The Whippoorwill Trilogy - Sharon Sala Page 0,78

creek bank where the water ran cool and swift. It would be a good place to park Parson’s body. He could tether the horses close to him and build a ring of fires around them all. He’d been doing it now for three nights. A fourth couldn’t be that much more difficult. The main thing would be to put Parson downwind. It was nothing personal, just a matter of convenience.

By the time darkness came to the prairie, Henry was ready. Surrounded by a ring of fires with a pile of brush ready to add to them at a moment’s notice, he settled down to wait out the night with his rifle in his lap and his finger on the trigger.

“Cold camp tonight, old friend,” Henry muttered. “Cain’t cook and stand watch at the same time.”

He tore off a chew of jerky, sliding it to the side of his jaw to soften, like a plug of tobacco.

The horses neighed softly, one to the other, aware of the wolves’ presence as no man could ever be. Henry tilted his canteen, letting the fresh creek water slide down his dry, burning throat. Quietly—methodically—he began to chew and listen and watch.

They came—standing just outside the ring of fires like ghostly shadows. Only now and then did Henry catch a glimpse of yellow eyes. But the snarls and the yips, the growls and the howls were still there, then gone far too swiftly for him to do anything more than fire his rifle at the place they’d last been.

“You ain’t gettin’ nothin’ to eat here, you mangy sons-a-bitches. You cain’t eat me, I’m too damned tough. And you cain’t eat Parson cause there ain’t no one here to say the blessin’ a’fore you do.”

The laughter caught at the back of his throat. It felt like a sob. Henry snorted, a bit disgusted with himself at the constant emotion he couldn’t seem to lose. He pinched his nose through his thumb and forefinger and blew snot on the ground. This was no time to go all weak and sissy. If he didn’t pay attention, he’d wind up like old Parson, rotting in the sun and gathering flies.

Only twice did Henry succumb to bone-deep weariness and nod off to sleep. But each time he did, the nervous snorts of his horses were as good as a kick in the pants. Every so often he would fire off a shot in the darkness. It served no purpose other than to remind Henry he was still the one in charge. Once he heard a yelp of pain, but it was enough to send the wolves back into the shadows.

Hours later, when the breeze picked up and a flash of lightning on the far horizon lit up the sky, Henry prayed for daylight to beat the approaching storm. The last thing he needed was a rain to put out his fires before he could see what the hell was out there on the prairie.

Daylight and a gray pall of rain came within the same breath. Henry could have cared less. It was light enough to see, and wet enough to dampen the smell of Parson’s carcass. By noon he’d be at the fort.

The ordeal with the bear, and the years of abuse he’d put his old body through were telling on Henry. It was all he could do to mount up, but mount he did. Aiming his horse to the East, he wrapped the other horse’s lead around his saddle horn and then kicked him in the flanks. As the horse began to move, Henry settled easy in the saddle. It was, he hoped, his last night on the prairie.

The weight of the travois cut a trail through the wet grass. Water ran from the brim of Henry’s hat and down onto his knobby nose. Every now and then, a lightning bolt would hit the ground close enough that his horse would shy. At those times, he wished he was not the highest target in sight. Once he looked back, searching behind him for the latest location of the pack. For the first time in days, the wolves were nowhere in sight. He glanced back at the travois and grinned.

“Well I’ll be damned, Parson. The furry buggers lit a shuck. Guess they don’t like this lightnin’ any better than me.”

An hour later, he’d ridden out of the storm and into the tail winds that were sweeping over the prairie. By the time he topped the knoll overlooking the fort, he