Fear Weaver w-57

  Fear Weaver

  ( Wilderness - 57 )

  David Thompson

  When Nate King agrees to help find a missing family, little does he know his gesture of goodwill will turn into a terrifying ordeal that will test his wilderness skills to their limits.

  WILDERNESS #57:

  FEAR WEAVER

  David

  Thompson

  LOST AND FOUND

  “Are you Philberta?” Nate asked. She answered the description he had been given.

  “This little pig went to market, this little pig stayed at home.”

  “Talk sense, will you?”

  “This little pig had roast beef, this little pig had none.”

  “Cut that out. And tell me, are you Philberta or aren’t you?”

  “To be honest, sir, I’m not sure anymore.” She laughed again, a sad sort of laugh. Then she swept a knitting needle over her head and cried, “Let’s see which one of us is real!”

  And with that she attacked.

  Dedicated to Judy, Shane, Joshua and Kyndra.

  Before

  The man had tears in his eyes and spittle on his chin. He ran through the woods in a wild panic, every now and then letting out a piercing shriek. He collided with a tree, but it barely slowed him. He kept glancing over his shoulder. Twice he slashed at the air with a Green River knife.

  “Stay away!” he screeched. “Stay away!’

  Bursting from the undergrowth into a clearing, he fell to his hands and knees, exhausted. More spittle dribbled from his lower lip into his matted beard. He mewed in fright and looked back again, and his pale face became paler.

  “God no, God no, God no, God no.”

  Pushing to his feet, the man thrust his knife at the forest.

  “Don’t you dare! I won’t be easy!”

  The wind had died. Not so much as a leaf or pine needle stirred in the dark woods.

  “I know you are there! Show yourselves!”

  The man’s eyes blazed with fire. His haggard features hardened. He held the knife above his head, ready to stab. “I’m waiting!”

  Something moved at the edge of the clearing to his right and the man whirled, the knife in front of him. “You won’t get me! I will kill you, do you hear me?”

  A horse came out of the woods and regarded the man, its ears pricked. Whinnying, it stamped a hoof.

  “They are after you too?”

  The man took a step, then stopped and swatted the air. He swatted it again and again, as if trying to drive off a swarm of bees. He swung and swung, only stopping when he was too weak to continue.

  The horse just stood there.

  “Of course,” the man said. “It’s not just people. They go after everything. Deer, rabbits, elk, birds, everything. Why didn’t I see it sooner? How could I have been so stupid?”

  The horse bobbed its head.

  “It’s all right.” The man smiled a crooked smile. “I won’t hurt you.” He moved slowly toward it, the corners of his mouth twitching. “We’ll get away from here. I promise to take care of you.”

  The horse stamped again.

  “Stay calm. That’s it. I’ll get on you and we’ll leave this terrible place. I never should have come. But how was I to know? How was anyone to know?” The man gazed at a patch of blue far above, then at the towering cliffs that reared thousands of feet on three sides of the valley. “I thought I found heaven on earth. But I unleashed demons, didn’t I? From my own seed I spawned them. From my ignorance.”

  The man shook. His mouth still twitching, he took another step. “You and me, boy. You and me. Let’s light a shuck.” He chuckled, but the sound that came from his throat was like the rattle of a dry gourd.

  The next instant the horse wheeled and trotted off, its brown body dappled by shadows.

  “Noooooo!” The man ran after it, but only as far as the trees.

  “Come back! Please come back! I can’t make it afoot. Not with them everywhere. I need you!”

  The thud of hooves faded. The forest was still again.

  “Lord, preserve me. I’m doomed.” The man raised his left hand to his brow. “I can’t take this anymore. I just can’t.” Uttering a low sob, he turned.

  Nearly invisible in the gloom, a cabin stood at the other side of the clearing. Small and sturdily built, it had a stone chimney from which curled writhing tendrils of smoke. Red curtains hung over the window like splashes of fresh blood.

