White Fangs (7 page)

"And you didn't partake?" Jack asked pointedly.

"You're interested?" Ghost asked.

Jack shook his head.

"Whatever did this smashed holes in the hull big enough for five men to crawl through together," Ghost continued, his voice lower, face more serious. "Claw marks down there, and teeth. The
strength
to do that . . . . And the boat's grounded, sinking slowly into the river bed. Not going anywhere, probably ever again."

"You saw what did this?" Louis asked.

"Maybe I did, maybe I didn't," Ghost said.

Another game that the old Ghost would never have played.
"We're leaving," Jack whispered, hoping Ghost would not hear from the base of the steps. "We knew that before this, and I've heard nothing to change my mind."

"Oh, I'm leaving too," Ghost said, as easily as if Jack had addressed him. "Just as soon as I've found something to eat." He turned and walked away, chuckling to himself, and it was only as he had his back turned that Sabine watched him go.

"You know we can't trust him," she said quietly. "You all still agree?"

"Oui,"
Louis said, as if it was a foolish question. The others nodded. The Reverend touched his chest and bowed his head, a silent apology that was accepted by all.

"Good," Sabine. "Because he's a monster looking for acceptance. And I think that makes him more dangerous than he ever was before."

The steamer had been driven aground with its stern closest to shore. There was no sign of Ghost as Jack and the others made their way there, but it was at the stern that they discovered some of the other survivors, arguing about what to do, milling aimlessly, and trying to overcome their fear with aggression and defiance.

The boat's captain was drunk, sitting on a pallet of belongings that had been dragged up on deck and grinning inanely at the proceedings. A mostly-empty whiskey bottle hung from his right hand.

"We should throw him overboard," Jack said, disgusted.

"One way of finding out whether anything's still waiting for us,
mon ami,"
Louis said, and Jack knew he was only half-joking.

"You!" someone said. A short woman came forward, and by her manner Jack could see that she was used to being in charge. She wore her hair in a bun, trail clothes that had seen adventures for sure — loose trousers frayed around her heavy boots, a rough shirt, a leather waistcoat cracked and faded from exposure to the elements — and two pistols slung on her hips. Jack could see that the coach gun in her right hand had a stock smoothed by use, and she carried the weapon with a natural ease.

"Did you hit anything?" Jack asked as she closed on him, hand raised and finger pointed.

"Anything?" she asked. "'Course I hit
somethin'.
Water, darkness. Lump of rock, maybe. But I didn't see nothin' to hit nothin'. You, though. You all." She moved her hand slowly, pointing at Jack, Sabine and their companions. "I seen you fighting by the railin' last night. Just afore it happened. And there was somethin' wrong."

The captain chuckled, mumbled something none of them could understand, and took another swig of whiskey.

"We don't know any more than you," Jack said.

"Just that the crew were nervous," Maurilio volunteered. "Stories about people disappearing from around Dawson. They didn't like making this journey."

"What I hear, people have always disappeared around Dawson," she said, dismissing him. "It's that sorta place." She looked at the drunken captain, and for an awful moment Jack thought she was going to blast him with the coach gun. But she only snorted, dismissing him, and turned back to them.

"So, I was just tellin' the others here that we need off. Can't stay here scratchin' our asses when the boat's goin' nowhere."

"That's exactly what we're doing," Jack said. "Nothing to stay for, now. By my reckoning, we're maybe thirty miles from Dawson, hiking distance."

"I'd say thirty-five," the woman said.

"We don't need company," Louis said.

The woman looked at him, eyeing him up and down and frowning.
What does she see?
Jack wondered. He was used to these men, but when confronted with strangers he was always afraid that they would perceive something wrong about the ex-pirates. Something different.

"Neither do I, but I'm goin' the same way," she said. She nursed the coach gun across her folded arms, a silent threat.

"Jack." Sabine touched his arm and pulled him aside, nodding slightly at the others. "Safety in numbers?"

"Or perhaps the more of us there are, the greater the target," Louis said.

