Gigantic rock formations were now visible in the distance, eroded through eons into separate forms that looked to him like massive statuary, strange figures he could almost make out with imagination, strange faces carved by time and wind and water.
Night was beginning to cover the bases of the huge formations, an ocean of black shadows slowly moving upward on them like a rising lap of dark waters.
Soon the reddish light on the cliffs would diminish, the stone would go gray in the last of twilight, and night would cover them. Then what? Boutelle wondered. Would Lean Bear find a place where they could stop?
And light a fire?
Boutelle shook his head abruptly. No fire, he thought. That would be too easy to spot. They’d be as helpless as that horse had been.
In spite of how it disturbed him, he tilted back his head and looked at the sky.
Had the son of Vandaih been tracking them all day, up so high they couldn’t see him, floating on the wind, great wings stretched and motionless, riding the icy currents like a cork on bobbing water, black eyes ever on his prey?
Boutelle glanced over his shoulder, starting slightly as he saw the pale white, shadow-marked circle of the moon. How could it have appeared so quickly? He shivered.
Darkness was almost upon them.
He twitched as Lean Bear abruptly turned and spoke to them.
“The cavern opening is just ahead,” Finley told him. “When you see Lean Bear turning into it, follow him fast. We have to hope he doesn’t see us disappear.”
Boutelle knew exactly who the agent meant by “he” and braced himself to move as he’d been told.
There was no sound but the whistling of the cold wind and the clatter of the horses’ hooves on the stone ledge. Moments passed. Lean Bear kept riding forward.
“All right then,” Boutelle muttered to himself. Where was the cavern entrance? Why didn’t—
The thought broke off, his face tensing in a grimace as Lean Bear suddenly jerked his mount to the right and as though by magic disappeared into the cliff wall.
“Now!” Finley shouted.
Before fear could repress the action, Boutelle drove his knees into the horse’s flanks, and, startled, it lurched forward into a trot. Boutelle closed his eyes, convinced that it would slip off the edge, carry him hurtling down into the green valley far below, crushing him on the rocks and . . .
“No,” he growled, forcing himself to reopen his eyes.
He had almost missed the cavern entrance. He was forced to jerk the horse around so much that it rose up slightly off its front feet for a horrifying moment. Boutelle was certain that he’d made it lose balance, that it was about to topple backward off the edge.
But at the last moment the horse regained balance and lunged through the opening in the cliff wall. Boutelle hissed as hanging vines whipped across his shoulders and cheeks when he instinctively hunched over and lowered his face.
Inside he pulled in hard on the reins.
The immediate cessation of wind created an illusion of deep silence. Then he heard the sound of hooves—his and Lean Bear’s mounts—shifting nervously on the stone floor of the cavern.
He caught his breath, struggling to control his horse as Finley’s mount came charging in from outside, bumping against his horse’s side, the two animals nickering with alarm.
He and Finley regained control of their mounts, and Boutelle looked around.
There was enough illumination from the sunset—some light seemed to filter in through cracks in the wall—for him to see that the cavern was immense. He had been inside an ice house in Vermont once, and the air in here was equally as frigid. Even out of the icy wind, Boutelle felt the need to pull the buffalo robe around himself again.
Lean Bear said something, and Finley interpreted.
“He says the Night Doctor will be somewhere in this cavern.”
Boutelle only nodded. What was there to say?
“I’d like you to stay here while Lean Bear and I go on,” Finley told him.
Boutelle frowned. “Come all this way with you just to stop now?” he replied.
“It could be . . . terrible,” Finley said.
Boutelle was about to respond when he realized that his throat had become clogged by fear.
“I’m—” he began. His voice was strangled, and he broke off, wincing. Well, to hell with it, he thought. He cleared his throat with a viscid sound. “I’m not stopping now,” he said. His voice was still not normal, but he didn’t care. The statement was made.
“David—”
“I am going with you,” Boutelle said, determination clearing the sound of his voice.
