The Spirit

“Bull,” said Jason.

“It’s no more incredible than what you suggested.”

“I am following a flesh-­and-­blood creature, Martha. Not a ghost. That’s all.”

“But that’s just what spirits are to the Indians, Raymond,” said Martha, walking over to the fire. “They were alive. They ate and slept and hunted and made fools of themselves. They were so real you couldn’t tell them from animals. Maybe there never was that much difference.”

Moon was wary of her. She was leading off into tracks of her own. “There were differences, ma’am.”

“Yes, but how could you tell a bad one from a good one?”

“You were taught.”

“But didn’t they sometimes work the way the devil did? The Christian devil? Didn’t the bad ones ever convince you they were really good and get you into a situation where you were trapped and didn’t know it till too late? That’s how the devil works, you know. He comes on like a saint. Or like a poor, misguided, pitiable little bird that everybody feels sorry for. Treachery, John! Didn’t the Indian spirits know treachery? Did they betray humans?”

The Indian studied Martha with profound interest as firelight flickered off his knife blade.

“Moon, did you know there’s another of your so-­called spirits up here?”

Something thumped at the door of the Grizzly Bar. A slow, measured scratching grated, then stopped. “That’s probably my dog,” said Moon, walking into the bar.

He stopped as the scratching began again from close to the floor. “No,” he said slowly. “That’s not him.”

Jason rose from his chair, cocking his pistol. “Hold it, Moon. Helder, do you have that rifle handy?”

“It’s in my office.” Helder sidled away and returned with the rifle.

“There’s no need of that, sir,” said Moon. “He won’t hurt nobody.” He yanked open the door.

A thousand pythons of wind and snow gibbered in blowing chairs off tables, toppling liquor bottles from shelves and swirling snow into every corner.

Jason crouched behind the bar with his gun.

Nothing there?

No. A hand lay just inside the threshold. Moon grasped it and pulled the body inside, shouldering the door shut. The man’s face was scratched by branches, his red hair was clogged with congealing snow, and his skin was pale white, setting off blue lips. His mouth stretched in a smile.

“Hi,” said Duane Woodard. “Hot out there.”

Woodard sat before the fire, tented in a blanket Helder kept in his office. His clothes steamed on the hearth. He cupped a brandy glass, which looked ridiculously small in his huge hand, and shivered. “Bigfoot!” he exclaimed to Jason. “Ain’t that something? I thought they weren’t supposed to hurt people.” He looked at the Grizzly Bar, struggling to digest this revelation. “He just stood there in front of me for five minutes, then let out a howl that would have broken glass a mile away. I was sure you’d heard it.”

“It actually attacked the van?”

“You better believe it. And sabotaged the bridge. I’d put money on it. I never knew they were supposed to be so damn clever.” Woodard swallowed the rest of the brandy and lowered his head into his hands as the enormity of it all seemed to hit him in a delayed reaction.

Jason noticed that Martha Lucas had gone white. His quarry had a shape now, a shape, form, and malevolent personality. It was human, too human, in fact, nothing like the other two species of Sasquatch. Those mountain men, those pioneers who had been idolized by generations, had inadvertently created a monster.

He came out of his thoughts. “They’re sealing the valley off,” said Jason. “The only other road goes back through Oharaville, and I bet they’ve been there, too.”

Helder’s arms dangled limply over the arms of his chair. He seemed to have shrunk a little. “Mr. Woodard, you don’t recall how many people there were on the van, do you?”

“Eight. Nine.” Duane shrugged, his head still in his hands.

“Is there the slightest chance anybody else could have gotten away?”

“Not with that thing running around down there.”

“But he wasn’t down there, was he?” Jason cleared his throat. “He was chasing you. Or at least one of them was chasing you. If somebody got out of the bus to the meadow . . .” He swallowed and his voice died. The silence weighed down the room. Even the fire seemed subdued.

“You said there were two of them, Raymond,” Martha murmured. “One to chase Duane Woodard, the other to get whoever got out of the van.”

“No,” said Jason. “The other one would have gone after Woodard too. The other one must be up in the mine or something. At any rate, somebody’s going to have to check out the van. Right now.”

“Christ,” said Helder.

“There’s five of us . . .”

“And only two guns. Yours and mine,” Helder said.

“Besides, a man on a snowmobile is a sitting duck,” said Woodard. “So it’s ridiculous. He could pick you off before you got to the river.”

“Two snowmobiles isn’t ridiculous,” said Jason. “Two men backing each other up. We can leave the rifle here and I’ll take the pistol.”

“Very well,” said Helder, hiccuping as he climbed to his feet.

“Helder, you’re so drunk you can’t see what you’re doing,” said Jason.