“Not murder,” Henry said hopelessly.
Maurice shook his head. “Money will buy a good lawyer, and a good lawyer with enough money behind him can sell a lie to anyone.”
“What lie? I didn’t mean to kill him.”
“You kill a white man, it doesn’t matter why. They won’t listen. Money will make them listen.”
“I don’t have money,” Henry said miserably.
“What I want to show you.”
Maurice rose from his chair, went to the bunk, and pulled it away from the wall. Henry saw the outline of a trapdoor beneath, cut into the floorboards. A knotted rope served as a handle. Maurice grasped the rope and lifted. He beckoned Henry to look. Beneath the floor lay a dozen deer-hide pouches, each larger than a man’s fist.
“Take one,” Maurice said. “Open it.”
Henry lifted one of the pouches, surprised by its weight. He undid the leather cord and looked at the heaping of yellow grains inside.
“Do you know what that is?” Maurice asked.
Henry said, “Gold.”
“It’s yours. As much as you want.”
“Why?”
Maurice smiled kindly. “I came looking for this. Once I had it, I realized I’d found something better here with Hummingbird. Happiness. We had each other. We had food and shelter. We had this land whose spirit is generous and beautiful. Children would have been good, but...” He shrugged that thought away. “So we stayed. When Hummingbird died, I thought about leaving. Except all my memories are here. Her spirit is here, too. I feel her with me all the time.” He put a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “What need do I have for gold?”
Henry closed up the pouch and carefully tied the cord. “If I take the gold, they will know where it came from. They will he hack.”
“They will be back anyway. It is only a matter of time.”
“I will think about it,” Henry said.
He stayed awhile with Maurice, but his mind was drawn to the campsite and the empty sky above the lake.
“I should go back and wait,” he finally said.
“I’ll wait with you,” Maurice offered.
Henry didn’t want to risk the white men seeing Maurice. “I will wait alone.”
Maurice nodded. “If that’s what you want. Remember, the gold is here for you. It will always be here.”
They left the cabin. Maurice looked at the sky and sniffed the air.
“Your people don’t come back soon, it won’t matter much,” he said to Henry. “Snow is on the way. I can smell it. I’ve got food if you need to spend the winter.”
Henry thanked him and left. He made his way to camp and sat down to wait.
That night, Henry slept in Maria’s tent. The smell of her on the sleeping bag was next to heaven. In the night, he heard music, the little chime of the gold watch. He found it among the things she’d left behind. He went outside and stirred the embers and stoked the fire until he had a flame bright enough to see by. He spent the rest of the night dividing his time between staring at the stars and staring at Maria’s tiny image. Near dawn, he put the watch in his pocket, where it would stay. He didn’t care if it was stealing.
They didn’t come the next day or the next. That night Henry dreamed: The lake had turned to ice. The ridges were white with snow. He stood at the shoreline staring at Wellington’s plane, which sat on frozen water. Flakes began to drift from the cloudy sky, and soon a curtain of falling snow descended, so that all Henry could see was the dim outline of the floatplane. He wanted to rush to it, to find out if it had brought Maria back to him, but his feet wouldn’t move.
The door opened. A figure clambered out. Henry thought it was Wellington, but he couldn’t be sure. The figure walked toward him.
As it came, it grew, taking on huge dimensions. The head became a ragged growth of shaggy hair. The fingers grew into long claws. Through the white gauze of snow, the eyes glowed red as hot coals. Henry realized that what was coming for him was not a man but a windigo, the mythic beast out of the horror stories of his childhood, a cannibal giant with a heart of ice. He turned and tried to run, but he could not move his legs. He looked back. The beast was almost upon him. Henry tried to cry out. His jaw locked in place, and only a terrified moan escaped. The foul smell of the windigo—the stench of rotted meat—was all around him. He saw the great mouth open, revealing teeth like a row of bloody knives. The beast reached for him. Henry tensed and cringed, prepared to be torn apart.
