by Ted Wood
He coughed in the smoke, then burst out, "Who in hell asked you to come after me, anyway? I was doing fine until you turned up."
"So was I. Sitting in Toronto doing nothing. Then your mother came and asked me to get you out, and I've had one hell of a vacation ever since."
He narrowed his eyes and looked at me, tears from the smoke running down his face, but angry. "My mother asked you to do this?"
"Right. She'd already hired a detective, but when he couldn't find you, she dug up my name and came after me."'
He began to smile, slowly and painfully. With his teary face and the pain showing in his eyes, he looked like a game loser making the best of a bad thing. "My mother. Sharp dresser, around forty-five, dark hair, big wedding ring with diamonds?"
"That's the one," I said.
"You dumb bastard." He laughed bitterly. "That's not my mother. That's my father's girlfriend."
Explaining only makes you look foolish, so I saved face. "You thought it was a good idea when I came after you."
"Like hell. I wouldn't have come at all, only Dunphy questioned me after Wallace found your pack. Then they got rough, and I said I would come and lead you back to it so Wallace could catch you."
"You realize that you're expendable now that you've done that." I was keeping the pressure on, knowing he had broken already but was afraid of the fire, and of his buddies, wondering whether they would take him back now he had run away. "How did you get up here?"
"Flew, of course. The colonel had a floatplane, big thing, it was down at the town dock in North Bay. We went aboard and came up here."
"How often does that happen? That people fly in?"
He shrugged. "I'm not sure, but we had fresh meat in camp, so I guess they come in pretty often."
George caught my eye. That gave us a new problem. If Dunphy had an airplane at his disposal, he could hunt us down faster than we could run, even if we could get off this lake and head south.
"Do they have a radio at the camp?"
Michaels shrugged. "I don't know. I never saw one. I was too busy training, anyway."
"Okay, how come Wallace was on his own, waiting for me where we came ashore?"
"He found your pack in the trees when we were on our exercise. Dunphy wanted to bobby-trap it with a grenade, but Wallace said no, he would wait."
"Why on his own? If he'd had a couple of men with him, we'd have been caught for sure."
Michaels sniffed, embarrassed. "That's what Dunphy said, but Wallace told him he wanted to do it on his own, have some fun."
I knew his idea of fun. "And Dunphy thought that some of you tenderhearted recruits might have gotten upset?"
Michaels couldn't meet my eyes. He glanced down at his blistered hands. "I didn't give the orders. I just jumped when they told me."
"And asked how high on the way up. There's hope for you yet, Jason. You could come out of this with a set of balls." I wanted him humiliated. His sense of worth would rebuild quickly enough once we got back to the city and he could flash around in his sports car. Right now he needed to be humble, so I didn't spare him. I snorted and turned back around, blinking my eyes against the endless smoke.
We sat there for an eternity. I didn't bother checking my watch. We were safe until the smoke cleared; then we would have to find an island and hope we could hide out, moving south when it got dark. If George had some rations in his pack, we could manage for a few days or live on fish until we hit a highway a hundred miles south. It would show Michaels what he was letting himself in for as a soldier.
George heard the sound first. He said, "Listen," and I cocked my head, trying to shut out the roar of the flames and the crash of falling trees that had settled into the background of our lives, like the noise of a car motor when you're driving.
"Plane," he said at last. "Hear it?"
Within a few seconds more I did. "Yeah, sounds heavy, not Robinson's Cessna."
"Right. Maybe we oughta find an island and get under cover, Reid. Sounds like a Beaver."
"That's it," Michaels said. "That's the plane I was telling you about, the one we flew up in."
ELEVEN
A pocket compass is no use while you're moving. You have to sight on a landmark and make for it, but there was nothing visible through the smoke, so I trusted to luck, matching my paddle stroke with George's so that the canoe didn't swing in a circle. It seemed from the map that the islands lay almost completely down the lake, one behind the other; if we missed one, we would hit another. Right now it didn't matter which as long as we could get off the water before the smoke cleared.
