Chapter 12
John opened his eyes and gazed up at the hazy starlit sky. Bristles of grass massaged the skin between his fingers.
“Well,” a woman’s voice boomed, “look who just woke up!” She leaned over him. To his blurry vision, she looked like a bouncer — bulky and imposing. Standing up straight, she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Cynth, get over here!”
“Be right there, Doris,” a voice in the distance called back.
The woman — Doris — looked back down at him.
“Pretty nuts, what you did over there,” she said. “Your feet dug nearly a half foot deep into the ground.”
Pushing his palms against the ground for leverage, John sat up. He looked over to this right. The smoldering chicken coop was there, resting on its side. The fire hadn’t yet burnt out completely, but the remains were far enough away to no longer threaten Pierre’s cabin.
“We all thought you were gonna order the tvapas to back up a step or two. You know, make them do the grunt work,” Doris said. “But no siree, you pulled the whole damn building over by yourself. The wood snapped and splintered, and then boom!” She clapped for emphasis. “The entire building came crashing over.”
“It was quite a show,” said an approaching voice — Cynthia. She gave John a stern look. “Though I wasn’t impressed by the part where you heaved your guts out.”
John shrugged. Then he opened and shut his jaw, tilted his head back and forth, and stretched to make sure everything felt alright.
“You ladies know who started the fire?” he asked.
Doris jumped at the opportunity to answer. “Oh, I’ll tell you who! It was that Ramses boy. I’m sure of it. We thought he was gone for good, but he just keeps coming back to slather it on.”
“Ramses? Give me a break,” Cynthia said. “That kid probably got himself eaten by a bear three steps outta town. What makes you think he’d do this?”
Doris stuck out her chin and put her hand on her hips, giving them a little wiggle.
“I can feel it in my bones,” she said, beaming with pride.
With a snort, Cynthia crossed her arms and doubled over, visibly restraining herself from bursting into laughter.
“You and your bones,” she said. “Is this like the time your dog disappeared and you thought a wolf had gotten him? Turned out he’d just decided life was better at the Jensen’s house.” She wiped away a tear. “Or that other time, when —”
“Who is Ramses?” John asked, cutting her off.
Doris straightened and prepared to answer, when another voice chimed in.
“Ramses left, oh, about ten months back,” the familiar voice said. “Ambitious — overly so, I’d say. Thought he could do better out on his own.”
John looked toward the voice. It was Pierre, approaching the group.
“I’m with Cynthia on this one,” Pierre continued. “Nobody has caught even a whiff of him since he left. Frankly, unless he joined another community, I’d be surprised if he made it through the winter.” He paused for a moment, shaking his head. “Smart kid, just too big for his britches.”
John looked up at Pierre. It struck him that he was sitting on the ground, like a kid with three adults hovering around. As he pulled back a leg and started pushing himself up, Cynthia held her hand against his shoulder to restrain him.
“Whoa there, cowboy! Where do you think you’re going?” she said.
Ignoring her question, John shrugged off her hand and stood up.
“Cowboy, huh?” John said, grinning as he mulled over the word. “Well, you should know — a cowboy’s work is never done.”
“You’re still going to go to Sawbill Lake tomorrow?” Pierre asked.
“I said I would, and I do what I say — always,” John replied.
Pierre smiled gently. The old man’s body looked tired from the night’s events, but his eyes glistened with renewed vigor.
“After seeing what you did tonight … well, I’m sure you won’t let us down,” he said, giving John a big wink. “Make sure to take good care of Nathan.”
“Sure thing,” John said.
“Sawbill Lake? What’s he gonna do at Sawbill Lake?” Doris asked.
“Doris, Pierre — could I have a moment with my patient?” Cynthia said.
“Hey, why is he going to Sawbill Lake? I wanna know,” Doris said in protest.
Pierre gently reached for her arm. “I’ll explain everything,” he said, leading her away.
