The Mountain King (12 page)

“Speaking of trigger-happy assholes ...” one of the other men said. Sandy recognized the voice of Willis Franklin, another one of her father’s friends. “Umm— sorry ‘bout shooting like that. I guess I was kinda spooked.” 

“Damn good thing you’re such a piss-poor shot, too, Willis,” Tim said. “Come on, Sandy. We’re a bit late getting off the mountain ourselves.” He sniffed with laughter. “I’m parked a mile or so down the road here. I guess we’re all in this together, huh?” 

“I guess so,” Sandy said weakly. 

“Well, don’t you worry. We’ll get you home in no time.” 

Chapter Nineteen
 

Hunkering Down 

Just as Mark suspected it would, the trail of blood led across the east branch of the river and up above the timberline toward the rock-strewn, almost inaccessible cliffs on the western side of Mount Agiochook. Behind him, the afternoon sun was slanting down to the horizon, edging the distant blue mountains in New Hampshire with a harsh line of orange fire. Long, gray shadows stretched out in front of him as he clambered over rocks and scaled sheer cliffs, all the while searching for the telltale splotches of red. He was amazed that, wounded as it was, the creature could cover such rugged terrain so easily. No wonder, when it wasn’t hurt, it could appear and disappear so fast. This tiling seemed to have the agility of a mountain goat and the endurance of a bear. 

After almost four hours of tracking, Mark still didn’t seem to be gaining any ground on it. The blood spoor was lessening, but for it to have lasted this long, he knew it had to be a serious wound. Fewer and smaller splotches appeared further and further apart. A few times, Mark lost the trail entirely and had to swing around in a wide arc until he picked it up again. With night approaching fast, he was afraid that he would lose track of the creature for good. It hadn’t helped matters that, several times throughout the afternoon, he had lost precious time hiding as the state police helicopter buzzed by overhead, or small groups of men passed by. At least so far he hadn’t seen any bloodhounds! 

As he tracked the creature, Mark couldn’t stop wondering exactly what this thing was. He had encountered the beast three times so far but had only gotten one good look at it, this afternoon. But even after the encounter today, as horribly real as it had been, he couldn’t quite accept or process what he had seen. The creature seemed more illusory than real, like something out of a horrible nightmare. 

Ever since he was a little boy, he had spent a lot of time hunting and hiking in the forest. In all that time, he had never encountered anything
like
this. Of course, like most people, he had heard the stories about the Himalayan
yeti,
the Pacific Northwest’s
Sasquatch,
as well as the local Indian legends about creatures such as the
Pomoola, Hobomock,
and
Wendigo.
In fact, Mark remembered how, on the day Phil and he had been hiking, he had teased Phil with stories about how the Indians had thought the summit of Agiochook was haunted, but he had always dismissed those stories as just that—stories. 

Until now, that is. 

Now he wasn’t so sure. 

Whatever that thing was, as impossible as it seemed, it had definitely looked and moved more like a huge ape than a bear. Mark recalled the thick, cloying animal stench as it had rushed past him and knocked him down. It had almost killed him with that powerful swipe of its paw, and by the looks and sounds of things at the base of the trail, it had also attacked Sandy or whomever had been out there. 

So Mark had to accept that he was dealing with something real. . . something he had injured when he slugged it with his rifle ... something that was bleeding profusely from an old shoulder wound which, he assumed, he had reopened. 

And that meant one thing—it was something that he could kill! 

Still, no matter what he thought, he couldn’t quite accept what he had seen. It was crazy! Downright impossible! Several times during the afternoon, he had started laughing to himself just at the idea that there was a Bigfoot living in the Maine mountains. 

How could that be? 

How could anything like that live up here in the mountains all these years without ever being seen or photographed or captured? 

No, this idea just plain didn’t fit in with the practical, everyday experiences Mark had in the forest while growing up. 

It simply didn’t make sense. 

But last weekend at The Zipper,
something
had shambled across the cliff side and slung Phil Sawyer over its shoulder 

. . . and
something
had attacked him that night in his camp 

. . . and now he was tracking
something
that was wounded and bleeding. No matter what else, Mark was determined to find out what it was and where it lived. 

And then, if only to make himself feel better because it had killed his friend and tried to kill him, he was going to kill it! 

“But not today,” Mark muttered as he glanced over his shoulder at the lowering sun. Thick shadows of night were already filling the valley below. The wind blew cold and lonely up the flank of the mountain and into his face, promising another night of below-freezing temperatures. 

As best he could tell, the trail led over a jumble of boulders, some the size of small houses, and up a nearly flat cliff side. Mark knew it would be dangerous, possibly suicidal, to continue stalking the creature much longer today. His campsite was a couple of miles down the slope. If he had wanted to eat something other than a handful or two of trail mix and sleep in a warm sleeping bag tonight, he should have started down the mountain before now. 

It was already too late. 

Mark scanned the vicinity for someplace to hunker down for the night. At the very least, he had to find something out of the wind. Up ahead, in the jumble of rocks, he saw a shallow cave where one large, flat rock had fallen on top of several others. There was enough shelter so he could at least stay dry if it rained tonight. Scrambling across the rocky slope, still watchful for any search parties, he entered the shallow cave. 

Sighing heavily, he swung his day pack and rifle off his shoulder and sat with his back against the cold stone as he faced the cave opening. The shelter was cramped; sleeping was not going to be comfortable, but he contented himself with the thought that, if he didn’t sleep well, at least he would be awake early enough to get started before dawn. 

