The Wolf Tree (38 page)

R
AY WATCHED HELPLESSLY AS
R
EDFEATHER RACED
Atsila toward Marisol. The agents leveled their rifles at him.

As they fired, Redfeather leaped off Atsila, landing by Unole. The Bowlers ran toward him, but Redfeather whirled around, his bowstring twanging. One of the Bowlers tumbled. The other fired his rifle repeatedly, dropping to the ground to take cover.

There was a whistle, and Atsila circled around to return to Redfeather. He climbed onto the horse and pulled Marisol on behind him.

Redfeather shot another arrow, and the Bowler returned fire, driving Atsila away.

They were safe. But Ray was cut off from his friends by the Bowler. He dropped back to the ground, hiding in the tall grass.

How had they known to set the ambush? Had they seen the horses following them? Maybe B’hoy—the solitary crow trailing their steamcoach—made the agents suspicious?

After a few moments, the Bowler got to his feet and began jogging in the direction Redfeather and Marisol had gone. Ray ran over to Unole. The horse was dead, and Ray could only hope that he died without suffering. He felt sad and angry for the animal, to have been caught up in such terrible violence.

B’hoy flew down to land on Ray’s wrist.

“Good boy,” Ray whispered. “Fly out. See if you can find Redfeather and Marisol.” The crow croaked and took flight.

As Ray crested a rise, he could see the shadows of the buttes and chasms about a mile away illuminated by the rising moon. Below, the steamcoach trudged through the darkness, casting out its funnel of light across the prairie. Something else drew his eye: a fire, small and far away, tucked against the wall of one of the buttes. Who was out there? Could it be Sally?

Before he could wonder further, he saw forms dashing across the plains, racing toward the steamcoach. Whatever they were, they were large and they were fast. It might have been men on horses, but then he heard a growl and a bark and howl. Were they wolves?

The rougarou!

Gunfire erupted. Flashes of fire lit the black prairie. The first of the rougarou clashed against the steamcoach. Others yelped as bullets hit them. The pack spread out—how many were there?—to encircle the steamcoach and the four horses.
Bowlers poured from the doors of the steamcoach, taking positions. Muggeridge’s voice carried, barking orders, issuing commands.

Ray opened the toby and took out three items: a pair of Indian-head pennies and a ball of bluestone. He slid a penny into each of his boots. He clutched tightly to the ball of bluestone. It would protect him from the bullets, at least until the spell wore off. He hoped he would have at least half an hour.

Ray moved down the hill. He had to find Sally before those Bowlers did.

The rougarou scattered, moving around and away from the steamcoach, making it difficult for the Bowlers to focus their attack. Rifles cracked. Bullets whined. The area around the steamcoach looked like a fireworks display, brilliant flashes within a growing cloud of gunsmoke.

A rougarou howled a high piercing note, and the entire pack descended upon the Bowlers, using the smoke as an opportunity to strike. Agents ran in every direction, guns blazing. The men on horseback had trouble keeping their horses from panicking. The scene grew frenzied as the battle began to spread. Men and rougarou ran this way and that. Muggeridge had lost control over his men and was desperately defending himself against a dark-furred rougarou.

Then Ray saw men hiding at the back of the steamcoach. No, they weren’t hiding. A tingling formed at Ray’s fingertips. The agents opened the door, and when it swung wide, a shape emerged from the depths. Pale white against the dark. With slow, creeping steps it lurched down onto the plains, swinging its jaws around menacingly.

A Hoarhound!

Ray again noticed the odd tingling in his fingers, and as he brought his hand up, there was a tug, a strange pull toward the Gog’s Hound.

He had no time to wonder on it. B’hoy returned but had not found Redfeather and Marisol. It was too dark and chaotic. “Thanks, B’hoy. You should stay clear of the battle. I don’t want a stray bullet to get you. But if you see a girl … Sally is out there!” And he shooed the crow into the air.

Ray ran closer to the battle. He reached a dry gully. The walls hid him from the fight, and he moved nearer, looking for Sally or Redfeather or Marisol. With the other horses and the darkness and the smoke and the turmoil, Ray could not tell if any of the horses were Atsila. But there was an arrow perched in the earth. Redfeather had been here. Where were they?

Several rougarou leaped on the Hoarhound. It shook them away, its terrible jaws locking upon a rougarou’s back. With a whine of pain, the rougarou was flung by the Hoarhound and fell limply at the edge of the gully several dozen yards ahead.

