TRACK OF THE WOLF

Stephen M. Larson

Ezekial Marcotte grunted as he mounted the cabin steps. The fast walk from the frozen settlement had brought the sweat to his jowls and put a wheeze in his breathing, and now a stitch was beginning somewhere beneath his accumulated fat. He pressed a hand to his side in a futile effort to reach the pain. He'd grown unaccustomed to such exertions. His physical sacrifices to the reluctant mountains had ended years ago when he realized he could get others to find and recover the gold for him. All it took was a little ruthless opportunism, a little careful bribery, and a little judicious blackmail and murder.

When the stitch died down to a tolerable ache, Marcotte crossed the porch and pushed the door open. He wrinkled his nose. The interior, though a good fifty degrees warmer than the winter night, was still cold and dark, and smelled of smoke and sweat and grease. Nahim-Tekoa had let the fire go out again.

"Woman!"

A trio of iron skillets hung from the rafters over the fireplace faintly echoed Marcotte's painful bellow, and some small animal, driven inside by the cold, scurried in a murky corner.

"Woman!"

A flap of rawhide that separated the main room from the small storeroom rustled aside, revealing a sullen, red-gold glow. Of course, Nahim-Tekoa had a fire in the tiny cast-iron stove Marcotte had foolishly allowed her. She could squat in that room, warm and drowsy, while she allowed his fire to die! If he'd been a little closer, he would have backhanded her for her laxness, but it wasn't worth the effort. Besides, as the rawhide flap closed behind her, he could see that she carried some coals in a battered tin can. A hasty correction would only have spilled the fire and possibly endangered the cabin.

Nahim-Tekoa busied herself with placing the coals among the wood and kindling she had carefully arranged that morning. It would be useless to argue that she was just saving precious fuel. She blew gently on the coals and they brightened, setting the curled pine shavings ablaze. In a few moments, the fire was blazing. Satisfied the room would soon be warm enough for Marcotte, she stood to face him.

Ezekial Marcotte had been years younger and thinner when he first stumbled upon her favorite bathing pool. She had seen but 17 summers and was one of the most beautiful maidens in her tribe. She had never before encountered a white man and stared at him, too fascinated by this strange vision to remember her modesty. He'd apparently been bathing in the stream below the pool and had not yet resumed all his clothing; his muscles gleamed as though carved in elk bone. In that moment, she knew her fate was to be with him.

Ezekial was equally overwhelmed. Ten years older than she, he was experienced with many women. But she was different. Her body reminded him of the deer in its grace and color, but her eyes seized his heart. Her mother had named her Nahim-Tekoa, Eyes-of-the-Rabbit, for good reason. Large and soft, those eyes shone with a purity entirely lacking in the women in the frontier bars and bordellos and rare even among the women back east.

That summer he almost gave up his search for wealth. He and Nahim-Tekoa met secretly in the forest by the pool, learning each other's language and ways. Awed by her, he felt unworthy to touch her, until he worked up the courage to ask her to leave her people and live with him and she agreed.

Ezekial Marcotte was a considerate lover at first. But gold fever soon reclaimed his heart. At first, his love for Nahim-Tekoa resisted corruption. Then came the day he struck her. Though he repented in tears, the door had been opened, and soon he was beating her regularly.

As Marcotte's love for her grew cold, so Nahim-Tekoa's love for him waned. She thought often about returning to her own people, but she'd betrayed them by choosing one of a race quickly becoming their enemies. She had no choice but to stay. When she became pregnant, and he beat her for it, she recalled some of the darker medicine she'd heard whispered of among her people, and forced her body to expel his seed. Twice more this happened, and then her body could take no more and refused to conceive. Marcotte had begun to cover his beautiful frame with the fat of his dissipation; debased in her own eyes, Nahim-Tekoa became like him. He cared little; he'd long ago lost interest in her as anything but his slave. He worked her too hard for her to grow as gross as he, but her despair and his beatings left her once-graceful form lumpish and shapeless. Only her eyes retained their beauty.

These eyes now gleamed at Marcotte as Nahim-Tekoa turned from the fire, and he felt a chill that had nothing to do with the room temperature. Her hatred was of little concern to him, since neither her tribe nor any other white man would want a white squaw. But something in her gaze tonight warned him that she was nearing her limit. He couldn't imagine what she could do, but when he growled, "Get my dinner, cow!" it was without his customary curse, and he waited for her to quit the fireplace before he took her place.

