The Yeti

by Mike Miller

  Now Baxter turned away in sheepish apology. But he was only ashamed for a moment, as he quickly recalled Conrad’s facile ability to twist and divert an argument to his convenience. The old man concealed his cons so well.

  “It’s not that exactly,” Baxter said, adding a “dear chum,” at the end with a civil sneer at the deception. “If you’re going to be the leader of this--”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Conrad interrupted. “Me the leader?”

  “Yes,” Baxter said.

  “Why? Because I’m older? Have a higher rank? Am the whiter man?” Conrad said, aggressively poking Baxter in the shoulder with each question. “Poppycock,” he said dismissively, hurt from the insult. “I can’t believe this. You, my friend and partner, would dare impugn me of becoming that kind of vile autocrat for which our shared hatred bound us together in the first place.”

  Baxter said softly, “I guess I’m a little sore when you make all the decisions.”

  “Like what?” Conrad snapped.

  Baxter jerked his head and eyes towards the wagon beneath them.

  “Him? Well...” Conrad said. “He showed initiative. Has always been a good kid. We like that.”

  “You do,” said Baxter. “And when your call stays, that just relegates me to be your...” Baxter’s voice trailed off.

  The silence in the conversation was a reminder of the vast expanse of scenery around them. Some wind rattled off the pebbles on the mountainside like the crackle of a far-off gunfight.

  “Say it,” commanded Conrad.

  Baxter sighed. “Your slave.”

  When Conrad’s face broke into a grin, the sight irritated Baxter all the more. “Ha!” Conrad said with theatrical flair. “Why do you think we picked him? He’s our slave now. Every king needs one, including you, my co-king.”

  “I heard that,” shouted Gregory from below, though remaining hidden from view in the compartment.

  “It’s this same whimsy that’s excluded you from promotion,” Baxter said. Conrad’s glee now shattered like a brittle china plate.

  “What’d you say?” Conrad said slowly, eyes squinting accusatorially.

  While Baxter knew the remark would wound, he resisted the urge to show any merriment that it had so precisely struck its mark. “You heard me,” was Baxter’s dry reply.

  Conrad harrumphed in disbelief at the bold ignominy from his best friend. “You know damn well that if I had subjected myself to the requisite rump-smooching, then--”

  “I don’t even want to discuss it,” Baxter said lethargically. He lashed the reigns again on the horses, and one of the beasts whinnied in half-hearted protest at the encouragement.

  Conrad thought about staying silent, but decided to fight for a proper resolution, especially if he secretly knew it was his obligation as unofficial mission leader to bestow some peace upon his weary friend.

  He leaned over and swung an arm over Baxter’s broad shoulders in a hug. “We go back, mate, you know that,” Conrad began in a friendly tone. “We’re team, you and I. So I apologise you got dragged to shreds by a runaway carriage which you couldn’t even salvage for the copious amounts of weapons, supplies and rations we’ll need for the gruelling sojourn ahead.”

  Baxter couldn’t help but smile at the levity of the remark.

  “More importantly is that I absolve you with forgiveness,” Conrad concluded.

  While Conrad’s placating had been going well, this last statement stung Baxter’s piety.

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” he confessed.

  Conrad was now confused. “Do what?”

  “This. The plan,” offered Baxter. “All of it.”

  “And why the hell not?” Conrad laughed. “Besides, you act like you have any choice in the matter, that this wasn’t all decided long ago. You can’t simply abandon me. This is an agreement between gentlemen, bound in honour, forged in the flames of fidelity. This is a covenant which you must abide.” Conrad slapped his fist into his palm as if hammering nails into a casket lid.

  Baxter groaned with fatigue. “Yes, I understand, you loquacious twit.”

  “This is a contract you must obey.” Conrad continued.

  “Okay, now, you’re crossing the line again with this semi-slavery innuendo,” Baxter barked sharply.

  The vivacious Conrad wilted with shame. “You’re right there, mate. Apologies. I was just carried away with the excitement.”

  Baxter flicked the reins at the horses. “I know.”

