Moss shook his head. “Not that kind of drumming. More like sticks being banged together. Sometimes big rocks. Sometimes it almost sounded like Morse code to me. Everybody else said I was crazy.” He shook his head, his gaze drifting, as if to some faraway place.
“Could it have been natives trying to drive you away from the canyon?”
“Indians won’t go near that place. We should have known not to go there.” Moss spat again. “One morning, we found a bunch of gear strewn about, some of it smashed. I’m talking pick handles snapped. Wood this thick.” He held up his arm, tapped his wrist. “Indians didn’t do that. And there were footprints everywhere.”
Stone had a feeling he knew what sorts of footprints the man was talking about.
“Giant bare feet, not quite human. We didn’t know what to make of them.”
“Were they apelike?” Constance asked.
The man shrugged. “What did any of us know about such things? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen an ape footprint. In any case, a couple fellas wanted to get the hell out of there, but the rest of us wanted to stay. They reckoned that whatever the things were, they were only a nuisance.” He paused, took a deep breath. “They didn’t consider the possibility that maybe the beasts were giving us fair warning.”
Stone leaned forward a little, eager to hear the man’s story. Alex and Constance did the same. Moss sat there in silence for so long that Stone began to wonder if the fellow had changed his mind about telling his tale. But finally, the man cleared his throat.
“Things were all right for a few days, until Coleman shot one of them.”
Stone sat bolt upright. “Shot one? You mean, you all saw it?”
Moss shook his head. “No. Coleman was hunting alone when he said one of them just burst out of the forest, coming right at him. He had his rifle at the ready, and he fired out of instinct. Said he was fairly certain he only caught it on the hip.”
“I’ll bet it didn’t like that very much.” Alex scratched his thigh with his hook, perhaps remembering the serious injury he’d suffered not too long ago.
“None of them like it very much. The injured beast fled. We found blood and a few hairs. We didn’t follow it too far. Coleman felt terrible about it. Said if he’d taken even a moment to think about it, he’d have tried to back away, fire into the air, anything but shooting the creature unless it forced him to.”
Stone nodded in agreement.
“Anyhow, he couldn’t exactly write a letter of apology, and the apes, or whatever they are, turned out to be the unforgiving type.”
“What do you mean?” Constance asked.
“That night, they attacked our camp.” Moss looked at them, a touch of challenge in his gaze as if daring them to contradict him. When they kept their silence, he continued. “It started out with the usual howling, and drumming, but this time it came from all around, at least twenty, maybe more. It got louder and louder, the beasts coming closer, and then the attack started. Stones were flying, huge things, bigger than grapefruits.” He clenched his fists and pressed them together to illustrate. “We hunkered down in the log cabin we’d built and waited.”
“How long did it last?” Stone asked.
“Al night. Stones rained down on the roof, cracked it in places. Then they got braver, charged the cabin, and banged on the walls. The whole thing shook like it was being hit by a battering ram. The chinking between the logs started to crumble, and pretty soon gaps opened between the logs and we caught a few glimpses of the creatures.”
“What did you see?” Stone found himself intrigued by the old miner’s tale.
“Fur, mostly. Or hair — dark, thick, glossy. Not quite like human hair, but not fur, either. Glimpses of bared teeth, eyes… never got a good look at them. Didn’t want to get close enough to the wall to peer out.” The old man shuddered at the memory. Whatever he had seen and experienced, it had shaken him badly.
“Finally, one of them stuck its arm through. I picked up a chunk of firewood and whacked it. It let out a snarl that just about turned my shorts brown, if you know what I mean. Another fellow slashed it with his knife and it pulled its arm back out. I was afraid that was just going to make them angrier, but they stopped trying to get in after that. They kept up the yowling and throwing rocks, but eventually, they went away.”
“What did you do after that?” Constance asked.
“We interpreted the attack as our final warning. Went home and never went back.”
“Mister Moss,” Constance began, “we’ve heard tales that the creatures have kidnapped women. Should I be worried?” She let out a nervous laugh.
Moss considered the question, tugging thoughtfully at his beard. Finally, he let out a long, slow breath.
“I’d like to tell you that you have nothing to worry about, but the truth is, I don’t know.”
“Could you tell us how to get to Ape Canyon?” Constance asked.
“No. I don’t remember exactly where it is.”
“It wasn’t that long ago,” Stone reminded him.
“I remember that it’s way over on the other side of Mount Saint Helens. I didn’t do the driving, and I didn’t lead the way going in or out.”
“Have you ever tried to find it again?” Stone asked.
“I don’t want to go back. A girl came by here a few days back, asking me to show it to her on a map. I tried to help her, but I was stumped. Maybe I don’t want to remember.”
Stone had been watching Moss carefully. He was highly adept at detecting signs of deception. Moss was telling the truth, as he saw it, about what happened at Ape Canyon, but he was lying about not remembering the location, and Stone sensed Moss was hiding even more.
Constance turned the conversation in a more general direction, asking about the history of Bigfoot sightings in the area. With the topic of Ape Canyon apparently behind them, Moss relaxed visibly and became more expansive with his answers.
When the conversation drew to a close, they thanked the old man for his help and made their way back to the truck, which was parked just out of sight of the cabin. Stone didn’t get inside.
“Drive down the road a mile or so and wait for me. I want to keep an eye on the cabin. I think Moss is up to something.”
20- Up a Tree
Stone moved into the cover of the trees and circled around until he had a clear view of Moss’s cabin. The old man sat on the front porch, but he was no longer rocking in his chair. He leaned forward, hands folded, posture tense. He gazed intently in the direction Stone and his friends had gone.
Finally, the roar of an engine rose above the birdsong as Alex fired up the truck and drove away. Moss visibly relaxed. Moss sat, head craned, listening until the sound of the vehicle faded away. He waited another minute, then stood, descended from the porch, and rounded the cabin.
Stone’s heart raced. Moving silently like a predator stalking its prey, he shadowed Moss and the man left the clearing where his cabin stood and plunged into the depths of the forest.
He followed along for a mile or so, Moss continuing in a straight path as if making a beeline for a specific destination. Finally, he slowed. Stone ducked down and crept closer. Suddenly, Moss turned and stared directly at him. Stone froze. He was certain the man had neither heard nor seen him, but Moss seemed to be staring at something. Finally, he gave a single nod and plunged into a dense stand of low-growing trees.
Wary of a trap, Stone rounded the thicket and worked his way back in, intending to pick up the old man’s trail. He found it with ease, though Moss’s tracks were faint, almost imperceptible. The man moved well in the forest. Stone followed along for a hundred yards as the way suddenly grew steep. The footprints vanished in a narrow, rocky wash where rainwater and snowmelt had eroded the soil. He paused, listening for the sound of movement. Moss couldn’t be too far ahead of him, and Stone’s hearing, sharpened by training in Tibet, was unmatched. He heard nothing. The man must have gone to ground somewhere up ahead.