Use your brains, I told myself. Think of a safe place.
The only safe place I could think of was the inside of a jail—just as an honoured guest, of course. An RCMP sergeant wouldn’t—or shouldn’t—let anyone tramp over him and I reckoned I’d be as safe in one of Gibbons’s cells as anywhere else until this blew over and I could find someone sane enough to start explaining things to. So I headed for the town, circling around so as not to walk on the road. I wanted to head for Gibbons’s place by the least populous route.
I should have known that Howard would have it staked out. The last thing in the world he wanted was for the cops to interfere, and if I got to Gibbons then maybe the jig would be up. Howard would never be able to hide the fact that I didn’t hit old Matterson and the truth would inevitably come out, something he couldn’t afford to happen. So even though he thought I was somewhere in the woods he had coppered his bet by staking out the policestation just in case I made a run for Gibbons.
Of course I didn’t think of that at the time, although I was very careful as I walked the quiet streets of Fort Farrell. It was a linear town, long and thin, built around the one main street, and I had chosen a route which took me past very few houses on the way to the police-station. There was a moon, an unfortunate circumstance, and I tried to keep as much in the shadows as I could. I met nobody on the way and I began to think I would make it. I hoped to God that Gibbons was around.
I was within a hundred yards of the station when I was tackled. I suppose being so near had made me let my guard down. The first thing I knew was a burst of bright light in my eyes as someone shone a flashlight on me—then a cry: ‘That’s him!’
I ducked and skidded to one side and felt something thump into my pack with a frightening force and the impact threw me off-balance so that I sprawled on the ground. The flashlamp shone around searching, and as it found me I got a boot in my ribs. I rolled frantically away, knowing that if I didn’t get up I could be kicked to death. Those loggers’ boots are heavy and clinched with steel and a real good kick can smash a man’s rib-cage and drive the bone into his lungs.
So I rolled faster and faster although impeded by the pack, trying to escape that damned flashlamp. A voice said hoarsely, ‘Get the bastard, Jack!’ and a badly aimed boot crashed into the back of my right thigh. I put my hands on the ground and swung round with my legs, flailing them wildly, and tripped up someone who came crashing on top of me.
His head must have hit the ground because he went flaccid and I heaved him off and staggered to my feet just in time to meet a bull-like rush from another man. The guy with the flashlamp was standing well back, damn him, giving me no chance to get away into darkness, but at least it put me and my attackers on equal terms.
I had no odd ideas about fair play—that’s a civilized idea and civilization stops when you set thirty men against one. Besides, I had learned my fighting in the North-West Territories, and the Marquess of Queensberry’s rules don’t hold good north of the 60th Parallel. I swung my boot, sideways on, at the man’s kneecap and scraped it forcibly down his shin to end up by stamping with my heel on his foot just above the instep. My left fist went for his guts and my right hand for his chin, palm open so that the heel of my hand forced his head back and my fingertips were in his eyes.
He got in a couple of good body blows while I was doing that but thereafter was fully occupied with his own aches and pains. He howled in anguish as I raked his shin to the bone and his hands came up to protect his eyes. I gave him another thump in the belly and the breath came out of him in a great gasp and he started to crumple. I’m a big guy and pretty strong, so I just picked him up and threw him at my friend with the flashlamp.
He made contact and the flashlamp went out. I heard the glass break as it hit the ground. I didn’t stick around to hear any more because there may have been more of the goons. I just picked up my feet and headed out of town.
II
By midnight I was well into the forest and pretty well tuckered out. I had been chased from town and nearly caught, too, and when I doubled back I nearly ran into another bunch of Matterson’s men who must have been pulled in from the woods. So I gave it up and struck west, that being the direction I thought they would least expect me to go—into the wilderness.
I didn’t expect to gain anything by going west, but at least it gave me a breathing-space and time to think out a plan of action. The moon was high in the sky and I found a quiet hole among some rocks and shucked off my pack with relief. I was tired. I had been on the run more or less continuously for ten hours and that tends to take the steam out of a man. I was hungry, too, but I couldn’t do much about that except tighten up my belt.
