David L. Robbins - Endworld 23 - Yellowstone Run.pdf

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Yellowstone Run by
David L. Robbins
PROLOGUE
There was something out mere.
Something lurking in the tall timber.
Eagle Feather paused in the act of chopping wood for the fire, his right
arm upraised, his tomahawk gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, and
gazed at the surrounding forest, his keen brown eyes scrutinizing every
shadow. The feeling of being watched was stronger now than ever before,
and he frowned when he failed to detect any movement in the pine trees.
"Is something wrong?"
Putting a smile on his face, Eagle Feather turned at the sound of his
wife's melodious voice and looked at the woman he loved more than life
itself, "What could be wrong?" he responded, hoping he conveyed a
lighthearted attitude, he didn't want to worry Morning Dew or the
children. Yet.
"I don't know," she said uncertainly, staring at the woods. "You seem
troubled."
Eagle Feather lowered the tomahawk and pretended to inspect its edge.
"You are imagining things."
"If you say so," Morning Dew said, and returned to the task of
preparing the fish their sons had caught an hour ago for their supper. She
glanced at him once reproachfully.
 
Knowing that his wife of 12 years could intuitively sense when he was
troubled, and annoyed at himself for not confiding in her, Eagle Feather
continued to trim the limbs he had collected, removing the thinner stems
to be used as kindling and chopping the larger branches into manageable
sections. He strained his ears to catch the slightest sound from the forest,
but all he heard were birds and squirrels and the whispering of the breeze.
How could he justify alarming Morning Dew when all he had to go on was
a vague feeling?
Youthful laughter filled the air, and a moment later two boys came
running around the family tipi, which was situated on the north bank of
the gently flowing stream, and halted, giggling and shoving one another.
Straightening, Eagle Feather smiled at his sons. The oldest, Little
Mountain, was ten years old. Black Elk, who strongly resembled his
mother, was only eight. "What are you two up to?"
"We want to go hunt deer," Little Mountain declared.
"Hunt deer," Black Elk echoed, nodding vigorously.
"We already have fish for our meal. We don't need a deer," Eagle
Feather said, resolving to keep his sons close to the camp.
"But mother said I could have new moccasins," Little " Mountain
stated, squaring his slim shoulders.
"Me too," Black Elk added.
"I want you to play near our camp," Eagle Feather told them.
"But there's nothing to do here," Little Mountain protested.
"I can find something for you to do," Eagle Feather commented sternly.
"I thought we were supposed to have fun," Little Mountain said, clearly
disappointed, and sighed.
Eagle Feather became aware of his wife's intent scrutiny, and he
decided to compromise before she grew even more suspicious. He had
promised the boys this would be a fun-filled trip to the old National Park,
and he saw a way to kill two birds with one stone, to allay his fears and
 
ensure the forest was safe for the boys. "I'll tell you what. You finish
chopping this wood, and when I come back you can go deer hunting."
"Where are you going, Father?" Black Elk asked.
"To find a handful of leaves."
"What?" the boy responded, puzzled. His older brother whispered in his
ear and they both laughed.
"Here," Eagle Feather said, and handed the tomahawk to Little
Mountain. "Try not to cut your foot off."
"I won't," Little Mountain replied, eagerly grabbing the handle.
Deliberately avoiding his wife's gaze, Eagle Feather walked to their tipi
and went inside to retrieve his Winchester. He emerged, worked the lever
to insert a round into the chamber, and headed for the woods.
"Be careful," Morning Dew advised.
Eagle Feather looked back at her and nodded. "Always. Keep your rifle
handy in case a bear should show up. I saw grizzly sign yesterday."
"I'll keep a sharp watch," she promised.
Cradling his Winchester, Eagle Feather advanced into the trees,
entering a somber domain of shadows and dank scents, where his
footsteps padded noiselessly on the matted carpet of pine needles and
spongy vegetation. This area of the ancient wonderland, bordering the
Lamar Valley, was always verdant in the summer and early fait. Spruce,
Douglas' fir, and lodgepole pine were especially numerous. A scratching
noise came from overhead, and he gazed up to observe a Steller's jay
hopping from limb to limb. Like most of the wildlife they had
encountered, the big blue and black bird displayed no fear at his presence.
Pressing onward, Eagle Feather penetrated deeper into the forest,
traveling SO yards from the camp. He saw several sparrows, a red squirrel,
and a jackrabbit. The rabbit bounded away, performing fifteen-foot leaps
with ease, but otherwise the animals were going about their daily business
and not displaying any agitation whatsoever. And surely, Eagle Feather
reasoned, there would be an undercurrent of unrest in the forest if danger
 