As Nahim-Tekoa vanished into her storeroom to retrieve some salted venison, a furtive hand tapped at the cabin door. Marcotte cried out, "Come in!", and a small, thin man, heavily bundled, slipped in.

"Marcotte?" The voice was a reedy whine.

"Get in here, Stivers, and shut the door!"

When Marcotte had first arrived in the territory, he'd been forced to work or starve. He experienced both before he discovered that he could judge a strike without dirtying his hands by studying a sample or two of the ore and the lay of the land from which it had been taken. His gift was accurate maybe 80% of the time, but that was sufficient. He also cultivated, with the aid of an open pocketbook, the acquaintance of certain men willing to inform him of which prospectors seemed close to success. Marcotte would watch these prospectors himself, lurking nearby until the strike had been made, inspecting the site and the samples by stealth, and then staking his own claim first. And if the other man refused to accept the inevitable--well, fatal accidents were a simple fact of the frontier.

Marcotte now owned nearly a dozen working mines--all under different names, of course. By anyone's standards, here in the territories or back east, he was an extremely wealthy man. He waited only for one more big strike, and then he would sell them all and go back east to live the way he deserved. Meanwhile, he continued to hire men to locate "his" strikes for him who did their work well and kept their mouths shut.

"Rattail" Stivers was one of Marcotte's most reliable informants. Marcotte saw to the little man's loyalty by a careful mixture of gold and fear--not too much of either, but enough of the former to keep Stivers dependant on him. Of course, "Rattail" was hated in the settlement even more than Marcotte, but as long as he kept Marcotte happy, Marcotte would protect him. The two shared a mutual dislike, tempered only by the realization of their mutual reliance. His appearance this late on one of the coldest nights of the year could only mean that the little toady had some very useful and interesting information for his employer.

"What've you got?" Marcotte grunted as Stivers glanced hopefully at the coffeepot hanging in the fireplace. The warming liquid was just beginning to send its aroma curling through the room. Marcotte ignored Stivers' look. He also pointedly neglected to invite him to sit down or even remove his coat.

"Dandridge was in town today."

Marcotte smiled. Old Charlie Dandridge was obsessed with the legendary Mother Lode. But before he'd given up all his fortune to his wild goose chases, he'd been second only to Marcotte as a prospector. Half a dozen mines were still tapping his earliest strikes. So when he'd showed up in the area, Marcotte had immediately set "Rattail" on him. The gamble was evidently about to pay off.

"He was pretty tight-lipped," Stivers continued. "Acted real mysterious. But I bought him a few drinks. Seems he thinks he's about to strike it big in Matawa-ni-Pana Canyon."

"Matawa-ni-Pana?" Marcotte snorted. "Even I've never found traces there. The old man's just playing the legends."

"I dunno." Stivers shook his head. "I got him to show me some 'colors' he said he'd dug up there. The stuff looks pretty high-grade, better'n anything I've ever seen."

Marcotte frowned. "Wonder if the old man's been hanging on to some top-quality samples just to salt a claim with?"

"I don't think so. The old man was bustin' to tell somebody somethin'. I didn't have to feed him much whiskey. I think Old Charlie's hunch is good."

"You do, huh?" Marcotte scratched at the stubble on his ample chins then made his decision. "Get your gear together. You're going up Matawa-ni-Pana. Tonight."

Stivers didn't move.

"Well?" Marcotte grunted after they stared at one another for a long moment. "You heard me. Move out."

Stivers shook his head. "Not this time," he said.

Marcotte studied him. Stivers had never been brave--or stupid--enough to refuse him before. Marcotte could remind him of certain indiscretions the little man didn't want publicized. Or he could simply bring out the pistol and appeal to his health. But he was curious. What could possibly frighten Stivers more than him?

"All right," Marcotte rumbled. "Why not? What're you afraid of?"

Stivers hesitated, then, with desperate defiance, replied, "Wolves."

The fire crackled in the silence. Then, "Wolves?" Marcotte almost laughed. "Wolves? Stivers, wildlife comes with the territory. Or haven't you noticed? That's why we carry rifles! For god's sake, man, you've run across wolves and mountain lions and bears before, haven't you? So what's the problem?"

Stivers shook his head. "You don't understand, Marcotte. The packs this year--they're bigger and bolder. There's one wolf, a huge one, nobody can kill. He's wily, he's vicious, he--"

Marcotte laughed outright. "The giant spirit wolf? Yeah, I've heard the stories. Get your gear together. You're going."

