Creature, p.7
Creature!, page 7
The girl bent forward, almost out of its range. But one of the hands caught her long, black hair and jerked her back, causing the baby to fall from her arms and onto the bough bed.
McArthur fired at a spot between the glowing eyes. The beast tossed its head back in pain, roared. Its Bowie knife-sized teeth glinted in the glow of the firelight.
And then, fast as a panther, it was gone, and with it, right through the gap in the wall, the Indian girl Crawford called Snowflake.
But for a moment McArthur and Crawford were aware of only one thing, the whining baby on the bed. The furs had fallen away to reveal it.
It was only part human.
“It … it’s a thing,” Crawford said.
“Can’t be …just can’t be,” McArthur said.
“Well, there that sucker is.”
“How could a woman … and a beast that size … mate?” “Must be a lot like the grizz. That old Wooly is built like a mountain, but I reckon he must be hung like a rabbit.”
“My God,” McArthur said after a time, “that’s what the beast wanted. Its mate and child.”
“Well, maybe we ought to put it out there where he can find it real easy like. If I’d known that’s what he was after, I’d have given him Snowflake and her ugly little youngster long time back.”
“Are you crazy? This … this baby is part human.”
“Part Injun,” Crawford said. “Well, now wait a minute. I think I see what you mean. Why, we could make us a bundle off this little sucker. Put him in one of them Wild West shows like they got goin’ now. ‘Come see the Beast of the Black Hills, taken at great risk of our lives …’ ”
“That’s not what I meant at all. I mean it’s part human, and that part is our concern. For that matter, I wouldn’t turn a wild animal over to that thing.”
“You ain’t hintin’ what I think you’re hintin’?”
“I’m not hinting et all. I’m going after Snowflake.”
“Yeah, well, write when you get time.”
“And I’m taking this papoose with me, Crawford. I think it’s got a better chance against the snow than me leaving it here with you.”
“That’s ugly talk, McArthur.”
“Saying my opinion.” McArthur picked up the screaming beast-child, looked at it closely. Its shape and face were human, but its body was covered with a thick gray fur. The eyes that looked up at him with a pleading expression were the eyes of Snowflake.
Bundling the baby up tight, so that it had only enough exposure to breathe, McArthur attached it to the cradle board.
“You’re goin’ out there?” Crawford said suddenly.
McArthur grunted that he was.
“Well, get the hell on out there then. You don’t see me holdin’ you back. I ain’t goin’ after that thing.”
“Suit yourself.” McArthur fastened the baby to his back by slipping his arms through the cradle board straps.
“Ain’t that cute,” Crawford said.
McArthur fastened on his snowshoes and picked up his rifle. Without a word he stepped through the hole in the cabin wall and out into the night.
The blizzard had stopped. There was a fair wind a-humming, but little snow came with it, just chill. The stars were out.
“You’re gonna get your head popped off,” Crawford yelled after McArthur.
McArthur began to trudge across the snow. The sign of the creature was obvious. Great tracks, looking more like the prints of snowshoes than of men, wound off toward the tall trees; thick, blue black shadows in the moonlight.
The little creature on McArthur’s back whined softly, then was silent. McArthur found himself wondering if the child was male or female. The whole thing had happened so fast he had not had time to speculate on anything. He could only guess that these beasts, being some sort of near-humans, stole their mates from Indian tribes, or perhaps some of the more superstitious bands offered the women in tribute to the creatures, thinking them some sort of gods. What had Snowflake said? “Waziah.” Great God of the North.
It was certainly true that the Sioux often dressed up in the skins of animals, the bear for instance, and danced in a manner that led most to believe they were offering tribute to the strength of the beast. Could it be that their dances were not to the bear at all, that the outfits they wore were in fact representative of the Wooly-Buggers, as Crawford called them? Could it be the dances were more than a tribute to the creature’s strength? Perhaps it was all part of a ritual to appease the beasts and keep them away? The offering of women could well be another part of the ritual, something no white man’s eyes had seen.
