Free Fear Weaver by David Thompson

killed by them. But if that was the case, where were the bodies?
    “Is anyone home?” Nate called out.
    There was no answer.
    Nate walked up to the front door and tried the latch. The door wasn’t bolted. It swung in on creaking leather hinges.
    “I’m a friend. Don’t be afraid.” Nate poked his head in and smothered a cough. The place had a strange smell. Not a foul odor, as such, but different from the odor of any cabin he had ever set foot in. The cause eluded him. It wasn’t tobacco or any food he was familiar with.
    Keeping his back to the wall, Nate sidled inside. The room was dark, even darker than the gloom of the forest. He paused, letting his eyes adjust. “I’m a friend,” he repeated.
    Nate made out a table with benches instead of chairs. Over by the fireplace was a rocking chair. And that was about it, save for cupboards and pots and pans.
    A dark doorway yawned to his right. Nate went over. “Anyone in here?” He poked the door with the Hawken. The
thunk
of metal on wood seemed un-naturally loud. Within were empty shelves and a metal hook speckled with dry blood, suspended from the ceiling. It was a pantry.
    The strange smell was stronger.
    Nate closed the pantry door and went back outside, grateful for the fresh air. He checked the ground. The grass near the door was flattened, the earth scuffed and scraped. There weren’t any clear prints, but it was enough to tell him that someone—or several someones—used the cabin regularly. He openedthe door and poked his head in again. The floor and the furniture were free of dust, which they wouldn’t be if neglected.
    Nate hastened to the bay. He disliked leaving it untended. The unease he’d felt since entering the valley hadn’t gone away.
    The logs used to build the cabin weren’t trimmed. Here and there stubs poked out. One was long enough to wrap the reins around to keep the bay from wandering away.
    Nate stared up the trail. Peter and Erleen would arrive soon. He used the time to prop the front door open with a broom and to open the curtains to clear out the smell. Logs stacked next to the fireplace simplified kindling a fire. He also lit several candles scattered about. He wanted the place to be as cheerful as he could make it. He was thinking of the girls, of Anora and especially Tyne.
    Nate debated what to do about the blood. A shovel suggested a solution. He dug dirt from the side of the cabin and sprinkled it over the red splashes and spots. Next, he put coffee on to boil.
    The Woodrows still hadn’t shown up. Nate went to the door. He hoped they were all right. He hadn’t heard shots or screams, and he doubted the Black-feet could take them completely unaware.
    The wait tested Nate’s patience. He paced back and forth in front of the cabin. He paced back and forth in the cabin.
    Once, when he was outside, rock clattered against rock off in the trees. The sound wasn’t repeated.
    The high cliffs lent an oppressive gloom to everything. Nate noted that the valley continued for another quarter of a mile past the cabin, ending where the cliffs met. It was worth a look-see but it wouldhave to wait. He wanted to be at the cabin when the others got there.
    Nate’s unease grew. The last time he had felt this way was in Apache country. He couldn’t shake the notion that at any moment something might rush out at him. He told himself he was being ridiculous, but it didn’t help.
    Over an hour passed.
    Nate thought hot coffee would soothe his nerves. Several cups were in the cupboards but he felt compelled to use his own. He went out to the bay and opened the parfleche. As he reached in, a twig snapped.
    Nate spun, leveling the Hawken, and caught movement in the trees near the cabin. “Who’s there?”
    No one answered.
    Nate could make out a vague two-legged shape. “I know you’re in there. Show yourself.”
    The figure moved, but only a couple of steps.
    Nate’s thumb and trigger finger twitched, but he didn’t shoot. “If you are