Inside the snowy clearing, Doyle worked on a campfire while Keech and Duck and Quinn unsaddled the ponies. A few yards from the camp, John Wesley waited beside the sleeping Chamelia. Cutter sat close by, using his long blade to engrave words onto a flat piece of oak timber he’d found near the bending tree.
Leaving Duck and Quinn with the horses, Keech approached John Wesley, moving slowly so as not to spook the Shifter. The creature’s new appearance surprised him. Before leaving Bonfire Crossing, the Chamelia had shifted down to something like a coyote; here in the clearing, it had changed yet again, this time resembling a slick cougar. It was as if the stab of the Fang had not only severed Big Ben’s hold but had also rendered the beast uncertain of its own true form.
Speaking softly, Keech asked, “Hey, John, how are you holding up?”
“Okay, I reckon.”
“Are you sure that thing ain’t dangerous?”
John Wesley shook his head. “She’s sleeping.” He stretched out a clawed hand and patted the side of the Shifter. “Don’t fret none about her.”
“That ain’t so easy for me, John. I’ve seen what that thing can do.”
“No, you saw what the Devil’s mark can do.”
A realization dawned on Keech. If he were going to trust his friend, he would have to allow him to lead the way with the Chamelia. “Fair enough,” he said. He turned to head back to the fire, then stopped. “Hey, John?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s good to have you back.”
John Wesley didn’t answer, instead turning his attention back to the creature.
Back at the campfire, Duck, Quinn, and Doyle had placed their saddles on the ground and kicked off their boots. They leaned against the seats, warming the bottoms of their feet. Keech joined them, and they shared a few rounds of tongue twisters to pass the time. After Quinn stumped him with Three twigs twined tightly, Keech returned his gaze to John Wesley. It concerned him how John had connected to the beast. He told the others about his conversation and how protective their friend had become of the creature since Bonfire Crossing.
“She?” Quinn grimaced. “That thing’s a girl?”
“That’s what John Wesley said, but I don’t know how he figures that. He’s been acting strange since the Fang took away Rose’s brand and the Chamelia passed out.”
Duck gazed at the fire. “He sits apart from us now.”
Holding a bundle of sticks, Doyle walked up to the campfire. “Give my boy time. He’s trying to figure out his new place in the world.”
After the campfire had grown comfortably warm, the young riders sagged against their saddles, too sleepy for tongue twisters. Not far away, Cutter’s knife still scratched on the wooden plank.
Quinn yawned. “I’m so tired I could sleep for days.”
“Me too. I just might.” Keech put his bowler hat over his eyes.
After a silence, Duck said, “Do y’all think Strong Heart will be okay?”
“She’s a strong person. I think she will,” Quinn said.
Keech knew that Strong Heart would undergo months of mourning rituals, a full year’s worth in most cases. She would partake in the ceremonies that signified the loss and vindication of a loved one. Keech hated that he had given her the bad news about Wandering Star, but she was better off knowing than constantly hunting for him and wondering.
Keech felt his body slipping off to sleep. He closed his eyes thinking about Strong Heart, John Wesley, and the Shifter, and so he didn’t quite hear the words that Cutter suddenly shouted.
He bolted upright. “What’s going on?”
“It’s the Shifter!” Duck said.
Slipping back into his boots, Keech ran over to John Wesley and saw that the boy had backed away from the Chamelia, which was twisting and snarling in the snow. The creature’s hide rippled, the fur retracting and a sea of thorns sprouting across its back.
“That demonio’s changing again!” Cutter shouted. He circled nearby, lifting his knife by the blade so he could lob it at the beast.
Duck and Quinn dashed over. Doyle ran up with one fist raised over his head, the same way he’d looked in Wisdom when preparing to unleash a cyclone.
John Wesley grumbled at the creature, but Keech thought the noise sounded more dejected than fearful.
Doyle said, “Move back, John.”
When John Wesley swiveled to face his father, his eyes turned a vicious red again. The boy’s lips pulled back into a sneer. “Don’t come any closer!”
“Okay.” Keech held up his hands. “We’re not gonna hurt it.”
The Shifter’s eyes darted back and forth as though searching for the best escape. It took a few steps toward the wood line, but then it turned back and locked its yellow reptilian eyes on John Wesley.
John said, “Go!”
The Shifter barked, a sound between a hound’s call and a bobcat’s roar, and it turned on wide paws and bounded away toward the forest. Within seconds, the creature had disappeared into the brush.
