Night Wind Read online

  Paul lowered his fists. "Sorry." He nodded to the book. "So you like to read, too. Do those guys give you a hard time?"

  "I not only like to read," The boy said, "I'm going to be a writer someday and write books." He indicated the ones across the schoolyard who had pestered Paul. "They're stupid. Yeah, they used to pick fights with me. Mr. Tutwiler told them to stop or they'd get suspended. They were getting bored messing with me, anyway. They harassed you because you're new. They wanted to see what you'd do. You'll do okay."

  "I guess. So what's your name?"

  "Jared. Jared Philbin. I know your name. You're Paul. I heard Mrs. Cass introduce you in class. What are you reading?"

  Paul displayed the cover of the book he was reading. "I used to like westerns. Now I'm into science fiction."

  Jared showed scant interest once he saw that the book was science fiction. "I read horror. Stephen King is my favorite."

  Paul returned his attention to the boys who had confronted him. They stood grouped on the far side of the playground, joking among themselves.

  "Do you think I'll have any more trouble with them?"

  "Naw, they'll let you alone now that they know you can take care of yourself. You might even get to be friends with some of them, it just takes awhile with a new kid. Where'd you learn to fight anyway?"

  "I can't really fight. I was just lucky with that punch. Have you lived around here long?"

  "All my life. If you want to borrow some of my horror books, you can."

  "You can read my sci-fi books when I'm done with them, too."

  "No, thanks. I don't like reading about rocket ships and stuff. They're always on other planets, and all those machines bore me."

  "Hey, that's okay. I don't believe what happens in those scary books you read, either. Ghosts and monsters and stuff." Paul shook his head.

  "They're not all about ghosts and monsters," said Jared. "Sometimes they're about strange things that just sort of happen." A funny look came into Jared's eyes. A guarded look. He glanced around to make sure that no one could overhear them. "I know about a lot of things that go on around here that nobody else knows about," he confided.

  "Like what?" Paul had decided that he liked Jared. Even if they didn't read the same kind of books, at least Jared did read. In Chicago, all of Paul's friends liked to read.

  "Maybe I'll show you," Jared said. "You'll have to promise not to tell anyone."

  "What kind of stuff are we talking about? Not what happens in those horror books, I'll bet."

  "No, not like that. But you have to promise not to tell, anyway."

  "I won't tell."

  "Then I'll show you something tonight, if you want. Something real interesting."

  "Tonight? You mean tonight, after dark?"

  "Uh huh. Not afraid, are you?"

  "Not if you know where we're going. But I don't think my mom—"

  "You'll have to sneak out. I always do. What time does your mom make you go to bed?"

  "Ten."

  "Can you? Can you get away?"

  Paul thought about the sliding window over his bed. It would be easy. "I guess I could. Why does it have to be so late?"

  "You'll know that when I show you, if they're still there."

  "If who's still there?" Paul was already beginning to have second thoughts. "Will it be dangerous?"

  "Not if we're careful. You are afraid, aren't you?"

  "I'm not afraid if you aren't."

  "Well, I'm not afraid. But we do have to be careful. If we're not, then there could be a reason to be afraid."

  "Jared, are you pulling my leg?"

  Jared's expression was solemn. "No."

  "At least tell me what it is you're talking about. I won't tell anyone, I promise."

  "I'll show you tonight. After school, let's decide where to meet."

  "Okay. But why won't you tell me?"

  Jared hesitated. Then he smiled. "I will tell you something else."

  "What?"

  "It's about that house you and your mother live in."

  Chapter Eight

  Mike showed up for work at the County Clarion at precisely one o'clock that afternoon.

  Charlie Flagg was seated at his computer, his stubby fingers moving briskly across the keyboard. The bearded man in jeans and western shirt looked like he would have been more at home astride a horse or as a foreman on an oil rig. He paused in his typing, leaned back in his old-fashioned wooden swivel chair and stretched, popping at least a dozen joints in his shoulders and spine. He sighed contentedly, took a swig from a can of Diet Pepsi, and smiled.

  "So you've had the weekend to size up our little town. What do you think of it? Quiet enough for you?"

