Fear Weaver

Specters

“Are you sure we can’t talk you out of this?” Peter Woodrow asked.

Edwin Ryker, astride his sorrel, shook his head. “Not a chance in hell. And before your missus starts in on me again, I have cussed since I was ten and old habits are hard to break.”

Aunt Aggie squinted up at the sun, which was well past its zenith. “At least stay the night, Mr. Ryker. I promise you there will be no hard feelings.”

“Maybe not on your part, lady, but there are on mine. It’s wrong of you not to pay me the rest of the money I’m due.”

“We have been all through that.”

Ryker swiveled in the saddle toward Nate. “The offer to ride out with me still holds.”

“I’m staying,” Nate said.

“What for? To be turned into worm food like Sullivan and his boys? Whether it’s the Utes or some other tribe, they’ve made it plain they regard this valley as theirs and they don’t like trespassers.”

Erleen tried a last appeal. “Give us a week, Mr. Ryker. A week to search for Sully and the others. Then we can all leave together. Is that too much to ask?”

“It is for me.” Ryker scratched the scar on the side of his head. “I’ve been Injun shy ever since I lost my ear.”

Tyne put a hand on Ryker’s stirrup. “Please don’t go. We don’t want anything to happen to you.”

For a moment it looked to Nate as if Ryker was about to change his mind. Not that Nate blamed him for wanting to fan the breeze. Four people had disappeared without a trace. That usually meant they were worm food.

“That’s sweet of you, girl. But my ma didn’t raise lunkheads. I am doing what I think is best for me.”

“Keep your eyes peeled for those Blackfeet,” Nate cautioned. If the warriors were still there. Finding Black Elk’s horse had given him grave doubts.

“Don’t you think I won’t,” Ryker assured him. “I’ll be damned if I’ll fall into their infernal hands twice.” He gigged the sorrel, and without a back-ward glance or a wave, trotted across the clearing. Soon he was lost to view around a bend in the trail.

“I wish he hadn’t done that,” Peter remarked.

So did Nate. Although they didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things, Ryker was a good shot and handy in a scrape.

“Well,” Erleen said, as if that summed up the state of affairs.

Aunt Aggie cleared her throat. “Anora, Tyne and I will work on supper while you tend to your sister-in-law.”

“And the boys and I will strip the horses and put them in the corral out back,” Peter said.

Nate didn’t offer to help. Someone had to keep an eye on the woods.

Cradling the Hawken in the crook of his elbow, he began a circuit of the clearing. He noticed how rapidly the shadows were lengthening. Thanks to the high cliffs, dark would fall sooner than normal. And with the night would come—what?

Edwin Ryker was annoyed. Annoyed at the Wood-rows and annoyed at himself. But he hadn’t exaggerated when he said he made it a point to fight shy of any and all redskins.

Years ago, before he lost his ear, he had traipsed all over creation, not caring one whit about hostiles. Like a lot of whites, he tended to look down his nose at them, to regard them as little better than animals. His attitude had been let them try to harm him and he would show them what white men were made of.

Then a strange thing happened.

Ryker met a Crow girl. He liked her and she liked him, and the next thing he knew, they shared a lodge. The Crows were friendly to him. Maybe not as friendly as the Shoshones, but since he had taken one of their own as his woman, they treated him as a brother.

Four winters Ryker spent with the Crows. The best four years of his life. He cared for that Crow girl as he had never cared about anyone, and when she was slain, he was crushed.

It happened in the fall. The Crows went on the last buffalo surround of the season. Scores of the great shaggy brutes were slain, and afterward, as they always did, the women went in among the fallen buffs to skin and butcher them. But one of the bulls wasn’t dead. It reared and plunged a horn into the belly of his woman, ripping her open from hip to hip.

She was a long time dying.

Ryker sat with her hand in his and comforted her the best he could, which, under the circumstances, wasn’t much comfort at all. When she died, so did something inside of him. He was never the same again.

