by Norah Hess
As they moved on during the next several days, never sighting the Indians anymore, the days became cooler and the nights definitely cold. They had been on the trail six weeks when they came to Lake Huron, the separation between Michigan and Canada.
Now they were faced with the problem of getting across the large body of water. That was when they met Gray Owl.
They heard the slap of a paddle hitting the water before they saw the canoe appear from a bend in the lake. An old gray-haired Indian sat in the center of the birch vessel, a fishing line dragging behind him as he fished the edges of the water. When Fletcher hailed him, he nosed onto the shore and sat waiting for him to speak. His wizened face and snaggled teeth suggested that he was as old as the hills surrounding them.
"What is your name, old brave?" Fletcher asked, walking toward him.
"I am called Gray Owl."
Fletch gave his name, then asked, "Do you know where we could buy a craft like yours?"
After a thoughtful pause, Gray Owl answered, "I might let you buy this one, but not with money. Here in the wilderness an Indian has no use for the white man's green pieces of paper."
"What would you want, then?" Fletch wondered if he was going to ask for one of their rifles, and if so, should they give it to him and take the chance of him turning it on them.
"Gray Owl wants firewater. Bad weather is coming on and it will warm my blood."
Fletch shook his head. "We don't have any whiskey. Could we offer you some tobacco?" He felt encouraged by the glimmer of interest that shot into the black eyes that they would strike a deal.
The old fellow had been a wise trader, however, and before he turned the canoe over to them, all the rock candy had been handed over to him as well as half their tobacco.
When Gray Owl clambered out of the canoe and stood beside him, Fletch looked across the long stretch of water and sighed. "It's going to take us forever to paddle across this lake."
The owner of their candy and most of their tobacco pointed down the shore. "Three miles down you come to the narrowest stop of water. You can be across before sunset."
As the old Indian had said, they landed on the opposite shore with an hour to spare before darkness set in. While the others hurried to set up camp, Hank walked along the huge lake's shore. When he returned to a cheerfully burning campfire, he announced that this was the perfect spot for the fur post.
"Here, the Indians and the trappers can bring their furs by water as well as by land."
Everyone was ready to settle in one spot, and the next morning they set to work hacking out a clearing and building a long, sturdy cabin that would serve as the post, and also as their living quarters. All the while they worked, they kept a wary eye on the forest that bounded them on three sides. They knew that in the woods there was game—deer, moose, and rabbit to be shot for fresh meat—but also there were bears, cougars, and wolves. And they mustn't forget that there could very well be Indians slipping in and out between the trees, silent as ghosts. They kept their pistols strapped to their waists and their rifles always handy.
After the roof had gone on, they knocked together a table and two benches from hand-hewn boards. Then from small saplings a couple inches thick they built for each man a bunk bed. After they had moved into the building they would call home for some time, the days were spent felling trees and chopping them into lengths that would fit in the wide fireplace built from fieldstone.
When they felt they had sufficient fuel to last them through the winter, yards and yards of corded wood were stacked behind the post. It took Hank two evenings to burn out the name of the new post on a rough board about a yard long and two feet wide:
CANADIAN FUR COMPANY
TRADER AND BUYER OF FURS
When Hank fastened the sign over the door to their surprise, before they could build a counter in the business end of the building, two customers came in. First was a rough-looking white trapper; then later an Indian brought in some fine mink pelts.
Two mornings later when the men threw back their blankets and stepped outside to relieve themselves, there was a dusting of snow on the ground; an hour later the earth wore an eight-inch white blanket. By sunset the snow was up to the top of their boots. That night, riding out of the north on winds of gale force, roared a blizzard that rattled the windows and drove against the door.
Winter had come to stay.
The next morning they found snow drifted two feet against the cabin door. It took two men to push it open. Stepping outside, the men found that the wind had died down and the snow had stopped falling. However, the white stuff was up to their waists in some spots.
