The Northland Chronicles: A Stranger North

by Henry J. Olsen

  “Think so?” Pierre said. “Say, did you hear the truth about the coop?”

  John raised an eyebrow — last he’d heard, the villagers thought Ramses had burned it down.

  “Turns out,” Pierre continued, “that my neighbor’s kid was playing with an old Zippo lighter inside and accidentally started a pile of wood chips on fire. Confessed to it this afternoon. He’s gonna make it up to me by doing some chores and field work. Claims he wasn’t the one taking the chickens though.”

  “I think the boys on Sawbill Lake were responsible for that,” John said.

  “That right? Say, wanna lead another rescue team?” Pierre said with a wink.

  John groaned, shaking his head.

  “Sounds like fun to me,” Nathan’s voice exclaimed as he strolled over to join the conversation, ceramic mug in hand.

  “Aren’t you too young to be drinking?” John asked.

  “Oh, this?” Nathan said, raising his mug. “Just water.”

  “Is Emiko doing alright?” asked Pierre.

  “Yeah, she’s still … Emiko. Still making messes, still leaving her bed unmade, still …” Nathan trailed off with a sigh. Then he perked up and looked at John. “Say, when are we heading to Mallard Island?”

  “We?” said John. He hadn’t planned on bringing company.

  “Won’t you need a guide?” Nathan asked. “I found the island on a map — looks like it’s best if we cut south through Duluth before heading north again.”

  “I work better alone.” John said. “Besides, it’s none of your business.”

  “Gotcha,” Nathan said, slumping his shoulders and hanging his head. The three stood in silence for a moment, listening to the guitarist’s heavy strumming.

  “But what if you lose consciousness again?” Pierre asked John, breaking the silence.

  That’s a good question, thought John as he rubbed his bearded chin. He hadn’t passed out recently, but he still didn’t fully understand the nature of his blackouts.

  “What do you suggest?” he asked.

  Silently, Pierre tilted his head sideways, toward downtrodden Nathan.

  He wants me to bring the kid? John wondered. Did Pierre understand the danger involved? Nathan was certainly brave — braver than he gave himself credit for — but he wasn’t much of a fighter. Then again, John considered, the old man told me that at the beginning, right here in this bar. Maybe he knows something I don’t …

  “Alright kid,” he finally said. “I’ll consider it.”

  “Really?” Nathan’s eyes lit up like two spotlights, cutting through the poorly lit tavern. “Pierre, you’ll look out for Emiko?”

  “Of course,” Pierre said with a nod.

  “Hey now, you can’t pull the trigger before the hammer’s cocked,” warned John. “I said I’d think about it — nothing more.”

  “Thanks John,” Nathan said with a big grin, before turning to go talk with another group of friends that had formed near the bartender’s counter.

  John shook his head. What had he gotten himself into?

  “You’ll appreciate having him along — I’m sure of it,” Pierre said, patting John on the shoulder. “And I appreciate it too. Nathan needs to see that there’s more to this world than just our little village.”

  “You’re not worried about him?” John asked.

  Pierre looked across the tavern at Nathan, then raised the glass of beer to his lips and took a hearty sip. “I feel the winds of change coming,” he said, “and I know they’ll blow into Frontier View sooner or later, no matter how much we try to keep them at bay.”

  “Are you talking about Ramses?” John asked.

  Pierre didn’t reply immediately. He took a final sip of his beer then set the glass down on a nearby table.

  “No,” he said. “I’m not afraid of Ramses. But I am afraid of whoever emboldened him. Nathan said Ramses was espousing the virtues of law and order. Those certainly aren’t ideals he discovered on his own in the wilderness.”

  John shrugged. “What’s wrong with a little order?”

  “Nothing,” Pierre said, looking John straight in the eye, “unless you’re the one being ordered around.”

  John nodded gently in agreement with the old man. Still, what I wanna know is: how did that punk kid know about my arm? He hoped Mallard Island would provide the answer.

  A Message from Henry J. Olsen

  You've almost finished A Stranger North. Considering you've made it this far, I'd like to thank you for taking a chance on this unproven author. I hope you've enjoyed the journey.

