[Canadian West 02] - When Comes the Spring

by Janette Oke

  Wynn opened the creaky, complaining cabin door; there was some quick scampering as some former resident took immediate cover. I stepped closer to Wynn. He put a reassuring arm around me. "Nothing that small could harm you," he smiled.

  Wynn found and lit the lamp, and I placed my small case on the newspaper-covered table.

  "Is this Pierre's cabin?" I asked, looking around me at the bare little room.

  "No, it belongs to some trapper."

  "Then why did Pierre-?"

  "It's customary. Trappers always leave their cabins available for others to use. Pierre likely asked the trapper about using his lodgings for travelers like us; but even if he didn't, we still won't be considered trespassers.

  Wynn moved about, swishing the heavy dust from the few pieces of furniture and checking what was available for making a fire. There was a good supply of dry wood in one corner, and Wynn soon had a fire going. "Remember your first experience with a wood stove at Pine River?" His eyes twinkled at me, and I had the grace to blush. It's a wonder I hadn't burned down the building! I wrinkled my nose at him and we laughed together at the memory.

  Wynn went outside to the river, dipped the kettle full of water and placed it on to boil. Then he checked the bed. It was a very narrow one, and I secretly wondered how it would sleep two. Wynn flung back the Hudson's Bay blankets; they had seen a good deal of wear and very few washings. A heavy piece of denim material was spread across a mattress of spruce branches crisscrossing one another and topped with moss. I winced and hoped Wynn hadn't noticed.

  Our meal was a simple one of dried biscuits and canned police rations. Tasty it was not, but I was very hungry and ate heartily.

  I insisted on washing the dishes. Wynn had been our wilderness cook all along our journey, and I was glad I could finally do something helpful.

  It didn't take me long to wash the few things and place them back on the unknown trapper's shelf.

  Wynn spread one of the worn blankets on the wooden floor in front of the fire and we settled down before it to talk. I looked about the simple, quaint little cabin and wondered if my own would look like this. I decided to ask.

  "Do you know what our cabin will be like?"

  "Not really. I haven't been to Beaver River before."

  "But you have a pretty good idea?"

  "Pretty good."

  "Will it have just one room?"

  "Not likely. A Mountie's home usually serves a double function- oflice as well as home. So it likely has at least two rooms."

  I was pleased to hear that. I did want the privacy of a bedroom.

  "It will be log?"

  "I'm sure it will."

  "With wooden floors?"

  "With wooden floors."

  .We were silent for a few moments. Wynn broke the silence, his arm tightening about me as he spoke, "That must seem awfully crude to you, Elizabeth."

  I turned so I could look into his eyes.

  "In a way, yes-but really-I don't mind the thought of it at all. Look at this cabin now. True, it isn't much-but with a little fixing here and there-" I hesitated, wondering even as I spoke just what "fixing" one could do to make this very bare cabin look homey.

  Wynn brushed a kiss against my cheek.

  A strange, mournful, bloodcurdling sound interrupted us. I felt the hair on my scalp rise and my spine tingle. I had gotten used to the coyote's cry, but this-this was something entirely different. I pressed closer to Wynn.

  "A timber wolf," he commented. I shivered as the cry came again and was answered from the other direction.

  I had heard of timber wolves. Most of the tales had come from imaginative Julie. Wolves traveled in murderous packs, had menacing red eyes, and crept up stealthily on those whom they would devour.

  "Are they all around us?" I whispered nervously, my eyes big with fright.

  Wynn hugged me, sheltering me in the circle of his two strong arms.

  "I doubt it," he said, without any trace of concern whatever. "But if they are, there is nothing whatever to be worried about. I suggest you just lie here in front of the fire and listen carefully, Elizabeth. You can almost count how many there are in the pack by the difference in their cries. They are a part of our world here in the North-a part that needs to be respected but not feared. Accept them-maybe even enjoy them if you can."

  I doubted I would ever live to enjoy the cry of a timber wolf, but I did try to be calm. Another cry tore through the night air.