Outside the cave mouth, the sky rapidly darkened from deep purple to black. Mark bolted the rifle and rested it across his lap as he fished a bag of trail mix out of his day pack, tore it open, and started to eat. The heavy crunching sound and lack of taste reminded him more of gravel than food. He washed his meager meal down with several swallows of water from his canteen, but he went easy on his water supply, knowing that he would be above the timberline all day tomorrow. 

As night closed down around the mountain, the sky filled with a dazzling display of stars. Mark shivered and pulled his collar up tightly around his neck as he stared out at their sparkling splendor. It never ceased to amaze him how different the stars looked when he was alone, deep in the wilderness. It made him feel infinitesimally small, totally insignificant in the great scheme of things; but at the same time it also gave him a feeling of immense power, of grandeur. He could easily understand why the Indians had considered Agiochook a holy mountain. Other than Mount Katahdin, far to the north, it was about as close as you could get to heaven in all of Maine. 

There wasn’t enough room in the cave to lie down flat, so after his meal, Mark settled back and tried to doze sitting up with his weapon at the ready. 

Throughout the night, his sleep was thin and disturbed. Sometime during the night, he suddenly jolted awake, convinced that he had heard or sensed something moving around outside the cave—the soft scuffing of padded feet on stone. 

As he sat there in the dark, listening tensely, he eased the safety off his rifle and leaned forward to look out at the rocky slope. A strong wash of moonlight lit the scene with a powdery blue glow. Shadows as dark and thick as puddles of ink dotted the uneven terrain. He more than half expected to see members of a search party go by, but the mountain was absolutely silent, deserted. 

He was about to attribute the faint sound to something he had dreamed, or a noise he had made shifting against the rock wall of the cave; but just as he was about to relax his guard, it came again, this time accompanied by a muffled snuffing sound. Every nerve in Mark’s body started tingling when he saw a large shadow, cast by the wash of moonlight behind it, slide out across the rocks in front of his hiding spot. 

There was someone—or something—out there, right on top of the rock . .. directly above his head! 

Mark held his breath and waited, listening as the sniffing sound grew steadily louder. The image of a dog or wolf came to mind, but something warned Mark that this was much more serious. Whatever it was up there, it had definitely picked up his scent and had come to investigate. If it was a wild animal, Mark knew he could scare it off with a sudden noise. But if it
wasn’t
an animal ... if it was that creature he had been chasing all afternoon . . . 

Moving as quietly as he could, Mark shifted his legs up underneath himself and got ready to move if he had to. He raised his rifle slowly, letting his forefinger rest lightly on the trigger. He watched the shadow shift back and forth, and he tried his best to make out what it was, but the slanting moonlight and the rocky terrain lengthened and distorted it. He kept trying to convince himself that he
wasn’t
looking at a large, human-shaped figure with long, powerful arms and a thick-muscled body. He kept trying not to think that this thing had used the cover of darkness to sneak up on him from behind. 

As Mark moved forward, preparing to stick his head out of the cave so he could catch a glimpse of whatever was up there, his foot bumped against his canteen. The instant the metal clicked ever so softly against the rock, the shadow above him pulled back and disappeared. Swearing softly under his breath, Mark propelled himself out of the cave, stood up, turned around quickly, and raised his rifle to his shoulder as he scanned the area. 

The mountainside was almost as bright as daylight with the strong moonlight, and it didn’t take Mark long to fix on the large figure scrambling over the rocks away from him. It was moving up the slope silently and swiftly, like the shadow of a passing cloud. On pure reflex, Mark raised his rifle, took aim, and squeezed the trigger. The flash and sound of the shot split the night and echoed with a long, rolling boom, like thunder. In the wink of an eye, the shadow was lost in the confusion of shadows cast by the rocks. Mark quickly bolted his rifle and cracked off another shot just for good measure, but he knew it was futile. 

“Shit!” he yelled, his voice echoing from the rocky mountainside in a long roll, like a chorus of shouts. 

Once again, the mountainside was deserted. Only the wind moved, like cold, dark water between the jagged boulders. Off in the distance, Mark saw a large cliff that glowed eerily blue with reflected moonlight. He knew its name: Katherine’s Leap, and high above it was the slanting, smooth face of The Zipper. 

For a fleeting instant, Mark thought he saw a blur of motion halfway up the sheer rock wall of Katherine’s Leap, but before he could focus on it, it was gone. It could have been nothing more than the shadow of a cloud, passing in front of the moon, but it also might have been the creature, although it was remarkable, almost impossible, Mark thought, for it to have covered that much ground so fast, especially if it was wounded. 

Mark knew he would have to make Katherine’s Leap his first goal in the morning. It was in the same general direction he had been heading, anyway. There were no trails or chiseled handholds up the side of the cliff. Very few people bothered to climb the cliff because it was more easily accessible from the top. But Mark figured if that thing could scale that rock wall, wounded as it was, then come morning, he would find a way to get up there, too. 

Satisfied that the creature was gone and that he was no longer in danger—at least for now—he eased back into his shelter and tried to get as comfortable as possible. But for the rest of the night there would be little if any sleep for him. After reloading his rifle, he sat with it across his lap, content, as he waited for the sky-to lighten with the dawn, to watch the slow, steady progress of the stars as they wheeled around overhead.