flew up over the ridge, but the meadow on the other side was a pool of fog.
“Okay,” Stinger said. “Let’s go back to the ridge. I saw a place where I can set this baby down.”
At the last minute, Frank did end up closing his eyes, and was thankful that Stinger was too caught up carrying off the tricky landing to notice his momentary loss of nerve.
“Jesus, Stinger,” Jack said.
“You think I was gonna trim the trees, Chicken Little?”
“No, I thought they were going to trim us. I’m not as tired of life as you seem to be.”
The dogs might have been veteran helicopter riders, but Frank noticed that they both seemed happy to be on the ground. They stayed close to him; every few moments they would venture a few feet away, peer out uneasily into the fog, sniff the air, and come back to him. He had been discussing a plan of action with the others, and only now did he notice that Dunk’s hackles were raised and that the dog was growling softly.
“Hey!” he called to the others, and they looked over at him from near the cargo door. He motioned them to silence.
Both dogs were standing with stiff legs and tails now, ears pitched forward, listening. Everyone was watching them except Stinger. He had hurried into the cabin of the helicopter.
When he came back out, he had a shotgun. “There’s another one in there if anyone wants one,” he whispered. “You probably have a fine enough handgun in that shoulder holster, Frank, but I’m gettin’ old, so I like something that doesn’t require such nice aim.”
Stinger looked at Travis, who shook his head, and at Jack, who smiled.
“Still a knife man?” Stinger whispered.
Jack nodded.
Stinger shook his head.
“Could just be a squirrel or something,” Frank whispered, but opened his jacket.
They heard twigs snapping, the sound of footsteps.
Dunk started barking; Deke joined him.
“Hush!” Jack said, and was obeyed instantly.
Good thing Jack gave the command, Frank thought, unsnapping his holster. The dogs were notoriously unruly around their true owners.
The footsteps came closer.
By silent consensus, the group moved to take cover, Jack putting Travis behind him. Frank called softly to the dogs, but they ignored him.
He was thinking of moving out to grab them, when he saw the vague form of a man — or a woman — he couldn’t be sure — coming closer. Stinger chambered a round. “Could be one of our own!” Frank warned.
“Who’s there?” the misty figure called out. A man. Frank didn’t know the voice. Stinger was looking at him, read that lack of recognition, and raised the shotgun.
“I don’t know all of them!” Frank said desperately. “For God’s sake, calm down.”
“Who are you?” Frank called back.
The man halted, then suddenly turned and ran away.
“Stop!” Frank called out. “Stop!”
The man kept moving — they could hear him crashing through the brush.
Frank turned to Stinger. “You and Travis, stay here!” he ordered. “Jack, come with me.”
He didn’t wait to see if he was being obeyed. He moved after the noise, once glancing back to see Jack behind him. The dogs took up the chase, and moved ahead of him, but stayed within sight.
There was a strange thudding sound, and then the man screamed — a scream of pure, unadulterated terror. Frank ran faster.
A few moments later, the man came into view. The dogs had halted, ears back, tails tucked down. The man was still screaming, and batting wildly at something, like a child whose face had been caught in a large spiderweb — batting at strange shapes dangling from a tree.
Christ! he thought, they looked like dogs — no, no, not dogs. Coyotes. They were jerking and swaying, bouncing off the man and swinging back, until the man suddenly dropped to his knees, huddling beneath them, curled up in a protective ball.
For a moment, Jack and Frank stood frozen in place, horrified by the sight of a dozen dead coyotes swaying and thudding into one another, some breaking as they collided.
It was Dunk who moved ahead, while Deke stayed back with Frank — Dunk who whined and cautiously sniffed at the huddled man.
The figure raised his head, and Frank saw the haggard face of a young man — a terror-stricken man, but one who had not just this moment become afraid. He wasn’t looking at Frank or Jack, but at the dog.
“Bingle?” he asked, as if experiencing a miracle.
Frank relaxed a little, but still approached cautiously.
“That’s Dunk,” he said easily, moving a little closer. “But I know Bingle. I’ve worked with him. I’m Frank — what’s your name?”
