Free The Curse of the Wendigo by Rick Yancey Page B

you, Sergeant, I will not doze off, and I shall keep my rifle close. There is nothing to fear.”
    Hawk would have none of it. He did not know the doctor as I did. When the hunt was on, he could stay awake for days. Now Warthrop’s eyes were bright, and all fatigue had fled. He was in his element now.
    “Nothing to fear! Sweet Mary and Joseph, listen to the man!”
    “Yes, I would beg that you do, Sergeant. Now is not the time to lose our heads and submit to our baser instinct. How far are we from the Sucker encampment?”
    “A day . . . a day and a half.”
    “Good. We are of the same mind here. The quicker we reach our destination, the better. You know these people, Sergeant. Have you ever heard of anything like this?” He nodded toward the body, its arms outstretched as if waiting for a hug. “Is there anything in their culture to suggest such desecration, perhaps for shamanistic reasons?”
    “You’re asking if they’d ever skin a man and eat his heart?”
    The doctor smiled wanly. “There are certain indigenous beliefs about taking on the spirit of what one consumes.”
    “Well, I don’t know about that, Mr. Monstrumologist, but I’ve never heard of the Cree doing anything like what was done to poor Larose here. They say they’ll chop off the head sometimes—chop off the head, cut out the heart, and burn the body to keep it from coming back.”
    “To keep what from coming back?”
    “The
Outiko
—the Wendigo!”
    “Ah. Yes, of course. Well, whatever snacked on Monsieur Larose’s heart was no Cree—or anyone of any color for that matter. The bite radius is too large, for one thing, and every cut is jagged—an indication that the mouth that bit him lacked incisors.”
    “Lacked . . . ?”
    “The cutting teeth. These here.” The doctor tapped his front teeth with a blood-encrusted fingernail. “In other words, whatever bit him had a mouth full of fangs.”
    The night wore on, and Hawk wore down, at last throwing himself upon the ground beside me with an agonized moan. Warthrop remained outside the tent, keeping watch over his special charge while keeping the fire stoked. If not in actuality, at least the fire gave off the illusion of defense against whatever might lurk just beyond the range of its beneficent light.
    Soon my tent mate’smoans were replaced by the pleasant drone of his humming, perhaps to comfort himself in the way a man might whistle in a graveyard, the same haunting voyageur song he had sung before:
    J’ai fait une mâtresse y a pas longtemps.
    J’irai la voir dimanche, ah oui, j’irai!
    A gentle lady charmed me, not long ago . . .
    I’ll visit her on Sunday, it shall be so!
     
    I was roused from my restless slumber by something tugging upon my boot. I sat up with a small cry.
    “Easy, Will Henry; it’s only me,” the monstrumologist said. He was smiling. His face had taken on the same feverish glow I had seen a hundred times before. He gestured for me to join him outside. The cold, moist air made my lungs ache, but my heart sang with the shimmering bars of golden light streaming through the welcoming arms of the trees. The fire had all but died, and now in its smoldering ruin sat the coffeepot, steam rising languorously from its spout. The doctor gave a soft clap of his hands and desultorily asked how I had slept.
    “Very well, sir,” I said.
    “Why do you lie, Will Henry? Have you never heard that a person who will lie about the smallest of things will have no compunction when it comes to the largest?”
    “Yes, sir,” I said.
    “‘Yes, sir.’ Again with the ‘yes, sir.’ What have I told you about that?”
    “Yes . . .” Ihesitated, but now I was somewhat committed. “. . . sir.”
    “Come, I’ve found a suitable spot.”
    A suitable spot for
what
? I followed him a few yards into the trees, where I found a shallow trench; the camp shovel lay abandoned beside it.
    “Finish up and be quick about it, Will Henry. You may break your fast afterward. If