Fear Weaver (8 page)

The gurgling grew louder, but the trees and undergrowth screened the stream from him until he was right on top of it. Any notion he had of finding tracks was dashed by the thick grass that covered both banks.

Climbing down again, Nate stood guard while the bay drank. Utter silence prevailed; silence so complete, it was uncanny. He listened in vain for the chitter of a squirrel or the warble of a bird.

Behind him, a twig snapped.

Nate spun, every nerve jangling, but nothing was there. He started into the woods but caught himself before he blundered. Whatever had killed the elk and the horse would not hesitate to do the same to
the bay. He dared not leave it alone. Backing away, he pulled the bay’s muzzle out of the water and forked leather.

Nate returned to the trail. The walls of vegetation became thicker the farther he went. Enclosed spaces never bothered him—but this did. Nate had the bizarre impression he was riding into the gullet of some gigantic beast. Silliness of the first order, but there it was.

Nate shook himself. He passed a pine carpeted with moss. He passed a rotting log amid a profusion of mushrooms. He passed a cluster of thorn apples.

Up ahead, a clearing appeared.

Nate’s skin prickled worse than ever. At the edge of the trees he drew rein and said the first thing that came into his head. “I’ll be damned.”

On the other side of the clearing stood a cabin. The front door was shut. Red curtains covered the window. From the roof rose a stone chimney but no smoke climbed into the sky.

The cabin and the clearing were so quiet and still that Nate was almost sure no one was there. But he didn’t take chances. He rode with every sense alert, the Hawken to his shoulder.

“Is anyone there?”

No one responded. The door stayed closed, the curtains were undisturbed.

Nate was halfway there when he noticed splotches of red mixed with the green of the grass. It was blood. Dry blood. A lot of blood, spilled not all that long ago. Newly dry blood always had a bright sheen and this was as bright as could be.

Nate drew rein. The logical conclusion was that the four warriors had killed the people in the cabin.
Or been killed by them. But if that was the case, where were the bodies?

“Is anyone home?” Nate called out.

There was no answer.

Nate walked up to the front door and tried the latch. The door wasn’t bolted. It swung in on creaking leather hinges.

“I’m a friend. Don’t be afraid.” Nate poked his head in and smothered a cough. The place had a strange smell. Not a foul odor, as such, but different from the odor of any cabin he had ever set foot in. The cause eluded him. It wasn’t tobacco or any food he was familiar with.

Keeping his back to the wall, Nate sidled inside. The room was dark, even darker than the gloom of the forest. He paused, letting his eyes adjust. “I’m a friend,” he repeated.

Nate made out a table with benches instead of chairs. Over by the fireplace was a rocking chair. And that was about it, save for cupboards and pots and pans.

A dark doorway yawned to his right. Nate went over. “Anyone in here?” He poked the door with the Hawken. The
thunk
of metal on wood seemed un-naturally loud. Within were empty shelves and a metal hook speckled with dry blood, suspended from the ceiling. It was a pantry.

The strange smell was stronger.

Nate closed the pantry door and went back outside, grateful for the fresh air. He checked the ground. The grass near the door was flattened, the earth scuffed and scraped. There weren’t any clear prints, but it was enough to tell him that someone—or several someones—used the cabin regularly. He opened
the door and poked his head in again. The floor and the furniture were free of dust, which they wouldn’t be if neglected.

Nate hastened to the bay. He disliked leaving it untended. The unease he’d felt since entering the valley hadn’t gone away.

The logs used to build the cabin weren’t trimmed. Here and there stubs poked out. One was long enough to wrap the reins around to keep the bay from wandering away.

Nate stared up the trail. Peter and Erleen would arrive soon. He used the time to prop the front door open with a broom and to open the curtains to clear out the smell. Logs stacked next to the fireplace simplified kindling a fire. He also lit several candles scattered about. He wanted the place to be as cheerful as he could make it. He was thinking of the girls, of Anora and especially Tyne.

Nate debated what to do about the blood. A shovel suggested a solution. He dug dirt from the side of the cabin and sprinkled it over the red splashes and spots. Next, he put coffee on to boil.

