ELEVEN
The Winchesters made fast time, arriving in Truckee in the late afternoon. Bobby was waiting at the Java Joint Cafe, an old 1930s diner. He'd arrived in town earlier and posed as an F.B.I. agent to get access to the police reports.
Sam and Dean slid into the booth opposite him. Bobby was eating the biggest chicken pot pie Sam had ever seen. He slid a topographic map over to them.
"I've marked the spot where the hunters found their friend's rifle and the pool of blood," he said in a quiet voice.
The waitress came over, all cheer. "Anything to drink?"
They placed their orders and Bobby continued when she left. "I say we hike out near this spot, stake it out. Something doesn't feel right to me. My gut's got more to say than the town gossip at a church bingo night."
Dean slid the map over to Sam. He studied it for a few minutes. "This area isn't far from the Donner Lake camp where the emigrants over-wintered. You really think it's another wendigo?"
"It would be odd," Bobby said, "them being so close. From everything I've read, wendigos are solitary."
"Should we call Jason?" Sam asked.
Bobby shook his head. "You saw that guy limping. He was this close to collapsing the whole time we were out."
Dean nodded. "Dude needs time to recover."
Sam eyed him. "You're not doing so hot, either."
"A little pale's a lot different from broken ribs and a messed up leg." Dean regarded his brother with waning patience.
"A little pale? Dean, you almost died."
"I'm fine." He brushed off Sam's concern, shifting his weight in the seat and staring out the far window.
"When you boys are done holding each other's hand, we need to find out some more information. You got your suits?"
Sam nodded. They had the customary black suits and ties tucked away in the car's trunk.
"Head over to Fish and Game and see if any other big puddles of blood have turned up in the last year or so. Maybe we can figure out where this thing hangs out."
"Maybe the wendigos were related in life, and that's why they occupy the same territory," Sam suggested, thinking about the Donner Party.
"What do you mean?" Dean asked.
"Well, maybe they were part of the same family, people who stuck together through the whole Donner Party ordeal."
"And they're still sticking together?" Bobby said with distaste.
"The family who slays together stays together," Dean said, grinning and picking a French fry off his plate.
At the morgue, dressed in their best suits, Sam and Dean flashed F.B.I. credentials and were referred to the ranger service for reports of hunting mishaps. The chief ranger's office was full of maps and books, and he cleared off two chairs for them. Chief Ranger Willis McGovern was a tall, red-faced man with an impressive beard that rivaled Grizzly Adams' and a bit of a gut starting above his belt. He smoothed back his balding brown hair and motioned for them to sit down.
"We don't get a lot of F.B.I. visits," McGovern told them.
"Our superiors believe this warrants a visit," Dean told him in his best authoritative voice.
Sam pulled out a little black notebook he kept for just such occasions. "We understand a man went missing this morning, and a large pool of blood was found, but no body."
