Chapter 2

  The howling had stopped around dawn. Silas dressed quickly and headed outside.

  "Marshal Crow?"

  Silas turned to find a tall, gaunt man in black with a white collar approaching from the direction of the chapel.

  "Father Merrick," the man said, extending a hand. "I heard we had a marshal in town. Wanted to offer whatever assistance I can."

  Silas shook the offered hand. "Marshal Silas Crow. I'm investigating Sheriff Pike's death."

  "Terrible loss. Pike was a pillar of this community." Merrick looked toward the chapel. "I've been trying to help folks process their grief, but I'm afraid fear has taken hold alongside the mourning."

  "People seem convinced something unusual killed him."

  "That's exactly what concerns me, Marshal. When tragedy strikes, people need explanations that make sense of senseless loss. The idea that Pike was killed by some supernatural force gives his death meaning, makes it part of something larger than random misfortune."

  "Doc Tiller seemed pretty certain the wounds weren't from any animals native to this area."

  "Poor Bea has been our physician for many years, and she's skilled. But she's also been isolated up here, dealing with frontier medicine without colleagues to consult. When you work alone for decades, unusual cases can seem more mysterious than they actually are."

  "She showed me detailed sketches. The proportions seemed impossible."

  "I don't doubt her observations, Marshal. But Bea's been under tremendous stress these past months - losing so many patients, working alone without colleagues to consult." Merrick paused. "When you're exhausted and grieving, even familiar injuries can seem more sinister. A massive bear making multiple swipes could create claw patterns that appear impossibly wide when you're measuring overlapping marks as single strikes."

  He could be right. Stress and exhaustion do affect judgment.

  "The townspeople in the saloon had some pretty specific stories."

  "They did indeed. Bobby Fletcher has been spreading tales for weeks now, and fear is infectious in a small community like ours." Merrick clasped his hands behind his back. "Bobby's a good man, but he's been drinking more heavily lately. Grief and fear affect people differently."

  "And the others seemed to believe him."

  "Of course they did. When you're frightened and looking for answers, dramatic explanations feel more satisfying than mundane ones. 'Devil wolves' is more compelling than 'hungry bears,' even when the evidence points to the latter."

  Silas studied the preacher's face. "I'm planning to examine the Henderson place this morning."

  "Excellent idea. Physical evidence will serve you better than secondhand accounts." Merrick paused. "I only ask that you consider how your findings might affect the community's healing. If you conclude this was natural predation, as seems likely, perhaps framing that conclusion in a way that addresses people's fears would be most helpful."

  "Meaning?"

  "Simply that 'large bear, driven by hunger' might calm nerves better than 'unknown predator.' The truth remains the same, but the presentation can either fuel panic or provide closure."

  "I'll present whatever findings I discover, Father. But I understand your concern for the community."

  "Thank you. That's all I ask." Merrick stepped back toward the chapel. "I've been ministering here for six years, Marshal. I've seen how quickly fear can spread in isolated communities. Sometimes a calm, rational voice is exactly what people need to heal."

  "I appreciate the perspective. Thank you for the introduction."

  "Of course. And Marshal?" Merrick stopped. "These investigations can be emotionally challenging. If you need someone to talk through what you're seeing, my door is always open. Sometimes an outside perspective helps make sense of disturbing evidence."

  "I'll keep that in mind."

  The morning sun climbed higher as Silas walked towards the stable. Jake Morrison was already at work, mucking out stalls, but looked up as Silas approached.

  "Heard them too, did you?" Jake asked.

  "Hard to miss. That normal around here?"

  Jake nodded his head. "Worse around the full moon. Gets the horses all worked up." He gestured toward the stalls where several animals still seemed skittish, ears constantly swiveling.

  Silas saddled Whisper, noting how the mare's nostrils flared as she tested the morning air.

  "You know anything about the Henderson place?" Silas asked as he checked his gear.

  Jake's hands stilled on the pitchfork handle. "You going out there?"

  "Planning on it."

  "Wouldn't, if I were you. Nothing good happened at that ranch." Jake set down the pitchfork and pointed north. "Take the trail past Miller's old barn, maybe three miles. Look for the broken fence post and you can't miss it. Place still looks like a battlefield."

  First things first. Find out what happened at the Henderson ranch.

  Silas thanked Jake and rode out of town as the sun cleared the eastern ridges. Whisper remained alert, her ears constantly moving as they took the narrow dirt track that wound through scrub oak and pine toward the Henderson ranch.