He jerked awake in the cold gray of early morning. Outside the tent, the sky was overcast. In the air, he could smell the approach of snow.
The airplane came at noon. Henry was napping. He heard the low thrum in the sky from the eastern end of the lake. He grabbed his jacket and ran out of the tent. The plane dropped toward the water like a swan descending. The floats touched, shattering the glassy lake surface, and the wings squared toward the shoreline where Henry stood. He couldn’t see into the cockpit. The engine cut out, the blur of the propeller ceased, the blades froze. The plane nosed up to solid ground. The door opened.
Leonard Wellington climbed out. He walked along the pontoon with a rope in his hand. Leaping ashore, he tethered the floatplane to one of the large, heavy rocks that littered the shore. He went back to the cabin door and spoke to someone inside. Finally he looked at Henry.
“Wasn’t sure you’d still be here,” he said, stepping off the pontoon. “If I was you, I’d have taken to the woods. Vamoosed.”
Henry only half heard. He was staring at the open cabin door. His heart was a wild horse galloping in his chest. He could barely breathe.
Another man climbed from the belly of the plane. He carried a rifle. Henry’s hope cracked into a thousand pieces.
Wellington saw his face. “Expecting Maria? You’ll never see her again, Henry. That’s the way she wants it. You killed her father. That’s right, he’s dead. Yesterday.”
Henry stared at the man who’d come with Wellington. He didn’t look like a policeman. He looked Indian, and familiar.
“Maria told me about the Negro, Henry,” Wellington went on. “We have a deal to offer you. Take me to him and the police will never know it was you who killed Carlos Lima. You have my word, eh.”
Henry didn’t answer. He felt dull, thick-witted. Nothing made sense.
“She hates you,” Wellington said. “She wanted to come with me and tell you that herself, but I persuaded her to let me handle this, man to man.”
Henry opened his mouth. He had no idea what he was going to say. What came out was, “I don’t believe you.” He eyed the Indian, who now stood behind Wellington, the rifle cradled across his chest.
Wellington smiled sadly. “I understand, Henry. You love her. Love makes you blind. But if I was lying, how would I know about the Negro? She told me everything. Except she couldn’t tell me how to get to his cabin.”
Henry studied the Indian. He was as tall as Wellington, over six feet, lanky but powerful-looking. His black hair was cut short in the way of a white man, with flecks of silver throughout. Henry remembered where he’d seen the man before, on the dock at the lake where the floatplane had landed to refuel on the flight north.
“Boozhoo,” Henry said to him.
The man showed no sign of understanding the familiar Ojibwe greeting.
“I want to make a deal with this Negro fellow,” Wellington went on.
Henry focused on Wellington’s eyes, dark and small, like rabbit droppings. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Wellington lost his smile. “I’m talking about the gold, Henry.”
“I don’t know about any gold. I don’t know about this Negro.”
Wellington reached behind him, under his leather jacket, to the small of his back. When his hand reappeared, it held a revolver with a blued barrel, which he pointed at Henry. “I’d just as soon kill you, but I need what’s in your head. You’ve got five seconds to start telling me how to find the Negro’s cabin.”
Henry eyed t
he Indian, who watched impassively.
“One. Two. Three. Spill it, Henry. Four. Five.”
The revolver popped. Wellington’s hand jerked. The bullet struck Henry’s right leg, high above the knee. It felt as if he’d been hit with a baseball bat. He went down, sprawled on the ground. He grabbed his thigh. Worms of blood crawled between his fingers.
“Tell me where it is, Henry, or the other leg is next.”
Henry bit down hard and held to his silence.
“Another five count. One. Two. Three.” Wellington thumbed the hammer back. “Four. Five.”
The gun barked again. This time the bullet burrowed into the dirt next to Henry’s left leg.
Wellington grinned. “I thought you might be reluctant. That’s why I brought Pierre with me. Claims to be the best tracker in northern Ontario. Guess we’ll have to see. With all that traipsing back and forth you and Maria did to the Negro’s cabin, I figure you must’ve left a decent trail, eh.” He spoke over his shoulder to the Indian. “There’s some rope in that far tent. Get it.”
