Beneath the crescent moon, the young riders followed the winding ghost tracks of the elk. On occasion, the creature’s emerald path would veer north or south, guiding the gang around babbling creeks or over switchbacks. Sometimes it would steer them out of the woods entirely and back onto long stretches of prairie. But always their travels resumed toward the east.
To Keech, the group’s nighttime pursuit of the living shadow felt like an unending path of misery and cold, and as Hector trotted across the untold territory, his mind kept circling back to the images of his family’s demise—the smoldering timbers, Patrick’s cries from the second floor, Sam waving Keech away in the midst of the flames. You’re no leader, a dark thought whispered in Keech’s ear. You drive people to their doom.
Sometime after midnight, the young riders stopped to rest the horses, check on Doyle, and debate the merits of setting another camp.
“We have to push on,” Keech said. “The elk will show us the way.”
“Hang the elk!” Cutter said. “If we don’t camp, the Ranger will die on the trail.”
“We’re so close,” Keech insisted. “I know it. We have to keep riding.”
“All I know is I ain’t crossing back into Missouri,” Quinn said, his teeth chattering so hard from the cold that Keech could hear them. “Dangerous enough for me to be out here in Kansas Territory. I won’t trot back into a slave state.”
They decided to forge on, following the ghost tracks over empty fields of dead winter grass. As the night turned even colder, Keech mumbled appreciation to Horner’s stallion, though deep down he felt like a true villain for saving Hector from Wisdom only to place him into more discomfort.
After dozing a few times in the saddle, Keech gazed across the open plain and saw the horizon at last begin to blush a salmon color. Dawn was approaching. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so relieved to see daybreak.
He remembered the final line of the riddle—before the noontide shift—and wondered if it was a warning. “Everyone, get your second wind,” he told the group. “I think we need to catch up to that elk before noon.”
The gang groaned but picked up the pace.
As the morning sun pushed up into the clouds, the prairie dipped a smidge and turned into another forest. At the wood’s edge, the glowing elk tracks vanished.
The young riders lined up along the lip of the timber, searching for the creature’s path.
“Well, that’s it, the elk’s gone,” Cutter grumbled. “We rode for nothing.”
“Let’s head into the woods and have a look,” Keech suggested.
They didn’t get five paces into the forest before Duck pointed. “Look!”
Standing a few yards away, tucked inside a girdle of wild gooseberry shrubs, was a bending tree. A hefty basswood with twin trunks, cleft at the base, only this one opened up like a giant U.
They approached the bending tree and stopped the ponies inside the gooseberry. Keech swung off Hector and gave a quick pass over Saint Peter and Doyle, who still lay unconscious on the saddle.
Quinn looked around the forest, clearly puzzled. “I thought we was traveling to Bonfire Crossing, not another bending tree.”
“Maybe this one’s another step along the trail,” Duck said, dismounting. She inspected her brother’s Fox Trotter, who stood patiently behind Irving on the lead rope.
“How many of these dumb trees do we have to visit?” Cutter asked.
“Only one way to find out,” Duck replied. “We have to stand on the stones.”
The group worked quickly to untether Doyle and stretch him out on the ground. Afterward, the young riders scattered around the basswood and kicked away the snow that covered the roots. Keech grinned at Duck when four white moss opal stones winked at them in the morning sun.
“Four circles every time,” Quinn noted. “No wonder Ranger Doyle could never solve the riddle. A lone traveler can’t bring the stones to life.”
“Good thing we decided to stick together,” Keech said, then glanced back at the bending tree. “Okay, let’s hear what this shadow has to tell us.”
They stepped onto the moss opal stones and turned their attention to the shadow of the basswood. Keech held his breath, not knowing what to expect. He quietly mumbled portions of the riddle that Sheriff Strahan had passed along to Horner:
“Follow the rivers and bending trees … to the den of the moon stalker.”
“Something’s happening,” Quinn said, pointing.
“Gather the pack and speak his name … before the noontide shift.”
The long shadow of the bending tree fluttered across the snow, just as before, then flowed together into a thick silhouette.
“What is it?” asked Cutter.