“Is it gone?” Cutter asked.
“No. I can feel her waiting,” John Wesley said.
“What do you mean, son?” Concern scratched at Doyle’s voice.
“I’m like her now. A beast.” John Wesley lifted a hand and regarded the hooked claws at the end of each finger. “I ain’t a person no more. Look at me.”
“That’s fool talk,” Cutter said.
“No, Cut, it’s true.” John Wesley pointed back to the tree line. “Once upon a time, she was a person, too. She wasn’t always like that, but she got changed. Same thing that’s happened to me. I ain’t me no more.”
“You’re still my son,” Doyle said.
Sorrow cut across John Wesley’s features, but instead of tears, his melancholy intensified the small shifts happening across his body. Quills pushed out from his shoulders, and with a sudden terrible crack, his knees popped backward so that he was hunched on canine legs.
“John, calm down,” Keech said. “I think your emotions are making you shift.”
When John Wesley spoke again, hundreds of needlepoint fangs slurred his words. “I have to go with her. She can teach me how to control this.”
Cutter reached out to him. “I can help you, amigo. Stay with us. We’ve been through this, hermano. Your place is with us. With me. We’re partners.”
“I can’t, Cut.” John Wesley looked back at the woods where the Chamelia lurked. “I feel her calling me. I belong with my own kind.”
“John, my boy,” Doyle said, his voice pleading. “You belong beside your father. Come with me. I’ll take you home.”
John Wesley’s head tilted at the man. “That’s just it, Papa. We ain’t got a home no more. You took that away when you stole Eliza and left.” He backed a step away from the camp.
“Wait, son. Don’t,” the Ranger begged.
Looking frantic, Cutter reached into his coat and pulled out John Wesley’s straw hat. Keech had forgotten that the boy was carrying it. “Take this,” Cutter said, and tossed the hat to his trailmate. It landed in the snow between John Wesley’s feet. A single tear slid down Cutter’s cheek. “Remember, no matter where you go, you’re one of us. You’re a Lost Cause.”
John Wesley stared at the hat on the ground but didn’t pick it up. Turning to peer at the woodland, John Wesley moaned a deep, rattling sigh. Then he glanced back at his father, at Cutter, at all the young riders. “I’m gonna go find the Chamelia now,” he said. “Goodbye.”
He bolted from the camp toward the forest, leaving his torn hat to sit in the snow.
“John, no!” Cutter bellowed, chasing after him. “Come back!”
John Wesley kept running. A moment later, the woods enveloped him, and he was gone.
Later that afternoon, the young riders warmed themselves by the campfire, nestling deep in their blankets and letting the crackle of firewood be their only conversation. The horses slept in a tight standing circle, their reins tied off to the boughs of the now-defunct bending tree. Doyle had taken out his leatherbound journal and was silently scribbling on a page, while Duck and Quinn leaned against each other, staring into the fire.
For a long while after John Wesley had run away, Cutter had paced the edges of the forest, calling his friend’s name. Now he adjusted Chantico’s saddle and mounted up, the plank of wood on which he’d been carving tucked under his arm. When Keech asked him where he was headed, Cutter simply said, “The woods. Not far.”
“You should stay close,” Keech said. “The crows may be about.”
“I can’t stay at this camp, Blackwood. I need to be alone for a bit.”
Keech frowned. “You won’t find him, Cut. He’s long gone.”
“I won’t go looking. I just need to think.”
Spurring Chantico, Cutter trotted away from camp, out of the clearing and into the forest. Keech watched the boy disappear in the trees.
Before long, Keech drifted once more into sleep. He dreamed of the Missouri wilderness and Pa Abner’s training circle. Sam sat next to him by the campfire, and Pa was giving his lecture on trust and wisdom and the rules of alliance. As they listened to his lesson, Pa walked to the woodpile and retrieved a fresh stick for the fire.
Look at this log, boys.…
As he dreamed, Keech shifted on his bedroll. From his deep sleep, he thought he heard small noises—the shuffle of feet in snow, the crack of a twig—but the sounds were not threatening, so he continued sleeping and dreaming of Pa.
On the outside the wood appears to be dry enough, like all the others in the pile. And we desire warmth, so we might be tempted to accept any fuel that promises a good heat. But how do we know the truth of the log? We place it in the fire, test its intent. If the log is our friend, the wood burns clean and gives us heat. If the log is our enemy, moisture hidden inside the wood stifles the burning.…