James Axler – Demons of Eden

The Lakota was leaning forward, gazing at the surface of the river. He asked, “Do you like trout? As I recollect, the first time we met, you were preparing a muck-sucker stew. I can assure you trout is preferable, easier on the palate and the digestion.”

A feathered shaft miraculously appeared, quivering, in the meat of Joe’s left shoulder blade. His body jerked convulsively, a cry of surprised pain bursting from his lips. Only then did Ryan hear the faint twang of a bowstring.

Twisting in his saddle, Ryan glimpsed a blur of a bestial face before it faded into the shadows of the cane. Though he caught only a flickering fragment of motion, the impression he received was of a lupine, wolfish head.

Spinning back, he saw Joe sliding from his pintos back into, and under, the foaming blue water. Both he and Krysty forced their horses forward and flailed with their free hands at the surface. Ryan caught what felt like the fringes on the hem of the deerskin cape. Though his face was almost under the water, he held on. On the shore, attracted by a shout from Krysty, his friends stared uncomprehendingly for a moment.

Ryan urged his horse forward, clinging to Joe’s cape. Through a water-blurred eye, he saw J.B. riding his mount into the river, unslinging his Uzi.

Backbone crawling in anticipation of catching an arrow, Ryan continued to kick his horse toward the riverbank. Krysty rode to the other side of him, reaching down and pulling Joe’s head out of the water by his long hair. Splashing out to them, J.B. grabbed the rope bridle of the pinto and dragged it toward the bank, water erupting in the wake of their passage.

Ryan and Krysty maintained their grips on Joe until they had crossed the river. Mildred waded out and grabbed the coughing man, helping him to the bank and sitting him down.

“Who shot?” Jak demanded. “Didn’t see person.”

“I thought I did,” Ryan said, swinging out of the saddle and yanking the Steyr free of the scabbard. “And it wasn’t a who. More like a what.”

Joe, his face tight against the pain, asked, “What did you see?”

“I thought it was a wolf.”

“What?” J.B. demanded. “A wolf that shoots a bow and arrow?”

Joe bit back a groan. “You saw a man dressed as a wolf. One of the Wolf Soldiers. I should’ve known they would lie in wait for me.”

Everyone dismounted and, with blasters drawn, scanned the opposite shore. Mildred knelt behind Joe, took hold of the arrow and broke the shaft. She threw back the wet deerskin cape. Joe wasn’t wearing a shirt, and the jagged stump of the shaft rose from the muscles of his shoulder, moving with the labor of his breathing. There was very little blood. Quickly she examined the wound.

The arrow, fired at fairly long range, had penetrated his cloak easily enough, but hadn’t sunk deeply into the muscles. The angle was such that if the bow had been stronger and the shaft had more velocity, it would have punctured his heart. That obviously had been the idea.

“Whoever shot you must have thought you were a buffalo,” she said. “If you know who it was, maybe you know if they use barbed points on their arrows.”

Joe shook his head. “No. Leastways it doesn’t feel like it.”

“Good. The arrowhead has to be withdrawn, and there might be some blood loss. If it’s heavy, then we’re in trouble, because I don’t have the materials to stop a serious flow.”

Joe nodded, his breathing labored and harsh. “And if it is not withdrawn, then I run the risk of bleeding internally. It has to be removed. At once.”

He gestured to his pony. “In that parfleche, the one made of badger skin, is my medicine pouch. ”

Doc searched through the bundles tied to the pinto and found the furry pouch. It was decorated with wrapped quill bands and beadwork done in Sioux colors and patterns. He handed it to Mildred.

Inside she found seven small hide packets of herbs, the entire foot of an eagle, a small piece of elk horn and a bear claw. On the inner edge of each packet was a small insignia, each different, each in a different color.