Business was brisk all winter as white trappers and Indians, snowshoes strapped to their feet, brought in fine furs. As word spread that Hank was an honest trader, never cheating any trapper regardless of his color, he had almost more furs than he could handle in the small quarters of the post.
They had been operating a month when one day Dole came in from hunting, bringing with him a young Indian woman. Hank frowned and said, "There's gonna be trouble over her. The rest of us are gonna be jealous, watching you tumble her every night."
Dole laughed good-naturedly. "I'm not gonna hog her. We'll share her equally." The woman's Indian name was too hard for the men to pronounce, so they called her Pansy.
Luckily for Pansy she enjoyed coupling as much as the men did, for she got a good workout every night, and sometimes during the day. Fletch received a lot of ribbing because he never took his turn with the willing Indian whore. He was asked if he was a priest in disguise, or if the severe winters in the Upper Peninsula had frozen his pecker off.
It had surprised him too that his manhood hadn't sprung to attention when he watched what went on between Pansy and his friends, especially when she sometimes serviced two men at the same time.
Since Fletch showed no interest in Pansy, she was determined that he would. She paraded around him buck-naked, her black eyes flashing him an invitation. One night, after the men had sated themselves and gone to sleep, Fletch was startled awake by warm lips moving on his rock-hard arousal, which had been brought on by dreams of Laura. It had been months since he'd had a woman, and before he could push Pansy away his body was jerking in a powerful release.
When she lifted her head and gave him a sly smile, he pushed her out of bed, grating, "Don't ever try that again, woman." Everything went smoothly through the winter and on into the spring when the snow began a slow melting. It was late May with only patches of snow left in deeply shaded spots when visitors came from across the lake.
There were five of them, dirty and unkempt, all with tobacco-stained beards. They had pistols and skinning knives stuck in the waistbands of their greasy buckskins, and their sullen faces said they were looking for trouble.
As they clumped noisily across the wooden floor, heading toward Hank behind the counter, Fletch and the others quickly positioned themselves in places that gave them a clear view of each stranger's hands. If a move was made toward a weapon by any of them, they would know it and would take like action immediately.
Their action didn't go unnoticed by the strangers, and the spokesman said, "We're not here to fight… today. We've come to give you warning to clear out." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Me and my men work for Hudson Bay Fur Company and our boss don't want any competition. We don't want to see you around here the next trapping season."
His hand firmly on the wicked-looking skinning knife at his waist, Hank came from behind the counter and stood in front of the belligerent speaker.
A slumbering threat of violence on his face, Hank rasped out, "Go back to where you came from and tell your boss that Hank Manners said he can go straight to hell. We ain't budgin' from here."
With angry, disgruntled noises the man's companions started forward, then came to an abrupt halt when they saw four hands dart to long-barreled pistols.
It was a standoff as both sides waited to follow their bosses' lead. In the threatening silence
that hung in the air, the trapper from across the lake finally grated out, "If you're still here next season you'll be the one who'll go to hell." He wheeled around and stalked out of the post, his muttering men following him.
Fletcher eased his body into a more comfortable position, favoring his wounded shoulder. He had planned to start for home shortly before their unwelcome visitors had arrived. The pain that had been in Laura's eyes when he left had haunted him ever since.
He wondered now, as he often did, if he had done the right thing in going off to give her time to discover if she loved him as a man she would want to marry. Or was it merely brotherly love compounded by infatuation with an older man?
After a month into the wilderness trip, his inner voice had begun to nag him, telling him that Laura wasn't flighty like the other girls in Big Pine who constantly changed their minds about everything.
Even as a little girl, she had been on the serious side. She always knew what she wanted and would stick to it like a dog worrying a bone. Fletcher reminded himself that Laura was also very proud. His rudeness to her the morning he left might have cut her so deeply she decided to have nothing more to do with him.
He closed his eyes at that painful thought, telling himself it would serve him right if while he was gone Laura became interested in one of the many young men who were always hanging about. Like blond-headed Adam Beltran.