The sound of the plane died away as it headed north, over the fire and on to the safety of the upper lake. I strained my ears but couldn't hear the change of note that would have meant it was landing.
That much was a relief. Unless it was Dunphy's plane, it wouldn't land. It would circle and check for life. Dunphy's people would probably stay out of sight. They didn't want strangers butting into their private war.
George saw the island first. He called to me. "Off to the right, Reid, stop paddling."
I shipped my paddle, and he swung the canoe to the right and forced us forward until I could make out the loom of the trees against the smoke, green trees, safety. Then I dug back into the water, and we raced to land, coming up to a shelving rock that let us beach and step out, careless of the ankle-deep water. Sam sprang out on command and lapped at the water, wagging his tail. He could sense the safety even better than we could, and it put an end to his fears. I stooped to bump him on the back and tell him he was a good dog, then told him, "Seek." He set off to check the island for us while we drew the canoe out of the water and bent under a tangle of branches that forced us almost to our knees. That was a bonus. If the whole island was the same way, it would make it harder for Dunphy's men to search. We might just manage to hide out, even if they came ashore and looked for us. With luck they would already be tired from searching other islands. They would want to believe we were gone and wouldn't struggle through any more brush than they had to.
George had a pack in the canoe, and when we had made our way inland for about fifty yards, he pulled it out and said, "Let's try to cover the canoe, branches, duff, anything."
We scrabbled the ground for debris and built the best hide we could. It wasn't perfect, but it broke the lines of the canoe, and if they searched in poor light, they would miss us. Then he waved us on again, and we moved ahead until we came to a bare rock where we could stand upright. "This'll do," I said, and we all collapsed and sat with our backs to the rock, choking in the smoke, trying to catch our breath.
George did the practical thing. He opened his pack and took out a can of bully beef, opened it, and cut it into four equal portions. He handed two of them to me. "Sam gets his. He's earned it," he said. Then he gave one to Michaels, and I fed Sam and sat and nibbled my own ration, thankful to be out of combat for a little while at least.
Michaels was young enough that he wolfed his meat down and sat looking enviously as I made a meal out of my bit, doing the best I could to let it fill me up. When I'd finished, he swallowed hungrily and asked, "Is that all we've got with us?"
"For today," George said. "I wasn't counting on feeding a crowd."
Michaels swore but did it under his breath, a sulky sound that made it seem to be our fault he was hungry. A rich kid's trick. I ignored it. "Why would your father's girlfriend want you brought back?" I asked, more to take his mind off his hunger than to know the answer. I hadn't examined the check very closely but figured it wouldn't bounce whatever happened.
"I turn twenty-one the day after tomorrow," he said.
"And they want you home for milk and cookies, what?"
"They want me home to sign the papers that make the old man my heir if I get blown away."
George frowned, his legal training showing through the burned face and the bushwise confidence. "Sounds like an unusual setup, him inheriting from you."
Michaels laughed shortly, the
n caught a mouthful of smoke and coughed, spoiling the impression. "Not really. But I wouldn't expect you to understand."
"Listen, kid," I told him. "George saved your ass this morning and just fed you. On top of which he's got a better education than you have, so watch your mouth and answer the question."
Michaels looked at me quickly, surprised, then away. "Sorry," he mumbled. "It's kind of complicated, that's all."
"Make it simple for us," I suggested.
"Yeah, well, my grandfather, that's mom's dad, he didn't like my father, so in his will he left money to me when I'm twenty-one. The old man's got business problems, and he wants my money as collateral for some deal he's cooking. He's been squeezing me ever since I turned twenty. Finally I'd had enough of it, and I figured I'd scare him, so I heard about the colonel, and I thought I'd go along with him for a while, just to make the old man sweat."
