Chapter 42
The Cavern
In the absolute black of the cavern, Namakagon opened the leather pouch containing his fire kit. He fumbled through its contents, finding some fine birch bark tinder and the flint and steel. Over and over he struck the two together, trying to ignite the tinder. With each strike, the flash from the spark bounced off the cavern walls showing countless veins of tarnished, black metal. The spark took, and the tinder began to glow. As Old Bear did so many years before, Namakagon blew life into the fire and held it high as the flame grew.
The flickering light allowed Tor to make out a narrow cave with tall sides and a rocky, uneven floor. The walls were wet with condensation—the air musty and cold. Pools of water helped cast the firelight onto the silver veins reflecting from the walls. The glow from the flaming birch reached far back into the cave, reflecting off more and more and still more of the dark metal.
“Chief, it’s …it’s amazing! Now I see why you protect this place.”
“The silver has been safe here for many thousands of years. I did not think old Mikwam-migwan had the right to change that. Or to take more than that needed to help others. I hope you will follow this philosophy, my friend.”
“You can be sure I will—if we ever get out of here.”
“We will get out.
“You, Bushwhacker, you still out there?” called Namakagon.
“I’ll be here till the winter snows come, Indian.”
Namakagon searched the cave floor near the entrance finding some dried leaves, small sticks, and dried moss. He pushed them into a small pile and dropped the glowing tinder onto it. Soon a small fire lit the cave.
“Is there another entrance?” asked Tor.
“I have searched twice and found no other opening.”
“What should we do?”
“Nothing. We will wait Wilkins out. He carried no pack and will need food. I have a bit of pemmican. There is good water farther back in the cave. The advantage is ours.”
“Indian!” came a shout from outside. “I’ll make you a bargain. You send out a hundred pounds of silver, and I will be off for good.”
“All right, Bushwhacker, but it will take us a week to collect that much.”
“A week? I ain’t gonna wait no week.”
“That’s up to you, Percy,” yelled Tor. “We got plenty of food and water in here. You go back to your camp. We’ll gather up a hundred pounds and put it outside. When you get back, you cart it off, and we’ll never cross paths again.”
“You’re takin’ me for a fool again, boy. If I leave, even for a minute, you’ll skedaddle, and I’ll be on the run again. No sir. I ain’t leavin’.”
“What about tools?” shouted Namakagon. “We need picks and shovels.”
“Confound you! Maybe I’ll git some dynamite. Seal this cave for good!”
Namakagon pulled a three-inch shard of silver from the cave wall. “Percy Wilkins, this why you won’t do that.” He flipped it out into the daylight.
Pulling his knife, Wilkins scraped the metal, exposing pure, shining silver. He sighed, then sat down to wait. Hours passed. Shadows darkened the ravine, and cooler air soon had the thief shivering. He built a fire.
Inside, Namakagon took another small piece of silver from the wall. He pulled a pinch of tobacco from his pouch and sat down across the small fire from Tor. Chanting softly, he dropped the small bit of silver into the fire, then offered tobacco to the flames. His dogs sat nearby, watching their master in the dim firelight. The smoke from the tobacco rose straight up in a single wisp—a thin, white ribbon, slowly turning in the dark cavern.
“Young woodsman, I have something for you.” The old Indian removed his silver wrist band. “This was given to me by my friend Old Bear on the day he showed me this place. I have worn it for many decades. Now it should be yours, young woodsman.”
“I am honored, Ogimaa Mikwam-migwan. But why not keep it?”
“No. The time is right for me to begin passing my few earthly possessions to those who can keep them alive. I have lingered here for more than one hundred years. The day will come when the morning sun no longer lights my way. Carry this for me. As long as you do, I will continue to roam these woods and waters with you. It is right.”
Tor placed the band on his wrist. “I will, Namakagon. I will carry it all my life. I will pass it to someone trustworthy and strong. And I will do the same with this place. If we get out of here in one piece, I pledge to you, as long as I am alive, no one else will ever know of this cave, and no silver will leave here unless it is to serve someone who really needs it.”
Chief Namakagon extended his right arm across the smoldering fire, as did Tor. They each grasped the other’s wrist and held tight. The tobacco smoke encircled their hands before rising to the ceiling.
