by Jake Logan
He moved closer to her and in a quiet voice said, “I’m mighty glad you did, Sigrid.”
Her eyes half closed and she smiled as if just waking up. “So am I.” She opened her eyes and looked up at him. “But we must get a good night’s sleep if we are to leave early in the morning.” She smiled at him. “I believe you know where it is you sleep.”
“Yes,” he said, not a little confused. But she soon quelled that by saying, “And I will be in my alcove. Good night, John.”
“Good night, Sigrid.”
It didn’t take Slocum long to succumb to sleep, but just before he did, images of lots of deep snow came to him. In his head he heard the growls and roars of the grizzly once again, almost as if they were happening afresh. Over it all he heard a man’s laughter echoing long and loud down a valley at him, then everything went white—and he slept.
• • •
Slocum woke before dawn to hear Sigrid already up and packing, from the sounds of her bustling in the front room. He lay still a moment, then stretched each limb, working out whatever kinks might have settled in during the night.
He had to get up and cracking, lest she think she was going to sneak off without him. He couldn’t let that happen. And he also didn’t want to slow her down on her trip to the Cree’s winter camp. It was going to be a long day of travel, and truth be told, though he didn’t want to admit it to her, he could have used another day or two of rest.
As he began to move around, he felt much better than he figured he had a right to. He wasn’t half as stiff or crampy as he thought he’d be. Even his bear-mauled shoulder and leg were not so tender as they had been the morning before. That sauna had some kind of healing properties.
“Good morning,” he said to her, emerging from his curtained sleeping nook. “What can I do to get things rolling?”
“You really are set on going with me, aren’t you, John?” She smirked at him.
Even perturbed, she couldn’t quite frown, couldn’t quite lose that edge of smile.
“You bet I am. I came this far, and came through enough hell—and got free of the last batch of it, thanks to you—that I have to go on, have to see it through to some kind of end. Now, any chance I can get a cup of coffee, lady?” He winked at her.
15
Slocum tried to help Sigrid rig up the dogsled and team, but it looked like a tangle of harnesses and yipping dogs to him. He’d give them credit, though, they were a keen bunch, acting like pups who lived for nothing but dragging a sled through the snow. And judging from the smile on her face, Sigrid felt much the same.
Slocum ducked inside the barn, double-checked that the Appaloosa and the packhorse were both well stocked with hay and plenty of feed. And since they could go in and out of the barn at will, there was plenty of room for them to exercise and eat snow when the water in their trough froze, since he wouldn’t be there to knock a hole in it.
He hoped the Indians who had visited hadn’t gone back and told Delbert Calkins that a strange white man had been at their healer friend’s house. That would surely tip off the man and he might well run. But where in the hell would he go?
Cross that bridge when you come to it, Slocum told himself. The man might not be there anyway. And if that’s the case, then what?
“All set, John.” Sigrid appeared in the doorway. “I am sure the horses will be fine for a couple of days.”
“Good, then let’s make tracks,” he said.
Despite her request that he ride in the sled, Slocum would have none of it. He figured that his strength was at its fullest this early in the day, so why would he relax and let someone else—namely a pack of dogs—drag him around? He felt good and needed the exercise. He started off slow and steady, and it soon became apparent to him that Sigrid was holding the dogs back on his behalf. But he guessed he wasn’t loping much slower than a man who hadn’t recently been mauled by a grizzly. So in that respect he didn’t feel too bad about it.
He was thankful that the initial excitement of the dogs quickly blunted into a steady rhythm for them also. Just as with anything else in life, he mused, slow and steady takes the day. It was impressive to see the dogs lunge through drifts with no fear. They skirted the half-frozen river and for a long while Slocum forgot about whatever lingering aches and pains he might have.
He took in the awesome serenity of the land surrounding him, the valley through which they broke trail. He admired the bold, cliff-like peaks that rose before him. He pulled in deep draughts of icy air that felt good and clean and cleared his head and kept him moving forward.
At Sigrid’s insistence, he’d smeared a dark thick grease under each eye, as she had done. It smelled of camphor, pine, pitch, and axle grease. But that, coupled with the low-tugged brim of his hat, did a darn good job at keeping the sun’s glare off the snow from blinding him. He wondered how the dogs fared so well, not having any visible means of cutting down the glare. Maybe they kept their eyes squinted enough that it didn’t bother them.
An old-time dogsledder had once told him that a dog’s sense of smell was equal to that of ten thousand men. It hardly seemed possible, but then again, Slocum figured that since he didn’t really know much about dogs, who was he to argue the fact? Another thing to ask Sigrid when they stopped for a breather.
By midday, they had ascended the ridge that separated the northern end of the terrain that eventually became Sigrid’s valley. By cutting long switchbacks into the steep face, Sigrid was able to keep the dogs moving upward. Slocum still kept pace, albeit behind by a few hundred yards, but they weren’t getting any farther away from him, and for that he was thankful. His lungs ached with the frigid air that but a few hours before he’d been praising. Now all he wanted was a warm fire, a glass of whiskey, and maybe a nice cigar.
He glanced down briefly to check the strapping on his shoes. The left one felt as though it had come loose, but it looked as if it would hold awhile longer. He guessed she’d stop when the rise leveled off near the top of the long ridge separating this valley from the Indians’ winter grounds. He looked forward to reaching it and taking in the views.
As he glanced back up, he saw Sigrid and her team slicing upward fifty yards from the peak, along a particularly narrow shelf. But they were moving along as they should, full of speed and confidence. Sigrid’s voice floated to him—her shouts in her native tongue sounded musical and made him want to pick up the pace, too. She was not riding along the tail end of the runners as she did from time to time, but kept a firm grip with her big fur mittens on the long curved handles of the sled.
