Project Hannibal by Kathryn Hoff (good english books to read TXT) 📗

grandly on the God-given rights of a man to live wherever he damn well chooses. With sly glances at Luis, Brandon egged Jerry on, knowing Luis would have preferred a root canal to listening to the man’s ignorant drivel.

Luis ignored them both, listening to the outside noises. If any of the mammoths came back, he wanted to know about it before Jerry started shooting.

Water began to drip down the west wall—rain being driven hard enough to penetrate the joint between wall and roof. The three men eyed the trickle but stayed quiet: there was no way to fix it in the midst of the storm.

More gusts battered the hut.

A tearing sound came from the roof—the wind ripping the tarp away from the nails. Minnie cried out.

Jerry jumped up, anger distorting his face. “Damn you, Bran, I told you to nail that tarp down tight!”

“Jerry, hand me a pan.” Minnie’s voice quavered. “The roof’s leaking.”

Brandon wordlessly emptied the dirty bowls from the plastic tub that served as a sink and handed it up to her. A spatter of drops on the floor told of places where the flying tarp had ripped nails out of the roof.

Minnie began to cry quietly, trying to stifle her sobs.

What did they expect? The whole homestead was ridiculous. Jerry had no business dragging his family out to the wilderness—and for damn sure he had no notion how to build a house. The shack was no better than a lean-to—no joists, no shingles, two-by-four framing set too far apart, no waterproofing, no insulation. They were lucky it hadn’t burned down the first time they fired up that woodstove. And they were on protected land—they weren’t supposed to be there anyway.

Luis pulled the ground cover from his pack and handed it up to Minnie. “Here. You can cover the bed to keep the mattress dry.”

Jerry nodded thanks and climbed the ladder to the loft to help her spread it.

Amid the drips, a sleeping bag would be nothing but a soggy mess. Brandon threw a poncho over himself and stretched out on his pad, fully clothed. He patted the floor beside him.

Luis shook his head and took a chair by the window. Fully dressed, boots on, he slipped on his rain jacket.

“Time to sleep,” Jerry said. “I need to put out the lamp.”

Luis nodded. “Go ahead. I want to watch the storm awhile. Maybe I’ll see Bigfoot come back.”

Jerry grunted. “If you do, let me know. I got my .38 loaded and ready.” He snuffed the lamp.

Outside, the clouds and rain had turned the day to dusk. The trees waved wildly in the gusts as water sheeted down.

Brandon narrowed his eyes at Luis. “Don’t go out there. Whatever’s gonna happen is gonna happen. Let it.”

“I can’t,” Luis whispered. “If he comes, I’ll try to get him away, that’s all.”

Brandon grunted and turned his back.

Luis curled up on a relatively dry patch of floor and listened.

An hour or two passed. The wind died down to blustery gusts and the rain drummed steadily. There were too many drips on the floor to count.

Then Luis heard the bone-chilling call of a trumpeting mammoth.

He got up as quietly as he could. The hut’s door had no doorknob—just a simple wooden latch to keep it shut.

“Lou?” Jerry whispered hoarsely from the sleeping loft. “You’re not going out there, are you?”

“I thought I heard something,” Luis said. “I want to see it.”

“You’re crazy,” Jerry muttered. “Go at your own risk. I ain’t coming after you.”

Good.

Brandon squinted up at him. “Me neither. But if you want to go, I won’t stop you.”

After the stuffiness of the damp shack, even the cold rain was a relief. The downpour was steady, but no longer streaming down the way it had been early in the storm. It pattered against the hood of Luis’s rain jacket as he sloshed up to the garden, his boots becoming soaked within moments.

Diamond stood in the ruined garden, big and menacing in the dark. Hump-shouldered, long hair dripping in the rain, he might be mistaken for an exceptionally large grizzly—except for the long, curved ivory tusks. At the moment, he was plowing them into the dirt, hoping to turn up another choice root.

“Hey, Di, old boy.” Luis patted Di’s trunk. Di stopped rooting for food long enough to give him a good all-over sniffing and rumble a greeting. Luis didn’t see any wounds and Di moved easily. If Jerry’s pot-shot had hit him, it hadn’t done much harm.

A snort made Luis turn. Di wasn’t alone—he’d brought Pearl to his treasure trove.

“Hey, Pearl. Did you decide you like this big lug after all?” He blew a greeting into her face. She rumbled back to him.

“Kneel.” He had to whisper the command several times before she lowered herself enough to let him clamber onto her shoulder.

No harness, no saddle, no stirrups, just a seat on the soaked fur of Pearl’s broad shoulders. Luis used heels and toes to signal her to turn, urging her away from the homestead. Uphill would be best, away from any other cabins that might have cropped up along the stream.

Good old Pearl, docile and eager to please. Up she went, squelching through mud. He let her choose the path, so long as she kept climbing. Grunts and snorts from behind told him Diamond was staying on her heels—too close for Luis’s comfort.

Perhaps too close for Pearl’s comfort, too. At the top of a rise, she quickened to a shambling run down the slope.

Luis held on, hands grasping the coarse, long hair on her shoulders. Why was she running?

He glanced behind. Diamond was matching Pearl’s speed, staying right behind her, trunk raised, ears flared, penis extended. Oh, hell. He was in mating mode, and she wasn’t yet ready.

Diamond trumpeted, a blast