The Wolf Tree (31 page)

“Faster!” Sally cried, but she could feel Quorl struggling. He might have been immune to the pain, but his leg was weakening. Fresh blood speckled the fur of his tail.

Ahead, the land seemed to disappear, as if the prairie—which had rolled on endlessly—ended abruptly not a hundred yards before them. It looked as if they were reaching the end of the world. But then Sally saw what seemed to be a cliff, and the edge was rapidly approaching.

“Quorl!” she screamed.

But Quorl did not slow. He leaped over the edge, and Sally was relieved to find that it wasn’t a cliff after all. The other side was not so steep, and Quorl’s paws caught on the sloping, soft earth. Keeping his balance, Quorl slid on his front paws as he descended until he reached the ground below.

Strange landforms rose around them—sharply eroded buttes, their tops flat and gleaming with grass, the edges washing down into talons of dirt. Quorl had to navigate around them and, when trapped against their walls, he scrambled up the sides, slipping in the loose earth.

The golden foot was tugging stronger now, flinching against her fingers the way it had when she found Hethy.

“Keep going, Quorl!” Sally shouted. “We’re nearly there.”

But this was strange to Sally. The foot seemed to tell her that the Great Tree was near, but she saw nothing around but the ghostly badlands. Where was it? Wouldn’t it be visible by now?

A snarl startled Sally. A rougarou ran toward them, not more than fifty yards behind. She turned to peer back, and there they were: a dozen wolves in all. Their eyes flashed ferociously in the moonlight, and their teeth gleamed.

Even in the half-dark, Sally could see their coats were not like the gray-brown of ordinary wolves she had seen in pictures. Some were all black. Others moon-white. Still more seemed a tawny gold or bright copper-red. None had a silver-blue coat like Quorl, but like him, they were large—great monsters leaping and racing closer and closer.

The buttes surrounded Quorl, driving him into a dry canyon. The pursuing pack split into three: two groups going right and left up the sides onto the flat rim of the canyon and the third—led by a black-furred rougarou—following behind Quorl.

The rabbit’s foot trembled fiercely.

“It’s here, Quorl!” Sally cried. “It has to be here! Oh, where is the Tree?”

The canyon ended. And Quorl nearly tumbled as he stopped.

They were trapped.

The eight rougarou above spread out along the top of the canyon, peering down savagely and snarling.

Quorl shook his back. “Off! Get behind me.”

The girls leaped from Quorl and huddled together against a cove in the canyon wall. Quorl turned, lifting his nose straight up. “It is here, my rougarou!” he cried. “The Great Tree is found!” He howled a powerful, ear-piercing sound.

The black rougarou came a step forward: ears flat, back arched, fur bristling.

“Stay back, Renamex!” Quorl growled. “You may have me, but you must let these humans go.”

The black rougarou snarled.

“Renamex,” Quorl said. “You are my
nata
, you are mother to our pack, and I submit to you. But listen! We are rougarou. We are not wolves. Can you still understand any of what I’m saying? Don’t you remember who we are?”

Renamex pulled a paw back, her ears flickering.

Sally clutched Hethy, both girls shaking. She looked up at the eyes of the rougarou. They were not like Quorl’s. They did not have the same bright intelligence that burned in his blue eyes. Their eyes were those of wolves—dark and merciless.

“The Great Tree is here, my pack!” Quorl roared. “Don’t you see it?”

The moon was behind the canyon’s rim, and its light shone in Renamex’s eyes. The light grew brighter. Long shadows deepened along the canyon. Renamex’s eyes began to transform. Her ears rose and she lifted her snout, sniffing.

Hethy was crouched on her knees, pulling at Sally’s skirt,
but Sally stood. The pack whined and rolled their faces against the earth.

Quorl howled again, a singular, heart-wrenching note.

Renamex’s eyes widened. The light above grew brighter, brighter, until it was as if a thousand suns burned. The
nata’s
eyes lightened into a pair of lapis gems, blue and deep against the blinding white sheen.

Sally stepped out from the cove. She turned to look behind her. There was a flash and she covered her face with her hands. When it passed, she pulled away her hands to see.

Over the rim of the canyon, somewhere beyond, Sally saw it. Glowing softly as if with moonlight, the Great Tree was towering, too tall even for the enormity of the sky. Rising, its roots alone were larger than a mountain range. Rising, narrowing to a ghostly white trunk. Rising, it filled the night. And miles above, its branches spread, distant and faint, mingling into the constellations and cosmos.

The rougarou were all now looking upward. Sally watched as, one by one, their eyes became blue.

“Thank you, Little Coyote,” Quorl panted behind her. “You led me to the Great Tree. It is found, at last.”

Sally could not speak. Hethy emerged from the shadows to take Sally’s hand. She gasped as she stared up.

The black rougarou, Renamex, moved forward to join Quorl. Sally and Hethy hid behind Quorl, but Renamex did not look at them. She was beautiful, her fur dark and silky as a sable. She lowered her nose, nuzzling it against Quorl’s throat.

“You … have done it, Quorl,” Renamex said, hesitating as she found her voice. “You have returned the Great Tree, and you have returned us.”

One by one, the rougarou howled. Lifting their faces to the Great Tree glowing in the night, they howled in a long chorus.

19
THE STEAMCOACH

T
HE STEAMCOACH MOVED ACROSS THE DARK PRAIRIE
like a slow comet, its cacophonous engine belching smoke and its headlamp piercing the dark with a lance of light. It was easy to follow. Ray, Marisol, and Redfeather kept the horses a safe distance, but the Darkness gave them little reason to worry that the Bowlers would know they were being followed.