The years drifted by. Ryker met and loved other women, but it was never the same. When the trapping trade dwindled, he took to serving as a guide and scout. He would never get rich at it, but the work agreed with him, and between jobs he drank. And drank. And drank.

Then came the fateful day Ryker was riding along the Missouri River, on his way back to the mountains after a visit to some Mandan friends. He blundered into a Blackfoot war party and paid for his blunder with his ear. Ever since, Ryker spent many a night tossing and turning and sweating. He lost his ear not once but a thousand times.

No one ever guessed his secret: that when it came to Indians, he had lost some of his courage, as well. To one and all he put on a brave front. The mention of hostiles made him scoff. The mention of the Black-feet made him laugh with scorn. He hid his secret so well that no one ever suspected.

And now he had gone and run out on those damnable Woodrows and Nate King.

Ryker sighed. They should have paid him. Whatever befell them now was on their shoulders. He had done his part. “If they die it’s their own fault,” he said to the dense greenery.

And someone snickered.

Ryker drew rein. It came from his left, so low as to make him wonder if he’d heard it. But he was sure he had. He trained his rifle on the trees. A minute went by, but no one appeared. Since he was only half a mile from the cabin, he wondered if Fitch or Harper,or both, had followed him. “I am not amused,” he said, hoping to draw them out.

There was no reply.

Puzzled, Ryker tapped his heels against the sorrel. The sun was low in the west, about to dip below a sandstone cliff. Already, an early twilight was creeping across the valley floor.

Determined to put the valley behind him by nightfall, Ryker brought the sorrel to a gallop. He was too savvy to ride it to exhaustion; he went another mile, then slowed to a walk again.

The sun was almost gone when Ryker came to the bottom of the mountain crowned by the high pass that would take him over the divide. He dared not risk the long climb in the dark. He would have to wait until morning.

Ryker climbed a few hundred yards, just to be out of the valley. A ridge afforded an ideal spot to camp. He could see in all directions. Off in the distance gray tendrils of smoke rose from the cabin chimney. He stripped the sorrel, gathered firewood, and kindled a fire. Then he spread out his blankets, sat propped on his saddle, and munched on pemmican. Around him, night descended.

Ryker was troubled. A tiny voice pricked him, warning he had made a mistake. He refused to listen. All that talk about Sully and his sons who vanished was to blame. He shut them from his mind.

The soothing crackle of the fire and the peaceful quiet of the mountain helped Ryker to relax. He thought of Bent’s Fort, his first stop on his way east. He would stock up on the few provisions he needed and maybe strike out for St. Louis to treat himself to a week of tawdry delights.

His eyelids grew heavy. His chin dipped, but he raised it again. He wasn’t quite ready to sleep yet. He stuck a piece of pemmican in his mouth and was chewing contentedly when it hit him that it was too quiet. By now the meat-eaters should be abroad. By now the night should be alive with howls and yips and screeches. But there was nothing, nothing at all.

Ryker shifted and gazed out over the valley. It was black as pitch. A yellow point of light was visible when the wind stirred the trees. Light from the cabin window, he reckoned. It was comforting to think other people were there but not so comforting to realize it would take hours to reach them if he had to get to them in a hurry.

Ryker cursed. He hadn’t put coffee on to brew because he did not want to stay up late. Now he reconsidered. Maybe it would be best to keep watch all night, catch a few hours sleep early in the morning, then strike out for the high pass. He was trying to make up his mind when the sorrel whinnied.

Instantly, Ryker was alert. He put a hand on the pistol at his waist. The sorrel had its head up and its ears pricked and was staring down the slope. Ryker looked and listened, but if something was there it was too far off for him to hear. Or—and the thought chilled him—it was moving too silently for him to hear.

Ryker cursed again. “I am turning into an old woman,” he scolded himself, and forced a chuckle.

The flames weren’t as high as he wanted, so he added a log. He added another. And yet a third. The circle of firelight grew until a good twenty feet of rosy light kept the black of night at bay.