  The Henderson ranch sat in a natural bowl between two ridges, good grazing land with a clear stream running through it.

  The farmhouse stood intact, but the barn doors hung askew on broken hinges. Fence posts lay scattered. Silas dismounted and walked through the destruction.

  Start with the barn. See what they were after.

  Claw marks gouged deep furrows in the barn's wooden siding. Whatever made them had large claws, running in parallel sets of four.

  No bear did this or mountain lion.

  He examined the marks closely. Wood splintered outward around each gouge. The thing had been trying to tear its way inside.

  The barn doors hung at odd angles. One torn completely off its hinges. Inside, overturned feed bins and scattered hay. Old chicken droppings covered the floor.

  But no bodies. No blood inside the barn.

  They got inside, but whatever they wanted wasn't here.

  More claw marks covered the back wall. Deliberate patterns. Circles within triangles, jagged lines that might have been mountains or teeth. Some marks were fresh, splinters still pale. Others had weathered gray.

  They've been coming back. Marking territory.

  In the dirt around the barn, he found tracks.

  The prints looked almost human. Five toes, roughly the right proportions. But they were twice the size of a man's foot. Each toe ended in a claw mark gouged deep into the earth. Multiple sets, different sizes, circling the buildings.

  Pack hunters. They surrounded the place.

  Whisper whinnied nervously from where he'd tied her.

  She can smell them. Whatever was here.

  Following the tracks toward the house, Silas found where the real attack had happened.

  A patch of ground stained dark with old blood. Scattered bones lay half-buried in the dirt cattle bones, mostly. A piece of torn fabric fluttered from a broken fence post. Heavy cotton, work shirt material. Dark stains covered one edge.

  Then he saw it. Half-hidden under splintered wood, a child's wooden toy. A carved doll, missing one leg. The wood was stained dark.

  Family had children.

  Silas picked it up carefully. Someone had carved it with care. Smooth edges, detailed dress. A child's treasure.

  He set the toy back down gently.

  No human bones among the cattle remains. No bodies anywhere. Just blood, torn clothing, and a broken toy.

  Silas stared at the bloodstained ground for a long moment. Then he turned toward the farmhouse.

  The front door hung on one broken hinge. Windows intact but shutters drawn tight. Inside, overturned furniture and scattered chairs. Broken crockery near the kitchen. People had barricaded themselves.

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  A rifle leaned against the far wall. Empty. Spent cartridge cases scattered nearby.

  Henderson made a stand here. Fought from inside.

  On the wooden table, deep scratches. Claw marks where something had reached through the door.

  They broke through. Forced them outside.

  At the tree line, more symbols carved into a massive pine. Fresh cuts, sap still bleeding. The same markings.

  Silas copied the symbols into his notebook. His hand shook slightly. A sound from the forest made him look up. Whisper was pulling against her tether, eyes rolling white.

  Time to go.

  Main Street looked different in morning light. People moved with purpose but stayed in groups. Nobody lingered in the open. Windows that had been dark last night now showed faces behind curtains.

  Whole town's holding its breath.

  The blacksmith shop sat at the far end of the street, set apart from the other buildings. Smoke rose from the chimney, and the ring of hammer on anvil echoed between the buildings. Silas tied Whisper to the rail and pushed through the heavy wooden door.

  Silas walked into heat and the smell of coal smoke. A broad-shouldered man with graying hair looked up from the horseshoe he was shaping. Soot stained his leather apron, and sweat ran down his arms.

  "Help you?"

  "Marshal Crow. Looking for information about the attacks on local ranches."

  The blacksmith set down his hammer and wiped his hands on a rag. Tom Halberd, according to the sign outside. "You're the one been asking questions around town."

  "Word travels fast."

  "In a place this size, everything travels fast." Tom gestured toward a wooden chair near the forge. "Tom Halberd. What you want to know?"

  "Henderson place got hit. Wanted to hear what you might know about it."

  "Henderson was a good man. Helped me shoe horses when my back was giving me trouble." He shook his head. "What happened to him wasn't natural."

  "You see the aftermath?"

  "Rode out there the morning after. Found his livestock torn apart, barn half-destroyed." Tom paused. "Found something else too."

  He walked to a workbench cluttered with horseshoes and metal scraps. From beneath a pile of iron fittings, he pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle.

