The cough was repeated.
Something about it troubled Nate. A boulder hove out of the pitch and he was making his way around it when he happened to glance up and saw a shape crouched on all fours. A long tail flicked and lashed.
The tail of a mountain lion.
Chapter Twelve
Nate King reacted in a twinkling. He whipped up his Hawken and started to thumb back the hammer. Even as he did, the cougar whirled with astounding speed and in a starlit tawny blur leaped off the other side of the boulder. It happened so fast that it took a few seconds for Nate to realize the cat had fled and not attacked him. “That was close,” he breathed.
“What was?” Maklin whispered.
Nate twisted in the saddle. “You didn’t see the mountain lion?”
“Where?”
“On that boulder.”
“I was looking down there.” Maklin’s arm was a black bar, extended toward the Valley of Skulls. His voice dropped until Nate barely heard him. “Tell me I’m seeing things. Look over yonder and tell me what in God’s name those are.”
Puzzled, Nate turned. The valley floor was a mire of ink save for the lit windows and the fire by the corral. Across the valley reared the opposite heights. He looked, and his skin crawled with goose flesh. “I see them, too.”
“What are they?”
Nate wished he knew. Pale things appeared to be moving down the mountain. Long and slender, they writhed like snakes. As he watched in stunned amazement, one of them changed shape, expanding until it was bloated at the middle and thin at both ends.
“Hell spawn,” the Texan said.
A gust of wind fanned Nate’s face. The next moment, the shapes did something even more wondrous; they broke apart. Each became two or three smaller shapes that continued to crawl and writhe.
“What are they?” Maklin said again.
Nate racked his brain for an explanation. That both he and the Texan saw them proved they weren’t an illusion. That they moved as they did suggested they were alive. But if they were, they were creatures the likes of which mortal man had seldom set eyes on. Maybe—and his mind balked at the idea but it was the only one that made sense—maybe they were creatures from the Indian legends. Maybe they were the animals whose skulls and bones littered the valley floor.
Then, with disturbing abruptness, the pale shapes faded and were gone. One moment they were there, the next they weren’t.
“What the hell?” Maklin blurted.
Nate searched in vain for further sign of them. When it became apparent they were gone, he shook his head and said, “ ‘There are more things in heaven and earth…’ ”
“What was that?”
“A quote that a friend of mine likes to say a lot.”
Maklin shifted toward him. “Damn. We forgot about the Pawnees.”
Alarmed, Nate whipped around. The crest was still and quiet. As near as he could tell, they were the only two human beings atop the mountain. “They’re gone.”
“They were here, though. We both saw them.”
Nate had seen something earlier. What he took to be the heads and shoulders of men spying on the valley’s new inhabitants from on high. At that distance it had been impossible to say for certain that it was the Pawnees, but he was willing to bet his poke it was.
Nate dismounted and walked to where he could see the sweep of mountains to the south. At night the rolling tiers of forested slopes were a sea of ink, which was why the one bright orange finger stood out like a lighthouse beacon. “There.”
“I reckon a mile, maybe less,” Maklin guessed. “They must have been going down while we were coming up.”
“Let’s have a look-see.”
They became tortoises. They had to be, for the sake of their animals as well as their own hides. The snap of a branch would carry on the wind. The peal of hooves, too, so they rode at a walk until the mile had become half a mile and then a quarter of a mile and finally they were a few hundred yards above the fire.
Nate drew rein. “I’ll go. Wait here with the horses.”
“Why just you?”
“One is quieter than two.” Nate slid down and held the bay’s reins for Maklin to take.
“It should be me. I don’t have a wife and kids.”
Nate whispered back, “You don’t fool me anymore.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Not now.” Nate nodded toward the fire. “Whatever happens, stay with the horses. We can’t afford to lose them.”
“I don’t like this.”
“You don’t have a wife and kids, true, but I know Pawnee,” Nate explained. He didn’t mention that he knew very little.
Pines reared in darkling ranks. The brush was thick and dry. Nate placed each moccasin as lightly as he could. Bent low, he stalked to within earshot.
They were there, all eleven Nate had previously counted, hunkered around the small fire, talking in low tones. Kuruk was doing most of the talking. Only a few words reached Nate clearly and they were not enough to give him any idea of what the Pawnees were discussing.
Nate raised the Hawken. Kuruk was the key. Kuruk’s hate had brought the rest. Were Kuruk to die they might decide to return to their village. Nate sighted down the barrel. He couldn’t see the bead at the end, but he was sure he could hit Kuruk square in the chest and that should do the job.
Unexpectedly, a Pawnee rose and came toward the pines. He was scratching himself, down low. He came directly toward the spot where Nate was crouched and said something over his shoulder that caused some of the others to laugh.
Nate froze. He was far enough from the fire that he should be invisible. The warrior came closer and closer until he stopped barely ten feet away and hitched at his buckskins. Nate heard the splatter and smelled urine. He didn’t so much as blink.
The warrior let out an “Ahhhhh.” He said something to the others and they laughed again. Then he was done and turning and his face rose until he was staring right at Nate.
Nate held his breath. It would take exceptional eyesight to spot him.
The Pawnee paused. He bent forward and his hand rose to a knife on his hip. For fully half a minute he peered into the dark. At last he straightened and took his hand off the knife hilt and headed back to the fire.
Nate exhaled. That had been close. Quickly he took aim again only to find that the warrior was between him and Kuruk; he didn’t have a clear shot. He raised his cheek from the stock, waiting for the warrior to sit back down. But the warrior didn’t. Instead, he stopped and quietly said a few words, and the next moment they were all grabbing weapons and scrambling to their feet.
Nate whirled and ran.
Howling like wolves, the Pawnees were after him. Several had yanked burning brands from the fire and held them over their heads. The combined light was enough that one of them pointed and yelled to his companions.
Pumping his legs, Nate churned up the slope. The brush tore at him. Tree branches threatened to gouge his eyes. He had gone ten yards when he realized the mistake he was making and veered away from the horses and the Texan.
The Pawnees were in full throat, screeching and yipping and brandishing their bows and lances.
An arrow buzzed past Nate’s ear. He dodged around a pine. Weaving, he ran harder. Another shaft thudded into a tree. He came to a flat stretch and poured on the speed only to be confronted by a dense thicket. Without hesitation he plunged in, lowering his head and throwing an arm in front of his face to protect his face and throat. He went eight or nine steps and stopped.