develop into a creature literally mad-drunk with oxygen. This theory would account for the mythical werewolf’s strength and apparent mindlessness. It would also account for its surpassing interest in the Moon. The power they gain from the sight of their home planet may be nothing more than a home-sickness and rage that grows with the apparent growth of the Moon in the Earth’s sky.” Doc rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps our own Earth wolf was the result of some long ago crossbreeding of Moon wolf and dog—”
The van lurched, went on, then hesitated again. A series of hesitations ended with the van rolling to a stop.
“Shit,” Pettis said.
We had stopped in an area flanked by gently sloping hills covered with files of the kind of tall cactus you see in western movies. Nature had acted like Johnny Appleseed, spacing each plant a couple of yards from its neighbor to share meager water resources. These natural rows of cactus were pleasing to look at. They also provided plenty of hiding places for wolves.
“I’ll cover you, Cowboy,” I said.
We got out. It didn’t take Pettis long to find the trouble. He didn’t even have to open the hood. A wet line of gasoline trailed behind us, turning to a drying trickle under the van about halfway down the body.
“Bastards cut the fuel line,” Cowboy said, yanking the thin, neatly sliced hose from the underside for my inspection. He slammed the side of the van with his palm. “I thought the gas gauge was just stuck on empty,” he said.
“Well?” Doc asked, putting his head out of the rolled-down window and wincing at the heat.
“We walk,” Pettis said. Immediately, he went to the back of the van, opened the doors, and began to unload equipment.
In five minutes we had left the van behind a sloping rise, and the heat had stolen the memory of air- conditioning.
“I estimate eighty degrees. Pretty hot for December, but the humidity’s not too bad,” Wyatt said dryly. “Your turn to estimate, Cowboy. How far to the base?”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t ask,” Pettis replied. He hefted the pack filled with our food up higher on his back. “We’ve got about thirty miles.” He looked like he wanted to hit something. “Another of my screw-ups. I didn’t check the odometer before we left.”
“When we drove away from the observatory it read twenty-nine thousand, thirty-four,” Doc piped in. “When we left the van just now, twenty-nine thousand, one hundred forty-two.”
Cowboy turned with a big smile. “Thanks, Doc. We’ve got a little more than twenty miles to go.” He looked at his watch. “It’s eleven-fifteen; if we haul our butts we can make it easily by nightfall.”
“What if we don’t haul our butts?” Wyatt grinned.
Cowboy didn’t return the smile. “We die.”
CHAPTER 21
The Apparition
We hauled our butts. It was hot, but the air was so dry that walking wasn’t all that debilitating. We had plenty of water, and stopped every half hour to take one swallow apiece.
By one o’clock, the low hills had thickened and risen. “The Palmera Mountains,” Pettis announced. “It’s a thin ridge, with nothing but flat desert beyond. There could be wolves in there, and I don’t want to stop if we can help it. If we slog through another hour and a half we’ll be back to flat land and can stop to eat.”
Doc was breathing rapidly, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. “I don’t know about another hour and a half, Cowboy.”
“Come on, Doc,” Cowboy gently ribbed. “I’ll even make you some tea for lunch.”
Doc tamped his handkerchief into his pocket. “All right, Cowboy. I’ll try.”
We marched, and the mountains drew together before us. In front, Pettis kept glancing up at a particular ridge. I began to watch it also. I thought I detected movement once or twice, the rise and fall of a head. But I couldn’t be sure.
“You see something up there, Cowboy?” I asked.
He grunted. “Nothing I could pin a medal on.” But he kept looking that way.
An hour into our trek, as the mountains began to thin out and lower to hills, Doc came gasping to a halt.
“Got…to…rest,” he wheezed.
Grudgingly, Pettis agreed. “Will a few minutes do it, Doc?”
Doc shook his head. “Sorry, Cowboy. That won’t…do it.”
“I’m pretty hungry myself,” Wyatt remarked, and Amy nodded in agreement.
Cowboy looked for my vote. I said, “I notice you’ve still got your eye on that ridge up to the right.”
He nodded, scratching his chin. “Still can’t be sure…” He looked at Doc, who hadn’t improved, and added, “All right, we’ll eat now.
We camped near a weak stand of cottonwoods close to the highway. Cowboy opened a can of peach halves for himself, then moved away from us into a clearing. I waited until the can opener came around to me, then joined him.
“What are you so worried about?” I asked, spooning fruit cocktail.
“We’re moving too slow. The first hour we covered pretty good ground, but we’ve been slowing down steadily since. Not only that, but I’m pretty damn sure we’re being followed.”
“Why haven’t we been attacked?”
“I don’t know.”
“How many of them are there?”
“I’m not sure. But however many there are, they’ve been drawing closer.” He finished the last of his peaches and tossed the can away. “I don’t like it.”
We rejoined the others. Doc eyed Cowboy expectantly, a thin smile on his face. He looked much recovered. “I can wait for that tea, Cowboy. Sorry about the delay.”
“I needed a rest myself, Doc. But we’re going to have to pick up the pace if we’re going to get to Kramer before dark.”
“I understand.”
“All right,” Pettis said, “let’s get moving.”
“Dad,” Amy said hesitantly, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
“You don’t have to ask permission, Amy.”
“I…need a little privacy.”
“I don’t want you going away,” Cowboy said.
“There’s some brush over there,” she answered, pointing to a spot ten yards up the slope of the mountain.
Reluctantly, Pettis said, “Go on.”
She went. Like the fools all men are, we turned our backs to give her the privacy she wanted. Even her father glanced away for a moment, which was long enough. There was a blur of motion directly above the brush she was utilizing, followed by Amy’s scream.
“That’s far enough.”
Pettis stopped as a human figure stepped away from the brush, holding Amy with a long knife to her throat.
“Let’s everybody stay where we are,” the man said. He was sun-baked, his eyes wildly alert, his voice hysterically loud.
Pettis raised his Uzi to eye level, sighting down the barrel.
“I don’t think you want to do that,” the man said. The blade of the knife was pressed firmly to Amy’s throat. “You shoot me, I’m likely to fall back and cut half this little girl’s head off before I hit the ground.”
“Then let her go,” Pettis stated calmly.
“Not likely, friend,” the man replied. He began to edge up the slope, taking Amy with him. “Truth is, I’m doing you all a favor. Saving my own skin in the bargain.”