I reckoned I was safe for the time being. Matterson couldn’t possibly organize a proper search at night even if he knew the exact area in which I was hiding, and the only danger was in someone falling over me by accident. I needed rest and sleep and I had to have it, because next day was likely to be even livelier.
I took off my boots and changed my socks. My feet were going to be my best friends for the foreseeable future and I didn’t want them going bad on me. Then I had a sip of water from the canteen attached to my pack. I was all right for water—I had filled the canteen when crossing a stream—but I still didn’t waste it because I didn’t know this country very well and maybe there wouldn’t be a stream next time I wanted one.
I sat back flexing my toes luxuriously and thought of the events of the day. It was the first time I’d been able to put two thoughts together consecutively—all my efforts had been directed to sheer survival.
First, I thought of Clare and wondered what in hell had happened to her. She had gone to see Gibbons pretty early and should have arrived back at Mac’s cabin, with or without the cop, long before sunset. Yet I had seen no sign of her during Howard Matterson’s lynch-law speech. That left two possibilities—one, that she was in the cabin, which meant she was held under duress; and two, she wasn’t in the cabin, in which case I didn’t know where the devil she was.
Then there was Mac. Somehow Matterson had come from under Mac’s shotgun safely, which meant that something must have happened to Mac. Let’s say he was out of the game—and Clare, too—which left me the only one of us free and able to do anything at all. And so far all I had been able to do was to run like an Olympic marathon runner.
I thought of Howard’s speech and the specific instructions he had issued and tried to figure out what he meant to do. I was to be held where I was captured until Howard caught up with me. And that added up to a nasty situation, because I couldn’t see what he could do with me apart from killing me.
He certainly couldn’t kill me openly; I doubted if his men would stand for that. But suppose I was ‘accidentally’ killed; supposing Howard said that he had killed me in self-defence. There were many ways of arranging something like that. Or I could ‘escape’ from Howard, never to be seen again. In the deep woods there are places where a body might never be found for a century.
All of which led me to take a fresh look at Howard Matterson. Why would he want me dead? Answer: because it was he who had something to do with the crash—not old Bull. And what could he have to do with the crash? Answer: he had probably arranged it personally—he was probably an outright murderer.
I had checked on where Bull had been when the crash happened, but it had never occurred to me to check on Howard. One doesn’t think of a kid of twenty-one as being a murderer when there’s someone else at hand with all the motives and qualifications. I had slipped there. Where was Howard when the crash happened? Answer: I didn’t know—but I could make a good guess.
After all, he could capture me and take me back to Fort Farrell, and then the whole story would blow up in his face. He had to get rid of me and the only way was by another killing.
I shivered slightly. I had led a pretty tough life but I had never been pursued with deadly intention before. This was quite a new experience and likely to be my last. Of course, it was still possible for me
to quit. I could head farther west and then south-west to the coast, hitting it at Stewart or Prince Rupert; I could then get lost and never see Fort Farrell again. But I knew I wouldn’t do that because of Mac and Clare—especially Clare.
I dug a blanket from my pack and wrapped it round me. I was dead beat and in no fit condition to make important decisions. It would be time enough in daylight to worry about what to do next. I dropped off to sleep with Mac’s words echoing in my ears: Keep fighting; give them another slug while they’re off balance.
It was very good advice whether they were off balance or not. I sleepily made up my mind about two things. The first was that I had to fight on ground of my own choosing, ground that I knew well. The only ground in this area that I knew well was the Kinoxi Valley, and I knew that very well because I had prospected it thoroughly, and I knew I could out-dodge anyone there.
The other vital thing was to make the chasing of Bob Boyd a very unprofitable undertaking. I had to make it unmistakably clear that to harry me in any way wasn’t worth anything like a thousand dollars, and the only way these loggers could be taught a lesson like that was by violence. Three of them, perhaps, had already come to this conclusion; one had a busted kneecap, another a busted jaw, and the third a shin laid open to the bone. If stronger measures were necessary for discouragement then I would see they were administered.
