Demon Shadows Read online

  It would be well after sunrise before Tall Runner came anywhere near the North Lake. The narrow pass through the mountains was choked with the snows of all the storms that had come since the end of the gathering season. The pass had stopped the mushege the first time; now it held them prisoners. Tall Runner would get through—he always did—though not as easily with the supplies.

  The rueful cry of kewe, the coyote, followed him during the night. He had never cared much for the sound, but at least it was familiar, unlike others he had no desire to hear. At times of silence he realized he would anticipate the next howl from the unseen creatures.

  Early in the morning, before sunrise, kewe fell silent. The white world became as a place of the dead. The travois slid along soundlessly; Tall Runner’s snowshoes crunched the snow where it lay soft and deep. Though glad for the noise, he also feared it would rouse the spirits of the ancestors, who inhabited the land during the time when men feared to walk.

  The trees surrounding him were different now—lodgepole and whitebark pines, mostly. Their shadows danced in the snow all around him, and he could avoid them no longer. He moved quickly, ignoring the fatigue as his pumping heart echoed in his head.

  There! Beyond the trees! Something had run in and out of his vision between two heartbeats. A wild man! What else could it be?

  Can’t stop, he told himself. Must keep going or it will bring others! The wild men kill the Washo, cut out their hearts…

  Two mule deer stood upwind of Tall Runner, rooting for shrubs under the snow, and were not aware of his approach. He could see their silhouettes against the backdrop of white hills. Immediately the wild men were forgotten as he reached for his bow.

  But he did nothing, for memdewe, the mule deer, was his spirit being. It was the deer that made him the swiftest of his people. To kill it would be to destroy part of himself. Leaving all this meat frustrated him, but that was the way.

  “Go on, off with you,” he muttered, and the pair bolted in terror.

  For a while the valleys and slopes were less ominous to Tall Runner, and he put many miles behind him. At daybreak he reached a summit from which he could gaze at the distant northwest corner of the great Ta-ho lake. In other seasons all the Washo bands camped along its shoreline. Now it stood desolate. Usually he stopped to gaze at its jewel-blue splendor, but more important things were at hand. He started down another valley, and the lake fell from view.

  The sun shone strongly and made the snow blinding. Though cold, the biting wind of recent days had diminished. Still, Tall Runner wished he had more blankets with which to cover himself. He looked wistfully at the pile tied on the travois, decided against it, and tried to shrug off some of the chill.

  Only the tops of two towering peaks indicated the presence of a pass, now buried under tons of snow. Most of it had fallen from the sky, but the rest came from avalanches on the tenuous mountainsides. With each step the young man nervously scanned the slopes for any new activity that could threaten his passage.

  “You are lucky, patalni,” he said to an eagle riding wind currents high overhead. “The earthbound problems of man have no meaning to you. For you the way is ever open.”

  Unlike the mushege, who waited for death in the shadow of the pass, Tall Runner would open the way for himself, as he’d done all the times before. Not over the summit; he would turn away from that. The travois must be left where he stood, for now both hands must be free. His way to the North Lake was not without risk.

  With the supplies tied on his back, Tall Runner climbed up to the rim of a steep bank. He slid down to a partially concealed base, actually falling the last six feet or so and jarring himself. Above, sheer cliffs rose thousands of feet, eventually tapering to form Arrow Point, one of their sacred places. There, known only to the Washo, was the start of the way to the North Lake.

  An upheaval in the mountains centuries past had forced a crack in the rock facing. A crack hard to see, even harder to squeeze through. Tall Runner knew that for the first twenty yards or so the supplies would have to be carried along piecemeal. It meant undoing the pack and making several trips. But it was the only way.

  The narrow passage turned sharply twice and in one place appeared to dead-end. There, Tall Runner pulled himself up nearly four feet of smooth, sloping rock until he could again see the rift cutting into the mountainside. Here he left the first load. Not until all the things for the mushege were there did he pull himself through. It took him four trips and more than an hour of time.

