The opening was as big as the Woodrows’ cabin. Sunlight barely penetrated. There was enough, though, to reveal the bones and animal forms that littered the cave floor.
Dismounting, Nate edged closer, placing each moccasin with care. He heard nothing to indicate the cave was occupied. They might be crouched in the shadows, waiting to rush out and overwhelm him before he could get off a shot. But nothing came out of the cave except the most awful reek. A stench so foul, Nate covered his mouth and nose. He held his breath for as long as he could and breathed shallow when he had to.
Stopping near the cave entrance, Nate listened. The silence of the tomb prevailed. Acting on the assumption they were in there, he sought to lure them out into his gun sights.
“I’ve found your lair! Show yourselves!”
Nothing stirred within.
“What’s the matter? You killed those Blackfeet. Now try me, and we’ll end this.”
Continued silence. Nate might as well have addressed the cliff. Poking his head into the opening, he tried to tell how far back in the cave went. An odd buzzing caught his ear, and something small and dark alighted on his cheek. He swatted at it, and a fly took wing. A fly that was just one of hundreds—if not thousands—swarming over the grisliest of feasts. Nate had noticed a few others on the remains he passed, but nothing like this. The newest kills were covered with them. And those not covered with flies were crawling with maggots.
Nate’s breakfast tried to climb up out of his stomach.
Ordinary bloodletting seldom bothered him. But this was different; this was slaughter on a scale that shook the soul. He started to pull back, and saw a foot. It jutted out of the black recess, a moccasin, half-on and half-off. He assumed it belonged to another Blackfoot until he realized how white the skin was. “Ryker?” he blurted, and felt foolish for doing so.
Nate had to make certain. Taking a deep breath, he darted into the cave. Maggots crunched under-foot. Flies rose in thick clouds, clinging to his hair and neck and buckskins. One got up his nose. An involuntary sneeze expelled it, and then he was next to the foot. Bending, he gripped the ankle, and pulled to drag the body into the light. The skin had a parchmentlike quality that told him the body couldn’t possibly be Ryker. This was an old kill. He kept on pulling anyway.
The dead man, or what was left of him, matched the description Nate had been given of Sullivan Woodrow. Sully’s nose was gone and the cheeks had been chewed on, and empty sockets gaped where the eyes should be, but there could be no mistake.
Placing his arm over the lower half of his face to ward off the stink and the flies, Nate backed out. He couldn’t take the abomination any longer. Hurrying to the bay, he mounted and headed back the way he came. He was doubled over, wrestling with his stomach, when a rock sailed out of the woods and struck him on the shoulder.
Instantly he brought up the Hawken, but no one was there.
“Not me you don’t,” Nate said, reining sharply into the trees. He plunged through brush and circled thickets. He looked behind trees. He looked up in trees. But he found no one.
Frustrated, Nate headed for the cabin. He hadn’t liked leaving Aggie and the girls alone. The things that slew the four warriors would have no trouble slaying a woman and two girls.
Glimpses of the chimney spurred him on. He came up on the cabin from the rear and slowed as he drew near the corral. The horses still in the corral heard him and had their ears pricked, but when they saw it was him they didn’t whinny or stamp.
A low murmur brought Nate to a stop, someone speaking softly in a singsong voice, as if reciting poetry. It took him several seconds to recognize the voice. Puzzled, he quietly alighted and crept into the trees.
Philberta was on her knees next to a small mound of earth. Her back was to him, her head bowed.
Nate stopped. The mound must be the grave of the baby she lost. He was intruding on her private grief. Then he caught the words she was saying.
“Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Mama’s going to pluck you a mocking bird. And if that mocking bird won’t do, mama’s going to get a worm for you. And if that worm is covered with dirt, mama will wipe it with her skirt. And if that worm still won’t go down, mama will buy a goat from town. And if that goat you don’t like, mama will kill it with a spike.”
Nate was rooted in place.
“Hey, diddle, dinkety poppety pet. How I bet you wish we never met.” Bending, Philberta patted the mound. “It’s not my fault, my dear. Stomachs are stomachs, Sully always said. But now my Sully is dead, dead, dead.”
Nate wished he could see her face. He couldn’t tell if she was truly expressing sorrow—or something else.
“I have always liked them, you know. Lullabys and nursery rhymes. When I was a girl they were my very favorite things. I always made my mother sing Tome before I went to sleep, or else had her read a rhyme. I would have loved to do the same for you.”
Feeling foolish, Nate started to back away.
“I would have read to you. Or skinned a kitten and made mittens of the skin. Or stuck a needle in its eye so it would die, and chopped up the meat for kitten pie,” Philberta tittered. “Aren’t I just the silliest goose? I was never so tight but that I was loose.”
Nate froze.
“Birds of a feather flock together, and so will pigs and swine. Rats and mice will have their choice, and so will I have mine.”
Philberta abruptly stood. “A fond adieu to sweet little you.” She laughed, and merrily whirled, and seeing him, she recoiled as if she had been slapped. “What have we hear, my dear?”
For the life of him, Nate couldn’t think of what to say.
“An eavesdropper, I fear.”
Nate forced his mouth to move. “I’m sorry to intrude.”
“Did you find my Sully?”
“No,” Nate lied.
“Or my dear, sweet boys?”
Nate shook his head.
Philberta’s hands rose from her waist. In her right hand was a long-bladed knife. “I can’t say as I like that one little bit.”
Prelude
Nate King thought Philberta Woodrow was about to attack him. She had a certain gleam in her eyes, a gleam he had only ever seen in the eyes of warriors in the fierce heat of battle or in the eyes of wild beasts driven berserk. Instinctively he leveled the Hawken. “Don’t.”
Philberta stopped. She trembled slightly and the gleam faded. “Why Mr. King,” she said, as calmly as could be. “Why are you pointing that thing at me?”
Nate didn’t say anything.
“I’m sorry if I acted a little distraught. Visiting Esther’s grave always makes me near mad with grief. Surely you can understand?”
“Yes,” Nate admitted. He would feel the same if he lost either of his children. They were part of him, given life and form.
Philberta waggled the knife. “As for this thing, I didn’t think it wise to come unarmed. And Aggie needs the guns to protect the girls.”
“I’m surprised she let you come out at all.”
“Agatha isn’t my keeper,” Philberta said testily. “I had been cooped up inside so long, I needed air.” She gazed sadly down at the grave. “That, and I do so miss Esther. Granted, she came into this world dead.But she was my daughter, Mr. King. Had she lived, she would have been the light of my life. To think! A daughter, after all these years.” She appeared about to cry.
Nate quickly changed the subject. “How are Tyne and Anora holding up?”
Jerking her head away from the mound of dirt, Philberta said, “Remarkably well. Children adapt better than
