The madman was gone. One instant he had been there, and the next he wasn’t.
Nate leaned out the window. The lunatic was bolting toward the corner of the cabin. Refusing to let him get away, Nate darted to the door and removed the bar. He was outside and to the corner in seconds, but no one was there.
In frustration, Nate pounded the wall. Whoever it had been could now kill again. Wheeling, he stalked toward the door. Belatedly, he realized his mistake in leaving the door open. Worse, he had left his rifle inside. Fatigue was making him careless and carelessness cost lives.
A slight sound overhead caused Nate to glance up. There, perched on the edge of the roof, were the other two, as pale and feral as their brother, their hair a filthy mess, their skin splotched with bloodstains. They were naked from the waist up and their pants were in tatters. Their eyes had the same demonic quality, as if their human intelligence had been replaced by something from the pit. But the explanation was simpler. They were mad, completely mad, their sole craving to kill and kill again. In their deranged states, they couldn’t kill enough. They could never spill enough blood. Animal blood or human blood, it was all the same to them.
Even as Nate glanced up, they sprang. They were smaller and lighter, but there were two of them and their combined weight slammed him onto his back on the hard ground even as their teeth sought his throat and their hands clawed at him like talons.
Nate tried to shout a warning to the Woodrows, only to have a hand shoved halfway down his throat. He gagged on the feel of the fingers and the stench.
The other brother, Blayne, abruptly stood, whirled, and bounded into the cabin.
Heaving up, Nate dislodged the one on his chest. He had barely gained his knees when the madman was on him again. Filthy nails dug at his throat while a mouth rimmed with teeth speckled by bits and pieces of rancid meat gaped to bite his face.
Nate lashed out, a punch to the gut that jolted him. He pushed to his feet, but he was only halfway up when the oldest brother, Norton, flew back around the corner and without slowing or breaking stride lowered his shoulder and rammed into him.
As Nate went down, a shriek filled the cabin. It was followed by a bellow from Peter. A pistol cracked.
Good for them! Nate thought. He hoped they killed Blayne. He wanted to help them, but he had problems of his own. The pair on top of him were attempting to pin his arms.
Then Tyne screamed.
Roaring with rage, Nate exploded upward. He hurled one of the maniacs from him and clubbed the other with his fist. Racing inside, he stopped short in stunned horror.
Erleen was on the floor, her jugular bit open, bucking and kicking and blubbering scarlet down her chin. Peter was unconscious a few feet away, one hand clutching the pistol he had fired, the other spouting blood from the stumps of severed fingers. His throat was intact but not his face; half of it had been ripped off. Anora lay curled in the corner, unmoving.
In the other corner cowered Tyne. Protecting her, armed only with a short-bladed knife, was Aunt Aggie. Speckled with gore, her dress torn, she slashed and stabbed at the nimble figure prancing in front of them.
Blayne cackled as he pranced, his blood-wet fingers hooked like claws. Aggie lanced the knife at him, and he snapped his teeth at her wrist.
Nate groped for his other flintlock, but he had lost it. He drew his bowie and his tomahawk instead. A snarl behind him gave him a twinkling’s warning, and he spun. The other two were coming through the door. He swung the tomahawk and connected, but with the flat side and not the edge. It knocked— Liford, was it?—into Norton, and both tumbled back out. Nate whirled again.
Norton had seized Aggie’s wrist. She was on her knees, her arm bent at a sharp angle. He was trying to make her drop the knife. Her teeth clenched, she refused to let go.
Nate raced to her aid. He made no noise, yet somehow Blayne sensed him. He released Aggie and turned.
Those demonic eyes locked on Nate’s. For an instant, Nate slowed. Only an instant, but enough for Blayne to coil and leap aside as Nate arced the tomahawk in a blow intended to split Blayne’s skull.
Most foes, human foes, would have closed with Nate while he was off-balance. But Blayne was as far from human as a human could be. Cackling with demented glee, he did the last thing Nate expected; he ran. Nate gave chase, but Blayne was ungodly quick.
At the door, Nate stopped. He refused to make the same mistake twice. He slid the bowie into its sheath and the tomahawk under his belt. Kicking the door shut, he barred it, then reclaimed his rifle.
Aunt Aggie was cradling Tyne, who sobbed in great, racking heaves.
Erleen had stopped thrashing. She was dead. So was Anora. Her neck was broken. Peter was alive, but his pulse was weak. He had lost so much blood it was doubtful he would last much longer.
Nate covered Erleen and Anora with blankets. He eased Woodrow onto his back and was surprised when Peter’s eyes blinked open.
“My family?” The question was a weak rasp.
“Agatha and Tyne are alive.”
“Oh God.” Peter coughed, and swallowed his own blood. “And Blayne? Tell me you killed him.”
“They all got away.”
Peter coughed some more. “It can’t end like this. You know what you have to do.”
“Yes,” Nate King said. “I know.”
Madmen
The sun had risen an hour before, but it would be another hour before it was above the high cliffs. Gloom shrouded the valley.
Nate glided through a false twilight realm of grays and blacks, every sense alert. In addition to his bowie and the tomahawk, he had his rifle and one of his flintlocks. He’d searched for the other one, but it hadn’t been anywhere near the cabin. Someone had taken it. He had a fair idea who.
The squawk of a jay broke the stillness. Somehow, it was reassuring.
The madmen and their mother had come close to exterminating every living creature in the valley, but they hadn’t killed all of them.
Nate tried not to think of their latest victims. Before starting his hunt, he had wrapped Peter, Erleen and Anora in blankets and carried them out near the corral. He would bury them later. After. If he lived. If he didn’t—he tried not to think of that, either. Aunt Aggie and Tyne would be on their own, with over a thousand miles of wilderness between them and civilization. The prospects of their making it back were slim.
He prayed Aggie kept the front door barred, as he had told her to, and that she didn’t untie the curtains. She had the rest of the rifles and pistols, enough to fend off the lunatics should they try to break in.
The smart thing to do was to mount up and get out of there, to leave the valley to crazed Philberta and her insane brood. But Nate was determined to end it, one way or another. He owed it to Peter. He owed it to himself. So here he was, stalking the dappled woodland, pitting his savvy and his skill against things with an insatiable appetite for raw flesh. He could still see that hideous face in the window, still feel those terrible fingers squeezing the life from him. He shuddered, then steeled himself.
The junction of the cliffs appeared ahead. Nate couldn’t see the cave yet. He was hoping that was where he would find them.
The silence ate at his nerves. It was so unnatural. Even the wind had died. He avoided twigs and dry brush and anything else that might crunch or crackle and give him away.
Off through the trees the black opening yawned.
Nate went another dozen steps, and stopped. He watched the cave opening for signs of movement, but there were none. If they were there, they were in the inky recesses of their lair.
Wedging the Hawken to his shoulder, Nate advanced. He couldn’t wait all day for them to appear. He must force the issue. If they weren’t there, they could be anywhere. Maybe at the cabin, about to attack Aggie and Tyne. He must find out.