  Fatigue began to affect him. But beyond this passage the North Lake was not far. And the rest of the way was easy, except for one place near the end of the rift, where for a couple of yards the crack yawned deeply and plunged into blackness below the mountains. The path along it, an arrow’s length wide, seemed to be sufficient, unless you were the one traversing it. But the spirit beings walked with Tall Runner that late morning, and soon he could see the glint of sunlight off the ice covering the North Lake.

  Something caught Tall Runner’s attention before he left the base of Arrow Point. Even more than with the opening of the rift on the far side, none but the most skilled in the ways of the mountains would have noticed what he did. He knew it would do him no good right then, but he put it in his memory. Another time, he would be back.

  Once again the snow was deep. Tall Runner refastened his snowshoes and wished he still had the travois. He could make another if he wanted, but why bother? The mushege camp was close, the way mostly downhill. He would be there soon.

  Excerpt from John Thorburn’s diary:

  January 5, Monday—Very cold, but the sun is up. Our luck has turned slightly for the better. A Digger Indian came into camp at noontime. He brought food and blankets, which we have divided. He is gone right now, but I think he’s coming back. The news is not all good, however, for an illness of some kind seems to be affecting many of our people. We have bigger fires going, and the extra food will help. Still, I am growing concerned.

  The first thing Tall Runner did when he came down the last hill was count the death markers in the snow.

  The same five as before. At least no more had died, as in the shaman’s dream. Perhaps none would now.

  They had been watching him from the moment he appeared through the trees. First, one had called an alert; now most of the men awaited him at the bottom. Some held thunder sticks, but Tall Runner believed they would not use them. He had already made a peace sign, had held out the food and blankets for the mushege to see.

  Not many Washo had come face to face with the white devils before. The excitement offset Tall Runner’s uneasiness as he reached the bottom of the hill. Some of the mushege took a step backward. He laid the food and blankets on the snow then backed away as the mushege looked over the gifts.

  “Has anyone let Mr. Thorburn know?” Louis Gibbs asked.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Edward Stillwell said. “He’ll be here soon enough.”

  Women and children, who had stayed back from the savage, the likes of which had worried them on their journey from the Great Plains on, were called forward. There was no outburst of emotion, only relief on their drawn faces. A few nodded at Tall Runner; some managed to smile.

  Tall Runner recognized all of them, having watched for so long from the trees. He had grown fond of one yellow-haired boy, whose actions never reflected the hopelessness of his people. Often Tall Runner had watched Simon Parkhill search for wood in the snow or look for fish along the edge of the lake, his small black dog following closely. Even now, with the dog an inadequate meal of a few nights past, eleven-year-old Simon still walked more vigorously than the others.

  “Boy, you get back here!” William Parkhill called, noticing where his son had gone. But too late, for Simon stood in front of Tall Runner, smiling up at him. He held out a hand; the Indian understood and took it.

  “Hey, thanks a lot,” the boy said, and rejoined his father.

  People from the cabin on the creek were plodding through the sno
w now. Tall Runner watched them with interest because the silver tebayu walked among them. That was what he called the man who was obviously the leader of the mushege.

  John Thorburn of Pennsylvania—successful businessman, would-be writer and historian, now pioneer—was a strong and dignified presence. Even the ordeal in the mountains, for which he wrongfully bore so much guilt, had not diminished that. His thirty-eight-year-old wife Nancy, sixteen years younger than he, stood just as straight as she kept pace with his long strides.

  Trailing after them and the McClain family was a man who caught Tall Runner’s attention. The Indian had never seen this one before. Yet that was impossible, for he had spent days at a time watching the camp. He had seen them individually, and together when they gathered for meetings or to bury one of their dead. Had the stranger been confined until now? Had he just arrived at the North Lake? The former seemed more likely, although Tall Runner found either possibility hard to accept.

  The gaunt, stooped man wore a long dark coat and a wide-brimmed black hat. Half his face was covered by a gray scarf. He fixed his small dark eyes on Tall Runner, while the others looked down, paying more attention to the precarious footing. Tall Runner felt a growing concern within him.

