Valknut: The Binding (6 page)

“And raisin’ a handful of brats, probably
none of ’em your own. Any woman that would have you couldn’t be too
particular.”

Angus scowled and cracked his knuckles. He
could do it by tensing his fingers and curling them into a fist one
at a time. It was a favorite trick of his, and it gave Red the
willies. Angus grinned when Red winced. “As if any woman’d let you
in her bed, ya scraggly, ol’ flea-bitten drifter.”

“I am what I am. And same for you.” Red
plucked a blade of grass and nibbled at the white end. “You
wouldn’t have stayed with Maggie more’n another week before a
train’d choo choo into town, spoutin’ steam, and you’d follow its
whistle like a dog.”

Angus scowled and picked at a callus on his
thumb. He was a big man, younger than Red. Where Red was rangy,
sun-baked, and topped with fading red hair, Angus was tall,
broad-shouldered, and covered with dark, wiry hair. Red liked to
tease him, saying that if it weren’t for his sun-burned nose,
someone might take him for a bear and shoot him. Red liked to tease
Angus about everything, but this time he feared he had gone too
far. Angus loved trains, but he loved his woman more. Between the
Pinkertons and the Depression, he couldn’t support her or the child
in her belly. Not if he stayed in Homestead. So he found work where
he could and sent his paycheck home.

Red opened his mouth to apologize, but heard
the crunch of heavy boots on scree. He scrambled to his feet and
saw the other workers already laboring to clear the debris from the
blast. A burly, red-faced man was coming toward them.

“Heads up, now,” Red said. “Here comes the
Bossman.”

The look on the straw boss’s face made Red
wish he had stayed hidden behind the outcropping. The yelling
started when the straw boss was still twenty yards away. He was
wild-eyed and raving by the time he stood before Red.

“What kind of lunatic are you?” Spit flew and
his thick arms flapped like the wings of a disturbed chicken. “If
you get your lice-ridden carcass blown to smithereens, then I’ve
got to use Anderson over there—” he jerked a thumb at a slow,
wall-eyed man working nearby, “—to set the charges, and he’s likely
to bring the whole mountain down. From now on, your fuses better be
regulation length, or I’ll tan your hide and wear you as boots. You
got that?”

Without stopping for air, he turned on Angus.
“Why are you sitting on that fat ass of yours? Company says the
road in this pass has got to be ready by 1894. That leaves us less
than four months. If that track isn’t down before snow flies, I’ll
send you out in your long johns with nothing but a garden spade to
keep the pass clear.”

Red and Angus fidgeted, waiting for him to
wind down.

“Now get your flatulent asses into that gap
and drive some steel,” the Bossman finished. “If you set the charge
right, you’ll take out that knuckle of rock and leave a nice, solid
shelf wide enough to run track on.”

Red grabbed his kit and hurried to the
protrusion of rock before the Bossman could remember something he’d
forgotten to say. Angus followed, carrying a hammer and a steel
rod.

“Damn, Red. I know layin’ track in this here
butt-crack of the Big Horns ain’t so great, but it keeps the food
comin’ and keeps us outta them workhouses.” Angus paused while Red
figured where to set the charge. Red chalked an X on the stone and
set one end of the steel rod on the mark. Angus raised his sledge
hammer and added, “Just lay off the jokes fer a bit, okay?”

“Sure, Angus.” Red flinched when the heavy
iron struck the rod. “I never argue with the man swingin’ the
hammer.”

When the hole was deep enough, Angus pulled
the rod and ran for shelter behind a ridge. Red joined him after
setting the charge, this time using regulation fuse.

The echoes from the blast seemed to go on
forever. They could hear the Bossman yelling before the last rumble
died away. Red and Angus exchanged uneasy glances as a cloud of
dust settled over them. Far more dust than warranted from such a
small charge. Puzzled, Red pulled his bandana over his mouth and
nose and peered around the ridge. At first, he couldn’t see
anything. Slowly the air cleared. Instead of a smooth, wide shelf,
he saw a deep pile of rubble.

“One little knuckle of rock!” the Bossman
yelled, stomping toward them. Red wondered if the man would pass
out from all the blood rushing to his face. “What in the hell were
you thinking? All I asked was that you take out one stupid chunk of
rock and you bury the ledge in five feet of scree. Get your asses
over there. You’re going to clear out that rubble if it takes you
the rest of today and all night besides.”

