The Curse of the Wendigo (The Monstrumologist #2)(25)

The doctor shoved a rifle into Hawk’s chest.

“What you are doing?” Hawk murmured.

“Clutching at straws, Sergeant. You said you wanted to leave at first light. I suggest you do so if you wish to remain in one piece,” Warthrop returned grimly. He threw Hawk’s rucksack at him and ducked out of the wigwam.

We scrambled outside. The doctor was already several feet ahead, trotting toward the water’s edge. A row of canoes lined the bank. Warthrop pulled the heavy rucksack from my hands and tossed it into the middle of a canoe, where it landed beside the prone body of a man, wrapped up in one of the clan’s blankets. Warthrop snatched the rifle from my hand and jabbed a finger toward the forward seat—Get in! Then he gave Hawk an impatient jab between the shoulders.

“Quickly, Sergeant!”

He waited until Hawk had plopped down before he pushed off, splashing for several lunging strides through the icy water before heaving himself on board. He dug in with his paddle. Hawk quickly followed suit, and soon we were sliding through the water with barely a sound. A loon exploded before the bow with an angry cry and took off across the lake, its wing tips caressing the glassy surface.

I looked down at the man whose head lay at my feet. Even in the dim light, I saw a face deathly pale and painfully thin. His eyes jerked beneath the closed lids, as if he were gripped by a feverish dream. I looked up at the doctor, who was looking past me toward our destination, the southern shore of Sandy Lake.

We had not reached the halfway point when our theft was discovered. Several men carrying what appeared to be rifles rushed to the water’s edge and leapt into canoes to give chase. Warthrop called for Hawk to quicken the pace, but the man needed no urging. He paddled furiously, glancing occasionally over his shoulder at our pursuers, who seemed to gain upon us with every expert stroke of their oars, their boats slicing through the water with the speed of downhill skaters, ghostlike in the thick morning mist. The doctor yanked the revolver from the pocket of his duster and tossed it into my lap, with the admonition that if I was forced to defend myself, I should make every effort not to shoot him in the head.

“We won’t make it,” gasped Hawk after a few frantic minutes. “Let’s turn here and make our stand.”

“I’d rather make it on a more substantial surface, Sergeant,” returned the doctor, pulling hard for air.

“They won’t dare hurt me. I’m a police officer, a duly deputized representative of the province! The whole village would hang.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’ll point that out to them right before they sink your bullet-ridden corpse to the bottom of the lake!”

The fog swirled around us, a gray shroud draped over the world, obliterating the canoes in our wake. To our left the rising sun was the palest of washed-out yellows. With no point of reference it was impossible to tell our speed or how far we had to go. The effect was unnerving to say the least—worse than hell, for even the souls in Charon’s boat could see the opposite shore!

“Please drop the barrel of that gun, Will Henry,” the doctor admonished. It was pointed directly at his chest. “And try to keep in mind that if we can’t see them, they cannot see us. They’re as blind in this soup as we are.”

“No, I’m a bit blinder, Doctor,” puffed Hawk. “They know what you’re up to.”

Warthrop did not respond. His gaze remained fixed over my shoulder, as if by virtue of the intensity of his stare he could part the mist and sight his goal.

We reached that goal finally—not touching the bank but slamming into it with enough force to send me flying backward over the edge of the canoe and into the shallow water. Warthrop yanked me to my feet and hurled my sopping wet carcass onto the muddy shore. Coughing and spitting, I sat up in time to see Hawk and the doctor pulling our unconscious cargo from the boat’s belly. They carried him several feet into the trees before easing him to the ground and returning for our gear. At that moment three canoes bearing six armed men emerged from the fog, the men’s black eyes glittering dangerously under their dark brows. Warthrop raised his hand, and Hawk raised his rifle.

“Tell them we intend no harm,” the doctor instructed him.

Hawk barked a little laugh. “I’m more worried about their intent, Doctor!” Then he said something in their tongue. The tallest of the six, a young man close to Hawk’s age, spoke quietly and without inflection, and pointed at Warthrop.

“He wants you to return what you’ve taken,” Hawk said.

“Tell him I am merely recovering what they have taken.”

Their leader spoke again, his manner one of utter earnestness laced with a touch of condescension; clearly Warthrop did not understand the consequences of his actions.

“Well?” the doctor snapped. “What does he say?”

“He says if you insist on taking him, you must kill him. The Outiko is with him.”

“With him?”

“Or in him, it means the same thing.”

“If he wants him dead, he’ll have to kill me,” Warthrop said, his eyes flashing dangerously. “All of us. The boy, too. Is he willing to do that? Ask him!”

Hardly were the words out of Hawk’s mouth when six rifles rose as one. Instinctively I brought up the revolver. Warthrop, however, made no move with his weapon.

“No need to translate, Hawk,” the doctor said.