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Back The Trickster
Chapters (74)
  1. The Trickster
  2. Copyright
  3. Dedication
  4. Contents
  5. Preface to the 20th anniversary edition
  6. Introduction
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. Keep Reading
  70. FURNACE
  71. Acknowledgements
  72. About the Author
  73. ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
  74. About the Publisher

Henderson groaned. He did not have the vocabulary to enter into all this confusion and mayhem with the woman. Instead he slumped to his knees in the thick snow and berated himself in English. His temperature was high, and the flakes that flew in his face and landed on his bony forehead returned to water in an instant.

‘Dear Jesus. This filthy thing is winning. Give me strength, my sweet, sweet Jesus.’

He wept, his teeth clenched and his arms buried to the elbows in the snow in front of him like a dog squatting on the ground. Singing Tree watched the ragged man’s despair for a moment, then steered her son forward and disappeared back into their tipi.

It was not brain fever. He knew now that the men in the leather armchairs in his Edinburgh club were wrong. Men of reason be damned. There was no reason out here in this wilderness that God had abandoned. There was only the very devil and his legion here, as solid and visible as his own body, as cunning and wicked as the worst evil that lives in men.

But not a man. Oh no. The thing he had seen, that he kept seeing even with his face hidden in his hands, was the thing that had killed again and again, and it was not a man. It was here to destroy Hunting Wolf, their only hope.

He had to find the shaman before Muir and the men got to him with their pick-axes and hammers, and their lust for the Kinchuinick’s blood. Five more dead since McEwan. That made six horrific, stomach-churning deaths that defied explanation or comprehension. Did they not stop and wonder, these men baying for Hunting Wolf’s life, what madness would make a peace-loving chief kill two white men in a frenzy, then torture and mutilate four of his own kind? He stared into the grey spaces filled and vacated by the dancing snowflakes in front of him and tried to smother the memory of those unspeakable deaths. It was useless. They were fresh in his mind, the recollection of their detail prodding him constantly with their gory thorn.

McEwan torn apart. Then Peter Lorn, a quiet, inoffensive man, his slashed and pulverized body separated from its head in the shadows of the deepening tunnel.