He turned and started shouting at the other
workers. “The rest of you, get those ties out of the wagons. The
FRC isn’t paying you to lie about!”

Angus groaned and hefted his hammer. “My pa
always said trains’d get me into trouble some
day. 
Son,
 he’d say, 
it ain’t right to get
so darned worked up over a machine.
 But did I listen to
Pa?” Hammer on his shoulder, he rubbed his lower back and grimaced.
“No, sir! I got a job with the Company, didn’t I? Gandydancin’ and
whatnot, just to be near ’em. And you know somethin’? Pa was wrong.
Trains ain’t just gonna get me in trouble—more’n likely they’re
gonna 
kill 
me.” Angus shook his head and trudged
off toward the debris.

Unconcerned, Red chuckled and grabbed his
shovel. It would take him and Angus a week to clear the shelf by
themselves. He knew the Bossman would send help soon enough.

They had been working for over an hour when
Red saw something thin and white poking up through the debris. He
drove his shovel under it and lifted it out. The thing slid free
and clattered on the ground. It looked like a bone.

“Hey, Angus—I found somethin’!”

Angus set his hammer down and winced as he
straightened, pressing the small of his back with both hands.
“Whatcha got?”

He shuffled over, rolling a cigarette. He
started to light it, but stopped short when he saw the bone. “Well,
will ya lookit that. S’pose it’s human?”

“It’s big enough, but there’s only one way to
know for sure.”

Red planted his shovel where he had found the
bone and began to dig. Angus watched for a moment, then put the
cigarette away and joined in with his hands. They found more bone
fragments, but nothing conclusive until Red found part of a jaw.
Looked human. He held it up to the light for a better look. Angus
kept digging.

“Whoa, I think I got somethin’, Red.
Somethin’ big!” Angus stood over a patch of white that gleamed
through the dirt. “And hooo-wee—it sure smells bad.”

It didn’t look like bone from where Red
stood. Too big. He hunkered down next to Angus to help dig. After a
few minutes’ work, they had uncovered something as large as a horse
and wound in white string. Dirt-crusted tufts of dark fur poked
through the bindings.

“Maybe it’s some kinda art-ee-fact,” Red
said. “I hear them collectors pay good money for old Indian
crap.”

Angus shook his head. “Nah, that string looks
too clean to be that old. And it smells deader’n a skunk in a
beaver trap.” He waved a hand in front of his face. “Phew! Maybe we
should let it alone.”

“Don’t go all knock-kneed on me, Angus.
Whatever it is, it might be worth somethin’ to someone.” Red
glanced nervously at the wagons, half-expecting to see the Bossman
coming toward them. “Let’s have a look. We can always hide it and
come back for it later.”

Red tugged at the string, trying to break it.
It felt flimsy and soft, but it held firm. He braced himself and
pulled harder. The string bit through his skin and pain shot up his
arm. He swore and let go, staring at his bleeding finger. “What the
hell?”

“Here, let me.” Angus dug in his pocket and
came up with a buck knife. He opened it and slid the blade under a
few strands. They parted easily. Angus grinned. “I guess my knife’s
a mite sharper’n yer finger. Now, lessee if—”

He paused, eyes large in surprise. Red leaned
forward to see what was wrong. The cut ends of the string hissed
and crackled, shriveling away. The sight chilled him, though he
couldn’t say why. He touched one end and jerked his hand back in
pain. A blister formed instantly on his fingertip.

Not shriveling—burning! Like a lit fuse. How
could a steel blade do that? He staggered back, shouting a warning
to Angus. The thing didn’t explode, but the ground shook and a
roaring filled Red’s ears. The remaining string loosened and fell
away. Before him, in a slaughterhouse reek, stood a gigantic wolf,
its head on level with his own. Its jaws gaped wide, propped open
by a black-handled knife with a long, bronze blade. Its eyes glowed
yellow in the sun. Red cried out, backing away. He tripped and
sprawled on the ground under its cancerous gaze.

Through his fear, he heard Angus laugh. “Why,
it ain’t nothin’ but an ol’ statue.”

Red watched in horror as Angus stepped closer
to the wolf and slapped it on the flank. He grinned. “Whaddaya so
scared of?”

The Wolf swung its head around and fixed
Angus with its yellow eyes. Angus froze, bug-eyed and open
mouthed.

“Run!” Red shouted, forgetting his own
danger. “Run, you stupid bastard!”

