by Jake Logan
“I thought you’d hurt yourself,” he said, chest pounding and standing at the door of the sauna.
She shook her head and said, “Your turn, John. Hurry, before your skin loses its urge to remain relaxed.”
He wanted to say no, but seeing her looking so happy and radiant—he’d not seen her smile so widely and fully—he found himself nodding in agreement. He strode to the end of the dock.
“Use the ladder. Lie in the snow and pull it onto yourself, roll around in it.”
He nodded and, still feeling pretty limber from the sauna, gently descended the ladder’s few steps to the pond’s surface. Without giving himself time to think about it, he collapsed into the snow pile, feeling as though it would stop his heart at any second. He forced himself to roll in it—he kept thinking of how good he was sure to feel. This was something she had just done, after all, and he was tired of feeling doted on and not able to do anything. He would do this, dammit.
But it was almost impossible. Almost. And then he found just his head above the snow. His entire body pounded and throbbed and it felt as though he were burning and freezing in the snow pile, all at once. It was agony and ecstasy, and his lungs screamed.
He forced himself up the ladder, and before he knew it, he was standing on the dock. Sigrid was wrapped in one of the large pieces of flannel, had one held open for him, too. He walked into it and felt instant relief as it wrapped around him. And despite himself, he was smiling. “Whoo!” he shouted. This was something he could get used to.
She smiled, said nothing, but clutching the flannel tight, she made sure everything in the shack was arranged so that the fire would go out of its own accord. Then she pulled on her own boots, tucked her clothes under her arm, and waited for him to do the same. They walked back to the house, the river noise slowly fading behind them.
She walked ahead of him, but was looking down at the path. He saw she still wore a smile. He was glad—so did he. Maybe he would stay awhile longer and heal up fully before deciding what to do. Surely she could use his help with something. But he knew he was wrong about that. She was the most independent woman he’d ever met, and other than what they’d just done, he doubted very much she needed anyone else in her life.
From ahead, her voice broke his reverie. “There is a storm coming,” she said softly.
“How can you tell?”
“Can’t you smell it? It’s in the air, all around us.” She smiled at him over her shoulder, the flannel sliding down to reveal just enough of her neck under her pinned-up hair and her bare, freckled shoulder. God, but she was beautiful, he thought. And then he saw movement over her shoulder, beyond the house.
He grabbed her arm. “Hold up there, Sigrid.” He nodded. “You’ve got company.”
In the middle of the clearing before the house, a dozen Indian warriors stood fanned in a semicircle. They wore furs, blankets, and snowshoes. Some carried lances, the others cradled rifles. Decorative feathers wagged and danced in the light breeze.
14
“You never said if the Indians are troublesome to you.”
“You are correct, I never said.” She smiled at him. “But they are not.”
She amazed him. She didn’t seem afraid in the least, and merely looked at them, sizing up the situation. Just like I would, thought Slocum.
They all stood like that a few moments more, the Indians watching Slocum and Sigrid, and Slocum and Sigrid doing the same to them. Slocum hated the fact that not only was he damn-near naked, he was also unarmed. That was a rare occurrence and not one he liked to think about, should things get ugly. He tried to recall everything old Whiskey Pete had told him about this band of Indians. And it wasn’t much.
“Let’s take advantage of this lull to get to the house. If they sense weakness in us, it’s possible they’ll strike.”
She actually smiled at him. “Do you think they will attack us?”
“Yeah, it’s possible.”
Slocum took the lead, edging past Sigrid. She seemed to bristle slightly at this, but he didn’t care. He felt that familiar and addictive old tingling at the base of his skull—maybe it was a residual effect of the roll in the snow. He used it as a way to move himself forward, to ignore the pain in his shoulder and leg.
He set his jaw and kept an eye on the warriors, who moved only their eyes. They watched him as he watched them, all the way to the front door of the house. What in hell could they want?
Sigrid was right behind him, but when they got into the front room, he had to close the door behind her. She didn’t act frightened in the least. What a strange woman.
“What is your relationship with this band of Cree anyway?” he said as he pulled on his clothes—slower than he would have liked—and rummaged for his guns. “Where are my Colts? My knife? My rifle and cartridges?”
“All there,” she said, pulling on a long skirt and nodding toward a stack of familiar-looking goods on a chair near his bed. “But there’s no need for violence.”
“You know that for certain?” he said, peering out the window. So far the Indians had stayed put.
“I am reasonably certain, yes, that they won’t bother us.”
“Wish I was,” he said, struggling with his boots. Before he could stop her, Sigrid had opened the front door and walked right out, no gun in hand, nothing to protect herself. She had donned her skirt, but only had the flannel covering her top half.
“What are you doing?” he shouted after her. It was then that he saw a larger, older-looking Indian, who had stood in the center of the bunch, walk forward. He carried a rifle cradled in his arms.
