Girl in Falling Snow

by F. M. Parker

  Paul ceased flinging Brutus and himself about and lay on his back and began to laugh in high good spirits. Brutus crawled close and placed his head upon Paul’s chest. He heard his master’s heart throb and felt the vibration of that odd human sound he made after one of their false battles. Brutus sensed that his master thought all was right in his world. That made everything all right in Brutus’s world. Unable to laugh, Brutus’s eyes shone with contentment. He pressed his nose against Paul’s chest and drew in a deep breath of his scent for it had an added and pleasant quality when he laughed. Brutus delighted in Paul’s scent as he allowed it to drift slowly out past his marvelously sensitive nose to mix with the myriad of forest smells.

  Paul stared up through the limbs of the birch tree under which they had ended the game. The limitless blue dome of the sky arched overhead. Nothing existed there, neither bird nor cloud. The emptiness of the sky and the silence of the forest brought peace to him. He placed his hand upon Brutus’s head. The dog chuffed with pleasure at the touch. The day is perfect, Paul thought, so just let Old Man Time go by.

  Paul’s laughter softened and then stopped. The emptiness of the sky and the infinity that existed beyond it brought a new thought. If he didn’t know better, it could be that the universe was his and Brutus’s alone. What would his life be like if only he and Brutus existed? At that question, a feeling came over Paul that he had never felt before. Life was good, but not full, lacking something. He focused on his inner self and searched among his private desires. Nothing came readily forth. He probed more deeply for what might be missing, but again he found nothing. Still there was a stirring of an emotion, one whose identify just escaped surfacing to his full consciousness. He worried around the hidden thing for a moment longer and then let it go. Some of the pleasantness of the day had been lost

  Paul pulled back to the here and now. The frigid temperature was working its way through his clothing, and snow was plastered on his face and had gotten down the neck of his coat. He sat up, with Brutus’s head lifting away at his first movement, and looked west off through the forest. The sun was falling down its ancient sky path and drawing near the horizon below which it hid at night. In the dead of winter, the days were short and night came early to hide his path through the forest.

  “Best we get traveling for it’ll be dark in a couple of hours and we’ve miles to go,” Paul said to Brutus.

  Man and dog climbed to their feet and shook themselves vigorously and in unison to remove the snow plastered to their bodies. Paul strapped on his snowshoes, pulled the pack onto his back, took up the pelts and rifle and struck off across Head Lake. Brutus strode at his side.

  *

  From a mile distance, Paul saw the logging camp, a five acre clearing on the east shore of Head Lake. In the clear air, gray wood smoke rose in two vertical columns from a long, single story building in the camp. Paul knew the larger column would be from the chimney of the big heating stove in the barracks portion of the building, and the smaller one from that of the cook stove in the kitchen. Behind the barracks and towering above it was a huge barn that provided shelter from the severe cold for the horses and oxen used to drag the logs from the forest. It also held hay and grain to feed the animals. Many trees had been fallen and an enormous pile of logs filled most of the clearing. When the lake thawed, the logs would be dragged into the lake and gathered into huge rafts. A steam driven tug would tow the rafts to one of the saw mills at the northern end of the lake.

  Paul increased his pace. He wanted to reach the camp in time for supper with the loggers. After two days of lean rations, he was ready for a meal prepared by the loggers’ skilled cook. He was certain that Jack Dawson, the camp boss, would invite him to eat with the crew.

  *

  Paul placed his pack, furs and snowshoes on the snow near the door of the barracks, leaned his rifle against the wall, and entered without knocking. After the pristine air of the forest, the heat from the big, potbellied heating stove, odors of wood smoke, tobacco smoke and cooking food struck him powerfully. A cloud of tobacco smoke floated against the ceiling of the large room.

  He glanced around at the twenty or so men clothed in heavy woolen pants and shirts and corked leather boots. They were all strongly muscled men from long days of hard labor pulling saws and swinging axes to fall the big trees. Mostly they were good sorts.