“We cannot sit and talk,” Lean Bear said tensely.
“All right.” Finley nodded, sighing. “There isn’t time to argue.”
“There hasn’t been since we left,” Boutelle replied.
Finley nodded again and pulled his mount around. “We’re ready,” he said in Apache.
Lean Bear nodded and reined his pony around, starting into the cavern. Finley followed, Boutelle trailing behind, wondering distractedly what he’d do if he lost track of Finley. You’ll die, that’s what you’ll do, his mind supplied.
Finley was wishing now that he’d talked Boutelle out of coming, forced him to remain behind if necessary. The younger man’s goodwill and good intentions would be of little value when—and if—they found the Night Doctor.
For that matter, he wondered what good his presence would do when that time came. Since Lean Bear had insisted on leading them, he could also ask the Night Doctor to perform the revocation rite. The Night Doctor had been a part of the Pinal Spring band; Lean Bear was familiar to him. Finley, on the other hand, was a total stranger.
The more he thought about it, the more pointless his presence became in his mind. Which made Boutelle’s presence totally senseless. He scowled, then told himself to let it go. What was done was done. He’d made his promise to Braided Feather. That would have to suffice.
He remembered the chief doing something totally unexpected before he’d left. He had embraced Finley, and the feel of the chief’s arms and body had made him realize how old and frail Braided Feather really was.
“The future of my people lies with you,” the chief had murmured.
Finley had been embarrassed by the chief’s show of emotion. Braided Feather had always represented, to him, the epitome of dignity and strength. It had to be the measure of the chief’s dread regarding the son of Vandaih that he would display such vulnerable behavior. It had made Finley all the more apprehensive about what he was planning to attempt.
They had gone about a hundred yards through the vast cavern when the light faded into near darkness and Lean Bear stopped to light a torch. The fact that the chief’s son had brought the torch along told Finley that he must know the Night Doctor was in here somewhere, or assumed at least that the possibility that he was, was good.
The continuing ride through the cavern was an eerie one.
By the random flicker of the torch in Lean Bear’s right hand, Finley could see the walls of the cavern, some dripping with water, some dry. High above, stalactites glimmered, pointing down at them like giant blades. Swords of Damocles, he thought. An appropriate fancy under the circumstances.
He looked back to see if Boutelle was all right. The younger man’s expression in the wavering torchlight was a grave one. What was he thinking? Finley wondered. Had he finally come to terms with what was taking place? Or was part of his mind still trying to resist the obvious?
As moments passed, Finley felt himself sinking gradually into a half-conscious reverie, the rhythmic clopping of the horses’ hooves on the stone floor of the cavern acting on his mind hypnotically. The flame of the torch ahead became the focal point of his vision as it bobbed along with the movement of Lean Bear’s pony. After a while, it was all he could see, and he felt himself begin to weave in the saddle, his progression through the chilly darkness slipping from awareness.
When Le
an Bear stopped his mount, Finley almost ran his horse into him; only at the last moment did he blink his eyes, refocusing, and yank back on the reins. He saw Lean Bear looking back at him with disapproving curiosity.
Then the chief’s son spoke, the sound of his voice making Finley start a little, it sounded so loud to him.
“He is up ahead,” Lean Bear told him.
Finley swallowed dryly, nodding. “All right,” he said. “Shall we continue on foot?”
The Apache nodded. “Yes.”
As Finley dismounted, he glanced back and saw Boutelle getting off his horse.
“I want you to stay here,” he said. He cut off the younger man before he could object. “Lean Bear and I must speak to the shaman. You’d only be in the way.”
Boutelle still looked as though he were about to contest Finley’s words. But then he nodded curtly. “Very well,” he agreed.
Finley grounded his reins and walked to Lean Bear. The chief’s son pointed ahead, and Finley, looking in that direction, saw faint light quivering in a corner of the cavern where the overhead roof declined sharply.
It was the light of a fire.
