14
Despite his exhaustion, Boutelle had been unable to fall asleep for more than an hour and a half. He had lain awake on the buffalo robe Braided Feather had let them use, beneath the heavy wool blanket Finley was sharing with him. He was warm enough and tired enough to sleep under any circumstance.
Except the one he was living through.
He was amazed—impressed even—that Finley had gone to sleep in what seemed to him to be only a few seconds. He decided that men “out here” were able to do that, blank their minds to imminent peril and find much needed sleep in order to face that peril, rested.
He was not cut from that bolt of cloth. His mind, aroused by dread and apprehension, refused to release him. It kept running like an overwound clock, ticking out endless minutes of thoughts and anxieties.
He kept reliving the ceremony performed by the Apaches. It seemed bizarre to him that Braided Feather and his medicine man—undoubtedly his son Lean Bear as well—could permit the ritual to take place, knowing all the time that it was pointless and in vain.
Beyond that, he could think only of the menace they all seemed convinced they were facing—the son of Vandaih. Could he possibly accept such an incredible notion? A man who in moments of fear or anger could become a creature part man, part eagle?
Over and over, logic sought to dispel the farfetched idea. Even here in the dark forest, deep within Indian country, utterly removed from any aspect of civilization, he found it virtually impossible to believe.
A demon?
He tried not to move about in restless distress because Finley lay beside him, heavily asleep. Still, he turned from his left side onto his back, onto his right side, finally onto his back again, eyes staring up at what little sky he could see through the heavy foliage overhead, the thin sprinkling of diamond-white stars.
Invoked a demon? he thought.
“For God’s sake,” he mumbled more than once. He was a graduate of Harvard, for God’s sake. This was the nineteenth century, for God’s sake. Such things did not take place. Demons belonged in fairy tales, in witches’ dungeons, in tales of farfetched horror.
Not in the real world, in real life.
His transition into sleep came unnoticed. He was thinking of the so-called creature, then in the next moment, he was speaking about it to Finley as they sat on the edge of a high cliff looking across a massive forest top that stretched immeasurably into the distance.
“Is it safe for us to sit here like this?” he asked. “Aren’t we inviting trouble?”
“Of course,” Finley replied. “That’s exactly what I want. To lure him into our trap.”
“What trap?” he asked. “What can we do?”
“I have a little something in mind,” Finley said.
“Well, that sounds good, but what does it mean?” he demanded. “How are we supposed to overcome some creature who can—”
“Hold it.” Finley grabbed his arm. “I think I hear it coming.”
This is madness! Boutelle thought. No matter what Finley said, they had no defense against a creature of such deadly power.
“Finley, I think we’d better—”
It was all he had time to say before a giant, shadowy form came swooping down from above and crashed against them both. Suddenly he could feel the feathery softness of wing feathers against his face and what felt like sharp talons gripping his shoulders.
“Finley!” he screamed.
But the horrendous screech of the eagle man drowned out his voice.
Boutelle jerked awake, sitting up with wide eyes, his heartbeat pounding.
The horrendous screech was real. He heard it again and again. And something else, something infinitely more hideous.
The screams of a dying horse.
He looked around groggily as Finley leapt to his feet.
“What is it?” he asked.
Finley didn’t answer, lunging away from him, moving in the direction of the screaming animal.
Boutelle scrambled to his knees and pushed up quickly, staggering a little as he stood. It was still dark in the forest, despite a faint pallor of light in the sky.
He started running after Finley. Tripping on a tree root and almost sprawling, he felt a sting of pain where the snake had bitten him. Then it was gone and he was after Finley again, face a twisted mask of dismay as he heard the horrible screams of the horse—which abruptly ended.
Now he saw that the Apaches were awake as well, some of the braves running the same way as Finley, others milling around in frantic alarm, women and children staring, some of them crying. What in the name of God? he thought.
He gasped in alarm as an Apache pony came lunging at him from the darkness. Flinging himself to the right, he barely escaped being hit, so close to the galloping horse that he felt the breeze of its passing. He stumbled, almost fell, then regained his footing. As he continued after Finley, he saw the shadowy forms of other ponies racing through the Apache camp. Clearly, they had been stampeded by terror.
He found Braided Feather and Lean Bear standing with Finley and some braves around the remains of the horse.
His.
He looked in sickened horror at the torn, bloody carcass. It was as though it had been slashed apart by giant razor blades, bleeding flesh exposed, glistening entrails ripped from place. The horse’s eyes were wide and staring; there was foam across its jaws.
Finley was looking upward. There was an opening in the trees above where the horses had been tied. The faintly dawning sky was clearly visible. Plenty of room for some flying thing to descend on the horses, Boutelle thought.
He looked back at the butchered animal, twitching with a faint cry as a final death spasm shook its torn, blood-splattered body. What did this? It was all he could allow himself to think, trying not to admit to himself that he knew exactly what had done it.
He looked over at Finley. It made him all the more frightened to see the expression on the agent’s face. Sickened. Dazed.
Helpless.