  Tom unwrapped it carefully, revealing a curved black claw the length of Silas's index finger. The tip was needle-sharp, the base thick as a man's thumb. Dark stains covered the root where it had been torn free.

  "Stuck deep in the barn wall," Tom said. "Took me a crowbar to pry it loose."

  Silas stared at the claw.

  "What kind of animal..."

  "Ain't from no animal I ever seen." Tom rewrapped the claw. "Pike, he took one look at this thing. Went white as my old horse's ass. Been trackin' these attacks for years, Pike had. But this here?" Tom tapped the wrapped claw. "First real proof somethin' ain't right about 'em."

  "Pike knew about these things?"

  "Pike knew plenty he didn't share." Tom walked to his forge, spat into the coals. Steam hissed up. "Kept most of it locked up tight. Didn't want folks more spooked than they already were."

  Silas watched the blacksmith's face in the red glow.

  "But he trusted someone?"

  Tom nodded. "Deputy Ellis. Rode back this mornin'. Pike sent her to fetch help before..." He gestured vaguely toward the town center. "Before whatever got him, got him."

  Tom picked up his hammer, then set it down with a clang. "Reckon you're what showed up instead. Question is whether you showed up too damn late."

  The morning sun slanted through the open door. Silas copied a description of the claw into his notebook.

  Real proof. Something unknown killed the Henderson family.

  Silas stared at the drawing for a long moment.

  "Where can I find Deputy Ellis?"

  "Sheriff's office. She'll be there." Tom wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Girl knows more than most folks 'round here. Pike saw to that."

  Silas thanked Tom and stepped back into the morning sun.

  Time to find out what else Pike documented.

  The walk to the sheriff's office took him past windows where faces appeared and quickly disappeared. Word of the marshal was spreading.

  Silas paused outside the office door. Inside, lamplight flickered as someone was working at Pike's desk.

  Deputy Ellis. Hopefully she knows more.

  He knocked on the doorframe before entering.

  Deputy Jane Ellis was younger than he'd expected, maybe mid-twenties, with auburn hair cut short and bright hazel eyes. Her deputy badge was pinned to a simple blouse, and she wore trousers. She sat straight-backed, hands folded on the desk.

  "You'd be the marshal," she said, standing. She had red rims around her eyes. "Jane Ellis."

  "Marshal Silas Crow." He touched his hat. "I'm sorry about Sheriff Pike. Tom Halberd said you'd just returned."

  Jane straightened and adjusted her badge. "Returned this morning from a wasted trip. Pike sent me to find help when the territory request went unanswered." She looked him up and down. "Guess it finally came through."

  "Got here as soon as I could."

  "Too long by about three days," Jane said. She walked to a wooden cabinet, pulling out a key. "Pike needed someone who'd take this seriously. Someone who wouldn't dismiss what we've been seeing."

  She unlocked the cabinet and withdrew a folder thick with papers. "Sheriff Pike maintained two case files. Official reports for territorial review." She tapped the ledger on the desk. "And the actual investigative records."

  Jane's fingers drummed once against the folder's cover. "Pike's orders were to only share this documentation with territory personnel who'd already encountered the evidence firsthand."

  "I've seen the tracks. The strange marks they carve into things. Tom showed me what he found at the Henderson place."

  Jane's posture shifted slightly. "Then you understand we're not dealing with anything normal."

  She opened the folder, revealing newspaper clippings, hand-drawn maps, and pages of careful notes. The top clipping was dated six years back:

  FAMILY SLAUGHTERED ON RANCH.

  The article was faded and unreadable.

  "Sheriff Pike started tracking these attacks after this happened," Jane said. "What he found at the scene didn't match any animal he knew. Since then, we've logged seventeen more attacks, forty-three people gone missing, and dozens of folks reporting things that shouldn't exist."

  Silas kept looking at the files.

  Seventeen incidents. Pike's been tracking this systematically.

  Jane spread out more papers and maps marked with red ink, witness statements in Pike's handwriting, sketches of claw marks and strange symbols.

  "You've personally investigated these cases?" he asked.

  Jane's chin came up. "I may be young, but I've been helping Pike these past two years. Seen what's left after these attacks." She pulled out a hand-drawn sketch of massive claw marks gouged deep into wood. "I know a bear attack when I see one, Marshal. This ain't that."

  The office fell quiet except for the sound of paper rustling as Silas examined Pike's documentation.

  "Pike thought he was getting close to something," Jane said.

  "What did he find?"