"No." Stivers had apparently overcome his fear; his normal whine had been replaced with quiet determination. "I ain't talkin' stories. I saw what was left of Big Jake's body. You didn’t. I don’t care what you got on me, and you can go ahead and put a bullet through my brain where I stand. Better that than be torn to shreds. But I ain't going up Matawa-ni-Pana Canyon."

The men stared at each other, and then Marcotte nodded. "Fine. I'll go."

"You?"

"Me. But you've left me a little dilemma, Stivers. I can't have it known that my orders were ignored. It's not good for business."

Stivers nodded. "You can trust me. I won't tell anyone."

"Oh, I've no doubt about that." Marcotte pulled out his pistol. Stivers blinked, then backed away. But before he could turn to run, the pistol roared.

Marcotte studied the body for a moment, then laid the pistol on the table and went to the door. He pulled it open and looked outside. His cabin was isolated from the others by a good 400 yards. If anyone had heard the shot, it would likely be attributed to hunters. He closed the door and turned around to see Nahim-Tekoa standing outside the door to her storeroom, plate in hand. "Get my pack together," he grunted. "I'll be gone a couple days. And take care of him." He nodded at Stivers' body. "Out the back way." Then he took the plate from her and sat at the table with it and a bottle and watched as she began dragging the corpse into the storeroom.

A little over two hours later, Nahim-Tekoa dumped Marcotte's pack by the table. When she turned to go back to her storeroom, Marcotte grabbed her. The whiskey and the visceral satisfaction of the kill had stirred up old passions in him. Granted, she was a cow, but she had been beautiful in her time, and she was available now, so--

But for the second time that night, Marcotte was defied. Nahim-Tekoa pulled away from him with a snarl, her soft eyes flashing. He was momentarily startled. Then the back of his hand crashed against her mouth and he savored the sting, knowing he must have loosened at least a couple teeth. He gave himself over completely to rage. And all the while, she remained silent.

This time it was he who had to drag the results of his handiwork out the back door and into the woods. He was panting and wheezing and his face was bathed in sweat by the time he had her hidden among some bushes. He straightened carefully, fighting a momentary dizziness. He would have to pace himself tonight as he walked. He glanced around. A light snow had begun to fall. With any luck, it would hide the drag marks, and the crows and other scavengers would take care of the rest. He stumbled back to the cabin, extinguished the small stove in the storeroom, spread the coals in the fireplace so they would die that much quicker, then picked up his pack and headed for the front door. Here he paused and looked around one last time at the darkened, cooling room.

“Woman,” he muttered, “you’ve let the fire go out.” Then, chuckling, he left.

Nahim-Tekoa stared at the tangled web of branches above her. She wasn’t quite dead, as Marcotte had thought, but she knew it wouldn’t be long. She wasn’t sure what he’d done to her, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t even blink against the stinging flakes of snow. She knew if the beating itself didn’t kill her, the cold would. A deep sadness filled her. She would die away from her people. There would be no lament for her, nothing to ease the passing of her spirit. She cried out in her mind to the guardians of her people, hoping they would hear her one last time despite her disgrace. She cried out to the ravens to guide her spirit with their wisdom, to the elk to give her courage to face the passing, to the rabbit to give her the eyes to see her path. She cried out to the Great Spirit Who directed the dance of life in the sky and on the earth. She pleaded with Him to forgive her for abandoning the ways of her people and to allow her to become even the least of His tribe in the world beyond. And finally she cried out to Mother Wolf to avenge her. She thought she felt a warm breath upon her body and saw a shadow pass before her. Her lips twitched into a smile as her vision faded. The last thing she heard was a distant, mournful howl.

Marcotte collapsed on a fallen tree trunk, gasping for breath. The stitch in his side had grown numb, and the pain in his chest had subsided to a dull, ever-present ache. Over the past couple hours, he'd worked harder than he had for years, but old muscles had finally begun to reawaken. He was beginning to feel as though he might make it after all. He blinked around. The snow had stopped about an hour ago, and the last of the clouds were fading, leaving a glorious full moon to shine unhindered. A light breeze blew a nearly transparent veil of snow crystals across the sky, glittering in the moonlight until it seemed the stars had multiplied and fallen to dance on the earth. Beneath this sparkling display, the snow-covered hills gleamed against the shadowy forests and valleys with pen-and-ink clarity.