  Conrad smiled again at the forgiveness. “But it is exciting, isn’t it?”

  Recognising another classic attempt to divert attention away from the subject, Baxter sighed while ignoring the multitude of reasons he had originally agreed to the scheme. “Simply put, I realise now that the entire enterprise is premised upon… well, dubious ethics.” Conrad opened his mouth to interrupt. “There’s no denying that,” cautioned Baxter quickly, with an admonishing finger that clamped Conrad’s objecting trap. “And after the earlier calamity,” referencing not just the lost carriage, but privately recalling the additional offense to the nun on the train, “perhaps it seems that the campaign is doomed.”

  “Good Go--,” Conrad caught himself in the midst of griping. “Don’t tell me your piety’s going to interfere here. That’s ridiculous. What happened?”

  “Nothing, mate,” said Baxter. There were too many things that had happened and hadn’t to begin to list them now. Baxter preferred to avoid the subject altogether with a small fib. “But it seems after so many close shaves, eventually there’s got to be a cut. And this scheme now…” He sighed. “We might be in well over our heads.”

  Conrad’s first reaction was to dismiss the claim with derision, which was always his preferred method of rebuttal, especially when the subject was so serious. But this time, Conrad could recognise a loftier intensity in this discussion. Though he could often act a fool to gain an advantage, Conrad could keenly detect a suffering within his friend that should not be mocked. He waited patiently to permit Baxter’s gears to spin freely.

  “Maybe I want out of this one.” The pensive manner of Baxter’s soft speech was almost as if he were conversing with himself. “Just start over somewhere else, make my way back home elsewhere. Even as a poor man, that wouldn’t be so bad.”

  Conrad respectfully waited still for anything more to be said, but it never came. When Baxter finally snapped out of his trance to look his way, Conrad knew he was permitted a rebuttal.

  “I know the fear too, Baxter. I’ve lived with some form of it for all my time. Fear of failure, death, love. That’s why this is our time, to put an end to the fear once and for all, man. You and I have already been to hell and back ten-times over. Why, this will be the easiest one yet.”

  Conrad began to let his glee shine, and it warmed Baxter’s crumpled lips into a reluctant grin.

  “Besides old Gregory’s itchy finger, I’d wager there won’t be another shot fired, nor drop of blood spilled throughout this entire venture. The hardest part is already behind us, so what is there to go wrong, eh? Cold nights and shit for food? That’s same as when we were in the Gobi, and we didn’t have a half-dozen warrior tribes after our skin. Are you afraid of perhaps breaking a rib or two while trying to carry a meagre portion of your newfound and insanely mountainous loot? That might give this old man the shivers, but nothing else could.”

  Baxter stifled his doubt at the latest ridiculous guarantee to enjoy a lone moment of unbridled optimism, the first since this morning’s fiasco with the woman of the cloth. He hadn’t been swept into oblivion or crushed underfoot during the hijacking, so perhaps his fate was not destined for damnation. “I hope so,” Baxter said, more to himself than to Conrad.

  “Oh, I know so,” Conrad said cheerfully. “Hyah,” he cheered, “onward!” And Baxter lashed the horses until they progressed at an agreeably faster trot.

  Sensing an appropriate moment to rejoin the discussion, Gregory re-emerged to ask, “Do what again?” He shielded
his vision against the midday sun beaming straight down from above as his eyes had grown accustomed to the lonely dimness inside the wagon.

  Conrad laughed. “Why don’t you do the honours?”

  Baxter rolled his lips together while musing on the response. This moment seemed like the last and final opportunity to opt out from the scheme. Instead, he spoke in a slow, reassured and unequivocal voice absent of any humour or fear. “We’re going to execute the largest robbery in the history of England.”

  Gregory needed a moment to devour the preposterous statement. “Really?” he finally asked in disbelief. His face doubtfully swept back and forth between the two older men for any sign of deception. Upon seeing no symptoms of sarcasm from the two, Gregory said, “Swell!” with a considerable amount of enthusiasm at the proposition.

