Devil in the Woods

It started out small. Henry Miller's dog went missing Sunday night, but the hound was the runt of his litter and, quite frankly, dumb as hell. Mrs. Miller was upset, but most other folks figured little Rex had gone running off after a she-coyote and that was that.

Monday night Tim Wells lost a prize heifer. It was a damn shame: she was a big, beautiful beast, and would've been calving again in the spring. But of course, it happened sometimes—this was wild country, though it got less so by the day.

Tim wouldn't quit talking about it though. "Didn't hear no 'yotes last night," he said, to anyone who'd listen. The old folks nodded sagely, and the young shrugged their shoulders. Sometimes you didn't hear 'em. He and a couple fellows from town went out to try and find the carcass, but they had no luck. With the harvest now in full swing, the mule teams traipsing slowly back and forth over golden fields, nobody had time to worry about any rogue coyote anyway.

But on Tuesday, Maybelle Meyer took notice. It was midnight, by her reckon, and a crescent moon smiled in through the curtains. She sat up to find a sip of water and close up those curtains, when a terrible ruckus struck up outside. Champ, her father's hunting dog barking out into the night like he'd lost his damn mind.

She frowned. Champ was a hunting hound descended from some European stock. His grandma hunted wolves back in the Old Country, and he didn't spook easy. Silent as a mouse, and nervous as one too, Maybelle crept to the window.

Champ strained at the end of his rope, bristling and snapping at the dark pines. Maybelle squinted, searching for whatever made him so mad. Just when she figured it must have been some damn fox, come to tease him and run off, she saw... something. A flash of green animal eyes. A darker patch against the darkness. And then it was gone.

By sunup, everyone in Halfaven heard the news. The Swanson boy was missing—little Jake went out to the latrine and never came back. His ma was hysterical; his pa stony-faced and grim, his six older siblings experiencing varying stages of grief and denial. Maybelle sat with the thing she'd seen stuck like a lump in her throat. She wanted to tell them, but what good would it do anyone? Bad enough as it was, to have your boy go missing. Mrs. Swanson didn't need any dark, half-witnessed forest critters to feed her horror.

As morning turned to noon however, Maybelle made a decision. She didn't know what to do, but this couldn't keep on. Her father's rifle hung over the doorway—a real pioneer piece, brought West only five years after Lewis and Clark themselves. She took it and went outside, where Champ dozed in the shade, hiding from a blazing August sun.

"C'mon boy," she said, taking his lead. "We got some hunting to do."

He perked up like he spoke perfect English. Maybe he did. With the rifle hung round her shoulder and the big hunting hound at her side, Maybelle made for the woods. "This is why you'll never be wed, Maybelle Meyers," she muttered as they crossed into the shade of the trees. "You pull a damn foolish stunt like this...."

Champ paused only a few yards into the forest, sniffing with interest at the base of some great pine. A growl rose low in that deep chest of his.

"Lead on boy," Maybelle whispered. She thought again about that dark shadow she'd seen. How big was it? Too big for a coyote, for sure. A wolf then? Peddlers came through town from time to time, and the wolf pelts they sold sure seemed big. But the wolves had been chased out of this territory for nigh ten years—that's what her pa said.

She fretted over it while the woods got darker and wilder all around her. Long as it wasn't a bear, she told herself. It'd be fine as long as it wasn't a bear. Champ led her down a steep hill and Maybelle followed, feet slipping on the pine needles.

A cold stream babbled at the base of this narrow little valley, and Maybelle took a moment to splash her sweaty face with the water. Champ lapped at it too, then perked up and leaped across in one mighty bound.

"Hey!" Maybelle swiped at his rope and missed, and watched as the hound vanished into the brush at the other bank. "Damn fool dog," she muttered, glaring up and down the stream. It didn't look any deeper than her knees, so, with a sigh, she hitched up her skirts and followed after Champ. She got soaked anyway, and had to pause at the other side to wring out the hem of her skirt. Her ma was going to be livid over this.

"Champ!" she called out. "Where'd you run off, boy? Champ, come!" She hollered, but the dog made no appearance. She let out a heavy sigh, and then gagged. The breeze changed, and instead of warm August pines, Maybelle smelled something rotten.

She swallowed hard, a chill prickling down her neck, and proceeded toward the smell. A flash of white showed through the ferns; Maybelle parted them, then had to cover her mouth with her sleeve. It was Tim's heifer, part eaten and gone foul. And there was Champ, happily gnawing away at a haunch.

"Champ," Maybelle hissed. "You devil! Get over here!"

He wagged his tail, happy enough where he was. Maybelle sighed and moved to where she couldn't smell the cow so badly. Again, that black shadow and its green eyes passed across her mind's eye. What animal lived out here, who could haul a prize heifer clear back into the woods this way?

"Champ," Maybelle said again, and her voice sounded small and flat in the forest silence. "Come boy, time to go home. We'd better get some reinforcements."

She went to grab his rope, but the moment she bent down, he whirled and began barking with a fury that sent a fright through her. Maybelle clutched her hand over her pounding heart, and Champ set off like a bolt through the dense undergrowth.

A hideous scream followed, a sound like a woman possessed of the devil. Maybelle gasped, and flung the rifle off her back and into her shaking hands. Something big streaked through the brush and leaped into a tree, and Maybelle's eyes finally made sense of the creature. A panther—a big tom, muscles rippling as he ran up the tree and turned back to scream at Champ again. A panther!

Maybelle's breath hissed through her teeth as she scrambled to aim the rifle. She had one shot—no extra powder, no spare primers. With a long, slow breath, she leveled the muzzle at the cat. And then froze. "Oh, Lord have mercy," she whispered.

Because there was little Jake, hanging between two branches way up in that tree. "Oh Lord have mercy," Maybelle said again, hands shaking as she took aim.

The cat stepped out onto a branch and crouched there, his tail lashing, all his attention fixed on Champ. Like the brave hounds who came before him, he looked that devil straight in the eyes and kept barking.

The rifle cracked; the cat pounced, hitting Champ full force. The two tussled on the ground for just a moment, and then the cat was on its feet, sprinting away, crimson blood streaking its haunch where the rifle had taken it, and Champ was hot on its heels. Maybelle stared helplessly after them for a moment, then glanced up the tree once more. She couldn't help her hound now, but she could bring Jake home to his family.

It was a slow careful climb, and even slower coming down. At the base of the tree, Maybelle cut a big square off her dress and used it to bundle the boy's body. Sorrow she'd been numb to earlier hit her all at once, and she knelt there and whispered a prayer through her tears. The wheat harvest might have been in full swing, but... but why in the hell was she the only one out here? All of Halfaven should have come out here right away, and then... maybe....

It didn't bear thinking about. The what-ifs, the guilt, the misplaced anger—they only got in the way. Maybelle shook her head and took the carefully wrapped body in her arms, and began the slow hike home.

About halfway there, something caught her ear—an animal's footsteps rushing up behind her. She whirled, and there was Champ, a nasty claw swipe across his face, one eye all gummed up, panting and frothing around his mouth.

"Did you get him, boy?" she asked, as the hound fell into step beside her. His tail wagged at the sound of her voice. "I'm sure you gave as good as you got, at least."

He snorted like he understood English. Maybelle paused, giving the big hound an appraising look, but he trotted on ahead, golden slants of sun falling across his skinny back. Beautiful, somehow, even with this terrible weight in her arms. Maybelle sighed, and the two of them went home.