  I'm here to tell you that this is the free version of the book. (Don't worry — aside from the inclusion of this message it's identical to the retail version in every way.) By free, I mean not only free of charge, but also that I want it to travel across the internet freely. And to that end, I'd appreciate if you could help me in one of two ways (or better yet, both!):

  Write a review of A Stranger North. Post it on Amazon, Goodreads, your blog, or wherever else you'd like.

  Share this book. Pass it on to your friends, your grandma, your babysitter, or hell, give copies to your entire book club. Sharing it with one friend is great; sharing it with five thousand is even better.

  Why am I asking this favor of you? I ask because your support is more valuable to me than any royalties I would have received had you purchased this copy of A Stranger North. For while I'll admit that, yes, I'd like to profit from my work, I see this copy not as a sale lost but rather as a reader gained. (Also, I honestly just love reading reader reviews of my books— if you post one on Amazon or Goodreads, I guarantee I will read it, be it the tenth review or the thousandth one.)

  So, after you finish, please take a moment and help me out. I'm just a small fry in this big, big industry, and thus every recommendation really does make a difference.

  Finally, don't be afraid to get in touch. Hit me up via my blog (simplyunbound.com) or via e-mail (henry@simplyunbound.com). I'd love to hear from you.

  Now, how about we see what our friend Ramses is up to ...

  Chapter 20

  For two days Ramses had run north, seeking a place to regroup after losing everything at Sawbill Lake. Though he’d been waiting inside the outpost during the battle outside, he’d seen much of the action through a window. He’d witnessed Dwayne taking a bullet through the eyes and Barry’s hopeless attempt to fend off the black bear. He didn’t visually confirm Jeremiah’s death, yet he saw no reason to doubt Osborne’s word. The bearded man was like a machine, whose gears churned out death with the force of inevitability.

  And so he’d delivered his message and ran. His feet had carried him here, to the General’s Gunflint Lake outpost — less than a mile south of the former Minnesota-Canadian border. The day was nearly gone and the sun slowly drifted toward the western skyline, casting brilliant hues of magenta and crimson against the peaks of the trees.

  Ramses wrapped his fingers around the handle of the front door. The Gunflint Lake outpost was rather expansive. It stood two stories tall, had solar panels on its roof to provide electricity, and if Ramses’ memory served correctly, it contained an expansive cache of weapons and other supplies. In the rush to escape Osborne and Nathan, he’d left his radio behind; the General would be waiting for a report.

  Swinging the door open, he scanned the interior. The main room looked like a large one-room office. A handful of windows allowed the waning sunlight to illuminate the room and a half dozen desks lined the floor — makeshift workstations, with radios, pens, paper, and other office supplies strewn across their wooden surfaces. On the far side of the office was a staircase that led upstairs. This outpost was far more luxurious than the threadbare shack at Sawbill Lake.

  Ramses flipped the light switch near the door. After some flickering false starts, fluorescent lamps flooded the room with artificial white light. He walked to the nearest desk. A hand drawn June calendar sat on the back corner of the desk, suggesting that the soldiers stationed at thi
s outpost must have left last month. That would explain the fine dust covering the floor and desktops.

  A faint pattering noise came from above. Ramses froze and listened carefully. The sound didn’t repeat. Probably just a squirrel running across the roof, he thought, noting to look into it when he went upstairs. He spotted a radio on one of the other desks and stepped over to pick it up. As he began tuning it to the General’s frequency, he noticed a mirror on the wall.

  I look like I faced the Desolation itself, he thought as he gazed into the mirror. Streaks of brown mud marked his face, and his short hair was missing its usual luster. His ragged fatigues needed repair as well. He lifted one of the dark green sleeves and took a whiff of his underarm, immediately recoiling in disgust. Unfortunately, a bath would have to wait. He turned on the radio and relayed his message.

  “This is Private Brushnell, reporting from Gunflint Lake outpost.”

  A faint voice replied through the speaker. Ramses held the radio close to his ear — the volume control wasn’t functioning properly.

  “Could you repeat that?” Ramses said.

  “Hello, Private Brushnell — the General has been waiting for your report. I’ll patch you through to him.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ramses waited a moment.

  “This is the General.”

  “Private Brushnell speaking, sir. Reporting from Gunflint Lake outpost.”