  Paul knew most of the loggers, by sight if not by name. Half a dozen of them lay on wooden, double-decker bunks built against the walls. Other men sat at tables playing either cards or dominos. All wore full beards, some of them long and tangled. The men’s voices trailed off as more and more of the men noticed Paul’s entrance.

  “Well, Paul, I thought it was about time for you to come by and stop to see us,” said a big, rangy man as he rose from a chair at a desk near the right wall of the room. With a broad welcoming smile parting his reddish beard and showing his teeth, he came across the barracks toward Paul.

  Paul motioned Brutus down into a stay position and went forward to meet the man.

  “Good to see you, Jack,” Paul said and grasped Jack Dawson’s thickly calloused hand. He was pleased at the camp boss’s greeting. Paul’s father had been a logger and worked at the camp. He had been killed there. On a snowy, windy day while he was stacking logs by pulling them upon a tall pile with a team of horses, the bottom logs had slid on the snow and collapsed the mound. A falling log had crushed his father to death.

  A voice called from the wide doorway leading into the dining area and kitchen. “Paul, you’re just in time for supper. I bet you planned it that way.”

  “Two Doves, I ran the last five miles to get here on time to eat some of your delicious cooking,” Paul replied to the smiling cook, a broad faced Indian woman from the Red Lake Indian Reservation. Paul had never seen Two Doves when she wasn’t smiling, or looked as if she was ready to smile. She had been the cook for the logging camp for as long as Paul could remember, and that was back years when he first acme to the camp with his father.

  “We’re having peach pie for desert and everything will be ready in a handful of minutes.” Two Doves said and vanished back into her kitchen.

  “I’ve got some furs that I’d like to leave with my others in your cold room, if that’s okay,” Paul said to Jack. “I’ll pick all of them up later at the end of the trapping season.”

  “Sure. You know where it is. Just hang them with your others. Take a chair and let’s talk before we eat.”

  As Paul started to seat himself, a fierce snarl sounded from Brutus. That was instantly followed by a yelp of pain and a loud thump of some heavy object striking the floor. He whirled around to look. One of the loggers, a tall rail of a man with a bony face, was down on the floor on his back and Brutus had a mouthful of his leg just below the knee.

  Paul jumped to Brutus and encircled his neck with his arms. The dog’s body was rigid with every muscle and tendon taut and hard.

  “Let go, Brutus” Paul commanded.

  He felt Brutus quiver at the order. Still the dog kept his jaws clamped on the logger’s leg, his teeth grinding on the bone.

  Paul leaned close over the dog and spoke in a firm voice. “Brutus, let go.” Paul kneed Brutus soundly on the ribs to show he meant to be obeyed. “Now, Brutus,” Paul’s tone was hard with impatience.

  Brutus couldn’t refuse his master’s order. He opened his jaws and relinquished his hold on the man’s leg. The taste of his man’s flesh and blood in his mouth was good. With his eyes glittering threateningly at the man, Brutus allowed Paul to pull him backward a few steps.

  Paul motioned Brutus into a stay position and turned to the injured man. Before he could speak the men shouted at him.

  “Your goddamned dog is crazy. He almost bit my leg off.” The man’s voice was harsh and his hairy face was twisted with pain.

  “What did you do to cause him to bite you?” Paul asked calmly. The man had done something to cause the attack. Brutus was gentle when stroked, but vicious when provoked
.

  “Not a damn thing. The dog is just plumb crazy. I was just going out the door when he jumped and bit me.”

  “Brutus doesn’t bother anybody that doesn’t bother him.”

  “He bit me, didn’t he?” The man reached and pulled up his pant’s leg to examine his wound.

  One of the loggers, Paul knew as Hank, had been playing dominoes close by. He spoke out. “Now, Oroville, that’s not exactly the way it was.”

  “Stay out of this, Hank,” Oroville shot back quickly. “I know how it happened. He jumped me for no damn reason and bit me.”

  “Paul and Jack need to know the truth.” Hank said in a light tone. He turned to Paul. “Brutus was there just where you told him to stay. He was a little in front of the door, but still there was plenty of room for Oroville to go around him. But Oroville didn’t want to walk around him and so made to kick him and make him move. Well the dog was quicker and just plainly caught Oroville’s leg and took a bite of it.”

