Free Warden by Kevin Hardman Page A

Wendigo.  It will probably circle around if it really wants us, so going to the marsh will probably buy us some time.”
    “What makes you think that we’ll even get that far if this monster is as strong and fast as you say?”
    “Because it likes to hunt its victims, terrify them, before it kills and eats them. The fun will be over if it kills us right now. I think that’s the only reason I – and probably Tom before me – ever got out of that cabin cellar alive. I think that’s the only reason it left Digby alive.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “It uses that pot to store food for a rainy day, but it put Digby in there essentially unhurt.  I think it was for future entertainment value. If and when it got bored, it could let him ‘escape’ and then hunt him down.”
    Gale’s eyes went wide as the truth suddenly occurred to her. “That’s why you’re so sure it’s coming after us. This is Digby’s escape. Maybe not the way that thing intended, but an escape nonetheless.”
    “Yes, and now we’re part of the fun.”

 
    Chapter 14
     
    After Digby finished his much-needed bath, they were back in the saddle again, with Digby eating lunch as they rode. Errol estimated that, riding a little faster than usual, they would arrive at the fire marsh the following afternoon.
    They rode in solitude for the most part – or rather, Errol and Gale did. Digby, however, seemed a bundle of nervous energy, and he chattered away aimlessly about almost anything and everything. In a very short time, his travelling companions knew almost his entire life story.  The only subject he tended to avoid was that of the cabin where they had found him, but eventually – in bits and pieces – they learned what had happened.
    In brief, Digby had been part of a hunting expedition that had had the misfortune to encounter the Wendigo. Getting him to disclose the details had been difficult, but in essence the monster had begun showing up every night wherever they made camp. It would seemingly appear out of nowhere, moving so fast that it couldn’t be seen; one second there would be nothing there, and the next it was in their midst.  Blades and arrows would damage it, but the wounds healed almost immediately. Then, it would either grab one of the hunters and drag him screaming from the camp, or – more likely – would simply go away. In those instances, however, one of their band would always be missing the next morning when they woke up.
    It was the same routine every night until Digby was the only person left.  However, although the creature had slaughtered his companions, it took him back to its lair and placed him in the pot.
    Aside from the Wendigo, Digby freely spoke about all other topics, even when it was clear that his companions were not listening. As the day wore on, however, his tireless rambling gave way to another behavior.  Still riding behind Gale on her horse, he began speaking less and less and looking around, erratically, more and more. Occasionally, he would excitedly ask, “Did you hear that?” or “Do you smell that?”  By the time Errol called a halt for the day, near sundown, Digby was as wild-eyed and distressed as when they had first found him.
    The place where they had stopped was a previously-used campsite with several tree stumps in close proximity that could be used as stools.  After warding the camp and getting a campfire going, Errol plopped down on one of them and took a swig from his water canteen.  He offered some to Digby, but the man’s hands shook so badly that he spilled more than he drank.  Moreover, he jumped at almost every sound – even when he was addressed directly by Errol or Gale.
    “What’s wrong with him?” Gale asked in frustration, sitting on a stump next to Errol and out of earshot of their companion. She had just tapped Digby on the shoulder to offer him something to eat, and the man had leaped aside, screaming.
    “Wendigo Fever,” Errol replied.
    Gale was suddenly