  The three continued rolling along the road, while Gregory eagerly awaited any additional information. “Well?” he asked, his face bright like a puppy begging for food. “Anything else?”

  Conrad sighed as he bothered to turn around to address the boy. “What, must you know everything?”

  “No,” Gregory said, “but I don’t--”

  “Please,” groaned Conrad, “and this is why I let you come aboard. And Baxter too. Your education. Lesson one is to start demanding answers. No pushovers here, mate. All right?”

  “Yes, sir,” responded Gregory.

  “You can drop that ‘sir’ nonsense too.”

  “Yes, s--.” His self-interruption made him stutter the last syllable foolishly. The error made the veterans grin.

  Conrad thumped his chest with vigour. “Right, now ask again. And not as a lowly and weak private, but as the captains of your own vessel.”

  Gregory cleared his throat with a diminutive “ahem” while rehearsing the line. “Tell me what the bloody hell is going on immediately.” He paused, then added, “You damn imbecile.”

  Baxter’s eyebrows wrinkled into a question mark. A semi-stunned Conrad replied, “That was… better,” which made Private Gregory beam with childish pride.

  Conrad settled into his seat to lecture. “England wants to rule the world. That is hardly a secret. And after its conquest of India, its next logical step was into China. But instead of invading with blood and bullets, the powers that be settled upon a far more deceptive yet pragmatic tactic: dominion via money.” Conrad paused dramatically while looking over to Baxter, whom did not appear to pay any heed to the tale.

  Undeterred by the lack of interest, Conrad continued his story to the lone member of his rapt audience. “So about a year ago, the British debuted their first outpost of this campaign, a small regional bank in the Shin-zhang municipality, conveniently situated on the opposite side of the Himalayas for its closest proximity to sister India. And we’re going to take their money.”

  Conrad adjusted his helmet back and continued with breathless enthusiasm. “So some have claimed that the bank is such an overwhelming success that it desperately requires additional funds to continue operating at such a breakneck pace. But those more in the know tell a different story,” whereupon Conrad paused to pass a knowing smirk to Baxter who actually reciprocated the expression. “That our East Indian Trading Company has grossly misinterpreted the returns from exporting tea into a country drowning in the stuff.” And both drivers shared a laugh together. Gregory felt obligated to chuckle along too though not entirely certain as to why.

  “So be it unbridled success or severe negligence, in either eventuality the place is now hurting for rupees. Or pounds or lire or rice or whatever they use for currency in China.”

  “We better not be after rice,” murmured Baxter, a statement Conrad ignored.

  “And delivering the tangible funds in a traditional, leisurely manner would not suffice via the usual roundabout trade routes at the lower altitudes and longer distances. No, for this particular emergency, our superiors decided upon a military escort of the monies through previously uncharted regions of these here treacherous Himalayan Mountains.”

  Conrad swept an outstretched palm across the landscape. The brownish red road they travelled fed into a sweeping ridge of pointed white slopes that stretched from the infinity of one horizon to the other. Though the terrain peaks were terrifyingly vast and large, the sight still projected a light and delicate quality. The snow-capped peaks of the mountains were like sweet, effervescent frosting atop some dainty French pastries.

  Gregory said, “But our convoy was fairly light. I packed half of it myself, and there were hardly any chests of gold about either carriage.”

  “And you are correct, sir,” said Conrad, “because our mission was not to deliver the money. Ours was to salvage it. The original delivery already failed and was lost but a week ago. We are the second wave, the rescue team, as it were.”

  Now he turned to face Baxter though still shouting aloud to address the private below. “So technically, Gregory, we are not thieves if we are simply discovering what has gone missing.” Conrad then arched his eyebrows and tilted his head to emphasise the veracity of his point.

  “But we stole the carts and gear though,” replied Gregory.

  The proclamation buoyed Baxter while Conrad soured. “Not if we return it later,” suggested Conrad quickly in retaliation.

  “A lost shipment? It ain’t buried under snow or fallen down a ravine?” Gregory asked.