  "Hear that?" noted Wynn close to my ear. "I'm guessing that was the leader of the pack. Did you hear the authority in his voice?"

  I tried to shake my head, but Wynn was holding me too close. Authority? Not particularly.

  Another cry reached us. This one was shorter and farther away.

  "That one now, he's answering the boss. Checking in. Could you hear the difference?"

  This time I could. It was unbelievable.

  There was another cry. It came from very near our cabin, yet it wasn't as spooky and bloodcurdling for some reason.

  "A female," commented Wynn. "Probably the leader's mate."

  "Are the females tamer than the males?" I asked, thinking that this one sounded so much gentler than others.

  "Oh, no," laughed Wynn. "In fact, the female can be even more aggressive and more deadly than the males-especially if she has pups. The hunting pack always consists of some females. I'm not sure how the males would fare without them. The pack depends on their skill and aggressiveness for the kill. The female must have food not just for herself but to feed her young-and she will do anything to get what she's after."

  The wolves were a part of Wynn's wilderness. I wasn't sure I would ever be able to listen to their howl without shivering, but Wynn's calm and easy acceptance of these wild creatures had certainly helped me to see them in another light.

  Another howl. Another shiver. Another explanation from Wynn. He seemed to paint a picture of the pack around us, locating and identifying each member. He did not describe them with sparkling red eyes and drooling tongues. I was seeing them as needy, hungry creatures, depending on nature and their skills to feed themselves and their families.

  "Contrary to what you may have heard," Wynn told me, "the wolves only hunt to survive. In the wilderness, survival is not always easy.

  I listened to the echoing calls of the wolves as they moved on, away from the cabin. My heart quit thumping. I found myself even wishing them good hunting.

  TWELVE

  joy ?'&agon

  We took the trail the next morning to the small, hastily constructed buildings that formed the small outpost. Before we had left the little cabin, I had remade the bed and washed the dishes. Wynn had brought in a fresh wood supply, making sure he left more stacked against the wall than we had found the night before.

  The trail through the woods crossed a stream on steppingstones, and Wynn pointed east to where the beavers had dammed the water and made themselves a small lake. The morning sun was already promising a fair day, and the birds sang and winged overhead among the trees. The walk would have been perfect had it not been for the miserable insects. Even Wynn walked with a screen of cloth draped from his hat at the back.

  When we reached the fort, I looked about at the sorry arrangement of small buildings. Even from the outside, I was sure I wouldn't have wanted to stay overnight in any of them. I was so glad Wynn had arranged for the cabin.

  "I think you should wait out here," Wynn said to me. I wondered why, but did not question him. I found a nearby tree stump and sat down. No one seemed to be around, so I lifted my skirt to inspect my leg. It was no longer covered with a bandage; Wynn had decided the air would do it good.

  Ugly scabs of various density and color covered the shin. I moved my foot back and forth. Almost all the pain was gone. Wynn had said that it was most important to have bodies capable of healing themselves when one was miles away from medical help. He seemed very pleased he had picked a woman with this quality.

  Wynn was not in the cabin for
long. He returned with a look of frustration on his face.

  "What's wrong? Are they drunk?"

  "Drunk isn't the word for it. They are out! Every last one of them. I couldn't even raise them."

  "You're angry with them for drinking, aren't you? I don't blame-"

  But Wynn didn't let me finish my intended consolation.

  "Yes, I'm angry. With their drinking? I don't like it, but I can't stop it. That's their business, I guess-their way of life. That's the way they ease through the difficulties of life in the North. When men don't have God, they need substitutes. To my way of thinking, whiskey is a poor substitute-but many men depend upon it. But what I am angry about is that they didn't obey my orders."

  I looked up in surprise.

  "They were supposed to unload the barge last night before they started their drinking. I knew very well they wouldn't be any good for anything this morning. There sits the wagon, nothing on it; and in there, sprawled out on the floor, are the men who were to load it and the man who was supposed to drive it."

  "What do we do now?" I finally asked in a small voice.

