The Empire of Shadows

by Richard E. Crabbe

  His boats could carry three men and enough gear for weeks in the woods, travel hundreds of miles, portaging from one lake to the next. Water was the highway of the Adirondacks and boats the best way to travel. They were fast. The long oars could drive one at speeds no two paddlers could match. They were simple, elegant, their knife-edged lines pleasing to the eye.

  Mitchell liked to keep things simple, mostly because simple just seemed right. There was something in the forest that demanded simplicity. Things had a way of getting boiled down in the wilderness. The woods would get hold of a man and slow him enough so he could see the world around him, slow enough so he could see himself.

  There had been a time when alcohol had blurred Mitchell’s vision, back when his sap was high, before the word of God had gotten through. He was slower now in the ways that counted and saw himself with an unclouded eye. He saw the woods and waters as few others did. He knew his place in them and them in him.

  Sabattis settled in to wait. He lay under the boat and watched the last of his little fire flicker and die, drowned by the steady rain. The night stalked in. The roar of the falls lulled him, weighing his eyelids and loosening his limbs. Still, he waited. He’d had the waiting feeling for days, the sense that something was approaching. He closed his eyes. He’d need his rest, he figured. He’d seen sixty summers pass under the Adirondack stars. He wasn’t as young as he once was.

  “Tom’s got this Tupper fella on the run, Chief,” Chowder said as he burst into Byrnes’s office. It was barely seven o’clock, but Byrnes was already half through his first cigar. Byrnes looked up from his desk with a frown wreathed in smoke. He hated when Chowder didn’t knock first. It set a bad example for the rest of the men. Byrnes flicked the ash off his cigar and held out a hand for the telegram. Though he was happy to get the news, he’d be damned if he’d give Chowder any encouragement.

  “Got in last night,” Chowder said as he handed it over.

  Byrnes read in silence. “Sounds like he’s got his hands full.” He looked up at Chowder and grinned. It was not a pleasant sort of smile, and Chowder knew what was coming. “Pack what you need and get up there, Kelly. I want this bastard back in a box or in irons. Don’t care which.”

  Chowder Kelly threw out his chest and did his best, snappy salute. “Sir!” he said before turning and marching out the door.

  “And close my goddamn…” Byrnes said as Chowder disappeared, leaving the door wide open. “Sonofabitch!” Byrnes said, blowing smoke. Still, he grinned in a rueful sort of way.

  “Too close to retirement to teach that bastard any respect,” he mumbled. Byrnes didn’t really mind. Chowder was worth two of any of the rest of his men, but he could be a burr under his saddle, too. A little time stomping about the woods would do him some good.

  Twenty-One

  Man is nothing here, his very shouts die on his lips.

  —JOEL T. HEADLEY

  “I can’t see the boats,” Tom said as he craned to see around the branches. “Damn! I think they’re gone!” It was finally light enough to make things out through the mists that the sun had yet to burn off the lake. They could see a bit of their camp and pewter-gray slices of water, but not much more. “To hell with this,” Tom said. My ass is so damn sore, I don’t give a shit if it gets shot. I’m going down.” He heard a click as Mike thumbed back the hammer on the Winchester.

  Tom climbed down slowly. His stiff limbs and back wouldn’t allow for any fast moves. He stopped at each descending branch, scanning the dripping forest. He saw nothing, but continued at a careful pace, dropping to the ground at last, his pistol ready and his back to the wide trunk.

  “C’mon slow, Mike,” Tom called in a hoarse whisper. “Watch your footing.”

  Mike was down a couple of minutes later.

  The boats were gone. Tom and Mike stood at the shore for a long moment, staring out at the empty lake. Nothing moved in any direction. No other boats could be seen, no steamers, no guides, nothing.

  “Shit,” Tom muttered. “Looks like we’ve got some walking to do.”

  They checked the camp. It seemed undisturbed at first, but on closer inspection Tom found that most of their provisions were gone. “Bastard cleaned us out,” Tom said. Mike just looked about, his hands gripping the stock of the rifle so hard his knuckles were white.