“Wait the hell up!”
McArthur stopped in his tracks and turned. Crawford was puffing his way across the snow, his snowshoes throwing up little clouds of white in the moonlight.
“I ain’t stayin’ in that rickety cabin. Not with that thing out here. I’d just as soon have me some company out under the stars when it pulls my head off and spits down my windpipe.”
McArthur nodded, turned back to following the tracks. They had not gone far when they found McArthur’s mule, Clancy. Its head had been twisted around at an odd angle. The supplies that had been trapped to its back were tossed about and partially covered by snow.
Not far from where Clancy lay, they found what was left of Mick. The animal’s head was gone and generous portions of meat had been ripped from its rump.
“Had him a snack,” Crawford said.
McArthur clenched the Sharps, turned back to following the tracks. Crawford came close behind.
The forest grew thick about them, and had the great beast not gone before them, slapping down brush and uprooting trees, clearing a path for itself, it would have been hard going indeed. Now, in fact, the path was easy to follow. Too easy, thought McArthur, but by that time they had come to the end of the trail. Thick trees lay in front of them and on either side.
“You thinkin’ what Pm thinkin’?” Crawford said.
“I’m thinking it laid a mighty easy trail to follow, and now it’s gone into the woods and is doubling back.”
“Figures we can’t move through the trees as well as it can.”
“Probably figures right. Big as it is, it still moves like a ghost.”
“Nearby, I reckon. I think maybe we ought to do a fast melt before …”
But it was too late. Suddenly a small spruce crashed down on McArthur’s left, whipped across and knocked Crawford off his feet. And there was the beast.
It didn’t have Snowflake with it, just its naked fury. It stood eight feet tall. Saliva dripped from its knifelike teeth and its eyes were fiery points of hate. Its odor was overwhelming. A small spot of red glistened on the beast’s forehead where McArthur had shot it earlier. It looked no worse than his own wounded forehead.
McArthur jerked up his Sharps and fired. He thought he had at least hit the creature’s right shoulder, but it stepped forward anyway, took hold of McArthur by the head and started to lift.
Crawford rolled to his feet, lifted his rifle and fired at the back of the thing’s head. “Take that!” he yelled. The shot was on target, but the thick fur, flesh, and bone stopped the 550-grain bullet as if it were a gnat. It was a shot that would have dropped a grizzly or a bull buffalo dead in its tracks.
But it only got the creature’s attention. It wheeled, dropped McArthur and went for Crawford. Crawford dove for the thicket, squirmed his way into the brush.
The creature stepped forward, and grasping a pair of small pines in the crook of either arm, uprooted them and tossed them aside.
Crawford scrambled back farther into the brush, crawling on hands and knees, dragging the Sharps after him.
McArthur stumbled to his feet and attempted to pull his pistol from his belt. His Sharps lay somewhere in the snow. He had the Colt worked loose when the creature turned back to him.
McArthur fired twice. The bullets could have been fleas for all the creature noticed them. Turning to run, McArthur found that he could not get through the thick trees. The cradle board held him.
The beast reached for him, took hold of the cradle board and ripped it free of McArthur’s back. McArthur kept moving forward, into the trees. The creature held the cradle board high above its head, and raising its angry face to the heavens, bellowed like a bull buffalo, loud enough to shake down the moon.
Turning, holding the child gently beneath one arm, the beast swatted aside trees and brush, made a new path for itself, disappeared into the gloom.
McArthur recovered his rifle and reloaded. He replaced the bullets in his revolver, looked down the jagged trail of broken trees and trampled brush, watched the darkness where he had last seen the beast.
“A mite bad-tempered, ain’t he?” Crawford said, edging out of the trees.
McArthur ignored him, started in the direction the creature had gone.
“Hey,” Crawford said. “Give it up.”
McArthur kept moving forward, traveling at a half-trot now. Cursing, Crawford began to follow.
