The sun shone brightly overhead as Henry rode through the desert. Ahead of him he saw dunes and cactus and tumbleweed. He could feel the heat of the sun on his face as it burned through him.

  Then he realized that, in his dream-like state, the heat that Henry thought he could feel was, in fact, the cold of the snow.

  He tried desperately to lift his face away from the burning cold, but his strength was gone and with it, the will to survive. Sleep. Henry wanted sleep more than anything else in the world.

  His brain seemed to be turning to mush. All the advice on survival he’d gleaned from the old-time trappers at the rendezvous meant nothing in these circumstances.

  Sleep was all that mattered. If he could sleep, maybe he’d wake up refreshed, stronger, able to continue.

  The winds whipped around his body and snow began to pile up over him. All the while, he could faintly hear a voice calling his name and the sound of the dog frantically digging.

  Then he heard nothing. Even before his eyes firmly closed, his hearing had gone and Henry fell into a death-sleep.

  From inside the warm cave, Mint could hear faint scratching noises rising over the sound of the wind.

  At first, all she had thoughts on was Henry coming back to rescue her. Nothing else seemed to matter. But her senses, inherited from past generations, told her not to be so gullible.

  Outside, there could be a bear lurking, disturbed from its winter sleep by the avalanche and now looking for somewhere else to hibernate.

  It could be wolves, with their keen sense of smell, trying to dig their way in and attack her and eat whatever they could scavenge.

  Mint calmed herself down, and reached into the large leather pouch that had belonged to her dead grandfather and took out his tomahawk.

  The wooden handle, still bearing the sweat stains of the man who was the last of her family, felt reassuring in her small hands as she gripped it tightly.

  Blood still stained the carved stone head of the tomahawk, testimony to the many battles her tribe had fought – both with other tribes and the ever-encroaching pale-faces.

  Tied to the top of the shaft with deer-skin hung two eagle feathers, symbolic of the position her grandfather had held in the tribe.

  The sounds of digging grew louder and with it, the noise of the howling gales outside. Mint shivered. She would defend her life and her possessions to the limit, of that she was certain. She also knew, way back in her memory, that if it was a bear, the tomahawk would be of little use.

  Crouched by the cave entrance, she waited to see what fate had in store for her.

  No more than thirty feet away from the slowly-freezing body of Henry Mullins, two wolves stood, peering with dark-yellow eyes at the scene being played out before them. One thing and one thing only, was on their feral minds – food – because food meant survival.

  Still, their fear of the other dog, and the uncertainty of their position and mistrust of each other, held them back. Their stomachs told them to attack, their brains told them otherwise.

  The scent of the man lying in the snow, filled their nostrils almost to distraction, but they were young and uncertain of their own capabilities.

  They knew they had to eat, eat anything, yet neither animal knew what to do next.

  The large dog that was digging through the snow sensed their presence and stopped. Raising his head, it sniffed the air, despite the howling wind; it caught their scent and recognized it immediately.

  Staring through the snow, the animal fixed its deadly gaze on the two wolves. Its mouth open, fangs exposed, it let out a low growl of warning that was whipped away by the wind.

  Turning slowly, never taking its eyes off the other two animals, it faced them.

  The two wolves moved slightly apart, blood still covered their snouts from their previous kill and they knew that in order to eat, they’d have to fight and kill their old leader, the animal that they’d followed for most of their short lives.

  Circling, keeping their distance, the two wolves made their move. The older, more experienced dog stood his ground, there would be no rash move made by him.

  With Henry’s body as the centre, the two younger wolves, each one snarling, fangs bared, the hair down their spine standing on edge like a razor-back pig.

  Slowly, they began to edge their way forward; each dog keeping a watchful eye on the other; the older dog turning his head from left to right in slow, mechanical movements.

  He seemed unworried as the two wolves closed to within ten feet either side of him. His thick, strong legs were planted firmly in the snow; he let out a blood-curdling yowl, which made the two younger wolves halt in their tracks.

  Doubt entered their minds – briefly – before hunger took control once more and both growled in response, but their growl was timid by comparison.

  Nevertheless, they edged forward once more, closing the gap between themselves and their prey in inches, rather than feet.

  Again, their progress was halted, as the old dog, who’d been in more tight corners than his adversaries had caught buck-rabbits, growled. This time the growl was low-pitched and menacing.

  A rush of blood, pangs of hunger, who knows what prompted one of the wolves to make a move. He darted forward seeing only the exposed neck of the older dog.

  But he wasn’t quick enough or careful enough. The old campaigner stood his ground and his vicious fangs clamped on to the neck of the on-rushing animal in a vice-like grip that only death would release.

  A high-pitched howl escaped the younger wolf’s mouth, a short howl, as oxygen was cut off; the dog could neither breathe in or out.

  Instead of joining the attack, the other inexperienced wolf stood and watched, biding his time. It seemed to him that, either way, there would be food available. Little did he realize that, if he’d attacked right then, not only would there be wolf meat to fill his belly, but the freezing man as well.

  Those thoughts never entered his brain. He stood, his long, pink tongue lolling to one side of his open, panting mouth.

