by C. E. Nelson
They stuck to the shoreline on their right as they entered the bay and began to circle. The men stood shoulder-to-shoulder, silent as they moved along the shoreline, their eyes scanning below the waterline before trying to penetrate the dense brush beyond with nervous glances. Chunks of granite were visible between the pines high on the ridge making good cover for anyone with a deer rifle wishing to take them out. A third of the way around the bay they moved into the shadows of the bluff, both men relaxing a bit as they assumed anyone wanting to shoot them would have done so when they were in the sunlight. A bald eagle took wing from his perch atop a Norway pine, watching to see if the boat below would release an injured fish that would make an easy meal.
As the sun fell toward the west the Sentry began to feel a chill and then heard the high-pitched song of the cicada. He opened his eyes and turned his head trying to locate the bug but no matter which way he turned he could not discern its location. In fact, the noise only seemed to grow more intense and centered behind his tired eyes. He closed his eyes as tight as he could and held his hands over his ears but the sound did not dissipate. It was a chorus of cicadas now. He felt as if his head would explode from the shrill scream and released a yell of his own. The buzzing stopped but now he heard something else. Voices.
The Trasks heard the high-pitched noise and turned their heads to look up the ridge. “What was that?” asked Dave. “A wolf?”
“Sounded like a sick eagle to me. How should I know? You’re the one who lives here.”
Dave stared at the ridge a moment longer but heard nothing more. He glanced down in the water ahead and could see that there had been a good deal of boat activity recently. He pointed them towards shore and turned off the motor, quietly lifting it from the water as the boat ran aground in the mud. Dave moved to the back of the boat while Don slipped into the water, pulling the boat ashore with the rope tied to the bow. An opening in the brush was just to their left.
These were not voices in his head; they were coming from the lake. The Sentry moved to the edge of the ridge and saw the boat below. He could not be sure in the fading light but it appeared to be the same men who had chased him yesterday. They were pulling their boat on shore not far from where he had hidden his own boat. The ancestors had placed them in his hands. He raised his eyes to the sky and an eagle glided by.
He moved away from his camp, farther down the ridge, where he could get a better view of them on the shore. He climbed on a boulder on the ridge and could see the men looking at the shoreline near their boat. In a moment they moved inland and were lost from sight.
The brush was incredibly thick as the brothers pushed their way through prickly shrubs that tore at their ankles and low hanging branches of pine and birch that slapped their faces. At first the trail of foot prints was easy to follow in the soft muddy bottom, with the exception of sharp rocks inviting a turned ankle, but then the land rose and the trail was lost. They returned to the last indication of the prints and went another direction only to lose the trail again. The light from the sinking sun did little to penetrate the brush making it more difficult to see with each minute and the flies and mosquitoes were making themselves known.
“We need to get up to the ridge,” said Don. “Maybe we can pick him up up there. About all we’re going to accomplish here is to get the blood sucked out of us.”
Dave agreed and they made their way up the hill, working their way back and forth across a steep cliff of granite, before reaching the top where the larger trees gave way to blueberry bushes and tiny scrub pine. The men caught their breath for a moment as they looked out across the bay.
“There’s a swamp running behind the ridge that surrounds the bay Don. If he’s around he’ll be up here.”
“Yeah, but which way?”
Dave thought about splitting up but then remembered John Bigeagle’s words – ‘he will be next to you but you will not know he is there’. “I think we better stick together. The topo map said the highest point of the ridge should be that way,” said Dave pointing to the northeast. “If he wants a good look at whoever may be coming into the bay, he’d likely be there.”
They moved across the ridge but the going was slow. Large boulders and weatherworn dead pine combined with sharp, slick pieces of granite that were often hidden beneath the moss, making their zigzagging travel treacherous. There was also ample evidence that bears had been in the area sampling the blueberries that grew in the boggy terrain. They both knew a return trip in the dark would not be something they should try.
The men were coming for him. He could hear them talking and moving through the brush as they climbed the ridge. They were noisy, breaking branches and dislodging stones as they went. Still, it was apparent that they were trying to track him, at least initially. He moved closer and watched them work their way through the woods. They were big, nearly as big as him, and appeared to be strong. They stopped to listen occasionally, picking up on the sound of a branch he snapped one time when he moved.
Don was thinking that they needed to turn around when Dave pulled his weapon. “We’re close,” he whispered pointing to the bog at his feet and bending low. They had run into places where there had been evidence of someone walking as they traveled across the ridge, but never more than two or three steps, and the trail was gone. Now, those trails all seemed to converge. “Maybe we should go back to the boat and call it in?”
Don looked at the ground ahead and then up to the sky in the west. “By the time we can get anyone out here it will be dark. Too late for any plane too,” he whispered back. “Besides, if he was here I think he would have already tried to take us out don’t you? Let’s keep going.”
Dave knew Don was right about it being too late to get help, but he wasn’t sure about Bigeagle being gone. Dave guessed Bigeagle knew this area well and, as the darkness increased, it would only add to the advantage for Bigeagle. He could be simply waiting for the right time to attack. Bobby Bigeagle had used a knife in all of his killings. He liked to be close.