Ray started toward it, but the agent De Courcy bounded into the gully between him and the dead rougarou. He began reloading his rifle, his breath coming loudly and his fingers fumbling with the cartridges. He swung the rifle up, steadied his elbows on the top of the gully, and began firing.

As De Courcy ducked back into the gully, he saw Ray. He
snarled and brought the rifle around. Ray clutched tight to the ball of bluestone. He squeezed his eyes shut as the rifle erupted. When he opened them again, he saw the agent staring dumbfounded at Ray.

A rougarou charged, and De Courcy scrambled out of the gully, running for his life. The attacking rougarou leaped over the gap, a shadow and a blur, and pursued the man.

Ray crept over to the dead rougarou. It was enormous. Much larger than he had imagined, even from the paw prints he had seen days ago. Its blank open eyes were pale blue, so like a human eye and yet so otherworldly. Then the rougarou transformed into a woman—unlike any woman he had ever seen. Her hair was dark red, and her skin seemed filled with moonlight. The light slowly faded, leaving the rougarou’s lifeless human form.

More gunfire erupted nearby, and Ray ran farther down the gully. When he reached a safer spot, he looked back at the plains. A rougarou was chasing a horseman, who was trying to fire backward. His horse was not swift enough and the rougarou leaped, catching the man in his jaws and tearing him from the horse’s back. The Hoarhound, nearly twice the size of the biggest rougarou, was surrounded by at least five of the pack.

Sally was nowhere to be seen. Was she hiding at that campfire?

Ray looked for a way out of the battlefield. If he continued following the gully, he would only wind up in a more conspicuous spot. So he climbed out onto the prairie again
and ran toward the campfire. A stray bullet slapped against his head and he dropped to the ground. He touched his temple, which stung, but no more than if he had been pelted by a stone.

On the moonlit earth before him, he saw a footprint. No, a pair of footprints. Sally had been traveling with another child. Had they passed here, sneaking away to escape the Bowlers? Ray had to look closely to tell which direction the prints were going. And there, the dirt was pulled up where the toes would have caught if she was running.

She was going west.

A rougarou roared not more than fifty feet away, its jaws clamping onto the shoulder of a Bowler. The man screamed, fired his rifle, but missed. The man fell, and the rougarou leaped away.

Ray followed the prints, pausing occasionally when the tracks grew faint. After searching, he found them again. He was close. He knew it. He would find her and he would help her escape. Why had she come out here? Why had she put herself and the rabbit’s foot in such danger?

He followed the footprints to the mouth of a canyon. In the soft earth, the prints were clearer. How strange that one of the two travelers was barefoot. He jogged silently into the shadowed canyon.

Ray was glad to be moving away from the battle now. The canyon wound back and forth, and then the prints stopped at one of the sides. The wall of the canyon was sloped, and the dirt was broken in places where they had climbed up.

When he reached the top, he saw that the prairie continued flat and endless to the horizon. It appeared empty. Where was she? He looked back. Below, the battle was clearly displayed.

The dark shadows of bodies—men, horses, rougarou—were strewn across the plains. Several rougarou butted against the steamcoach, shaking its wheels from the ground. There were only a handful of agents left to defend the vehicle, and they fired from the windows of the locomotive. Over a ways, the Hoarhound was lunging like an enraged bear at the rougarou surrounding it. When the Hound swung one way, a rougarou would strike from behind, tearing at the frost-hardened flesh covering its clockwork, trying to wear it down like a cornered prey. But Ray knew there was no exhausting the Hoarhound. It would fight mercilessly until it was destroyed completely.

Ray heard a noise behind him. He turned, peering across the moonlit expanse. He saw nothing. But then a moment later, he spied a horse, riderless and grazing. Redfeather’s horse? Ray moved closer. He wanted to call out, and he almost did, until he saw the horse more clearly. It was not Atsila. It was a dark quarter horse. One of the Bowlers’ horses.

Where was the rider?

A voice whispered and another shushed it. Crouching low, Ray moved with silent steps, his knife drawn. Ahead was a taller tuft of grass, and he knew the land well enough to guess that behind that tuft was a deer wallow. The perfect hiding place on this vast openness.

Ray opened his hand to check the ball of bluestone in the
moonlight. The rock was now a ruddy orange. If he were to take the pennies from his boots, he knew they would now be blue. The protective spell had faded.