“I will go first,” Lean Bear told him. “Walk behind me at a proper distance.”
“Very well.” Finley nodded.
The two men advanced on the flickering light. When they were ten yards distant from its source, Lean Bear called out, his voice ringing and echoing off the cavern walls, making Finley twitch.
“We are here in peace to see the Night Doctor,” the Apache said.
Silence. Lean Bear waited for a short amount of time, then repeated his words.
There was no response.
Is he here? Finley wondered. My God, he thought suddenly, what if the Night Doctor had died of some affliction? He was an old man, older than Braided Feather. He might have had a heart attack, died in his sleep. What would they do if they found only his body?
What could they do? he answered himself. It would mean the final release of the creature into the world.
Did the son of Vandaih have to know the old man was dead before he could be free?
He tensed as Lean Bear started forward again. Finley drew in a laboring breath and followed him. He looked over his shoulder to make sure Boutelle had remained behind.
The younger man was unseen in the darkness. Finley felt a twinge of concern for him. It had to be unnerving to be left alone in total blackness, in a cavern he could never get out of by himself.
Turning back, he continued after Lean Bear, twitching again as the chief’s son spoke loudly.
“We come in peace to see the Night Doctor,” he repeated.
Finley almost added, “We will give you pollen and gold for a boon,” then decided against it. Lean Bear would be angered by his interference, and he was only guessing that the Night Doctor was acquisitive because he’d taken money from Professor Dodge. That was some time ago. Things had to be different.
They were almost to the fire now. Lean Bear stopped, and Finley moved to his side.
The shaman’s living space was scant and primitive. All that was visible was a pair of buffalo robes on the stone floor and an iron pot beside the low fire.
Finley’s gaze shifted. Hanging across what clearly was a rift in the outer cave wall was another buffalo robe. But where was the old man? he wondered.
His answer came with the cocking of a rifle hammer to their right. He and Lean Bear looked there quickly.
Standing in a shadowy patch, the Night Doctor had leveled a rifle at them. In the faint glow of the fire reflected on the old man’s face, Finley saw the scar-like seams of ninety years marking his skin, his small, dark eyes glittering as he watched them.
“Who are you?” he asked, his voice low-pitched and hoarse.
“You know me,” Lean Bear told the old man. “I am Lean Bear of the Pinal Spring band. My father—”
“There is no Pinal Spring band,” the old man interrupted. “They do not exist.”
Finley grimaced. Of course the old man would say that, he thought. He had been driven from the Pinal Spring band. In his mind, they could not possibly exist any longer.
“You know my father, Braided Feather—” Lean Bear started angrily.
“There is no Braided Feather; he does not exist,” the Night Doctor cut him off.
Seeing Lean Bear tense and knowing that the old man would not hesitate to shoot him, Finley quickly said, “We have gold and pollen for a boon.”
He saw that his words had angered Lean Bear, as he’d expected, but he had to ignore the Apache’s reaction. Better he was angry than dead, he thought.
“Who are you?” the old man demanded.
“Billjohn Finley,” he answered. “Government Indian agent in Picture City.”
The Night Doctor gazed at him impassively.
“What boon?” he finally asked.
Lean Bear cut off Finley’s voice as he tried to answer the shaman’s question.
“You must destroy the son of Vandaih,” Lean Bear said.
The old man’s reaction was short-lived, albeit unmistakable—momentary shock dispelled by will.
The impassive look returned.
“I do not know any son of Vandaih,” he said.
Lean Bear stiffened, leaning toward the old man, only pulling back as the old man raised the rifle to his shoulder.
“You invoked this demon!” Lean Bear lashed out at the shaman. “You must rid the world of him!”
The old man’s features twisted suddenly into a mask of savage venom.
“Let the creature live forever!” he cried. “Your people drove me from my wickiup and forced me to this solitary life! I owe you nothing! I delight in your certain destruction, every man, woman, and child!”
16
The shaman raised the rifle to his shoulder once again.
