'Paw' Part 3: Night comes
Nightfall comes to the farmhouse, and the father and son barricaded inside.
Previously, in my Old West horror novel:
By sunset, Clifford and John had taken up their positions in the wide room that took up the front half of the farmhouse. The shutters were closed up and nailed in place, and the door had been barred. Their big wardrobe had been pushed in front of the barred back door, nudged along in the shallow ruts that had been formed during the big oaken chest’s monthly journey from its spot along the wall to its temporary vocation as a barricade.
John sat on a high stool halfway back in the room, well to one side of the sightline from the front door. It had taken Clifford over a year to get the boy to not make a fuss over not getting to sit dead center. No amount of protestation from John about his bravery or marksmanship would get Clifford to budge, and at long last his son had recognized that. Now each month John wordlessly takes his position, sitting up bone straight on the stool with the bolt-action carbine held across his lap with both hands.
Clifford stole glances at his son every now and then, noting how big the carbine still looked in relation to the boy, whose gaunt face and sunken eyes showed endless wells of despair and resolve in equal measure. And while Clifford was grateful for the latter, he recognized that no boy his son’s age should possess those qualities in such volume.
As for Clifford, his normal position was dead center, a few feet closer to the door than his boy. He sat in a battered and worn chair that had begun life as a rocker, but its runners had long been hammered off to create a sturdy, low seat that allowed him to be on his feet at a moment’s notice. Across his own lap he had the Winchester repeater, and on his right hip hung a pistol, pushed down snug into a holster with leather that was, at this point, as supple as velvet and getting close to as thin. On both Clifford’s and John’s left hips rested matching Bowie knives – secondhand remnants of an uncustomary splurge while passing through Texas on the family’s long journey West. They’d belonged to Clifford and his father, and although the inheritance had been passed by necessity rather than with ceremony, his son now carried the fighting knife of a grandfather he’d never met.
The bullets that John has spent the day manufacturing had been divided between them, now residing in father and son’s breast pockets. They’d found through unfortunate trial and error that the breast pockets, while causing unsightly and sometimes uncomfortable bulges, were the best places for their ammo, rather than gunbelt or bandolier or – and they’d learned this the hard way – what they thought was an ingenious plan to have the extra cartridges rest on a spot in the floor between them.
The sun was nearly down now, and they fixed their eyes on the orange glow creeping in through the small gap below the front door. The hue of the light told them that the sun was just fixing to dip out of sight beyond the hills, and the night would follow its parting glow. They also knew that there would be no lamplighting tonight, for them or for anyone else in town.
A handful of minutes later, it was full dark – or at least as dark as the full moon allowed. The moonlight pushed in through the numerous cracks in the shutters and planks and slats in the house, invisible cracks that Clifford could never quite locate in the daylight, no matter how many times he reinforced his farmhouse.
Outside, the moon hung low and large in the sky. In younger years, John thought that the full moon here in Paw looked like God’s wagon wheel, and sometimes he caught himself still thinking those words. Still, he’d never seen a full moon so big or so bright, and he knew it was some sort of magic that made it so. Maybe in other parts, they might call it a miracle.
Inside the farmhouse, the little light that made its way in was still bright enough for father and son to make out one another’s expressions, to see each other’s eyes and posture and hands, and to see the chambers of their guns if they needed to reload on the fly.
Outside the farmhouse, away back in the hills, they heard the first howls. Clifford saw his son’s shoulders tense and thought to himself, Maybe this time. Maybe this is a month where they leave us be. Ain’t nothin’ for them out this way nohow, and they know that.
But at the same time he thought it, he knew in the pit of his stomach that it wasn’t true.
About forty minutes later, he heard that all-too-familiar sound on the path leading to their home: the shuffling, heavy footfalls and accompanying ragged breathing. The soft jingle of a chain as a clawed hand gently tested the door of the barn, more out of habit than anything else. Inside the barn, the livestock were pacing nervously and huffing, sometimes stamping. Clifford knew the chickens would be having fitful sleep, irritated more at having to share the barn with the noisy beasts of burden than fearful of the predators prowling the grounds of the farm.
Clifford leaned forward in his chair, perching himself at the edge of his seat. He set his jaw and picked up his rifle, right index finger moving to the trigger guard as his left hand moved soundlessly to grip the bottom of the barrel. He hadn’t the need to butt the stock to his right shoulder, but he could do so in a blink if necessary. John knew how fast he was, although Clifford himself knew he used to be a good sight faster.
A soft thump and simultaneous skritch let him know at least one of the wolves were on his front steps, and he stared at the sturdy and secured door. He heard a solid thud and knew that one of them had put their shoulder into the door, making sure there was no ingress by this route. The door didn’t so much as rattle. Clifford felt a small jolt of pride and victory at that: his work was still sound, even after all this time.
The minutes ticked by, and he heard other footfalls and scratches on all sides of the house, growls and chitters at times coming from what seemed like all corners of the farm. It was the same as it had been for the past few months, and the year before that. It would be easy to get lulled into a false sense of security, but Clifford knew the instant he allowed himself that, he was liable to make some foolhardy mistake that would cost both of them dearly. And he was determined to lose no more than he already had.
As if to prove the point, Clifford and John heard the faintest creak to their left and turned their bodies in unison to look to the shuttered window on that side of the house.
It seemed the shutter on that side had a small gap of maybe two inches between it and the beam that had been hammered across it, and it was being pushed in. Before he realized it, Clifford was on his feet, his rifle’s stock in the pit of his shoulder and his right eye squinting down the sight. None of these actions had made a sound. John was on his feet as well, holding the carbine and ready to back up his father.
Clifford took a silent step forward, his eye fixed on the gap in the shutter. Endless moments crawled by, and then a yellow eye lowered into the opening to stare back at Clifford. The eye glinted, a jet-black pupil swimming in the amber iris. The eye itself was rimmed with black, and that in turn was surrounded by dark gray fur. The eye swayed almost imperceptibly as its owner breathed steadily.
The wolf and Clifford stared at one another for some time, until finally the lids narrowed, accompanied by a snickering breath, and Clifford knew the wolf was smiling at him.
“Ain’t nothin’ for you here,” Clifford said in a low voice that he somehow managed to keep steady. “Go on and git.”
There was a long pause before the snickering sound returned. John held his breath for who knew how long until, finally, the face moved away from the window.
Father and son held their position, backs stiff as iron, until most of the next hour ticked by. There were some scattered thuds against the side of the building until they finally heard the growls and scuffling of the pack moving on, heading on up toward the hills and back toward the town proper. Another hour gone, and they heard the faint echo of howls calling to one another, the timbre more frantic and gleeful this time. Clifford and John exchanged a look, because they knew that somehow, in some fashion, the wolves had found blood.
