Blood Trail (9 page)

Talbot walked back into camp as people milled about, eyes wide, looking around, wondering what was going on.

“Papa!”

Sarah ran into his arms and he hugged her tightly.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“You were hardly gone and then—and then—”

“I heard you scream,” he said. “I was afraid . . .”

“It wasn't me,” she said. “It was Mr. Mueller. He was . . . taken.”

“By . . . what?”

“Mr. Gerhardt saw.”

They heard someone behind them and turned quickly.

* * *

Clint reached camp, saw Talbot and Sarah standing together. As he approached, they turned to look at him.

“You're hurt!” Sarah said right away.

Clint had his hand over his left shoulder, which had been torn by the wolf's claws.

“I'm okay,” he insisted. “What happened here?”

“Mueller,” Talbot said.

“How?” Clint asked.

“I don't know,” the other man said. “I was about to ask Gerhardt.”

They walked over to where Gerhardt was standing, looking dazed and pale.

“Sarah,” Clint said, “there's a bottle of whiskey in my saddlebags.” Bullet had left it with him. “Would you get it, please?”

“Of course.”

She ran to get it and brought it back to him. Clint picked up a coffee cup and poured a little into it.

“Drink this!” he said to Gerhardt.

The German did not hesitate. He drank the whiskey down and color immediately returned to his face.

“Okay?” Clint asked.

“Yes, yes,” Gerhardt said. “I am all right.”

“Now, what happened?” Clint asked.

“It was . . . huge. It came out of the darkness and just . . . took Mueller.”

“Did it kill him?” Talbot asked.

“N-Not here in camp,” Gerhardt said, “but out there . . .”

“We heard Sarah scream,” Clint said, “and then a shot.”

“I fired,” Gerhardt said, then admitted, “blindly, I am afraid. I don't think I hit it.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “okay. I don't think it's going to come back into camp tonight. Try and calm these people down and get them back into their wagons.”

“Yes.”

“Sarah,” Talbot said, “help him.”

“Yes, Papa.”

After Gerhardt and Sarah had left, Clint and Talbot turned to each other and both said at the same time, “I saw it.”

“I shot it,” Clint said.

“So did I.”

“We better have a drink ourselves,” Clint suggested. “And a seat.”

“Agreed,” Talbot said.

They sat by the fire and Clint poured whiskey into two coffee cups.

“You first,” he said.

“I saw him,” Talbot said. “He was in the form of a man, but his eyes were still those of a beast. I fired once, but I do not know if I hit him. Yet I must have! I do not often miss at that close range.”

“Did he leave any blood behind?” Clint asked.

“We will have to go and look when the sun comes up,” Talbot said. “I could not tell in the dark, and I wanted to get back to camp to see if Sarah was all right.”

“Well,” Clint said, leaning forward to speak more softly, “I saw him, too. At least, I saw something. A wolf, I think. But an incredibly large one.”

“You saw him in his werewolf form,” Talbot said.

“Well, I'm not going to say that,” Clint said. “When I saw it, it may have been up on its hind legs.”

“Or standing,” Talbot said.

“I shot it twice,” Clint went on, “and I know I didn't miss. If that wolf is out there, it's injured, or dying. If it's injured, in this country that makes it even more deadly. But here's the thing . . . we fired very close together. How could I have seen it one way, and you another?”

“It must have changed soon after you encountered it,” Talbot said. “You did not have silver bullets, but perhaps your shot caused it to change, and then I encountered it.”

“I think it's more likely,” Clint said, “that we saw two different things.”

“You would rather believe there are two killers—man and beast—than believe it is one killer who becomes two beasts.”

“I admit,” Clint said, “my way is easier for me to believe.”

“We will go out in the morning and look for a blood trail,” Talbot said.

Sarah came over at that moment, with water and bandages, and said to Clint, “You must let me treat that wound.”

“A good idea,” Talbot said, standing. “While she does that, I will talk with Gerhardt. We will set another watch, this time four men.”

“How many men do we have?”

“Enough to set two watches for the remainder of the night,” Talbot said.

“I can stand watch,” Sarah said. “So can some of the other women.”

“No,” Talbot said, “the men will do it. Just clean Clint's wound.”

As Talbot walked away, she said, “He still treats me like a child.”

“He treats you like his daughter,” Clint said, “but he is right. The men will stand watch. The women should keep themselves and the children safe.”

She washed the wound thoroughly, then fashioned a bandage from some torn bits of cloth.

“There,” she said, “is that too tight?”

“No,” he said, flexing his left arm, “it's fine. Thank you.”

She reached out and put her hand on his bare chest.

“Sarah . . .” he said warningly.

She pulled her hand back as if her fingertips had been burned.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I will go to my wagon.” She stood up, then looked at him and pointed. “It is that one.”

He knew which wagon was hers, but he didn't bother pointing that out. He was too busy wondering if that was some sort of invitation. She was a child, but a child on the verge of becoming a woman, and a beautiful one, at that. But she also had her father in camp, a father who was a hunter who would probably kill him if Clint looked at Sarah like she was a young woman.

He pulled his torn shirt back on. He'd change it in the morning for a clean one.

With his shirt buttoned, he poured himself a cup of coffee and waited for Talbot to return and tell him what the watch schedule was. He stared out into the dark, wondering if the killer—or killers—was watching them once again. Or had it—they—gone off to lick whatever wounds they had?

He replayed the events in his mind, wondering if Talbot's rendition could possibly make more sense than his did? One killer who had changed shapes in between encounters?

Two killers traveling together made infinitely more sense to him—and his sanity.

The killer held his hand to the wound. It was not serious, he knew, but it hurt. He stroked the fur in a soothing gesture.

He watched as the people in the camp composed themselves after the attack. He could have launched another attack, catching them completely by surprise, but the wound had to heal, at least partially.

