Blood Trail (8 page)

The wagon train started west again with Clint Adams in the lead. He had now gone from unofficial deputy to unofficial wagon master. Once again he'd stepped into other people's business and come away with the burden of seeing that things went right. He now had to not only find and stop a killer, but see that these people got to Nevada, where they may or may not have had a legitimate claim to some land.

They had all put their lives in his hands—or into the hands of him and Frederick Talbot.

And maybe he'd put his life into the hands of a crazy man. That remained to be seen, as well.

* * *

Frederick Talbot held the reins of his team loosely in his hands. His daughter, Sarah, sat next to him, holding tightly to his arm. She was so glad he was back, and he knew it. He was trying to put her mind at rest for the time being before he and Clint went out again, hunting. He knew that would upset her once more, but he was the only one who had a chance to catch and kill the monster, and he had a better chance with Clint's help. He just wished Clint had allowed him to make some silver bullets for his gun.

“Papa?”

“Yes, Sarah?”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Just the new life we're going to have in Nevada, Sarah,” he lied. “That's all.”

* * *

The killer watched as the wagon train pulled out. There was a new leader, and he was the dangerous one. The killer sensed that. There were only two in this group who were hunters. The rest were just prey.

His prey.

* * *

They traveled the day without incident, and then Clint called them to a halt.

“We'll camp here,” he told Gerhardt, and then rode back to tell the others.

Once they had stopped and secured their stock and their wagons, Clint gathered them together.

“I only want two fires, and I want them close together,” Clint said. “No one is to leave camp alone. Only in twos. And keep your children close.”

“I hear a stream nearby,” one of the women said. “We need water.”

“Two of the men will go and get it,” Clint said. “Make sure you're both armed.”

Everyone agreed. They built two fires and the women started to prepare the meal.

“Who's going for water?” Clint called out.

“I am,” Mueller said.

“I'll go with you.”

That seemed to please Mueller. He picked up two buckets and they started to walk.

“I've got to ask you something,” Clint said.

“What is that?”

“Do you believe in vampires and werewolves?”

“Of course not . . .”

“Well—”

“But I am from Germany,” Mueller went on. “Those in our group who are from Romania, they believe wholeheartedly. Especially Talbot.”

“Why Talbot?”

“Because he has hunted them,” Mueller said.

“And you believe that?”

Mueller shrugged. “He says he has not only hunted them, but caught and killed them. Gerhardt supports his stories.”

“But you have never seen one.”

“No,” Mueller said, “but that does not mean they do not exist.”

They reached the stream and Mueller filled the two buckets of water. Clint took one from him and they walked back to camp. He carried the bucket in his left hand, leaving his gun hand free.

When they reached the camp, Clint went to one of the fires and accepted a cup of coffee from Sarah Talbot.

“Do you believe my father?”

“Sarah—”

“I can understand that you have never seen a vampire or a werewolf,” she said, “but he has. He does not lie.”

“I don't think he's lying,” Clint said.

“Then you do believe him.”

“I'm willing to follow him, and back him,” Clint said. “I'm not ready yet to decide to believe in those creatures.”

“Well,” she said, “I am very grateful that you are here, and that Captain Parker is not.” She reached out, put her hand on his, and looked into his eyes. “We need you.”

For a moment, as he stared back at her, he did not see the eyes of a child, but of a woman. In fact, the look she gave him was feverish.

He started to wonder about Captain Parker, and if he might not have been pulled in by those eyes?

“Thank you for the coffee, Sarah,” he said.

“Come back,” she said. “The food will be ready very soon.”

Clint walked away and encountered Frederick Talbot, who also had a cup of coffee.

“She is very frightened,” Talbot said. “And is being very brave.”

“Yes,” Clint said, for want of anything else to say. The girl he'd just spoken to did not seem to be very frightened. He was starting to wonder how well Talbot knew his own daughter.

He looked at Talbot, who had suddenly stood stock-still. Only his eyes were moving.

“Do you feel it?” he asked.

“What?”

“We are being hunted.”

“I'd much rather be the hunter,” Clint said.

“So would I. Perhaps that is what we should do,” Talbot said.

“What are you suggesting?” Clint asked.

“After everyone else has retired for the night,” Talbot said, “perhaps you and I should go out and do what we do best—hunt.”

“In the dark?” Clint asked. “Wouldn't that be playing right into the hands of the killer?”

“It would be unexpected,” Talbot said, “and do not worry, I have hunted in the dark before.”

“Well,” Clint said, “I may be agreeing to this, but I hope you don't mind if I just go ahead and worry a little.”

Clint sat at the fire, drinking coffee and waiting for everyone to finally settle in for the night. They had agreed that Gerhardt and Mueller would take the first watch while he and Talbot went out into the dark.

