Wolf Valley

There. An opening in the shifting veil of fog showed him the grave less than a hundred feet away. The raised brick tomb and short white marble spire were almost exactly as they should be. Almost. The grave's form, its mass, was not quite right. Something -- no, maybe two somethings -- darker than brick were dimly outlined against it. One seemed to be lying on the ground, the other was . . . hunched up.

Grave robbers.
Motlow reached back for his rifle.

Becky whinnied.

The hunched dark something moved. It turned. Motlow suddenly saw baleful yellow eyes glare malevolently at him, piercing the gloom. The dark thing started scuttling in an odd and eerie manner, moving neither like man nor beast, but moving very quickly. Directly toward him.

'Gawd A'mighty!'

The Winchester was out in a smooth rapid motion, Motlow's hands pumping a round into the chamber before the rifle was leveled. He aimed quickly and fired. Becky reared as the crack of the shot echoed in the hidden hills. Her sudden upward movement caught Motlow by surprise. He almost fell backward out of the saddle. He grabbed the saddle horn with his left hand and leaned forward as far as he could, trying to maintain his balance until the horse returned to earth. Since he was holding the rifle with only one hand, he couldn't operate its lever action to eject the spent cartridge and pump in a new one. He was momentarily helpless against whatever-it-was.

Becky finally came back down, snorting with fear and panic, and dashed off away from the grave, plunging blindly through scrub brush and fog. Motlow was torn between getting out of there and worrying that Becky might step into a gopher hole and snap a leg. He finally got her reined in after several hundred yards. Quickly chambering a round, he quieted his horse down with soothing words and hand pats, giving her a few minutes to collect herself. Himself, too. He then slowly started back towards the grave. Becky was skittish, but obeyed.

Motlow kept the rifle out in front of him, weaving it back and forth, ready to shoot anything that moved. What was that thing? It sure didn't look like any grave robber. It didn't even look human.

The fog was as thick as ever, but the outline of the grave gradually came into view. Becky snorted. Motlow cautiously circled the brick tomb twice, keeping the Winchester pointed at it all the time.

The hunched dark thing with the glaring yellow eyes was gone.
The other dark thing wasn't.
It lay flat on the ground, and was still. Very still. Motlow halted Becky twenty feet away, and kept the rifle steady on it for a solid minute. It didn't move.

Keeping the rifle trained, Motlow slowly dismounted. He stooped and picked up a pebble, tossing it at the recumbent figure. The pebble hit. It still didn't move. Very slowly, Motlow approached the motionless shape. He kept the rifle on it, but his head swiveled regularly as he maintained a sharp lookout for the other dark thing. He would not miss a second time. He prodded the thing at his feet with the rifle. It was no mysterious ogre. It was a human being. An Indian. A young woman. A very dead young Indian woman.

'Great Gawd in heaven,' Motlow breathed noisily in helpless frustration. 'Not again. Not another one.'