"Either way, we can't stop anyone else doing the same," Jack said. "Once these people see us leaving, more of them will be inclined to follow. They're a crowd right now. The one person who
should
be helping them is drunk."

"Cattle follow the herd," Vukovich said. Jack felt a momentary chill at his use of the word "cattle." It implied meat.

Jack nodded at the woman. "What's your name?"

"Callie King."

Jack looked around at the other passengers. Some were watching the exchange with interest, and some seemed too traumatized to do anything other than sit, or stand, or wait for night to fall again.

"So how do we get off this wreck, Callie King?"

Maurilio and Vukovich insisted on going first. The Reverend went with them, quieter than ever now, and Jack was not sure whether it was because he had almost lost himself, or because Ghost had beaten him down so easily. Ghost, in his human form, had beaten a werewolf on the change.

Jack had fought werewolves, but he had defeated them with guile and intelligence, never brute force.

Vukovich and Maurilio rowed, while the Reverend played out the coiled rope behind them. The river's current quickly caught the little rowboat — the only other boat left on the steamer — and dragged it downstream, but the two men pulled hard against the oars, gritting their teeth and allowing their unnatural strength to drag them across to the bank before the rope ended. With each splash of the oars Jack expected something to reach up out of the water and take them down, smashing the boat to matchwood and ripping the men apart, fooling everyone who had begun to believe that it was only darkness that would welcome attack. But they landed safely, hauled the rowboat ashore, then walked back along the bank, pulling the rope with them.

Once they reached a position upstream from the stranded steamer, the Reverend took up the slack and tied the rope to a thick tree. Raised from the river, the strained rope twanged when Vukovich grabbed at it, hissing spray into the air that gave life to three brief, beautiful rainbows.

Maurilio and Vukovich retrieved the boat and came across with it. As they nudged against the steamer, Jack, Sabine and Louis climbed down. But when the five of them sat there ready to haul themselves across to the bank, Jack saw the problem, and felt a pang of guilt. He looked up at the deck rail where Callie and several other passengers were gathered, watching them. Callie was frowning, glancing alternately from Jack to the river's surface and back again.

"One of you needs to come and bring the rowboat back," Jack said. "We'll be on our way as soon as we reach the shore."

Callie clapped the shoulder of the young man by her side. "Me and Skinny here will come, won't we?"

"Huh?" He looked surprised, and actually blushed at being noticed.

"What?" Callie said. "You thought comin' up here to find your fortune in gold would be easy?" She was japing, but Jack could hear the fear beneath her words, and something else as well. He thought she knew much more than she was letting on. He wondered whether it had been her pistols and rifle firing at their attackers the previous night, or whether she had been hiding away somewhere, knowing that bullets would have little effect and praying that she survived the night.

Callie nudged the man forward, and he grudgingly climbed down into the boat. She followed and then they were away, pulling on the rope and fighting the current all the way across. The Reverend held them steady while they disembarked, all but the young man.

"Back you go!" Callie said to him. "Go rescue some folks. They might even thank you."

The man did as he was told, and Jack, Sabine and the others stood on the bank with Callie slightly apart from them. Vukovich was wandering up and down the bank, looking at the muddy ground, and Jack could hear him quietly sniffing.

"Won't find no tracks," Callie said.

"How do you know?" Jack asked.

She shrugged, blustering a little. "Came from the river, didn't they?"

"Look at the wheelhouse," Sabine said, but Jack did not even need to look.

"Of course he's there," he said. "Come on. Let's head out."

With Ghost's eyes on his back, Jack walked away from the river and into the land he knew so well. The others followed, but he walked ahead for a while, alone. He hoped that soon his wolf would appear. He feared that they were all going to need its help, and its protection.

Jack kept a close eye on the river, one hand clutching his back-pack's shoulder strap and the other resting on the butt of the pistol jutting from his belt. Thirty-five miles across this terrain, lugging even just the supplies they'd agreed were vital, was going to be a hell of a slog. There was no way they were going to make it in a single day. And he had a feeling that nightfall would bring new troubles.

