How refreshing the slowly flowing water felt on his fingers!
He laughed and leaned down to splash his face and neck, savoring the relief, feeling the liquid trickle under his tattered blue T-shirt and down his chest. The stream was four feet wide from bank to bank and half again as deep. Pebbles and loose gravel were on the bottom.
What if there were fish?
He lowered his mouth to the stream and sipped, knowing he might become sick if he drank too fast. Oblivious to all else, he swallowed and stared at his reflection on the surface. His unkempt black hair stuck out at all angles. The water distorted his hooked nose, giving him a birdlike aspect enhanced by his scarecrow frame. He looked down at himself, at his ragged jeans, estimating he had lost 20 pounds on the journey.
At that moment, when he was totally distracted, the patter of rushing feet arose behind him.
He tried to grab his rifle and straighten, but his pervasive fatigue hampered his reflexes. His left hand wrapped around the Winchester barrel, and then a heavy form crashed into his right hip and drove him forward.
Into the stream.
Water enveloped him, and under any other circumstances he would have welcomed the sensation, but now he was fighting for his life against a pack of feral foes who wanted his flesh to fill their stomachs. Sharp teeth tore into his right side. If he hadn’t been underwater, he would have screamed. Instead, he flung his legs and right arm down, checking his descent, and surged erect, gasping for air when he broke the surface.
On his right a wolf snapped furiously at him while striving to secure a foothold.
He lifted the rifle, both hands on the barrel, intending to club the beast in the head, when a second wolf materialized on the west bank and crouched to spring. His arms whipped the Winchester in a downward arc and the stock caught the animal on the head, smashing into the wolf above the right eye and flinging the beast against the bank.
The second wolf scrambled to right itself, but its rear legs kept slipping on the side of the stream.
He took several strides to the south, backing away from both wolves, then darted to the west bank and clambered from the water. An adrenaline rush had supplanted his fatigue with a burst of energy, and he took advantage of his newfound vigor, shoving to his feet and fleeing to the northwest before either wolf could climb out. They would be on his trail in seconds, but he had a greater worry.
Where were the other five?
All day there had been seven wolves hounding him. He scanned the forest for them as he ran, his heart thumping in his chest. Would they leap from concealment or chase him, wear him down as they invariably did with deer and elk? Wolves customarily dogged a herd or individual victim, waiting for their quarry to exhibit any sign of weakness. They were Nature’s gleaners. Their purpose in the natural order of things was to eliminate the sick, injured, and defective specimens they came across. A healthy deer, elk, or moose had nothing to fear from a wolf pack.
A short bark came from the south.
He looked over his left shoulder and gulped at the sight of a pair of wolves loping after him. They were deliberately holding back, running just fast enough to keep him in view.
The bastards!
His legs pumped strenuously as he weaved through a stand of saplings and reached a wide field. On the far side, at the north edge, reared a towering oak tree.
Salvation!
He made for the tree, confident he could resist the pack once he climbed beyond their grasp. An intense pain racked his right side where the wolf had bitten him. He knew he was bleeding, but he couldn’t afford to take even a second to examine the wound. He singlemindedly focused on the oak to the exclusion of all else. A quick check to his rear brought goose bumps to his skin.
There were four wolves now.
And they were ever so slowly narrowing the gap.
No!
He breathed in great gasps as he sprinted toward the tree. A smile curled his mouth upward when he saw there were two low-hanging limbs he could use to vault to a safe perch. The wolves could howl and growl all they wanted, but he would be safe.
Or so he thought.
Until three wolves ran from behind the tree and fanned out in front of the trunk.
Stunned, he slowed and hefted the Winchester, uncertain of what to do.
They had him cut off and hemmed in, at their mercy, and wolves weren’t notorious for their compassion.
The trio near the tree had halted and were waiting for him. their mouths hanging open, their large, tapered canines and red tongues visible.
He stopped 20 feet from them and turned sideways so he could see both groups. The four pursuing him likewise stopped and gazed at his wheezing form. He aimed at one of the wolves to the north, then at one to the south, debating whether to shoot one in the hope the rest would take off.
A wolf to the north suddenly crouched, then charged straight at him.
Acting more on instinct than conscious design, he twisted, sighted, and squeezed the trigger. The booming retort and the bullet striking the ground inches from the wolf caused the beast to veer to the west and run several yards. He lowered the rifle and frowned in exasperation. He’d missed! His life was on the line and he’d missed!
None of the wolves had fled.
He reversed his grip and grasped the barrel, prepared to go down fighting.
One of the wolves to the south launched itself forward, hurtling at the human’s legs.
Scarcely breathing, he elevated the stock and swung with all of his strength. The wolf easily evaded the blow, darting to the right and bounding beyond his reach.
Were they toying with him?
Several of the pack sat on their haunches.
Bewildered by their behavior, he scrutinized them, glancing from wolf to wolf, waiting for the first one to come at him. But they stayed where they were, staring, always staring, and if he didn’t know better he would have sworn they were grinning at him, mocking him, well aware that all they had to do was bide their time and he would weaken enough for them to finish him off at their leisure. He looked at the tree, thinking he might try to break through them, and his eyes widened in astonish-ment when he saw a man standing less than a dozen yards to the left of the oak.
The newcomer wore a one-piece, seamless, dark blue uniform that fit snugly on his immense physique. His eyes were a penetrating blue, his short hair and sweeping mustache both an unusual silver shade. Over his left shoulder was slung a carbine. A revolver rested in a brown leather holster under his left arm, an auto pistol in a similar holster under his right. On his left hip rode a curved scimitar in a scabbard, and on his right a survival knife. “Hello,” this walking arsenal said. “My name is Yama. Can you use some assistance?”
The wolves all swung toward the newcomer at the sound of his low voice. Not one of them, evidently, had sensed his approach.
“I sure can! My name is Andrew,” he blurted out, relief pervading his being. He intuitively felt that the man in blue was someone he could rely upon. “I’m on my last legs. These wolves have been after me all day.”
Yama strode toward the helpless traveler, seemingly unconcerned about the presence of the pack. “You look exhausted. I’ll take you back to the Home with me.”
“The Home!” Andrew exclaimed, and then stiffened in alarm when two of the wolves snarled and bounded at the intruder. “Look out!” he cried.
The warning proved unnecessary.
Displaying dazzling speed and consummate skill, the man called Yama assumed a squatting posture even as the scimitar flashed from its scabbard. The gleaming blade swung once, twice, both strokes nearly invisible to the naked eye and with each swing a wolf toppled to the grass, blood spurting from its neck, almost decapitated. Yama straightened, his scimitar held vertical, the dripping blade next to his right cheek, and looked at the remaining wolves.