“True,” Tom said, not believing it for a second, but feeling that Mary might like the notion.
“Don’t kill him, Tom,” Mary warned. She’d seen that look on his face before. “We need him alive. Mike needs him alive.”
Tom shrugged and with a dark grin and a bad rustic accent said “Awright, Ma. Ah’ll jes kill ’im a leettle bit.”
It wasn’t Chauncey Busher who rounded the corner of the hotel with Mike about fifteen minutes later, but Exeter Owens. He had his rifle gripped loosely in one hand.
“Your boy said you needed help,” he said as he strode up to Tom.
Tom nodded. “Grateful for it. Owens, wasn’t it?” Tom said extending his hand. He sketched out who he was looking for and what Littletree was suspected of.
“That ain’t Littletree, that’s Tupper!” Owens said. “Well it’s both actually. Most don’t know Littletree’s his Indian name. I just saw him a couple of days ago, not more ’n ten feet from this spot.”
“The day of the fire,” Tom said.
“That’s right. Damn! You think he killed that girl, then set the fire? What’s got into that boy? Always took him to be a bit edgy, if you know what I’m saying, but never figured him for something like this.”
“He’s edgy alright. Killed three people between New York City and here. He gives us any trouble, you shoot the sonofabitch. You okay with that?” Tom asked with an appraising squint. Owens shrugged as if it were a given.
“I want him breathing, though,” Tom added as they set off. “He’s not much use to me dead.” Owens gave him a curious look but said nothing.
“Mike, you stay here, okay? Tell your ma we’re headed for the Blue Mountain House,” Tom said over his shoulder.
“I will Dad. Be careful,” Mike called after them.
“I thought Tupper was here,” Owens said, puzzled.
“He was, but he went on to the Blue Mountain House for ice.”
“Oh,” Owens grunted as they broke into a jog toward town.
It was nearly a half hour later when Tom and Owens made their way to Merwin’s. They’d missed Tupper at the Blue Mountain House. They crossed the broad lawn, where a group of women in long, full skirts and wide hats played croquet in the afternoon sun. They were laughing and seemed to take no notice of Tom and Ex. Neither their rifles nor their haste drew a second glance. Tom went to the hotel office while Owens waited.
“He’s back that way,” Tom said as he bounded out, pointing up the ridge behind the hotel. “You ready?” Owens just nodded and checked his rifle, chambering a round and flipping the safety off.
They came upon Tupper at the back of his wagon. He’d backed it up to the icehouse door, so the horse and wagon shielded him slightly. He was chopping at a block of ice, the ice pick tossing up sparkling little sprays with each blow. Tom had a fleeting vision of the thing punching into Lettie Burman’s skull.
“Jim Tupper!” Tom said in a way that froze Tupper instantly.
Tupper looked up at Tom and Owens. Ex stood behind Tom, by the horse’s hindquarters while Tom advanced. Tupper cursed himself for ever trusting Owens. He could feel a black rage sweep through him. His vision went dark, leaving only a focused circle of brilliant light surrounding Owens and the stranger.
“I’m Tupper,” he managed to say.
“Turn around,” Tom said. “Put your hands behind—”
He never finished the sentence. A remarkable thing happened, something Tupper would not make head nor tails of for some time. Owens, who was behind Braddock, looked straight at Tupper, then kicked one of the horses with all his might. The horse reared and struck out with his hooves, startling Tom, who turned half about in surprise. It was a stupid mistake, turning his back on Tupper, the sort of thing that got a man killed, even if it was for only a split-second.
Braddock felt the impact, but did not understand that something had hit him until the earth came up to meet his face. He got his hands under him to push himself up, but the grass was turning gray and indistinct. The ground was moving. He couldn’t seem to make his arms do what he wanted. He heard a rifle boom above him, so close he was certain he’d been shot. The grass danced before his eyes. His ears rang. Tom felt something wet run down his nose. It dripped black into the gray grass.
Mary heard the shots from across the lake. They rolled like thunder. She felt them to the bottoms of her shoes. One hand went up to her mouth. Mike, who was standing beside her on the verandah saw it. No one else took notice, though there were a number of guests lounging there. Shots in the woods were not uncommon.
