The Wendigo

The Wendigo

Snow skirled through the air, driven by a wind that screamed through the trees. Beside the fury of nature, the sewing machine hum of the Model T Ford was almost swallowed. Still, it kept chugging forward, the little four clawing for new ground.

It was fighting for every inch that it got, though. George Winthrop grimaced as the full fury of the storm struck him in the face. The flip-up windshield was of little use to him here. Only a pair of goggles was able to repel the elements enough to prevent whiteout.

He had only a few more miles to go where he could ride out the storm. In fact, once he got to the lodge, he was planning on selling the car, and living off the land.

He was of a dying breed of buccaneers within the Winthrop clan. He remembered when going camping meant going out with only a dry crust of bread, and living off the land like a Stone-Age man. However, that had been the proletarian thing to do.

The rich had also discovered the Great Outdoors, and would bring along enough stuff to try living a genteel life out in the woods. He felt only contempt for that ideal. His was Teddy Roosevelt, who advocated the strenuous life.

In fact, one of the great laments of his life was he had been born a generation too late.

The Winthrops took great pride in having ancestors who went back to the Puritans. However, they had come after the Massachusetts Bay colony was well established, and had been regarded as Johnny-come-latelys in society.

Their rise had coincided with the Civil War. A couple of sons had laid their lives on the altar of Glory as a bloody sacrifice. It was in the post-war years that their fortunes took off.

The survivors went west, to work as miners, trappers, and hunters. Meanwhile, the patriarchs had made some money war profiteering, and they were happy to reinvest it in the huge boom the opening of the West offered.

It was the Gilded Age, and everyone was making money on the new pioneering spirit. The Winthrops began making it hand over fist, parleying their growing fortunes into wildcat banks that worked with the railroad combines.

They became robber barons in their own right, and the acknowledgment came when the doors of society began to open, and they were allowed to start intermarrying.

Once that started happening, they became embarrassed of their humble origins, while boasting of being humble men of toil. That was where George came in.

He had grown up a square peg in a round society. He’d heard bewhiskered uncles in their frock coats boast about their exploits over brandy and cigars. To a little boy whose imagination was fired by such things, it was heady stuff indeed.

Of course, their society wives were already starting to clip their wings. As he grew older, he watched those great buccaneers wither into old men who were living on their past glory.

He rebelled against the family’s tightening strictures of propriety. The Spanish-American war seemed tailored for him.

Denied a commission because his parents wouldn’t give him permission to join, he had been able to join Roosevelt’s Rough Riders on the charge up San Juan Hill. The experience gave him an idol to look up to, and whetted his taste for adventure.

He served as a Marine under Smedly Butler during the Banana Republic wars of the Oughts and Teens. His last action was under General Pershing during the punitive expedition against Pancho Villa.

Demobilized after the Great War, he found himself an anachronism in a world that didn’t seem to believe in much of anything any more.

The kids had become bankers, lawyers, and other nice, conservative jobs that allowed them to add to the family wealth, and gave them social standing of their own.

The garish derring-do that had made the family rich in the first place was now taboo. His adventuresome spirit rebelled at the genteel sports he was expected to participate in. So he spent his time hunting, fishing, and honing his woodsman skills.

Then came the stock market bubble of the late Twenties. Speculation fever had swept the family, and caution was swept aside by the lure of easy money.

The Crash didn’t wipe out the family fortune, but austerity measures had to be taken. The country was in free-fall, and Hoover’s re-election was coming up.

The problem was that appearances had to be kept up. Penniless aristocrats were expected to maintain their dignity.

Hence the voluntary expulsion. He was the black sheep of the family, and if he went into the woods and didn’t come back, it would reduce expenses for the rest of the family.

He knew of a hunting lodge up in the Maine backwoods, where he could find an Indian guide. The Indian could help him set up a homestead in the woods, and work as a trader. He could ride out any economic storm or revolution that swept the country.

It seemed like one grand adventure. Granted, his timing was not great, but he could ride out the storm at the hunting lodge. At last, he was going to get his chance to live out his old childhood dream!

The car’s engine spluttered and coughed then died. The car rolled to a stop in front of a large low log cabin. Then he grabbed a tarpaulin secured back in the rumble seat, and pulled it over the passenger compartment. That should protect it until he came back for his equipment.

The plan was to sell the car, see if he could get at least five bucks for it. He pushed in the door, closing it behind himself before stamping the snow off himself.