  Wynn roused and reached over to cup my chin. He smiled then for the first time since emerging from the house.

  "We do it ourselves, my love," he answered, strength and confidence back in his voice.

  It was a long, hard job. The morning sun was high in the sky before we finished. I really wasn't much help. The crates and trunks were all too heavy for a woman's shoulders, and Wynn would not even let me try. Wynn had driven the wagon down as close to the dock as possible in order to save unnecessary steps. I volunteered to hold the team, as there was no hitching post. Wynn seemed pleased that I was willing to help, but the job I had did not go well.

  The horses were skitterish. The mosquitoes and flies were plaguing them, and they kept tossing their heads and stamping around. Wynn watched my efforts warily for a while and them decided to unhitch the horses, take them up the bank and tie them securely to a tree. Now I had nothing to do.

  I tried to give a hand now and then but soon found I was more in the way than anything else. At length I gave up and found a tree stump in the shade.

  As I sat there, I angrily thought about the men in the nearby cabin. There they slept in a drunken stupor while my husband labored to do the work they had been hired to do!

  Finally the loading was completed and the horses rehitched to the wagon.

  Wynn made one more visit to the cabin to check on our hired driver.

  "Any luck?" I asked when he returned, his lips set in a thin line.

  "None." It was a crisp, blunt reply.

  "What do we do now?" I asked. "Do we have to wait here until he wakes up?"

  "No, we don't wait. We are late enough getting away now. We'll never make it as far as we should today. We drive. When he wakes up he walks."

  The horses were not made for speed and the wagon was clumsy and heavy. It had been much faster traveling on the river. The sun grew hot on my back and the insects buzzed persistently.

  We didn't talk much. Wynn concentrated on his driving, and I tried to keep my mind busy with things other than my discomfort. The river barge seemed like a pleasure boat compared to this lumbering wagon.

  We stopped at noon for a quick meal. Wynn ate with one eye on the sky, for clouds were gathering. I knew he feared a storm before we reached our destination. Neither of us voiced the concern, but I noticed that Wynn pushed the horses a little faster.

  The track could, at best, be referred to as a trail. It wound up and down, around and through, following the path of least resistance, much like a river would do. At times there was no way but to challenge the terrain head-on. The horses strained up steep hills, then slid their way to the bottom again, the wagon jolting behind. Fortunately, Wynn was an expert teamster, and I breathed a prayer of thanks whenever we reached fairly level ground again.

  At one point, even Wynn feared for the safety of the horses and wagon. He asked me to climb out and walk down the incline. It seemed to be almost straight down. On further thought, Wynn crawled down from the wagon, rustled through some of his belongings, and came up with the horrid men's pants. They had been washed since I had seen them last, which I assumed Wynn had done himself.

  "You'd best put these on," he said. "You might spend part of the descent in a sitting position."

  Without question I quickly obeyed and stuffed my simple skirt and petticoat into the overnight bag lying on top of the load.

  Wynn went first. I didn't really want to watch, but I couldn't tear my eyes away. A good brake system on the wagon kept the wheels skidding downhill, always on the heels of the sliding horses.

  I stood there with bated breath, now and then gasping and covering my eyes, then quickly uncovering them again to make sure Wynn was still all right.

  I forgot to follow. When Wynn finally rolled the wagon to a halt on comparatively even ground, I still stood, with my mouth open, at the top of the hill.

  I blushed and hurried down to join him. His call, "Slow down," came too late. Already I had picked up more speed than I could control on the steep slope. I tried to brace myself against the momentum, but soon my body was moving far too fast for my clumsy feet, and I felt myself falling and rolling end over end. The next thing I was aware of was Wynn's white face bending over me.

  "Elizabeth," he pleaded, panting for air, "Elizabeth, are you all right?"

  I moaned and tried to roll over into a more dignified position. I wasn't sure if I was all right or half dead. I did have enough presence of mind to be glad for the horrible pants.