  Mike perched on the corner of the other desk in the office. "Devil Creek will suit me fine. Nice and quiet. I just hope there's enough going on for me to write articles about. Where'd the town get its name, by the way?"

  Charlie frowned. "I've talked to some of the real old timers about that. Folks don't talk much about it anymore. Matter of fact, I'd hazard to say most folks don't even know about it."

  "Know about what?"

  "Four hundred years ago there was a massacre along a creek, south of here. At least it was a creek in them days. Now it's just an old dry wash except when the rains come. An old Indian legend has it that a devil spirit settled over where the massacre occurred and has been there ever since. The legend, as I understand it, says the creek ran red with blood. The next day the creek dried up and it's stayed dry ever since. Been a dry creek bed for as long as anyone around here can remember. The name stuck. Most of the Indians are gone now, of course."

  "Four hundred years ago is too early for white settlers. It must have been Spaniards and Indians."

  "The story goes that the Spaniards discovered a vein of silver near here and forced the inhabitants of an Indian village to mine it for years until the vein ran out."

  "So, who massacred who?"

  "The Spaniards slaughtered the Indians—every person in the village: man, woman, and child. 'Course, four hundred years is a long time, so no one knows the real facts anymore. Shoot, maybe it never even happened. But old Gray Wolf thinks it did."

  "Who's that?"

  "Crazy old Indian. Make that Native American. The Stone River tribe. Old boy claims to be a hundred years old. Far as I know, maybe he is. He's no spring chicken, that's for damn sure. Got himself a shack back off the highway south of town that overlooks the old creek bed."

  "Ever speak with him?"

  "Never have. Hardly anyone has. Caught sight of him once. Some folks around town know his grandson, a fella named Joe Youngfeather. Joe comes in for provisions every now and then. They keep pretty much to themselves. You know, those two could make a good subject for one of those human-interest stories. If they felt like talking, that is. I've heard those two don't take kindly to visitors. That's one of the reasons I've stayed clear. On the other hand, I never had a reason to go calling."

  "You've got me curious."

  Charlie nodded. "Tell you what. You drive out and see if they'll talk with you. They just might. You come up with anything interesting, we'll run it." He reached for a pencil and a scrap of paper. "Here, I'll draw you a map of how to get there."

  South of town, the highway curved away from the mountains and the land flattened out into scrub-covered prairie. After he crossed the bridge spanning the dry creek bed, Mike started watching for the dirt road Charlie had sketched on the crude map. He found it easily enough. It was more of a two-wheel, rutted path than a road, rising away from the highway before dropping out of sight beyond a fold in the terrain. Mike slipped the Jeep into four-wheel drive and followed the rutted path that had long ago been worn into the hard clay, running roughly parallel to the creek bed.

  He'd removed the Jeep's canvas covering. A Stetson and sunglasses shielded his face from the afternoon sun. Cobalt blue sky stretched from horizon to horizon without a cloud in sight, the temperature somewhere in the mid-eighties. The w
ind on his face felt warm and dry.

  As Charlie said he would, he found an adobe hut one-and-three-quarter miles from the highway. The hut sat on a cleared piece of land overlooking the wash. An ancient pickup truck and a Harley Davidson motorcycle were parked alongside the shack. Sunlight glinted off the motorcycle's chrome.

  He braked the Jeep, shut off the engine and stepped to the ground. The feeling here was one of stark seclusion. His ears required a moment to adjust after the Jeep's engine noise. Then, after he'd taken several steps toward the hut, he became aware of a muted, strangely cadenced murmuring from a short distance away. Turning, he tried to discern the source of the sound that was interwoven with other sounds, with the chirping of small birds in a nearby juniper tree and the breeze that whispered through the mesquite. He pinpointed it coming from the direction of the wash, below where the ground sloped to block his line of vision. He headed in that direction. Beyond the dry wash, a mesquite ball driven by the wind skipped over the ground. Mike's footsteps seemed to him to crunch unusually loud, treading this ground. He knew he was trespassing. Then, he stood gazing down at the old man who sat cross-legged in the center of the wash, no more than one hundred feet from him.