"You really think we'll be all right now that the sun's up?" asked a gruff, bearded man, as if reading Jack's mind. Tim Underwood wore fancy clothes, newly cut and tailored, but his carriage and manner of speech made it clear he was unaccustomed to wealth. Jack didn't have to ask his history to know that he was one of the few lucky ones — this wasn't his first trip to Dawson, and the last time he'd come, he'd returned home with plenty of gold.

The question had been addressed to Callie King, and she turned her wide blue eyes toward the man.

"Whatever came after us last night were gone at sunup, Mr. Underwood. Don't take a lot of imagination to think maybe the sun ain't their friend. But I can't make no promises about what kind of luck we're gonna have when evenin' rolls around again. Just be grateful for the long days this far north."

Underwood grunted and set about whispering to the two surviving prostitutes, who had joined up with them as they trekked north along the riverbank. Along with Jack and Sabine, the four wolves, Callie King, and other stragglers, their party numbered nineteen.

"I just don't understand why we're sticking so close by the river," one of the prostitutes, a red-haired girl named Maxine, loudly opined. She glanced continuously at the water and kept far to the left of the group, as if at any moment she might dart deeper into the woods like a frightened doe.

To Jack's surprise, it was the Reverend who answered. He seemed almost protective of the girl with the bright copper hair.

"There's a trail here, Maxine," the Reverend said, tall and dark-eyed, always with the mien of a stern minister. "The further you stray from the river, the harder going it'll be. And if you do find a trail deeper in the woods, it might some old Indian trail that doesn't lead toward Dawson at all."

Sabine looked kindly at Underwood and the prostitutes. "As Mr. Underwood can tell you, the river flows right through Dawson City. If we follow its course as long as we can, we're sure to reach our destination."

As long as we can
, Jack thought. He glanced over at Callie King and saw her nod at the emphasis.

For the two hours since they'd set off, Jack had been focusing his senses outward. He had read about the meditations of the yogis of the Orient, and decided that he and they might in some ways be similar. With every inhalation, he cleared his mind, and with every exhalation he reached out into the wilderness around them again, paying special attention to the great river. He could sense the birds and fish, foxes and hares, and in the distance, a lynx. But there were none of those dark voids, those sinister absences of life that he had felt in the water during the night.

From time to time Jack glanced at Sabine. She walked closest to the water, its nearness keeping her strong. If they wandered too far from the river she might grow weak again, and he wanted to delay that for as long as possible. For the moment, he knew that she would be using her strange witchery to search the river, and so at least they would be warned should the monsters return.

Monsters
, Jack thought. Strange how that word had evolved in his mind. He traveled with a sea witch and a quartet of murderous werewolves. Yet the witch was the woman he loved, and the wolves were trying very hard to be men again. He had come to the Yukon two years before to explore the wild within himself, and now Louis, Vukovich, Maurilio, and the Reverend were making their own journey into the wilderness, seeking humanity. It was a complex irony.

And what of that other monster, the worst he had ever known? They hadn't seen Ghost since they set off from the grounded steamer, and that suited Jack and his companions just fine.

"What happens when the sun goes down?" Maxine asked, picking up Underwood's question, and breathing hard from the effort of the hike, beads of sweat on her forehead despite the cool breeze and the shade of the trees. She wore heavy clothing in several layers, and Jack had refrained at suggesting she remove some. "If those things don't like the sunlight, what about the night?"

At first, nobody replied. Jack thought Callie King might even be biting her lip to keep her thoughts to herself. It solidified the suspicion he had that she knew more about their circumstances than she'd let on. Outwardly, she seemed a rough, almost masculine woman, and her speech sometimes implied ignorance. However, Jack felt certain that such appearances belied a fierce intelligence, and more knowledge of their predicament than she was letting on.

"We've got a lot of miles to cover and plenty of daylight yet to burn," Jack said, breaking the awkward silence. "Let's see how far we get by day's end, and worry about nightfall then."