  The others parted to let John Thorburn through. Louis Gibbs spoke to him as he pointed at the Indian. Thorburn looked at the supplies then started toward Tall Runner. Some of his people followed, and for a moment Tall Runner lost sight of the stranger.

  “My name’s Thorburn,” the big man said. “I don’t know if you can understand me, but we’re grateful for this. Why don’t you come sit by a fire?”

  The silver tebayu made elaborate hand signals as he spoke. The words sounded garbled to Tall Runner, but he sensed the gratitude of the whites. This pleased him, not so much for them but because the shaman’s Great Bear and the other spirit beings would not be so angry now with the Washo.

  Then the stranger reappeared and stepped forward, stopping at Thorburn’s side. His disturbing gaze remained on Tall Runner, who shrank back a few steps.

  “Here’s the start of it, like I told you,” the stranger said to Thorburn without looking at him.

  “Coincidence,” Thorburn said. “He would have come. There’ve been times some of my people swore they saw Indians watching us.”

  “You don’t believe that,” the stranger said in a mocking tone. “Your whole pathetic band is a few days away from death. Without food, and with the worst storm now on its way—”

  “You’re only guessing!” Thorburn snapped. “How can you know that?”

  The stranger shrugged and started toward Tall Runner. The Indian backed farther away, until a tree blocked him. As his eyes bore into Tall Runner, the stranger pulled down his scarf. He resembled the other white men, with dark stubble across a thin, angular face. But Tall Runner knew something else lay underneath. The stranger motioned him forward; the young Washo obeyed.

  “Go and get it, bring it back here,” the stranger said in words Tall Runner understood. “You know what I mean.”

  “I know.” He was not surprised that this one spoke his tongue.

  “You can talk to him!” Thorburn exclaimed. “Will you tell him what I tried to before?”

  The stranger glanced at Thorburn and nodded, then looked back at Tall Runner. “Do it quickly, and don’t even think of not coming back.”

  Tall Runner turned and left. Thorburn watched him go then asked, “You told him?”

  “Of course.” The stranger again wrapped his face in the scarf.

  The trek back went quickly. Tall Runner’s footprints from the morning lay untouched. He tried not to think about what had happened but concentrated on what must be done.

  At the base of Arrow Point, the keen-eyed Washo went right to the place he had noticed earlier. Around one side of a jutting boulder, where brush lay thickly, was a low but wide opening. Studying the spoor confirmed that he had found the den of taba, the grizzly, who slept his winter sleep. There might be more than one; Tall Runner would find that out first.

  The deep cave twisted a few times. On the last sharp turn he nearly bumped into a slumbering mound of coarse fur. The tunnel ended a few yards farther along. This creature was the only one there.

  Tall Runner backed slowly out of the cave. Near the entrance he began to shout; he unslung his bow and rapped it repeatedly on the walls and floor. He raised a terrible clamor, continuing it even when he stood outside again. He paused once, listened, and knew it had worked. With a last barrage of noise he climbed up onto the nearby boulder and waited, an arrow nocked in his bowstring.

  Taba emerged, groggy and confused after being roused from its deep slumber. That became Tall Runner’s advantage. Still, the formidable creature was enraged over the intrusion. It swiveled its head from side to side, looking for an enemy to maul. It did not see Tall Runner until he had loosed his arrow, the flint head lodging deeply in the creature’s neck.

  Bellowing in rage and pain, taba tried to raise itself up on its hind legs, but toppled backward instead. Tall Runner shot another arrow into its underbelly, then nocked a third, waiting. Mortally wounded, the creature roared a last warning that this matter would be settled in another place, then was still.

  Here was meat for the mushege. Tall Runner would rather return with the prize to his people, but this time it was not to be.

  Still, he had killed a bear. That was something that must be known to the tribe. Drawing his knife, he crept cautiously to the great carcass and prodded it with his bow. There was a slight reflexive shudder, then nothing. Satisfied, he cut off one of the front claws, drained it of blood, and put it inside a pouch. The silver tebayu’s people would not care, nor—he hoped—would the other.