“Don’t worry. He’ll be fine,” Mike said. Something in Mike’s voice made Mary turn and look at him. Mike knew that it wasn’t Tom’s pistol they’d heard. He wondered if she knew, too.
“You all right?” said Owens.
“Hell no! Christ, what’d he hit me with?” Blood had stained Tom’s shirt and pants in bright streaks and blotches.
“Chunk of ice,” Owens said as he helped Tom to sit on the tailgate of the wagon. Tom didn’t bother to look around. He wasn’t seeing all that well anyway.
“You didn’t hit him.”
“Don’t think so,” Owens said. “He’s one fast sonofabitch. Off into the trees in two shakes.”
Tom heaved himself up, steadying himself with one hand. “Gotta get after him,” he said, though he wasn’t at all sure how he was going to do it.
Owens put out a hand. “Dogs,” he said. “You take it easy for a spell. I know a man’s got some fine hounds. Don’t worry,” Owens said, when it looked like Tom wanted to go after Tupper by himself. “We’ll catch him quicker with hounds than without.”
Owens headed off at a run. Borrowing a horse from the hotel stable, he galloped toward town, the horse kicking up clods of hotel lawn as he went.
Tom sat with a kerchief wrapped around his head. He held a piece of ice against it as he cursed himself for his stupid lack of attention. A small group of solicitous hotel employees and anxious guests only made him feel more bruised and self-conscious. “Contact my wife at the Prospect House. Tell her I’m all right and going after the suspect,” he said to one of the hotel staff. “Could you do that?” He didn’t want Mary to worry, though she was bound to anyway. She had been right to worry.
Tom was anxious to get going by the time he heard the dogs. Owens had been gone nearly an hour. He didn’t come back alone.
“Brought some help,” Owens said. Besides the man with the hounds, three of them, Busher and the two Duryea boys were with him. They were all heavily armed.
“Tried to keep these two from comin’,” Busher said with a nod toward the Duryeas. “They wouldn’t have none of it.” The boys just grinned. Tom shook his head but wasn’t about to argue. They were a little older than Mike at least.
“What the hell. Let’s go!”
Tupper heard the hounds baying.
When after about fifteen minutes he realized he hadn’t been followed, he had started to circle back toward the hotel. He had thought that if he could steal a horse he could get back to Pine Knot and snatch his equipment before they caught up with him. His gear was so important to him, it was worth the risk. He knew that if he had to take to the woods his life might depend on his gear.
All thoughts of going back for his equipment vanished like smoke in a gale, chased off by the baying of the hounds.
Panicked at first, Tupper set off at a run. He gave no thought to how he might elude the dogs. The terrain was rough. Fallen trees, boulders, and dense undergrowth slowed him, still he went as fast as he could. His course meandered through the forest as he navigated the barriers. The dogs, he knew, would not be slowed as much.
He plunged down a steep slope to a small, rocky stream that crossed his path. Slipping down the last few feet, he tumbled into the cold water. Getting up, he stood in the stream, the water rippling around his ankles and dripping from his clothes. He gulped air, his hands on his knees as he looked up the rocky waterbed. The hounds sounded farther off from down i
n the gully. His panic washed away a little.
“A fish leaves no tracks, Jim,” he heard his grandfather say. The voice seemed to come from somewhere up the stream, just out of reach. He followed.
Staying to the water where he could, or jumping rock to rock, he made his way up the stream. The dogs would be slowed by the water, his scent washed away. They’d be confused. He went with confidence, navigating the rocky watercourse with light, sure strides and jumps. If he could trace the stream back to its source, he might be able to hide in the water amidst a marsh or under a sheltering bank. If he could remain hidden until dark he’d disappear.
The thought encouraged him and he smiled as he went. Circling back to Pine Knot was still a goal, though, if he had to do it on foot it would be no use trying. In the time it would take to make the trip afoot, the whole region would be on the lookout for him and certainly everyone at Durant’s camp. He could not worry about that now though. Eluding the dogs came first.