  “That’s not right,” Oroville quickly objected. “He jumped me.”

  Hank’s mild expression turned to a scowl at Oroville’s words. “Don’t call me a liar for then I’ll take a bigger bite out of you than the dog did.”

  Jack had come up and now spoke to Oroville. “You know Brutus is a one man dog. Only Paul could kick him and get away with all his skin.”

  “I’m sorry he bit you,” Paul said. “If anybody is at fault then it’s me. I had him on stay and he wouldn’t move until I told him to.”

  “I’m going to kill that damned dog,” Oroville said and cut Brutus a menacing look.

  Paul opened his mouth to warn Oroville to never try to harm Brutus.

  Jack spoke more quickly. “That’s enough of that kind of talk. Go into the kitchen and let Two Doves treat the bite.”

  Oroville limped away toward the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he gave Paul a glare and called out. “I’m going to kill that crazy sonofabitch dog.”

  Jack spoke in a low voice to Paul. “I’ll have a talk with Oroville and cool him down.”

  Paul nodded. “I don’t want trouble with one of your men, but I’ll not let anybody kill Brutus.”

  “Yeah, I’d feel the same way. Don’t let it worry you too much. Have a seat and we’ll talk a little before Two Doves calls supper ready.”

  Paul shook his head. “It’s probably better that I take Brutus and leave. That’ll give Oroville a chance to think things through.”

  “Maybe so. Maybe so. He’ll need some time for he’s the kind to carry a grudge. But you know you’re always welcome to stop by the camp and eat with us. And spend the night if you want. We have a couple of extra bunks.” Jack put out his hand.

  Paul shook the offered hand. “Thanks. I’ll put my furs in the cold room and be gone.”

  “Right. One other thing. You’ve grown fast this year. How old are you?”

  “I’m seventeen.”

  “Then you should be graduating from high school this spring.”

  “Yes.”

  “After you’re finished with school, come by and let’s talk about working for me in the timber like your father did. That’s if you can tend to your farming and work here too.”

  “Jack, I’d be glad to work for you this summer. I can use the ready cash for in the fall, I’m off to college in Winnipeg. Going to be an engineer and help build railroads.”

  “Glad to hear that you’re going to college.”

  “Thanks again for the job offer.”

  Paul signaled Brutus to him and left the barracks.

  *

  Paul stood in the cold and snow outside the barracks and let the fresh, clean forest air clear his lungs of the smoke and smell of the barracks. He worried about Brutus biting one of the loggers. At the same time, he was proud of the dog for defending himself. Paul’s work oftentimes put him in grave danger from large and savage animals and he needed a strong dog as a partner, one who would give his life to protect him. Brutus had proved that he was such a partner and carried a large scar on the right side of his head and neck from a fight with a wolverine. The attack had occurred when Paul approached the trapped wolverine. The snow had been deep and Paul could not see that the wolverine, caught by the rear leg in a steel trap, had nearly broken free. The wolverine made a powerful lunge at Paul, and in so doing had torn its leg from between the jaws of the trap. The animal struck Paul in the chest and knocked him backward and off his feet. As the animal leapt upon Paul to disembowel him with claws and teeth, Brutus attacked and a fight to the death had taken place. The wolverine’s slashing claws had cut a deep wound.

  Paul circled the barracks to the rear. To his right was the large barn made of hewed logs tightly fitted together to keep most of the winter winds from the draft horses and oxen. The roof was steeply pitched to force the snow to slide off and not accumulate to a weight that would crush the roof. To his left was the cold room, a log building of one modest size room. Its location had been chosen to keep it in the shadow of the barn and out of the sunlight and thus cold throughout the winter months. To enhance the building’s capacity to stay cold, the loggers had piled snow against the walls up to the eaves of the building.

  Paul carried his furs into the cold room. The air was heavy with the smell of meat; smoked hams and bacon, quarters of beef, skinned deer, bags of chickens plucked and ready for cooking, and all hanging on hooks attached to cords fastened to the ceiling joists and thus out of the reach of the woods mice and other hungry animals that stole into the room. All the meat was frozen and would remain edible for weeks. On the floor were metal containers of various sizes holding an array of food stuffs for Two Doves’ pots.

