The Wanderer: Enoch's Children Book III

 

After all that has happened, prison in Nevada and the seige of the town, the boys accept and invitation to go with the Boy Scouts on a hike through the southern Utah wilderness to unwind and relax. That's not about to happen. They meet a malevolent creature bent on the destruction of everyone within his reach, and a hunter just as malevolent as the creature that stalks the troop. Trapped between the two the boys and Brady have to find a way to get the Boy Scouts back to civilization and safety. Perhaps thinking he sees the creature he's hunting, the hunter fires a shot and hits one of the boys instead. Here's an excerpt from that chapter.

 

   Brady's first thought was for Clinton. Blood was running all the way down his left arm. Clinton sat back up, pushing Nate down to his legs. His eyes were glazed. Brady was on his knees at his side pushing Nate further aside. Nate wailed again. Brady ripped the vest away, and looked up. The other boys were closing in, too. Anger and fear shot through him at the same time.

   "No!" he shouted again. "Get down! Get back! Some idiot's got a gun!"

   He heard the second shot rip through the tree above his head before he heard the report from the rifle. He fell on his face, covering Clinton with his body. Nate covered what was left.

   He heard two reports closer, looked up and saw Kevin aiming his service piece up at the hillside.

   "Hold your fire, you jackass! There are kids down here!" Kevin shouted as loud as he could.

   Brady heard Kevin's voice echo away before he heard the thin reply from above.

   "What in blazes you doin' down there?"

   "Getting shot!" Brady said savagely, not near loud enough for the other to hear.

   He turned back to Clinton. He could see where the boy's shirt sleeve was ripped, and blood had already soaked it down to his elbow. He grabbed it where he thought the wound was. He began to unbutton Clinton's shirt with the other hand.

   "I'll be comin' down, now," the voice floated from above. "Don't shoot back, or nothin'. I know you got them hand pistols now. You ain't what I was after."

   Brady gripped his rage in his teeth, and continued to pull at the boy's clothing.

   "What can we do?" Thomas asked from behind him.

   "Get me the first aid kit," Brady snarled. "I need water. Lots of it. The kit is in my pack. Quickly."

   Cory jumped before Brady was through giving instructions and had gathered up four canteens before Thomas returned with the first aid kit.

   "Open the water," Brady said. "Thomas, get me the largest bandages you can find in the kit. Will you look at that?"

   The last was expressed as he pulled Clinton's shirt from his shoulder. The wound was not deep. It was a four inch furrow gouged across the outer aspect of the boy's upper arm. It was bleeding freely, but it didn't look serious.

   Brady held Clinton's arm above the wound, and the bleeding slowed to a gentle ooze.

   "How bad is it?" Nate asked, his voice carrying the terror he must have felt.

   "Are you still with us, Clinton?" Brady exclaimed, seeing the other boys crowding closer. "Don't worry, Nate. It's not bad. Just a scratch."

   "I don't know," Clinton half whispered. "I feel pretty funny."

   Brady grabbed a canteen out of Thomas's hand, and said, "That's shock. We've seen it before for less reason. We can have you fixed up in no time. Jeremy! Bring my pack over here. Cory, shove it under Clinton's feet. Elevate them. Relax, Clinton. You'll feel better in a few minutes. I need to bandage this wound, but I have to wash it first. This may hurt."

   "It already does," Clinton breathed.

   "Nate, get a couple of jackets from the other boys and let's warm him up."

   Nate jumped up, quick to respond. In minutes he was back with a couple of jackets. He carefully tucked Clinton in while Brady worked on his arm.

   "It's more frightening than bad," Brady said more to the boy than to anyone else. "It'll heal quickly. Doc Lee may want to put a couple of stitches in it when we get home tomorrow."

   Clinton grimaced, but held still as Brady washed the wound. The boys stood over Brady and Clinton, watching as the Scoutmaster worked. Nate pushed them back.

   "Give him room to breathe," he ordered.

   The authority in his voice carried, and the boys began to shuffle back a few feet. Meanwhile Clinton's face color was beginning to return to normal.

   "He's not going to die, is he?" Nate asked weakly.

   "No," Brady said quickly. "He's not going to die. It's more of a scratch than anything."

   "He'll be okay," Kevin said to the Scouts around them. "I've been a deputy for Brady here near onto eight years, Clinton. You're the first civilian I done seen shot in the line of duty. I guess we'll have to give you some kind o' medal."

   Clinton frowned, and said, "Forget the medal. Just get that gun away from Bigfoot."

