The Curse of the Wendigo by Rick Yancey

reference it was impossible to tell our speed orhow far we had to go. The effect was unnerving to say the least—worse than hell, for even the souls in Charon’s boat could see the opposite shore!
    “Please drop the barrel of that gun, Will Henry,” the doctor admonished. It was pointed directly at his chest. “And try to keep in mind that if we can’t see them, they cannot see us. They’re as blind in this soup as we are.”
    “No, I’m a bit blinder, Doctor,” puffed Hawk. “
They
know what you’re up to.”
    Warthrop did not respond. His gaze remained fixed over my shoulder, as if by virtue of the intensity of his stare he could part the mist and sight his goal.
    We reached that goal finally—not touching the bank but slamming into it with enough force to send me flying backward over the edge of the canoe and into the shallow water. Warthrop yanked me to my feet and hurled my sopping wet carcass onto the muddy shore. Coughing and spitting, I sat up in time to see Hawk and the doctor pulling our unconscious cargo from the boat’s belly. They carried him several feet into the trees before easing him to the ground and returning for our gear. At that moment three canoes bearing six armed men emerged from the fog, the men’s black eyes glittering dangerously under their dark brows. Warthrop raised his hand, and Hawk raised his rifle.
    “Tell them we intend no harm,” the doctor instructed him.
    Hawk barked a little laugh. “I’m more worried about
their
intent, Doctor!” Then he said something in their tongue. The tallest of the six, a young man close to Hawk’s age, spoke quietly and without inflection, and pointed at Warthrop.
    “He wants you to return what you’ve taken,” Hawk said.
    “Tell him I am merely recovering what they have taken.”
    Their leader spoke again, his manner one of utter earnestness laced with a touch of condescension; clearly Warthrop did not understand the consequences of his actions.
    “Well?” the doctor snapped. “What does he say?”
    “He says if you insist on taking him, you must kill him. The
Outiko
is with him.”
    “
With
him?”
    “Or
in
him, it means the same thing.”
    “If he wants him dead, he’ll have to kill me,” Warthrop said, his eyes flashing dangerously. “All of us. The boy, too. Is he willing to do that? Ask him!”
    Hardly were the words out of Hawk’s mouth when six rifles rose as one. Instinctively I brought up the revolver. Warthrop, however, made no move with his weapon.
    “No need to translate, Hawk,” the doctor said.
    “He is
Outiko
’s now,” the brave said in English. “We take him.”
    “Dear God, how much of this superstitious folderol must I bear?” Warthrop cried. He flung his rifle to the ground, grabbed the gun from my hand, and slung it toward the trees. Then, before Hawk could react, Warthrop ripped his rifleaway and threw that down too. He opened his long arms wide and thrust out his chest, offering himself to their bullets.
    “Go on and do it, then, damn you! Shoot us all in cold blood and take your precious
Outiko
!”
    For an agonized moment I believed they would do just that. Their rifles remained unwaveringly upon us. I heard Hawk mutter, “Warthrop, I would have liked to have been included in this decision.” Otherwise, all was quiet—that awful pregnant stillness before the clang and clatter of battle.
    Their leader spoke, and his men slowly lowered their weapons. He said something to Warthrop.
    “Well?” the doctor asked Hawk.
    “He said, ‘You are a fool.’” The sergeant took a deep breath. “And I think I agree with him.”
    Hawk’s opinion mattered to the doctor as much as anyone else’s—that is, hardly at all. He waited until our pursuers had turned their boats around and the mist had swallowed them up, before he hurried to the side of his fallen friend, snapping his fingers at me to grab his rucksack and join him. The sergeant lingered between the line of trees and the shore, standing