  The man gasped. He shuffled toward the cabin with reluctance, as if he didn’t quite believe it was there, or as if the cabin nursed a new fear that made his legs weak.

  “I am not, I can not, I will not,” he said.

  A dozen feet out the man stopped. From within came humming, low and soft and peaceful. He stood and listened for a good long while. Only when a brisk gust from off the heights fanned the nape of his neck and sent goose bumps rippling down his skin did he stir and step to the door. He didn’t knock. He didn’t call out and ask permission to enter. He simply worked the wooden latch and strode in.

  The cabin was warm and cozy and filled with the scent of burning logs. A bearskin rug covered the middle of the floor. To the left was a log table with log benches. To the right, the doorway to a pantry. Straight ahead was the hearth. In a rocking chair beside it, calmly knitting, was a woman in an ankle-length dress and a bonnet. She hummed as her long needles clacked and clicked. When a log popped, she stared serenely at the flames.

  “Jack Sprat, Jack Sprat, why do you keep doing that?”

  The man coughed.

  Glancing up, the woman placed her knitting in her lap. “I do declare. How long have you been there?”

  “Where?” the man asked.

  “Have you heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean. And so between the two of them, they licked the platter clean.”

  “I am not Jack Sprat,” the man said.

  The woman smiled. “Of course we are. We have always been. That was our heaven, that was our sin. But what to do now? Where to begin? I’m happy you are here. Come on in.”

  “I already am. Do you know where you are?”

  “Don’t you?” The woman heaved her bulk out of the rocking chair, grunting with the effort. “Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye. Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie.”

  “I don’t like to eat blackbird,” the man said. “Too stringy and dry.”

  “Isn’t Tommy Thumb’s song pretty? That Tommy Thumb sure was witty.” The woman set her knitting on the rocking chair. From a bag next to it she took another long needle and made a circle in the air. “Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool? Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Three bags full.”

  “I haven’t any wool,” the man said. “Only this.” He wagged his knife.

  “Bow, wow, wow, whose dog art thou?” the woman quoted.

  “I think I am yours. Can you help me? I saw a horse, but it ran away. You can never trust horses.”

  The woman walked to the table and placed her hands on her stout hips. “Twinkle, twinkle, little star. How I wonder what you are.” She motioned. “Come, won’t you play with me?”

  “It is hard,” the man said.

  “Try.”

  “Very well.” The man’s brow knit. “Will you take a walk with me, my little wife, today?”

  The woman uttered a sharp bark of a laugh. “You can do better than that, surely. If you want my help, that is.”

  “I want it more than anything,” the man admitted. Again his brow furrowed. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.”

  “Oh, come now. That is hardly in the spirit of things.” The woman untied her bonnet and then tied it again. “I’m waiting. If you insist on thi
s intrusion, you must at least be gallant.”

  “I never could,” the man said. But his brow puckered a third time. “One, two, buckle my shoe. Three, four, knock at the door. Five, six…” The man stopped. “I can’t remember the rest.”

  “You must. What do you want me to take you for? If that is your best, no wonder we are where we are.”

  “It always comes back to that, doesn’t it?” The man paused. “Five, six, pick up sticks. Seven, eight, set them straight. Nine, ten, a big fat hen. Eleven, twelve, dig and delve.”

  The woman squealed in delight. “You did it! You actually and truly did it! I am very proud of you.”

  “Don’t expect more. They made me say it day after day so I would learn my numbers. Why it has stuck with me all these years is beyond me. Our minds are a strange place.”

  “Birds of a feather flock together, and so do pigs and swine.” The woman moved to the counter. She picked up a pan, hefted it, and set it back down. “What help can I be? I can cook and bake, I can sweep and rake.”

  “We must leave. Together. Now.”

  The woman laughed. “You jest, sir. Leave my humble home? Leave my rocking chair and my knitting? What kind of woman do you take me for? What would my husband think?”

