The Spirit

Those bodies must have jolted the Indian out of his haze. Perhaps they reminded him of Vietnam, a lethal dose of reality if ever there was one. Moon had lost his spirit but gained back his sanity. Not to mention ten thousand tax-­free dollars. Jason was euphoric with gratitude. Moon wasn’t such a bad sort—a little confused, but he had many fine qualities. Jason would set the Indian up for life. He would give him a job with his company, a good one, if he wanted it.

They were ascending the road, almost halfway to the lodge, with the Indian still far ahead, when Jason was attacked.

A rock popped out his headlight. Jason decelerated and crouched over his handlebars. He pulled out his pistol and fired into the air to signal Moon.

He swerved into the meadow. The snowmobile jounced off the road and snagged a branch with the front ski, raising a curtain of snow that blinded Jason. The snowmobile hit a sharp hummock, knocking the handlebars into Jason’s chin. He toppled off the seat. Riderless, the machine careened crazily around the meadow and stalled.

Plastered with snow, his head swimming from the blow of the handlebars, Jason got to his hands and knees clutching the pistol in his right hand.

The dog! Watch out for the dog! Wood­ard had warned him that the dog was like a pilot fish for a shark. His appearance always preceded the beast.

From out of the wind came the pup, its fur stiffened by cold, dodging and retreating from Jason. A rock caught Jason full in the chest and knocked him down. He fired at the dog. The animal yelped and bounded off into the wind.

Jason climbed to his feet and ran toward his snow­mobile in a crouching stoop. In the Army they had taught him that constant motion was the key to survival.

Behind him! Jason whirled around. The dog was returning. It turned around again when Jason saw it. Jason aimed and fired with both hands.

With a strangled cough, the dog went a full four feet into the air and came down in two bloody pieces.

Jason slowly turned around, praying that his helmet was strong. In the distance he heard the buzz-­saw of Moon’s snowmobile finally coming to his aid.

The Bigfoot materialized behind his snowmobile. Jason aimed with both hands and fired again. The bullet whanged off the metal.

The giant picked up the snowmobile and threw it at Jason. It bounced over the snow and stopped upside down. Jason crouched behind it as light from Moon’s machine spread a pale-­yellow glow over the snowy field.

Jason saw clouds of steam from the thing’s breath as it shielded its face from the light. It was the same horned beast both of them had followed for so long. Jason steadied his pistol on one of the snowmobile’s treads.

The beast jumped out of the light. Jason fired into the storm, the gunflash lighting up ice crystals, but it was gone. Like a spirit.

Moon halted his snowmobile at the edge of the road. He slipped the bow from his chest and took an arrow from his quiver. Then he noticed the shattered remains of the dog.

“That was him, Moon. I think he’s headed for the mountain.”

Moon slipped off his helmet and flung it into the snow. The wind made tentacles of his long black hair that grabbed and caressed his lean face.

“Moon, I want to pay you for the toe. Really, I mean it. A deal is a deal. I’ll get a money order soon as we get back to the lodge.”

The Indian kicked at the dog’s remains. Then he walked past Jason, following the fast-­filling prints of the giant.

“Moon?” Jason called out uncertainly. “You won’t find him in this storm.”

When the night swallowed him up, Jason saw Moon fitting the arrow to the bow.

“Moon?” Jason called out again. The wind answered.

No, he would not come back. Might as well try to stop the wind. There had been murder in the Indian’s eyes. His spirit had betrayed him. His spirit and that ridiculous hound had been his whole life. His existence was thin ice through which he had finally plunged into empty cold darkness. The bottom was gone, the foundations smashed utterly and finally. Jason knew that feeling. He had barely survived it himself. He did not think the Indian could.

He slipped the gun into his pocket. And then horror chilled him to his very marrow. The toe was gone. It had flipped out when he took out the gun.

Jason went completely to pieces. He clawed through the snow on his hands and knees. He had been here when attacked . . . no, no, he had opened the pocket here! He traced the marks left by the snowmobile, his fingers turning over every toe-­sized clump of earth they found. Every few seconds his hands scratched at his coveralls, searching for the telltale lump that would signify that he had only overlooked it, long after reason told him it was gone for good.