"And your mother?" It sounded as if he was short on affection of any kind, but you expect a boy of twenty to respect at least one member of his family. That's the way it happens in working families, anyway. Maybe the rules don't apply to the rich. Most rules don't.
"She's a wimp. He's been screwing that bitch for years, and she just does nothing."
"But you phoned this girlfriend before you flew out. Why?"
"I didn't. I phoned my mother," he said and clamped his mouth shut.
"Yeah. You've thrown a scare into all of them," I said. "They didn't think you had the guts to do what you did. You've shown them."
"Yeah." He was bitter. "That's fine, only now they're going to say that I didn't have the guts to stay there."
"Those guys would have killed you," George said softly. Like most Indians, he didn't waste words, but he could see where they were needed.
Michaels spluttered with anger. "That's your fault," he said. "I saw you shooting at them. I saw them fall. You killed a couple of them."
"Winged 'em," George said carefully. "Just winged a couple. One in the leg, another one in the arm."
"That's illegal." Michaels was shouting now, and I looked at him, and he dropped his voice. "You can't go around shooting people."
"That's what you signed up to do for a living," I reminded him. "Or don't foreigners count?"
George laughed. He knew what he'd done, and as a law student it frightened him, but this wasn't the place to show fear. "Cowboys 'n' Indians, right?"
"How hard did you hit those guys?" I asked.
"One in the hip. One in the upper arm. They're down."
"Which means they would need a couple of the others to go back to base with them. Good. That leaves them with no boat to spare."
George shook his head. "What I've seen, they won't use the boat; they'll walk 'em back to the shore and keep 'em there. It might give us an extra hour, but that's all."
"We've already had that. As soon as the fire burns down, they'll be onto this lake and looking for us. We're going to have to move at night, head south all the way down to a highway. I didn't see anything within a hundred miles when I flew in, did you?"
"There's nothing," he said. "I figure we'll take four nights at least, longer if we hit any long portages. Check the map?"
I pulled it out and looked. We were almost at the south end of it already. It stopped at the north end of the lake below us. Before I could show it to George, Michaels interrupted. "You mean we've gotta go four days and nights with nothing to eat?"
"See any pizza parlors around?" George grinned.
Michaels swore. "I'm not going." Hunger was stiffening his backbone. "I'll take my chances with the guys. I was getting on fine with most of them."
"Forget it, Jason," I said. "You've deserted in the field. The penalty is death, and that's the business Dunphy's in."
He stood up and threw up his arms angrily. Sam raised his head and looked at him. I reached out and stroked Sam, feeling the crispness of the burned ends of his hair. "We can do this either of two ways," I said easily. "You come with us of your own free will, or you come with us tied up in the canoe. Either way I can't leave you here to be shot."
He sat down again, his arms folded tightly as if he were in an invisible straitjacket. Maybe he was. I ignored him and spoke to George. "What do you think the fire'll do? Burn right down to the highway?"
He shrugged. "The bush is dry enough, but if the wind changes and it burns back on itself, it'll go out; might take a couple days."
"If it does, we can move by day as well as night, make it that much sooner."
He shrugged. "Robinson's coming back tomorrow. He'll report the fire, and they'll send guys in to fight it. We could join up with them if we're lucky."
"Let's hope they do. Otherwise, Robinson'll never get to us. He's going to think we're dead." I let the thought lie there, and we all sat silently until George cocked his head.
"Plane," he said. "Sounds lower this time."
We all sat and listened carefully, and suddenly the note changed as the pilot cut back on the power. "He's landing," Michaels said quickly. "They've spotted us."
"He's not on this lake," George said. "He's a mile or more off." And then, inexplicably, the power picked up again with a roar, and George laughed out loud. "Hey, you know what that is, don't you?"
I nodded. I knew, but Michaels shook his head. "What, what?" He squawked it in his spoiled-boy voice.
"That's one o' those converted Cansos, flying boats turned into water bombers. They're adapted so they can scoop water from a lake and drop it on a fire," George said. "That means we've got a chance. If he's in the district, we might get his attention."