All this was lost on Marcotte. His mind was firmly fixed on his destination. Any canyon was an odd location for a strike, let alone Matawa-ni-Pana. But his best and richest mine so far had been founded on a claim he'd stolen from Charlie Dandridge, and he had great respect for the old man's judgment. If old Charlie were firmly convinced he'd found gold growing inside of trees, Marcotte would've started a logging company.

Marcotte stood. It was tricky getting his bearings in the moonlight, but he should be within a mile or so of the mouth of the canyon. He really wanted to rest more, but he didn't want the sweat to freeze on his face. At that moment, he heard the distant howling. He had heard the cries of wolves many times over the years and had learned to think of them as beautiful, if lonely. But this chilled him. It seemed so full of sorrow, and yet it had an edge of cold anger to it. His breath caught in his throat and he seemed unable to move for an instant. Then he shook himself and forced his feet to start moving. He had to forget what Stivers had said. He had a claim to investigate and take for his own.

The country became a little rougher, and Marcotte was forced to slow down a bit and rest much more frequently. His heart seemed to be pounding without pause. He reminded himself that old Dandridge would be going nowhere tonight, so there was no need to rush. But if he slowed down, he got cold. Perhaps he should go back and wait until daylight, when the sun might make the air a bit more bearable.

He rejected the idea almost immediately. The old man knew he was in Marcotte's territory. If he already had "colors" to show Stivers, he'd be sure to be up early to work the pocket and get the best samples he could. Then he'd be on his way to have them assayed and his claim registered as soon as possible, instead of dawdling like the last time. So if Marcotte was to register the claim first, he'd have to slip in while the old man was asleep, inspect the site by moonlight, steal any samples the old man might have already turned up, and be gone by daybreak. He pushed on.

Marcotte reached the mouth of the canyon shortly before midnight by his reckoning. Here he had to pause and catch his breath again. The moon was high and full; its pure, chaste light made the night seem even colder. He shivered under the layers of cloth and flesh. Once again, Stivers' warning echoed in his ears. He shook his head. He'd heard no other howling since that one distant cry, and he'd seen no sign, either track or scat, on his entire journey. It appeared that the rumors of large, vicious packs led by gigantic beasts were nothing but that. He settled his pack on his shoulders and set off up the canyon.

Matawa-ni-Pana twisted as canyons would but traveled predominantly eastward. Marcotte was grateful for this; he'd have the moon to light his way most of the night. Although, if the entire canyon floor was as smooth as it was here, he should have little problem anyway. Matawa-ni-Pana had held an active river at one point in its life, but changes in topography somewhere upstream had sent the water elsewhere. Now only spring runoff would travel the smooth-scoured rock bed, keeping it clear of light, loose debris. There would be a few rocks here and there, especially farther in where the sides were higher and steeper and small rockfalls a regular occurrence. But if he was any judge of terrain, Marcotte should run into nothing he couldn't handle by starlight alone, if necessary.

The breeze vanished as he worked his way up the dry streambed. The sloping hills on either side soon became low, vertical cliffs that blocked most of the winter winds. Here the recent snow gathered in an even layer only a few flakes thick. It showed no footprints, either inward or outward bound. This was no surprise. The little snow that had fallen had been the first in at least three weeks. When the old man had gone into town, there would have been nothing for him to leave tracks in. And, after about fifteen minutes, even that snow faded to nothing. Marcotte had probably just come through a little local weather that hadn't gotten this far. That was fine with him. Without the snow, the air seemed a little warmer. He still had to stop and rest frequently, but at least he didn't get as cold as quickly as he had in the open.

Matawa-ni-Pana had been dry as far back as any, white or native, could remember. It had been Nahim-Tekoa's people who named it "Place of Many Voices". She had told him long ago of going with her friends to play in the canyon and the way the high, close, inward-tilting walls would repeat and magnify their voices until it seemed an army of laughing children had invaded the land. Those high walls kept much of the wind-driven snow out of the canyon, yet kept much of the direct sunlight out, too, so that what snow did drift down would remain through much of the season. Marcotte skirted many of these patches, some bearing the prints of small animals that could have passed weeks ago--or, perhaps, only moments.

Now Marcotte thought of Nahim-Tekoa, but not of the pure maiden he had fallen in love with over two decades ago. His thoughts were filled with the woman he had seen at the end. Her bruised and misshapen face seemed to float before him, hate still burning in her eyes. In his mind, he repeatedly lashed out at her, now battering her with the pistol, now squeezing her throat with his own thick fingers. He killed her many times over during the next hours, always stopping just short of the memory of those eyes staring at the trees above.