Cynthia looked at John sternly. “How do I know you aren’t gonna pass out again tomorrow, right when the kidnappers start shooting at you? I didn’t spend half a week fixing you up just to send you back into danger.”
John shrugged.
“I have a job to do,” he said. “Danger comes with the territory.”
“I get that, but aren’t you being reckless?” Cynthia said, putting her hands on the waist of her thin dress. For the first time, John noticed how slender she was.
“How does that arm of yours work, anyhow?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” John muttered through his beard.
“You don’t know?” she asked. “I just saw you rip down a chicken coop and you tell me you don’t know how you did it?”
John scowled. “You wanna know what I know?” he snarled. “I know I lost my arm in combat, and when I woke up, I found this godforsaken piece of techno-crap attached to my shoulder!” He shook his left arm in the air.
Cynthia frowned — then she slapped him across the cheek.
“We’ve all lost things — husbands, wives, children, friends — and you’re sulking because you lost your arm? Not to mention got a replacement that just saved our village from burning down,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. “Be grateful for what you have, John.”
John stood mute, watching her blue dress flutter as she turned to walk away. What had he done to deserve that? He rubbed at his cheek. He imagined he’d have had a red mark if it weren’t for his beard. Shaking his head, he started back toward his tent.
Chapter 13
Nathan ambled from his house to the Frontier View Co-op, guiding one of Cynthia’s tvapas — a brown one with white speckles. The early morning light poured into his eyes, obscured only by the wispy clouds that crawled across the azure sky. It was perfect weather for traveling.
The single tvapa pulled a cart that Nathan had borrowed from Cynthia. It had waist high wooden wheels on either side of a square platform that his canoe rested on. Ropes held the canoe to the cart, fastened with trucker’s hitches to metal brackets on either side of the platform. Two telescoping beams extended from the cart, serving as its tongue. Nathan had adjusted them so the bow and stern of the canoe would balance evenly over the cart. Leather straps affixed to the tongue were tied around the neck and back of Cynthia’s tvapa. It was possible to jury-rig the cart so that multiple tvapas could pull it, but one pack animal would suffice for transporting a canoe to Sawbill Lake.
The canoe itself had long since lost its metallic shine. The aluminum body had a dull matte texture, thanks to scrapes and dents accumulated over time. Despite its appearance, Nathan imagined the canoe would serve him for many years to come — it would take a high impact puncture to breach the hull.
He had placed the canoe keel side down so that he could place gear inside — paddles, the map, his Remington 870, and a blue backpack full of odds and ends.
The sun was just peeking out from above the trees as he arrived at the Co-op — right on time. Yet John was nowhere to be found. Strange, he thought. He’d expected that the bearded man would arrive first.
As he waited, the Co-op’s manager, Tom — a lanky, middle-aged man wearing a beige cowboy hat — strolled in, whistling as he rounded the corner of the building. He selected one of the many keys on his key ring and inserted it in the Co-op’s blue door. He smiled at Nathan, greeting him with an upward nod.
“Hey there, Nathan — heading to Sawbill Lake I hear?” he said, turning t
he key in the lock.
“That’s right,” Nathan answered, surprised that Tom had heard the news.
“With that bearded guy, right?” Tom said. “He’s really something else.”
“He is?” Nathan asked.
“Anyway, I wouldn’t want to hold you up,” Tom said, taking one step inside the store. “Just let me know if you need anything.” With a wave and a smile, he stepped inside and closed the wooden door.
What is he talking about? Nathan wondered as he stared at the door. Had Pierre gossiped to the whole town about the ransom note?
“Good morning, kid,” said a voice from behind. Nathan spun around and saw John. The bearded man was wearing the same dark blue flannel shirt and jeans he’d had on the day before, along with a bulky green pack on his back.
“Why’re you late?” asked Nathan.
John raised an eyebrow, then went to the canoe and swung his pack into the center of the boat.
“You’re a heavy sleeper, aren’t you?” he said.
“Am I?” Nathan asked, tilting his head to one side as he pondered the question. He didn’t see the connection, though he was known to fall into a long slumber from time to time — Emiko called it “hibernation.”