The Indian did as he was instructed and returned with a coil of hemp rope.
“Get him over to that tree. I don’t imagine he’ll be able to travel on that leg, but let’s make sure he’s not tempted.”
The Indian tossed Wellington the rope and slung his rifle over his shoulder. He grasped Henry under the arms and dragged him across the campsite to the pine tree Wellington had indicated. He lifted Henry to his feet, shoved him against the trunk, and held him there. Wellington stuffed the revolver in his belt and uncoiled the rope.
Henry tried to keep his weight off the wounded leg and his mind off the pain. As Wellington bound him to the tree, he tried also to flex all his muscles and expand his chest. Wellington cinched the rope tight from neck to ankle and stepped away.
“I’ll be back for you, Henry. Unless the wolves get you first.” Wellington turned to Pierre. “Find the trail.”
The Indian began in a slow arc at the edge of the camp, following one lead after another. Half an hour later, at the western edge of the campsite, he signaled with a whistle.
Wellington rose from where he’d been sitting near the black pine. “The hunt is on.”
The two men disappeared into the woods, following, Henry knew, the trail that would lead them to Maurice’s cabin. He was angry with himself for not having been more careful, but he hadn’t worried about leaving a trail. The white men couldn’t have followed the signs to save their lives. The surprise was the Indian.
His thigh was on fire. The leg of his jeans was soaked with red, but Henry thought the wound had stopped bleeding. He knew he was lucky. The revolver hadn’t been a big caliber, and the bullet hadn’t hit bone or an artery. He was also lucky in a way he didn’t understand. Why hadn’t Wellington killed him? The only thing that made sense was that if the Indian couldn’t follow the trail, Henry was the fallback.
But Henry was determined not to wait for Wellington’s return.
As soon as the two men were out of sight, he began to work on his bonds. He couldn’t move his head. The rope about his throat gave him so little slack he could barely swallow. Wellington hadn’t been as careful with the other loops, and Henry found that much of the advantage he’d hoped for in tensing his muscles he’d actually achieved. His hands and arms could move ever so slightly. First he worked his right hand back and forth, up and down. The rough pine bark scraped away the skin of his wrist, but he kept at it. Over the next half hour, by fractions of an inch, Henry gradually eased his hand free. Next was his left, easier because the release of his right hand created more slack in the rope. Gradually, he slipped both arms free, and when that was done, the loops fairly fell away. When he was free, he collapsed and lay at the base of the tree.
Wellington and his tracker had an hour’s head start, and they each had two good legs. Henry dragged himself up and limped to his tent. He cut two strips of the soft canvas flap. The first strip he folded and placed over the wound in his thigh. The second he wrapped around his leg and tied to hold the compress in place. From inside the tent, he took his rifle and stuffed the pockets of his jacket with cartridges. He grabbed a tent pole to lean on as he walked. With his rifle slung over his shoulder, he followed where the two men had gone.
THIRTY
Henry knew the way to the cabin. In this he had an advantage over Wellington, who had to wait for the tracker to read the trail. He desperately hoped this would work in his favor, allowing him to catch up with the men before they reached Maurice. His leg was the problem. Even with the tent pole to lean on, walking was agony. When he came to those places that required him to climb—over a fallen tree, up a low rock face, along the whole of a ridge—the struggle ate his strength. Normally it took him an hour to reach Maurice’s cabin. At the rate he was moving, it would take two or three times that. He was often forced to rest. There was nothing he could do about that. He had to gather his strength before he could go on, yet every second stretched into forever.
He reached the final ridge, the most difficult to climb. Looking up the long rocky slope, he wasn’t sure he had the strength. His breaths came in deep heaves. Salty streams of sweat stung his eyes and soaked his shirt. The canvas over his thigh was wet with blood. He sat on a boulder, tired beyond measure.