“That’s better,” Ryker said to the sorrel. He shifted to make himself more comfortable, and crossed his legs.

Ryker stared at the distant light from the cabin window and thought of Nate King. They argued a lot, but King was one of the few people he respected. Not because King always tried to do right by others. That amused Ryker. The way he saw it, every man should look out for himself, and the rest of the world be damned.

No, Ryker respected Nate King because King was tough. As tough as they came. How someone could be considerate and tough at the same time was a puzzle Ryker had yet to unravel. He would never come right out and bring the subject up because King would—

A twig snapped.

And the sorrel was staring down the slope again.

Taking his rifle, Ryker rose and moved to the edge of the firelight. He stood for a long while without hearing anything. But twigs didn’t snap on their own.

The sorrel had lowered its head, so Ryker went back to the fire and added another branch. He told himself a deer or an elk was to blame. Or maybe a bear or a mountain lion. But they rarely ventured close to a fire.

Ryker wondered if the hostiles were stalking him. Few Indians attacked at night, though. Not because they deemed it bad medicine, as some whites believed, but because they didn’t have the eyes of cats, as some whites also believed, and couldn’t see in the dark any better than whites could.

Something rustled in the trees.

Whirling, Ryker raised his rifle. He strained his eyes until they were fit to pop out of his head. Finally he stepped back and grinned at his silliness. He was letting every little thing spook him.

“Damn me, anyway.” Ryker sat back down. In all his years in the wild he rarely had an attack of the spooks. After he lost his ear he was a wreck for a while, but that—

Ryker caught movement in the trees, a pale form moving almost too swiftly for the eye to follow. He snatched up his rifle again and stood. The sorrel was staring in the same direction, so it wasn’t his imagination. Something was out there.

More rustling brought a nicker from the sorrel.

Ryker glimpsed another pale streak. There were two of them, and they were circling his camp. He broke out in a cold sweat. Wedging his rifle to his shoulder, he thumbed back the hammer. The click was reassuring. Whatever was out there, let them show themselves and he would blow them to hell. One thing he never was squeamish about was killing.

Then one of the things uttered a low sound, a sound unlike any Ryker ever heard. Part growl, part laugh, it seemed to come from both an animal throat and a human throat at the same time.

Ryker’s mouth went dry. He wished one of the things would come out where he could see it. They weren’t Indians, that was for sure. No Indian ever made a sound like that. He remembered tales he’d heard of ghosts and haunts and ghouls, tales he’d always dismissed as nonsense. But what if they weren’t?

On both sides of the clearing pale shapes suddenly flitted between trees. Ryker swung his rifle toward one and then the other, but he couldn’t quite make out what they were. He held his fire, wanting a clear shot.

Then the thing to his right stopped and stood stock-still, staring back at him. It stood on two legs.

“Who the hell are you?” Ryker demanded. “What do you want?”

The one on the other side stepped into sight, but well back from the firelight.

“Damn you! Say something!”

Ryker smothered an impulse to shoot. Let them come closer. They would find out they weren’t lead-proof.

The one on the right gave vent to another low growling laugh.

Ryker couldn’t make sense of their antics. They weren’t trying to hurt him. All they were doing was standing there. Almost as if they wanted to draw his attention. But the only reason for them to do that was to distract him.

From behind him came a stealthy scrape.

Ryker spun. He saw the third pale form clearly; it was coiled a yard away about to spring. Shock slowed his reflexes. He pointed his rifle, but the thing leaped and smashed the barrel aside as the rifle went off. Then it was on him, ripping and rending. He fell back, as much from horror as the blows. He was aware the other two were bounding toward him, and he desperately clawed for his pistols.

The things were incredibly quick. They were on him before he could squeeze off a shot. He fell with them on top. Blood was everywhere. His blood. A maw ringed with teeth swooped toward his throat.

Edwin Ryker screamed.