Blood Trail (6 page)

In the morning they got on the trail again.

“Widening,” Talbot said as they went. “An ever-widening circle.”

“Why would he do that?” Bullet asked.

“Some creatures circle their prey before striking,” Talbot said.

He rode on ahead. Bullet looked at Clint.

“Creatures,” Bullet said. “Why would he use that word?”

“That's just the way he talks.”

“We still don't know if we're trailin' a man or an animal.”

“Maybe both,” Clint said.

“Both,” Bullet said. “So you mean, it might be a man with a wolf he can control?”

“Or a wolf he can't control,” Clint said.

“Then why wouldn't it kill him?” Bullet asked.

“I don't know,” Clint said. “I'm just thinking out loud.”

* * *

Clint and Bullet rode up on Talbot as the man reined in and stood in his stirrups.

“What is it?” Clint asked.

“Oh, no,” the Romanian said.

“What?” Bullet asked.

“There,” Talbot said, “it's there.”

He kicked his horse in the withers and took off running. Clint and Bullet pursued him. Finally the man came to a stop in what looked like a cold camp.

“I know this place,” Clint said, looking around. There were several cold fires, a lot of footprints . . . and wagon tracks.

“Oh, yeah,” Bullet said. “This is where all the wagons were camped.”

Talbot had dismounted and was walking around, frantically studying the ground.

“What the hell—” Bullet started.

“Give him some time,” Clint said.

Talbot continued to walk about, looking aimless and panicked. Finally, he turned to Clint and Bullet, walked up to them.

“It's following them.”

“Following who?” Bullet asked.

“The wagons,” Talbot said. “My friends. My daughter. It's following them.”

“It?” Bullet asked. “Man or beast?”

Talbot licked his lips, said, “Maybe both.”

“Now that's what Clint said to me,” Bullet said. “Maybe both. What's that mean?”

“It means we must get moving,” Talbot said. “They have a head start of a day.”

“They're movin' slow,” Bullet said. “We got time to catch up.”

“But don't you see?” Talbot asked. “If we have time to catch them, it also has a head start.”

“Now, Mr. Talbot,” Bullet said, dismounting, “I ain't ridin' another foot until you tell me what ‘it' is. Or what you think ‘it' is.”

“Mr. Adams—” Talbot said. “We must hurry!”

“Tell him, Talbot,” Clint said. “He has a right to know.”

“Tell me,” Bullet said. “You already know?”

“I know,” Clint said.

“And you didn't tell me? Why?”

“You'll see,” Clint said. He looked at Talbot. “Tell him.”

“That's crazy!” Bullet said.

He was looking at Talbot's vampire kit, which was open on the ground. Then he looked at Clint. “That's crazy.”

“Maybe it is,” Clint said. “But that doesn't mean he can't track what we're after.”

“What? Or who?” Bullet asked. “Which is it?”

Clint shrugged.

“I guess we'll find that out when we catch it.”

“You're still willin' to follow this fella who thinks he hunts vampires?”

“Whether we're hunting a vampire or not, Ray,” Clint said, “we're hunting something, something that tore a man apart. So we need all the help we can get.”

Bullet stared at Talbot, who looked extremely worried.

“There are no tracks of a horse, right?” Bullet asked.

“No,” Talbot said.

“Then how is this killer going to catch up to them?” the lawman asked.

Talbot didn't answer.

Bullet looked at Clint.

“Don't tell me,” he said.

Clint shrugged. “I guess he'll run.”

“And what can run that fast,” Bullet asked, “a vampire or a werewolf?”

“Either one, I guess,” Clint said.

“Ahhh,” Bullet said in disgust.

Talbot and Clint waited, then Clint asked, “What are we going to do, Ray?”

Bullet, still looking disgusted, said, “Mount up!”

Talbot hurriedly climbed atop his horse before the lawman could change his mind.

* * *

They rode for half a day, pushing, but they were only as fast as their slowest horse and—remarkably—that proved to be the sheriff's horse, not Talbot's old mare.

“We're not gonna catch up to them today,” Bullet said.

“Mr. Adams can,” Talbot said. “With his horse, he could ride until he catches them.”

“I don't know this country,” Clint said, “and I'm not putting Eclipse at risk by riding him at night.”