He pushed the goggles up on his head, and began to brush the extra snow off his greatcoat. Then he opened it up, and began unwinding the scarf around his neck.

After hanging all his clothes on a deer antler hangar, he looked around. The vestibule was almost empty. Over near the far wall was a potbellied stove, the grating glowing cherry red.

A pair of regulars were sitting around it in wooden chairs, warming themselves. Both of them had long, morose faces.

Over in the corner was a desk, and behind it was Pierre. He was a huge bear of a man with a hearty laugh, and a penchant for backslapping. Now, he also looked down at the mouth, his handlebar mustache drooping.

George went up to the potbellied stove, and began warming himself. Pierre noted the new arrival, and perked up. He approached, rubbing his hands in what was supposed to be friendliness, but looked more like supplication.

“Ah, monsieur! It is so good that you have come back!”

George held up a hand. “I’m not here on holiday, Pierre. I’ve decided to try living off the land, and seeing if I can set up a trading post up here.”

The other two men looked at each other with grim smiles on their faces. The manager’s face fell, like an over-watched soufflé. He threw out his arms in a series of sweeping Gallic gestures.

“Mon Dieu! My customers, zey have gone ze loco. I shall be ze ruined!”

He put his face in his hands, and began to weep. There was a long moment of uncomfortable silence. The three men looked at each other, trying to decide how to handle this.

At last, George shrugged. “There is no work in the cities. We decided to go into the woods, to build our own Hoovervilles.”

That had an electric effect on the Canuck. He looked up, sparks flying from his dark eyes, his nostrils flaring. “Hoover? Hoover? I spit upon that man’s name!”

He expectorated upon the floor, to underline his point. “I could run ze country better than zat clown, even when I is ze hung-over!”

One of the men grinned, showing a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth. “Then why don’t you run? The Democrats couldn’t do any worse!”

Pierre glowered at him. “I am not ze citizen!”

The others chortled and clapped. He went back to wailing about how the deepening depression would mean his financial ruin. To turn him away from his pessimistic prognostications, George asked him if there were any Indian guides who could take him out into the woods.

For a moment, the idea of action being taken caused Pierre to brighten up. Then his face fell again. “Ze storm-until she lets up, ze Indians, zey no come!”

That cast a pall of gloom over the whole group. Then George shrugged, a small grin on his face. “If it will make you feel any better, I’ll sign the title of my car over to you.”

Pierre perked up again, a huge smile on his face. “A car, monsieur? A Cadillac? A Packard? A la Salle, perhaps?”

The others waited with bated breath for his response. George was silent for a beat, milking the moment for everything it was worth. “Nope. It’s a Ford. Model T.”

That brought another silent pause. Pierre stared at him with wide eyes. Then the Canuck began shaking his fists in the air, releasing a torrent of salty language. He became so enraged that he began jumping up and down, his face went from red to purple.

He also lost his capacity for English, berating him in flowing French. The two men began laughing like a pair of cackling crows. George reveled in his moment of triumph. He was soon to regret it, though.

The snow kept falling and falling, with no sign of letup. When it continued snowing for a third day, the specter of being snowed in began to rear its ugly head.

The men were beginning to climb the walls. They tried gambling with cards, but as the losses mounted up, tempers began to fray. Plus, the only games they knew were bridge and poker.

Pierre had several days worth of provisions, but day after day of eating the same things only added to their sense of ennui.

Each of them began to develop a bunker mentality, as the atmosphere around them grew more explosive. The air was charged with repressed violence, and if something didn’t happen soon, the place would explode. To add tension to the situation, the food began to run down.

The end that would turn the place into a Darwinian charnel house seemed to come at the end of the second week. George and one of the other men began to have a disagreement about a hand of cards. It soon escalated into shouting and shoving. Then the knives came out.

There was a collective exhalation of breath. A Rubicon was about to be crossed. Once the first blood was spilled, the illusion of civilization would be over. They stared at each other snarling, then stopped.

Both cocked their heads toward the door. Were their senses playing a cruel joke on them, or did they hear the sound of a sleigh? Everyone ran to the doorway, excited as little kids.

An ancient Indian wrapped in a blanket on a sled greeted them. He stared at them with his dark eyes. “I am guessing that you are happy to see me.”

