That means the woman is inside the tent. Where I can't see her and confirm she's fine.
She should be fine. The others wouldn't have slept through those screams. Either this is a trap, then, or they woke hearing the screams, recognized them for an animal, and went back to sleep.
I can see my target now. The tree is just inside the clearing. I have my gun out. And then . . .
Well, I'm not quite sure what I should do next. For the sake of a good night's sleep, I'd like to reassure myself that the woman and girl are both fine. I can't do that without marching into camp. I would also like to reassure myself that this isn't a trap. But how do I do that without the risk of waking the settlers, who'll think we're raiding them?
I circle behind the tree where the young man rests. Then I keep going so I don't emerge behind him, which is never the way to say "I come in peace."
I draw alongside him, close enough to see that he seems to be sleeping, his head bowed. Then I whistle. It's not piercing, but it's enough that even if he's asleep, he should jump up.
He doesn't budge.
Damn it.
Either my whistle is softer than I think, or this is a trap, and he's wide awake and waiting.
I whistle again, louder.
No reaction.
I get a better grip on my gun and then retreat behind the tree. From there, I creep forward, no longer worried about startling him. This is a trap. That or . . .
I know what the "or" is. I have from the start.
I slip up behind the tree. I can see the young man's arm, hanging at his side. I take a deep breath and count my steps. Three. Two. One.
The last brings me to his shoulder. I sidestep. Moonlight shines into the clearing, glisteni
ng off his half-closed eyes. Glistening off the blood soaking his dark shirt.
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A slash bisects the young settler's throat. It's ragged at one side, cutting upward on an awkward angle. Rushed. But a single slice, deep enough that I see his spinal column. No hesitation cuts, no sign that the killer paused or reconsidered or had to steel himself to do the job.
The killer crept up while the young settler watched the fire. One deliberate slash to end his life before he had time to react. Blood covers the young man's hands as if in his last moments he'd reached up, unable to breathe, grabbing his throat. Too late to even rise from his spot.
I turn to call Dalton, but he's already making his way into the clearing. He sees me bent beside the young settler and knows he is not asleep.
Dalton ties Storm to a tree. She whimpers, but at a firm "Quiet," she lies down. She doesn't want to come closer. She knows what's here. She has always known what's here.
I crouch beside the older man. His eyes are open just enough for me to know he isn't sleeping. The top blanket has been drawn up to his throat, as if the killer tucked him back in. Not an act of contrition--the killer was hiding his work. I tug down that blanket to see the old man's throat has been slashed. There are other cuts, too, on his bare arms, and a clump of gray hair by my foot.
The killer tried to murder the older man in his bed, but something gave him away, an ill-placed footstep or the death gurgle of the younger man. The old man bolted up, maybe getting tangled in his blankets. Rising fast enough to fight, not fast enough to win.
There's a knife by his head. No blood on the blade. As if he'd grabbed it from under his blankets, but it was already too late. The killer had grabbed the old man's hair, yanked back his head and slit his throat. Then he laid him down and tucked the blanket up under his chin.
Dalton is at the tent, sweeping open the front flap. Even from here, I can see it's empty, the old woman gone. Then I remember the second set of blankets by the fire. The small form within. I stumble over to it and yank back the blanket to see . . .
A pack. There's a large deerskin pack under the blanket. The girl is gone, but someone has made it look as if she's asleep. What's the point of that?
Dalton stands in the clearing. He's peering around, gun in hand, but this doesn't seem like a deliberate trap. The first body wasn't staged in that position. The second was covered, but only--I presume--in case the woman or girl saw a body and panicked.
Kill the two men. Take the woman and girl.
Dalton's circling the camp, scanning it. He walks to the tree where the food has been hung. There are rabbits missing from the brace. Two food packs are missing, too, the cut ropes dangling. Two others remain, and scrapes in the trunk bark suggest someone tried to climb and reach them but couldn't.
"Hostiles?" I say.