David L. Robbins
YELLOWSTONE RUN
PROLOGUE
There was something out mere.
Something lurking in the tall timber.
Eagle Feather paused in the act of chopping wood for the fire, his right arm upraised, his tomahawk gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, and gazed at the surrounding forest, his keen brown eyes scrutinizing every shadow. The feeling of being watched was stronger now than ever before, and he frowned when he failed to detect any movement in the pine trees.
“Is something wrong?”
Putting a smile on his face, Eagle Feather turned at the sound of his wife’s melodious voice and looked at the woman he loved more than life itself, “What could be wrong?” he responded, hoping he conveyed a lighthearted attitude, he didn’t want to worry Morning Dew or the children. Yet.
“I don’t know,” she said uncertainly, staring at the woods. “You seem troubled.”
Eagle Feather lowered the tomahawk and pretended to inspect its edge.
“You are imagining things.”
“If you say so,” Morning Dew said, and returned to the task of preparing the fish their sons had caught an hour ago for their supper. She glanced at him once reproachfully.
Knowing that his wife of 12 years could intuitively sense when he was troubled, and annoyed at himself for not confiding in her, Eagle Feather continued to trim the limbs he had collected, removing the thinner stems to be used as kindling and chopping the larger branches into manageable sections. He strained his ears to catch the slightest sound from the forest, but all he heard were birds and squirrels and the whispering of the breeze.
How could he justify alarming Morning Dew when all he had to go on was a vague feeling?
Youthful laughter filled the air, and a moment later two boys came running around the family tipi, which was situated on the north bank of the gently flowing stream, and halted, giggling and shoving one another.
Straightening, Eagle Feather smiled at his sons. The oldest, Little Mountain, was ten years old. Black Elk, who strongly resembled his mother, was only eight. “What are you two up to?”
“We want to go hunt deer,” Little Mountain declared.
“Hunt deer,” Black Elk echoed, nodding vigorously.
“We already have fish for our meal. We don’t need a deer,” Eagle Feather said, resolving to keep his sons close to the camp.
“But mother said I could have new moccasins,” Little Mountain stated, squaring his slim shoulders.
“Me too,” Black Elk added.
“I want you to play near our camp,” Eagle Feather told them.
“But there’s nothing to do here,” Little Mountain protested.
“I can find something for you to do,” Eagle Feather commented sternly.
“I thought we were supposed to have fun,” Little Mountain said, clearly disappointed, and sighed.
Eagle Feather became aware of his wife’s intent scrutiny, and he decided to compromise before she grew even more suspicious. He had promised the boys this would be a fun-filled trip to the old National Park, and he saw a way to kill two birds with one stone, to allay his fears and ensure the forest was safe for the boys. “I’ll tell you what. You finish chopping this wood, and when I come back you can go deer hunting.”
“Where are you going, Father?” Black Elk asked.
“To find a handful of leaves.”
“What?” the boy responded, puzzled. His older brother whispered in his ear and they both laughed.
“Here,” Eagle Feather said, and handed the tomahawk to Little Mountain. “Try not to cut your foot off.”
“I won’t,” Little Mountain replied, eagerly grabbing the handle.
Deliberately avoiding his wife’s gaze, Eagle Feather walked to their tipi and went inside to retrieve his Winchester. He emerged, worked the lever to insert a round into the chamber, and headed for the woods.
“Be careful,” Morning Dew advised.
Eagle Feather looked back at her and nodded. “Always. Keep your rifle handy in case a bear should show up. I saw grizzly sign yesterday.”
“I’ll keep a sharp watch,” she promised.
Cradling his Winchester, Eagle Feather advanced into the trees, entering a somber domain of shadows and dank scents, where his footsteps padded noiselessly on the matted carpet of pine needles and spongy vegetation. This area of the ancient wonderland, bordering the Lamar Valley, was always verdant in the summer and early fait. Spruce, Douglas’ fir, and lodgepole pine were especially numerous. A scratching noise came from overhead, and he gazed up to observe a Steller’s jay hopping from limb to limb. Like most of the wildlife they had encountered, the big blue and black bird displayed no fear at his presence.
Pressing onward, Eagle Feather penetrated deeper into the forest, traveling SO yards from the camp. He saw several sparrows, a red squirrel, and a jackrabbit. The rabbit bounded away, performing fifteen-foot leaps with ease, but otherwise the animals were going about their daily business and not displaying any agitation whatsoever. And surely, Eagle Feather reasoned, there would be an undercurrent of unrest in the forest if danger was present.
Perhaps he was imagining things, not Morning Dew.
Maybe spotting those grizzly tracks had unnerved him more than he knew. Maybe, since they were so far from Kalispell and home, since they were alone in an uninhabited wilderness, he was allowing unfounded apprehension to get the better of him. After all, he had spent most of his life as a hunter and a trapper. He knew all the habits of the animals in the woods.None of them, even the grizzly, were unduly menacing if a person used common sense and took adequate precautions. Most animals wisely shied away from man.
Except for the mutations.
The thought troubled him. If there were mutations in the Park, then his family was in grave jeopardy. But as far as he knew, neither a nuclear missile nor a chemical-warfare weapon had struck within hundreds of miles of the area. The Park had survived World War Three virtually unscathed. And without the radiation or chemical toxins to poison and derange the entire biological chain, the likelihood of mutations flourishing was extremely slim.
Eagle Feather skirted a tree and halted on the rim of a low rise. Thirty feet below lay an oval spring. Curious, wanting to taste the water to determine if it was as good as the delicious stream water, he walked down the gentle slope. A six-inch strip of soft, muddy earth ringed the spring, and he knelt next to the strip and sank his left hand under the surface to scoop some water to his mouth.
Only then did he see the tracks.
Puzzled, he froze with his hand halfway to his lips, and regarded the pair of unique prints in the mud to his left. They were the strangest prints he’d ever seen, a curious combination of human and bestial traits.
Approximately 14 inches in length and six inches wide, they resembled a naked human footprint except for the fact that each toe had a four-inch nail similar to the typical claw on the toe of a bear. He let the water trickle from his palm and reached out to touch the track. From the softness of the mud and the cohesive texture of the print, he judged that the pair had been made within the last 30 minutes. Suddenly his mind blared a warning.
Strange prints?
Combination of human and bestial traits?
Eagle Feather straightened and turned from the spring, and even as he rotated a piercing scream rent the tranquility of the forest, coming from the direction of the tipi.
Morning Dew and the boys!
A wave of fear washed over him, and Eagle Feather sprinted up the slope and took off at full speed toward the camp, vaulting logs and low-lying boulders, darting around the bigger obstacles, his blood racing faster than his feet.
More screams sounded, the unmistakable cries of the boys.