  Watching.

  Watching and waiting.

  From inside the cave, Mint heard the growls plainly, even above the rattling noises of the wind.

  The tomahawk, still gripped tight enough to turn her knuckles white, was ready.

  Behind her, the small fire crackled as a twig ignited. To Mint, the sound seemed to echo round the small enclosure, making her jump involuntarily, almost letting the tomahawk clatter to the stone floor.

  Her breathing steadied down some and she regained composure and she, too, waited.

  Her eyes were fixed on the frozen wall of white that covered the cave entrance. Ice had formed where the heat from the fire had melted the hard-packed snow some, before re-freezing. It seemed, to Mint, to look exactly like a window she’d seen once as a child.

  The tribe had been crossing the plains further east, a journey they’d made since time began, following the buffalo. In the distance, a wisp of smoke spiralled into the air and the chief despatched three or four warriors to see what was out there.

  The scouting party returned, their tomahawks bloody and a scalp tied to each of their knife belts.

  They whooped, parading the bloodied trophies above their heads.

  Mint, not older than seven winters, followed the women out to the place where the smoke still rose.

  At the foot of an outcrop stood a small, wooden shack, the door wide open and swinging gently in the late autumn breeze.

  Already, buzzards were circling high overhead, the smell of death filling the air.

  The men took the horses and the rifles; the women took boots and clothing and food. Mint was sent inside to get pots and pans and anything else they could find a use for.

  Inside, at the rear of the small shack, Mint saw her first glass window. In it, as clear as daylight, was her own face.

  She screamed – but silently for fear of losing face – and ran from the shack, quickly in case anyone saw the panic in her eyes. She stood for a few moments, then turned and went back inside.

  The window was still there, and she could see herself mirrored in it, framed by the open door.

  She cursed herself for being so foolish. Walking straight up to the window, she touched it tentatively with one finger, expecting it to give, like the still waters of a pond or river.

  But it was hard and unforgiving. Her bemused face stared back at her.

  She wanted to take this window with her, but before she had time to ask if she could, was bundled out of the way by the rest of the women who had scavenged around the small shack, taking everything that could be carried.

  Outside once more, Mint stared through the front door at the glass windowpane as the braves set the shack ablaze.

  Her last vision of the glass was as it cracked and then seemed to explode as the hungry flames lapped up the dry lumber.

  She hadn’t thought about that day until now, as she sat on her haunches, staring at the ice, tomahawk gripped tightly, very tightly.

  The young wolf ceased struggling. Its lungs were fit to bursting and its body hung limply in the jaws of the older animal. Still he kept hold; making sure and never taking his eyes off the other dog.

  When he was certain that the young wolf was dead, he let the body drop to the ground. Then he howled. He howled rather like those braves did, showing off their trophies.

  An animal instinct told the older dog that the danger was over. He knew the other wolf wouldn’t attack now. He could see its slavering mouth, its tongue dripping saliva as the fresh kill filled its nostrils.

  Eat or be eaten, kill or be killed. That was the Law of the Wild.

  Turning his back on the drooling animal, the old dog began digging once more. He ignored both the man and the younger wolf; he knew what he must do, but for the life of him, he just plain didn’t know why.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Although only mid-afternoon, the thick, black clouds that scudded high over the mountain tops made it seem as if the day were about to end.

  Henry, vaguely conscious now and then, before drifting off into that sleep that his mind told him meant death, opened one freezing eyelid.

  What he saw neither filled him with fear nor dread or disgust. A wolf eating the still-warm remains of another animal right in front of his face.

  If he could have done, Henry would have shrugged. Nothing more. His eyelid closed, and he drifted off again.

  Henry didn’t see the other animal, the one that was frantically digging away at the hard-packed snow, sending a fine spray into the air to be whipped away by the wind. Even if he had, he would probably have shrugged at that, too.

  Fine flakes of snow began to fall, almost hail. Slowly, the flakes got bigger and the wind began to deposit them up against tree-trunks and rocks – and Henry.

  In less than five minutes, the fine snow-fall turned into another killer-blizzard, obliterating everything. There was no differentiation between sky and land anymore.

  It was a whiteout!

  The wind, armed now with heavy snow, made a sound that could wake the dead. The roar of the wind and was now accompanied by a pinging sound as ice, mixed with the snow, bounced off every surface.

  The dog, seemingly oblivious to the worsening conditions, carried on digging; its front paws scooping out snow to send it shooting backwards between his rear legs.

  It was as if the animal knew that every second counted.

  A knot of burning wood exploded gently in the campfire, the short, sharp crack echoed slightly in the small cave, enough to make Mint nearly jump out of her skin.

  She scolded herself silently, almost dropping the tomahawk in her near-panic.

  She could hear the wind howling outside, it seemed sharper now, and above the sound of the wind, the scratching, incessant and urgent.

  Whatever was out there would be through soon.

  For the first time, Mint thought of her pony. They’d been able to ride into the valley, but not out. The snow had been sudden and deep and both Mint’s pony, her grandfather’s pony, and Henry’s mule had been set free to forage for themselves.