Tupper was not slow, not even in the tumbled rock of the stream. He’d gone a bit more than half a mile, when he heard the baying take on a different tone. He knew the sound. The dogs had lost his scent in the water. He’d gain some distance on them, but still they were far too close. He picked up his pace. Though his chest was heaving and his lungs burning with the effort, he sprang like a deer, drawing on his inner reserves of strength and endurance, the legacies of a life in the wilderness. From time to time he listened, barely able to hear the hounds over his own breathing.
Tupper thought of Ex Owens, too. He couldn’t figure it. Ex had led them right to him then given him a chance to escape. It made no sense. The only way it seemed to add up was if Ex had somehow been forced to it. Perhaps Ex knew they already had a bead on him, he thought. It could be that Ex had come along to give him his chance if he could. It seemed to fit.
The baying of the hounds, faint now, suddenly changed tone. They’d caught his scent again. Tupper put on an extra burst of speed.
“Where’s this stream go?” Tom asked between gulps of air.
“Marsh, maybe a couple miles back o’ here. Used to be a beaver pond,” Owens said. “Might give us some trouble, he gets in there.”
Tom nodded. He knew little about hounding, but it seemed obvious how confused the dogs were when they lost the scent in the water. It had been their handler who’d got them on track again, leading them up the stream, talking to the dogs. He kept up a steady banter with the dogs, calling each by name as if they were his children.
“Pick ’im up, Buck! Atta boy. You sniff ’im out, Bear. You ain’t fooled, aire ye? Ho Daisy-girl! You show them fellers how it’s done, lassy!”
They responded to their master’s voice, spurred on by the encouragement. Still, they’d lost precious time while the dogs circled and sniffed in confusion, their noses snuffling through the leaves, over wet stones and mossy logs. It was a slow business. Tom wanted to surge ahead. He started to wade up the stream, the way he knew he would have gone if he were Tupper.
“Stay back o’ the dogs, chief,” the handler said. “Cain’t go no faster.”
“He’s right,” Owens said as the handler turned back to his children, mumbling something under his breath. The one word Tom caught was “city.”
“It’s slow now, but it’s the only sure way,” Owens added.
Tom held back. He knew that Tupper had to be widening the gap as the dogs searched for the scent.
Finally the hounds caught the scent again and started up the streambed. Their progress was fitful as the hounds lost then regained Tupper’s trail. They went on like that for maybe a mile, alternately bounding after the baying hounds, then waiting as they snuffled and growled in confusion.
After a fitful half hour of progress the dogs lost the scent entirely. They milled about, noses to the ground, making no sound but an occasional, confused yip.
“C’mon, Daisy-girl,” the handler said, encouraging the dog with a rough pat on the shoulders, “You can outsniff them two brutes any ol’ day.”
Daisy cast a doubtful eye at her master but still got back to the task, working the area in widening circles. “Damn strange,” the handler said, easing back his slouch hat to scratch at his sweat-matted hairline. “Never seen ’em lose a track like this.”
Tom felt his throbbing head as he watched the dogs. “Sure as hell he didn’t grow wings and fly away,” he said. The Duryea boys laughed. Owens didn’t, neither did Busher nor the handler. Owens stood on a large rock, his rifle in the crook of his folded arm. He scanned the forest in silence.
“Get-up there, Bear!” the handler shouted as the dog sat for a moment, looking as confused as the men. “Damnit boys, don’t sit down on me now!”
The dogs milled, casting baleful eyes at the men, their tongues dragging. They weren’t used to losing a scent either.
Looking back down the stream, Tom noticed something.
He recalled a man he’d once chased through the narrow maze of the Five Points. The fugitive had gone up a drain pipe at the end of an alley and disappeared over the rooftops, a feat that at the time had confounded Tom.
“Think we went by him,” Tom said almost to himself. He started back down the stream and stopped under an overhanging branch about a hundred feet away. Tom holstered his pistol. The others didn’t pay him much mind, especially not Owens and the dog handler.
“I’ll be damned,” one of the Duryea boys said. “Hey, Mister Owens, take a look at this,” he said, nodding in Tom’s direction.
