.”
“It’s not your imagination. It might not be blood, but it’s definitely a color that is out of place. Let me grab our bows, and we’ll go take a look.”
Shell said, “Get them, I’ll keep watch,” But Quester had already rushed in a crouch to their campsite. He returned quickly and handed the bow Shell still had never shot to him.
Quester said, “Follow me.”
They moved down the slope to the edge of the river and watched the other shoreline and all behind it. Shell’s eyes went to the bank where the brown and red colors stood out. “It looks like a deer.”
“Go easy. The hunter may still be around. In fact, I’d bet on it.” Quester stepped ahead of Shell. “Me first.”
Shell had his bow strung and an arrow fitted, as did Quester. He also loosened his knife so it would slide out easily and fast. They moved closer.
“It is a deer,” Quester said. “Or part of one. A recent kill.”
Shell leaped onto a boulder for height and made a full turn, letting his eyes sweep the area. He said, “Nothing.”
“Way to make a target of yourself. Get down here and help me. And look at the wolf prints while you’re here.” Quester handed him his bow lifted the rear haunch of a small deer, probably the one Shell watched getting a drink during the night. Quester tossed it over a shoulder and grabbed it with his other hand, so the remains of the deer rode directly behind his neck.