Page 79 of The Spirit of the Wolf

The oddity was that there was no activity there. None.

At length, Marietta whispered, “It doesn’t look to be much of a going business, does it?”

“Something…wrong,” said Yellow Swan. “It not…as I remember it. Long ago…it…cheerful…place.”

Marietta nodded and stared out at the post from as many different angles as she could manage without exposing herself. There was no sign of Grey Coyote.

How long would he be gone? He had left hours ago. Still, she reckoned, since he was on a scouting mission, if he were doing his job well, she wouldn’t see him.

Returning her gaze to the trading post, she frowned. “I think you are right, Yellow Swan. Something about this place is unwelcoming.”

“Han.”

“I guess we’d better wait here.”

Yellow Swan didn’t speak, but she bobbed her head briefly. The two of them settled in to wait.

Death lived here. Grey Coyote had sensed it, had smelled it. It must have happened within the last few days, he determined. Otherwise there would be more animal activity in and about the place.

But what had happened?

Slowly, Grey Coyote crept up to and around each of the post’s buildings, three in all. The horses were gone, and the corral gate hung open with the wind blowing it back and forth.

Grey Coyote examined the parched ground around the corral, trying to piece together what had taken place. A large man, a very large man had been here…about three days ago.

Bending down, Grey Coyote traced one of the moccasin prints with his finger. The particular shoe was made from one piece of rawhide that had one seam that ran from ankle to heel.

These were not Indian prints. These were the white-man-turned-Indian tracks. Those of a trapper.

Was the trapper still here?

Carefully, Grey Coyote listened, sniffing the air, trying to perceive any ever-expanding circles in the air that would indicate motion or life—in any direction.

There was nothing.

Coming down onto hands and knees, Grey Coyote studied the footprints further, seeking other signs which would tell the tale of this post. Placing his fingers into the print left in the dirt, Grey Coyote felt it for subtle differences. The man walked like a beast, dragging his feet. This would be a big man, overweight, but strong. There was more. The man was irrational, perhaps mad. It could be seen in the frenzied pattern of this print.

But what of the two men who ran the post? Where were they?

None of their footprints were here. If his guess were right, it indicated that they had never left. Again, Grey Coyote sent out sensory perception, feeling the air for a sign of movement.

But once again, there was nothing. Nothing but the natural motion of the air and wind all around him.

He would have to investigate.

Abandoning the footprints, Grey Coyote crept toward the buildings. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught motion in the bushes next to the hill. A careful observation showed it to be the two women, hiding behind the shrubs. He didn’t admonish them, even in thought. He could understand their curiosity.

With a wave of his arms, Grey Coyote gave them to understand they were to stay where they were and keep out of sight.

It was Yellow Swan who acknowledged him.

Giving a slight nod, Grey Coyote turned back to the task at hand, and, after coming around to the entrance of the building, he slipped inside. The stench of death greeted him, and he followed the smell until he found one of the two proprietors.

Slowly, Grey Coyote crept forward toward the body. He recognized the man at once. It was Acme, and he lay face down, sprawled on the floor. On his back were several knife wounds. Whoever had killed this man had hacked away at him long after it was necessary.

There had been little struggle, suggesting that the trapper had crept in on the man unaware.

But where was the other trader? The one called LaPrenier?