  Wynn began to feel my bones. I roused somewhat, my dizzy head beginning to clear.

  "I think I'm okay," I told him, struggling to sit up.

  "Lie still." he ordered. "Don't move until we are sure."

  He continued to check. By now my-head was clear.

  "I'm okay," I insisted, feeling only a few places on my body smarting. "Just embarrassed to death, that's all."

  Wynn satisfied himself that nothing was broken and sighed with relief. He then turned his attention to the scratches and bruises.

  "Let me up," I implored him and he carefully assisted me to my feet.

  He brushed the dirt from my clothing and the leaves from my hair, showing both relief and concern on his face.

  "I wanted you to walk down to keep you from injury," he said softly, shaking his head in dismay.

  I began to laugh. Wynn looked at me with more concern in his eyes and then he smiled slowly.

  "That's some record for coming down that hill," I said between gasps of laughter.

  "I think," he remarked, "I might have set a record for coming back up-Hey!" His shout made me turn to follow his gaze. The deserted team had decided to plod on without us. They were not far ahead, but they were still traveling; and if we didn't hurry or if something spooked them, we might be walking for a long way. Wynn ran down the remainder of the hill, chasing after them. I followed, but at a much slower pace. I didn't want a repeat performance. I was already smarting and aching quite enough.

  Wynn caught the team about a quarter of a mile down the road. They had not exactly followed the trail though, and Wynn was hard put to back them out of the dead end they had led themselves into among the trees.

  Finally back on the trail again, we noticed the clouds had gathered more darkly overhead. It had cooled off noticeably and the wind was picking up.

  "Is there anyone living nearby?" I asked him, sensing his uneasiness.

  "Not that I'm aware of," he answered.

  Even the horses seemed to sense the coming storm and tossed their heads and complained at the load.

  They balked when we came to a stretch of marshy land where they were required to cross on corduroy (wooden logs placed side by side). Wynn coaxed and then forced them to take the first steps. The logs rolled and sucked, squeezing up oozy marsh soil as we passed over. I felt as reluctant as the horses. I wished I could walk but then rethought the matter. In places the logs lay
beneath the surface of the water.

  The horses clomped and slipped, snorting and plunging their way ahead. One horse would balk and refuse to take another step while its teammate was still traveling on. Then the horse would give a nervous jump and scramble on, slipping on the logs as he did so. By then, his teammate would have decided to balk. We jerked our way across the precarious floating bridge, and I breathed a sigh of relief when the wagon wheels finally touched solid ground again.

  The horses, sweating more from nerves than from exerted energy, were even more skittery now, so when the first loud crack of thunder greeted us, they jumped and would have bolted had Wynn not been prepared and held tightly to the reins.

  I moved uneasily on the seat, my eyes on the clouds overhead. It would pour any minute and there was no place to go for shelter.

  Wynn urged the team on. It was impossible to expect them to run. The wagon was much too heavy and the track too poor, but he did ask of them a brisker walk. They obliged, seeming as reluctant as we were to be caught in the storm.

  Just as the rain began to spatter about us, we rounded a corner and there before us was a shed! It was not in good repair and we weren't sure what its use had been in the past; but it was shelter, and Wynn turned off the rutted track, heading the team quickly for it.

  "Run in before you get soaked, Elizabeth," he urged, helping me down from the wagon seat. I did not stop to argue.

  Wynn hastened to unhitch the team and then he was there, bringing the horses right in with him. He moved them to the far end of the shed and tied them to a peg in the wall. A loud crack of thunder made me jump and the horses whinney in fright. Now the rain came in sheets. I had never seen it rain so hard.

  The shelter we had found was in no way waterproof. We had to watch where we stood in order to prevent the rain from running down our necks.

  There was one spot along the south wall where it seemed to be quite dry. Wynn pointed to it and suggested we sit there to wait out the storm. The building had a dirt floor and again I was glad that I still wore the pants. We sat on the floor and leaned against the wall of the building. Outside the angry storm continued to sweep about us, flashing and booming as it passed over our heads.