  “Don’t remind me. The fog has cleared. I wish I couldn’t remember, but I do.”

  “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. If turnips were watches, I’d wear one at my side.”

  “You can stop that now.”

  “As I went to Bonner, I met a pig with a wig, upon my word and honor,” the woman recited.

  “Please stop.”

  “You started it,” she retorted. “Then to bring them into this. To think you thought you knew it all, only to find out you knew nothing.”

  “Please.”

  “I have my moments, too, you know. I will help if you will tell me what kind of help I can be.”

  The man wearily stepped to the table and sat on a bench. “It’s been so long. I’m no longer sure of what is and what isn’t. I have to pinch myself sometimes.” So saying, he pinched his cheek as hard as he could. “I think I am real.”

  Chuckling merrily, so that her whole body quivered like a great dish of pudding, the woman pointed a thick finger at him. “I bet I know what you would like more than anything. How empty is your belly?”

  “So empty it is scraping my backbone.” The man folded his arms on the table and lowered his face onto them. His next words were muffled. “They were after me a while ago. Right before I saw the horse. They might be after the horse now.”

  “The man in the wilderness asked me how many strawberries grew in the sea but I didn’t tell him.”

  “God in heaven. Is this what we have come to? Is this to be our end?” The man slowly straightened. Tears were in his eyes. “Will you fill my belly or not?”

  “Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man. Make me a cake as fast as you can. Prick it, and pat it, and mark it with a T. And put it in the oven for my Sully and me.”

  “Is that yes or no?”

  “Little Jack Horner sat in the corner, eating his Christmas pie.”

  “I asked you not to do that.”

  The woman opened a cupboard. “What would you like? Waffles and eggs? Elk meat? Corn dodgers? How about apple dumplings? I think of all the food in the world, apple dumplings are my favorite.”

  The man stared at the empty shelves in the cupboard. His throat bobbed and he wiped an arm across his eyes. “How long have you been without?”

  “My dears, my dears, calm your fears.”

  “I never would have guessed. You don’t look as if you have lost weight.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. You haven’t lost any. How can that be? How have you lasted?”

  The woman beamed jovially and twined her fingers together. “Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard to get her poor doggie a bone. But when she got there the cupboard was bare, so the poor doggie got none.”

  “One more and I will scream. I swear to God I will.”

  “There was an old woman who lived in a shoe. She had so many children she didn’t know what to do.”

  The man was off the bench and reached her in three bounds. Gripping her by the arms, he shook her as hard as he could.

  “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”

  The woman went on beaming. “Calm yourself, Sully. Haven’t I always taken care of you?” She cupped his chin and gazed deep into his eyes. “My sweet, sour, splendid, awful, caring, cold codpiece.”

  Sully staggered back, his cheeks damp. He groped behind him until his hand found the rough-hewn table. Sinking onto the bench, he trembled. “I can feel it clawing at me. It never stops. When it takes hold I am lost to everything. But then I come out of it for a while, like you.”

  “Bat, bat, come under my hat, and I’ll give you a slice of bacon.” The woman chortled. “Is that what you would like to eat? A bat?”

  “Philberta, please. I did all I could. I’m sorry it wasn’t enough. The thing now is to get away. We must leave while I am clear in the head. Try to shake it off so we—” Sully stopped at a sudden scratching at the door, as if a claw was scraping it from top to bottom. “No. Not now.”

  “My darlings!” Philberta happily exclaimed. “They have come to pay me another visit. I wonder what sweetmeats they have brought me this time.” She started toward the door, but Sully got there ahead of her and thrust out his hand.

  “No! Think! You know what is out there. You know what they will do to us.”

  As if to prove him right, from the other side of the door came a low growl, followed by more, and harder, scratching.

  “Let me past,” Philberta insisted, and shoved him out of her way. “Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub. And who do you think they be?” She placed her hand on the latch.

