“Here,” I say. “I’m right here.”
I fumble in the darkness and find him as he turns on the flashlight. He’s looking around, eyes still wide, as if getting his bearings. Storm is on his legs, whining.
“Is that a cougar?” I ask.
A moment’s pause. Then he nods. “Could be.”
The night has gone silent again. I replay the sound. I know what a cougar’s scream sounds like only from anecdotal evidence.
“Have you ever heard one?” I ask.
“Once.” Another pause. “I’m not sure that was it.”
“Vixen then?”
I have heard those screams—female foxes at mating time—and they’re chilling, but not quite what I just caught, and Dalton agrees.
“Do you think it’s a trap?” I ask.
“Maybe.”
A woman’s scream to bring us rushing out. Riding to her rescue, worried and still sleepy. Ripe for theft.
“We shouldn’t ignore it,” I say. “Even if it’s a trap, that means those settlers are looking for us. Better to confront them, while we’re prepared.”
“Yeah,” he says, and I can tell he’s relieved. Neither of us wants to be the chump who falls for a trap, but nor can we ignore it.
We dress and then step out carefully, in case the “trap” was just to have us race—weapon-free—from our tent.
The horses are uneasy, Cricket stamping her feet, Blaze casting troubled looks in the direction of the screams. I glance at Storm. She’s gazing about, on alert but calm enough that I know no one is nearby.
We gather our valuables—that’s another potential trap: lure us away and then raid our camp. We leave only the tent and sleeping blankets behind. Then we set out, leading the horses.
There’s been no other noise, and we take it slow. Dalton goes first. He’ll have a better idea of where that scream came from. We follow the path to a spot that has Dalton pausing and looking about. He bends to check something at ground level. A grunt of satisfaction before he leads Blaze off the path, following a trail only he can see.
We’ve only gone about twenty paces before Cricket whinnies. She flattens her ears, her nostrils flaring, eyes rolling. Blaze snorts and shifts uneasily. Storm gives a long drawn-out whine, her gaze fixed on the forest ahead.
Dalton motions for me to tie Cricket to a tree. He leaves Blaze untethered. His horse has been known to wait half a day by a stream. Cricket is too young and temperamental for that.
After I’ve tethered my mare, we proceed. Soon I smell campfire smoke. All is silent, though. We go another twenty paces. Storm stops. Just stops dead, and when I try to nudge her, she digs in and gives me a look, as if begging me not to make her go on.
I hesitate. Dalton takes the leash and sets it on the ground. Then he prods me to keep going. I do, with reluctance, but after a few steps, Storm follows. She may not want to continue, but she wants to be left alone even less. Dalton gathers up the leash, and we move slowly through the trees.
The first thing I see is a hide tent. Small and low, shelter for one person.
Dalton’s arm springs up to hold me back. I survey the campsite, and after a sweep, I spot what he did—someone sitting by the embers of a fire. The figure is perched on a log and leaning back against a tree. A guard for the night. When I peer, I see the light brown beard of the younger man. I can’t tell if he’s resting or fallen asleep.
Storm growls, the sound vibrating through her. I bend to reassure her that all is well, and yes, praise her for the growl, proof that these are the settlers who unnerved her earlier.
I take the leash and tell Storm to sit while Dalton moves closer. As he does, I survey the camp again. One tent. A couple of leather pouches hang from trees, along with the brace of rabbits. That tent is much too small for three people, and I’m wondering where they all are when I make out the shape of sleeping blankets, just barely illuminated by the dying fire.
I follow one set of blankets up to the graying hair of the older man. He’s sound asleep. I think I spot more blankets beyond him, but they’re too far from the fire to be more than dark blobs.
If this is a trap, it’s an odd one. I see both male settlers. They could be faking sleep, but it would make more sense to be lying in wait while leaving the woman and girl in sight.
The younger man is across the campsite. Dalton motions that he’s going to circle around. Then he stops. Considers. Hefts his gun, held in his left hand, his arm far from healed. He shifts the gun to his right and lifts it. Considers some more.
“Let me,” I whisper. I motion at my dark clothing and hair, better able to blend into the shadows.
He nods.
I give him back Storm’s leash and whisper, “Stay.”
Dalton says, “I will,” and then gives me a smile, tight and anxious. I squeeze his arm and set out.
While it’s only a quarter-moon, the sparser forest here means I can see where I’m putting down my feet. It’s mostly bare dirt, and the windswept puddles of conifer needles are damp from spring showers; even when I do touch down, they make no sound.
I head behind the young settler. As I pass the camp, I squint at a second set of sleeping blankets. I think I see a smaller figure. There’s no sign of the older woman’s white hair, so this would be the girl, Harper.
That means the woman is inside the tent. Where I can’t see her and confirm she’s fine.
She should be fine. The others wouldn’t have slept through those screams. Either this is a trap, then, or they woke hearing the screams, recognized them for an animal, and went back to sleep.
I can see my target now. The tree is just inside the clearing. I have my gun out. And then . . .
Well, I’m not quite sure what I should do next. For the sake of a good night’s sleep, I’d like to reassure myself that the woman and girl are both fine. I can’t do that without marching into camp. I would also like to reassure myself that this isn’t a trap. But how do I do that without the risk of waking the settlers, who’ll think we’re raiding them?
I circle behind the tree where the young man rests. Then I keep going so I don’t emerge behind him, which is never the way to say “I come in peace.”
I draw alongside him, close enough to see that he seems to be sleeping, his head bowed. Then I whistle. It’s not piercing, but it’s enough that even if he’s asleep, he should jump up.
He doesn’t budge.
Damn it.
Either my whistle is softer than I think, or this is a trap, and he’s wide awake and waiting.
I whistle again, louder.
No reaction.
I get a better grip on my gun and then retreat behind the tree. From there, I creep forward, no longer worried about startling him. This is a trap. That or . . .
I know what the “or” is. I have from the start.
I slip up behind the tree. I can see the young man’s arm, hanging at his side. I take a deep breath and count my steps. Three. Two. One.
The last brings me to his shoulder. I sidestep. Moonlight shines into the clearing, glistening off his half-closed eyes. Glistening off the blood soaking his dark shirt.
39
A slash bisects the young settler’s throat. It’s ragged at one side, cutting upward on an awkward angle. Rushed. But a single slice, deep enough that I see his spinal column. No hesitation cuts, no sign that the killer paused or reconsidered or had to steel himself to do the job.
The killer crept up while the young settler watched the fire. One deliberate slash to end his life before he had time to react. Blood covers the young man’s hands as if in his last moments he’d reached up, unable to breathe, grabbing his throat. Too late to even rise from his spot.
I turn to call Dalton, but he’s already making his way into the clearing. He sees me bent beside the young settler and knows he is not asleep.