  The old Native American was unaware of his presence. Old was hardly an adequate description. In the glare of the sunlight, the Indian looked like a mummy, his flesh wrinkled and dry as parchment; a thin, stick figure, frail yet somehow radiating the impression of a power that was tangible. Eyes remaining closed as he chanted, his arms, like his thin, wizened face, lifted skyward, his long flowing white hair contrasting starkly against a black headband. His lips barely moved. The chanting was rhythmic, authoritative, and impassioned, yet tinged with resignation. A mournful sound.

  Mike was captivated. Time hung suspended.

  He was unaware of another presence until a stern voice demanded, "What the hell are you doing here?"

  He turned, startled, feeling a surge of guilt and embarrassment at having been caught intruding like this. Then he froze at sight of the rifle muzzle aimed at his midsection from less than ten feet away.

  "I'm sorry. I should have let you know I was here." The rifle muzzle did not waver.

  "What do you want?"

  The man holding the rifle was in his forties. Lean-muscled, he wore black: black shirt, black jeans, black boots. A wide-bladed knife was sheathed in buckskin at mid-chest. His hair was black, worn in braids. His was a warrior's visage; harsh, highlighted by dark, impassive eyes. "Are you Joe Youngfeather?" Mike asked, knowing the answer.

  "I'm holding the rifle. You answer the questions. What the hell are you doing here?"

  "My name is Landware. Mike Landware. I came out from town to talk with you and your grandfather."

  "Talk about what?"

  "I work for the newspaper."

  "Get lost."

  The old man's chanting continued unabated. A shrike cawed overhead. A dust devil danced along the ground in the distance.

  "I'm sorry," Mike said. "I should have called first."

  "We don't have a phone. Phones are for talking and we don't talk. Not to newspapers."

  "I don't want trouble."

  "You've got trouble if you don't get your ass off this property." The man gestured with the rifle. "Like, right now."

  "All right, whatever you say. Just stop pointing that thing at me."

  "Then get out."

  Mike returned to his Jeep. He climbed behind the steering wheel and started the engine. When he looked up, the man had lowered the rifle. Mike felt compelled to say, "I won't write about what I saw."

  "You don't know what you saw," said Youngfeather. "It wouldn't matter if you did. My grandfather thinks he can stop what's going to happen. I don't think he can, not even with his powers."

  "For someone who doesn't want to talk, why tell me this much? Do you want to get me interested?"

  "My grandfather is doing what he's doing for the people of your town. If they knew about it, they'd only laugh. They'd scorn him more than they already do. The crazy old Indian."

  "I'm not laughing."

  Something changed behind the man's impassive features. A decision was made. "My grandfather was a tribal medicine man. There are only a few dozen descendants remaining of our tribe, scattered like grains of sand in the wind. Grandfather is a legend keeper. A healer. A shaman."

  "A magic man?" Go for the opening, Mike told himself. He won't tell you any more than he wants to. "What's the significance of the ritual he's performing?"

  "He chants to drive away the evil that is coming."

  "Evil spirits?"

  "You see what I mean. You do not believe. I hear it in your voice."

  "It's difficult for me to believe in spirits," Mike admitted.

  "That's what the others would say. You're no different. How could you be? Your race . . . your souls are dead."

  "I believe evil exists," said Mike. "Believe me, I've seen my share up close. And I know about the massacre that happened at this site four hundred years ago. Does the evil have something to do with that?"

  "Evil has visited this land before. Evil kicked ass here. It will happen again."

  "Tell me. Tell me what your grandfather sees."

  Youngfeather snorted, an unexpected, rude sound. "I can't tell you because I don't know. I don't think Gray Wolf knows. He feels, and he chants to drive it back."

  "Can I speak with your grandfather?"

  "He's been as you see him for three days. He sleeps four hours out of twenty-four. He fights forces you would never understand, and it saps what energy he has. His heart is weak but he fights like a young brave."

  "This evil. Has your grandfather said when he foresees it coming?"

  "Soon. Very soon. Now get. I'm tired of talking to you. Go back where you belong. I've said enough."

  "That's funny, Joe. Why do I get the feeling you're telling me exactly what you want to tell me?"

