Track of the Beast: A Brock Stone Adventure

“Not a one. But if it’s stories you’re after, old Milton could tell you one or two… or thirty.” He nodded in the direction of a gray-haired man who sat alone in the corner, nursing a drink and frowning in the general direction of the other bar patrons.

“He doesn’t look too friendly,” Constance said.

“He’s just in a bad mood because he lost all his money in a poker game about an hour ago. He’s been nursing that beer ever since. Buy him a couple of rounds and he’ll be your best friend. At least until his glass is empty.”

They thanked the man, who took one long, last look at Alex’s hook, and a longer look at Constance, before returning to his drinking mates. They decided that Constance would be the first to approach Milton. She headed to the bar, bought two beers, and made her way over to the old man, who grinned at her like Christmas had come early. After a brief exchange, she beckoned for Alex to join them.

“This is my friend, Alex,” she said. “Alex, this is Milton.”

Alex shook hands with Milton. The old man’s grip was strong, his hand calloused. “A pleasure.”

“Thanks for the drink.” Milton raised his glass in mock salute, then took a long pull. “Ah, that takes the edge off. I didn’t have the luckiest night with the cards.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Alex said.

Milton waved the words away. “It’s nothing. I get paid again in two days. I’ll just be short on drinking money until then.”

“Perhaps we could help you out,” Constance said. “We’re writers, and we understand you have stories to tell. We’d be happy to buy a few more rounds in exchange for your knowledge of certain local legends.”

“As a matter of fact, I can tell you a few stories about the ape men.” Milton drained his beer, set the glass on the table, and gave Alex a meaningful look.

“Let me buy you another round,” Alex said. He headed to the bar and returned with two, anticipating Milton would want sufficient lubrication for his storytelling engine.

The old man thanked him and launched into his tale.

“The Indians around here have stories about ape men going back as far as they can remember. They have different names for them, but most of us call them Bigfoot or Sasquatch.”

“That sounds Indian,” Constance said.

Milton scratched his head. “Depends on who you listen to. I’ve heard it’s an Indian word, and I’ve also heard that a white man made it up. The way the story goes, he was a teacher who collected the natives’ stories about the ape men, and supposedly Sasquatch is a name that’s sort of a blend of the various names for the creature.”

“What do these stories tell us about this big-footed creature?” Constance asked.

“For the most part, the Indians talk about Bigfoot as if he’s just another type of human, maybe a primitive ancestor. They say he catches fish, eats berries and nuts, prefers to be left alone.”

“Sounds like my grandpa,” Alex said.

Milton laughed. “There’s worse sorts of people out there. Anyhow, the Indians kept their distance from the Sasquatch, who they said made for dangerous enemies if you angered them.”

Alex nodded, keeping his silence and permitting the old man to continue.

“Luckily, they don’t seem to anger too easily. They shy away from you. Most people don’t even see them. Maybe hear them moving away in the forest, or catch a whiff of them.” He grimaced and fanned his nose.

“But either of those things could be explained by other animals, couldn’t they?” Constance asked. “Plenty of creatures have a foul odor or make noises in the woods.”

Milton raised his chin, looked at the woman through slitted eyes. For a moment Alex feared the man would declare their conversation at an end, but finally, he made a thoughtful nod.

“True, but other creatures don’t leave giant, almost human-looking footprints, do they?”

“Have you seen any of the footprints?” Alex asked.

“A few.” Milton took a drink.

Constance nodded. “How big are these creatures?”

“Nine feet tall,” Milton said. “At least, the biggest ones are. Some are smaller, but those might be the female of the species.”

“What’s your theory about them?” Alex asked. “What do you think they are?”

Milton shrugged. “Some sort of close relative to humans, I’d say.”

“Not an ape?” Alex pressed.

“No. Otherwise they’d have no need to take the women.” Milton’s eyes suddenly went wide. His cheeks turned scarlet.

“What was that?” Constance asked.

“Nothing. Just the drink talking.” Milton took a long swig of beer.

“Please,” Constance pressed. “My friend is missing. We need to find out what happened to her, and we’ll consider every possibility.”

An anticipatory silence hung between them as Milton stared at the table, slowly shaking his head. Finally, he let out a huff of breath, shoulders sagging.

“It’s just folk tales, but supposedly the Bigfoot kidnap human women from time to time. I don’t buy into it, but whenever a woman up and disappears anywhere in the Pacific Northwest, outside of the big city, that is, somebody will blame it on the creatures.”

“Have many women disappeared?” Alex asked.