  “I suppose it well could be. But based upon the intelligence of our superiors, our group was dispatched to retrieve it. They wouldn’t waste another caravan for nought. So if it’s up there, we’ll find it.”

  He turned to Baxter again and repeated himself with steady confidence. “We will find it.”

  Baxter reiterated the sentiment. “We will,” and lashed the horses to keep climbing upwards.

  “But why us?” asked Gregory.

  “Why not?” was Conrad’s curt response, growing a wee bit irritated at the constant questioning which he had invited.

  “We’re infantry. Seems like the expedition should have some seasoned mountain-men, not us blokes.”

  “We were the closest troop available. The local base which is a few miles over on another trail keeps a lean skeleton crew. Now, the mountain is cold and rough, but we’re not scaling up vertical cliff faces here on the highest altitudes. This is travel along worn paths which the locals have wandered over for years. If a donkey cart can traverse it, then so can we.”

  “I don’t know,” mused Gregory doubtfully. “It sounds like you’ve thought it through enough.”

  But Conrad could detect another tinge of scepticism in his newest recruit. “Oh, you too now? Listen, the both of you. Somewhere upon that mountainside lays an immense fortune. To recover but even the tiniest smidgeon of which would ensure our lifelong comfort. Were we to find the entire mother lode, why, we could become emperors of our own countries. You both can skedaddle still if you like, but this is the best opportunity the either of you will ever have for something better.”

  “I’m still in,” said Gregory quickly.

  Conrad now pressured Baxter for a response with his inquiring stare. But Baxter didn’t say another word.

  “I don’t see how just the three of us can do all this,” Gregory now griped.

  “Oh, there’s more to come,” said Conrad, “The rest are already waiting for us in town.” The old corporal lay back in his seat and tilted the shade of his hat over his closed eyes.

  “And?” asked Gregory.

  Conrad yawned. “And you’ll meet them all soon enough. Enough chatter for now.”

  “Hyah!” said Baxter in a sleepy command.

  Even the horses remained silent, as only the wagon wheels creaked while rolling up the mountain pass.

  Chapter IX

  The Resurrection of Colonel Snider

  “There you go,” Colonel Snider said encouragingly, as if soothing a child. “You’re almost there.”

  His hands sprang apart, suddenly free from their tethers. He lifted them up as broken lengths of rope fe
ll to the ground. “Good work, private.” Snider lifted himself onto one knee from one palm.

  “Thank you, sir,” replied Private Horace, who then spat some specks of dirt and strands of twine from his mouth. Horace remained bound and prone on the gravel road, his arms and legs still tied just beside where Snider had previously laid.

  “You’re welcome,” said Snider, carefully plucking a final piece of rope from his wrist that had a noticeable gob of spittle stuck to its frayed end.

  Snider stared along the road on which the three rebels had vanished. He projected his rage into a narrow beam, hoping that it might smite them all from the power of his murderous intentions.

  “Sir?” Horace pleaded sweetly. “Little help, sir?” But Snider showed no response, now becoming as a statue in testament to his bitter anger.

  He then turned to face back down the path already travelled. It was as if he was frozen in time between a now impossible future - an alternate world where his sortie succeeded without any disruption from mutiny and highway robbery - and the past in the road behind - like his sterling list of accomplishments. His life had heretofore been a spectacular and uninterrupted string of feats that had propelled him up the military hierarchy. But now his life so far felt less like a prologue to greatness and more like a quant footnote of failure. He was a living phantasm of potential. Snider sniffled so softly that he hoped none of the men had heard his weakness.

  When Snider realised that he was even close to weeping, he grit his teeth at the despicable thought. Like pillars of stone colliding with intentions of obliterating each other, his teeth gnashed in vicious retaliation against the crippling softness.

  So in that moment, something else really did die beyond his career. The weak man who could be overthrown by two of his lowliest servants was no more. In its place now was a man forged from vengeance and redemption, two forces to be served at such an unholy pace that perhaps their combined fury could even revive the fledgling career.