The shape of two sharp ears and a long snout began to form. Then a lean, graceful-looking torso, followed by four slender legs and paws. A thick shaggy tail wagged at the transforming shadow’s rear end. Keech gasped when he recognized the profile.
“Of course, a wolf!” he exclaimed. “The wolf stalks the moon!”
Like the birth of the ghost elk miles away, vibrant greens and yellows shot through the phantom creature’s form, turning the shadow into life itself. When the spectral colors filled the figure from snout to paw, it began to writhe on the ground, laboring like the elk to rise into the natural world. The glowing beast lifted its body from the snow, shook the powder free from its head and tail, then raised its ephemeral snout to the sky. No sound issued from the gaping mouth, but Keech knew what it was doing.
“It’s howling,” Duck said, her voice full of wonder.
“This one ain’t running away like the elk did,” Quinn pointed out. “It’s just baying.”
“I don’t understand. We found the den of the moon stalker,” said Cutter. “And we got here before noon broke. What are we supposed to do now?”
Behind them, the ponies nickered and shuffled back and forth as a brisk wind whipped across the woodland, rustling the bare branches of the gooseberry shrubs.
Quinn repeated the third line of Horner’s riddle: “‘Gather the pack and speak his name.’”
The answer struck Keech. To find Bonfire Crossing, they had to speak the moon stalker’s name to the bending tree. Leaning closer to the U of the basswood, he boldly declared the answer: “Wolf!”
Nothing happened.
Keech flushed with disappointment. “Wolf!” he called again, but the tree offered no response. Neither did the creature silently howling at its unseen moon. Keech glanced around in desperation, but the others only shrugged.
“I’m gonna fetch some wood and build a fire before we freeze,” Cutter said. He shifted on his stone to leave.
“No, wait!” Duck said, throwing her hands up. “Don’t step away!”
Cutter froze on his white circle. “Why?”
Duck turned her attention to Keech. “Ranger Doyle told us that the Enforcers gave the Fang to the Osage elders to hide, right?”
“Right,” Keech said.
“We also know that the Osage worked with the Enforcers to build the protection around Bone Ridge. They created the Floodwood blight and turned a bear into a monster to protect the path. You called the bear by its Osage name when you first saw Wandering Star’s warning in blood, remember?”
“Of course. Wah-sah-peh.” And even as he agreed, Keech knew what Duck was driving at.
For as long as Keech could remember, Pa Abner had called him the Wolf and Sam the Rabbit. When leading the family in lessons on their Native neighbors, Pa had always been eager to share the words and expressions he had learned from the Osage language. My elder friends taught me these words, he would say as he recited the names of all the animals of the forest, including wah-sah-peh for bear and mah-shcheen-kah for Sam’s rabbit. But the very first Osage word Keech remembered learning was the one for wolf.
Feeling tears well up in his eyes and gooseflesh bristle on his arms, he spoke the Osage word for his nickname aloud.
“Shohn-geh!”
The glowing wolf that stood before them twisted toward the bending tree, as if Keech’s call had spooked it. The ghostly ears pinned back, then the creature vaulted straight up from the ground. The beast flew between the two trunks, where it stopped in midair and hovered, as though snared by an invisible mesh.
A current of warm wind blasted over Keech, a gust that carried a brackish scent like salted fish. The wind bellowed past him with enough strength to knock the hat off his head. The basswood shuddered, though the ground beneath them didn’t move an inch.
“What’s happening?” Duck cried.
Brilliant light flashed in the center of the bending tree, where the wolf hovered. It sparked so violently that Keech had to shield his eyes. Peeking through his fingers, he saw the creature shimmer and expand into a flat sheet of light, as if a golden sailcloth had been stretched between the two trunks. A rhythmic hum and a faint breath of briny warmth rolled off the radiant curtain.
Keech looked to the heavens. “You knew, didn’t you, Pa? All those years, you knew how to get us here. Thank you.”
The vibrations surging from the barrier shook the air and reached deep into Keech’s guts. He took a step back from the moss opal stone, worrying as he moved that the energy before them might diminish, but the veil of light continued to shine between the boughs.