The sentry began to plan how he would kill them. He needed them to separate; he did not want to take them on together, they had guns. They had passed within ten yards of him, unaware of his presence, and were above him on the ridge now, approaching his camp. He thought they might separate as they got closer to the camp but they stayed close together. He closed his eyes briefly, waiting for a voice, but heard nothing. The time was not right. He would wait. He hurried down the incline to his boat.
A few more feet past a boulder and Dave could see a lean-to ahead made from large branches and a dark green tarp, a fire pit in front. There was no one under the lean-to but they could not see behind it. The brothers stopped, crouched together thirty yards short of the campsite. They scoured the surrounding area in the fading light for any sign of movement but there was none. Several large boulders were on the far side of the campsite, dark shadows next to them. Dave motioned for Don to circle around behind the lean-to while he moved along the top of the cliff overlooking the bay.
They moved slowly, attempting not to make a noise or break an ankle, aware that Bigeagle could be in any shadow, behind any rock or tree. Dave wondered if Bigeagle would have bobby-trapped the site as he moved along the cliff edge where a misstep could send him forty feet down to a pile of granite. Don was out of his sight now, but from Dave’s view in front of the camp, he saw nothing to say their man was still here. Still, the shadows were thickening by the minute and someone familiar with the area could easily blend in.
Ten more yards brought Dave behind a boulder where he stood and peered up the slope to the lean-to. As he did, he caught movement behind it, ducking low and feeling for his gun. In a moment Don emerged. Dave felt himself relax slightly as he stepped out from behind the boulder when a noise behind him made him jump. He turned to look over the bay to see what appeared to be an old Crestliner take off from the shore. Don joined him and they helplessly watched Bobby Bigeagle motor out of the bay and get away, the same as he had only the da
y before.
He guessed that the men were watching him as he went but he did not look back. The Sentry did not yet feel safe. He knew it would take the men a good deal of time to get back to their boat, and through the channel, but once on the main lake they would be able to use the large motor on their boat to move quickly across the water. Although his boat was much smaller and lighter than the other, the fifteen-horse motor and nicked aluminum prop would not give him much speed - and it was noisy. He had farther to go than the landing.
“How in the hell did he get down there?” asked Don as he slapped a mosquito on his face. “And how did we miss that boat?”
“I’m guessing he went right past us,” replied Dave as he watched the last of the boat’s wake, getting the same feeling he got when he nearly slipped off his roof two weeks ago. He breathed a sigh of relief. John Bigeagle had been right. “If we hadn’t been together, I wonder if we’d be alive?”
Coming down from the ridge was harder than getting up. The canopy of trees and the thick brush made it much more difficult to see where to step in the waning light, the men stopping every few feet to slap at the mosquitoes now feasting on them, shouting words that their mother never would have approved of. They leaned into the slope as they descended, grabbing tree branches, shrubs, and rocks to steady themselves. A misstep could send them tumbling down the hillside. Twice Dave slipped, feeling the same rush and warmth spread over his body as he did when he recovered from slipping on the ice. He never liked that feeling. They had used a flashlight to show them where to step but it still took the brothers half an hour to reach the boat, the bay now completely in shadow.
Don was moving as fast as he could as he emerged from the brush lining the shore. He was on a mission to get to the boat and away from the bugs on the land, passing his brother as he hurried, heading for the rope attached to the boat that he had tied to a small tree. Dave reached the bow and Don assumed his brother would jump in but instead he kept moving along the shore past the boat. “Where the hell are you going?’ he screamed as he slapped his neck.
“Just give me a minute.” The rocks where they had landed gave way to a muddy, sandy mix. Dave walked another twenty feet along the shore, light in hand moving back and forth, before lifting the branch of a leaning pine that reached for the shoreline. Footprints led to and from the spot where the boat had been concealed.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Don radioed Bauman as they drove across the lake, telling him to have everyone assembled at Station 30 at sunrise. Bauman said he would get hold of the group and reported that there had not been any news of note from the day’s search. As they slowed approaching the landing Don thought he may have heard something, another motor perhaps, but then the sound was gone.
The Sentry had heard them coming across the lake. He was past the landing, and had guessed that was their destination, although he was not certain. If they continued on to the sheriff’s dock he would have to cut his motor so as not to be heard, risking that they would see him or, worse yet, ram him with their boat. He decided that he would try to put as much distance as he could between him and them, staying close to shore. He looked back to see the light from the sheriff’s boat, and could tell from the sound of the motor that they had cut power. They were headed to the landing. He cut power and drifted as he waited for them to load the boat and leave.
The orange glow of the sunset was long gone when the Trasks returned to Dave’s cabin. Both men were sweaty, sore, scratched, and scratching more bug bites than they thought possible. The shower felt like heaven to Dave and he lost track of time as the warm water soothed his tired and sore flesh. He flopped down on his bed for what he thought was only a minute but by the time he made his way back down to the kitchen dressed only in a pair of shorts, he found his brother with his bag on the kitchen counter, shoving a sandwich in his mouth.