Sigrid walked to the end of her path. The man strode up to her, then smiled at her and put his hands on her shoulders and nodded solemnly. He stood back and spoke. When he stopped, he nodded now and again, telling Slocum that Sigrid was now speaking. This went on for a few minutes. Occasionally the old man would look toward the house and nod in Slocum’s direction. Then he repeated his smile, gripped her shoulders once more, and turned back to his fellow warriors.
Even as he watched Sigrid come toward the house, the band of warriors backed away. They seemed to disappear in the long expanse of snow and trees, almost as if a stiff breeze had blown them away. Sigrid came back into the house, closed the door behind her. She stood leaning against it, her usual smile replaced with a look of deep concern.
“Is everything all right, Sigrid?”
She looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time. “Oh, yes. I mean, not really, no. They have need of me. The chief’s daughter will soon have a baby. And there are the usual winter ills and complaints.”
“How did you come to know them? You could have told me they were your friends.”
“You did not ask. You merely assumed that because they are Indians, they are my enemies.”
Slocum nodded and felt a little foolish standing there with one boot on and his gun belt draped over his shoulder. But what she said next interested him mightily and he forgot all about his momentary embarrassment.
She dropped the flannel and rummaged in drawers built into the wall beside her curtained sleeping alcove, then pulled out a fresh shirt. “The chief also asked if I knew of a golden-haired white man in fancy clothes.”
She looked at Slocum. “He said the man had come among them more than a week ago needing help. They pretended with him that they didn’t understand English very well, but from what he told me”—she pulled on the shirt, then a sweater over the top, all the while talking to him—“he said he was being chased by a devil man. The chief wondered if that was you.” She looked at Slocum, that smile on her face again. “Are you a devil man, John Slocum?”
“Only if you are the Devil Woman of the Rockies, Sigrid.” He tried to keep his tone light, but the news of the blond stranger could only mean one thing—it was Delbert Calkins, and he might well be within reach. “What did you tell the c
hief?”
“That you are definitely not a devil. That the man must be a little crazy in the head.”
“How did he take it?”
“I don’t think he likes the man very much, nor does he trust him. But it is their way to help strangers, and so he cannot turn him away.”
“I hope they don’t tell the gold-haired fella they saw me.”
“Why is that, John?”
Now it was his turn to be cagey. He didn’t want to mix her up in this any more than he had to. So far Delbert didn’t seem to know who she was or where she was located. He’d do his best to keep it that way for as long as he was able. “So you were about to tell me more about the Indians, how you came to know them.”
“I was? How funny, I don’t remember thinking anything like that.” She smiled. “But since you asked so politely . . . Many years ago when we first moved here, my father saved the chief’s life. Ever since then they have treated me with respect, have protected me, given me gifts. In turn, I help them in whatever ways I can—medicinally mostly. They have come to regard me as a healer of sorts.”
“You do have a way about you with such things,” he said with a genuine smile on his face. He worked his grizzly-chewed shoulder in a circle, up and down, amazed that it hurt as little as it did. “Yes, ma’am, you really know your stuff. How did you come to acquire such knowledge? No, don’t tell me—your father.”
“Are you mocking me, John Slocum?”
“No, ma’am. But I am curious about your old man. How did he come to be here? I wanted to ask earlier, but I felt as though I’d be prying.”
She smiled. “And now?”
“And now I’m just plain curious. This house, this whole spread, you . . . it all seems so unlikely way up here in the Canadian Rockies.”
Her face grew serious as she began selecting various bottles and crocks from the shelves that lined the kitchen walls. She stayed quiet for a long time and he assumed his probing was not welcome and would go unanswered. She was busy preparing for her journey to the Indian village.
The afternoon’s light waned and cold settled in. Slocum built up a fire in the fireplace. Then he spread one of his shirts on the table and began cleaning his pistols.
Finally, as she put a pot of stew on an iron arm that swiveled over the fire, she said, “I am here for the same reasons anyone else comes up here from the States.” She went back to the kitchen, then looked at him, a blue clay pot in her hand. “To escape the war.”
“Which war would that be?”
“Why, the big war between the North and the South, of course.”
Slocum paused in disassembling his pistol and looked at her. “The War Between the States? Sigrid, that’s been over for years.”
She smiled, shook her head. “Now you are mocking me. I don’t believe you.”
“Well, I should know, I fought in it. Lost my family, my home . . .” He looked toward the fireplace. “And a few other things, too.” Like my freedom to go where I please without worrying I’ll be arrested, he thought. It was a fairly direct result of the war that he was now a wanted man.
She said nothing, and grew silent as she continued to sort her herbs and other medicinal ingredients. He figured he’d let that news sink in for a while. Could it be possible that she really hadn’t heard that the war, at least as far as governments were concerned, was over? It seemed impossible, laughable even. And yet, she seemed as serious as they come about this.
And she did live her life in extreme isolation. How much company from the States would she have had over the years? Even Whiskey Pete had been afraid of her. Such stories, however they got started, would surely keep others away, at least for a while.