“Are you sure that is wise?” Gerhardt asked.

“I'm going along with your buddy Talbot on this, Mr. Gerhardt,” Clint said. “I'm assuming he knows what he's doing—unless you tell me different.”

“No, no,” Gerhardt said, “when it comes to hunting a were—when it comes to hunting, Talbot is an expert.”

“All right,” Clint said. “I'll take your word for it.”

Gerhardt and Mueller came up to the fire now, carrying their rifles.

“We are ready,” Gerhardt said.

“Keep the whole camp in sight,” Clint said. “But also stay within sight of each other.”

Both men nodded. Neither of them looked very enthusiastic. Talbot came walking over. Clint noticed his silver bullet gun was tucked into his belt, and he had his canvas bag slung over his shoulder.

“Are you ready?” he asked Clint.

“Ready as I'll ever be, I guess.” Clint dumped the remnants of his coffee into the fire, wiped the cup off with his fingers, and set it down. “Let's go.”

“Good luck.”

Talbot looked at his friend intently.

“No matter what you hear, do not leave this camp,” he told him. “Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

Talbot looked at Mueller, who said, “Yes.”

“The lives of these people are in your hands,” Talbot said.

Both men nodded their understanding.

As Clint and Talbot got ready to leave the camp, Sarah came running over to them.

“Please be careful, Papa,” she said.

“I will,” he promised. “You make sure you stay in camp. And near the fire. And stay with Gerhardt.”

“I will.”

As they started to leave, Sarah grabbed Clint's arm and said, “Be careful.”

“I'll watch after him,” he promised.

“And yourself,” she said, squeezing his arm.

He hesitated, nodded, and followed Frederick Talbot into the darkness.

* * *

They were coming for him.

Foolish.

He reached over and wrapped his fingers in fur. Yellow eyes pierced the darkness with a low growl.

They would learn . . .

* * *

There was a sliver of a moon, not much light, but that didn't seem to stop Talbot from moving quickly.

Clint tried to follow and step as surely, but still occasionally tripped on a tree root or rock.

“Shhh,” Talbot urged.

“Sorry,” Clint said. “I can't see as clearly as you obviously can.”

“Just step where I step.”

“I'm trying.”

But at that moment instead of stepping, Talbot stopped. Clint almost walked into him from behind.

“What is it?”

“Listen.”

Clint listened, but didn't hear a thing.

“I can hear it breathing,” Talbot said. “It knows we're coming for it.”

That was bad. They had been hoping to catch the killer watching the camp, perhaps even coming up on it from behind.

“Not good news,” Clint said.

“Nevertheless,” Talbot said, “it is out here—and that is good news.”

Clint thought that remained to be seen.

Clint still could not hear anything—moving
or
breathing—so he had to depend on Talbot, who seemed to have both senses in an eerie quantity.

Talbot started to move again and Clint followed. He found himself wondering if he should have let Talbot make him some silver bullets, after all, then immediately pushed the thought away. If only silver bullets would work, that would make his gun—and his abilities with it—useless. It would also mean that he was out here virtually unarmed. That was not a thought he wanted to carry with him. He had to be ready and alert, and confident in his own ability.

Again, Talbot stopped. Clint turned and looked over his shoulder. He could no longer see the lights of the camp. They were in almost total darkness. Was this really an environment in which Talbot preferred to hunt?

“Frederick—”

“Shhh.”

Talbot stopped again. This time, Clint thought he heard it. Was that actually the sound of . . . breathing?

Talbot looked back at Clint.

“We need to separate,” he said. “All right?”

“Yes.”

“If you hear or see anything, shout,” Talbot said. “I will be there with my gun.”

“I have my gun.”

“I have the silver bullets.”

“Ah.”

“For my sake,” Talbot said, “shout out and I will come.”

“You've got it.”

“And do not take any chances,” Talbot said. “Believe me, you do not know what you are dealing with.”

“All right, Frederick,” Clint said. “I'll keep that in mind.”

“I will go this way,” Talbot said, pointing, “and you go that way.”

Clint nodded.

Talbot melted into the darkness. Clint wished he could do it that easily.

* * *

Back at the fire, Sarah sat nervously rubbing her hands together. Across the fire from her was Gerhardt, standing and staring off into the darkness. She knew he was thinking of his dead son, Carl.

The other man, Mueller, was standing at the other end of the camp, watching. From where they stood, the two men could see each other clearly. That was why Gerhardt was able to watch in horror as something came out of the darkness, grabbed Mueller, and dragged him back into it. Mueller barely had time to scream, and Sarah heard nothing. All she saw was the look of horror on Gerhardt's face.

“Oh, my God!” Gerhardt cried.

