David Robbins - Yellowstone Run

Blade paused. Another factor to consider was the direction of travel the mutations had been taking before the attack last night. The creatures had been bearing in a south-southeasterly direction, and they might still be on the same course.

Might.

Then again, they might not.

Perturbed, he reached a point due west of the smoldering fire and noticed a saucerlike depression of dirt at the base of the hilt. What could have happened to the grass? He wondered, and ran toward the depression.

He vaguely recalled reading that buffaloes often formed dusty wallows in which they rolled and rubbed repeatedly. This must be one.

The depression was ten feet in width, and the earth had been churned into clods by the constant tramping of heavy hoofs.

Blade halted next to the wallow, noting the scores of hoof-prints in the dirt and around the border. He knelt and scrutinized the earth for different prints. If the creatures had fled in this direction, they might not have noticed the wallow in the dark. Or they might not have viewed the leaving of tracks as anything to become worried about. In any event, if he could find just one clear print he’d know which way they went.

He found five.

They were all along the north side of the wallow, crossing from east to west, blending into the buffalo prints so well he didn’t notice them at first.

Five prominent toes were the giveaway, and he moved around the border and squatted to examine the footprints.

How grotesque.

Blade had done a fair amount of hunting and tracking in his lifetime, and never had he beheld the like. They appeared to be a cross between a human print and a bear track, which fit the description supplied by Star and Iron Wolf.

The Bear People.

The bastards.

He stood and walked back up the slope, debating his next move and trying to rationalize the intent of the creatures. Why were the things now heading westward after traveling southward for so many miles? Were they trying to throw off any pursuit? Did the things intend to double back later? What was his best option? Go west? Or go south?

Blade came to the crest and stopped. Tracking the mutations promised to be a difficult and arduous task. It would entail scouring every foot of exposed earth en route on the off chance one of the creatures had goofed and left a print. Such a procedure would be wearisome and time-consuming, and time was a commodity they were short on.

But what choice did they have?

He moved to the fire and stared idly at the last of the flames, chiding himself for his performance. He should never have divided his forces! If only that woman hadn’t screamed…

The woman!

Milly Odum!

Blade gazed to the southeast. He’d forgotten all about her in the heat of events, What if she was lying down there, injured? Or what if she had escaped the creatures and was now hiding in the general area? Should he ride to the scavenger camp before heading out after his friends, Eagle Feather, and Priscilla?

What was he thinking?

The plain where the buffaloes had been slain must be three or four miles distant. Precious time would be consumed in the ride there and back. He had to be practical. The odds that Odum had escaped the mutations was virtually nil. The creatures had undoubtedly captured her, as well. So venturing to the camp would serve no useful purpose.

Still, what if he was wrong?

Blade shook his head, his lips tightening. He had to be firm. He had to weigh which course of action would achieve the greatest good. Giving chase to the mutations must be his paramount priority. If it later developed that he’d been in error, then he could indulge in self-recrimination. Personal failings were best reflected in the mirror of one’s own soul in private. The faint sound of drumming hoofs reached his ears.

He hastened to the south rim and saw Achilles galloping toward the hill astride a brown stallion, the red cloak streaming in the wind, leading another horse, a black gelding, by the reins. Eager to get underway, he jogged to meet the younger man halfway.

“The other two ran off,” Achilles announced as he drew nearer. “I assumed you didn’t want me to waste time trying to catch them.”

“You were right,” Blade stated.

“With the horses we should overtake the mutations quickly,” Achilles declared optimistically.

“Unless they can run as fast as a horse,” Blade noted, and slowed to a walk.”

Achilles reined up and scowled. “I never thought of that. Some mutants are quite fleet of foot.”

“Let’s hope these are part turtle,” Blade quipped. He the stallion and took the reins from Achilles.

“Surely we can catch them by nightfall.”

“We’ll do our best,” Blade said, and swung onto the black horse. He glanced at the hill, remembering the Flathead’s Winchester, and decided against retrieving the rifle. There wasn’t time. “Let’s go,” he directed, and rode to the west.

“Did you find their tracks?” Achilles inquired hopefully.

Blade nodded. “If you’re up to it, I don’t intend to stop except for nature breaks. No food, no rest until our fellow Warriors and Eagle Feather are safe and sound.”

“And Priscilla. Don’t forget about her.”

“Did I neglect to mention her name?” Blade said, suppressing a grin.

“Sorry about that. Now let’s ride.” He led the way to the wallow, then swung westward. They crossed the field and entered a strip of woods, their eyes riveted to the ground, constantly seeking footprints. Beyond the woods lay a narrow plain, which they traversed in short order. The land began to slope gradually upward, and they found themselves ascending hills thick with pines and fallen timbers. The hills blended into a mountain range.

Three times they found tracks. Once in the comparatively softer soil in a small gully west of the woods. The second set of prints was discovered on the narrow plain. And the last impressions were imbedded in the moist earth next to a trickle of a creek bisecting the hills.

Early on, one fact became readily apparent. The mutations were moving at a swift rate, indicated by the manner in which their footprints were imbedded in the dirt. Because of their weight and their speed, they tended to splatter the mud and earth outward when their feet came down hard.

Blade tried to save time by deducing the probable route taken by the creatures. Most men and animals usually took the path of least resistance; they would go around a mountain instead of over it, or they would skirt dense brush instead of plunging through a thicket. Not so with the Bear People. Blade perceived that the creatures intentionally preferred the most difficult course. Undoubtedly to discourage pursuit, the mutations went directly over hills and mountains and passed through thickets with apparent ease. Either they were incredibly clever or they were amazingly resilient.

Or both.

An hour went by. Then two. Three. By the fourth hour Blade’s simmering impatience threatened to shatter his normally superb self-control. He realized catching the things wouldn’t be easy, and his anxiety over Hickok and Geronimo mounted. He felt sympathy for Eagle Feather and Priscilla too. But the gunman and the Blackfoot had been his dearest friends since childhood. The three of them had been almost inseparable since the age of four. He knew himself well enough to know that if anything ever happened to them, he’d go crazy with grief. And there wouldn’t be a single damn member of the Bear People left alive when he was through.

Well, there wouldn’t be, anyway.

By late afternoon they were approaching a narrow pass through the mountains. The shadows were lengthening and the air becoming quite chill.

“We won’t find them today,” Achilles commented morosely.