“That's it,” Bullet said. “We'll camp and get an early start.”

“But my daughter—”

“Your daughter is safe with the people in the train,” Bullet said. “You said that yourself.”

“Yes, but not against . . .”

“Against what?”

“This,” Talbot said. “Not against this.”

“Will it charge into the camp after all those people?” Bullet asked.

“There's no telling—”

“What does it usually do?”

“Normally,” Talbot said, “it will prey on the weak when they are alone.”

“And is your daughter likely to be alone?”

“No.”

“That's it, then,” Bullet said. “No more discussion.”

They set up camp, Bullet building the fire, Clint picketing the horses. Talbot just sat on a rock, looking worried.

Bullet put on the coffee and handed out the hardtack. Talbot nibbled with no interest.

“Don't worry, Talbot,” Clint said. “We'll catch them tomorrow.”

“It may be too late,” Talbot said. He shook his head. “I never should have left her.”

Clint could see how worried the man was and sought to put his mind at ease.

“You had no way of knowing this killer would go after the wagons—”

“I should have realized it!” Talbot said bitterly.

“Why?” Clint asked. “How?”

“Because this killer must be from my country!”

“If that's the case, how did it get here?”

“The same way I did.”

“You mean . . . the same way, or the same boat?” Clint asked.

“Either one,” Talbot said.

Clint leaned forward. Bullet was remaining silent, just listening.

“Are you thinking this thing followed you here?” Clint asked. “That it's here . . . for you?”

“It is very possible.”

“This is crazy,” Bullet said into his coffee.

“Crazy or not,” Clint said, “we're on the trail of a killer. That's all that matters.”

“Saving my daughter is all that matters!” Talbot said forcefully.

Clint found that he couldn't honestly disagree with him.

The killer sniffed the air, could smell the girl. But she was in camp, with all the others, sitting next to a fire.

The killer sat and quietly, patiently waited for one of them to separate from the others. If he could just get one of them alone . . .

* * *

Sarah still had the uncomfortable feeling they were being watched. The feeling manifested itself as a chill that ran up her spine and down her arms. It made her feel so cold.

She jumped as something touched her shoulders, then realized it was Carl, putting a blanket around her.

“You are cold,” he said. “This should help.”

“Thank you.”

“And get closer to the fire.”

She knew it wouldn't help any more than the blanket did, but for his benefit she scooted a little closer.

“Better?” he asked hopefully.

“Better,” she lied.

He sat across the fire from her.

“Are you worried about your father?”

“Yes.”

“Do not worry, Sarah,” Carl said. “Your father is a great hunter.”

“He was a great hunter,” she said. “When my mother was killed, he lost his taste for it, and we came to this country, where he thought he would not have to hunt ever again. And now . . .” “Perhaps this killer is not what your father thinks it is,” Carl offered.

“I am afraid my father knows,” she said.

“He knows what the killer is?”

“I do not mean he actually knows what it is,” she replied, “but he knows what they are hunting for. He is always able to tell.”

“Then he will catch it,” Carl said, “and he will kill it. And then he will come back to you.”

“I hope you are right, Carl,” Sarah said.

Carl's father came over and said, “Carl, we need water. There is a stream nearby.”

“Yes, sir.” The young man looked at Sarah. “I will be right back.”

But he wasn't.

In the morning they rose, had some coffee, and then broke camp. Talbot was eager—no, frantic—to get going, and hurriedly killed the fire by pouring the remainder of the coffee on it.

They saddled their horses and mounted up.

“We have all day,” Bullet told them. “No need to push the horses too hard.”

“But we must catch up to them!”

“We will,” Clint said, “but not by killing the horses.”

Talbot took a deep breath. “Yes, all right.”

They started out. Talbot still took the lead, even though they could all see the tracks left by the wagons.

“He's about to jump out of his skin,” Bullet said. “He does and the great vampire hunter won't be doing us any good.”

“He'll be okay,” Clint said.

“What makes you so sure?”

“He's lived this long,” Clint said, “and he wants to save his daughter.”

“We all want to save his daughter,” Bullet said. “I don't want to see anyone else die, but . . .”

“But what?”