He was not surprised when the white men started laughing. He had been delayed by the snowfall, and he suspected that the madness would be hanging heavy over them.

In a way, they were already suffering from a kind of madness. Their way of life was breaking down, so they decided they would try living like Indians.

The problem was they were still thinking like white men. They weren’t interested in the sacramental aspect of their lifestyle. They were looking for a new way to make money, and exploit nature.

He cast a critical eye over them. He doubted a one of them would live to see the spring. There was no help for it, though. He had taken the white man’s money, so now he had to deliver. Maybe it would be for the best if they all died out in the wilderness.

He looked at them. “This is a poor time for trying to make a living in the woods. Right now, all you can do is hunker down and survive.” He shook his head. “The risks will be great, and there is no promises of success.”

George took a step forward. “I’ll take my chances. I can go starve on a street corner. It’s already happening. I would rather die on my feet, than crawling.”

The old Micmac Indian eyed the stranger with a new critical eye. He might live, and make it. The other two were dreamers, with starry eyes.

They would soon learn that roughing it was a lot more difficult than they had figured on. Then they would go back to their cities, or they would die of exposure. The other one had a determined look in his eyes, and a bronzed complexion that suggested he had experienced the outdoors.

Then one of the other two men stepped forward. “Well, we’ve come this far. Might as well see this to completion.” The other man nodded. The old man grunted.

They were eager to set out as soon as possible. Of course, the other man was against rushing in. He wanted to know who is guide was, and how reliable he was, which caused him to go up another notch in the old man’s estimation.

He considered whom to recommend to this man, and settled on DeFago. He had worked for the white man before, and was familiar with their ways.

When DeFago showed up, the other two men left for the woods, bearing as much equipment as they could carry.

George spent a couple of days with his Indian guide, getting to know the other man, and going over the equipment he had brought. That which DeFago told him to discard; he did so, trying to barter with Pierre for extra ammunition.

At last, two weeks before Christmas, they were ready to set out. To the end, the Canuck never regained his cheerful demeanor. When they left, Pierre was drinking wine from his cellar, moaning that he was going to hold a huge drunk for Christmas.

The first few weeks proved tougher than George had figured upon. For all his perceived woodsman skills, he was realizing fast that without his partner, he would be lost.

To make the situation even more galling, DeFago showed little reaction to his environment. George was cold all the time, and he struggled to get enough nutrition from the cold, unforgiving ground.

If his Indian companion was suffering from privation, like he was, he gave no sign of it. Or, almost no sign.

In the evening, his Indian companion would search the starry sky with a watchful expression. He would stand there, head cocked, watching or listening for something. He would wait for a set amount of time, and when it didn’t happen, he would relax, and retire into the tent.

This was odd behavior to say the least, and George asked him a couple of times what he was listening for. DeFago’s response was always the same. He would grunt, and refuse to discuss it any further.

That just drove George crazy, but it was useless to try pressing. He tried it once, and his Indian companion had turned into a stone-faced idol. That was enough to kill his desire to ask questions.

He found his thoughts wandering back to his family more and more, and the life he had left behind. If he were to go back, he wouldn’t starve to death on the street corner.

He would have to live with the humiliation of an allowance, and the knowledge that his family looked upon him as a burden. The worst of it was knowing that he would never be taken serious again.

That more than anything probably stayed his hand, and kept him going beyond what he thought he could endure. He had to layer his clothes to keep from freezing, and even then he was cold.

His clothes were wearing out, and he was forever worrying about what he was going to replace them with. They were living at the subsistence level, and DeFago wasn’t teaching him much about surviving in this hostile environment. He was left to muddle along as best he could.

His perspective began to shrink to the present moment, and time became meaningless to him. Everything began to blur into one long bout of misery.

It was imperceptible at first, but bit by bit, he was beginning to learn about what was edible, and where to find it. When it began to dawn on him, it was like an epiphany.

He plopped down in the snow, a wide-eyed look of stupidity on his face. Then he looked at DeFago. “I’m actually learning something!”

The Indian’s only response was a big smile. Then George jumped up, realizing his clothes were getting wet. He was left to flounder around for firewood, and build a fire to dry his clothes.

It meant that the rest of the afternoon was shot, and a couple hours of extra misery. Still, his thirst for knowledge had been whetted. It didn’t stop the growling of his stomach, but it gave himself something else to focus on besides how hungry he was.