It wasn't an answer any of them liked, but at least it got them moving. The threat of sundown hung over them and propelled them forward, and though they all carried some kind of pack and other supplies, whenever they paused nobody wanted to rest for long.

Fear helped them make excellent time.

Jack had hoped that they would encounter some familiar landmark that would enable him to gauge their distance from Dawson. But his last time on this stretch of river had been in a handmade boat that was fast taking on water, and then he and his friends had spent months trapped by ice and snow in a small cabin. They had barely survived, and were left suffering from symptoms of scurvy and malnutrition. Only now did he truly realize what a daze he had been in as they covered the miles to Dawson that spring.

"No idea at all, Jack?" Louis asked, his gold tooth glinting in the fading yellow light of afternoon.

"None," Jack replied. He reached his senses out into the woods and the river, and then glanced at Louis and the other wolves. They walked close together along the river bank. "But I don't feel anything resembling whatever that was last night. Could be we'll be okay tonight."

They looked at Sabine, who strolled by the water's edge. As if sensing their attention upon her, she turned and shook her head. "Nothing," she said softly.

"We must be getting close," Vukovich said hopefully.

"I don't think we've covered more than fifteen miles yet," the Reverend countered grimly. "It's slow going. We never should've let the rest of them tag along."

Jack glanced over at Tim Underwood and the little coterie of steamer passengers who seemed to have chosen him as their protector. As well as the two prostitutes they included one of the crewmen, and three men who'd been promised work in a hotel by a gentleman who'd invested plenty of money in Dawson. One of the hotel workers had brought his daughter, a quiet, yellow-haired girl of perhaps eleven.
Dawson is no place for a girl so young,
Jack thought, but that wouldn't matter if they never arrived.

"If we come under attack tonight," Jack said, "we have to do our best to protect them."

Maurilio growled softly. "Protect ourselves, you mean."

Louis gave him a vicious poke in the ribs. "That's the beast talking. Be a man."

Maurilio spun and glared at him, dropping the pack from his back. For a moment, the two men faced each other, nostrils flaring, lips curled back to show savage teeth. Jack glanced around anxiously and saw that Underwood and his group had all paused to watch the aggression unfold. He turned to look back at Callie King, who had been trailing twenty feet or so behind them for the last half dozen miles, almost as if she wanted to keep them in sight and didn't like the idea of anyone at her back. Now she watched curiously, but didn't seem at all surprised by the conflict.

"Boys," Jack said quietly.

"If those things come back tonight," Maurilio snarled, "it's going to be the beasts that survive."

He took a step toward Louis, but Vukovich grabbed his arm and held him back, and the Reverend did the same to Louis. Then Sabine stepped between them, reaching up to lay a hand on each of their chests. Gentle as she was, her eyes were full of all the storms of the sea.

"Gentlemen,"
she said, her voice firm. "You forget yourselves."

Louis sighed deeply and stepped back. A moment later, Maurilio did the same, shaking off Vukovich's touch.

"Walk," Jack commanded, falling in beside Maurilio, who hoisted his pack over his shoulder and began to march again. "I know you're skittish — "

Maurilio's eyes flared at this challenge to his courage and he glared at Jack. "You think — "

"Hush. I didn't say 'afraid.' You've got your hackles up. We all do, and for good reason. If the monsters return, could be you'll need to let the beast loose then, just to make it to the morning alive. What will be, will be. But if we fight amongst ourselves, that cuts down on all of our chances at survival, and I won't have it. Save it for whatever has mistaken us for prey."

After several more steps, Maurilio nodded.

But the Reverend had overheard, and he glanced at Jack and then Sabine. "They didn't come very far out of the water last night. Why are we so sure they can? Or do you think they were just toying with us?"

Jack watched Underwood tenderly helping Maxine and the other women maneuver around a massive felled pine.

"That's exactly what I think," he admitted. "I haven't felt any trace of them, but they'll be back when it's dark. And they'll be hunting for us."