  The heavy carcass could not be carried back to the North Lake, yet there were enough pine branches to fashion another travois. In a while Tall Runner departed again for the camp.

  Partly fatigue, and partly the thought of what awaited him there, made the trip longer for Tall Runner. Daylight was fading when he again saw the thin smoke from the cabins. Only a few mushege wandered outside. The stranger was not among them, Tall Runner noticed on his way down the last slope. This time he dragged his burden to within five yards of the nearest cabin.

  The mushege hurried to summon the others. In a couple of minutes those from the nearby cabins had gathered around the carcass and the silver tebayu was on his way.

  “Move away, Washo. You’re finished for now, but don’t leave.”

  The stranger’s voice startled Tall Runner. He stood behind the Indian, and close. Usually no one could take him off guard like that. He decided it must be the fatigue.

  Walking past Tall Runner, close enough for the young brave to feel a thousand flint needles prick his flesh, the stranger intercepted John Thorburn. They met face-to-face, Thorburn glaring at the smaller figure. Yet something in Thorburn’s expression hinted at defeat.

  “Say it, then,” he snapped.

  “This was done, like I told you it would be,” the stranger said. “Your time runs out tonight. Agree, and it will be over. Refuse, and the spring thaw will uncover a graveyard.”

  He walked off, not looking back. Thorburn watched him go then approached Tall Runner. This time he wasn’t smiling.

  “If only I could make you understand,” he said, frustrated. “Damn, what are we doing!” Noticing that Tall Runner was startled, he added in a softer voice, “Please, come and get warm.”

  He pointed at a cabin and gestured the Indian forward. Tall Runner understood but shook his head, indicating a spot nearby, where the hillside and a couple of broad Jeffrey pines formed a natural shelter. Leaving Thorburn, he walked toward it, stopping to dig up brush from under the snow. When he had a substantial pile, he fabricated a windbreak for protection. Soon he huddled in front of it. By that time the sun was nearly down and the mushege, having apportioned the bear, had gone back to their cabins.

  As darkness fell around the camp on the North Lake, Tall Runner ate his
next to last strip of meat and a handful of piñon nuts, washing them down with clean snow. Just finishing, he noticed a figure coming toward him. He stiffened. Under the blankets his fingers tightened around a knife, although he knew how foolish that was. Soon the figure stood over him.

  “Hi,” Simon Parkhill said. “It’s cold out here. I thought maybe you could use this. No one will miss it.”

  The boy held out one of the blankets Tall Runner had brought. Tall Runner stared at Simon, then took the blanket and nodded. Simon smiled and hurried off.

  “Gotta go,” he called back, waving. “They’ll wonder where I am.”

  It was a mild night compared to others at that time of year. The young Indian, comfortable now, closed his eyes and thought of Red Fawn. He was with her in the meadow when the creeks ran full from melting snow, and at the piñon nut harvest, and at the great Ta-ho lake, with the other Washo bands. It would be that way after the snows, only next time they would have another with them. The idea pleased Tall Runner.

  But he would not let his thoughts turn into dreams. As tired as he felt, he denied himself the comfort of sleep. Perhaps later, when the camp was settled. Occasionally people moved between the cabins, though, and Tall Runner sensed an unrest he could not explain. There was something disturbing about the night.

  The moon rose in a clear sky. Its pale light cast eerie, dancing shadows of pine boughs on the snow. Now hours past dusk, the mushege remained active. None came close to Tall Runner’s windbreak, but their conversations grew louder.

  Looking toward the creek cabin, he saw a glow in the sky. A large bonfire had been started, and it summoned the people. They traversed the distance in small groups, probably by family. Another one of their councils, Tall Runner thought.

  When all of them reached the silver tebayu’s cabin, there was much talk. It was not loud, and it came to Tall Runner as an intermittent murmur. He watched, curious. It suddenly occurred to him that this seemed a strange time to hold a council.