  Sully shoved her and she stumbled back. “I will not warn you again! Heed me, woman!”

  “Heed a fool? What would that make me? Twice the idiot?” Philberta shook her head. “You have come to the wrong place if it is heeding you are after.”

  The scratching became a frenzy of clawing and growls and snarls. The door shook to fierce blows, the leather hinges creaking.

  “Do you hear them?” Philberta asked. “Aren’t they grand?”

  Sully faced the door and raised his knife. “I am ready for them! If they get in, there will be the devil to pay”

  Philberta stepped to the counter and gripped a cast iron pan. “Dickery, dickery dare, the pig flew up in the air.” She walked up behind Sully and brought the pan crashing down on the top of his head. The crunch of his skull was loud and final. He slumped onto his side, briefly convulsed, and went limp.

  “Serves him right,” Philberta said. Fluffing her hair, she called out, “Can you hear me, my sweets?”

  Something outside the door howled.

  “Birds of a feather flock together,” Philberta said, and opened it.

  Godsend

  Few natural wonders stirred Nate King like the Rocky Mountains. He still remembered the first time he set eyes on them: the emerald foothills, the green of the thick timber that covered the higher slopes, the brown of the rocky heights crowned by white caps of snow. Peaks that reared miles into the sky. Compared to the splendor of the Rockies, the mountains of his native New York were so many pitiful bumps.

  On this particular morning Nate was many miles from the remote valley his family called home. He was astride his favorite bay, on his way to the village of his wife’s cousin, Touch The Clouds. The Shoshones were contemplating a raid on their enemies the Blackfeet, and Touch The Clouds wanted Nate to sit in on the council. It showed the high regard in which the Sho-shones held him. That, and Nate suspected the Shoshones hoped he would help them get their hands on a few more rifles.

  The last thing Nate expected to come across so deep in the mountains were other whites. But from high atop a ridge Nate spied eight riders, the last leading a couple of pack horses, winding west in his direction. They had no inkling he was
there.

  Nate was heading north. He raised his reins to ride on, but curiosity got the better of him. Reaching back, he opened a beaded parfleche his wife had made and brought out a collapsible metal tube. Extending it, he pressed the scalloped eyepiece to his eye.

  Nate was a big man, broad of shoulder and narrow of waist. He was dressed in buckskins. A beaver hat crowned his black thatch of hair. An ammo pouch, powder horn and possibles bag crisscrossed his broad chest. Wedged under his wide leather belt were a pair of flintlocks, while jutting from a beaded saddle sheath was the stock of a Hawken rifle. On his right hip hung a bowie, on his left a tomahawk. He was, in short, a walking arsenal. He needed to be.

  As Nate studied the eight riders through his spy-glass, his mouth curled in a frown. “I’ll be switched,” he said to his bay. Four of the eight in particular were responsible for his frown. “Some folks have no more sense than a tree stump.”

  Angry, Nate snapped the telescope in upon itself, and shoved it into his parfleche. “They are none of my business,” he declared, and again went to ride on to the north and the Shoshone village.

  Nate hesitated. His conscience pricked him, as it often did in situations like this. For long minutes he debated whether to go on or go down and talk to the party below. Exasperated with himself, he reined sharply down the slope.

  The lead rider spotted him and pointed. As well the man should, since he, like Nate, was a frontiersman.

  Nate threaded through a belt of lodgepole pines and came out on a flat bench. Rather than go lower,he drew rein and dismounted to await the eight. It was a quarter of an hour before they reached him, and in that time Nate gathered dead limbs, used his fire steel and flint, and tinder from his tinderbox, to kindle a fire, and put coffee on to brew.

  When the other frontiersman came over the crest, Nate was seated on a log he had dragged close to the fire, his Hawken across his legs. He didn’t smile or lift a hand in greeting. Instead, he leveled the Hawken and said bluntly, “I should kill you here and now.”