Marcotte had been sitting on a rock ledge, resting a few minutes, when he came out of his murderous reverie with a start. An eerie, wailing cry, more dead than alive, rose in the silence. For a moment, he clutched at the side of the cliff, his heart stumbling. Then he forced himself to remain calm and rational. It was surely nothing more than the all-but-forgotten breeze soughing across some odd-shaped escarpment or moaning in the twisted branches of some barren tree far above him. Still, this unearthly keening reminded him of Stivers' warnings, and he had trouble dismissing them so easily. He chose not to rest very long in this place, and heaved himself to his feet and stalked up the canyon again.

After another ten or fifteen minutes, the high, sloping walls of the canyon began to weigh on Marcotte's mind, suffocating him and making him feel somehow as if he were being watched. He stopped and looked behind and above him, and nearly screamed. Silhouetted against the moon, incredibly large on the top of the cliff, was a shape like a long, pointed skull peering into the depths. Marcotte fought panic, as he realized that the shape was totally lifeless. Uncanny though the likeness was, it was clearly nothing more than stone. Nevertheless, when he turned and resumed his walking, it was at a much quicker pace.

Now he noticed something new. The echoes of his own footsteps had begun to sound like a host of following him. And as they faded away, they sounded more animal than human. He began to wonder if they were all his own footsteps. Might they be mixed with the footpads of, say, a pack of large animals? He stopped and listened. The echoes went on for some seconds before they faded away. But did they go on just a few seconds too long?

Marcotte clenched his fists and found he was sweating again, this time not from exertion. He took a long, slow breath and forced himself to turn. He stood in shadow, the canyon having turned north. He could see the blue-white glow of moonlight at the far end. Carefully keeping an eye on that gleaming patch, he crept toward it, pressing himself against the cliff. A shadow leapt out from the right and he nearly bolted, but it continued up the side of the canyon, and he realized it was only an owl passing over. He continued to move slowly forward, until he reached the turn. Here he paused and listened carefully. Hearing nothing, he peeped around the rock. The moon shone straight down between the silent walls. The canyon was empty.

Marcotte took a deep breath and expelled it with a muttered curse for Stivers and his stories. This nonsense had delayed him long enough. His look at the moon had told him it was already lower than he would have liked. He had to get moving. He turned and plodded up the canyon again.

For the next quarter-hour, Marcotte succeeded in ignoring the echoes that seemed to go on just a little too long. Then, as he rested on a boulder at the side of what was once a wide, shallow pool, a new thought struck him. What if Charlie Dandridge wasn't even in Matawa-ni-Pana Canyon? What if Stivers had lied to him? What if this had been a plan to distract Marcotte while Stivers grabbed Dandridge's claim for himself? After all, Marcotte had been walking into the canyon for a long time without seeing any sign of the old prospector. If he'd been able to find tracks, he would've been certain. In his past association with him, he'd discovered that Dandridge wore a pair of nails in the shape of a cross on the underside of his right boot heel; to keep the devil off his trail, no doubt. It certainly hadn't worked against Marcotte. In fact it could just work for him, if he could find some tracks.

He looked around and smiled. Here, in this wider portion of the canyon, enough snow had drifted down to leave several gleaming patches not yet claimed by the sun. Marcotte grunted to his feet and lumbered from patch to patch. The first few were disappointingly untouched. Then he found what he sought. Two clear boot prints, left and right, pointed into the canyon, and the right one bore the mark of the crossed nails.

He straightened, puffing and grinning. Of course, there was no telling how long they'd been there (ah, there was another print, a left!), whether they'd been made three weeks ago or just a matter of hours (another print, greatly obscured), but Marcotte was confident in his luck (another right, outward bound). The old man would be there, and he . . ..

Marcotte stopped and his heart stumbled wildly as his brain registered what his eyes had seen. He picked his way back to stare numbly at the obscured print. It was impossible, but there it was. On top of the boot print, heavily obliterating most of it, was the print of a wolf.

