Yellowstone Run

  David L. RobbinsPROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  EPILOGUE

  * * *

  David L. Robbins

  YELLOWSTONE RUN

  PROLOGUE

  There was something out mere.

  Something lurking in the tall timber.

  Eagle Feather paused in the act of chopping wood for the fire, his right arm upraised, his tomahawk gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, and gazed at the surrounding forest, his keen brown eyes scrutinizing every shadow. The feeling of being watched was stronger now than ever before, and he frowned when he failed to detect any movement in the pine trees.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Putting a smile on his face, Eagle Feather turned at the sound of his wife’s melodious voice and looked at the woman he loved more than life itself, “What could be wrong?” he responded, hoping he conveyed a lighthearted attitude, he didn’t want to worry Morning Dew or the children. Yet.

  “I don’t know,” she said uncertainly, staring at the woods. “You seem troubled.”

  Eagle Feather lowered the tomahawk and pretended to inspect its edge.

  “You are imagining things.”

  “If you say so,” Morning Dew said, and returned to the task of preparing the fish their sons had caught an hour ago for their supper. She glanced at him once reproachfully.

  Knowing that his wife of 12 years could intuitively sense when he was troubled, and annoyed at himself for not confiding in her, Eagle Feather continued to trim the limbs he had collected, removing the thinner stems to be used as kindling and chopping the larger branches into manageable sections. He strained his ears to catch the slightest sound from the forest, but all he heard were birds and squirrels and the whispering of the breeze.

  How could he justify alarming Morning Dew when all he had to go on was a vague feeling?

  Youthful laughter filled the air, and a moment later two boys came running around the family tipi, which was situated on the north bank of the gently flowing stream, and halted, giggling and shoving one another.

  Straightening, Eagle Feather smiled at his sons. The oldest, Little Mountain, was ten years old. Black Elk, who strongly resembled his mother, was only eight. “What are you two up to?”

  “We want to go hunt deer,” Little Mountain declared.

  “Hunt deer,” Black Elk echoed, nodding vigorously.

  “We already have fish for our meal. We don’t need a deer,” Eagle Feather said, resolving to keep his sons close to the camp.

  “But mother said I could have new moccasins,” Little Mountain stated, squaring his slim shoulders.

  “Me too,” Black Elk added.

  “I want you to play near our camp,” Eagle Feather told them.

  “But there’s nothing to do here,” Little Mountain protested.

  “I can find something for you to do,” Eagle Feather commented sternly.

  “I thought we were supposed to have fun,” Little Mountain said, clearly disappointed, and sighed.

  Eagle Feather became aware of his wife’s intent scrutiny, and he decided to compromise before she grew even more suspicious. He had promised the boys this would be a fun-filled trip to the old National Park, and he saw a way to kill two birds with one stone, to allay his fears and ensure the forest was safe for the boys. “I’ll tell you what. You finish chopping this wood, and when I come back you can go deer hunting.”

  “Where are you going, Father?” Black Elk asked.

  “To find a handful of leaves.”

  “What?” the boy responded, puzzled. His older brother whispered in his ear and they both laughed.

  “Here,” Eagle Feather said, and handed the tomahawk to Little Mountain. “Try not to cut your foot off.”

  “I won’t,” Little Mountain replied, eagerly grabbing the handle.

  Deliberately avoiding his wife’s gaze, Eagle Feather walked to their tipi and went inside to retrieve his Winchester. He emerged, worked the lever to insert a round into the chamber, and headed for the woods.

  “Be careful,” Morning Dew advised.

  Eagle Feather looked back at her and nodded. “Always. Keep your rifle handy in case a bear should show up. I saw grizzly sign yesterday.”

  “I’ll keep a sharp watch,” she promised.

  Cradling his Winchester, Eagle Feather advanced into the trees, entering a somber domain of shadows and dank scents, where his footsteps padded noiselessly on the matted carpet of pine needles and spongy vegetation. This area of the ancient wonderland, bordering the Lamar Valley, was always verdant in the summer and early fait. Spruce, Douglas’ fir, and lodgepole pine were especially numerous. A scratching noise came from overhead, and he gazed up to observe a Steller’s jay hopping from limb to limb. Like most of the wildlife they had encountered, the big blue and black bird displayed no fear at his presence.

  Pressing onward, Eagle Feather penetrated deeper into the forest, traveling SO yards from the camp. He saw several sparrows, a red squirrel, and a jackrabbit. The rabbit bounded away, performing fifteen-foot leaps with ease, but otherwise the animals were going about their daily business and not displaying any agitation whatsoever. And surely, Eagle Feather reasoned, there would be an undercurrent of unrest in the forest if danger was present.

  Perhaps he was imagining things, not Morning Dew.

  Maybe spotting those grizzly tracks had unnerved him more than he knew. Maybe, since they were so far from Kalispell and home, since they were alone in an uninhabited wilderness, he was allowing unfounded apprehension to get the better of him. After all, he had spent most of his life as a hunter and a trapper. He knew all the habits of the animals in the woods.None of them, even the grizzly, were unduly menacing if a person used common sense and took adequate precautions. Most animals wisely shied away from man.