“Leave,” he said. “Or die.”
Finley saw, in an instant, that Lean Bear had moved his right hand to the hilt of his knife. The Apache did not intend that the Night Doctor should continue living, even if it cost him his own life.
“If you fire your rifle, the son of Vandaih will hear it,” Finley said quickly.
The old man’s narrowed eyes shifted to him.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Did you think he wouldn’t follow us?” Finley said.
The shaman’s face grew visibly taut. “You led him here?” he asked incredulously.
“How could we do otherwise?” Finley asked. “You know he must be close by when the revocation ceremony is performed.”
Hatred twisted the old man’s face. “I’ll kill you both,” he snarled.
“No matter who you kill, the creature knows we’re in here,” Finley responded. “And you know what he’ll do when he finds us—or you.”
The shaman drew in a sudden hissing breath through clenched teeth.
“I do not believe you,” he said, but there was little confidence in his voice.
“Believe him,” Lean Bear said. “I wore the robe of a white buffalo as we rode into the mountains. I watched the sky as we came. High above, so high that I could barely see him, the son of Vandaih followed. The white man speaks the truth. We knew that the creature had to be nearby during the ceremony.”
His pitiless smile made coldness move up Finley’s spine.
“He is nearby,” Lean Bear finished. Then, without a pause, he turned away from the shaman. “We will go now. You have some minutes left to live, perhaps an hour. Then the son of Vandaih will have found you.” Another remorseless smile. “I leave it to the eye of your mind what he will do to you.”
Finley remained motionless as Lean Bear walked past him. His gaze stayed fixed on the old man’s face. The shaman had to be in a state of horror, he thought. Unless he really didn’t believe what they said. But how could he not believe when it was obvious that—
“Wait.” The Night Doctor’s voice told Finley everything, thickened by dread, quavering as an old man’s voice would quaver.<
br />
Lean Bear turned to face the shaman. He did not speak. Neither did Finley. No need for our words now, he was thinking.
The old man shuddered, lowering the rifle.
“I will perform the ceremony,” he said.
Finley, Boutelle, and Lean Bear sat cross-legged on the cave floor, watching silently.
At first, the Night Doctor had informed them that no white man could observe the ceremony he was to perform. Lean Bear had not been opposed to that, but Finley had remained adamant. He and Boutelle had already watched the ceremony performed in the Apache camp, he told the shaman. They were part of this entire situation. They would observe.
He knew that under any other circumstances the Night Doctor would refuse to yield. But the old man knew that his time was short, that at any moment the son of Vandaih might burst in on them. He could not take time to argue, so he submitted to Finley’s demand. While the shaman gathered what he needed for the ceremony, Finley went and got Boutelle, telling him what had happened.
Now the three men sat in motionless silence, watching the Night Doctor bathe.
The sight of it made Finley restive. If the creature had seen them enter the cavern, he could be close by. The time taken for the old man to wash his body could be fatal to them.
Ironic, too, he thought, a humorless smile drawing back his lips. From the smell of the old man and his living space, cleanliness was not an item high on his list of priorities.
Boutelle leaned over to whisper in his ear, “Why is he doing this?”
“He has to purify himself to ask for help from the Great Spirit,” Finley whispered back.
He glanced at Lean Bear. The chief’s son was scowling at them. Clearly despite their attempt to be quiet, their words had not eluded the Apache’s keen hearing.
His gaze moved back to the Night Doctor.
The old man had finished drying himself and was putting on a short, clean buckskin shirt.
Picking up a small pottery jug (he’d gotten all the ceremony elements from a hidden crevice in the cave) he braced himself visibly, then drank, swallowing deeply. He bent over to put down the jug.
Before he’d straightened up, his face was distorted by a spasm of nausea, and making dreadful, gagging sounds, he lurched to the hanging buffalo robe and swept it aside with a brush of his right arm. He lunged outside just in time to void the contents of his stomach.