After what they could only guess was several days’ travel, the sun rose again. The light was brief, but it grew longer each day. The undulating hills of the prairie kept the horses hidden from view during the daylight.

B’hoy glided above. Ray finally understood how to see through the crow’s eyes and hear through his ears. At first he could only get flashes of the world from the crow’s vantage. It made Ray dizzy, and he would lose his concentration
easily. But he kept trying until he was able to focus. He could see what B’hoy saw and so could observe the Bowlers’ progress at a distance.

The Bowlers camped each night, the fourteen men falling into duties of building a fire, distributing supper, hobbling the horses, setting up the canvas tents, and posting watch. Overseeing it all was the stout Bowler named Muggeridge.

When the steamcoach stopped each night, Ray would set up a Five Spot at their camp, close enough to see when the Bowlers prepared to leave, but not so close as to risk discovery. They were never near enough to overhear the Bowlers, but B’hoy came in handy for that.

Ray sent the crow out to spy at the edge of the Bowlers’ firelight.

“What are they saying?” Marisol asked, as she laid out the dwindling store of food Little Grass had sent with them.

Ray opened his eyes. “Not much. That Pike guy is just talking about some showgirl back in Cincinnati he’s in love with.” Then he added with a grin, “But I can’t keep my concentration when you talk to me.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Marisol said with mock kowtowing. “Don’t disturb the great Rambler at work. Wouldn’t want you to miss a word of that riveting yarn.”

Although he never mentioned it, Ray had worried whether they would become sick after leaving the Darkness. And when they finally left the Darkness behind and none of them showed any signs of illness, he realized Redfeather and Marisol had been silently worrying as well. A buoyancy came over their spirits, as if they were three prisoners newly
released from their dungeons. The warm weather returned. They shed their coats. Javidos crawled out from Marisol’s collar to sun himself across her shoulders. Even Redfeather grew more lighthearted.

But the joy of having left the Darkness did not diminish the urgency to reach their goal. Quite the opposite: they were energized more than ever to discover what the steamcoach carried in the windowless car at the back and what the Bowlers were pursuing across the plains.

The green grass of the prairie rippled in the wind. Beyond a series of hills, a banner of black smoke rose, signaling the steamcoach’s location. Riding behind Marisol on Unole, Ray watched the Bowlers through B’hoy’s eyes as the steamcoach stopped.

Muggeridge got down from the driving bench and walked back to the car, unlocking the door. Desperate to see what was hidden in that heavily guarded car, Ray told B’hoy to swoop low. But the crow could not descend before Muggeridge entered and closed the door. The other Bowlers, rifles in their hands, waited placidly at their positions: two atop the car, others peering out the six windows of the steamcoach, and the last waiting on the driving bench at the front. The four on horseback sat with rifles across their knees. After a few minutes, Muggeridge came back out and spoke to Pike, the other man on the driving bench.

Ray wanted to listen, but B’hoy refused, not willing to get close again to the Bowlers and their guns. Muggeridge pointed to the north, seeming to discuss with Pike the direction the steamcoach would travel.

“Get down there!” Ray argued with B’hoy. “What are they saying?”

Irritated, the crow took a steep dive, and Ray almost lost his balance. Clutching Marisol’s arm, he squared himself again in the saddle behind her.

“You all right?” Redfeather asked, wheeling Atsila around.

“Stupid cowardly crow,” Ray grumbled as they rode on.

The steamcoach stopped late in the day. Ray found a lake nearby to make camp. The Bowlers were not visible, but the prairie wind carried their muffled voices. As Ray set up the Five Spot, Marisol said, “We’re running low on food.”

Redfeather took the bow and arrow from Atsila’s saddle. “It’s nearly dark. Game will be active now.”

“Keep out of sight of the Bowlers,” Marisol said.

“Oh, thanks for that useful tip.” Redfeather smirked. “I almost forgot there were fourteen men with guns around.”

Marisol laughed. “Be careful. That’s all I meant.”

He nodded and set off.

Ray went down to the lake to fill the waterskins. He found white-flowered arrowhead growing along the banks and dug some up to cook with the corms. Redfeather returned much quicker than either Ray or Marisol expected, a small pronghorn buck over his shoulder. Redfeather lit a fire while Ray dressed the deer, and after dark, they ate a delicious meal.

“You’re pretty good with that bow,” Marisol said as she cut another piece from the deer.

“Just takes practice,” Redfeather said. “You want to learn?”

Marisol cocked an eyebrow. “Are you offering to show me?”

Redfeather shrugged. “Might come in handy.”

As Redfeather got up to set up the pronghorn’s hide for a target in the firelight, Marisol picked up Redfeather’s bow and took an arrow from his quiver.

“I’m sending B’hoy to spy,” Ray said. “I’ll be down by the lake so I can concentrate.”

Looking back as Redfeather helped Marisol notch an arrow, Ray walked over to the edge of the Five Spot. He sat down in the grass and closed his eyes.

B’hoy was catching a grasshopper. He gulped it down and then took flight. Soaring up into the night, he did not have to go far before he saw the Bowlers’ campfire by the silent steamcoach. B’hoy moved lower, circling the camp before alighting on the steamcoach’s smokestack.

Only ten of the men sat around the fire, talking and smoking and eating packaged dinners from tin cans. Three others were armed and on watch duty. One was missing: Muggeridge. Through B’hoy’s spying, Ray had noticed that Muggeridge often went into the car after the Bowlers set up their camp.

As B’hoy turned around on the smokestack, Ray could see Muggeridge returning from the car and picking up his canned dinner. Several conversations were going at once, and he let his attention wander from group to group: