And the Kinchuinicks. Those deaths had been horrible beyond words. Killed in ways James Henderson could not think of without battling down bile. The ritualistic violation performed with the men’s genitals and hearts had made the railroadmen who found the remains lying in patches of red snow beside the tunnel entrance almost swoon with the horror of it. Strong men who had seen hands and legs ripped off in working accidents and never flinched, who had watched companions die and buried them in the hard ground, their faces as hoary as the solid soil, could barely stand upright at the sight of the carnage that had confronted them. For the first time in his life Henderson cursed his own God that He let such things stalk the earth. Especially now, as it seemed to be stalking him.

Henderson had seen Sitconski. Seen the real thing behind the skin. No, not brain fever at all. It was real enough.

When Henderson had told Hunting Wolf what he had seen, the dreams he had been having and the fear he could find no release from, the weary battered Kinchuinick had touched Henderson’s chest above his heart and called him a white shaman. It was little comfort. James Henderson, Scottish minister who had hoped to live the rest of his small life in the glory of God and the comfort of his green homeland, was not cheered to think he was a magician. But what could he believe or deny any more? Reason had gone with the lives of those men. He could not deny that he saw what Hunting Wolf saw, what no others did, and knew that the filthy abomination that was amongst them recognized Henderson’s sight.

It visited him now in so many foul guises, so many obscene tableaux, that he was nearly broken by it.

Only his time with Hunting Wolf, his confession and the voicing of his terror to the dark alien man who had become like a brother in this trouble, had kept him sane.

But that was days ago, a lifetime away, the last time he had seen the chief before he was forced to run from the ire of both the white men and his own people. Now Henderson was desperately searching for his companion in this lunacy to save him from what was real, not imagined. The weapons of frightened men, bent on his destruction.

His hands were numbing from their sheaths of snow and Henderson sniffed as he pulled himself up. He was seeking Hunting Wolf for another reason too. A more insane one. Henderson whirled around at the sound of snow falling from a laden branch behind the tipi, then with a lurch, stumbled off into the colourless afternoon.