They had not gone far when they found Snowflake. She stumbled out of the trees and into McArthur’s arms. Immediately she began to scream and fight, but after a moment she realized it was McArthur and not the creature.
In Sioux McArthur asked her what had happened. She quickly explained in broken Sioux that the beast had reached her into the uppermost branches of a small pine, and then, tearing all the lower branches off, had deserted her, probably intending to come back for her later. Snowflake had managed to jump into a snowbank. The next thing she knew she was stumbling into McArthur’s arms. But the one thing that concerned her most was her child.
Grimly McArthur told her, gestured to where the creature had disappeared. In the next instant Snowflake was running, and McArthur and Crawford ran with her.
The creature was easy to follow for a while. It had made no effort to hide its trail. Its massive footprints were everywhere, as were uprooted and knocked-aside trees. But soon they came to a clearing where the trees ended and the bare rocks tumbled off and down into what seemed like blue black infinity.
“I don’t like the looks of this place none,” Crawford said. “That blessed thing is smart. Woods behind us, canyon in front of us, narrow rock path left and right… . Naw, I don’t like it at all. Could be another trap.”
McArthur had bent down close to the ground to look for a sign. Even in the moonlight he could see none.
“Could have gone either way,” McArthur said. “I think we should spread out. You go left, we’ll go right. You game?”
Crawford shook his head, but said, “Ah, why the hell not. I ain’t been actin’ much smarter than a pig’s ass up till now, so why not get et like, one?”
McArthur took Snowflake’s arm and they went right. Crawford went left, moving along the edge of the canyon rim.
The sky was clouding up again, covering the moon so that it looked like a filmed-over eye. McArthur looked to his left, looked out into the darkness of the canyon, thought of the forever-fall down and shivered.
After a while of moving at a fast trot, McArthur stopped to examine for a sign again. There was none that he could see. He decided that the creature had most likely gone the other direction.
Crawford couldn’t believe his luck. He found the cradle board complete with baby before he had gone a hundred yards. It hung from a low limb where the creature had wrapped one of the straps about it. The furs had come undone around the little creature’s face and Crawford could see its features distinctly. It looked much more human to him at a second glance.
Unfastening the cradle board, Crawford whispered, “You’re gonna make me rich, little critter.”
Crawford tied one of the straps back together and swung it over his left shoulder, leaving his gun arm free. “Tough luck, McArthur. I’m headin’ for the Wild West show.”
As Crawford moved off he saw huge footprints in the snow. The creature was circling back, moving toward where McArthur and Snowflake were.
Crawford considered the situation for a moment, then said aloud, “I didn’t want to go chasin’ after no damn Injun in the first place.”
Turning, Crawford started away from the tracks.
McArthur and Snowflake were about to turn back down the trail when they heard a voice saying repeatedly, “Take that, take that, take that, take that . . It was Crawford’s voice, and it sounded as if he had gone plumb loco.
“Come,” McArthur said. “Hoppo!”
“Take that, take that, take that, take that,” the voice continued.
McArthur moved toward the sound, Snowflake trailing close behind. A ridge of snow lay before them; at its crest were two stubby pines. The voice seemed to be coming from there, or just over the rise.
Upwards McArthur went, over the snow-covered rocks. Snowflake came on close behind him.
And suddenly the snow between the two scrubby pines burst upwards and expanded … and proved to not be snow at all, but the creature.
McArthur understood too late. The voice had been the creature’s. It had merely imitated Crawford’s words back when it first ambushed them, imitated them in the way it imitated other animals. Then, crouching down against the snow, blending in, it had waited.
The beast raised its arms high above its head, a great stone in its hands. The stone flew as if launched from a catapult. McArthur stepped nimbly aside, but the stone hit Snowflake in the chest, carried her back and down the ridge. She hit on her back, and still clutching the stone, she began to roll. Head over heels she went, right over the edge of the cliff and out into the maw of the canyon, down into pitch blackness.
