The Spirit

Nicolson slid his rifle from its nylon sheath. From the Land Rover, parked on the gravelly plain, came the clink of metal. Something was poking about the tailgate.

“It’s probably just a woodchuck,” said Hill with a delighted smile. “But let’s pretend it isn’t.”

Jason found some antenna wire in the signal package. He cut two lengths and tied flashlights to Curtis’s and Nicolson’s rifle barrels. “You and Nicolson dig in at the river about fifty yards apart,” he whispered harshly. “Me and Hill will go for him at the Land Rover. If he starts running, we’ll drive him between you. And be quiet!” he said as they crashed excitedly into the trees like Boy Scouts on a treasure hunt.

He turned to Hill. “You take the light. I’ll take the rifle.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

Hill did not have a better idea. Jason was a better shot than he was.

The river was actually more of a creek. It rose and fell seasonally, leaving steeply carved banks tangled with tree roots. Nicolson and Curtis slipped down the bank. Nicolson wiped perspiration from his glasses. He glanced at Curtis. “You look like Frank Buck.”

“Are you sure you don’t mean Pearl Buck?” Curtis shot back.

“Better keep your voice down.”

Curtis lit his pipe and settled onto the ground. “What for? Haven’t you ever been on a snipe hunt before?”

“This isn’t a snipe hunt,” retorted Nicolson. Then added, “Is it?”

“Oh, of course it is. Jason and Hill are laughing their rocks off now. I bet Jason’s been planning this ever since Calgary. Nice to know he has a sense of humor.” Curtis drew on his pipe. “Just a game, my boy, just a game. I like games. I think hacking up that musk ox was going a bit too far, but you have to be convincing. What I’m waiting for is Jason running through the woods and growling. Maybe he’ll swing from a tree.” Curtis laughed dryly. “What do we do if he swings from a tree?”

Nicolson shrugged and pointed his rifle to a bend in the river. “Well, I’ll make my way to the other side of that.”

“Take your time,” said Curtis, puffing his pipe.

The rush of the river drowned the sound of Nicolson’s steps as he picked his way upriver. He flashed his light over the tortured ground, then found a cut in the river bank, between two birches, with a fairly clear field of fire.

He was settling down when his light crossed a birch from which a huge crescent of bark had been torn loose. He found the fragments on the ground. The inner layers had been scraped away by huge teeth that left gouges in the wood.

This was too much for a joke. Nicolson was beginning to believe the Bigfoot idea. He wondered if he ought to tell Curtis, and decided not to. Jason was obviously right; the thing was primarily a vegetarian that forced itself to eat meat. Why else would it have gone to all that trouble with the tree?

The helicopter and Land Rover were parked together in the knee-­high meadow grass. It was a moonless but not starless night. Jason and Hill advanced a little way out of the forest and lay down in the grass. Jason adjusted his sight and pointed his rifle toward the vehicles.

As his night vision cleared, Jason saw what appeared to be a large tumor on the side of the Land Rover. The tumor resolved itself into a person, whose head projected a foot above the roof.

Jason’s throat felt dry. He heard a sharp intake of breath from Dennis Hill. Jason’s head was just about level with the roof, and he was six foot one. That meant their visitor was at least seven feet tall. Jason strained his eyes until tears formed, trying to see details. It was fifty feet away.

“Christ almighty,” breathed Hill. “Look at it!”

“I’m looking, I’m looking.”

The intruder was roughly pear-­shaped, with long cranelike arms reaching down to its calves. The shoulders sloped downward. Something was not quite right about its head. The hair was looser than Jason would have expected, and longer, too, almost shoulder-­length.

Jason pushed the rifle to his shoulder and quietly cocked it. He sighted down the barrel, centering the notch on the beast’s chest. A droplet of sweat stung his eye. He wiped it and aimed again.

The giant stepped back from the Land Rover and became very still. The head jerked. Then the wind bore down a detestable smell of sweat and excrement.

It knows we’re here, Jason thought.

“Will you shoot, dammit?” snarled Hill.

The giant whistled. Like a marmot, Jason realized in astonishment.

Hill jumped to his feet. Jason squeezed the trigger. The flash split the night, and the explosion continued in the form of a snarling hound that burst out of the trees and clamped its fangs around Jason’s arm. He saw the dart splash over the helicopter.

Jason shook the frenzied animal to the ground, and it promptly attacked Hill, giving Jason time to trigger off two more darts, but the giant was heading for the woods in a humped, loping stride that swallowed great chunks of ground. The dog turned back to Jason, jumping with glowing eyes and yellowed, saliva-­ribboned fangs for his throat.