  Except for the mutations.

  The thought troubled him. If there were mutations in the Park, then his family was in grave jeopardy. But as far as he knew, neither a nuclear missile nor a chemical-warfare weapon had struck within hundreds of miles of the area. The Park had survived World War Three virtually unscathed. And without the radiation or chemical toxins to poison and derange the entire biological chain, the likelihood of mutations flourishing was extremely slim.

  Eagle Feather skirted a tree and halted on the rim of a low rise. Thirty feet below lay an oval spring. Curious, wanting to taste the water to determine if it was as good as the delicious stream water, he walked down the gentle slope. A six-inch strip of soft, muddy earth ringed the spring, and he knelt next to the strip and sank his left hand under the surface to scoop some water to his mouth.

  Only then did he see the tracks.

  Puzzled, he froze with his hand halfway to his lips, and regarded the pair of unique prints in the mud to his left. They were the strangest prints he’d ever seen, a curious combination of human and bestial traits.

  Approximately 14 inches in length and six inches wide, they resembled a naked human footprint except for the fact that each toe had a four-inch nail similar to the typical claw on the toe of a bear. He let the water trickle from his palm and reached out to touch the track. From the softness of the mud and the cohesive texture of the print,
he judged that the pair had been made within the last 30 minutes. Suddenly his mind blared a warning.

  Strange prints?

  Combination of human and bestial traits?

  Eagle Feather straightened and turned from the spring, and even as he rotated a piercing scream rent the tranquility of the forest, coming from the direction of the tipi.

  Morning Dew and the boys!

  A wave of fear washed over him, and Eagle Feather sprinted up the slope and took off at full speed toward the camp, vaulting logs and low-lying boulders, darting around the bigger obstacles, his blood racing faster than his feet.

  More screams sounded, the unmistakable cries of the boys.

  Eagle Feather fairly flew over the terrain, oblivious to the limbs and brush that snatched at his buckskins and scratched his skin. He realized that he’d been right all along, that there had been something in the woods, a mutation, one of the vile creatures despised by his entire tribe, by every Flathead Indian. Mutations were a blight on the planet, a consequence of the white man tampering with forces better left alone. The Flatheads killed each mutation they found, and large tracts of the former state of Montana had been cleared of the repulsive horrors.

  The screaming abruptly ceased.

  No! Eagle Feather shrieked in his mind, and he goaded his flagging muscles to increased speed. He’d already covered 40 yards. The tipi should be in sight at any moment. Seconds later he saw the camp and his breath caught in his throat.

  Someone or something had torn the tipi down, had ripped the buffalo hide to ribbons and snapped the support poles into pieces. Their personal effects had been torn apart and scattered all about. The horses, which had been tied to the left of the tipi, were gone. And there wasn’t a living soul in sight.

  Eagle Feather dashed into the ruined camp and halted, glancing wildly around for his wife and sons. He spied her rifle lying in the grass to his right, its stock splintered. The attack must have occurred so swiftly that she had been unable to get off a single shot. Frantic, he began hunting for tracks, for blood, for any sign to tell him what had happened to his family.

  On the bank of the stream he found the clue he needed.

  Strange tracks, exactly like those at the spring, the toes pointing to the south, were clearly visible.

  Eagle Feather plunged into the knee-high water and quickly crossed to the far side. There, distinct in the damp earth in the water’s edge, were more of the tracks, lots more, all heading lo the south.

  What were they?

  He ran into the forest, his gaze glued to the ground, seeking tracks or partial prints, anything to indicate the specific direction the things had taken. After 20 yards he found a footprint angling to the southwest and he sprinted in that direction. A vague recollection gnawed at his mind, and he experienced a peculiar feeling that he should know what the things were he pursued.

  The creatures were still bearing to the southwest.

  Eagle Feather had no way of estimating their rate of travel. He hoped—he prayed—he could overtake them before nightfall. Since he hadn’t seen any blood or discovered any bodies, he derived comfort from knowing Morning Dew, Little Thunder, and Black Elk were probably still alive.

  But who, or what, had abducted them? And why?

  The minutes dragged by. Eagle Feather’s leg muscles began to ache, but he ignored the discomfort. He had no intention of resting until he caught up with his family. Why, he berated himself, had he ever taken them so far from Kalispell? Why had he ventured outside of Flathead territory?

  Technically speaking, northwestern Wyoming was part of the Civilized Zone, and the Civilized Zone and the Flatheads were allies in the Federation. But no one lived in the Park anymore. Anyone with half a brain preferred to live closer to civilization, or what was left of it 106 years after the nuclear holocaust.

  Eagle Feather glanced up at the sun, estimating the time remaining until dark. It was only the first week of September, so he would have four or five hours of daylight left in which lo rescue his loved ones.

  The trees began to thin out, and the countryside became rockier and intersected with deep gorges, affording plenty of places to hide. The rocky soil would make tracking a lot more difficult.