The Woodrows still hadn’t shown up. Nate went to the door. He hoped they were all right. He hadn’t heard shots or screams, and he doubted the Black-feet could take them completely unaware.

The wait tested Nate’s patience. He paced back and forth in front of the cabin. He paced back and forth in the cabin.

Once, when he was outside, rock clattered against rock off in the trees. The sound wasn’t repeated.

The high cliffs lent an oppressive gloom to everything. Nate noted that the valley continued for another quarter of a mile past the cabin, ending where the cliffs met. It was worth a look-see but it would
have to wait. He wanted to be at the cabin when the others got there.

Nate’s unease grew. The last time he had felt this way was in Apache country. He couldn’t shake the notion that at any moment something might rush out at him. He told himself he was being ridiculous, but it didn’t help.

Over an hour passed.

Nate thought hot coffee would soothe his nerves. Several cups were in the cupboards but he felt compelled to use his own. He went out to the bay and opened the parfleche. As he reached in, a twig snapped.

Nate spun, leveling the Hawken, and caught movement in the trees near the cabin. “Who’s there?”

No one answered.

Nate could make out a vague two-legged shape. “I know you’re in there. Show yourself.”

The figure moved, but only a couple of steps.

Nate’s thumb and trigger finger twitched, but he didn’t shoot. “If you are one of Sullivan’s family, I won’t harm you. I’m here with Peter and Erleen. They should show up shortly.”

“Don’t shoot! I’m coming out!”

It was a big-boned woman in a dress and a bonnet, clasping two long knitting needles and a partially knit shawl. She smiled an anxious smile, as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether he was truly a friend, or a foe.

“I am with Peter and Erleen Woodrow,” Nate repeated, lowering his rifle. “I mean you no harm.”

The woman came closer. “Intery, minstery cutery corn, apple seed and apple thorn.”

“What?”

“You’re not really you, are you?”

“Lady, I am as real as you are,” Nate assured her.

“You think I am really real?”

“Of course.”

“If all the world were water, and all the water ink, what should we do for bread and cheese? What should we do for drink?”

“Why do you keep saying nursery rhymes?”

“Why do you not say them?” The woman laughed.

“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 of us is real!”

And with that she attacked him.

The wild gleam in her eyes, her wild talk, had warned Nate she was unbalanced. He was ready when she lunged. Screeching, Philberta stabbed the knitting needle at his eyes, her face twisted in pure hate.

Nate swept the Hawken up, one hand on the barrel and the other on the stock, blocking her blow. She was strong, this woman. The force jarred him onto his heels. He could have shot her but instead he sought to reason with her, saying, “I’m not here to harm you! Get that through your head.”

“Liar!” Philberta cried, and came at him again. She had the second knitting needle in her other hand, low against her side.

Nate backpedaled. He hadn’t counted on this sort of reception. He’d figured that the survivors, if any, would be overjoyed to see him and learn their relatives were on the way. “Stop it!” he commanded. But she paid him no heed. He dodged a needle to the neck, shifted, and evaded a stab to the groin.

Philberta crouched to try again. She was quick as well as strong, and unless Nate did something, fast, she was bound to skewer him.

“For the last time, I’m not your enemy!”

Philberta grinned. “Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. Jack, jump over the candlestick.”

“Why do you—?” Nate began, and got no further. She came at him, thrusting high and low, and it was all he could do to stay out of her reach.

“Stand still, consarn you!” Philberta’s bosom was heaving and a sheen of sweat dampened her brow. “You are worse than a jackrabbit.” She feinted and went for his groin, but he sidestepped.

Nate had taken as much as he was going to. Springing back, he leveled the Hawken. “The next step will be your last.”

“One, two, buckle my shoe.” Philberta raised both needles. “You might get me but I will get you.”

“Philberta!
What on earth?”

At the shout, Philberta turned. Shock replaced the hate, shock so profound, she shook from her bonnet to her shoes. “I must be dreaming.”

Ryker and the Woodrows had arrived. Ryker was smirking in amusement, but the Woodrows gaped in horrified disbelief.