The print was huge. The monster that made it would easily be twice the size of the largest timber wolf he'd ever seen. Then he noticed the print was heading into the canyon. He swallowed, hard and dry. Some creature, almost too big to be called, simply, "wolf", had entered the canyon after Charlie Dandridge; whether three weeks or three minutes ago was impossible to determine. Nor was it a question on which he cared to dwell. He wasn't afraid of wolves, he told himself, but he wasn't stupid, either. If there was something farther in, was it really worth a rich strike to confront it in the dark, alone?

Now stop it, he told himself. You're one of the richest, shrewdest, smartest men in all the territory, and you're getting spooked by rumors and wild speculation. He straightened and took a deep breath. All right, it's possible some--creature--is in the canyon. But it's more likely there's nothing in here but an old man, a very impressive strike, and me. Then he had a flash of inspiration that brought a smile to his lips. That print might even work in his favor! If old Dandridge happened to be found dead, with his throat ripped out--well, one look at that print would convince the most skeptical. And if Marcotte just happened to be the one to "find" the body--well, who could deny him the right to claim--

He gasped as the eerie wail rose in the still air. It echoed from every wall, its origin impossible to pinpoint. It's the wind, he thought as he stumbled back across the dry pool bed. Only the wind! In the trees! Why don't I feel any wind? Why-- Then he nearly bit off his own tongue. He was certain something had moved in the shadows down the canyon.

Marcotte had never been given to panic. But now something snapped, and he whirled and ran deeper into the canyon. The floor grew uneven and he stumbled as he ran, striking the walls. His right knee throbbed, but he dared not stop or even slow down to favor it. Within minutes he was winded. The icy air burned his throat as he sucked it in and pushed it out, sucked it in and pushed it out, and his side began to cramp. He had to stop. He was out of shape; he couldn't push his body this way.

He staggered to a halt, clutching at the wall for support. The blood pounded in his ears, but he could still hear the padding echoes of so many feet all around him. And then it came again, that unearthly, demonic, ravenous howling that went on and on and would not stop!

Now he was running again, tears mingling with his sweat. His pulse was thunderous, but he needn't hear them to imagine the pack of slavering beasts that followed him, led by one giant creature. He thought he could feel hot, moist breath behind him. He pushed himself even harder. His body quivered with each jarring step. Pain gnawed at his feet and legs and chest and head. His throat was raw from the great, useless gulps of air. He was driven by the hope that he might reach Dandridge's camp and that the old man might still be alive and that he might be awake and that he might have a rifle and that he might--

He tripped. He tried to regain his footing, but it was too late. He could feel himself toppling forward. He seemed to fall in slow motion, and it was an eternity before he struck the ground. The pain in his knees and hands as stone ripped through cloth seemed to belong to someone else. Only the pain in his chest was his alone. He knew that at any moment his back would be ripped open and powerful teeth would lock on his neck and sever his spine, but still he struggled to rise. He peered wildly ahead through the stinging blur of sweat. Nahim-Tekoa stood before him; beautiful as the day he had first seen her, with a snarl of triumph on her lips. She turned away, and he screamed. Behind her, a huge, gray shape loomed, a terrible shape that crouched in silent menace. He shrieked again and again, and his heart pounded more and more wildly, while the monster waited patiently . . ..

Old Charlie Dandridge rose later than he'd intended. He hadn't slept well; the night had been disrupted by screams that echoed in the canyon and mixed with his dreams. He'd had an uneasy feeling, even as he tossed in his sleep, that he should be up and investigating, but he'd been unable to wake himself. Now, however, the morning had come and the sun shone bright and warm on the upper canyon walls, and the night noises seemed vague and uncertain. Still, no sense taking chances. As he left camp with his pack stuffed with rich samples, he took his rifle.

He walked only a few minutes before he almost literally stumbled across the body. It looked to his weak eyes like just another large rockfall until he was right on top of it and saw the outstretched arms and legs and uptilted head. He stooped to peer at the features, and then scowled. So Ezekial Marcotte had been on his way to steal another of his claims. But what had killed him?

Dandridge shook his head as he straightened painfully. There was no mark on the body, nothing at all unusual about it--except the look of terror still clinging to its face. But what could have frightened him so? The sightless eyes stared at nothing but a large, gray boulder.

Charlie Dandridge scratched his head, then shouldered his rifle. Well, this was one death that wouldn't be widely mourned. He'd tell somebody in town about Marcotte, let them worry about him. He had a claim to file--the richest that part of the territory had ever seen. He trudged on down Matawa-ni-Pana Canyon, leaving behind him only the echoes of his footsteps, like the soft padding of so many feet following him.

THE END