  “How could he do this?” Mike asked, shivering in his damp clothes. “I didn’t hear anything, didn’t see anything. It’s like he could fly or something.”

  Tom grinned, though there was nothing funny about what Mike had said. “How was it we were the ones up in the tree then?” he said, trying to ease Mike’s nerves. “Tupper’s no bird,” he went on, “though I’ll admit there’s some evidence to the contrary. Trouble is, we’re in his element, and as long as we are…,” Tom said, trailing off, not needing to finish the thought.

  “Figured with Busher we’d have an even chance. Now…” Tom gestured in the direction where their “even chance” hung with his throat cut. “Gotta see about him,” he said with a resigned sigh.

  They cut the guide down, easing his body onto the blood-soaked carpet of leaves. Mike, whose hands started to shake when he first saw Busher’s gaping throat, managed to steady himself and carry on much like Tom did. Mike didn’t want to let his father down, not even in this.

  They wrapped Busher’s body in a blanket, then collected enough stones to cover him. Without a shovel it was the best they could do.

  “Keep the animals from taking him, at least,” Tom said when they were done, though he wasn’t so sure of that.

  They collected their remaining gear, dividing it between them. There wasn’t all that much, and very little of it food. They searched the shoreline, hoping the boats had only been cut loose and had drifted away.

  They were on a long, wide finger of land that jutted out into the lake opposite the carry from Raquette. The lake ran in a long bay to the east for what looked like two or three miles. To the north the lake disappeared behind ragged peninsulas that hid bays of untold size. What appeared to be the north end was at least two miles off. Though they trudged and scrambled about for what seemed like miles, they found nothing. They stopped finally at a low, wide marsh that blocked their way.

  “Damn,” Tom said, shielding his eyes to look into the distance. “Long hike to get around this.”

  It was an area of muddy pools, tall grasses, and thick cattails, bordered by dense stands of brush. A lone heron, standing like a statue on long orange legs, was all they could see. “We’re not gonna find them. My guess is he either sunk them or towed them across.”

  “Either way, they’re no good to us,” Mike said. “Anybody live out here? Haven’t seen a thing all morning.”

  “Thought I heard Frederick say something about building a house out here. Can’t recall if he’d actually done it. Tell you the truth, I think we’re better off going back to the carry. More likely to find someone there.”

  Mike nodded, looking at the impenetrable marsh and the surrounding army of trees. “Beats wandering around.”

  There was a whining buzz then that seemed to pass between Tom and Mike, followed by the boom of a rifle. Tom was down on the ground in an instant, the Colt in his hand. Mike stood where he was frowning down at Tom.

  “Get down!” Tom shouted. Mike awoke from his stupor and crouched as a second shot whistled where his head had been.

  “Where? Where’s it coming from?” Mike said. There was fear in his voice now. “Don’t know,” Tom said. “Maybe somewhere off that way.” He pointed toward the forest away from the marsh. “He’s got us caught.” Another shot snicked through the branches above them.

  “Did you see anything that time?” Mike asked.

  “Thought I saw something the top o’ that little hill,” Tom said, pointing the Colt. Another shot sent up a shower of earth and leaves an inch from Tom’s shoulder, throwing dirt in his eyes. Tom shouted in surprise and pain.

  “That’s him!” Mike said as Tom rolled to his left,
pawing at his eyes. Tom heard Mike’s Winchester boom three times in quick succession. Tom could barely see Mike through the dirt and tears.

  “Dad, you okay?” Mike shouted. “You’re not shot, are you?”

  “No, I’m okay, just got some dirt in my eyes,” Tom said, still struggling to clear them. He was seeing double out of the right one, which had gotten the worst of it. “See him? Hit anything?” Tom said, trying to see up the hill.

  “Don’t know,” Mike said. Think I might have flushed him. They waited in silence straining to see. Tom couldn’t get his right eye to clear. It felt like a small boulder had lodged under the upper lid. He looked around, measuring the terrain and the safest avenue of escape.

  “Mike, we gotta get better cover.” He was looking at the marsh, with its thick border of brush and cattails. “We get in there, he won’t be able to see us. We work our way down his flank, come at him from the west.”