______
“There is only one solution to this,” Finley said to Braided Feather. “Someone has to find the Night Doctor and force him—”
“Ask him,” Braided Feather interrupted. “He will not be forced. It is this very thing about him which brought on the horror in the beginning.”
“I understand.” Finley nodded. “What I mean to say is that we all know the horror will not end until the Night Doctor ends it.”
“No man in my tribe will dare to face this,” Braided Feather told him.
Finley said, “Then I will.”
It was silent in the forest. Even though it was well past dawn, shadowy darkness still prevailed beneath the thick overhanging of the pine trees. Finley and Boutelle were sitting with the chief. The horses had been gathered back, the dead horse carried off for disposal, Lean Bear and his scouts sent out to observe the terrain—and the sky—in all directions. Boutelle wondered what Finley and the chief had been saying but didn’t dare ask.
Braided Feather finally spoke.
“You would do this?” he asked, almost in disbelief.
Finley’s smile was grim. “I don’t want to,” he said, “but I am the agent for this territory. I am committed to protect the Apaches.”
He smiled again, this time adding a rueful sound.
“I never thought my duties would include something like this,” he said. “Still . . .” The smile was gone. “I’m willing to try. Someone has to try.”
Braided Feather leaned toward Finley, reaching out to grasp his arm. “You are very brave,” he said. “I salute your bravery.”
“Salute me if it works,” Finley told the chief. “Have you any idea at all where the Night Doctor might be?”
“Somewhere in the mountain caves, we believe,” Braided Feather told him.
Finley nodded. “Could I take the robe of the buffalo with me then?” he asked. “It is very cold up there.”
Braided Feather nodded. “Take it with our blessing,” he said.
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“Thank you.” Finley stood, Boutelle following his lead.
“Wait,” Braided Feather said.
The agent and Boutelle stood waiting while the chief looked through his belongings. Finally he unwrapped a wolf-hide covering to reveal a long knife.
Its blade was as dark as night.
He handed it to Finley. “Take this,” he said. “It is the only protection I can give you.”
“Obsidian?” Finley asked.
The chief nodded.
Finley removed a long knife from its scabbard on his left side. He held it out to Braided Feather. “Hold this, please, until I return with your knife,” he said.
Braided Feather nodded. “I will hold it,” he said.
As they moved away from Braided Feather’s shelter, they saw preparations being made by the Pinal Spring band to leave the camp.
“Where can they go?” Boutelle asked. He added something else which Finley didn’t hear.
Finley glanced at the younger man. “What was that last?” he asked.
At first, it seemed as though Boutelle wasn’t going to answer. Then he said, very quietly, “If it can fly.”
Finley looked at him again. “You do believe it then,” he said.
“I . . . don’t know,” Boutelle faltered. “I don’t want to believe it and yet . . .” He shook himself. “I guess I’ll have to ride with you,” he said. “My horse—”
“That’s impossible,” Finley cut him off.
“What?” Boutelle looked at him in surprise.
“I’ll be going by myself,” Finley said.
“What are you talking about?” Boutelle asked.
Finley told him what he planned to do. The younger man was dumbfounded. “By yourself?” he asked.
“The Apaches are too frightened to go,” Finley said. “Someone has to try. It’s the only chance.”
“That’s insane,” Boutelle responded, but his voice was so soft and devoid of resolve it undid his words.
They reached their grounded saddles, and Boutelle watched the agent gather together his belongings.
At last he said, “Do you think the chief will let me have one of their horses?”
Finley didn’t even look up. “That’s impossible, too,” he said.
“Why?” Boutelle demanded. “Why is it impossible?”
“Because there’s no point in both of us committing suicide,” Finley answered.
Boutelle stared at him. “Is that what you think you’re doing?” he asked. “Committing suicide? How is that going to help the Apaches?”
Finley sighed. “I was exaggerating to make a point,” he said. “I have this.” He patted the hilt of the obsidian knife.
“What is that?” Boutelle asked. “I wondered when the chief gave it to you.”
Finley explained about the knife, Boutelle remembering the ceremony, was not reassured by his words. If anything, he looked more aghast. “That’s it?” he asked. “Against . . . ?” Clearly, he could think of no way to describe the son of Vandaih.
“No, that isn’t it,” Finley said. “My plan is to find the Night Doctor and have him . . . revoke the creature.”
Boutelle simply couldn’t take in the insanity of it all. He could deal only with one small aspect of it at a time and that he was certain about.
“I’m going with you,” he said.
Finley looked up almost angrily, words set to spill from his lips, words of rejecting, discouraging, absolute refusal.
Then he saw the look on Boutelle’s face and a panoramic vision of what would surely take place if he continued arguing swept across his mind. He would refute and argue, refuse and deny, and at every turn, Boutelle would counter him with stubborn insistence. He saw all that in the younger man’s obdurate look, the expression of a man who, reaching a point-of-no-return decision, cannot be made to change his mind.
There simply wasn’t time for that. At any rate, it was no problem anyway.
“All right, you can go,” he told Boutelle. “If we can talk Braided Feather into letting you use one of their ponies.”