She screamed once.
The creature screamed as if in anguish.
“Bastard,” McArthur yelled, and he brought up the Sharps. He avoided aiming for the head. He had learned his lesson there. The rifle went off and the shot hit the creature in the throat.
The beast gurgled, stumbled back, but regained its footing. It looked more furious than hurt. Flashing its huge teeth in the weak moonlight, it came charging down the rise.
McArthur grabbed the Sharps by the barrel and flung it. It bounced off the creature’s chest like a twig, didn’t slow the beast at all.
The creature swung its razor-sharp claws.
McArthur tried to step back, but the snowshoes sent him off balance. He couldn’t quite get away from the claws. They ripped across his chest, sending waves of agony through his body. The snow in front of him was suddenly sprinkled with red.
McArthur dropped to one knee.
The beast raised its huge arm for another swipe, when abruptly thunder filled the air and the beast threw back its head and screamed.
Crawford, the baby still slung on the cradle board across his left shoulder, stood at the top of the rise, his Sharps pointed down. His shot had hit the creature in the small of the back and penetrated deeply, but not deep enough.
The beast turned, and as before was attracted to its immediate tormenter. It began climbing the rise at a run.
Crawford drew his revolver, and as the beast climbed upwards, stumbling a bit now, he took steady aim and fired a shot directly into the creature’s left eye. The animal’s head jerked back.
“Come and get it, Wooly-Bugger,” Crawford snarled. In rapid succession he emptied his revolver into the beast. But still it came.
Crawford dropped the cradle board off his arm, tossed aside his revolver and drew his Bowie. The creature grabbed at him, but Crawford avoided the arms, jumped straight into the creature. He grasped the thick fur at the creature’s chest with one hand, locked his legs around its waist. With the other hand he drove the Bowie into the beast repeatedly. It was like trying to stick a needle through a half-dozen bear hides lumped together.
The beast clutched Crawford to its chest, began to squeeze. Crawford’s hands were now pinned and he could no longer strike. His brain filled with the awful odor of the creature and he began to fall away into darkness.
McArthur, seeing through a haze, drew his revolver and half-stumbled, half-ran up the rise. When he was less than six feet away he began to fire into the creature, hitting in and around the wound Crawford had made in the small of the thing’s back.
The creature staggered, dropped Crawford. Crawford rolled halfway down the rise and stopped rolling. He didn’t move.
The beast turned slowly to face McArthur and his empty revolver. Blood covered its face, dripped off its fur. Even in the cloudy moonlight, McArthur could see that one eye was gone.
The creature roared, staggered.
McArthur pushed two shells into the revolver, but before he could fire the beast stumbled back and fell, landing directly on top of the cradle board, driving it deep into the snow.
McArthur went down to Crawford. The man was breathing but it sounded like wind whistling through a hollow rock.
McArthur knew as well as Crawford that ribs had punctured a lung.
Crawford grinned with his black, now bloodstained teeth. “Should of went ahead and run off,” he said. “Could of made a lot of money … Wild West Show. But … but you’re a mountain man, same … same as me.”
And then the life went out of Crawford’s eyes.
High up there in the Black Hills McArthur left them to the wind, the sky, the sun, the snow—where their bones would mingle with those of all the other creatures of the wild Dakotas.
BARNEY’S BIGFOOT MUSEUM
BY
RICHARD LAYMON
Those sections of the Pacific Northwest and British Columbia where there have been large numbers of Bigfoot sightings attract equally large numbers of Bigfoot hunters every year. These adventurous individuals are either scientifically minded, intent on studying rather than harming the creatures, or mercenary-minded and bent on capturing or killing a Sasquatch for profit. Nearly all such hunters come away disappointed, without having seen so much as a single Bigfoot track; but every now and then, one or a small group of them will get lucky. Or un lucky, as in the case of a certain foursome led by a man named Hodgson.