  Mike just nodded, though with a twist of his mouth that said he wasn’t happy about the prospect of wading through the muddy tangle. There hadn’t been another shot in a couple of minutes. Mike began to relax and he lifted his head to see up the hill.

  “Maybe I hit him,” he said. There was no sound except the breeze.

  “Stay down!” Tom said. “No way to be sure. Listen, you fire a couple shots up there, I’ll run for the marsh. When I whistle, I’ll cover you from there, okay?”

  Tom rolled into a crouch and gave Mike a nod. The Winchester boomed and Tom was off at a run. The Winchester boomed again as he crashed through the heavy brush. But it caught at him and tripped him, and he went down on one knee. He thought he heard another shot buzz by him, but he couldn’t be sure. He kept going as the Winchester boomed again. He dropped behind a heavy clump of cattails, his legs in the black water. A shot ripped through the cattails somewhere to his left but not close.

  “Mike,” Tom called.

  “Yeah?”

  “Stay low!” Tom checked the Colt for mud or any other obstructions, then rose up and fired. The Colt barked as he sprayed the woods, trying to place each shot in a slightly different location, hoping that one would be close enough to keep Tupper’s head down. Mike came crashing through the brush a moment later. There wasn’t any answering fire.

  Mike was breathing hard as he splashed down beside Tom. They both crouched low, up to their waists in water. Tom peered along the fringe of the marsh. “We keep along here, behind the brush,” he said, pointing, “then come out maybe a quarter mile down. Work our way up the hill and come at him from the side and rear.” Mike just nodded.

  They started moving, keeping well separated and staying low. They waded through black, stinking water, sometimes sinking to their knees in sucking mud. They scrambled over logs and boulders. They swatted at mosquitoes and deer flies that swarmed up in clouds at every step. All the while Tom rubbed at his eye. There were no more shots. Nothing but silence followed them.

  It took half an hour to work their way through the marsh to a spot where Tom thought it would be safe to reenter the woods. They stopped at a large deadfall, a tree that had fallen into the marsh, its branches forming a nearly impenetrable tangle. Beaver had chewed some of the branches.

  “Okay. I’ll go out this way,” Tom said, pointing along the trunk of the tree. “You come out a little further down. Give me a few minutes. I’ll whistle when I think it’s clear.”

  Tom pushed his way through the tangle of brush, branches, and cattails, disappearing in a few yards. Mike waited until the noise of his passage lessened, figuring he’d passed through the worst of the tangle. When he didn’t hear any firing he started to move around to the other side of the deadfall. He waded around the ends of the branches. The water was deeper there, coming up above his waist. He had to hold the Winchester up to keep it dry.

  Mike was nearly around and getting into shallower water, when his feet caught on some submerged branches. His left foot slid between two and he fell forward. His foot twisted as he went, locking it in. Mike was under water before he realized what had happened. He tried to get his feet under him but he couldn’t kick free. He pushed up from the muddy bottom, but the best he could do was get his nose above the water. Panic set in quickly. His feet thrashed.

  He twisted onto his back, hoping to work free, but all that did was send a searing pain up from his ankle that had him screaming under water, gulping for air and getting only liquid. He lunged up for another gulp of air but sank back as he sucked in water with it, choking and coughing, taking in more and more water with each passing second. Mike fought with everything that was in him, reaching down to pull at the branches that gripped his ankle.

  He dropped the rifle to fight with both hands. His leg screamed as the skin was torn on the rough bark. He lunged for another gulp of air but he was weakening and barely got a mouthful. He grabbed the branches and thrashed like a madman, but they were too strong, still supple from being under water. With a final lunge, he tried to call for help, but managed only a strangled gurgling before he sank below the surface again.

  He couldn’t breathe. His lungs were full. The black water filled with mud choked off the last of his consciousness and he started to relax, sinking to the bottom as the last of his sight narrowed to a pinpoint. His oxygen-starved brain flashed brilliant images in bursts of color, Tom, Mary, ’Becca, his fight with the bow tie man on the Lower East Side, a cat he kept when he was little, Lettie’s hair with the sun shining through.

  Nothing.