"How can you be so sure?" Maurilio asked.

"Because they were hungry," Sabine whispered, just loud enough for them to hear. "It's all I could feel from them. Cruelty and hunger."

Jack reached out and took her hand and they trudged along together.

"Then we'd better get moving," the Reverend said.

Jack squeezed Sabine's fingers in his own. "You keep on," he said, glancing at the werewolves before kissing the back of her hand. "It's time I find out what Callie's been keeping from us."

None of them asked him what he meant. They had all sensed the reticence in the gun-toting woman.

As the late afternoon shadows grew longer and the sunlight began to glint from the rippled surface of the river, Jack knelt on the bank and brought handfuls of water to his mouth, drinking deeply. When he stood, he noticed that Underwood and the rest of his group had peeled off a ways into the woods, moving farther and farther from the river as the day crept closer to evening. That troubled him — the traveling would be harder, and Jack doubted distance from the water would make them any safer — but he had his own preparations to make for nightfall. And before he could prepare, he needed to know more.

"Thirsty work, all this lugging and trudging," Callie King said as she came up beside him.

"That's for sure," Jack agreed, shouldering his pack again.

Callie didn't stop, so he had to quicken his pace to catch up. When he fell in beside her, she said nothing more, and he felt sure that the woman was biting her tongue so as not to encourage conversation. Whatever she had on her mind, she had no interest in discussing it with Jack. But he was going to have to
change
her mind. He and his pack had secrets of their own, but he couldn't afford to let Callie hold onto hers any longer.

"Mr. Underwood seems to think we ought to put some distance between ourselves and the water now that night's closing in," Jack said.

The woman did little more than grunt as she hitched her pants, shifted the straps of her pack, and kept marching northward.

"You don't have an opinion?" Jack asked. "You don't seem to me the sort of woman usually lacking a perspective."

Callie cast him an amused look. "You're a sharp character, Mr. London. I knew that right off. I got a good eye fer that kinda thing."

Up ahead, Sabine walked side by side with Louis, and the others weren't far off. That was good. Jack felt sure that if trouble came again, they would all protect one another the way a pack should. Way off to his left he caught a glimpse of Underwood and one of the prostitutes. They tramped loudly through some underbrush, but in the dying daylight Jack couldn't make them out very well.

He studied Callie King, examining her more closely than he had before. The gun belt around her waist was well-oiled and rested perfectly, conformed by long familiarity to the shape of her hips. She wore two pouches slung over her shoulders and when anyone went near she covered them protectively. A knife handle jutted from its sheath at her hip, just behind her left gun holster. The way the handle glinted, even in the fading light, Jack could have sworn it was silver. He'd had some experience with silver knives. If the werewolves had noticed, they would surely have taken the knife from her already, killing her if they had to. Silver worked like poison in their blood; a wicked enough wound from that knife would be the death of any one of them.

Callie spun on him, her eyes cold and sharp as that blade. "Boy, if you've got somethin' to say, then you'd better spit it out. I ain't used to men's eyes lingerin' on me like this and it puts me in a fierce disposition."

As she'd turned, a chain swung out from around her neck. Jack only had a glimpse of it before it slid back into the open collar of her shirt, but it made him stiffen. A crucifix.

They stood toe to toe, gazing at each other in mutual suspicion. Callie had been quiet enough that no one stopped to watch or eavesdrop. Sabine and the wolves were forty or fifty feet upriver, and Underwood and the others were now lost to view. Only the sound of their clumsy progress through the forest marked their passing.

"Are you a religious woman, Miss King?" Jack asked. At the nape of her neck, her shirt was open enough to reveal a length of chain and the edge of the cross.

"Only as religious as I need to be," she said. "But I'll tell ya this much, Jack . . . I ain't your enemy. You seen some things. I can see that in yer eyes. I'll tell ya, you got a lot worse things to be afeared of out here in the wild than an old gal with too many weapons and not enough sense."