“I can't deal with this, Clint,” Bullet said. “When we catch up to them, are they all also gonna believe in vampires and werewolves?”

“I don't know,” Clint said. “Why don't we wait until we catch up to see?”

* * *

They rode at a pace set by Talbot and his mare. The wheel tracks were getting fresher and Talbot was getting more anxious.

“No graves along the way,” Clint said.

“What?” Talbot asked.

“If anything had happened already,” Clint said, “we would have seen gravesites along the way.”

“I suppose you are correct,” Talbot said.

“That was supposed to make him feel better?” Bullet asked.

“It was worth a try,” Clint said.

“The only thing that's gonna make him feel better is to see his daughter, alive,” the lawman said.

“Let's hope,” Clint said.

* * *

An hour later they came to a cold campsite, and a grave.

“Oh, no,” Talbot said.

Clint dismounted and walked to it. It was marked by a cross made from two sticks. There was no way to tell if a man or woman was buried there.

“Pretty fresh,” he said. “They must've camped last night, and this happened.”

“Maybe,” Bullet said, “somebody just died. You know, natural causes.”

Talbot looked as if he was about to panic.

“Take it easy, Talbot,” Clint said. “Don't fall apart until we know.”

“Yes,” Talbot said, “you are right.”

* * *

It was almost dusk when Bullet said, “We're gonna have to stop.”

“They have to stop, too,” Clint said. “I think we can find their camp.”

“You're the one who doesn't want to risk your horse in the dark,” Bullet reminded him.

“I know,” Clint said, “but we've still got some time. Let's push on a bit.”

“Yeah, okay,” Bullet said.

“Thank you,” Talbot said to Clint.

“But just a little while,” Bullet said.

“I understand.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later Talbot asked, “Smell that?”

They sniffed the air.

“No,” Bullet said.

“Yes,” Clint said. “A campfire.”

“Fires,” Talbot said. “More than one. Just up ahead.”

“Then let's go,” Clint said.

* * *

The killer had just about decided to go ahead and move into camp when the riders came along. He sniffed, smelled danger, but also smelled something—
someone
—familiar.

He backed into the brush and settled down to wait patiently.

When Talbot saw the wagons and the fires, he urged his horse into a gallop.

“Sarah!” he screamed. “Sarah!”

“Papa?”

The girl came running toward him. He dismounted and ran to grab her and hold her tightly.

“Looks like the girl's okay,” Bullet said.

“Yeah,” Clint said.

Gerhardt approached the two mounted men.

“Mr. Gerhardt,” Clint said. “We saw the grave. Who died?”

“My son,” the man said sadly.

“I'm sorry,” Clint said.

“How did he die?” Bullet asked.

“The same way the other man did,” Gerhardt said. “He was torn apart.”

“Jesus,” Bullet said.

Clint dismounted, followed by the lawman.

“We tracked it,” Clint said. “I mean, Talbot tracked it, found out it was following the wagon train . . . whatever it is.”

“Varcolac!”
Gerhardt cried out suddenly, looking close to tears.

“What?” Clint asked.

“What does that mean?” Bullet asked.

“Several things,” Gerhardt said hoarsely, trying to compose himself. “It could mean goblin . . . or vampire . . . or werewolf.”

“Werewolf,” Bullet said.

“Which do you think it was, Mr. Gerhardt?”

“From the condition of my son's body . . . what was left of it . . .
werewolf
.”

“Does everybody here believe that?” Bullet asked him.

“No,” Gerhardt admitted. “Talbot and I are from Romania. We believe. Others—Germans, Poles—do not. Not all of them.”

“Well, that's a relief,” Bullet said to Clint. “At least some of these people are being realistic.”

“Come,” Gerhardt said, “we have food ready. There is plenty.”

“We'll have to take care of our horses first,” Clint said. “Thank you.”

Gerhardt nodded, turned, and went back to the fire, where Talbot and his daughter were still hugging each other.

Clint and Bullet walked their horses and Talbot's to the picket line and unsaddled them.

“Maybe some of these people will have some other idea,” Bullet said.

“Whatever their ideas are,” Clint said, “let's not call them crazy, okay, Ray?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure,” Bullet said, then added, “even though some of them might be.”