Nate drew rein. The logical conclusion was that the four warriors had killed the people in the cabin.Or been killed by them. But if that was the case, where were the bodies?
“Is anyone home?” Nate called out.
There was no answer.
Nate walked up to the front door and tried the latch. The door wasn’t bolted. It swung in on creaking leather hinges.
“I’m a friend. Don’t be afraid.” Nate poked his head in and smothered a cough. The place had a strange smell. Not a foul odor, as such, but different from the odor of any cabin he had ever set foot in. The cause eluded him. It wasn’t tobacco or any food he was familiar with.
Keeping his back to the wall, Nate sidled inside. The room was dark, even darker than the gloom of the forest. He paused, letting his eyes adjust. “I’m a friend,” he repeated.
Nate made out a table with benches instead of chairs. Over by the fireplace was a rocking chair. And that was about it, save for cupboards and pots and pans.
A dark doorway yawned to his right. Nate went over. “Anyone in here?” He poked the door with the Hawken. The thunk of metal on wood seemed un-naturally loud. Within were empty shelves and a metal hook speckled with dry blood, suspended from the ceiling. It was a pantry.
The strange smell was stronger.
Nate closed the pantry door and went back outside, grateful for the fresh air. He checked the ground. The grass near the door was flattened, the earth scuffed and scraped. There weren’t any clear prints, but it was enough to tell him that someone—or several someones—used the cabin regularly. He opened the door and poked his head in again. The floor and the furniture were free of dust, which they wouldn’t be if neglected.
Nate hastened to the bay. He disliked leaving it untended. The unease he’d felt since entering the valley hadn’t gone away.
The logs used to build the cabin weren’t trimmed. Here and there stubs poked out. One was long enough to wrap the reins around to keep the bay from wandering away.
Nate stared up the trail. Peter and Erleen would arrive soon. He used the time to prop the front door open with a broom and to open the curtains to clear out the smell. Logs stacked next to the fireplace simplified kindling a fire. He also lit several candles scattered about. He wanted the place to be as cheerful as he could make it. He was thinking of the girls, of Anora and especially Tyne.
Nate debated what to do about the blood. A shovel suggested a solution. He dug dirt from the side of the cabin and sprinkled it over the red splashes and spots. Next, he put coffee on to boil.
The Woodrows still hadn’t shown up. Nate went to the door. He hoped they were all right. He hadn’t heard shots or screams, and he doubted the Black-feet could take them completely unaware.
The wait tested Nate’s patience. He paced back and forth in front of the cabin. He paced back and forth in the cabin.
Once, when he was outside, rock clattered against rock off in the trees. The sound wasn’t repeated.
The high cliffs lent an oppressive gloom to everything. Nate noted that the valley continued for another quarter of a mile past the cabin, ending where the cliffs met. It was worth a look-see but it would have to wait. He wanted to be at the cabin when the others got there.
Nate’s unease grew. The last time he had felt this way was in Apache country. He couldn’t shake the notion that at any moment something might rush out at him. He told himself he was being ridiculous, but it didn’t help.
Over an hour passed.
Nate thought hot coffee would soothe his nerves. Several cups were in the cupboards but he felt compelled to use his own. He went out to the bay and opened the parfleche. As he reached in, a twig snapped.
Nate spun, leveling the Hawken, and caught movement in the trees near the cabin. “Who’s there?”
No one answered.
Nate could make out a vague two-legged shape. “I know you’re in there. Show yourself.”
The figure moved, but only a couple of steps.
Nate’s thumb and trigger finger twitched, but he didn’t shoot. “If you are one of Sullivan’s family, I won’t harm you. I’m here with Peter and Erleen. They should show up shortly.”
“Don’t shoot! I’m coming out!”
It was a big-boned woman in a dress and a bonnet, clasping two long knitting needles and a partially knit shawl. She smiled an anxious smile, as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether he was truly a friend, or a foe.
“I am with Peter and Erleen Woodrow,” Nate repeated, lowering his rifle. “I mean you no harm.”
The woman came closer. “Intery, minstery cutery corn, apple seed and apple thorn.”
“What?”
“You’re not really you, are you?”
“Lady, I am as real as you are,” Nate assured her.
“You think I am really real?”
“Of course.”
“If all the world were water, and all the water ink, what should we do for bread and cheese? What should we do for drink?”
“Why do you keep saying nursery rhymes?”
“Why do you not say them?” The woman laughed.
“Are you Philberta?” Nate asked. She answered the description he had been given.
“This little pig went to market, this little pig stayed at home.”
“Talk sense, will you?”
“This little pig had roast beef, this little pig had none.”
“Cut that out. And tell me. Are you Philberta or aren’t you?”
“To be honest, sir, I’m not sure anymore.” She laughed again, a sad sort of laugh. Then she swept a knitting needle over her head and cried, “Let’s see which of us is real!”
And with that she attacked him.
Vanishings
The wild gleam in her eyes, her wild talk, had warned Nate she was unbalanced. He was ready when she lunged. Screeching, Philberta stabbed the knitting needle at his eyes, her face twisted in pure hate.
Nate swept the Hawken up, one hand on the barrel and the other on the stock, blocking her blow. She was strong, this woman. The force jarred him onto his heels. He could have shot her but instead he sought to reason with her, saying, “I’m not here to harm you! Get that through your head.”
“Liar!” Philberta cried, and came at him again. She had the second knitting needle in her other hand, low against her side.
Nate backpedaled. He hadn’t counted on this sort of reception. He’d figured that the survivors, if any, would be overjoyed to see him and learn their relatives were on the way. “Stop it!” he commanded. But she paid him no heed. He dodged a needle to the neck, shifted, and evaded a stab to the groin.
Philberta crouched to try again. She was quick as well as strong, and unless Nate did something, fast, she was bound to skewer him.
“For the last time, I’m not your enemy!”
Philberta grinned. “Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. Jack, jump over the candlestick.”
“Why do you—?” Nate began, and got no further. She came at him, thrusting high and low, and it was all he could do to stay out of her reach.
“Stand still, consarn you!” Philberta’s bosom was heaving and a sheen of sweat dampened her brow. “You are worse than a jackrabbit.” She feinted and went for his groin, but he sidestepped.
Nate had taken as much as he was going to. Springing back, he leveled the Hawken. “The next step will be your last.”
“One, two, buckle my shoe.” Philberta raised both needles. “You might get me but I will get you.”
“Philberta! What on earth?”
At the shout, Philberta turned. Shock replaced the hate, shock so profound, she shook from her bonnet to her shoes. “I must be dreaming.”
Ryker and the Woodrows had arrived. Ryker was smirking in amusement, but the Woodrows gaped in horrified disbelief.