DeFago worked at making a rudimentary bow and arrow set, and taught George how to hunt varmints with it. That proved to be a very humbling experience for him.

He was a crack shot with a rifle, and figured it wouldn’t take long to master the weapon. He was soon to discover that it required a whole new skill set, few of which he had mastered.

The times that he actually saw some game, he would scare it off, missing by a country mile. Sometimes, DeFago would succeed in bringing down what he had managed to startle, meaning a little extra to eat that evening. Most nights, they had to settle for what they could scavenge.

In the evenings, DeFago began telling him about the local Indian stories and lore. Even a couple months ago, George would have scoffed at it. However, his time in the wilderness had a hollowing effect on him, draining him of all his preconceived notions, and opening him up to new ideas.

Still, there remained an invisible wall between the two men regarding the Indian’s strange behavior before going to bed. There was something the other man was fearful of, and was waiting and watching for. However, it was an invisible wall that George couldn’t penetrate.

Since he was becoming inured to his misery, the question of what his companion was afraid of began to nag at him. What was it, and should he be afraid too? Of course, the issue remained a dead one, and George didn’t want to endanger the growing intimacy between them.

The days and weeks slipped by, and winter’s grip on the hard, flinty ground began to loosen. A few green shoots were beginning to poke out of the ground in a shallow depression.

George peered over the top of a rise, waiting for a game animal to come eat it. He had his trusty Winchester Model 70 by his side. DeFago was also by his side, waiting to see how things would go.

They remained still, hardly daring to breathe. A doe emerged, sniffing the air with caution. George reached over with a slow, deliberate movement. Taking a handful of snow, he put it in his mouth. It would prevent a cloud of condensed breath from giving him away.

He slid up his rifle, lowering himself further. The barrel stuck out six inches beyond the brow of the ridge. He lifted his head and shoulders, to set the blade sight on the target. He pressed his eye to the stock, and aligned the blade with the notch.

Once he had a bead on his target, he took a deep breath, letting out half of it before stroking the trigger. The doe had looked up, trying to figure out what had startled her. By then, it was too late.

The shot took her right where the neck joined the shoulders, severing the spinal column. She collapsed in a heap, bleating in pain and terror. DeFago let out a war whoop, and charged over, knife in hand.

He finished the job, and the two men worked at dressing out the carcass. They spent the rest of the afternoon smoking the meat, and tanning the skin.

That night, George lay back on his sleeping bag, satisfied for the first time in recent memory. He had gorged himself on venison, and he was enjoying the feeling of well-being.

The next three days, he had to work at keeping the emerging predators from taking their share of the spoils. That was when DeFago suggested making a base camp. George was all for that idea.

Of course, he was unaware of all the labor and hard work that would go into it. Of course, there was no help for it.

They could get by with just the tent and the sleeping bags, but as long as they were sleeping under the stars, they were only able to take what they could consume within a day or two. This would allow them to provision up for winter, and not have to live hand-to-mouth again.

As the winter snow gave way to the tenacious greenery of spring, DeFago began to expand his role of teacher. As more herbage began poking out of the soil, he began to teach George what each of them was used for.

He also taught the other man to sew the tanned hides into clothing, and how to make spun cloth. They worked hard to build their wooden longhouse to live in, and store their surplus in.

With the spring thaw, they began fishing for trout in the local ponds and streams. DeFago continued dribbling out tidbits of Micmac spirituality, but there remained the one issue he would not discuss.

Once the ice began to break on the lakes and rivers, and he began to relax. His nightly vigils soon came to an end. Still, he would not utter a word about what he had been so watchful about. He would do his stone-faced routine whenever the subject was even alluded to.

George soon learned to be very careful about the issue, since DeFago would become silent for the rest of the day when it came up, and might spend the next two days in a sulk afterward.

George soon learned to camouflage his curiosity. Still, the issue burned in the back of his mind, demanding some kind of an answer. There was a growing intimacy between the two men, and George was beginning to adopt some of the other man’s rituals.

Why the silence on this one issue? What was DeFago so afraid of that he thought himself unable to unburden himself over? How was he going to penetrate the other man’s obstinate wall of silence? George didn’t know, but he knew he would have his answers, no matter what.

At last, the longhouse was finished, and provisions were made to barricade it against intruding wild animals. Now that they had a home base to operate from, it was time to go back to the hunting lodge, and see what was happening in civilization.