"How?" Michaels was sneering to cover his anxiety. "What're we gonna do? Light a fire?"
I ignored him. "Let's get back to the water."
George ducked away under the branches, but Michaels hung back. "What if the guys are out there?"
"We'll shoot 'em," George said. I've known him long enough to know he was kidding, but Michaels didn't. He started swearing to himself prayerfully as if George and I didn't exist.
We wrestled the canoe back out to the water's edge. From there, with a clear vista ahead of us, we could see that the smoke was clearing. Visibility was still limited, but I could make out the shape of the next island in the chain, a hundred yards from us.
"Be a while before he can see us," George said. "I figure we should get out in the lake and I'll spread out my sleeping bag."
"What if they come after us before we're seen?" Michaels worried.
"They'll be in that rubber boat. We can sink it," George said. "You worry too much."
Worrying is uncool, so Michaels shut up, concentrating on putting the canoe in the water. I checked the wind and then the map. The wind was northeasterly, and the map showed that the land to the northeast was a narrow band of bush between us and the lake we had left behind. That meant the smoke would clear earliest in that direction. The sun was starting to show, and from the time, I judged it was southeast.
"We head around the island and out about a hundred yards is our best bet," I said.
"Right." George was grinning, his blistered face happy now that there was something definite to do. "Let's hope he overflies this lake."
"Got to," I said. "He's likely trying to douse the fire southwest of us, choke it off between the two lakes. He'll pass over us either coming or going."
George grinned again. "You got it, Pontiac. Let's hope he has."
I put Sam in the canoe; then Michaels sat in the center, and I took the stern. George sat in the bow, facing me, holding his sleeping bag, which was bright orange on one side, green waterproof on the other. "When he flies over, grab the end and spread it," he told Michaels.
Michaels was sulky. "He won't see this."
"Stands out like dog's balls," George said cheerfully. "Jus' do it."
"It won't help. They'll just think we're waving, being friendly."
"Not here they won't," I said. "This isn't Toronto. People help one another. If we can get his attention, he'll land. He'll figure we've g
ot problems."
"And we've got problems to burn," George said. He was opening up, the way he usually did with me, kidding, glad of the chance to exercise his city manners, to show that he had leaped the first hurdle to making it away from his home.
He stopped and listened, cocking his head up and back. "Sounds like he's coming back. Yeah!" He pointed up into the smoke. "There. Wave!" He and Michaels opened the sleeping bag; then George closed his end, and Michaels caught on, and they opened and closed it rhythmically, making a splash of orange through the pall of smoke. The plane passed us, a big old white flying boat looking as huge as a flying house. I waved my paddle at it, and George and Michaels tipped their signal toward it, trying to expose the most possible surface to it.
Michaels shouted, "Hey, down here," and George shook his head.
"The only people can hear you are your buddies," he said. "Keep it quiet."
The plane sailed past, about three hundred feet up. Michaels swore. "They haven't seen us."
"Could've," George said. "They've got a ton of lake water on board; they can't stop yet. Maybe they'll come back."
Michaels sat, slumped, his arms between his knees, defeated. "No, they won't," he said. "They've missed us." George laughed. He was just as tense as Michaels, but he said, "You must've been an inspiration to your guys, Jason. Always smilin'."
Michaels swore, but he straightened up, looking around to see if the aircraft was still in sight. It wasn't, but as we waited, the engine note faded, then grew again as it turned back. I held my breath until the white shape loomed through the smoke a hundred yards away, lower now, down to fifty feet over the water and only a few yards to the south of us. The big bomb-bay water doors were hanging open under the hull, but as we watched, they retracted.
George stood up and waved his groundsheet, snatching it out of Michaels's hands. I sat tight, hands on the thwarts, doing my best to damp down the sway George was putting on the canoe, so intent on keeping us afloat that I couldn't even watch the plane. George hooted, "Hey, they've seen us."