Braddock had picked a good-size rock to stand on, and with a powerful leap grabbed the branch above him. Going hand over hand, he’d been able to get to the main trunk, swinging himself up so that when Owens and the rest turned around, they thought at first he’d disappeared.
“Havin’ fun?” Owens called with a bemused grin.
Tom didn’t answer. He clambered into the branches of a big pine while the rest watched. From there he swung into the branches of a partially fallen maple, which some recent storm had lain against the pine.
By then the handler was watching too. “C’mon, Buck! Hey, Bear! Ho, Daisy-girl!” he called. He ran to the spot where the trunk of the maple met the ground. A huge semicircle of root and dirt stood out of the forest floor. Tom was working his way down the fallen trunk when the dogs met him near the roots. In an instant they started baying again, picking up the scent where Tupper had hit the ground. Owens grinned at Tom as he jumped down from the reclining trunk.
“Not bad for a flatlander,” Owens said in a grudging way. Tom rubbed his hands on his pants, his head was pounding and his palms were scraped from the rough bark. He looked at Owens.
“I don’t hunt animals much, Mister Owens, but I do hunt men,” Tom said with a look at his raw hands. “Let’s move!”
The dogs, with the men crashing behind, were already out of sight, lost in the thick undergrowth. Tom and Owens hurried after their racket.
“My boys got a good scent now,” the handler huffed when they caught up. “Won’t be long, we’ll make up fer the time we lost.”
The ground was rising steadily the farther they went. Though they crossed another stream the trail did not vary.
“Heading for high ground,” Owens commented.
“Have ’im treed proper,” the handler added. “Looks to be headed fer Castle Rock.”
Owens grunted and wiped sweat from his eyes. “Damn fool thing,” he said.
“What the hell’s Castle Rock?” Tom asked as they stood for a moment, catching their breath.
“lt’s nowhere Tupper wants to be, Braddock. I can tell you that.”
Tupper knew well enough where he was going. He’d been there before, many years back. He and his grandfather had gone there. He remembered how they’d sat on the massive, sloping boulder at the crown, watching an eagle soar above Blue Mountain Lake far below.
“This is a place of power,” he’d been told, “a place where the spirit soars like the eagle. A man becomes light in his body in such a place,
light and strong.” There had been no hotels then, no steamboats, no electric lights.
Jim’s grandfather had been a member of the Eagle Society. He’d dreamt a soaring dream, with visions of mighty wings. To dream such a dream was the only way into the Eagle Society, that, or having been cured of illness by the rites of the society.
“The eagle is our brother,” his grandfather had told him. “If you dream as I did, you will come to know the eagle well.”
In time, Jim had dreamt of eagles and had been introduced into the mysteries and rituals of the shádotega, one of many Iroquois secret societies. He had learned the songs and the secret chants, had felt their power, and known the miracles they could perform. He would need a miracle. tain’tciade, the “heaven land,” would surely await him if he failed.
He began to chant as he ran, preparing himself and invoking the eagle’s spirit. The hounds baying in the narrowing distance were a distraction and a spur. He answered their clamor with concentrated power, adding depth and intensity to his invocations. The chants grew stronger as he went, seeming to come from deep within his burning lungs and from somewhere beyond. The fire in him was a sign, a transforming power burning inside. His legs burned, too, as he struggled up the steepening slope.
Huge boulders, thrown off the mountain in ages past, littered the forest floor. He went around them when he had to, used them when he could. The fire in his legs came to equal that in his lungs, but still he went on, never stopping, never resting. He knew the fire for what it was and believed in its power. He felt the chants work their magic.
The crown of Castle Rock loomed above him, a steep, boulder-strewn slope littered with stunted spruce packed together in thrashing masses. He climbed hand over hand, hardly slowing the pace or breaking the rhythm of his incantations. He wished he had his old gourd rattle and calumet fan with the four eagle feathers. They would be a help.
But they were no more, and his only hope lay in his burning lungs and legs and mind. The dogs closed in behind. He could hear them crashing through the undergrowth, their baying triumphant as they sensed him. Tupper’s chant reached a crescendo then stopped. It would be no ordinary man the hounds discovered.
The Empire of Shadows Page 20