Ryker cursed. He hadn’t put coffee on to brew because he did not want to stay up late. Now he reconsidered. Maybe it would be best to keep watch all night, catch a few hours sleep early in the morning, then strike out for the high pass. He was trying to make up his mind when the sorrel whinnied.
Instantly, Ryker was alert. He put a hand on the pistol at his waist. The sorrel had its head up and its ears pricked and was staring down the slope. Ryker looked and listened, but if something was there it was too far off for him to hear. Or—and the thought chilled him—it was moving too silently for him to hear.
Ryker cursed again. “I am turning into an old woman,” he scolded himself, and forced a chuckle.
The flames weren’t as high as he wanted, so he added a log. He added another. And yet a third. The circle of firelight grew until a good twenty feet of rosy light kept the black of night at bay.
“That’s better,” Ryker said to the sorrel. He shifted to make himself more comfortable, and crossed his legs.
Ryker stared at the distant light from the cabin window and thought of Nate King. They argued a lot, but King was one of the few people he respected. Not because King always tried to do right by others. That amused Ryker. The way he saw it, every man should look out for himself, and the rest of the world be damned.
No, Ryker respected Nate King because King was tough. As tough as they came. How someone could be considerate and tough at the same time was a puzzle Ryker had yet to unravel. He would never come right out and bring the subject up because King would—
A twig snapped.
And the sorrel was staring down the slope again.
Taking his rifle, Ryker rose and moved to the edge of the firelight. He stood for a long while without hearing anything. But twigs didn’t snap on their own.
The sorrel had lowered its head, so Ryker went back to the fire and added another branch. He told himself a deer or an elk was to blame. Or maybe a bear or a mountain lion. But they rarely ventured close to a fire.
Ryker wondered if the hostiles were stalking him. Few Indians attacked at night, though. Not because they deemed it bad medicine, as some whites believed, but because they didn’t have the eyes of cats, as some whites also believed, and couldn’t see in the dark any better than whites could.
Something rustled in the trees.
Whirling, Ryker raised his rifle. He strained his eyes until they were fit to pop out of his head. Finally he stepped back and grinned at his silliness. He was letting every little thing spook him.
“Damn me, anyway.” Ryker sat back down. In all his years in the wild he rarely had an attack of the spooks. After he lost his ear he was a wreck for a while, but that—
Ryker caught movement in the trees, a pale form moving almost too swiftly for the eye to follow. He snatched up his rifle again and stood. The sorrel was staring in the same direction, so it wasn’t his imagination. Something was out there.
More rustling brought a nicker from the sorrel.
Ryker glimpsed another pale streak. There were two of them, and they were circling his camp. He broke out in a cold sweat. Wedging his rifle to his shoulder, he thumbed back the hammer. The click was reassuring. Whatever was out there, let them show themselves and he would blow them to hell. One thing he never was squeamish about was killing.
Then one of the things uttered a low sound, a sound unlike any Ryker ever heard. Part growl, part laugh, it seemed to come from both an animal throat and a human throat at the same time.
Ryker’s mouth went dry. He wished one of the things would come out where he could see it. They weren’t Indians, that was for sure. No Indian ever made a sound like that. He remembered tales he’d heard of ghosts and haunts and ghouls, tales he’d always dismissed as nonsense. But what if they weren’t?
On both sides of the clearing pale shapes suddenly flitted between trees. Ryker swung his rifle toward one and then the other, but he couldn’t quite make out what they were. He held his fire, wanting a clear shot.
Then the thing to his right stopped and stood stock-still, staring back at him. It stood on two legs.
“Who the hell are you?” Ryker demanded. “What do you want?”
The one on the other side stepped into sight, but well back from the firelight.
“Damn you! Say something!”
Ryker smothered an impulse to shoot. Let them come closer. They would find out they weren’t lead-proof.
The one on the right gave vent to another low growling laugh.
Ryker couldn’t make sense of their antics. They weren’t trying to hurt him. All they were doing was standing there. Almost as if they wanted to draw his attention. But the only reason for them to do that was to distract him.
From behind him came a stealthy scrape.
Ryker spun. He saw the third pale form clearly; it was coiled a yard away about to spring. Shock slowed his reflexes. He pointed his rifle, but the thing leaped and smashed the barrel aside as the rifle went off. Then it was on him, ripping and rending. He fell back, as much from horror as the blows. He was aware the other two were bounding toward him, and he desperately clawed for his pistols.
The things were incredibly quick. They were on him before he could squeeze off a shot. He fell with them on top. Blood was everywhere. His blood. A maw ringed with teeth swooped toward his throat.
Edwin Ryker screamed.
Death Gasp
Nate King came up off the bench as if hurled by invisible hands. He was at the window in three bounds. Parting the red curtains, he peered out into the night, the domino in his hand forgotten.
“What on earth?” Aunt Aggie said. She, Anora and Tyne were still at the table, dominoes spread in front of them.
“Didn’t you hear that?”
“Hear what, Mr. King?” Tyne asked.
A shot, Nate was about to say, but didn’t. It might worry them. “I’m not sure,” he hedged.
Aunt Aggie’s elbow brushed his. “You can tell me,” she whispered.
Before Nate could answer, they both heard something else. Faint and far off, it wavered on the wind like the ululating howl of a wolf. Only it wasn’t a howl. It was a scream, a very human scream, a scream of terror.
“God in heaven!” Aunt Aggie breathed. “Who could that be?”
Nate had an idea, but he stayed silent.
“Should we go investigate? Maybe we can help.”
“By the time we got there, it would be too late.”Besides which, Nate wasn’t about to go rushing off in the dark.
“What are you two listening to?” Tyne asked.
Nate closed the curtains. Aggie spared him having to lie by lying herself. “A coyote, child. A harmless coyote. Let’s get on with our game, shall we? Your mother will want to tuck you in soon. It’s getting late.”
Erleen and Peter were over by the fireplace, conversing in low tones. Fitch and Harper were sitting on their blankets playing cards. Philberta was asleep. She tossed and turned a lot, and from time to time she mumbled unintelligibly.
Nate reclaimed his seat. He matched a six with a six, and folded his arms across his chest to await his next turn. Behind him, propped against the wall within easy reach, was his Hawken. He tried not to think of the shot and the scream, but they echoed again and again in his mind.
“Are you all right, Mr. King?” Anora asked.
“Never better.” Nate swapped glances with Aggie.
Tyne was deciding which domino to play. “I want to hear more about your daughter.”
“She’s a lot like you,” Nate said. But it wasn’t entirely true. Evelyn had an inner strength the Wood-row girls lacked. They were sweet and kind and polite, but if put to the test, if confronted by a hungry bear or a hostile, they were apt to run where his daughter was more likely to put a bullet into whatever or whoever was out to do her harm.