“What?” Sarah asked, jumping to her feet. She turned and looked. “Where is Mr. Mueller?”

“He is . . . gone!”

Sarah screamed . . .

* * *

Clint heard the scream, knew it came from the camp. He and Talbot had made the wrong decision. They should not have left the camp, not the both of them. One should have remained behind.

Soon after the scream there was a shot.

Clint knew Talbot must have heard both. Was he on his way back to camp? Or was he still out in the darkness?

His own first instinct was to run back to camp, but whatever had happened there was done. There were no more screams or shots. One of each meant that something had happened, probably very quickly, and it was over.

Still, he was caught in a dilemma. Stay out here in the dark hoping to run into the killer and also hoping that nothing serious had happened in camp? Or head back to camp to see what had occurred, while the killer got away?

* * *

Talbot heard the scream, knew it was Sarah. But he also knew the worst thing he could do was storm off into the darkness, trying to get back to camp. After the shot he came to the same decision Clint had come to. Whatever had happened was done, over. He just had to hope that the only thing that had happened to his daughter was that she'd been frightened into a scream.

He listened, and heard movement in the brush. He tried to push all thoughts of his daughter aside, so he could concentrate on the moment. Many hunters had been killed simply because they had been distracted. He had been careful for many years not to allow that to happen.

He didn't intend to change that now.

He took his pistol from his belt.

Clint was moving back toward camp—slowly, not in a panic—when he heard the second shot. It was not from a rifle and not from camp. It was Talbot's gun. He'd fired one of his silver bullets at someone—or something.

Then there were no more gunshots. He could hear the sounds of voices from camp. They were frightened, anxious voices, but he couldn't let that influence his movements.

The sounds in camp came from people who were unsure of what to do. They were not the cries of people being attacked.

Still, he continued to move in the direction of camp. Something had been close enough to it to elicit a scream from Sarah. Maybe something had even entered the camp, and then fled.

Maybe he'd run right into it . . .

* * *

Talbot knew he had fired too quickly. He'd been away from hunting too long. His next shot would be more assured, more carefully fired.

He was moving quickly through the dark, chasing the figure he'd fired at. If he could catch the creature before the change, it would be easier to kill. He wouldn't have to worry about the bullet making its way through fur and sinew, just human flesh.

He held the pistol in his hand, uncocked. He didn't want to take a chance on the gun firing before he was ready.

He stopped, and listened.

There.

Moving through the brush. Not running, but moving with purpose. He tried not to think about Sarah, hoped that she was still safe back in camp.

He moved toward the sounds, hoping to intercept the creature before it was ready. He could use all the help he could get, and the element of surprise might swing the balance in his favor.

Now he cocked the hammer back and moved . . .

* * *

Clint heard the movement in the brush, and it was coming toward him, from the camp. Whatever it had done, whoever it might have injured or killed, it was now coming toward him.

He took out his gun.

* * *

Sarah was remarkably calm, considering it was she who had screamed. But once she'd screamed, Gerhardt said to her, “Stay near the fire,” and he ran toward the other end of the camp. She didn't think he could see anything, but he raised his rifle and fired into the dark.

She ran after him, knocked the rifle barrel down before he could fire again.

“You might hit Clint, or my father,” she said. “What did you see?”

“I—I—I don't know,” he said. “It happened so quickly. First he was there, and then he was not. Something—something took him.”

“What was it?”

“I do not know,” Gerhardt said. “Something . . . big.”

The others came running out of their wagons in response to the scream and the shot.

“Don't tell them,” she said quickly.

“W-What?”

“Do not tell anyone what you saw.”

“I do not know what I saw.”

“Good,” she said. “Do not start a panic.”

“All right,” he said. “All right.”

They both turned to face the other members of the train.

* * *

It loomed up in front of him, surprising him even though he was prepared. It was a huge shape with fur and teeth and yellow eyes. The creature saw him at the same time and they both reacted. The wolf rose up and roared at him, took a swipe at him with one huge paw. Clint fired his gun twice, was sure he hit the thing, but it turned and ran off.

He chased it, and then realized he had been clawed.

* * *

Talbot saw him just a moment before he saw Talbot.

He was large, with long hair, wild eyes, and was totally naked. The look on the poor wretch's face was one of both hunger and suffering. Talbot's heart went out to him, as it always went out to all his prey. He hunted them as much to put them out of their misery as to save himself and his people.

“Stop!” he shouted, but the man-beast came at him and he had no choice.

He fired.

* * *

Clint heard the shot. The wolf was moving too fast for him to catch it. And it was leaving a trail behind it that would be easy to follow when the sun came up.

He decided to go back to camp to find out what had happened, and see if Talbot had returned.