Track of the Beast: A Brock Stone Adventure

Moss tugged thoughtfully at his beard. “Imagine a fellow with a deep voice trying to imitate a coyote’s yipping. It wasn’t exactly like that, but that’s the best I can come up with. And then there was the drumming.”

“Drumming?” Stone frowned. “Are you sure they weren’t Indians?”

Moss shook his head. “Not that kind of drumming. More like sticks being banged together. Sometimes big rocks. Sometimes it almost sounded like Morse code to me. Everybody else said I was crazy.” He shook his head, his gaze drifting, as if to some faraway place.

“Could it have been natives trying to drive you away from the canyon?”

“Indians won’t go near that place. We should have known not to go there.” Moss spat again. “One morning, we found a bunch of gear strewn about, some of it smashed. I’m talking pick handles snapped. Wood this thick.” He held up his arm, tapped his wrist. “Indians didn’t do that. And there were footprints everywhere.”

Stone had a feeling he knew what sorts of footprints the man was talking about.

“Giant bare feet, not quite human. We didn’t know what to make of them.”

“Were they apelike?” Constance asked.

The man shrugged. “What did any of us know about such things? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen an ape footprint. In any case, a couple fellas wanted to get the hell out of there, but the rest of us wanted to stay. They reckoned that whatever the things were, they were only a nuisance.” He paused, took a deep breath. “They didn’t consider the possibility that maybe the beasts were giving us fair warning.”

Stone leaned forward a little, eager to hear the man’s story. Alex and Constance did the same. Moss sat there in silence for so long that Stone began to wonder if the fellow had changed his mind about telling his tale. But finally, the man cleared his throat.

“Things were all right for a few days, until Coleman shot one of them.”

Stone sat bolt upright. “Shot one? You mean, you all saw it?”

Moss shook his head. “No. Coleman was hunting alone when he said one of them just burst out of the forest, coming right at him. He had his rifle at the ready, and he fired out of instinct. Said he was fairly certain he only caught it on the hip.”

“I’ll bet it didn’t like that very much.” Alex scratched his thigh with his hook, perhaps remembering the serious injury he’d suffered not too long ago.

“None of them like it very much. The injured beast fled. We found blood and a few hairs. We didn’t follow it too far. Coleman felt terrible about it. Said if he’d taken even a moment to think about it, he’d have tried to back away, fire into the air, anything but shooting the creature unless it forced him to.”

Stone nodded in agreement.

“Anyhow, he couldn’t exactly write a letter of apology, and the apes, or whatever they are, turned out to be the unforgiving type.”

“What do you mean?” Constance asked.

“That night, they attacked our camp.” Moss looked at them, a touch of challenge in his gaze as if daring them to contradict him. When they kept their silence, he continued. “It started out with the usual howling, and drumming, but this time it came from all around, at least twenty, maybe more. It got louder and louder, the beasts coming closer, and then the attack started. Stones were flying, huge things, bigger than grapefruits.” He clenched his fists and pressed them together to illustrate. “We hunkered down in the log cabin we’d built and waited.”

“How long did it last?” Stone asked.

“Al night. Stones rained down on the roof, cracked it in places. Then they got braver, charged the cabin, and banged on the walls. The whole thing shook like it was being hit by a battering ram. The chinking between the logs started to crumble, and pretty soon gaps opened between the logs and we caught a few glimpses of the creatures.”

“What did you see?” Stone found himself intrigued by the old miner’s tale.

“Fur, mostly. Or hair — dark, thick, glossy. Not quite like human hair, but not fur, either. Glimpses of bared teeth, eyes… never got a good look at them. Didn’t want to get close enough to the wall to peer out.” The old man shuddered at the memory. Whatever he had seen and experienced, it had shaken him badly.

“Finally, one of them stuck its arm through. I picked up a chunk of firewood and whacked it. It let out a snarl that just about turned my shorts brown, if you know what I mean. Another fellow slashed it with his knife and it pulled its arm back out. I was afraid that was just going to make them angrier, but they stopped trying to get in after that. They kept up the yowling and throwing rocks, but eventually, they went away.”

“What did you do after that?” Constance asked.

“We interpreted the attack as our final warning. Went home and never went back.”

“Mister Moss,” Constance began, “we’ve heard tales that the creatures have kidnapped women. Should I be worried?” She let out a nervous laugh.

Moss considered the question, tugging thoughtfully at his beard. Finally, he let out a long, slow breath.