  Mint regretted that decision, but had little choice in the matter. As things turned out, if she’d tethered the animals outside the cave, they’d be dead by now; cold and the avalanche would have taken care of them.

  At least now, being free, they had a chance, even if it were only a slim one.

  Mint shivered. It wasn’t the cold; it was the edge of fear creeping through her bones. The fear of the unknown. She’d already reasoned that if it was Henry digging his way in, he would have called her name by now, given her some sign that all was well.

  But the only sounds Mint could hear were the raging wind and the scraping.

  Using the last of the bigger branches, Mint thrust it half-way into the campfire. If it was a bear or wolf outside, sniffing out her scent as its next meal, she would use the flaming branch as another weapon. The tomahawk, she knew, would only be a last resort.

  Silently, she began chanting, invoking the spirits of her gods to help her; give her the strength and the courage to defeat whatever fate had in store for her.

  Another sound filled the cave. A sound that Mint recognized instantly, and it sent a fresh wave of terror down her spine.

  A dry, rasping rattle.

  Slowly, Mint turned away from the ice-window that she’d been staring at, watching and waiting for whatever appeared. Without moving her body, she scanned the floor of the cave, looking for the source of this new fear.

  From the rear of the cave, in a hole blacker than hell where the firelight couldn’t reach, she saw two yellow eyes staring blankly, coldly, at her. She couldn’t see the forked tongue slipping in and out between those deadly fangs, but she knew it was.

  She also knew that the knotty wood that had exploded in the fire had disturbed the hibernating, and the rattle told her what sort of snake it was.

  There was nowhere to hide now, nowhere to run; if the attacked her, she would have to be quicker.

  Calmly, moving slowly, Mint reached for the burning branch. Her one salvation was the fact that between her and the rattler, sat the campfire, and she intended to keep it that way.

  As she stared at those two devil-eyes, the head of the snake emerged from its lair. The firelight showed that pink tongue flicking incessantly; it reflected off the two large, venom-filled fangs.

  The scraping from outside momentarily distracted her and Mint, despite her predicament, allowed herself a wry grin. On one side the snake, behind her, what? A bear? A wolf? Henry?

  Shifting slightly so that the cave entrance was now to her right, and the campfire and snake to her left, Mint strained to keep her eyes on both sides at once. She quickly discovered that was impossible, as her eyes darted from one side to the other.

  The campfire was keeping the rattlesnake at bay, but Mint knew that once the snake felt threatened, it would take a lot to halt it.

  Besides, there was very little wood left, and the fire wouldn’t burn forever.

  The snake raised its head and in the glow of the fire she saw in those cold, dark eyes, no emotion, no vengeance or revenge, just self-preservation. She knew that the rattler would strike and then return to its lair and hibernation without a second thought.

  Holding the now-heavy tomahawk in her left hand, Mint thrust the burning branch towards the snake, it recoiled, but only slightly, and now, adding to the sounds she could hear – the scraping outside, the howling wind, the dead rattle – she heard the snake hiss.

  It was a gentle sound in comparison to the other noises, but it was a sound that filled her with dread.

  Still on her haunches, she watched as the snake uncoiled and began to slither towards her.

  As if guided by a sixth-sense, Henry opened one eye again. Snow and ice was stinging his face, but he didn’t notice. The hungry wolf was still attacking and eating the other animal and Henry’s ears felt, rather than heard the low-pitched growls of the feeding dog.

  With a great deal of effort matched only by his will power and need to survive, Henry found an inner strength.

  Slowly bringing up his good arm, Henry prised his face away from the icy tomb he was rapidly being buried in.

  Turning his head painfully, he saw the dog. The brightness that had affected his vision, had worn off and, although blurred, he could see the animal frantically digging through the hard-packed snow.

  Henry tried to raise his upper body, but he’d lost too much energy and strength in merely surviving this long. He lowered his head, breathing in through frozen lips and ice-encrusted nostrils, building his strength and determination.

  Then, the digging animal disappeared. One second it was there, the next it had just vanished!

  In its place Henry saw a small opening and fear gripped his belly. Not for himself, sudden realization hit him square between the eyes; it was the cave Mint was sheltering in.

  The landscape, mostly hidden now by the wild snow flurries, was alien to Henry. There were no markers, nothing to identify the place at all as the same one he’d left only the day before; the avalanche had seen to that.

  Mustering up hidden strength, Henry thrust out his good arm and pulled his numb body towards the opening. Inch by inch he neared and, as he did, could feel the warmth coming from the small hole in the snow.

  Then a light appeared, faint and flickering, but a light nonetheless.

  The glow stung his weak and watery eyes, and Henry began to think he’d gained salvation.

  Then he heard the terrifying growls and a high-pitched scream coming from inside the cave.

  He opened his mouth to call out, but no sound came. His mind was racing, but his mouth was voiceless. Filled now with a dread worse than he’d ever known, Henry pulled himself closer to the opening, knowing that there wasn’t a damn thing he could do, even if he got inside.

 

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