David Morrell - The Totem

"That's some story."

No one laughed, though.

"I'm not finished. So we went back to the entrance to the draw and found another way, and all day I saw Skyhawk glancing past his shoulder toward where we had come from, and I asked him again what was wrong, but he just wouldn't answer. Everything went fine from then on. We came to a spring, and it was nearly dark then, so we camped and made a fire just like now, and we were eating, and I asked him once again. He almost didn't tell me, but he shrugged at last and said it was a superstition. There were places in these mountains where we shouldn't ever go, he told me. Places like that draw back there. You didn't know until you got up in them, and you never saw a bird or animal, but even then you might not notice if you didn't have a horse or dog or something like that with you. They could sense the trouble right away. There wasn't any way to keep from sensing it. They simply wouldn't go up in those places. If you tried to force them, they'd start acting crazy like our horses had back in that draw. 'What causes it?' I asked him, and he said he had no idea. His people knew that there were certain places that you never went to, and they didn't question that tradition. Spirits maybe. Some terrible thing that once had happened there. The point was that they marked those places and they didn't go there. Some bad medicine, he said, and Skyhawk was no dummy. He'd been to school. He knew the difference between fact and superstition, but he said the only difference was that people hadn't learned the facts behind the superstition. They just understood the consequences. He said that he had seen a whole pack train go crazy in a mountain meadow once. He'd seen a herd of elk go crazy like that once as well. The year before, he said, he'd gone out camping by himself. He'd pitched his tent and gone to sleep, and for no reason, he suddenly woke while it was dark and found that he was shaking, sweating. He crawled from his tent and packed his gear. He went as fast as he was able through the darkness to a different section of the mountains."

Now the man stopped, looking at them.

"That's the story?" someone asked. "Christ, what the hell was that about?"

"The point is, he'd been to that spot many times. It was a special place for him. But he said that those spooky feelings sometimes show up where they shouldn't be. They move, he told me, and he never went back to that site again."

"For Christ sake, that big Indian was fooling you. He was telling ghost stories by the campfire."

"No, I'm positive he wasn't fooling. He was serious."

"Hell, you were only twelve."

"That Indian was close to me. He never played that kind of joke. And anyhow, I saw the way those horses acted."

"So they smelled a cougar or a snake."

"Or something else."

"Hey, I know. Bigfoot."

They laughed.

"Yeah, that's right. That Indian was frightened by a Sasquatch."

They laughed even harder.

"You know, Freddie, sometimes that big mouth of yours makes me want to smash it in."

Now none of them was laughing.

"Take it easy," the sergeant said.

"No, the boy here wants to teach me."

"That'll do, I said," the sergeant told them. "We've got problems without starting in on one another."

And they did what they were told, because the noises were much louder now, and everyone was turning.

"Now you've really got us jumpy. You and those damned stories about spooks."

The rest of them were picking up their rifles.

"Supper's ready."

"Save it."

"I don't know," the sergeant said. The dogs were whimpering. The moon was higher. "Maybe that's Bodine. If he's been hurt up here, he might have seen our fire and tried crawling toward it. That would explain the noises we've been hearing."

"He'd have shouted."

"Could be he's not able."

"But the noises are from different sections."

"There's his wife and son, remember. Could be all three of them are hurt. Maybe separated."

"That's a lot of 'could be's."

"But at least an explanation."

The noises became louder.

"Hell, I'm going out there. I want to find out what that is," the sergeant said.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"It's the only one we've had. And anyway, suppose it is Bo-dine. We've got to help him." The sergeant looked at them. "I can't order you, I guess. Is anybody coming with me?"

They glanced toward the ground, toward the dogs, anywhere except toward the sergeant.

"Yeah, okay. If no one else will, I'll volunteer." It was the man who'd just told the story. 'This is getting on my nerves just waiting here."

The sergeant smiled. "That's fine. I'm glad to have you."

So they clutched their rifles, and they started from the campfire toward the darkness. Out there, they could hear the noises.

"Hey, be careful," one man said.

"Don't worry."

The sergeant and his companion now had disappeared beyond the firelight. Those who stayed beside the fire heard the footsteps brushing through the mountain grass. The distance was sufficient that in a moment the weak sound didn't carry, and the three men stood there staring at the darkness, and they waited.

"They should reach the forest soon."

"Just give them time."

"The sauce is burning."

One man stooped and grabbed a glove to pull the pan out from the fire's edge.

"They should turn on their flashlights."

"Just give them time, I said. They'll want to save the batteries. They'll need them for a lot of hours yet."

But there were no lights near the forest.

"Okay, I'm convinced. They're taking too long. They've had too much time to reach the forest."

At once they heard barking.

"What's that?"

"They're in trouble. Let's go help them."

"Wait. We're still not sure yet."

"What the hell's the matter with you? They're in trouble."

The man who had stooped to move the sauce was clutching his rifle. "I'm not going to wait here while they need me." He moved toward the forest. Then he turned and looked at them. "You're coming?"

They hesitated.

"To hell with you."

He continued moving forward.

"Use your flashlight."

He was just beyond the firelight as the last two men heard the howling. Not just barking as before, but howling.

"No!" somebody shouted from the darkness out there. "No, stay back!"

The howling intensified. Then they heard the rifle shot.

"No! Stay back! My God, no! Run!"

They started backing toward the fire, staring toward the darkness. There were sounds of movement in the darkness to their right and left. They lurched farther back, staring, aiming. As the snarling figures hurtled toward them, one man fired, but he was overpowered, and the other man kept stumbling back. He felt cold water in his boots and realized that he'd stepped into the lake. He was shooting, tugging at his rifle's bolt and shooting yet again, his eyes unsteady from his panic, peering at the swirling howling figures on the lakeshore, but the water held them back as he kept shooting. He dropped one and then another, and he worked the bolt and pulled the trigger, and the pin snapped down on empty. All his other bullets were inside his knapsack by the fire. The figures twisted, snarling, on the shore. He couldn't see them clearly, only made out silhouettes against the fire behind them, heard his partners screaming off there in the darkness as he drew his handgun, eager now to save his bullets for their final rush at him. The water. Sure. They don't like coming in the water. Otherwise they would have charged me. In a rush, he waded farther out, and suddenly, attentive only to what faced him on the lakeshore, he ignored what might be rising behind him, lost his balance as the muck beneath him sloped much deeper, and he fell back, completely swallowed by the water.