   "Bigfoot doesn't carry a gun," Thomas said.

   Clinton touched his shoulder gingerly, and said, "Yah. I know. It was a joke. So, who was it?"

   "Good one, Clint," Cory said, smiling down at the boy.

   Clinton shrugged, and looked a little embarrassed.

   "It was the best I could do," he said.

   "Keep your hands down, son. Let me get this bandage tied tight."

   "The jerk with the gun is coming down now, Dad," Thomas said angrily.

   "The thing you thought you saw trailing us over the ridge was a hunter," Brady said hotly. "He wasn't carrying a club. He was carrying a gun."

   "So, why did he shoot me?" Clinton asked.

   "Cuz' you ain't suppose to be out here."

   Brady turned quickly, and looked up at the stranger.

   He grabbed Nate's hand, placed it over the loose gauze on the wound, and said, "Hold this."

   Then he stood to face the stranger.

   The man was taller than Brady, but a lot thinner. He had a ragged beard that partially covered a leathery neck. He had hollow eyes and sunken cheeks. He wore jeans and boots, old, worn, and a red flannel shirt. His head was covered by a floppy, grimy felt cowboy hat. He carried an old rifle, heavy with rust on the barrel, and splintered and bleached in the stock. He stood easily, allowing the rifle to point at the ground.

   "Where are we supposed to be?" Brady asked evenly.

   "I don' rightly care," the man said. "You should probly be anywhere but here, though."

   "We were doing just fine until you shot our friend!" Thomas shouted, standing to face the newcomer.

   "Mouthy brat," the man said under his breath, directly to Thomas.

   "That mouthy brat is my son," Brady said coolly.

   "I was huntin'. I saw him in the trees," the stranger responded, pointing at Clinton. "I shot. No bright colors. Just brown. You can see it was an accident."

   Brady pushed his anger back, and said, "Nothing is in season. What kind of a hunter shoots without first making sure of his target?"

   "Now," the man sneered, "no Scoutmaster would really rightly know what was in season or not, would he?"

   "My Dad is a sheriff!" Thomas shouted, unable to contain himself. "You ought to be arrested, and he's the man who can do it!"

   The stranger looked from face to face at the boys around him. Brady caught an instant of uncertainty in his gaze.

   When he looked back to Brady he said, "Is that true?"

   "It is," Brady affirmed. "Who are you?"

   The man edged back a step, and said, "Name's Rascop. Elliot Rascop. You?"

   "There's more than that," Brady said evenly. "You've been following us for the better part of two days. You rousted one of my Scouts the night before last and another one last night. Just what are you hunting?"

   "Don' get mouthy, leader. I dint roust anyone. You been out here more'n one night so you probly  know what I been huntin', then."

   "Bigfoot?" Jeremy exclaimed.

   "Jeremy," Brady warned.

   "Some calls him that, others Sasquitch. I know I seen him over the mountain three days ago. He lost me, but I found him again near here. I'm gonna kill him."

   "You already bagged one trophy," Brady said sourly, turning back to Clinton's arm.

   He finished the bandage quickly, then helped Clinton to his feet.

   Clinton's face grew white, and he said, "I think I'm going to be sick, Brady!"

   "Oops. Too soon," Brady said. "Okay, guys. We have shock here. Pale face, pulse thready, beady sweat. Nate, you have the Clinton watch. Got it?"

   Nate nodded solemnly.

   Brady lowered Clinton back to the ground, and covered him with the jackets.

   "Keep him down," Brady said directly to Nate. "Elevate his feet. You know what to do. You're the doctor now."

   He watched as Nate completed his work and nodded approval. Clinton's face grew pink again.

   Brady waited until Clinton was comfortable and Nate was seated next to him.

   "Better?" He asked Clinton.

   Clinton nodded.

   Brady glared up at the hunter.

   "I already said I was sorry about the boy," Rascop snapped. "You know about the creature. You know why I didn't want to give him a chance to slip away again."

   Brady breathed deeply, and said, "Okay, You saw this creature. You wanted to kill it. You chased it three days. Why?"

   "You ain't been near him at all if you gotta ask that," Rascop spat. "You know he ain't no real beast at all. He's a devil thing, right out o' the cauldrons o'  Hell itself. If he got a chance, he'd split your gizzard from topnotch to crotch, and laugh the prospect o' you feelin' his claws slice you up real slow. He has a need to die, more than any creature on God's earth. You can just see what he made me do to your boy here. That's the kind o' thing he is."