The trouble brewing between the two fur companies had made him stay on in Canada. He felt a sense of loyalty to Hank and the others. When you spent a long winter in one room with a bunch of men, you either became close friends or fierce enemies. In this case they had all developed a strong liking for each other.
The days passed in pleasant idleness, with no more visits from across the lake. In mid-September Fletch made plans to head for home, hopefully to arrive before the first snowfall. Dole, Jones, and Nick talked him into delaying his departure to go hunting with them one last time.
They left early in the morning, leaving Hank and Pansy alone at the post. When they returned in midafternoon, each carrying a young doe over his shoulder, they were met by utter devastation. Only the charred framework and a clutter of partially burned logs and the fireplace remained of the post they had worked so hard to build.
As he stared at the ravaged building, wondering where Hank and Pansy were, Dole shouted, "Over here, men!"
Fletch and Nick ran over to Dole who stood looking down at the ground. At the edge of the forest Hank lay sprawled on his stomach, a bullet hole in his back. Fletch knelt down and placed his fingers on one wrist, feeling for a pulse.
There was none. He stood up, shaking his head. "I'm afraid…" he began, then stopped short. The four men who had visited them in the spring stepped out of the forest, rifles held to their shoulders. Dropping their kills, Fletch, Nick, and Dole dodged for cover in the trees back of where the post used to stand. Shots rang out behind them, slicing leaves off the trees. Fletch saw his friends crumple to the ground as he dove into the deeper darkness of the forest. As he raced on, dodging trees and brush, he could hear the thunder of feet following him.
Had they shot and killed Pansy? he wondered, racing on, then thought that they hadn't. They would keep her for the winter and use her. Run faster, his mind urged, or you'll never see Laura again.
It was near sundown, and Fletch was exhausted when he came to a small clearing, and hope rose inside him. Cleared land meant someone lived nearby. Maybe help lay ahead.
He was midway across the stump-scattered field when something caught the sunlight a moment. He saw a puff of smoke, and at the same time felt a bullet slam into his shoulder. As he looked wildly around for a place to hide, and to return the shot, a fierce-looking Indian seemed to come out of nowhere. With a bloodcurdling scream, he launched himself at Fletcher and grabbed him in a bear hug.
Fletch knew that the savage's intent was to squeeze the life out of him and he fumbled for the knife stuck in its sheath. With the last of his strength he withdrew the long blade and with a short, hard jab plunged it under the brave's ribs.
The Indian stiffened, gave a deep sigh, and wilted to the ground, a thin line of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. The knife dropped from Fletch's nerveless fingers, and he fell to the ground, the back of his shirt soaked with blood.
Lantern-light shining in his eyes brought him back to awareness. It hurt him to breathe, to even move. After one effort to turn over on his side, he lay still. He slowly realized that his upper body was bare and that his shoulder was tightly bandaged. He recalled his encounter with the Indian and wondered who had found him and doctored him.
His slight movement was heard by the shaggy-haired, black-bearded man sitting before a brightly burning fireplace. He raised his stocky body from a roughly constructed chair and walked across the hard-packed dirt floor to stand over Fletch.
"Well, feller," he said in a deep, rumbling voice, "I see you've decided to come back to the livin'. For a couple days there I wasn't sure you was gonna make it."
"How long have I been here?" Fletch's voice was rusty from disuse as he fingered his whiskered face. "Three days. Ravin' with a fever two of them days."
"Three days!" Fletch stared in disbelief When he got over his shock he stuck out his right hand. "I sure thank you for savin' my bacon—"
"Call me Daniel. Last names ain't important here in the wilderness," the big man said gruffly as he shook hands. "Well, then, you can call me Fletch. How did you come to find me?"
