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 keep 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.