The others had also abandoned their stones and were walking around the tree, their faces dazed. The ponies grunted and whinnied at the impossible sight.
“It looks the same on the other side,” Duck said. “A shimmery gold sheet.”
Keech stepped toward the gleaming barrier. “Somebody ought to touch it.”
“Sounds like you’re volunteering,” Cutter said.
Reluctantly, Keech lifted a hand. “Okay. Here goes.” He took another step toward the light.
“Wait!” Quinn kicked at the snowy ground, loosened a small stone, and tossed it to Keech. “Test the water before diving in.”
“Happy one of us is thinking straight,” Keech said. He cranked his arm back and tossed the stone. The rock disappeared into the pulsating glow.
“Did it come out the other side?” Cutter asked.
“Nothing came out!” Duck reported.
Keech dug his hand into the snow to find another stone. As he burrowed, something itched at the back of his attention. He hesitated, listened. Except for the curious hum emanating from the veil of light, everything around him was silent. He glanced at the others. “Something ain’t right.”
The savage howl of a large animal pealed across the forest. Everyone swiveled to look in the direction of the horrible noise.
John Wesley emerged from behind the gooseberry thicket.
He had changed in several ways since dropping off Doyle at the ravine. The motley hide of black scales that dotted his flesh had spread, and his once-round cheeks were sunken and gaunt. His jawline jutted, hinting at the gradual formation of a snout. The strawberry-blond curls that had once framed John’s face had fallen out, leaving his head strangely bald and covered in prickled mounds. But despite the beastly changes, he was still very much John Wesley, his eyes brimming with sorrow and innocence.
“John!” Cutter exclaimed.
The boy crept closer, his shoulders hunched. He gave the magical light a cursory, almost nonchalant look, then turned his gaze to Cutter. “Hey.”
“You’ve been following us.”
“I didn’t want y’all to go off alone. I’ve been keeping to the shadows. But curiosity got the better of me when I saw the ghost wolf.”
“You could’ve just joined us,” Cutter said.
“No. I feel different inside, Cut, like I can’t trust myself no more. Sometimes I get angry and can’t see, like there’s a monster inside trying to take over.” He glanced over at Doyle and pointed a clawed finger. “Is Papa still alive?”
Duck stepped over and squatted beside the Ranger. She placed a hand on his chest. The man didn’t stir to the touch. “He’s still breathing, but I ain’t sure how.”
John Wesley’s distorted face dropped. “I thought I wanted him to die, but now I’m scared I’ll never get to talk to him again.”
“You told us he killed your ma,” Keech said.
As if he couldn’t help it, a barbaric growl rolled from John Wesley’s throat, but it sounded more woeful than angry. He spoke, and the words sputtered through clenched fangs.
“After Papa left with Eliza, Mama lost all hope. She stopped talking. She took to standing outside the house and staring up and down the trail, like she was waiting for Papa to come back with Eliza. I did my best to care for the ’stead, but I lost hope. Then one day Mama disappeared, and I hunted all over the valley for her. I found her body on the banks of the Erinyes. She had just decided to quit, I reckon. I buried her beside Eliza’s dug-up grave and set out in search of Papa. He may not have killed her by his own hand, but leaving us like he did snuffed out Mama’s will to live.”
Cutter reached a trembling hand toward his friend, but John Wesley skittered back. “I told you, don’t come near, Cut! I can’t promise I won’t hurt you.”
“You’d never hurt me,” Cutter said, his voice gentle. “We’re partners. You helped me chase down El Ojo, remember?”
“I wish I could trust myself, but I feel so strange now.”
Cutter didn’t waver. “C’mon, hermano.”
As the boys spoke, the strange vibration from the blazing tree surged against Keech’s body, like a wall of warm rain cascading over him. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
“Take my hand,” Cutter said to John.
“I don’t want to hurt nobody,” John Wesley said, but he took a step forward anyway and reached for Cutter’s hand.
The vibration emanating from the tree intensified. Keech turned to face the basswood, noticing that Duck and Quinn were doing the same. Suddenly, a high-pitched cry erupted from the tree, and a young girl on a brown pony charged out of the golden light, as though leaping down from the very sky.