I wanted to get Howard in the open from behind his screen of thugs and the only way to do that was to scare them off. It takes a hell of a lot to scare the average logger; it’s a dangerous job of work in the first place and they don’t scare easily. But it was something I had to do—I had to get them off my back—and I would have to do things so monstrously efficient in their execution that they would think twice about attempting to earn that thousand dollars.
TEN
I was on the move by sunrise next morning and heading north. I reckoned I was twelve miles west of Fort Farrell and so was moving parallel to the road that had been driven up to the Kinoxi Valley, but far enough away from it to be out of the net of Matterson’s searchers—I hoped. Hunger was beginning to gnaw at my gut but not so much as to weaken—I could go, maybe, another day and a half before food became a real problem, and I might have to.
I plugged away hour after hour, keeping up a steady pace, travelling faster than I normally did when on the move. I reckon I was keeping up a steady speed of two and a half miles an hour over the ground, which wasn’t at all bad across this kind of country. I kept looking back to check the landscape, not so much to see if I was being followed but to make sure I was travelling in a straight line. It’s awfully easy to veer and most people do quite unconsciously. That’s why, in bad conditions such as fog or thick snow, you find guys getting lost and wandering in circles. I’ve been told that it’s due to differences in the length of your legs and the resulting slight difference in stride. Long ago I’d checked up on my own propensity to veer and figured I tended to swerve about 4° from the straight line and to the right; after I knew that it didn’t take much practice to be able to correct it consciously.
But it’s always a good idea to check on theory and I like to know what the landscape looks like behind me; such knowledge could be useful if I had to make a run for it. There was, of course, always the possibility of seeing someone else, and I had already figured that in country where the average population was one person to three square miles, then anyone I saw was unlikely to pop up accidentally and was therefore to be regarded with suspicion.
I was able to find food of a sort while still on the move. I picked up and pocketed maybe a couple of pounds of mushrooms. I knew they were good eating but I’d never eaten them raw and I wouldn’t experiment. I doubted if they’d kill me but I didn’t want to be put out of action with possible stomach cramps, so I just kept them by me although my mouth was drooling.
I rested up frequently but not for long each time—about five minutes in the hour. More than that would have tightened my leg muscles and I needed to keep limber. I didn’t even stop for long at midday, just enough to change my socks, wash the others in a stream and pin them to the top of my pack to dry out while I was on the move. I filled my water canteen and pressed on north.
Two hours before sunset I began to look round for a place to camp—a nice secluded place—and found one on top of a rise where I had a good view into valleys on both sides. I shucked my pack and spent half an hour just looking, making sure there was no one around, then I undid the pack and produced from the bottom my own personal survival kit.
In the North-West Territories I had been in the wilderness for months at a time, and since rifle ammunition is heavy to carry, I had tended to conserve it and find other ways of getting fresh meat. The little kit which I carried in an old chocolate tin was the result of years of experience and it always lived in the bottom of my pack ready for use.
The jack-rabbits come out and play around just before sunset, so I selected three wire snares, carefully avoiding the fish-hooks in the tin. I once stuck a fish-hook in my finger just at the start of a season and ignored the wound. It festered and I had to come into a trading-post before the season was halfway through with a blood-poisoned finger the size of a banana. That little prick with a hook cost me over a thousand dollars and nearly cost me my right hand so I’ve been careful of fish-hooks ever since.
I had seen rabbit trails in plenty so I staked out the three snares, then collected some wood for a fire, selecting small dead larch twigs and making sure they were bone dry. I took them back to camp and arranged them so as to make a small fire, but did not put a match to it. It would be time for that after sunset when the smoke would not be noticeable, little though it would be. I found a small birch tree and cut a cylinder of bark with my hunting knife, and arranged it around the fire as a shield, propping it up with small stones so as to allow a bottom draught.