George now wore buckskins and moccasins, and he now had a salt-and-pepper beard. In short, he looked like a mountain man. Of curse, none of that had dawned on him as he barged into the hunting lodge.

Pierre took one look at him, and let out a wee shriek, before disappearing behind the counter. For a minute, George was baffled by this reaction. Then he stroked his beard, and his eyes widened with awareness.

“Pierre! It’s me! George Winthrop!” He held out his arms, as if to invite closer scrutiny.

The top of the Canuck’s head appeared, followed by his fingers on the edge of the desk. Then his eyes peered over the edge. He blinked a couple of times, before emerging a little more. “Sacra bleu! It ees you, George!”

Then he began laughing, popping up like a jack-in-the-box. He grabbed George, lifting him off the ground, ignoring protests of being crushed to death. DeFago stood in the doorway, a small smile on his face.

The first thing George noticed was the proprietor was getting an expensive complexion, and his breath stank of sour grapes. Once Pierre finished manhandling him, it became clear that the cloud of depression had not left the other man. If anything, it seemed to have gotten worse.

It took some prodding, but at last, the story came spilling out. It turned out he was the last survivor of the intrepid band that had set out on the experiment.

One of the men had died of exposure, while the other had gone back to the city. Since he had sunk what little savings he had into this project, it was a lead-pipe cinch that he went back to civilization to starve to death.

He rambled on about how they were likely to continue staying away in droves this year, and predicted that the revolution was coming. Then he dropped a bombshell.

Several veterans of the Great War had camped out on Washington D.C., calling themselves the Bonus Army. They didn’t want to wait for the promised bonus, and chose to petition the government for it now. The government response was to send in the cavalry, to break it up.

Pierre predicted that this was the first wave of what would become a groundswell of rebellion. George and DeFago looked at each other. If the other man was correct, then their decision to go out into the woods was brilliant.

They would be able to ride out any storm, living off the land while the streets of the city ran with blood. Nor would it matter whether America went Communist or Fascist. They would be able to live outside whatever system emerged.

After listening to the Canuck’s dolorous sermon, they managed to barter for some more ammunition. Then they slipped away, before Pierre could launch into a command performance. However, all parties were to learn that he was a very poor prognosticator.

A wave of optimism swept the country with the nomination of Franklin Delano Roosevelt as the Democratic candidate. The rich began opening up their wallets again. The lodge began to fill up again.

Pierre’s mood did a one-eighty, and he could be heard humming, ‘Happy days are here again’. The Model T also proved to be a moneymaker for him. He was able to rent it out to guests who wanted to make a quick run into town for this or that.

Even more good news was that the other man wasn’t dead after all. He reappeared, taking a job as a jack-of-all-trades around the hunting lodge, making sure the guests were satisfied.

He also became the main conduit of information and trade. He worked at matching up guests with Indian guides, and handling the accounts for George.

Their trading post at the lodge prospered, and George handled most of it. DeFago preferred to stay in the woods as a silent partner, and replenishing their stocks.

Most of their money came from the state though. They worked at collecting wolf pelts, and other varmints the state of Maine had put a bounty on.

The main time DeFago would come to the lodge was during the evening, when he would smoke a pipe, and converse with the other Indians in his native tongue.

George would stand nearby, and began picking up the language, as well as learning more about Micmac lore and spirituality. Still, there was an invisible wall between them and him. While they were willing to open up to him, there seemed to be an invisible bright line they would not cross.

He was willing to listen to them, learn from them, but because he was a white man, he could not become one of them. That meant there was a vault of secrets that was off-limits to him.

He suspected one of the things that was not for auslander ears was what DeFago had been so fearful and watchful of when the snow was on the ground.

More than anything else, he wanted to penetrate that veil of secrecy, become one of the initiates. However, it looked like he was going to have his white skin held against him.

Then, as August was melting into September, and as the deciduous trees were putting on their annual fireworks display, he got a tantalizing clue.

He was tipped back in a chair, starting to doze. The Indians were sitting around the potbellied stove, gossiping like a group of grackling crows. Then one of them mentioned something about the changing seasons, and mentioned the Wendigo.

George let out a small snort, his ears perking up. His first reaction was to sit bolt upright, and ask what that was. The problem with that strategy was they would all shut up, and circle the wagons. His best bet was to play possum, and see if he could catch any more tidbits.