He knew that would never happen. The Apaches were short of horses, many already doubling to ride.
“That won’t be necessary,” Boutelle answered.
Finley looked at him, frowning. What was Boutelle talking about now?
Then he saw the younger man gazing off to their left, and he turned and looked.
Lean Bear was riding into camp, leading Professor Dodge’s Appaloosa.
The professor’s limp body was draped across the horse’s back behind the saddle.
Finley and Boutelle moved quickly to where several Apache braves and their chief were converging on the pair of horses. Lean Bear stopped his mount, lifted his right leg over the horse’s back, and slid to the ground.
“Where did you find him?” Braided Feather asked his son. Finley couldn’t understand how the chief knew who it was. It had been years since Dodge made his refused request. Did Braided Feather still remember Dodge’s face from that long ago?
“At the foot of the mountains,” Lean Bear answered. Finley noted without surprise that neither he nor his father looked directly at Dodge.
He moved to Dodge’s body and lifted his head. Boutelle, beside him, hissed with shock.
“That look again,” Finley said.
Boutelle swallowed. For several moments, he was sorely tempted to reverse his stance about going with Finley. The agent wouldn’t say a thing if he rode back to Picture City on Dodge’s horse. It would probably relieve him.
He forced away the impulse. No, he thought.
“I’ll be riding the professor’s horse,” he said to Finley.
The agent didn’t respond. He didn’t have the strength to argue with Boutelle now. Actually, he was grateful that he wouldn’t be alone. He began to untie the professor’s body from its place on the horse’s back, thinking darkly that in all likelihood he would never see Picture City again.
SATURDAY
15
It was already nearing sunset. Boutelle could not believe how fast the day had gone by. They had never even stopped to eat, chewing on jerky and sipping from canteens as they rode.
He tried not to look to his left. The drop from the narrow ledge was prodigious. He was impressed—as well as overwrought—by the way his horse picked its way along, the hooves of its front and rear left legs scant inches from the brink of the winding ledge. Occasionally, it slipped, making Boutelle freeze with apprehension. Then it caught itself, regaining balance and moving on calmly. He envied its ability to instantly forget near death. Or did it need to forget? Perhaps it was essentially unaware of its ongoing peril. Wish I could say the same, he thought.
He’d stopped looking over his shoulder to see if Finley was still behind. He was afraid that if he did, he’d lose equilibrium and slip. His gaze shifted to Lean Bear riding ahead of him.
They—especially Finley—had been startled when the chief’s son had chosen to lead them into the mountains. Obviously he was as terrified of the son of Vandaih as all the others in his band.
When Finley had asked him why he was doing it, Lean Bear had answered (Finley later told Boutelle) that they would never find the Night Doctor without his help.
Knowing his dread, Finley had thanked him, commending him for his courage.
“I am not doing this for you that you need thank me,” Lean Bear had responded coldly. “I do it for my people.”
“I understand and appreciate,” Finley had said without rancor.
Lean Bear had relented slightly then. “You are an honest man, Finley,” he’d said. “A brave one.”
He’d added then with renewed coldness in his voice, “It is men like him”—he’d glanced at Boutelle—“who have brought doom to my people.”
Finley hadn’t told Boutelle that part when the man had asked what Lean Bear had gone on to say. Finley had told him that the chief’s son had said (which he had) that it was bad enough what the white man had done to his people, now
a white man (Dodge) had brought down upon their heads the wrath of this demon creature.
Remembering that, Boutelle shivered and pulled the buffalo robe closer around himself. Thank God Braided Feather had given robes to him and Finley. It was getting colder by the moment, the canyon walls scourged by an endless, icy wind that seemed to slash at his face like tiny, frozen razor blades.
He gazed up briefly at the canyon wall. It looked as though it had been hacked into shape by giant, frenzy-driven pick blows. A reddish cast was inching across it, causing shadows to shift and disappear, then reappear in other places.
Was it possible that they would still be on this ledge after darkness had fallen? He could not conceive of anything so terrible. Surely, Lean Bear would find some place for them to stop.
He winced as he saw Lean Bear turn his head to the left and right and slowly scan the sky.
He’d been doing the same thing all day.
Finally, in the middle of the afternoon, Boutelle had twisted around to speak to Finley.
“If he’s so concerned about . . . that creature”—he’d been compelled to call it—“following us, why is he wearing a white buffalo robe?”
“Because that creature, as you call him, has to follow us. He must be close by when the revocation is performed.”
“And if he decides to kill us before that?” Boutelle had demanded.
“He won’t,” Finley had said. “He wants us to find the Night Doctor for him so he can kill him before the ceremony. That way he’ll be free forever.”
Boutelle was chilled by the memory of Finley’s words. He’d tried to regain some sense of proportion, recalling his family and his life back East, the total reasonableness of his past.
It didn’t work. He was in too deep. He knew that despite all efforts he had come to accept the existence of the son of Vandaih—and the madness of their ride into the mountains to seek out a shaman driven from his people for “tampering.”
Boutelle shuddered and looked to his left, unable to prevent himself from doing so.