Chapter 4

DR. MANGUS, THE YOUNG, TALL, dark-complected Apache veterinarian, carried Jake down a long hall past several doors on the way to the examining room.

While following him, Mike could hear the barking and whining of a large number of dogs. They traveled through a hallway lined with bookshelves, entering an open doorway at the end.

Dr. Mangus lifted Jake onto the high stainless steel examination table. He switched on a fluorescent lamp over the table and studied the cooperative collie’s eyes and mouth. He took the dog’s temperature and drew a syringe of blood for later study.

Meanwhile, the Last Chance Detectives studied the room and the doctor. A wall chart displayed canine anatomy, but the practiced hands of the lab coat–clad doctor needed no reference to complete his study.

“Okay, now. Hold him right there,” Mangus said to Winnie, placing her hands on Jake’s back, “while I get the IV.” Retrieving a wheeled pipe stand with four hooks on the top, Mangus hung a fresh bag of saline solution on it, then opened the top drawer of a nearby cupboard and pulled out a fresh needle pack.

Dr. Mangus was all gentle, fluid motion as he restrained Jake with nylon straps and prepared to insert the needle. He tossed the debris into a low flip-top waste can and was ready to proceed as well as to explain the procedure to the four friends.

“All right, guys,” the doctor spoke in a clear and confident tone. “I’ll need you to help hold him,” he said as he uncapped the needle. “This may sting him a little, but he’ll like the way he feels when we get the fluids back into him.”

“Oh, wow,” Ben whined, covering his eyes. “I can’t watch this.”

Mike held tight to Jake’s front left paw as Mangus felt for the vein, and Spence watched with interest.

“Here it is,” the doctor spoke softly, pushing his collar-length straight hair back from his face before inserting the needle. Jake flinched slightly, raising his head to see what they had done. “There, there, boy,” Mangus said in a soothing tone. “Just relax and let the IV do its job.”

Jake’s body relaxed, and he sank calmly down on the table, as Mangus massaged the back of the Border collie’s neck and ears.

Mike asked if Jake would be all right. “So what do you think, Doc?”

“I don’t see any wounds, broken bones, or obvious symptoms of disease,” Mangus replied positively. “I would guess that Jake’s problem is just severe dehydration.”

“Ugh.” Winnie sounded angry. “In other words, he hasn’t been given any water!”

“Right,” the vet agreed. “It’s a good thing you guys brought him when you did. He’s pretty far gone, but the IV and a little rest should do the trick.”

Mike shook his head slowly and said, “Poor Jake.”

“Old Silas used to run a pretty neat ranch—until his son died,” the doctor said. “Then he started drinking and let things go. This isn’t the first time he’s been guilty of animal cruelty.”

“Hmm,” Spence said, concluding some thought aloud. “Dr. Mangus, you seem to know all about animals.”

“Yes,” Mangus answered slowly, unsure where the question was leading.

But if Spence was holding back, Ben felt no such restraint. He jumped in with, “Do you really think that Mr. Varner saw Bigfoot?”

Mangus leaned back and folded his big tanned forearms just below the stethoscope slung around his neck as he considered the question. “I wouldn’t rule it out,” he said at last.

“You wouldn’t?” Ben commented in excitement. “Not even in the desert?”

“Not at all.” The vet shook his head, then raised his slender fingers to grasp his chin. “In fact, I seem to remember hearing something about an old Navajo legend . . .”

“What does it say?” Mike asked curiously.

“I don’t know,” Mangus said, laughing. “I’m not Navajo. I’m Apache.”

Everyone looked at Winnie, who was Navajo, as she furrowed her brow in thought. “Wait a minute. I know it. My grandmother once told me an old legend about some kind of . . . mythical guardian beast. But do you think that could be Bigfoot?” she asked the doctor.

“A big, hairy monster on two legs? What else fits the description?” he replied.

Winnie was still trying to remember the details of what her grandmother had said.

“Well, come on, Winnie! Don’t keep us hanging,” Ben demanded, poking at her back with his thumb. “What’s this about a guardian beast?”

“His name is Taquitz. Translated that means”—she paused—“the Guardian of the Gold.” She continued, “The old ones believe he guards all the gold in the American Indian lands.”

“And what is it old Silas has been doing all these years?” Mangus asked pointedly.

Chills like those from a roller coaster rolled down Mike’s back. “Prospecting.”

“Wait!” Ben interrupted. “You think this . . . thing . . . is prowling around, looking for gold?”

“Who can say?” Dr. Mangus said with a shrug. “But if there is something out there . . . Let me put it this way: I wouldn’t go camping out that way for a while.”

Three young men, friends from college, huddled companionably around a blazing campfire. The full moon had not yet fully risen over the mesa, and the night outside the cheerful circle of orange firelight was dark and lonely.

A chorus of crickets resounded on the gentle breeze, an accompaniment to Sam’s storytelling. Sam’s hair was pulled back and concealed beneath a bandana tied at the base of his neck. It was a sensible covering against dust and the chill air, but it stretched the corners of his eyes and gave his face a gaunt, skull-like appearance. Since Sam was at his best telling creepy tales, perhaps this was the effect he intended.