The old man nodded in approval as they both leaned back against the wall, staring at the glowing embers. Putting another pinch of tobacco onto the coals, the old Indian resumed his chant. As before, a thin ribbon of white smoke rose gracefully. Tor stared at the rising smoke, mesmerized by it and by Ogimaa Mikwam-migwan’s somber song.
Tor jumped to his feet. “Namakagon, the smoke! Where is it going? There must be another opening.” He tried to follow it in the darkness, the chief close behind. “We need more light.”
A flash from Namakagon’s flint and steel abruptly lit the chamber for an instant. Tor saw the trail of smoke snake around a huge boulder and rise high into the cavern. A second flash was followed by a third and a fourth and a fifth. The smoke snaked deeper and deeper into the darkness where more blackened silver glimmered from the wet cavern walls. Tor followed the smoke.
“You must stop,” said Namakagon, grabbing the boy’s shoulder. “This cave goes many ways. It has places as high as the tallest pine and as deep as Gitchee Gumi. You are young with much to lose, should something go wrong. I will see where this leads.”
“And isn’t this more dangerous for an old man?”
“You have many years left. I do not. I will take the dogs with me. Maybe they can help find where the smoke goes. Return, Tor. Make more smoke. I will follow it to see if it will lead us out.”
“But, we should go together.”
“Tor, if we both leave the entrance, Wilkins could enter and capture us again. If that happens, he is sure to kill us both. We cannot give him that opportunity. Besides, one of us must feed the fire, keep this smoke rising. You must go back. Take this,” he said, handing Tor the pemmican. “Make it last.”
Tor said nothing. He gave Namakagon a bear hug and took the pemmican. Chief Namakagon disappeared into the black of the cavern.
Moments later, through the darkness Namakagon heard, “Ogimaa Mikwam-migwan, may Gitchee Manitou and all the spirits walk with you.”
Tor fed what few dead leaves and little moss he could find to the fire, sending white smoke toward the ceiling. The light near the cave entrance was growing dim. He waited impatiently, tending the smoky fire, searching for any scrap of fuel, wondering where this smoky trail might lead his friend.
Chief Namakagon followed the smoke. Each flash from his flint and steel gave him another look down the narrow passages. He watched the smoke rise high, beyond several large boulders protruding from the cave wall.
Makade and Waabishki climbed the rocks, their master laboring to keep up. The smoke snaked along. “Where do you take me?” he said into the darkness. “What spirit must I call upon to find my way?”
He struck the flint again. As before, the thin ribbon of smoke silently twisted along another passage. Namakagon followed.
Tor moved closer to the cavern’s entrance, feeling April’s cold evening air enter the cave. His fire was almost out. He had no more fuel. Tor knelt, looking out, but could see only the dim reflections of Wilkins’ campfire. “You still out there, Bushwhacker? Halloo. Somebody there?”
“I’m still waitin’ for you, boy,” came a calm voice from outside. “You had enough? You comin’ out? I won’t harm yo
u, boy. Come on out.”
“Why don’t you come in here, instead?” shouted Tor. “We have dried apples and smoked venison to share with you. And the water in here is clear and cold as the night sky in January. Come and join us for supper, Bushwhacker.”
“Sure I will, Sonny. I’ll just send my shotgun in ahead of me, then slide under this here rock, and you can give it back to me, right? What kind of fool do you take me for, Sonny?”
“The ordinary kind, Bushwhacker.”
“You won’t mock me when you’re starvin’ to death, boy. You and your Indian friend soon will be beggin’ me for any scrap of meat.”
“You been visited yet by that big ol’ bear?”
“What bear?”
“The big boar with the white, diamond blaze on his chest.”
“You’re mockin’ me agin.”
“You look on the trail, Percy. You’ll see his tracks. Better keep a sharp eye out for him. He’s been trained by the old chieftain to guard the cave. Why, he’s probably watchin’ you right now.”
Wilkins shuddered. Pulling a burning branch from the fire to use as a torch, he studied the trail, finding the track of the large bear. Rushing back to the fire, he threw his smoking tree limb into the flames and frantically added more wood. The fire blazed. Wilkins watched the trail, shotgun at the ready.
Far back in the depths of the cave, by the flash of his flint and steel, Namakagon followed the trail of smoke. He climbed over rocks and slid through narrow openings, moving only a few feet between flashes. The smoke grew more difficult to see. He found himself in a dead end corridor. Backtracking, he tried again to locate the trail of smoke, his dogs just ahead of him. The old man tripped on Makade, falling to the cave floor, dropping his flint. On hands and knees, he searched between the rocks for the small stone.