DeFago spoke up asking a question about some seasonal plant. It sounded like there was an edge of agitation to his voice. He didn’t have anything else to go on, so he didn’t open his eyes. Maybe it was an innocent query.

However, the conversation segued into a discussion of medicinal herbs. So his partner had picked up on some telltale cue, and the discussion was as good as over. He drifted into the sweet lethe of sleep.

Knowing that his partner was likely to become closemouthed about the issue, he sat on the tantalizing clue for about a week. He was hoping to catch the Indian off-guard, and pry some answers out of him.

He waited until they were netting some Atlantic salmon, then asked, “Would you mind answering a question for me?”

DeFago shrugged, not looking up. “That depends on what you ask.”

George frowned. That could be interpreted two ways. Then again, he’d come this far. “What is a Wendigo?”

That caused DeFago to look up. He looked away fast, shrugging. “Oh, that? It’s an old fairy tale, something squaws tell the kids, to make them behave. It’s nothing.”

George wasn’t ready to let go of the issue. “So? Why don’t you tell me? After all, haven’t I-”

At that point, the fish squirmed out of the net, and fell into the water with a plop. “Damnit,” DeFago shouted. “He got away!”

George had been watching him, and it looked like his deft fingers had unhooked the fish, and given him his freedom. There was a message in that act. DeFago had given the official word on the subject, and regarded the matter as closed.

George wasn’t quite ready to accept that, and he began thinking of ways to get around the roadblock. The waiting was excruciating, with the clue taunting his every waking hour. However, he continued sitting on it.

Pierre might be able to help him, but he didn’t dare mention it until it began to slip the Indian’s mind. Whatever it was, DeFago was afraid of it.

It probably had some sort of totemic significance. That was as far as logic was able to take him. It was maddening to be checkmated this way, but it was the only hand he had to play.

He managed to hold out for two weeks, then a golden opportunity presented itself. The seasons were starting to wind down, and Pierre was starting to drink again. George sidled up to him, and asked, “Have you ever heard of the Wendigo before?”

The other man gave him an owlish look. Then he frowned, scratching his chin with the nail of his thumb. He had three days of growth on his chin, causing a scritchy sound. At last, he looked at his friend. “Have zey told you about zat one?”

George’s heart took a painful thump in his chest. Was he going to run into another blank wall? At last, he decided that honesty was his best course of action. “No, they have been quite closemouthed about the issue.”

There was a moment of silence. Then the Canuck erupted with laughter. “I is not surprised. Zey tend to be rather, ah…”

He rubbed his chin, a crafty light in his eyes. “Sensitive about things like zat.”

He chortled. “Zee Wendigo, she is zee female spirit. She calls out to her victim, he is unable to resist zee call. Zen she grab him, dragging him so fast, he speaks of ze burning feet. Zen she drops him. Zat’s the end of him.”

He chortled again. “Ze Indians, zey believe the most ridiculous things, mais non?”

George nodded, but it was more of a reflexive gesture than a signal of agreement. He now had his answer, but he was no longer sure he wanted it.

When he met up with DeFago that evening, there was a new wall of coolness between them. The Indian continued to teach him, but the easy intimacy was gone. It was as if two strangers were sharing the longhouse.

The tourist season began winding down, and DeFago counseled that they should start laying in provisions for the winter. The work filled the time, and kept the nagging thoughts at bay.

Still, once the snow started to fall, George found his thoughts creeping back to the Wendigo. Now that he was aware of the danger, he began to worry about the possibility of it happening to him.

They began using the tent again, as they wandered further and further afield, and a new sense of companionship began to develop. The wall was still in place, but it was a landmine that neither man wanted to touch.

They were tented out by the Chimenticook River. They had not planned on doing so, but got caught in a snow flurry that was turning into a mini-blizzard.

The wan gray light slipped away before the heavy hand of darkness. The wind howled as the snow skirled and flurried in the air. They huddled in their sleeping bags as the fury of nature raged outside the canvas of the tent.

Without warning, DeFago sat bolt upright. “Is something wrong?”

He shook his head, and rolled over. “It’s nothing. Just the wind.”

George stared at him a minute, but shrugged and rolled over. The wind continued to shriek and rattle the canvas. As he lay there, a notion began to creep up on him.

Silly as it sounded, he got the impression the wind was saying something. He didn’t know what, but if he listened, he might figure it out. So he closed his eyes, and devoted his attention to listening to the wind.