Ray cast the bluestone aside and kept low to the ground, moving as slowly as he would when hunting. He circled the wallow, his eyes trained on the spot. There was movement, shadowy figures. He could see the faint profile of faces, looking in the other direction. They had not seen him.

He could leap into the wallow. If it was Sally, he would only startle her. But if they were Bowlers, he’d have a moment to attack with surprise on his side and then escape again.

Ray drew closer. He steadied his breathing until even a rabbit could not have known he was there.

Now.

He propelled himself forward and jumped, landing behind the two figures in the wallow.

There was a gasp and a cry. And one of the figures circled with a knife. Ray grabbed the wrist and knocked the knife away.

“Ray?”

All the air rushed from Ray’s lungs. He let go of her wrist.

“Jolie?”

A year. So many times on his travels, he had half-expected to find her at some river or marsh. Each time he didn’t, it was like reopening an old wound. Over the months, he had come to believe that she was gone for good, and that he would never see her again.

But here she was. The last place he would ever expect to find her.

They stared at one another. He soaked in her visage like a cold stone gathering warm sunlight. She looked different, or maybe he was seeing her as he hadn’t seen her before. No, she
was
different: fuller, stronger, healthier, and lovelier.

Jolie clasped his arms and shook him. “Ray. Ray. What are you doing here?” No words came to his lips. She wrapped her arms around him, trembling, whispering, “You must have thought I abandoned you in the river.”

“No,” Ray said, nearly into her ear. “No, I knew you didn’t.”

She released him, and he laughed when their eyes met. “What
did
happen to you? Where did you go?”

There was a cough. Ray turned to see the other person. It was a girl in tattered clothes, probably Sally’s age or maybe younger. She looked warily at Ray as she spoke. “Reckon y’all can catch up later? We best keep moving.”

“I’m sorry,” Ray said, embarrassed by his display with Jolie, and that he had ignored the girl until this moment. “I’m Ray Cobb.”

“I know. I’m Hethy.” The name sounded vaguely familiar. Before Ray could ask anything, the girl turned to Jolie. “Suspect we should get.”

Jolie looked around. “There is a horse nearby. I have not seen his rider, but I found this knife in the grass. He may be about.”

Ray had been shaken by finding Jolie, but he gathered his wits again and looked around. “No. I think he’d still be on him if he were. The Bowler probably fell in the fight, and the horse is trying to escape to safety.”

“So they are Bowlers?” Jolie asked, her eyes narrowing. “I thought the Gog was dead.”

“I thought so too. I’m not so sure anymore. There’s so much to explain. But first there’s Sally—”

“We were looking for her,” Jolie said. “She has the rabbit’s foot, Ray.”

“I know.” Ray nodded. “And those Bowlers are after it. She’s probably trying to bring it to me for some—”

“No she ain’t,” Hethy said sharply.

“What do you mean?” Ray snapped. Hethy drew closer to Jolie, her mouth sealed.

“Hethy has been traveling with Sally,” Jolie explained. “Sally is trying to find your father.”

“He’s dead,” Ray said matter-of-factly.

Jolie exchanged a look with Hethy.

“What?” Ray asked.

“Sally learned something from Mother Salagi. Your father is alive. He is trapped in the Gloaming.”

Ray felt dazed, sick.

“She is following the rabbit’s foot’s pull,” Jolie added. “It is leading her to Little Bill.”

Ray could not believe this. The lodestone had been able to guide him to his father. But once it became the rabbit’s foot, that power had been lost. And his father! He was alive? After all that had happened, the knowledge felt cold and abstract.

“If those Bowlers escape the battle, they’ll continue after her….” He shook his head to clear his welling panic. “Follow me.”

Ray crept back to the edge of the butte, Jolie and Hethy behind him. The battle still raged. The remaining pack of rougarou—Ray counted seven—surrounded the Hoarhound. Most of the rougarou were limping. But the Hoarhound was weakening too. The skin was ripped from its side, exposing the black machinery beneath. Part of its jaw looked crushed.

What the pack had not noticed, and what Ray could see from his vantage point, was that the half dozen or more remaining Bowlers were using the Hoarhound as a diversion. Muggeridge was loading the men back aboard the steamcoach. One man remained on horseback, keeping between the Bowlers and the rougarou. After a few moments, the steamcoach began driving away toward the west. Some of the rougarou saw this and tried to pursue. But the Hoarhound was between them—its teeth flashing, its powerful shoulder bashing them away. The horseman fired, keeping the other rougarou back.