  "Don't know. Case file just ends." Jane tapped the folder. "His final entry mentioned someone up in the high country. Someone who's been fighting back. Pike thought maybe they knew something. That's why he sent me for backup."

  "But they got to Pike first."

  "While I was gone," she said. Her hand moved to her badge. "Whatever he found out, they killed him for it."

  Jane stood and walked to the window. "I should've been here. Should've been backing him up."

  "Pike sent you for help."

  "Fat lot of good it did anybody." She pressed her forehead against the glass. "This town's hemorrhaging population, Marshal. We've lost half our families since spring. At this rate, there won't be a jurisdiction left to protect."

  "Then we neutralize the threat."

  Jane turned back to face him. "We, Marshal?"

  "Pike trusted you with classified intelligence. Far as I can tell, that makes you the only local law enforcement who understands the nature of this case."

  Jane hesitated. "What about the ghost he is supposed to be fighting back?"

  "Fighting back how?"

  "Don't know the details. Just stories about someone in the high country. Pike thought maybe..." She trailed off.

  "What?"

  "Nothing he could prove. Just stories about a ghost in the pine forests."

  The ghost again. I need to find him.

  "I need to get up there to see what's really happening in those mountains."

  "That's dangerous country. Easy to get lost, easier to get killed."

  "Maybe. But I've got to try." Silas stood. "Keep people in groups. Don't let anyone travel alone after dark. And if you see anything unusual—"

  "I'll handle the town. Pike taught me well enough."

  Silas nodded and headed for the door. "I'll be back in a few days."

  The ride north from Dry Gulch took Silas through farmland that gradually gave way to rougher country. Rolling hills thick with pine and aspen, cut by streams that ran from the high mountains.

  Good country for hiding. Good country for hunting.

  As he reached the main trail north, movement in the trees caught his eye. Something moving parallel to the trail but staying just inside the forest.

  Being followed.

  Silas kept his pace steady but loosened his revolver in its holster. Whatever was pacing him made no attempt to hide.

  The thing kept pace for nearly a mile before fading back into deeper forest. Silas's shoulders didn't relax. Every shadow moved. Every rustle in the pine needles might've been footsteps.

  The trail climbed into rougher country. Pine trees grew thicker, branches overhead blocking the sun. Whisper's breath steamed.

  By late afternoon, the trail had narrowed to a deer path winding between tree trunks. No other travelers. No signs of human habitation. Just endless forest climbing toward the high peaks.

  He chose his campsite carefully. A small clearing beside a fast-moving stream with good sightlines and his back to a jumble of granite boulders.

  As he unsaddled Whisper and built a small fire, Silas couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched.

  While coffee brewed over the flames, Silas studied his surroundings. The forest here showed signs of disturbance. Claw marks on tree bark, too high and too deep for bears. Broken branches at heights no normal animal could reach. And in the soft earth near the stream, he found what he was looking for.

  More tracks. Fresh ones.

  Same pattern as Henderson's place. Something large had passed this way recently, following the same route Silas had taken.

  He copied the clearest prints into his notebook, measuring them against his own boot for scale. Larger than human.

  Darkness settled. Silas positioned himself with clear views of the approaches. Fire small but steady.

  Owls called from high branches. Small animals rustled through the underbrush. Something splashed in the stream, drinking.

  Then, gradually, the sounds began to change.

  Whisper lifted her head from grazing, ears pricked forward. The mare's nostrils flared as she tested the air, then she moved closer to the fire.

  Silas checked his weapons again. Rifle loaded and ready across his knees. revolver loose in its holster.

  A branch cracked in the darkness.

  Silas threw another log on the fire. Sparks spiraled up into the night sky, and the flames leaped higher. The movement in the forest seemed to pause.

  Maybe they don't like the light.

  But they didn't retreat. For the next hour, he heard movement in the trees. Always just beyond the firelight's reach. Circling his position. Something large, moving through the underbrush.

  Around midnight, the presence grew closer. He could feel eyes watching him from the darkness between the trees. Studying him.

  What are you waiting for?

  The fire burned lower. Silas fed it another log, but the flames wouldn't hold. Each time they dimmed, movement flickered at the edge of his vision.

  His hands stayed steady on the rifle. Whatever was out there just watched.

  Crickets started up again. An owl called. Silas closed his journal and checked his weapons.

  Tomorrow he'd climb higher. Find this ghost everyone talked about.