too. Blood.
He rode on, ignoring the instinct to turn around and go the other way. He'd heard moans of agony before—had caused them on numerous occasions—but there was something off about these. They sounded other-worldly. Ghost-like.
There had always been talk, since the first white settlers had come to this territory, of things haunting the dark pines at night. The demonic ghosts of savage Indians, some folks said. Preying on lone travelers, swooping down upon them in the darkness and scalping them alive. And the man in gray thought,
Well, so what? It doesn't take a ghost to scalp someone. A living Indian can do that just as well.
But the sharp tang of blood in the air, and the sad moaning, like the hopeless cries of the damned, made him feel decidedly less flippant about it.
The man was called Hawthorne. He was tall and lean in the saddle, a severe figure in a gray frock coat, somewhere between thirty and forty years old. His long, sharp face hadn't seen a razor in several days. The eyes that gleamed under the brim of his hat were gray and impassive.
He had tracked sign left by his quarry to a mining camp twenty miles back. The man he hunted had boarded the train there, the locals said, headed south. And so Hawthorne pursued.
Another hundred yards along the tracks, cutting a curving path through the pines, and the moaning was unmistakable now, although it was coming sporadically. The horse was becoming harder to control, pulling against the reins, reluctant to go forward. Hawthorne planted his spurs in the animal's sides and, head down, it obeyed.
Horse and rider came around a curve, and Hawthorne spotted something in the middle of the tracks. At first glance it looked like a small animal, mangled by a train. But the closer he drew to it, the more it resembled what it actually was.
A body part. A human body part.
The moaning sounded again, somewhere farther along the tracks. Hawthorne dismounted, took the nervous horse's reins so it wouldn't bolt, and walked it closer. It was almost full dark now, and the dim light from the moon filtered flickering shadows through the pine trees. Hawthorne knelt down to examine the thing on the tracks.
A human arm, severed roughly at the elbow. The flesh of it was white, but blood still dripped from the stump. It showed no signs of attention from scavengers yet.
Hawthorne picked it up by the hand, surprised that it still felt fairly pliant. The fingers were long and lean, a woman's fingers. There was a gold ring on the index finger.
He glanced up the tracks, his gray eyes going hard. He knew it was unlikely that any of this had anything to do with the man he hunted, and he toyed very briefly with the idea of letting it go, of not getting involved in it.
But he knew he couldn't do that. There was a smoldering anger in Hawthorne all the time, a rage just under his surface, and the victimization of the innocent sparked that rage and turned it into a blazing fire. There was something evil at work here, and he could not rest now until it was burned away from the earth forever.
In his hand, the arm twitched.
He dropped it and it thudded on the tracks, twitched again, and the fingers spasmed crazily and grabbed his boot.
Hawthorne grunted in surprise, almost fell. He tried to shake the arm off, but it clung tight, with all the strength of a living limb. He reached down and gripped it by the wrist, wrenched it off. The fingers curled and uncurled, groping. He threw it into the trees.
He heard it thud against a pine in the darkness, and then the rustle of dead needles. He heard it dragging itself laboriously through the underbrush, away and into the night like a rat.
For a long moment, he stood there staring into the dark where he'd thrown the arm, letting the horror of what he'd just seen wash away from him. The moaning from up the tracks became more and more insistent.
He took a deep breath and looked around for the horse. It had wandered off down the tracks. He caught up to
He rode on, ignoring the instinct to turn around and go the other way. He'd heard moans of agony before—had caused them on numerous occasions—but there was something off about these. They sounded other-worldly. Ghost-like.
There had always been talk, since the first white settlers had come to this territory, of things haunting the dark pines at night. The demonic ghosts of savage Indians, some folks said. Preying on lone travelers, swooping down upon them in the darkness and scalping them alive. And the man in gray thought,
Well, so what? It doesn't take a ghost to scalp someone. A living Indian can do that just as well.
But the sharp tang of blood in the air, and the sad moaning, like the hopeless cries of the damned, made him feel decidedly less flippant about it.
The man was called Hawthorne. He was tall and lean in the saddle, a severe figure in a gray frock coat, somewhere between thirty and forty years old. His long, sharp face hadn't seen a razor in several days. The eyes that gleamed under the brim of his hat were gray and impassive.
He had tracked sign left by his quarry to a mining camp twenty miles back. The man he hunted had boarded the train there, the locals said, headed south. And so Hawthorne pursued.
Another hundred yards along the tracks, cutting a curving path through the pines, and the moaning was unmistakable now, although it was coming sporadically. The horse was becoming harder to control, pulling against the reins, reluctant to go forward. Hawthorne planted his spurs in the animal's sides and, head down, it obeyed.
Horse and rider came around a curve, and Hawthorne spotted something in the middle of the tracks. At first glance it looked like a small animal, mangled by a train. But the closer he drew to it, the more it resembled what it actually was.
A body part. A human body part.
The moaning sounded again, somewhere farther along the tracks. Hawthorne dismounted, took the nervous horse's reins so it wouldn't bolt, and walked it closer. It was almost full dark now, and the dim light from the moon filtered flickering shadows through the pine trees. Hawthorne knelt down to examine the thing on the tracks.
A human arm, severed roughly at the elbow. The flesh of it was white, but blood still dripped from the stump. It showed no signs of attention from scavengers yet.
Hawthorne picked it up by the hand, surprised that it still felt fairly pliant. The fingers were long and lean, a woman's fingers. There was a gold ring on the index finger.
He glanced up the tracks, his gray eyes going hard. He knew it was unlikely that any of this had anything to do with the man he hunted, and he toyed very briefly with the idea of letting it go, of not getting involved in it.
But he knew he couldn't do that. There was a smoldering anger in Hawthorne all the time, a rage just under his surface, and the victimization of the innocent sparked that rage and turned it into a blazing fire. There was something evil at work here, and he could not rest now until it was burned away from the earth forever.
In his hand, the arm twitched.
He dropped it and it thudded on the tracks, twitched again, and the fingers spasmed crazily and grabbed his boot.
Hawthorne grunted in surprise, almost fell. He tried to shake the arm off, but it clung tight, with all the strength of a living limb. He reached down and gripped it by the wrist, wrenched it off. The fingers curled and uncurled, groping. He threw it into the trees.
He heard it thud against a pine in the darkness, and then the rustle of dead needles. He heard it dragging itself laboriously through the underbrush, away and into the night like a rat.
For a long moment, he stood there staring into the dark where he'd thrown the arm, letting the horror of what he'd just seen wash away from him. The moaning from up the tracks became more and more insistent.
He took a deep breath and looked around for the horse. It had wandered off down the tracks. He caught up to
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