The short hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle. It sounded like the wind was repeating the name of his Indian companion again and again.

He looked over at the other man. DeFago was squirming inside his bag, his face twisted up in a look of agitation. Then the wind rose, and they could hear it. “DeFaaaaaago, DeFaaaaaaago.”

George struggled into an upright position, feeling as if cold water had just been poured upon him. Cold tremors of fear pulsed through him. Now, the Canuck’s dismissive summation of the situation no longer seemed sufficient.

He looked over at his partner, who was grimacing and rolling back and forth, as if unable to get comfortable. An awkward silence hung between them. At last, George broached the subject. “Is that the Wendigo?”

The look he received made him recoil. Then the stony mask had dropped back into place, but he had seen the look of poisonous hatred on the other man’s face. “What are you talking about? That is an old fable!”

Outside, the wind moaned, “DeFaaaaaaaago, DeFaaaaaaaago.”

He flinched, and sat upright as well. He gripped his knees, panting and sweating. He trembled, his eyes rolling like a frightened horse’s as the wind continued to moan, “DeFaaaaaaaago, DeFaaaaaaaago.”

George bit his lips against it, but there was no holding back the words. “Then who is it that is calling out to you?”

The Indian’s eyes rolled toward him, wide with madness. “Nobody is calling out to me! It is nothing! Just your mind playing foolish tricks on you!”

The wind continued to moan, becoming more insistent. “DeFaaaaaaaaaagoooooo, DeFaaaaaaaaaagoooooo, DeFaaaaaaaaaagoooooo!”

He yanked open his sleeping bag. “I can’t stand it anymore!” With a wild yell, he ran out of the tent.

This was disturbing behavior, to say the least. Frowning, George decided to investigate. He unzipped the sleeping bag, and wrapped a couple of blankets and a wolf pelt around himself, before venturing out into the elements.

The wind hit him like a slap, the hard driving flakes of snow striking him like a thousand tiny hammers. He held up his arm, to protect his eyes from the fury of the storm. How was he going to find the other man in this?

Then his eyes fell upon the footprints in the snow. He began following those. Hopefully, he would be able to find the other man before it was too late.

Then he stopped and frowned. Those tracks led to the river, and the closer they got, the more elongated they became. Something was really wrong here.

Then he heard DeFago’s voice in the distance. “Oh my fiery feet! Oh, by burning feet of fire!”

He felt a chill working up and down his spine. That was the formulation Pierre had mentioned! He waited he didn’t know how long, but all he heard was the sound of the wind blowing through the trees, and made the snow dance in midair.

He did hear DeFago call out again, using the same words. However, it seemed to come from everywhere all at once, so he couldn’t pinpoint it. He had a sense of something laughing at him.

He seemed trapped in some sort of fever dream. At last, it broke through his consciousness that the snow was filling up whatever tracks there might be. He would be best advised to try riding out the storm in his tent, and wait for DeFago to come back.

He trudged back into the tent, and crawled into his sleeping bag. However, sleep was a long time in coming. He waited for three days, surviving on jerky and berries.

There was no sign of his Indian companion. What had happened to him? The thought occurred to him he might have gone back to the longhouse.

It seemed odd that he wouldn’t have come back to pick up his stuff, or say what he was doing. To get himself moving, he clung to the flimsy rationalization that DeFago had done so as a peevish move.

He packed up everything, and headed back for the longhouse. There was no sign of DeFago there either. This was quite strange and upsetting.

He wasn’t quite ready to let go of the issue, so he went in search of the other man. In the course of his travels, he ended up back at the hunting lodge.

There were three Indians sitting around the potbellied stove. One of them he recognized as DeFago by his blanket. Of course, a large sombrero hid his face and head.

He had no idea why the Indian might be wearing such ridiculous headgear. It was time to have it out. “DeFago!”

There was no response from the seated figure. He said again, “DeFago!”

Still no response. The other two Indians turned, to give him an enigmatic stare, but kept their own counsel. George was beginning to get annoyed with the entire charade. He strode up to the prone figure, and snatched off the sombrero.

His eyes widened, and his jaw dropped open. A firebell scream was lodged in his throat, wanting to be given violent birth to. The problem was his throat had locked against it.

At last, he had the full horrifying truth. There was nothing but a pile of ashes under the sombrero!