Alex, the letter on his varsity jacket matching his first name, listened intently to the story, forgetting the hot dog roasting on the forked stick. The third companion, George, thrust his hands deeply into the pockets of his jacket and pulled the ball cap lower over his eyes.

“And the flames grew bigger and bigger. Like an inferno, they grew hotter and hotter, chasing him down the long corridors of creaking and moaning timber, until at last”—Sam lowered his voice, speaking softly so the others were forced to lean in to hear the words—“until he had no place to run . . .”

George, watching with big eyes, missed his mouth with a handful of popcorn. The crickets behind them quieted as if sensing the climax.

Alex shivered as Sam continued. “And so the townspeople had their revenge, so they thought. But at what cost? You see, when they returned to sift through the ashes . . .”

Alex nodded quickly to Sam to continue. His eyes watering from the woodsmoke, his mouth open in breathless anticipation, Alex hung on every word, captivated by the story. Over Sam’s shoulder he could see the outline of their tent and farther up the slope the hulking form of their parked car. The tent and the auto were somehow reassuring to look at out there in the desolate open spaces.

“No burnt clothing . . . no skeletal remains,” Sam continued. “Nothing. No one really knows for sure what happened to the stranger. But some say you can still see his face”—Sam slowly reached down at his side to grasp a tin can—“in the flames of a campfire . . . like this!” he yelled suddenly, raising his voice to a shout as he threw the contents of the can into the fire. The flames erupted huge and hot.

“Aaaaaugh,” Alex screamed, falling backward, as George also scrambled away.

Sam burst into laughter. “Oh, man, did you guys jump! You shoulda seen your faces.”

With tight lips Alex complained, “You didn’t scare me. I was just startled.”

“Yeah, right,” Sam said with a mocking smile. “Then what’s your hot dog doin’ in the fire?”

“Oh, great! Now what am I . . . Wait, did you hear that?” Alex asked.

“What?” Sam chuckled. “I just scared you. You’re not gonna get me that easy.” He reached over to nudge George. “Right, Georgie Porgie?”

“No, really,” Alex insisted. “I heard something, up there by the car.”

George peeked out from beneath the ball cap long enough to look. “Uhhh,” he moaned. “The car is moving!”

Both Sam and Alex glanced quickly around, just in time to see the car gently rocking back and forth. Frozen for a moment, they stared as the car stopped moving.

“It’s just the wind,” Sam said with assurance. “Man, you guys are a bunch of schoolkids.”

“Oh, right, right,” Alex agreed. “Prob’ly just the wind. So, Sam, hand me another one of those dogs.”

“There’s no more hot dogs in here,” Sam answered. “Look in that bag by you.”

“No, these are all gone,” Alex replied, picking up the plastic wrapping and throwing it in the fire. “See? What am I supposed to eat?”

“Hey, don’t sweat it,” Sam told him, patting him on the back. “There’s plenty more in the ice chest in the trunk of the car.”

“In the trunk of the car?” Alex repeated.

“Something wrong? Think we should have brought chicken, Alex?” Sam said, flapping his arms. “Cluck, cluck, cluck.”

“All right, already,” Alex said in irritation as he stood up, still holding the empty forked stick. “I’ll go get them myself.”

Walking up the incline and around to the open trunk of the dented white sedan, Alex was startled to find the ice chest torn apart and the food in the trunk ravaged and scattered about. “What the . . . Hey, guys, a raccoon got into the—”

Hearing the crackling sound of brush underfoot, Alex moved softly to look over the side of the car to see what it was. By the flickering light of the dying campfire, he spotted a small patch of fur in the deep shadow beside the car. Prodding it with his hot-dog stick, it moved, then exploded into a huge, fur-covered form. “Hey! Get away,” Alex screamed in horror.

“Nice try, Alex,” Sam called from the fireside. “But we’re not buyin’ it.”

Frantically trying to escape, Alex backed up in terror and stumbled into the trunk of the sedan. “Aaaaaugh!” he screamed as the car was bounced and rocked by the fury of the beast.

“Good one, Alex! But I’m still not buying it,” Sam announced, unaware of what was happening.

“Look!” George shouted, pointing to the rock blocking the front wheel of their car. “It’s going over!”

Alex continued to scream from the trunk as the wheel bounced free of the chock and the car took off like a runaway steamroller down the hill toward the tent, the fire, and George and Sam.

“Help!” Alex shouted as the sedan became airborne over a rut, crashing back down in the tumbleweeds and crushing the flimsy tent, which it then dragged along behind.

“Watch out!” Sam bellowed, diving out of the way.

His feet asleep from sitting cross-legged by the fire, George staggered across the campsite. “Whoa!” he said as he flipped over a log, barely reaching safety just as the car plowed through the fire.

Rolling down the incline, the sedan brushed against boulders, while dragging the now flaming tent behind. Finally it crashed into a ravine about fifty yards down the slope and rocked to a stop. The Levi-covered legs of the terrified Alex still protruded from the trunk.

Sam shook his head in disbelief. Without even getting to his feet he muttered, “You gotta be kidding me!”