Erleen had found her voice first, and now spoke again. “Put down those knitting needles. That man is a friend of ours. He helped us find you.”

“Erleen? Peter?”

“It is indeed us, my dear.”

“Am I seeing things again?” Philberta had forgotten about Nate. She ran a sleeve across her face, and swayed. “It must be the strain. I’ve finally snapped.”

Erleen was clambering from her horse. “Listen Tome, sister-in-law. We’re not figments. We’re real. We were worried when we didn’t hear from Sully and you, so we came west.”

“Oh God.” Philberta looked at Nate, her eyes widening. “What have I done?”

Erleen hastened up, her arms spread wide. “Calm down and give me a hug. I’ve missed you and the others so much.”

Nate tensed. He half feared Philberta would bury the knitting needles in Erleen, but to his relief Philberta let the other woman embrace her. Suddenly Philberta gasped, and stiffened. Her eyes rolled up in their sockets until only the whites showed. Then, with a loud groan, she collapsed and would have fallen if Erleen hadn’t been holding her.

“Peter! I need help!”

Nate was closer. He quickly slipped an arm under one of Philberta’s. “It’s good you came along when you did.”

“What did you do to her?”

“Me?”
Nate said. “I was friendly and polite. But she went into a frenzy and tried to kill me.”

The others were rushing to help, all except Ryker, whose smirk had broadened. Peter took over for Nate. Fitch and Harper also helped. Nate opened the door and they carried Philberta inside. Anora and Tyne came after them.

“Where is everyone else?” Erleen asked, glancing about. “Sully and the boys aren’t here.”

“We must set her down,” Peter grunted. “She’s as heavy as an ox.”

“Peter!”

“Well, she is.”

The comment made Nate wonder how she was eating so well when the pantry was so bare. Here he’d been worried the family had starved to death. But if Philberta was any example, they didn’t miss a meal.

“Where are the beds?” Erleen asked.

Only then did Nate realize the cabin had no bedroom. Nor were there any blankets spread on
the floor for bedding. Where did the woman sleep? he asked himself.

“Fitch, fetch blankets off our horses,” Erleen directed. “Anora, find a pot, fill it with water from the stream, and put it on to boil. We’ll make some tea. Harper and Tyne, I want you to sit here with your aunt while your father and I have a look around.”

Nate went out, nearly colliding with Aunt Aggie, who was about to enter. “They can use your help in there.”

“Oh, I am sure Erleen has matters well in hand. My sister would make a fine general.” Agatha stepped away from the door as Anora bustled past carrying a pot. “I best stay out of their hair.”

Nate placed the Hawken’s stock on the ground and leaned on the barrel. “So tell me. What is Philberta like when she isn’t trying to stick knitting needles into someone?”

Aunt Aggie didn’t grin as he thought she might. “Perhaps you should ask Erleen. I’ve never been all that fond of Philberta and it might taint your opinion.”

“You and she don’t get along?”

“Oh, she’s always been civil enough. But I have long believed Sully could have done better.”

“Better how?”

Agatha checked that no one was near. “Less bossy, for one thing. I’ve always thought marriage should be a fifty-fifty proposition. But Philberta is a lot like Erleen. They snap their fingers and their husbands jump.”

“Yet it was Sully who dragged her and their boys west,” Nate noted. “He must do some snapping himself.”

“I’ve wondered about that. If Philberta had no yen
to come, Sully wouldn’t.” Agatha shrugged. “But that’s neither here nor there. The real reason I have never gotten along with her is that she treated me coldly. From the very first day I met her, nearly twenty years ago, she gave me the impression she wouldn’t mind one bit if I were to be run over by a carriage.”

“Didn’t you say Sully and you were close?”

“So?”

“So maybe Philberta was jealous. Some women refuse to share their husband’s affections with anyone, even a doting sister-in-law.” Nate smiled to lessen the sting.

“There’s always that, I suppose, although I suspect her dislike of me ran deeper. Anyway, what’s done is done. What is important now is to find out where Sully and their sons got to. It’s very strange they’re not here if she is.”

“You want strange? She kept reciting nursery rhymes, as if I were five years old.”