He reckoned more than two hours had passed since he’d left camp. He’d hoped Pierre’s prowess as a tracker might prove to be nothing but talk. It wasn’t. The whole way he’d seen evidence of the passage of the two men, an X cut into the bark of trees, deep enough to show the white wood beneath. He wondered at that. Why mark a trail the Indian could obviously read? He was certain they were already at the cabin. His hope was that Maurice had not been there when they arrived, and that he would become aware of them before it was too late.
There was, perhaps, another hope: Wellington would strike a deal that left Maurice unharmed. But that would be like a wolf trying to eat a rabbit without damaging the fur. He pushed to his feet, forced himself beyond the pain, and began the long climb up. He felt a cold tingle on his face and glanced at the sky. Small snowflakes had begun to drift down from the clouds.
When he topped the ridge, Henry could see a thread of gray wood smoke rising from the cabin, still half a mile distant. He worked his way down the ridge and followed the little stream. The wind shifted in his direction, and he could smell the burning wood. As he neared the clearing where the cabin and outbuildings stood, he slid several rounds into his rifle. He hid in the underbrush and studied the cabin. The door was closed. He saw no sign of Maurice or Wellington or Pierre. Had they taken Maurice away, forced him to show them the gold deposit? Which way was that?
He wanted to make a dash for the cabin, slip along the wall, and listen for anything inside. His leg would never give him that speed. He settled on a different strategy. Between Henry’s position and the cabin on the far side of the clearing, stood the outhouse. He decided to go for that first and from there to the cabin. He limped his way painfully across ten yards of open ground and fell against the back of the little structure. He paused there to catch his breath.
That’s when he heard the men coming. They approached from upstream, from the west. Henry eased himself along the wall and peered around the corner of the outhouse.
“You go on. Don’t worry about me.” Wellington’s voice boomed like the bellow of a moose.
A moment later, they stepped into the clearing, Pierre first, with Wellington not far behind. No Maurice.
“You’re sure you remember the way?” Wellington said to the Indian’s back.
“I remember.”
“More’s the pity,” Wellington said.
He reached to the small of his back and produced his revolver. He pointed the barrel at the tracker. From three paces back, he couldn’t miss. The revolver popped. The Indian’s head jerked forward, as if hit with a club, and he dropped. Wellington stood over him. He slipped the pistol into his belt, grabbed the man’s legs, and dragged him into the cabin.
Henry understood now the reason for the Xs carved into the trees. They were Wellington’s assurance of finding his way back without the guide. He looked down at the rifle in his hands. Why hadn’t he used it? He should have shot Wellington when the man was in the open. But the scene—the execution of the Indian—had surprised him.
Snow drifted out of the sky and coldly kissed Henry’s face. He lifted his rifle, sighted on the door, and waited. He steeled himself for what he was about to do. He’d killed often, killed well and without regret. But this was different. This was no bear or moose or deer. This was a man like himself.
Not like me, Henry thought.
He was weak from his wound and from the long, difficult walk. His arms trembled as he tried to hold the rifle steady.
Wellington had been in the cabin for a long time when the wisp of smoke from the chimney turned into a billow, black against the gray clouds and the white snowflakes. In another minute, dark smoke began to roll out the cabin door and windows. Henry lifted his head away from the rifle stock. Where was Wellington? Where was Maurice? Why was the cabin burning?
Wellington stumbled from the cabin door, smoke clinging to his back. Henry quickly sighted. The wind hit the smoke from the cabin and, for a moment, a black curtain was drawn between Henry and his target. Henry pulled off the round anyway, keeping his aim at the spot where Wellington had been.
The smoke cleared a moment later. Wellington had vanished.
“Henry?” Wellington called. “Is that you, Henry?”
The voice came from the protection of the far side of the cabin. Henry’s arms and shoulders ached from the long ordeal of trying to hold his stance.
“Your friend the Negro, he’s inside, Henry. He’s still alive, but he’s going to burn to death pretty soon. You going to let that happen?”
Maurice alive? Was Wellington lying?