“You’ll see,” John said. His lips curved up into a sly grin and his eyes twinkled playfully. “I trust that you packed the things we talked about?”
“You bet,” Nathan said, giving a single, affirming nod.
“Then let’s go,” said John. “You lead the way.”
Nathan tugged at the rope attached to the tvapa’s muzzle, and the heavy beast jerked its antlered head upward, lumbering forward one hoof at a time. Tvapas were slow but steady — assuming no setbacks, they’d arrive at Sawbill Lake in four or five hours.
John trotted to catch up with Nathan, meeting his stride and walking slightly behind. The pair walked past the rows of cabins as they went on their way to the trail out of town. As they approached Pierre’s cabin, John pointed over to his right.
“Take a look back there,” he said.
Nothing looked unusual, until Nathan noticed the burnt grass and the charred remains of Pierre’s chicken coop behind the cabin. He blinked a few times in disbelief before accepting what his eyes saw.
“What happened?” Nathan asked.
“Patience, kid,” John said. “It’ll be a good story for the road.”
***
Nathan and John followed the wide, unpaved road northward. A light wind blew through spruce and birch trees that hung overhead, as their boots trampled the weeds that had encroached upon the gravel path. Prior to the Desolation, the road would have been populated with travelers at this time of year — people heading up to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area for a chance to get away from civilization. Now it served as a reminder of a bygone era, a time when there was actually a world to escape from.
Every so often they would pass a sign proudly declaring the area a WILDERNESS, in bold uppercase letters. Nathan understood the concept of “wilderness” — he’d grown up in the Twin Cities, a metropolitan area that had been inhabited by millions, until he was eight — and yet the signs struck him as other-worldly, like part of a cruel, twisted joke. The Boundary Waters remained unchanged, but the wilderness now extended to his front door.
After they had put some distance between themselves and Frontier View, John told Nathan about his chicken coop adventure. The roaring heat, the townspeople throwing buckets of water at it, and then how he brought it all crashing down. John seemed to enjoy sharing the tale, speaking at length without any encouragement from Nathan.
After John finished, he didn’t utter another word for an hour or two. The silence broke when John stopped in his tracks and gazed up at the lush greenery overhead, spying something imperceptible to Nathan. He pulled out his revolver, aimed carefully with both hands, then cocked and fired. After the shot rang out, he cut through the trees and underbrush to look for his prize. When he reappeared, he was carrying a squirrel by the tail.
“Lunch,” he said with a smirk as he threw the carcass in the canoe. A short while later he repeated the feat, bringing back a second squirrel. After he tossed it into the canoe, he spun the revolver around his finger, then held it in his palm to show Nathan.
“This is a Colt Single Action Army — the Peacemaker,” said John, flicking his wrist to swing the cylinder open. “Chambers six bullets, but unless you’re in the heat of combat, you only put in five. There’s no safety, so if you keep a bullet in the top chamber, it’s liable to shoot you in the leg as you’re walking around.” He flipped the cylinder shut and handed the butt of the revolver to Nathan.
Nathan examined the ivory on the grip and the silvery barrel — well worn and dull, just like his aluminum canoe. The gun felt light in his hand, belying its imposing appearance.
“Where did you get it?” Nathan asked.
“I found it a couple years ago in an abandoned home, while I was wandering through Quebec. Been at my hip ever since,” John said, patting at his empty holster. “It doesn’t shoot the fastest or have the truest aim, but it’s reliable — even in the rain and snow — and easy to maintain.”
Nathan returned the revolver to John, who promptly returned it to its holster. Somehow, he’d expected a longer history between the man and his weapon.
“Why were you in Quebec?” he asked.
“Because I wanted to get out of Maine,” John replied.
Nathan waited a moment for John to say more, but the bearded man didn’t elaborate. The pair continued walking northward in silence, the summer buzz of the forest serving as their soundtrack.