Half an hour after sunset I lit the fire and retreated a hundred yards to see the effect. I could see it because I knew it was there, but it would take a man as good as me or better to find it otherwise. Satisfied about that, I went back, poured some water into a pannikin and set the mushrooms to boil. While they were cooking I went to see if I had any luck with the snares. Two of them were empty but in one I had caught a half-grown doe rabbit. She didn’t have more than a couple of mouthfuls of flesh on her but she’d have to satisfy me that night.
After supper I did a circuit of the camp, then came back and risked a cigarette. I reckoned I’d come nearly thirty miles heading due north. If I angled north-west from here I should strike the Kinoxi Valley in about fifteen miles, hitting it about a third of the way up just where Matterson’s logging camp was. That could be dangerous but I had to start hitting back. Prowling around the edges of this thing was all very well but it would get me nowhere at all; I had to go smack into the centre and cause some trouble.
After a while I made sure the fire was out and went to sleep.
II
I topped a rise and looked over the Kinoxi Valley at just about two o’clock next afternoon. The new Matterson Lake had spread considerably since I had seen it last, and now covered about one-third of its designed extent, drowning out the wasteland caused by the logging. I was just about level with the northernmost point it had reached. The logged area extended considerably farther and stretched way up the valley, almost, I reckoned, to the Trinavant land. Matterson had just about stripped his land bare.
As the logging had proceeded the camp had been shifted up-valley and I couldn’t see it from where I was standing, so I dipped behind the ridge again and headed north, keeping the ridge between me and the valley bottom. Possibly I was now on dangerous ground, but I didn’t think so. All my activities so far had been centred on Fort Farrell and on the dam which was to the south at the bottom of the valley.
I put myself in Howard Matterson’s place and tried to think his thoughts—a morbid exercise. Boyd had caused trouble in Fort Farrell, so watch it—we nearly caught him there and he might try for it again. Boyd
was interested in the dam, he was drilling there—so watch it because he might go back. But Boyd had never shown much interest in the Kinoxi Valley itself, so why should he go there?
I knew what I was going to do there—I was going to raise hell! It was ground I had prospected and I knew all the twists and turns of the streams, all the draws and ravines, all the rises and falls of the land. I was going to stick to the thick forest in the north of the valley, draw in Howard’s hunters and then punish them so much that they’d be afraid to push it further. I had to break this deadlock and get Howard in the open.
And I thought the best place to start raising hell was the Matterson logging camp.
I went north for four miles and finally located the camp. It was situated on flat ground in the valley bottom and set right in the middle of the ruined forest. There was too much open ground around it for my liking but that couldn’t be helped, and I saw that I could only move about down there at night. So I used the remaining hours of daylight in studying the problem.
There didn’t seem to be much doing down there, nor could I hear any sounds of activity from farther up the valley where the loggers should have been felling. It looked as though Howard had pulled most of the men away from the job to look for me and I hoped they were still sitting on their butts around Fort Farrell. There was a plume of smoke rising from what 1 judged was the cookhouse and my belly rumbled at the thought of food. That was another good reason for going down to the camp.
I watched the camp steadily for the next three hours and didn’t see more than six men. It was too far to judge really properly but I guessed these were old-timers, the cooks and bottle-washers employed around the camp who were too old or not fit enough to be of use, either in logging or in chasing Bob Boyd. I didn’t see I’d have much trouble there.
I rubbed my chin as I thought of the consequences of Howard’s action and the conclusions to be drawn from them. He’d pulled off his loggers at full pay to search for me, and that was wasting him an awful lot of time and money. If he didn’t get them back on the job it might be too late to save the trees—unless he’d opened the sluices on the dam to prevent the lake encroaching any farther up the valley. But even then he’d be running into financial trouble; the sawmill must have been geared to this operation and the cutting off of the flow of raw lumber from the valley would have its repercussions there—if he didn’t get his loggers back to work pretty soon the sawmill would have to close down.
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