“Sorry bro, to hungry to wait for you. Listen, I just got word there is a bust happening in the AM that I can’t miss. I hate to duck out on you like this but I will try to be back by tomorrow evening at the latest. No promises though. I did get hold of my group and told them that they are assigned to you until further notice.”
“Don’t worry about getting back here Don. Do what you have to do. You’ve already done too much – except when it comes to helping me finish this place. You still owe me big time from when I worked on your house.”
“Bullshit. My neighbor’s ten year old could have done what you did in half the time – and without drinking all the beer in my place!”
Dave chuckled and they shook hands as his brother grabbed his bag and headed for the door. He had finished installing the porch light after his fishing meeting, but knew it would only be a bug magnet now, so he stood on the porch in the dark watching Don walk across the yard. “Watch out for the deer old man. Don’t want to put a dent in that fancy BCA truck!” Don backed the truck up and drove out of sight through the woods. Dave slapped a mosquito on his neck before ducking back inside.
It was his grandfather talking to him now. The other voices in the background, like a chorus far away, a chorus of men in anguish. He beached his boat just short of the Trask’s dock, rage burning through him as the pain shot up his arm when he tilted the motor. Grandfather’s voice grew so loud now he was afraid others could hear it. He was calling for him to kill the sheriff, his death to pay for the debt owed to the Sentry’s ancestors.
The Sentry felt for the handle of his knife and then quickly crossed the yard to the back of the cabin. He stopped just short of the deck, and crouched behind a giant Norway there, as lights from a vehicle pulling in seemed to sweep the yard like a prison spotlight. The Sentry froze, holding his breath until the lights were extinguished and he heard the voices of the men as they moved toward the cabin. In only a moment the lights in the kitchen of the cabin flicked on.
He watched the two men as they talked by a bar in the kitchen. He could see them clearly through the glass doors that led from the kitchen to the deck and was amazed at how similar the men appeared. He was uncertain which man was the sheriff. He would have to take them both.
The ancients were still screaming in his head, now a constant buzz between his temples, demanding the death of the white man. He continued to watch when both of the men disappeared from the kitchen. Lights soon appeared in two upstairs windows. Grandfather told him it was time to move. He stepped silently up on the deck and tried the handle of the sliding glass door. The door was open. He opened it slowly, just enough so he could slide through, and was closing it after him when he thought he heard a noise on the steps. He tiptoed through the kitchen and stood to the side of the stairs peering up, his knife now drawn, trying to decide his next step.
He could hear the men moving around upstairs. The men would be familiar with the layout of the cabin and he would not. It would be a heavy disadvantage. The screaming in his head had faded, his grandfather now silent, when he heard the sound of running water, a shower, or perhaps it was two showers? He had taken the first step but now backed down to the landing, finally turning and entering the dark dining room behind him. He crouched in the shadows behind a china cabinet. Again he would wait.
He did not wait long. One of the men came down the stairs, talking on his phone and carrying a gym bag. His voice was similar to the one he had heard in the guides’ building at Half Moon but had a different tone. This was not the sheriff. He was making plans to meet someone in the morning. The Sentry stole a look around the doorway leading to the kitchen. The man was still talking on the phone, now leaning into the refrigerator, his bag on the island in the kitchen between them. The island was a problem. It would force him to go around it, bringing his movement into the field of vision of the man. He had no doubt he could kill the man but there would likely be a struggle, and a struggle would cause noise, and noise could bring the sheriff with his gun. The Sentry backed into the shadows of the dining room again.
The man in the kitchen continued to talk on the phone, promising someone he w
ould soon be on his way. Good, he thought, the man would be leaving. The sheriff would be alone. Ten minutes later he heard noise on the stairs and the sheriff quickly moved past him into the kitchen. The men talked only briefly before they again past him as they made their way out the front door and onto the porch.
The screaming in his head had been steadily increasing as he hid in the dining room. It was far away at first, almost like an echo, but it increased in volume and pitch until the Sentry was forced to close his eyes, holding the bridge of his nose with his thumb and finger. He wasn’t sure how, but he could still hear the men in spite of the screaming. When he opened his eyes as the men moved past to exit the house his vision was blurred, wavy, and he shook his head trying to clear it. He was suddenly overcome with a feeling of dread as he realized he could never kill the sheriff with his vision like it was and escape would be nearly impossible. He would be caught or killed. A truck started in the distance and then he heard the door open. Suddenly the screaming quit. He closed his eyes and then opened them slowly. His vision had cleared and his grandfather spoke. The sheriff walked past him into the kitchen. It was time.
Dave walked slowly back to the kitchen. He was beat and starving after the long day. His arms and legs were a collage of red scratches and a few deeper cuts. Rock climbing was definitely a whole lot harder than he remembered as a kid. He sat at the bar and looked at the plate with crumbs that Don had left in front of him as well as the open loaf of bread, open packages of Swiss cheese and ham, a head of lettuce, and a jar of mayo with a knife sticking out the top. “What a slob,” he thought as he pulled two slices of bread from the package and laid it on the plate.