  Youngfeather pretended not to hear this. "Don't come back. If Gray Wolf is right, nothing will stop what's going to happen. Nothing."

  "I'll go. But I will be back. I want to talk with your grandfather."

  Youngfeather said nothing. The warrior eyes glittered; brooding, opaque, and unreadable.

  Mike backed the Jeep around and drove away.

  The sunshine somehow didn't feel quite as warm as it had on the drive in. What had possessed him, he wondered, to act more like some small-town investigative reporter instead of what he was, a guy sent out to do a human interest story if there was one?

  He thought he still heard Gray Wolf's rhythmic, endless chanting, although he knew this was impossible. The chanting would hardly have carried across the distance and cut through the Jeep's engine noise.

  Mike had never tried to be anything but the born skeptic he was. The other side of skepticism is gullibility. He'd made his share of errors in judgement over the years, but experience had shown that he was shrewd in worldly dealings and a good judge of character. He was not gullible. He found himself respecting and even liking the man who had pointed a rifle at him moments earlier. But what to make of the man's whole acceptance of chanting to keep away spirits? And what about the grandfather? Mike was born and would die a skeptic. He believed what his senses could analyze, and what could be proven to him. Parapsychology and a spiritual world impacting on this reality were not subjects he had ever deemed worthy of contemplation.

  And yet he did hear Gray Wolf's chanting inside his head all the way back to the highway, and it stayed with him all the way back into town.

  Chapter Nine

  Robin wondered how it was possible to feel frazzled and rejuvenated at the same time. After a night of fitful sleep following the phone call from Jeff, she had gone in early to check her classroom, to insure that there were enough desks, enough paper, pencils, and chalk. But nothing could have prepared her for Monday's hectic pace. So much to keep track of, so many names to remember among faculty and students, so much to keep organized and try to absorb. It would ha
ve been totally overwhelming by day's end if she'd afforded herself the luxury of slowing down enough to think about it. One side effect was that by the end of the day, she had pretty much forgotten about Jeff's call. More precisely, she had relegated it to a drunken, late night, and hopefully isolated incident.

  Following the final class of the first day, there was a faculty meeting. The other faculty members had seemed friendly enough as she'd met most of them during the day. She, though, was usually the one to initiate introductions rather than receive any particular displays of welcome on the part of the majority of the instructors. She told herself that this reserve toward a new arrival was natural enough in a small town. They were sizing her up, personally and professionally. Fair enough. Or was it wrong to even blame it on Devil Creek being a small town? Maybe that was human nature. It could well be the same on the first day of classes for any new teacher transplanted to Chicago from New Mexico. The faculty was about evenly divided between males and females. Some of the women were approximately her age, but most of the staff was considerably older, reflected in their attire and general attitudes.

  One of the women her age was named Connie Silva. Plump and vivacious, with a winning smile and sparkling brown eyes, Connie was open and friendly when they first met. They sat together at the faculty meeting. She hadn't been standoffish at all. Robin liked her immediately. Connie was one of those people whose genuine decency shone through as a first impression; the same feeling Robin had experienced when she'd met Mrs. Lufkin. Different as Connie was on the surface from the spunky landlady, Robin felt blessed to have made the acquaintance of two women of such obvious quality in such short order. She'd been afraid that it would take awhile to make friends in this new place.

  After the faculty meeting, Mr. Tutwiler, the principal, made a point of engaging her in conversation while the others filed out, some of them chatting socially among themselves. Tutwiler was a pleasant, heavyset man in his early sixties, possessing a well-coifed silver head of hair and the porous, heavily-veined nose and throaty voice of a seasoned bourbon drinker. He was sober and cordial at the end of this workday, however. Robin had learned that she was the only new instructor this semester. Mr. Tutwiler naturally wanted his own opportunity to size up this newest addition to their ranks. They passed several minutes discussing absolutely nothing, things like how Mr. Tutwiler had been to Chicago once for a convention ten years ago and how much dryer the climate was out west compared to back east. She appeared to pass his inspection, as she believed she probably had in the eyes of the others. Human nature. She was the new kid on the block. She could live with that.