was present.
Perhaps he was imagining things, not Morning Dew.
Maybe spotting those grizzly tracks had unnerved him more than he
knew. Maybe, since they were so far from Kalispell and home, since they
were alone in an uninhabited wilderness, he was allowing unfounded
apprehension to get the better of him. After all, he had spent most of his
life as a hunter and a trapper. He knew all the habits of the animals in the
woods.None of them, even the grizzly, were unduly menacing if a person
used common sense and took adequate precautions. Most animals wisely
shied away from man.
Except for the mutations.
The thought troubled him. If there were mutations in the Park, then his
family was in grave jeopardy. But as far as he knew, neither a nuclear
missile nor a chemical-warfare weapon had struck within hundreds of
miles of the area. The Park had survived World War Three virtually
unscathed. And without the radiation or chemical toxins to poison and
derange the entire biological chain, the likelihood of mutations flourishing
was extremely slim.
Eagle Feather skirted a tree and halted on the rim of a low rise. Thirty
feet below lay an oval spring. Curious, wanting to taste the water to
determine if it was as good as the delicious stream water, he walked down
the gentle slope. A six-inch strip of soft, muddy earth ringed the spring,
and he knelt next to the strip and sank his left hand under the surface to
scoop some water to his mouth.
Only then did he see the tracks.
Puzzled, he froze with his hand halfway to his lips, and regarded the
pair of unique prints in the mud to his left. They were the strangest prints
he'd ever seen, a curious combination of human and bestial traits.
Approximately 14 inches in length and six inches wide, they resembled a
naked human footprint except for the fact that each toe had a four-inch
nail similar to the typical claw on the toe of a bear. He let the water trickle
from his palm and reached out to touch the track. From the softness of the
mud and the cohesive texture of the print, he judged that the pair had
been made within the last 30 minutes. Suddenly his mind blared a
warning.
 
Strange prints?
Combination of human and bestial traits?
Eagle Feather straightened and turned from the spring, and even as he
rotated a piercing scream rent the tranquility of the forest, coming from
the direction of the tipi.
Morning Dew and the boys!
A wave of fear washed over him, and Eagle Feather sprinted up the
slope and took off at full speed toward the camp, vaulting logs and
low-lying boulders, darting around the bigger obstacles, his blood racing
faster than his feet.
More screams sounded, the unmistakable cries of the boys.
Eagle Feather fairly flew over the terrain, oblivious to the limbs and
brush that snatched at his buckskins and scratched his skin. He realized
that he'd been right all along, that there had been something in the woods,
a mutation, one of the vile creatures despised by his entire tribe, by every
Flathead Indian. Mutations were a blight on the planet, a consequence of
the white man tampering with forces better left alone. The Flatheads
killed each mutation they found, and large tracts of the former state of
Montana had been cleared of the repulsive horrors.
The screaming abruptly ceased.
No! Eagle Feather shrieked in his mind, and he goaded his flagging
muscles to increased speed. He'd already covered 40 yards. The tipi should
be in sight at any moment. Seconds later he saw the camp and his breath
caught in his throat.
Someone or something had torn the tipi down, had ripped the buffalo
hide to ribbons and snapped the support poles into pieces. Their personal
effects had been torn apart and scattered all about. The horses, which had
been tied to the left of the tipi, were gone. And there wasn't a living soul in
sight.
Eagle Feather dashed into the ruined camp and halted, glancing wildly
around for his wife and sons. He spied her rifle lying in the grass to his
right, its stock splintered. The attack must have occurred so swiftly that
 

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