  Mike didn’t feel the hand that grabbed him, didn’t know how he’d been pulled from the water. His first conscious thought was of pain, as a rough stub of cattail dug into his cheek. More pain followed, as coughing and retching wracked him. Water spewed out of his mouth along with everything he’d eaten in his entire life. He curled into a ball, gasping and retching, unaware of who had saved him or how.

  When at last he opened his eyes enough to focus, he looked up at a face he’d never before seen. The face was small and deeply furrowed. Like an old, brown glove or a carving in well-aged wood, the visage was creased and worn. There was a steadiness, a constancy about it, almost as if the mountains had taken human form. It was an Indian face. It looked at him from under the brim of a small round hat, almost like a yarmulke the Jews on Hester Street wore, except with a narrow brim. The Indian grunted and smiled.

  Tom had scouted ahead into the forest, sliding from tree to tree, keeping low but still blinking and rubbing his eye. It was running tears like a leaky faucet and still feeling like something had lodged under the lid. He went perhaps fifty yards, taking a long sweep across their front. He didn’t see or hear anything.

  Working his way back to the area where he expected Mike to emerge from the marsh he crouched waiting. He planned their next movements while he checked the Colt once more, breaking open the cylinder and looking down the barrel. A bit of dirt, a twig, a piece of marsh grass was all it might take to jam it or even blow it up in his hand. He had it back together in thirty seconds, but by then was wondering where Mike was.

  He figured he’d be behind him by no more than a couple of minutes. Tom started to scan the marsh and the dense brush, taking his eyes off the forest. He didn’t want to risk calling. Impatience and worry mixed in him as the seconds ticked by. With a final glance over his shoulder at what he hoped was the empty forest, he started to push his way back into the marsh. As he fought through the broad border of brush, he became more worried.

  Had Tupper taken to the water, paddling up on Mike through the narrow channels? Tom doubted it, but the fact that he hadn’t considered the possibility before made it seem all the more plausible. Tom was sweating heavily within seconds, the exertions of his struggle through the brush and tall grasses adding to his anxiety. He tried to run, grunting with the effort of fighting the clutching branches. His clothes tore. Scratches marked his face and arms and hands. He held tight to the Colt as he bulled through, tripping and thrashing.

  He burst through at last and slid into waist-dee
p water before he could stop himself. The first thing he saw as he slid down the muddy bank was an Indian standing over Mike not more than ten yards away. Tom slid to a stop, the Colt held on the man with both hands.

  “Stop!” Tom said in heaving, breathless growl, though he wasn’t sure exactly what the Indian should stop doing. Tom saw the shotgun, held in the crook of an arm.

  “Hello,” the man said, seemingly unconcerned about the pistol pointed at his middle. “You need help.” It was not a question but a statement of fact, a distinction not lost on Tom. “Heard the shooting.”

  “It’s okay,” Mike choked out. “Saved me.” Mike couldn’t finish as a series of wet coughs had him holding his middle and spitting up more water. Tom noticed the boat for the first time, noticed, too, that the man was drenched and dripping.

  “Fished the boy out. Pretty near drowned in there,” he said with a look at the black water.

  Mike nodded with an emphatic shake of his head, though he still choked and coughed.

  “Skittish for sports,” the Indian said, as he looked at the pistol Tom held on him, the man’s shotgun never wavering from its rest.

  The Winchester, Tom noticed, lay beside Mike. Tom took a hard look at the man. It was clearly not Tupper. This man was older, shorter, and of slighter build. Tom let his pistol drop to the grass. “We’ve got our reasons,” he said, but when the Indian didn’t ask, he went on, “I’m Tom Braddock. This is my son, Mike. Our guide’s been murdered and somebody’s been shooting at us.”

  A frown furrowed the Indian’s leathery features. The eyes sharpened. Mitchell Sabattis could remember only a handful of murders in all his years in the Adirondacks. They were a rarity, though death from other causes was common enough.

  “Your guide?” Mitchell said. There wasn’t a guide in the north country he didn’t know or had heard of. They were like family, some of them, a fraternity of men who’d chosen the way of woods and water.