  “I was worried we’d lost you, son.”

  “We suffered three casualties, sir. I’m the only survivor.”

  The General paused, as though observing a moment of silence.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, son. What of the mission?”

  “I communicated the information to Osborne, sir. He sounded very interested — I imagine he’ll head to Mallard Island soon.”

  “And you didn’t mention me?”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “You’ve done well, son. To stand against John Osborne and survive is no small feat. I want you to report back to HQ as soon as possible for a full debriefing. From there, we can determine what our next step will be.”

  “And what of Osborne, sir?”

  “That’s no longer your concern.”

  Ramses paused, frowning momentarily.

  “You hear me, Private?”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “I look forward to your full report. The General, over and out.”

  Ramses lowered the radio from his ear. He felt a twinge of disappointment — to this point, Osborne had been his responsibility and he felt slighted to be yanked off the case midstream. Yet he was in no position to second-guess the General. He pursed his lips as he set the radio back on the desk in front of him and glanced at the mirror again.

  He saw his reflection — and behind him a woman, with two hands clutching a large bore revolver pointed straight at his head. He froze and waited for her to speak first.

  “Hands in the air,” she ordered.

  Ramses silently obeyed, as he shot the woman an icy stare through the mirror. She had short brown hair, hidden under the hood of a red sweatshirt. Her features were soft — soft nose, large eyes, thin lips.

  “You work for the General?” she asked.

  Ramses nodded, as he continued to examine the woman for any identifying marks.

  “Who is he?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ramses replied. “I only know him as the General.” That much was true — Ramses guessed the General was ex-military, but even that was only an assumption.

  “And ‘Osborne’ — you were talking about John Osborne?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Ramses said. “You know him?”

  “You could say that,” the woman replied with a smug grin. “What’s his connection to the General?”

  Ramses paused. What was this woman after?

  “Answer the question,” the woman demanded.

  “You might say he’s the General’s strongman,” said Ramses — a lie, albeit a plausible one. She couldn’t have heard the other side of the radio conversation.

  The woman didn’t reply for a moment. Ramses noticed she had a small tattoo across her right wrist — something written in a script he couldn’t recognize.

  “And why is he going to Mallard Island?”

  “The General sent him there on business.”

  “Business?”

  “Arms project.” Ramses suppressed a smirk.

  The woman eyed him warily, tightening her grip around the revolver.

  “And what’s your next move?” she said.

  “Me? I just hope to walk away from here alive.”

  The woman glared at him. Then without another word she stepped back, away from the mirror, and her reflection disappeared from Ramses’ view. He heard the front door open then shut. After waiting cautiously for a few moments, Ramses lowered his arms.

  How could she know about the General and John Osborne, he wondered, and yet be so clueless as to the details? Thankfully, she’d readily accepted his misdirection, though he wasn’t sure he’d made the correct play. The General wanted Osborne alive … what did that woman want?

  There’s nothing I can do now, Ramses realized. Whatever she had come looking for, he’d just made it John Osborne’s problem.

  Chapter 21

  Some people in this world don’t know what do to with themselves, Aristotle thought. Watching John in Franco’s Saloon was like watching a gray wolf try to play with two Yorkshire Terriers. It just couldn’t work. Yet she had decided to let him go; to give him a chance.

  If indeed he was out causing trouble — and tangled up with the General, no less — that was on her conscience now. Her mission was to find the General himself, but that would have to wait. She was off to find out if what that soldier had said about John was true.

  Her feet carried her north through the woods, toward Ontario Highway 11. From there she’d head east to Mallard Island. If John was still a free agent, maybe she could swing him to her side. But if he was in league with the General?

  Aristotle looked down, glancing at the handcrafted revolver that rested in her holster. Could she best John Osborne in a shootout?

  She hoped she wouldn’t have to find out.

  About The Author

  Henry J. Olsen grew up as a shy kid in a small Wisconsin town. Now he travels the world and writes tales of adventure. As of June 2013, he is living in Kaohsiung, Taiwan. You can follow his adventures at:

  http://simplyunbound.com

  About The Artist

  Andrew Browne lives and works in Tokyo, Japan. You an see more of his art at:

  http://monomizer.com

  See you on Mallard Island