"I was out settin' traps along the lake when I heard a shot. I figured it come from the Injun I'd seen earlier skulking through the woods. I thought he must have seen a deer and took a shot at it. Then I heard his bloody screech and I knew he was jumpin' a white man. He was dead when I come upon the two of you." A grin stirred Daniel's beard. "You was nearly at the pearly gates, you was bleedin' so bad. I managed to get you on my back and bring you here to my cabin. It took Maida a long while to get the bullet out of you. The dad-burned thing was lodged beneath your shoulder blade."
Fletch eased his wounded shoulder into a more comfortable position. "I was one lucky man that you came along, Daniel." He looked solemnly at the big man. "I won't be forgetting that you saved my life, Daniel."
"Weren't no thin'." Daniel waved a dismissive hand. "I expect you'd do the same for me. Anyhow it was Maida who actually saved your life. It was her who got the bullet out, then sewed you up."
When Fletch glanced around the room looking for Maida, Daniel said, "She's out in the barn milkin' the cow. We ain't got around to marryin' yet. Ain't no preachers in these parts. We been meanin' to get back to civilization long enough to tie the knot. We want children, but Maida says not until we are hitched, that she won't bring a bastard into the world. You see, she's a bastard. Her stepfather was a mean son of a bitch. One night, a week after her mother had died from pneumony he tried to force himself on Maida. She managed to get away from him and run into the woods. That's where I found her, shivering and half scared to death. When she finally managed to tell me why she was out alone at night in the forest, I knew there was only one thing to do. Take her home with me."
Daniel rose and laid another log on the fire. When he sat back down he continued. "She was only fourteen, skinny, and not real putty. But she was awfully sweet. That sweetness of hers kept me from beddin' her until she was sixteen. I let her get to know me first, to know that, un-like her stepfather, I would never lay a hand on her in anger."
Fletcher thought of all his men friends, wondering if any of them would be as thoughtful as Daniel. He was pretty sure none would. He knew one thing, though. Daniel was one fine man.
Knowing that the bearded one wouldn't want his praises sung, Fletch said, "I hope my killing the Indian doesn't start an uprising against the whites in the area."
Daniel gave a short laugh. "His people will never know what happened to him. After I turned you over to Maida, I went back and buried him: scooped out a deep hole under a big rotten log. He won't be found in a hundred
years. When he don't show up in his village and his people can't find him, they'll think a bear dragged him off to his den."
Before Daniel could say more the door opened and a young woman stepped inside, a pail hanging from her hand. "Your patient is finally awake, Maida." Daniel grinned at the bright-faced young girl.
"About time," she said, and Fletch received a wide, white smile. "I was beginning to think you were going to sleep your life away." Maida set the pail of milk on the table and walked over to the bed.
As Daniel had said, she wasn't pretty, Fletch thought, but she was comely enough with her brown eyes and shiny brown hair. Her voice was soft as she asked, "How are you feeling?"
Fletch's lips twisted wryly. "Pretty fuzzy-headed, but otherwise I feel all right."
"I expect you're hungry. I've got a pot of rabbit stew keeping warm on the hearth."
"I could eat that bear Daniel was talking about, fur and all." Fletch grinned. "My stomach hasn't known food for close to a week. I'm surprised I'm as strong as I am."
"It's not true that you haven't had any substance in your belly," Daniel spoke up. "Maida spooned a lot of venison broth down you while you was out of your head with fever."
"You did?" Fletch looked his surprise at Maida. "I guess that's why I don't feel so weak."
"Yeah," Daniel said. "Ain't nothin' like venison broth to build up a man's blood and strength."
As Maida began ladling stew into a wooden bowl from a black cast-iron pot, then sliced up half a loaf of sourdough bread, Fletch let his gaze travel over the room.
It was good-sized, caulked tightly between the logs. He felt no drafts in the corner where double bunk beds had been constructed. Opposite the fireplace was a table, a bench on either side of it. The two chairs flanking the fireplace completed the furnishings. And though the room was sparsely furnished, it was neat and clean.