He knew he was still in control, though.

They were frightened of him. That was half the battle. Only the two hunters were dangerous. They had already proven that, and he had the wound to further prove it.

He was going to have to remove them permanently first before he went after the rest. Once that was done, they would be at his mercy. They would be like a flock of sheep with no master. But he needed a little while—perhaps a day or two—to heal, and then he would be ready.

The next encounter with the two hunters would be their last.

* * *

Sarah sat in her wagon, waiting. Would Clint Adams accept her invitation? Or would he be wary of her father? She was willing to take the risk to be with the famous Gunsmith. She was sorry Carl was dead, of course, but Carl was a boy. The wagon master, Captain Parker, he was just a brute and a lecherous old goat. But Clint Adams, he was a legend. Perhaps he thought of her as a child, a virgin? She would have to convince him otherwise. She had been with men before in her country, but never a man like the Gunsmith.

Her father, and the others, were unfortunately in the way. If Clint did not come to her wagon, she was going to have to try to get him away from camp. He might think her a child, but once she showed him her body—she touched herself as she thought of him—his attitude toward her would change. She was easily as beautiful as her mother had been, maybe even more so. Men in her country were always after her, and the men of America—and the American West—even more. But she had not yet found an American man she would give herself to—until now.

She became drowsy. Perhaps she'd sleep, and he would come and wake her with kisses. Yes, that was what she would do. Sleep . . .

And let her love awaken her.

She reclined, pulled blanket over her, and was fast asleep in seconds.

In the morning Clint rolled out from underneath Talbot's wagon, instantly ready.

He looked back and forth, and everything in the camp seemed quiet. Each fire had several women at it, preparing breakfast. The smell of coffee filled the air and made his mouth water.

He walked to one of the fires, and a woman there smiled and handed him a cup of coffee.

“Thank you,” he said.

She nodded and went back to her cooking.

Clint walked around the camp, nodding to the people as they came out of their wagons. He also exchanged nods with the four men who had been on watch the last part of the night.

“Anything during the night?” he asked one of them.

“It was all quiet, thank God,” one of them said in a German accent.

“Good,” Clint said. “Glad to hear it.”

He saw Gerhardt stepping down from his wagon, looking not rested at all. He approached the man.

“Gerhardt.”

“Mr. Adams,” Gerhardt said. “Good morning.”

“Are you all right?” Clint asked.

“I did not sleep very well, I am afraid,” the German said. “I feel so badly about poor Mueller.”

“There was nothing you could have done.”

“Really? Perhaps not. Nevertheless, I cannot help feeling guilty.”

“I understand,” Clint said.

“Will you and Talbot be going out this morning?”

“Yes,” Clint said. “Just for a quick look. We want to see if we can find any sign that one of us might have wounded . . . it.”

“Then we will not pull out until you come back.”

“That's right,” Clint said. “We'll come back and roll out with you.”

“That is good,” Gerhardt said.

“Get yourself some coffee and breakfast,” Clint said. “Maybe you'll feel better.”

“I doubt it,” Gerhardt said, walking away.

Clint turned, walked the other way, and saw Talbot coming toward him, rifle and bag ready.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“You want some coffee first?”

“No,” Talbot said. “Perhaps when we come back. I want to get started.”

“Okay.” Clint set his cup aside, figuring to pick it up when he returned. “Let's go.”

* * *

They moved much more quickly through the brush in the daylight. Talbot seemed to know just where they had been the night before.

“I was here when I encountered him,” he said, looking around. Clint did the same, and it was actually he who found the blood.

“Here,” he said.

Talbot came over, saw the drops of blood Clint had found on a leaf.

“I hit him,” Talbot said.

“With your silver bullet.”

“Yes.”

“All right,” Clint said, “I was over here . . .”

* * *

It took them a little longer to find the place where Clint had been when he encountered his wolf. And that was what he was thinking of it as, a wolf, no matter how big.

“Here,” he said, “this looks familiar. There, see, he broke through that brush.”

The branches were bent and torn. They moved in and inspected them.

“Blood,” Talbot said, sounding confused.

“And no silver bullets,” Clint pointed out.

“I don't understand,” Talbot said, “but there's no denying that you hit it.”

“We both did.”

Talbot touched the blood, rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger.

“We better get back,” Clint said.

“Yes,” Talbot said, obviously perturbed by this turn of events.

They headed back to camp.

* * *

The horses were all hitched up, the campfires extinguished, and the wagons ready. Gerhardt and some of the other men were gathered together, all holding rifles. They looked around when Clint and Talbot reappeared.

“Did you find anything?” Gerhardt asked.

“Blood,” Talbot said.

“You hit it?” the German asked.

“Apparently,” Clint said, “we both did.”

“Then with that many wounds, perhaps it will crawl off and die,” Gerhardt said hopefully.

“Perhaps,” Talbot said, exchanging a look with Clint. In unspoken agreement, they decided to let the people have hope.

“I'll get my horse,” Clint said.

They started walking to Talbot's wagon together. Sarah met them along the way.

“Papa, I don't think Clint should ride with that wound,” she said. “I think he should ride in our wagon.”

“You are probably right,” Talbot said.

“I'm fine,” Clint insisted.

“You can still take the lead in the wagon,” Talbot said. “Your wound needs to heal.”

“Come,” Sarah said, grabbing Clint's right arm. “You can still drive the wagon.”

Reluctantly, he agreed.

* * *

The other wagons waited while Clint drove the Talbot wagon to the front of the column. Talbot mounted his mare.

“I can ride up ahead,” he offered.

“Not too far,” Clint said. “Just go where I tell you to go. Okay?”

“Agreed.”

“Wagons ho!” Clint shouted, and they got under way.