Eagle Feather fairly flew over the terrain, oblivious to the limbs and brush that snatched at his buckskins and scratched his skin. He realized that he’d been right all along, that there had been something in the woods, a mutation, one of the vile creatures despised by his entire tribe, by every Flathead Indian. Mutations were a blight on the planet, a consequence of the white man tampering with forces better left alone. The Flatheads killed each mutation they found, and large tracts of the former state of Montana had been cleared of the repulsive horrors.
The screaming abruptly ceased.
No! Eagle Feather shrieked in his mind, and he goaded his flagging muscles to increased speed. He’d already covered 40 yards. The tipi should be in sight at any moment. Seconds later he saw the camp and his breath caught in his throat.
Someone or something had torn the tipi down, had ripped the buffalo hide to ribbons and snapped the support poles into pieces. Their personal effects had been torn apart and scattered all about. The horses, which had been tied to the left of the tipi, were gone. And there wasn’t a living soul in sight.
Eagle Feather dashed into the ruined camp and halted, glancing wildly around for his wife and sons. He spied her rifle lying in the grass to his right, its stock splintered. The attack must have occurred so swiftly that she had been unable to get off a single shot. Frantic, he began hunting for tracks, for blood, for any sign to tell him what had happened to his family.
On the bank of the stream he found the clue he needed.
Strange tracks, exactly like those at the spring, the toes pointing to the south, were clearly visible.
Eagle Feather plunged into the knee-high water and quickly crossed to the far side. There, distinct in the damp earth in the water’s edge, were more of the tracks, lots more, all heading lo the south.
What were they?
He ran into the forest, his gaze glued to the ground, seeking tracks or partial prints, anything to indicate the specific direction the things had taken. After 20 yards he found a footprint angling to the southwest and he sprinted in that direction. A vague recollection gnawed at his mind, and he experienced a peculiar feeling that he should know what the things were he pursued.
The creatures were still bearing to the southwest.
Eagle Feather had no way of estimating their rate of travel. He hoped—he prayed—he could overtake them before nightfall. Since he hadn’t seen any blood or discovered any bodies, he derived comfort from knowing Morning Dew, Little Thunder, and Black Elk were probably still alive.
But who, or what, had abducted them? And why?
The minutes dragged by. Eagle Feather’s leg muscles began to ache, but he ignored the discomfort. He had no intention of resting until he caught up with his family. Why, he berated himself, had he ever taken them so far from Kalispell? Why had he ventured outside of Flathead territory?
Technically speaking, northwestern Wyoming was part of the Civilized Zone, and the Civilized Zone and the Flatheads were allies in the Federation. But no one lived in the Park anymore. Anyone with half a brain preferred to live closer to civilization, or what was left of it 106 years after the nuclear holocaust.
Eagle Feather glanced up at the sun, estimating the time remaining until dark. It was only the first week of September, so he would have four or five hours of daylight left in which lo rescue his loved ones.
The trees began to thin out, and the countryside became rockier and intersected with deep gorges, affording plenty of places to hide. The rocky soil would make tracking a lot more difficult.
Frustrated, Eagle Feather cast about for additional tracks.
Part of a heel stood out near a scrawny shrub.
Eagle Feather’s eyes narrowed. The devils had changed direction again and were now bearing to the southwest. Why were they altering their course so frequently? Did they know he was after them? Were they striving to shake him off their trail, or was this typical of their behavior? He spotted a ravine up ahead, toward which the tracks appeared to be heading, and he tightened his hold on the Winchester.
The ravine was a perfect site for an ambush.
Twenty feet from the gap in the rocks he abruptly stopped, his skin tingling, his eyes on the strip of buckskin blouse lying two yards away.
Morning Dew!
He dashed to the strip and scooped the soft material into his left hand, examining it closely. There could be no doubt. The material had been ripped from the shoulder of Morning Dew’s blouse. Rage made him grip the buckskin until his knuckles turned white, and then he tucked the strip under his belt and hastened into the ravine.
On both sides reared towering walls of rock. Perched on the top were boulders of different sizes, ranging from a few feet in diameter to gigantic slabs ten feet across.
His prudence dashed to bits by the finding of the material. Eagle Feather jogged 25 feet into the steep-sided ravine before he awoke to his mistake. He halted and gazed up at the rim, then back at the opening, and decided he was being foolish. If he acted rashly, if he was killed, who would save those he held most dear?
A small stone clattered down from high above.
Eagle Feather looked up, and his veins seemed to transform into ice when he beheld the hulking, bearish figures on the brink of the ravine, perhaps 30 yards distant on the right-hand side. They were too far up, and the curve of the rock wall served to obstruct his view, so he couldn’t see them plainly. He glimpsed a dozen huge, hairy forms milling about the rim, heard a rumbling noise, and then the boulders started to fall.
They were causing a rock slide!
Eagle Feather took one look at the avalanche of boulders and rocks hurtling toward the bottom of the ravine, and whirled. He darted toward the opening, his ears registering the mighty crash of the larger boulders as they struck the stone walls and slammed to the ground. The whole ravine reverberated with the din. Several boulders thudded down within a few feet of his flying heels, and the ground itself shook.
A rock smacked against his left shoulder.
The opening was now only six feet away. He took another stride, then leaped, his arms outstretched, the Winchester in his right hand. A heavy object rammed against his legs, but an instant later he was out of the gap and tumbling a few yards to slam up against a stunted tree. He shoved erect and stared in horror at the boulders and rocks now blocking the gap, tons and tons of stone no one could budge.
They had cut him off from his family!
Eagle Feather stepped to the left, intending to seek a way around the ravine, when a chilling sound wafted down from overhead, the sound of deep, guttural laughter, echoing from wall to wall, mocking him, making him realize the bearish figures had just been toying with him.
Bearish figures?
Suddenly the amorphous memory that had eluded him solidified with startling clarity, and Eagle Feather knew the identity of the creatures. The knowledge swamped him in an emotional mire of sneer terror. He gaped at the rim, thinking of his beloved wife and sons in the clutches of those fiends, and shivered.
CHAPTER ONE
“Daddy?”
“Hmmmmm?”
“I think I have a nibble.”
The lean man attired in buckskins opened his blue eyes and gazed idly at the bobber attached to his son’s fishing line, which dangled in the moat not two yards from their feet, “Are you sure?”
“Yep. I saw the bobber move,” the boy stated with a conviction belying his almost five years of age.
Sighing, the man sat up and stretched. He ran his right hand through his blond hair, then stroked his blond mustache. “Why don’t you reel in your line slowly,” he advised. “Let’s take a gander at what you’ve hooked.”