  Frustrated, Eagle Feather cast about for additional tracks.

  Part of a heel stood out near a scrawny shrub.

  Eagle Feather’s eyes narrowed. The devils had changed direction again and were now bearing to the southwest. Why were they altering their course so frequently? Did they know he was after them? Were they striving to shake him off their trail, or was this typical of their behavior? He spotted a ravine up ahead, toward which the tracks appeared to be heading, and he tightened his hold on the Winchester.

  The ravine was a perfect site for an ambush.

  Twenty feet from the gap in the rocks he abruptly stopped, his skin tingling, his eyes on the strip of buckskin blouse lying two yards away.

  Morning Dew!

  He dashed to the strip and scooped the soft material into his left hand, examining it closely. There could be no doubt. The material had been ripped from the shoulder of Morning Dew’s blouse. Rage made him grip the buckskin until his knuckles turned white, and then he tucked the strip under his belt and hastened into the ravine.

  On both sides reared towering walls of rock. Perched on the top were boulders of different sizes, ranging from a few feet in diameter to gigantic slabs ten feet across.

  His prudence dashed to bits by the finding of the material. Eagle Feather jogged 25 feet into the steep-sided ravine before he awoke to his mistake. He halted and gazed up at the rim, then back at the opening, and decided he was being foolish. If he acted rashly, if he was killed, who would save those he held most dear?

  A small stone clattered down from high above.

  Eagle Feather looked up, and his veins seemed to transform into ice when he beheld the hulking, bearish figures on the brink of the ravine, perhaps 30 yards distant on the right-hand side. They were too far up, and the curve of the rock wall served to obstruct his view, so he couldn’t see them plainly. He glimpsed a dozen huge, hairy forms milling about the rim, heard a rumbling noise, and then the boulders started to fall.

  They were causing a rock slide!

  Eagle Feather took one look at the avalanche of boulders and rocks hurtling toward the bottom of the ravine, and whirled. He darted toward the opening, his ears registering the mighty crash of the larger boulders as they struck the stone walls and slammed to the ground. The whole ravine reverberated with the din. Several boulders thudded down within a few feet of his flying heels, and the ground itself shook.

  A rock smacked against his left shoulder.

  The opening was now only six feet away. He took another stride, then leaped, his arms outstretched, the Winchester in his right hand. A heavy object rammed against his legs, but an instant later he was out of the gap and tumbling a few yards to slam up against a stunted tree. He shoved erect and stared in horror at the boulders and rocks now blocking the gap, tons and tons of stone no one could budge.

  They had cut him off from his family!

  Eagle Feather stepped to the left, intending to seek a way around the ravine, when a chilling sound wafted down from overhead, the sound of deep, guttural laughter, echoing from wall to wall, mocking him, making him realize the bearish figures had just been toying with him.

  Bearish figures?

  Suddenly the amorphous memory that had eluded him solidified with startling clarity, and Eagle Feather knew the identity of the creatures. The knowledge swamped him in an emotional mire of sneer terror. He gaped at the rim, thinking of his beloved wife and sons in the clutches of those fiends, and shivered.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Daddy?”

  “Hmmmmm?”

  “I think I have a nibble.”

  The lean man attired in buckskins opened his blue eyes and gazed idly at the bobber attached to his son’s fishing line, which dangled in the moat not two yards from their feet, “Are you s
ure?”

  “Yep. I saw the bobber move,” the boy stated with a conviction belying his almost five years of age.

  Sighing, the man sat up and stretched. He ran his right hand through his blond hair, then stroked his blond mustache. “Why don’t you reel in your line slowly,” he advised. “Let’s take a gander at what you’ve hooked.”

  “A what?”

  “A gander. That means to take a look.”

  “Mom’s right,” Ringo said, starting to turn the reel. Like his father, he wore buckskins. Like his father, he had blond hair and striking blue eyes.

  Unlike his father, he did not wear a pair of pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers around his waist.

  “What’s your mom right about?” the gunman asked.

  “She was talking to Uncle Geronimo the other night.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “And I heard what they said,” Ringo disclosed, carefully drawing the line into the reel.

  The gunman leaned toward his son. “What did they say?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why the blazes not?”

  “Because it’s a secret,” Ringo said, and grinned.

  Leaning back on his elbows, the gunman regarded the boy critically.

  “Well, this is a fine how-do-you-do.”

  Ringo stopped reeling and stared at his dad. “A what?”

  “A how-do-you-do. It’s something that happens that you don’t want to happen.”

  The boy grinned. “Yep. Uncle Geronimo has the right idea.”

  “What did that mangy Injun say?”

  “I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.”

  “Are you tellin’ me that your mom and Uncle Geronimo are both in on the same secret?”

  Ringo smiled. “Yep.”

  “It really gets my goat when those two gang up on me.’*

  “I wish I could tell you what they said, but I promised Mom I wouldn’t.”

  “That’s okay, son,” the gunman said. “If you gave your word, then I expect you to keep it. Always remember that a man is only as good as his word. I pride myself on the fact that I’ve never broken mine.”