  In the corner farthest from the foodstuffs, he hung his furs on metal hooks with the others he had brought earlier in the winter. The furs must be kept frozen until he could find time to scrape off the flesh and fat and dry them. He left the cold room and with Brutus and struck out north across the clearing toward the lake where traveling would be easiest. He walked on his shadow lying long and thin on the snow. The day was fast ending and he must hurry and find a camping site.

  Paul reached the north border of the clearing and came out onto the shore of the frozen lake. He halted abruptly. Brutus stopped quickly by his side. Both stood stock still and looked at the magnificently antlered stag that had left the forest and ventured out onto the ice. The stag, its tan skin making him stand out clearly against the snow, was gazing out across the lake. It sensed Paul’s and Brutus’s presence and turned to look in their direction.

  Brutus, suppressing the natural urge of his kind to rush upon the deer, aimed his dark eyes up at Paul and whined urgently telling him that he wanting to be released to hunt. Yes thought Paul, you need to kill and forget the taste of man. He flattened his hand and thrust it at the deer in the signal to attack, and ordered, “HUNT.”

  The verbal command had not been required for at the first movement of the familiar hand motion, Brutus was leaping away in the direction of the deer. His padded feet and curved toenails gave him solid purchase on the snow and ice. In two bounds he was in full stride and at peak speed.

  Reacting instantly to the dog’s sudden movement, the stag wheeled in the direction of the shore and bound away toward the safety of the forest.

  Paul remained transfixed as he watched the deadly contest between the powerful wolfhound and the sleek, swift stag.

  Brutus adjusted course to intersect the stag in full flight and drawing ever nearer the forest. The stag made a mighty leap in a last frantic effort to reach the woods close ahead. Brutus sprang at the stag at the same instant and his one hundred pounds of bone and muscle struck the stag and they crashed down on the frozen lake. Brutus landed on his stomach and slid on the ice with the snow piling upon him. The buck fell and rolled, coming to rest on his side.

  Brutus erupted from his snow drift and pounced upon the buck as it rose to its knees. His powerful mouth closed upon the slender neck of the deer, and he drove the animal down upon the snow. W
ith a twist of his head, Brutus tore a gap in the tough hide. Another bite and his teeth sank deeply into the soft flesh of the neck, and there his fangs found the pulsing jugular and severed it. An explosion of blood filled Brutus’s mouth as the buck’s racing heart pumped it full.

  The deer thrashed wildly about with its sharp hooves stabbing out like spears. Brutus twisted his body to the side to avoid the hooves. One blow could disembowel him. He lay panting and holding the buck pinned to the frozen lake as it kicked its life away.

  A minute passed, then two. The buck ceased to move and Brutus surrendered his death bite. He stood, shook himself and looked at his master.

  Paul came to Brutus and knelt down by him. “Good job, Brutus.” He rubbed the dog’s head in that certain manner that he used to show his approval.

  Brutus chuffed with acceptance and wagged his tail

  Paul took hold of one of the deer’s front legs and dragged the animal back across the camp to the barracks. Frank opened the door at Paul’s loud knock.

  “Brutus gives this fresh meat as payment for the trouble he caused,” Paul said and pointed down at the deer on the snow.

  Jack eyed the deer and the wide, bloody tear in its neck. He gave Paul a joker’s smile and said, “I’ll have Oroville skin it for I’m sure it’s meant for him.”

  *

  Near the shore of the lake under the widely spreading limbs of an aged pine tree, Paul kicked the snow away to expose the thick carpet of needles that had accumulated over the decades. Upon that dry surface, he erected his tent that contained barely enough space for him to unroll his sleeping robe. With the evening shadows weaving themselves into night, he hurried to gather pine knots from a decaying tree and started a fire for light and warmth.

  He laid out food for Brutus, and that worthy dog gobbled it in very short order. As Paul sat eating his food, he thought of the fine meal he had missed at the logger camp. It would have been good food without doubt for Two Doves was a master cook.