They lost one of the horses despite their caution. Neither man rode, and the unflappable Worthless led, but Ruxton’s pack mare still broke her tether and bolted for the nearest stand of tall trees. As she charged across the slope, she shed cooking pots and utensils and food and tools, the equipment making a terrible racket as it banged and bounced off the rocks. Malone and Ruxton watched her go.
“She’ll be all right,” Ruxton declared hopefully. “We’ll track her down come morning.”
Malone’s expression was grim in the moonlight. “Why do you think I didn’t head for the woods?”
As the mare approached the first trees, the entire forest canopy appeared to rise from the topmost branches. Ruxton’s mouth went dry, and he shivered. But what was more natural than for nocturnal flying creatures to roost in flocks? The fleeing mare had disturbed them.
There were at least thirty of the huge wolfuls. They swooped down on the terrified animal, circling low and snapping with wolf jaws at her withers and neck. She kicked out frantically and sent one of her tormentors spinning. It yelped unnaturally.
There were too many to prevent the inevitable. A pair landed on her back, using their talons to cling to flesh and pack straps. They tore at her face and flanks. Others cut her legs out from under her, striking at the tendons until they had her hamstrung. Unable to run or kick, the mare was buried beneath an avalanche of snarling, tearing bodies. She whinnied wildly to the last.
Malone and Ruxton didn’t linger for the end. Even as the mare went down, a couple of the flock were making exploratory passes at the remaining horses and men. Ruxton felt heavy feathers brush his head as he ducked. He was not ashamed to admit that he screamed. Malone’s LeMat boomed several times. Once there was a deeper, sharper explosion as he fired the .410 shotgun barrel that was mounted beneath the revolver barrel. Ruxton found himself surrounded by blood and feathers. He had a brief glimpse of feral yellow eyes. Then the sky disappeared as they stumbled into the cave.
It tunneled far back into the mountain. As Malone had hoped, there was more than enough room for all of them, including the surviving horses. They secured them to boulders near the back wall of the cave.
Bored with the carcass of the rapidly dismembered mare, the flock began to gather outside the entrance, padding back and forth and flapping their wings excitedly. The cave was actually larger than Malone would have liked. There was flying room inside. A lower ceiling would have been much more comforting.
Ruxton was breathing hard, his eyes nearly as wild as those of his mount. While it had stopped bleeding, his injured shoulder was throbbing mercilessly. But he could still hold a rifle.
“I regret the loss of my large-bore,” he told Malone as he checked the .30-30. “It was packed with my other supplies on the mare.”
The mountain man grunted. There followed an uncomfortable silence.
“Look here, Malone,” Ruxton said finally, “I’m sorry I doubted you, old chap. I’ve been a bit of an ass all along, and I apologize.” He stuck out his hand.
Malone eyed it, then enveloped it in his own huge paw and squeezed briefly. “I like a man who can own up to his own mistakes. I just hope you’ll live to regret it.” He turned back to the cave entrance. “There’ll still be some meat left on your mare. When they’ve cracked all the marrow out o’ the bones, they’ll work themselves up for another go at us. We have to stop ’em before they get inside or we’re done.”
Ruxton nodded, resting his rifle atop a boulder that had fallen from the ceiling. “I’ve never even heard rumors of such a creature.”
“Any folks whut sees one never gets away to tell of it. The Nez Perce know about ’em. They call ’em Sha-hoo-ne-wha-teh. Spirit wolves of the air. But the Nez Perce are unusual folk. They see things the Blackfeet and even the Cheyenne miss. Course, white folks don’t find their way into this particular part of the Bitterroots.
“Way I figger it, no ordinary predator’s fast enough or strong enough to take down a jackalope, especially when they stand and fight together. So these here wolfuls evolved to prey on ’em. Unfortunately, they ain’t real particular about their supper. You and me, we’re a damn sight slower than a sick jackalope. As for the horses, well, they’re regular walkin’ general stores as far as these critters are concerned.”
“Listen, Malone. Most of my shells were packed on that poor mare along with my big guns. If things start to look bad, I’d appreciate it if you’d save a round in that LeMat for me. I don’t mean for my rifle.”
“I know what you mean. We ain’t somebody’s supper yet, Lord. They got to get in here first. Meanwhile, why not have a go at askin’ your namesake for help?”
“My namesake?”
Malone’s eyes rose as he jerked a finger upward.
“Oh.” Ruxton nodded somberly.
The wolfuls continued to gather outside, their massed wingbeats a vast rushing that soon drowned out the livelier, healthier babble of the river below.
“First they’ll sing for courage,” Malone explained. “Then they’ll start circlin’ as they decide which one of ’em will get the honor of goin’ for our throats first. After that the rest’ll come for us. Try and pick your shots. One way or the other, it’ll all be over quick.”
Ruxton nodded, his teeth tightly clenched as he stared at the moonlit oval that marked the entrance of their sanctuary.
When the flock began its howling, it was as if all the graves at Battersea had opened to release the long dead. The sounds were higher in pitch than normal wolf calls, a sort of moan mixed with the kind of screech an enormous vulture might make.
The horses panicked at it, kicking up dust and gravel, pawing at the unyielding stone. Foam spilled from their lips. Only Worthless stood placidly, one eye half-open, swaying on his legs as if asleep. It made Ruxton wonder. Perhaps the animal was partly deaf and blind.
The flock leader was silver across his muzzle. He came in low and then rose abruptly toward the ceiling, awful talons spread wide to grasp and rend, vast yellow eyes staring hypnotically. They froze the startled Ruxton for an instant, but not Malone. The Sharps blew the wolful in half, the huge shell tearing through flesh and bone. Ruxton had no time to appreciate the difficult shot, because the rest of the flock followed close on the heels of their dead leader.
The terrified whinnying of the horses, the howls and roars of the wolfuls, and the rapid firing of both men’s guns were deafening in the enclosed space. Ruxton saw Malone put down the empty LeMat and race to reload, his thick fingers moving as precisely as those of a concert pianist. He’d drawn his big bowie knife and was using it to fend off his attackers as he worked.
Then Ruxton saw him go down, the wolf’s-head hat flying as a diving wolful struck him across the forehead. The claws missed his eyes, but the impact was severe.
“Malone!” Ignoring the pain shooting through his shoulder, Ruxton rushed to the other man’s side. His rifle cracked, and another wolful dropped, snapping mindlessly at its crippled wing.
The mountain man blinked dazedly up at him, bleeding from the gash in his head. It was a shallow wound. He was only stunned.
That was when the flapping and howling and gnashing of teeth ceased. So concerned was he with the guide that Ruxton didn’t notice it at first. Only when he helped the much larger man to his feet did he see that the last of the wolfuls had turned tail and was fleeing the cave.
“They’re leaving. We beat them, old man! Gave them a sound hiding!”
“I think not, Lord.” Malone fought to penetrate the oil that seemed to be floating on his retinas. “The Sharps—gotta get the Sharps.” He stumbled, blinking dizzily.