But Angus didn’t move. The Wolf braced its
paw against the bronze knife’s hilt and pushed downward. The blade
came out with the sound of a shoe sucking free of mud and clattered
on the rocky ground.

The Bossman’s furious voice shouted at Red
from behind. “What the hell is going on here?”

Afraid to move, Red tried to whisper a
warning. The Bossman ignored him. Flushed, neck veins throbbing
visibly, he stumped over to Angus and began yelling as if this were
just another regular day of work. “What’s the matter with you? The
snow’s already flying in Montana and you’re just standing around.
And as for you, Red, I see you over there taking a nap. If you
think I won’t dock your pay, you’re sadly mistaken—”

The Wolf uttered a growl so low Red couldn’t
hear it. But he felt it through the rocks under his back. The
Bossman felt it, too. He turned, his mouth still flapping, and his
words became screams. The Wolf leaped and buried its muzzle into
the Bossman’s neck, ending his life as he lived it—mouth wide open
and making noise.

Red stared, unbelieving, as the Bossman’s
twitching body hit the ground. He knew he should run, but didn’t
want to leave Angus. Besides, he wasn’t sure he had enough strength
to stand.

The Wolf turned back to Angus. Its mouth hung
open in an obscene parody of a smile, tongue lolling out over its
teeth. Angus still hadn’t moved or even changed his expression. The
Wolf licked the blood-soaked fur around its mouth and stepped
closer. Red found he could stand after all. He picked up his
shovel, uncertain whether to attack or run while the wolf’s
attention was on Angus. Not liking either option, he screamed at
the other workers for help.

The Wolf looked at him. 
They will not
hear you.

Red heard the words in his fear-crazed mind
and screamed again, waving the shovel in the air, but the workers
unloaded ties as though nothing were amiss.

The Wolf’s head swung back to
Angus. 
You, I shall not kill.

As though to make a lie of its words, the
wolf’s mouth opened wide. To Red’s fear-crazed mind, it seemed as
though its upper jaw touched the sky and its lower jaw scraped the
ground. It engulfed Angus, swallowing him whole.

This, thought Red, would be a good time to
run.

But before he could move, the wolf sat on its
haunches and began to howl. The sound rose in the air so thick and
full that Red could almost see it. And as it howled, the wolf began
to shrink. Fur sloughed from it in great handfuls, disappearing
before it hit the ground. Its muzzle shortened. Its ears turned
inside out and flattened to its skull, the points becoming rounded,
tufts of fur thinning to a few wiry strands. Its body thickened in
some places, shrank in others, reshaping itself, until the wolf was
gone. In its place crouched Angus, naked and feral.

Exhausted by fear, unable to accept what he
had just seen, Red wanted to believe the man before him was Angus,
that it had all been a dream or a bad joke. But the lifeless body
of the Bossman told him otherwise. And so did the rim of blood
matting the beard around Angus’s mouth.

The Wolf who was now Angus examined its new
body, flexing muscles, working the joints. Then it picked up the
sledgehammer and turned on Red.

Nothing of Angus remained in its eyes.

Where Angus’s face was open, friendly, and
quick to laugh—though perhaps not so quick of thought—the same face
worn by the wolf was hard, sly, and dangerous. Where Angus’s eyes
had been warm, wide, and brown, this creature’s eyes were as yellow
as bile. But the thing that terrified Red the most, that made his
insides run like warm bacon grease, was the smile. Unnaturally
wide, its sneering curl revealed long, pointed teeth that could
never grow in a human mouth. And they still dripped with the
Bossman’s blood.

Get away!
 Red’s mind
screamed. 
Run, run, run, run, RUN! 
But his eyes
were trapped in a yellow snare, and that other voice whispered in
his head. 
Stay,
 it said. 
Stay and feed
me.

Red found that he didn’t want to run after
all. In fact, he wanted to be eaten by this monster wearing his
friend’s face. He couldn’t think of anything that could be more
pleasant. The shovel dropped from his limp fingers and clattered on
the rocks. He took a step forward. The Wolf-Angus’s tongue ran over
its teeth in anticipation. Smiling, Red cocked his head back,
pulled his collar down to expose one side of his neck, and waited
for death.

Before teeth touched flesh, a black flurry of
wings swept into the wolf-Angus’s face. The wings separated into
two ravens cawing raucously, gouging at wolf eyes with beaks and
claws. The yellow haze retreated from Red’s mind. He back-pedaled,
clutching his collar closed, as if flannel could stop those dagger
teeth.