They sat in silence once again, each attending to their own tasks. Soon the stew on the fire began a slow bubble and the aroma was heavenly. She set two places at the table and ladled out the piping hot meal. She sat across from him, and began to talk again.
“My father was a professor at a college in old New England, just where does not matter now. But when he learned that his school was funded in part with money gained from the slave trade, he had to protest. And then when the issue of slavery was raised, and the rights of all men were being discussed, he was at first heartened. But then the positive discussions turned to talk of war. And killing for any reason other than defending oneself or meat was something my father could not tolerate. He was raising me alone, my mother having died of a fever when I was but a year old.”
“He sounds like a brave man, to protest the war like he did.”
“Yes, he was brave. He was also practical, and he knew that if such a war began, it would never end.” She looked at him sternly. “This he believed and I see little reason to doubt him.”
Slocum said nothing, merely nodded, hoping she would continue. He also tasted the hot stew and it was every bit as good as it smelled.
“So Papa packed up our things, and we moved here, many years ago. He wanted to get away—as far away as possible—from the killing and madness of war. He was convinced that it would escalate to such a degree that men would all but kill each other out of existence.”
Slocum couldn’t help coughing as he spooned in more stew.
“I know what you are thinking,” she said, “But he was convinced to such a degree that he did what he thought best and moved here with me, to protect me from the world gone mad, as he put it. It took many months, and then we only made it to the base of the mountains, far down from here. There we stayed for months, and right through one winter. It was cold, but we had built a good winter shelter. We had prepared for the winter there. But it was not far enough for Papa. We were visited twice that winter by trappers, and once by a foul fat man who wanted to buy me from Papa. Can you imagine?”
Slocum thought of the poor woman who’d tried to steal his horse. “Yes, sadly, I can imagine such a thing.”
“It took many months and many trips into the mountains, but Papa found this place.”
“He selected it well. From what I can tell, you don’t get too many visitors.”
“Only those who are dumb enough to wake up sleeping grizzlies.”
“That reminds me, what did you do with that bear?”
She lifted a spoonful of stew, blew on it. “We are eating him. And I will do so for many months to come.”
Slocum raised his eyebrows. “This is the best-tasting bear I’ve ever had. And his hide?”
“I will give it to the tribe. I leave in the morning.”
“You mean ‘we’ leave.”
She frowned. “No, John, you are still too weak for such a trip.”
“But you said so yourself that the chief mentioned that a gold-haired man had come among them a few weeks ago. Might be he’s still there.”
“Why?”
“That man is the reason I came up here in the first place.”
“But why is chasing him so important? Can he have done anything that was really that bad?”
“He killed a man, possibly more. And stole a lot of money. Why he headed up this way, I have no idea.”
“Perhaps he was just trying to be left alone, trying to get away from you.”
“Maybe, but he could have picked a more hospitable terrain.” Slocum looked at her, and quickly said, “Not that I have minded some of the experiences I’ve had here.”
“You are kind to say so, but would it not be better to just let him go? It seems that you have already put much fear into him for him to travel this far.”
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his face. He was suddenly very tired after such an active day. “I will admit I have given thought to leaving off the chase. But I gave my word to the family he wronged. And my word is something I don’t give lightly, nor go back on lightly.”
She looked sad, but she nodded her head. “Then we will leave in the morning. You will n
eed you snowshoes, and we can take turns with the sled.”
“The sled?” he said. “You mean with the dogs?”
“Yes, of course. Where we are going, the snow is deeper at times, there is much less wind to blow it away, and so it piles deep. It should only take us a day to get there.”
Slocum thought about this for a time. “I’ll go as far as the Indian village, to see if he’s there.”
“And if he is not?”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
She rose and began clearing the table. “What if he is there? What then?”
He pushed his chair back and carried their cups to the dry sink. “I expect I’ll get the better of him, hog-tie him, and drag him back to the nearest law enforcement I can find.”
“And what if he won’t go peaceably?”
“That’s a whole lot of what-ifs, Sigrid. As I said earlier, I’ll cross those bridges when I get to them.”
“Can you promise me that you’ll use violence only as a last resort?”
He looked at her looking at him, dirty dishes in her hand, her long hair loose about her shoulders, the dying glow from the fireplace lighting one side of her perfect face. He felt sure he would promise her anything. “That I can do, Sigrid. The last thing I want is bloodshed.”
“I believe you, John.”
“You never saw the man pass by?”
“No, the trail you were on is only used in warmer weather and by very few people. There just isn’t much reason for people to go into the mountains here. There are passes to the south and very far to the north. This way only gets people lost on foot far into the mountains.”
“Which is why your father chose it.”
“Yes, I suppose so. My home is quite far from that trail, upstream from it and deeper into the mountains.”
“Hidden.”
“Yes,” she said. “I doubt you would have known it was here had I not found you.”