Hill waited for the larger shadow to appear, his rifle muzzle probing along the edge of the hollow.
With a screech of aluminum and crunch of foliage, the helicopter was pulled out of the trees behind him. Hill whirled around. He got off one shot as the rock caught him squarely in the forehead. His last thought was a hope that Jason would take the shot as a warning.
Jason was fast approaching the wreck when the shot brought him to a full stop. “Hill? Curtis?” he said tensely into the walkie-talkie.
The dog was whining. Jason heard the loam being thrashed around. The copter was only twenty yards ahead of him, but he was in a quandary. That single shot could have killed the thing. Hill was an experienced hunter who knew better than to waste ammunition. Nevertheless, wouldn’t he have emptied his rifle into it?
Jason slipped under the thick protective foliage of a spruce. Quietly, so as not to crush any needles, he lay full length over the roots and inched outward until the drooping needles of the tree scratched his neck. He flexed the muscles of his body until the blood sang under his skin.
The dog emerged from a line of trees ahead, its nose buried in the brush, searching out a new, possibly threatening scent. There was no sign of Hill or Curtis anywhere.
Jason waited for the other creature, his front sight fixed squarely on the dog, which made irritated little yips. Then the spruce foliage was swept away like a curtain opening and a foot kicked the rifle out of his hands. Another kick, in the ribs, rolled Jason over onto his back.
In the second before the lazily swinging rifle butt connected with his head, Jason impacted every detail of the stranger into his memory. Above a thin, dirty, corduroy-trousered leg and a torn Army jacket was an expressionless Indian face with onyx eyes. A leather sack was tied to his waist beside a bowie knife in a handmade sheath. His clothes were torn by thousands of encounters with thorns, and his moccasins were unraveling at the seams. He was young, not past thirty, with black hair as thick as coiled cables tied in a knot in back.
Even after the rifle butt burst the night into falling galaxies, a small part of Jason’s mind scuttled to a quiet haven, bearing that Indian with it.
The dog tore off a mouthful of the white man’s jacket. The Indian drove it off with his rifle. Having just saved his spirit from some kind of disaster by shooting down the helicopter, he did not want the dog interfering.
He peered at the white man’s motionless form. This could be a test sent by the gods. If so, the body would shimmer into nothingness as soon as he turned away.
He stirred the hand with his rifle barrel. It was limp. He had hit him solidly with the rifle. Unless the white man was exceptionally hard-headed, the Indian was sure he was dead. If he were real, that is. A bullet was the only way to be sure. The Indian stepped back, cocking his rifle. He pointed it at Jason’s neck.
The giant loomed up between the trees and halted some distance away. The Indian’s emotions boiled to a pitch of agonized expectancy. He had not seen it since the first night. Not this closely. Surely he would get his name now. Now . . . now . . .
Hands clenching and unclenching, the giant waited. Waves of fetidness poured forth from his body. The Indian’s senses had been honed to a steely edge by weeks of living in the woods, but no eyesight except Owl’s could discern the features of a spirit in woods this deep. His great shovel feet crushed the wood in his path.
Then, with a hurricane of thrashing branches, the giant slipped sideways between two spruces. The Indian felt the faintest tremor of his passing. Finally the disturbed boughs ceased shaking.
The Indian took a handful of corn from his medicine bundle and chewed it. “What did I do this time?” His voice was calm.
The dog’s whimper changed to a growl as its yellow eyes went to the rifle butt. Understanding was a flashbulb that lit up the Indian’s mind.
“He’s afraid of guns!”
He set the rifle against a tree. The dog seated itself and wagged its tail. The Indian was amazed. It really was a hell of time to tell him that. “He’s a spirit. Guns can’t hurt spirits. Can they?” The Indian had gotten into the habit of talking to himself.
Now he recalled that back in the Mission Range the spirit had set down his rock after the Indian had laid the rifle against a tree. The dog spoke the truth. The spirit feared guns.
