David Morrell - The Totem

"Well, what's the matter?" one man asked the sergeant.

"They're not eating."

"No wonder. Look at what you gave them."

"Kibble. That's what they eat every night."

"They must want something else."

"They understand they have to eat what they're served."

"I wish my kids would understand that."

Another man walked over. "You don't mean to tell me I packed that dog food up here just so your damned pooches could turn their noses up."

"They look a little sick to me," the first man said.

"No, they're not sick. They're scared," the sergeant said, and since until now he hadn't acknowledged that there might be trouble, they were struck by his remark. They stood there facing him, then glancing at the dogs.

"Well, never mind. Let's get that fire started." But the second trooper said that very faintly, and he turned to where the last two men were working on the fire.

They fumbled with matches, trying to ignite the leaves. One hand shook a little, and a match went out. The other match kept burning, though, and soon the flames spread through the leaves and pine needles, crackling toward the branches, and the branches now were burning, their large flames spreading toward the logs above them.

The men grouped around the fire, holding their palms out, rubbing them together, then rubbing their arms and shoulders. They glanced at the shimmer on the lake, at the ripple of the fire's light across the trees. They looked at the dogs, then at the darkness around them. It was several seconds before one man said what everybody else was thinking.

"We don't have a lot of wood."

"For now it's plenty."

"But in an hour…"

"Damn it, then, let's get some more. I'm hungry."

Even with the crackling of the fire, they heard a noise back in the forest.

"You go do it. I'll stay here and fix the supper," one man said.

"Thanks a lot for volunteering."

The sergeant patted one of his dogs and told it, "That's all right. I'm with you." Then he moved toward his men at the fire. "So you want to do the cooking? That's just fine. You stay and help him. You and you come with me."

They surprised him when there wasn't any argument. The two men he had chosen were reluctant, that was true, but nonetheless they turned and followed where he led them toward a section of the forest where the noises hadn't been. They aimed their flashlights through the trees before they went in for more wood, and this time they came out with big chunks, stout and heavy branches that would last them. Just to guarantee that the job was done, they made three other trips, always to a different section of the forest, and they came back, dropping wood where they had put the rest, and they could smell the coffee boiling.

"Not too hot. I don't like coffee that's been burned."

"Well, you can do the cooking then."

"I wanted to, but you were too afraid to get the wood. I did it for you."

"That's the last I want to hear about that. Everybody did his job," the sergeant said. He gingerly drew the coffee pot a little farther from the fire. "Ow," he said and reached his fingers to his mouth.

"Here, use these gloves."

They heard three noises then, in three separate sections of the forest.

But the sergeant, although he stiffened, didn't look. "So what's for supper?"

They frowned toward the forest.

"I asked you what's for supper," the sergeant said.

"Oh… Spaghetti. Freeze-dried sauce."

"That sounds real fine."

The dogs were whimpering again, though, and the sergeant tried but couldn't hide his worry now. The moon was higher. He went over to the dogs and patted them again. "I let them drink some water from the lake. I wonder if they're still a little thirsty."

From the three separate places in the forest, they heard noises. Then, a distance to their left, they heard a fourth sound.

"This is stupid. This is just our imagination," one man said.

"Those noises? Hell, they're not my imagination."

"No, I mean what's causing them."

"Deer or maybe elk?"

"It's possible," the sergeant said. "They come down here at night to drink. They see us here and don't know what to do. Your water's boiling, by the way."

They looked down at the pot beside the fire.

"Right. I wasn't thinking." And the man in charge of cooking paused a moment before fumbling in his pack, then pouring noodles into the boiling water.

"Hey, you said spaghetti."

"What's the problem? Noodles are the same."

"Well, maybe they're the same to you. But-"

"Quiet."

And they listened to the noises from the forest.

"That's not deer, if you ask me."

"I didn't ask you."

"You're all crazy," someone said. "I've camped here a dozen times. I even brought my wife and kid once. You hear noises like that from the forest all the time."

"So how come you picked up your rifle?"

"I'm just checking that I didn't get some dirt in it."

"Good idea. I think I'll check mine as well."

"Now I've had just about enough," the sergeant said.

They turned to him.

"First of all, those noodles need some stirring. Second, if you wave those guns around, you're going to end up shooting somebody. Take it easy. What Jack says is true. You hear those noises in the forest all the time."

They stared at him.

"I'll help you with the sauce," the sergeant said. "Here, someone fill that plastic sack with water. Put more wood on the fire."

It was obvious what he was doing, trying to distract them, but they did what they were told, and everything was better for a moment, although the man who went down to the water's edge made sure he didn't stay too long. They heard him splashing by the lakeshore, and he came up toward them, water dripping from the plastic sack.

"Let's figure on the worst," the sergeant said. "Suppose it is wild dogs. They're not about to come at us. Hell, higher in the mountains, I've seen wolves so close their eyes were lit up by the fire. But they never came in toward us. They're just curious. The main job is to find Bodine. If you boys still are nervous when you bed down, we'll arrange to have a guard in shifts. That's fair enough?"

They thought about it, slowly nodding.

"Stir those noodles like I told you."

"I once knew an Indian," a man said.

"Good for you."

They laughed.

"No, just listen. He did odd jobs for my father when my father was alive and had the ranch. The Indian was David Sky-hawk, and I felt about him as if he was my brother. Oh, that Indian was something. Six-foot-three and built like some thick tree trunk. He's the man who taught me how to shoot and hunt and fish. My father never had much time for that. Well, anyway, he used to take me camping. In the summers we'd go up here, sometimes for a week or more. We'd often go up so high that I'd swear to God nobody else had ever been there. And he told me lots of things about these mountains. Once we camped so far we needed horses. We rode up, leading pack mules till we reached this crazy draw. It wasn't much, just steep slopes like a V, a stream that wound along the bottom, boulders on the ridges. Hell, there wasn't any undergrowth. There wasn't much of anything. The only reason we chose it was a kind of gametrail that would take us to the high end, and we started up the gametrail when the horses went crazy. I was only twelve then, so if only my horse had gone crazy, that wouldn't have proved much. Sky-hawk's horse began to act up too, though, and no matter what we tried, we couldn't get those horses up the gametrail. They were whinnying and shying back. Then the pack mules started acting up. They tried to turn, and there was hardly any room to do that. We were scared they'd lose their footing and tumble down the slope, so we dismounted, and we kept our hands across the horses' muzzles while we squirmed around to go back down the gametrail. Even as it was, we almost lost one pack mule. I asked Skyhawk what was wrong, and he just said that we should try another passage."