Just before the crash he realized that Curtis had been flung out of the bubble like a dust mote flicked from a window ledge.
The first shock threw him against the dashboard. Then came the endless bumpy, reverberating fall in a shower of wood, branches whipped to pieces by the rotors. Bough after bough, layer after layer as bark tumbled down on top of the machine.
What was left of the copter swayed ten feet above the ground. Benumbed at still being alive, Hill grasped his rifle, unhooked the seat belt, and dropped the remaining distance to his feet.
Jason had watched the crash from an outcropping of boulder in a clearing. First came a metallic snap, then the screeching rhythmic clatter of something caught in the rear blades. He screamed into the walkie-talkie, but knew Hill had his hands too full to speak.
The copter spiraled down to the trees half a mile away and disappeared when the lights went out. Then he heard it hit with a swishing crackle, as if a huge bird were settling into its nest. The crash seemed to go on forever before dribbling off in a rush of falling branches.
“Hill? Hill?” he said tensely into the walkie-talkie.
Horror seeped through Jason at the howl of canine triumph rising from the woods. It was running for the wreck, well ahead of him. The horror propelled Jason as he ran off the rocks into the trees again. It rose from his legs to form an ache in his chest where his breath tore out in deep gasps. The dog and his master would get to the copter before him, and, failing the sudden appearance of wings on his shoulders, there was absolutely nothing Jason could do about it.
Hill was on his hands and knees, trying to clear his head. Blood dripped to the ground from a gash in his scalp. When he heard the dog coming, he poked around the bush for his rifle.
The ground was covered by chunks of clumsily chopped pine. Gasoline dripped in acrid streams from the copter into the springy loam. Hill was in a hollow lipped on all sides by trees.
The walkie-talkie was gone. No matter. He didn’t need help for this one. He had a good rifle and a steady hand. Even better, he had a good position, with a maximum range of fifteen feet on all sides. He had drilled beer cans with a pistol at that range without even aiming.
With a final woof, the dog sprang over the hollow edge and growled at him between pants. Its tongue lolled over its jaws. Hill shot at it, just missing, and the dog’s courage vanished. It scrambled out of the hollow again.
Hill waited for the larger shadow to appear, his rifle muzzle probing along the edge of the hollow.
With a screech of aluminum and crunch of foliage, the helicopter was pulled out of the trees behind him. Hill whirled around. He got off one shot as the rock caught him squarely in the forehead. His last thought was a hope that Jason would take the shot as a warning.
Jason was fast approaching the wreck when the shot brought him to a full stop. “Hill? Curtis?” he said tensely into the walkie-talkie.
The dog was whining. Jason heard the loam being thrashed around. The copter was only twenty yards ahead of him, but he was in a quandary. That single shot could have killed the thing. Hill was an experienced hunter who knew better than to waste ammunition. Nevertheless, wouldn’t he have emptied his rifle into it?
Jason slipped under the thick protective foliage of a spruce. Quietly, so as not to crush any needles, he lay full length over the roots and inched outward until the drooping needles of the tree scratched his neck. He flexed the muscles of his body until the blood sang under his skin.
The dog emerged from a line of trees ahead, its nose buried in the brush, searching out a new, possibly threatening scent. There was no sign of Hill or Curtis anywhere.
Jason waited for the other creature, his front sight fixed squarely on the dog, which made irritated little yips. Then the spruce foliage was swept away like a curtain opening and a foot kicked the rifle out of his hands. Another kick, in the ribs, rolled Jason over onto his back.
In the second before the lazily swinging rifle butt connected with his head, Jason impacted every detail of the stranger into his memory. Above a thin, dirty, corduroy-trousered leg and a torn Army jacket was an expressionless Indian face with onyx eyes. A leather sack was tied to his waist beside a bowie knife in a handmade sheath. His clothes were torn by thousands of encounters with thorns, and his moccasins were unraveling at the seams. He was young, not past thirty, with black hair as thick as coiled cables tied in a knot in back.
Even after the rifle butt burst the night into falling galaxies, a small part of Jason’s mind scuttled to a quiet haven, bearing that Indian with it. I’ll remember you, Jason thought, I’ll remember you.
The dog tore off a mouthful of the white man’s jacket. The Indian drove it off with his rifle. Having just saved his spirit from some kind of disaster by shooting down the helicopter, he did not want the dog interfering.
He peered at the white man’s motionless form. This could be a test sent by the gods. If so, the body would shimmer into nothingness as soon as he turned away.
He stirred the hand with his rifle barrel. It was limp. He had hit him solidly with the rifle. Unless the white man was exceptionally hard-headed, the Indian was sure he was dead. If he were real, that is. A bullet was the only way to be sure. The Indian stepped back, cocking his rifle. He pointed it at Jason’s neck.
The giant loomed up between the trees and halted some distance away. The Indian’s emotions boiled to a pitch of agonized expectancy. He had not seen it since the first night. Not this closely. Surely he would get his name now. Now . . . now . . .
Hands clenching and unclenching, the giant waited. Waves of fetidness poured forth from his body. The Indian’s senses had been honed to a steely edge by weeks of living in the woods, but no eyesight except Owl’s could discern the features of a spirit in woods this deep. His great shovel feet crushed the wood in his path.
Then, with a hurricane of thrashing branches, the giant slipped sideways between two spruces. The Indian felt the faintest tremor of his passing. Finally the disturbed boughs ceased shaking.
The Indian took a handful of corn from his medicine bundle and chewed it. “What did I do this time?” His voice was calm.
The dog’s whimper changed to a growl as its yellow eyes went to the rifle butt. Understanding was a flashbulb that lit up the Indian’s mind.
“He’s afraid of guns!”
He set the rifle against a tree. The dog seated itself and wagged its tail. The Indian was amazed. It really was a hell of time to tell him that. “He’s a spirit. Guns can’t hurt spirits. Can they?” The Indian had gotten into the habit of talking to himself.
Now he recalled that back in the Mission Range the spirit had set down his rock after the Indian had laid the rifle against a tree. The dog spoke the truth. The spirit feared guns.
To realize after all this time that his rifle had kept his spirit from him was a frustration that would have driven a less stable man to madness. After all, the Indian had been shooting meat for weeks. He sent the dog with portions of his kill to the spirit as offerings. Sometimes the spirit did his own hunting for hours on end before braining his prey with a rock and leaving a headless carcass behind for the dog and Indian. It was the Indian who had wounded that musk ox after a two-day stalk, and the spirit who had walked off with the lion’s share.
He scratched the dog’s ears. “We live and learn, eh.” A small victory had been won. A barrier between himself and his spirit had been lifted. Small victories were treasured by the Indian, and this one pleased him so much that he lost interest in whether the white man was real or an apparition.
The Indian emptied his pockets of bullets, dispersing them into the grass. He swung the rifle into the middle of the river where its splash was swallowed by foam. Then he crouched over the black, running water. He stabbed his hand deep into the icy water and emerged with a wet, flopping trout, which he killed with a blow against a rock. He pressed the fish into the dog’s mouth.