“Oh, Wenebojo, why do you do this? Why must I suffer so? Why won’t you help me?” His fingers found the flint. Stiff from the cold, muscles aching, the old Indian stood in the sheer blackness of the cavern. Striking out another flash, he tried vainly to locate the trail of smoke.
Tor’s fire was out. His fuel was gone. Now, the only light in the cave was the dim glow at the entrance that came from Wilkins blazing fire outside. Tor taunted him again. “Did that big ol’ bear stop by for a visit yet, Bushwhacker?”
“There ain’t no bear, Sonny.”
“I see you got your fire just a blazin’. You saw his tracks, didn’t you? You sit tight. He’ll be along any time now. It’s his suppertime, Percy.”
“Enough of your mockin’ me!” screamed the thug. He jumped to his feet, his shotgun in hand. In anger, he kicked the edge of his fire toward the cave opening. Hot coals flew everywhere. As they did, some of the dead leaves and pine needles under the cave entrance caught fire. Air currents near the opening fanned the flames, carrying smoke into the cave. Seeing this, Wilkins pushed more grass, pine needles, and leaves into the entrance. The fire grew. Wilkins grinned. Leaning his shotgun against a tree, he snapped off three balsam branches, and tossed them in. They cracked and popped as they burned, sending thick, white smoke under the rock and into the cave.
“Say, Sonny,” shouted the bandit. “Hows about a good snout full of pine smoke? Maybe that will bring you out. No?”
Wilkins pushed the burning bows farther into the entrance. The flames lit the chamber. Tor watched the thick cloud of white smoke rise to the ceiling and drift above, far back into the cave. It did not affect the air where he sat.
“Stop! Stop the smoke,” Tor called. “We are choking to death in here. Oh, Mister Wilkins, have mercy. Please stop.”
Percy Wilkins snickered and threw more pine boughs onto the fire. “What’s that, Sonny? You say you want more smoke?”
But, as the thief snapped branches from the balsam tree, a large shadow fell on him. He turned and froze when he saw before him the great bear. It rose to its hind feet, dwarfing the bandit. Wilkins slowly inched toward his shotgun. His eyes shifted from those of the bear to the diamond-shaped, white blaze on the bear’s chest. It stared down on him.
Just as Wilkins’ hand touched the gun barrel, the bear’s huge paw slashed through the air. He screamed as the bear’s paw hit him squarely across the face. Knocked to the ground by the blow, the bear pounced on him.
Tor heard the shrill scream. “Bushwhacker,” he called. “Bushwhacker!”
There was no answer—no sound outside.
“Percy Wilkins!”
Again, nothing.
The smoke from the fire in the entrance stopped. Tor heard a dog barking beyond. Then two.
“Tor Loken, are you there?” came a call from outside.
“Chief! Is that really you?”
“It is, young woodsman. These two fine dogs and your plumes of smoke brought me out high on the ridge.” He pulled the last coals away from the entrance. “Tor, Percy Wilkins is no longer a threat.”
Tor scrambled out of the cave, across the hot ground. Makade and Waabiski rushed to him.
There, in the firelight, stood Chief Namakagon. Tor grabbed him around the neck with one arm and patted him on the back with the other. “Good to see you, old friend. I figured you’d find your way out.”
Tor then saw Wilkins’ body, face deeply slashed by the claws of a large bear and his skull crushed. Blood covered his torn clothing. The stock of his shotgun, lying on the ground, showed deep bite marks.
“Percy Wilkins won’t return this time,” said the chief. “It appears he angered a large makwaa.”
“You think it was that bear we saw earlier?”
“Who is to say?” replied the chief as he sat down on the large rock near the fire. Seems as though he just showed up out of nowhere. Perhaps this was the work of old Wenebojo. Who knows? No matter now. Wilkins is gone.”
Tor searched for bear tracks but, other than tracks from the dogs, the only footprints he found were from his own boots, Wilkins’ boots, and Chief Namakagon’s moccasins. “Seems as though the makwaa left no tracks.”
“No tracks? How curious,” replied Namakagon.
“Chief, tell me more about this Wenebojo you speak of so often.”
“Someday, young woodsman. Not tonight. I’m a bit weary.”