***
The sun was at its apex when John and Nathan arrived at the south end of Sawbill Lake. John gazed out at the calm expanse of water. It was a windless day and the sun reflected clearly off the lake’s smooth surface. He watched as Nathan unhitched the tvapa from the cart and tied it up to the trunk of a sturdy white pine. Meanwhile, John fetched his knife from his backpack.
“I’ll prepare the meat. Could you grab some sticks and start a fire?” he asked.
“You’re not worried about the smoke? Won’t the kidnappers know we’re here?” asked Nathan.
“Doesn’t matter — they’ll be expecting us, anyway,” John said.
Nathan shrugged. “Alright.”
John looked on as the kid wandered off into the woods, then he began skinning one of the squirrels. He started by laying it on the ground and slicing its belly open. As his hands worked, his thoughts turned elsewhere.
The kid had made for a solid partner so far. Nathan asked good questions, listened well, and didn’t give John any grief. Still, the real test would come when they neared the kidnappers’ outpost. Would Nathan be able to maintain his cool then?
John set his knife aside, ripped the entrails out of the squirrel — careful not to squeeze the bladder, as that could ruin the meat — and tossed them in the lake. Better the lake than the woods, he thought — less likely to attract bears, not to mention wolves and bobcats.
He picked up his knife and cut off the squirrel’s head, limbs, and tail in quick succession. Then he flipped it over again and made an incision across the rodent’s back, allowing him to peel off the skin. After setting it down, he repeated the process on the other squirrel.
Nathan returned with a bundle of sticks, which he arranged in a teepee shape in order to create a cooking fire.
Once John finished filleting the second squirrel, he rinsed the chunks of meat in the lake then placed them in the bow of the canoe. The fire would take a while to become hot, so in the meantime he went to find a couple thin sticks with which to skewer the squirrel meat. When he returned, Nathan had the fire at a steady burn. After roasting their squirrels over the fire, John and Nathan tore into the tender, nutty meat.
John finished first and tossed his skewer stick into the small fire.
“Alright kid, finish up, then we’ll do some planning and recon,” he said.
Nathan took one la
st bite, then wiped his mouth with his wrist. He grabbed the map and unfolded it on the ground in front of John.
“These are all the lakes in the area,” Nathan said, pointing to a blue area on the map. “We’re here — Sawbill Lake. Frontier View is down here.” He dragged his finger south until it reached the edge of the map.
“Frontier View’s not on the map?” John asked.
“This map was printed before the Desolation,” Nathan replied. “Though Frontier View would fall to the south of it anyway.”
Sounds like the kid knows his stuff, John thought. “Alright, where is their outpost?” he asked.
“It’s not marked on the map either. The note said on the north end, right?” Nathan said, tracing his finger up the long, narrow lake. At the top, it forked east and west into two small bays. “It could be at either one of these locations,” he said with a frown.
“What’s this red line?” John asked, pointing at a line extending from the northeast bay.
“It’s a portage,” Nathan replied.
“A portage?” John asked.
“Yeah, it’s what they call the trails that connect lakes together,” Nathan answered. “Many date from the French and British fur trapping days.”
“I imagine the outpost would be there — easier access,” John said.
Nathan pointed to the northwest bay, which lacked any defining marks. “Not here?” he asked.
John took a moment to consider — was there any way to determine the outpost’s location? No, not with any certainty — their plan would have to be flexible. He carefully eyed the map one more time.
“Here’s the plan,” he said, pointing to an island in the center of the lake, nearly as wide as the lake itself. “We’ll paddle up to this island and use it as cover. As long as we’re behind it, anybody on the north end of the lake won’t be able to see us.”
“What if they have a sentry on the island?” Nathan asked.
“I’m assuming we’re dealing with a fairly small crew. A large group of crooks wouldn’t bother with kidnapping — too much effort for a non-guaranteed payday. Get more than a handful of men together and you’re better off robbing a bank,” John said.
The Northland Chronicles: A Stranger North Page 7