Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1966 Read Online Free Page A

Schneider spoke of strange
noises around the mill, and so I have been lending an ear. But I hear nothing
uncanny.”
                 Celia
laughed merrily. “I think that Mr. Schneider wants to be frightened. He’s in a
strange, wild land, and he wants strangeness about him.”
                 “It
may well be.”
                 They
reached home as Mark’s father helped his wife down. Mark took the bridles of
both horses and led them to their shed. A shadow moved at the door.
                 "Ahi,” a soft voice greeted him.
                 “What
is it, Tsukala?” Mark asked as he unbuckled the girth of Oscar’s saddle.
                “That man Schneider is much afraid.”
                 “He
dreams he hears things in the night,” said Mark.
                 “Maybe
he does not dream. I walked in woods today to hunt. Found tracks by the river.”
                 “My
tracks, or Esau’s, or—” Mark began.
                 “No,”
said Tsukala. “No tracks of men who live here. I know all those tracks. These
are made by a stranger.”
                 Mark
whistled softly. “An enemy, you think?” “You get up early,” Tsukala suggested.
“Get up before sun. I will be here. You and I will go, see those tracks. Maybe
follow them.”
                 “Agreed,”
said Mark, urging the horses into their stalls.
                 “Tomorrow,”
Tsukala said, and departed into the shadows under the trees.
     

           CHAPTER III
     
                 Tracks
of Evil
     
                 Mark
AND Will slept in the open-air bachelor quarters they had made, a roof of
evergreen thatch raised on upright poles. An hour before dawn, Mark opened his
eyes and slipped from his blankets. The oncoming fall would make nights chilly
in this bower, he told himself. Perhaps he and Will would lay poles horizontally
for walls, chink them with clay, and sheathe the roof with shingles. A small
hearth and chimney would give cheerful heat. But just now, there was a morning
expedition to accomplish.
                 Taking
care not to rouse Will, Mark donned shirt, leggings and moccasins. He took his
rifle from its brackets under the roof, slung his powder horn over his shoulder
and fastened his bullet pouch to his belt. He saw firelight through the
half-open kitchen door of the family cabin, and made his way to it.
                 Celia
was inside. “This morning was my turn to milk the cow,” she said, arranging
pans on a shelf. “Will you have breakfast with me? There’s coffee, and some of
yesterday’s corn bread made warm, and fresh butter.”
                Gratefully Mark accepted a share. “I
am for the woods today,” he said.
                 “What
do you seek in the woods?”
                 “Tsukala
wants to show me some tracks,” he replied. “ Hark, I
think he’s at the door even now.” Celia opened it, and Tsukala entered on
silent moccasins, bow in hand. With a nod of thanks, he took a chunk of bread
from the platter and drank a mug of coffee sweetened with brown sugar. They all
finished quickly. Celia began to wash dishes, and Tsukala and Mark went out. In
silence they followed the trail to the Black Willow River. The first gray light
of dawn touched them as they followed the north bank.
                 “I
go in front, watch for the trail,” muttered Tsukala at last. “You come at the
back, watch both ways. Keep your gun ready.”
                 “ ’Tis always ready.” Mark poised his long rifle in
practiced hands. “Where’s this moccasin track?” “You will see. No, don’t follow
path. We will go beside the water.”
                 They
came to where a string of rocks made it possible to cross the river dry-footed.
Mark followed his friend to the south bank, and Tsukala