He admired her tall form beneath her thick wool mackinaw, her head topped with that immense fur cap she’d made for herself. But his smile dropped when he saw one of the dogs in the lead falter. He heard Sigrid’s shouts take on a hard urgency. The dog scrambled to get back in line, but it was too late. It pulled the other dogs askew and Slocum instinctively picked up his pace, hoping to reach them.
Then it all went wrong. The dogs tumbled in a welter of ropes and hair, yowling in confusion and pain. He heard their shouts, saw the snow kick up. Sigrid was doing her best to keep the sled angled behind them, if only to prevent it from tipping, but they were headed downslope fast, the dogs’ scrambling was for naught, and gravity won.
Slocum cut straight along the slope, hoping to intercept them before they were dragged too far downslope. Then Sigrid lost control of the sled and Slocum heard a cracking sound like a far-off gunshot, saw the sled roll onto its right side, taking Sigrid with it. Her fur hat flew off, pinwheeled away, and the sled kept going, rolling side over side, gaining speed with each second.
Slocum kicked up a flurry of snow in his zeal to get to them. He stumbled once, righted himself, and lunged at them again. Soon, though, the mad tangle of sled and dogs and Sigrid was a tumbling whir that outdistanced him. From the look of things, her left arm stayed with the sled, even when the entire affair whippe
d over. Must be caught in the sled’s handle, he thought, but he kept on lunging down the slope toward them, bellowing “Sigrid! Sigrid!” until his mouth ached and his lungs and throat were raw.
To his immense relief, they all came to a flailing stop hundreds of yards downslope below him. He raced on, spending half the time sliding on his backside, stumbling down the slope, scraping himself raw on jags of upthrust rock and scree where the snow had been knocked free by the sled’s hellish descent.
There was immediate movement from the dogs. Some of them were lodged under the half-broken sled. “Sigrid! Sigrid!” Slocum shouted as he slid the last twenty feet down to them, chanting her name, urging her to wake up.
He reached for her shoulder, dreading that he might find she’d broken her neck, this strong, bold woman. She moaned—a good sign.
“Sigrid?”
“Oh, oh . . . my dogs!” she gasped, and it was then that Slocum saw her left arm was twisted in an awkward way.
The dogs, in answer to her voice, set up a yammering and crying. It sounded both pitiful and excited. For the first time he saw genuine fear and sadness on this strong woman’s face. “John,” she said, pushing herself to a sitting position. “John, go to my dogs, help them. Cut them free—they won’t go far.”
“Okay, but don’t you move. That arm might be broken.” He held a mittened hand out as if to stop a charging bull. “I’m serious,” he said, his breath finally feeling as if it was coming back to him. “Don’t move.”
“Yes, yes. My dogs, John!”
Slocum crawled around behind her, and made his way to the downhill side of the wreck, which seemed as if it was wedged well, probably against a rock, since nothing moved.
He was glad he had his mittens, because a wounded dog, beloved by her or no, might be inclined to bite him. Despite this, he had to peel one mitten off, tugged it free from his hand with his teeth, and found his knife. While he was at it, he checked his gun belt, but both Colts were still there, strapped tight. Despite his better judgment, he left the mitten off his hand and reached with his other hand to free the dogs. He saw four heads of the six, all eyes on him, all making low yammering sounds. Then one more emerged from under the sled, a determined look on its white-and-black face, its eyes filled with snow. It blinked to see, but with every move it gave a loud, sharp cry.
Behind him he heard Sigrid speaking, but he blocked her out. This was no time for sentiment. He had to get these dogs free in case the sled shifted. Then he had to get Sigrid free. Should have cut free that tangled coat sleeve first, if that’s what it had been.
“Sigrid, try to free your arm from the sled, but don’t move the sled and don’t hurt yourself further. If you can’t, then leave it. I’ll be there in a minute.”
He succeeded in fishing for the nose of the sled, even his mittened hand going numb, and he was thankful that most of the dogs were a few feet away and busy gnawing on their traces, trying to free themselves. Smart animals, he thought, always amazed at the capacity animals had for survival. Smarter than people most of the time, he thought.
There it was, the front of the sled, and there, the leather and rope traces. He cut them close to the rings holding them to the sled, so they would have plenty of free line to work with when they hooked them back up.
“John, have you seen all six dogs? Are they all right?”
“Just five so far, Sigrid.” He didn’t want to sugarcoat it. He knew there had to be another dog under the sled, but he hadn’t heard a thing from it. Before he could move the sled, though, he had to get the other dogs and Sigrid away from it, just in case the sled broke free and continued tumbling down the craggy mountainside.
With a little urging, the half-trapped dog was able to lurch free. The sled creaked, shifted once, then settled. The five freed dogs seemed to sense they were unattached to the sled and moved off in a haphazard, stumbling group a few yards away, diagonally upslope. But as Sigrid had said, they stayed close by. They all appeared none too worse for wear, but he’d have to check their limbs later.
“John, I . . . I don’t see Arne . . .”
“That’s his name? Arne?” He peered under the sled, brushed away snow, and saw a dog’s face, still, glazed eyes, tongue sagged out between teeth, blood on the mottled pink and black nose. Arne . . . dead.
Slocum exhaled a plume of pent-up breath into the frosty air.
“John?”
He said nothing yet, but made his way slowly back to her on his knees, wedging his snowshoes into the slope, praying the sled held on long enough to cut her arm free of the sled handle.
“John . . . is Arne dead?”
He nodded. “I’m sorry, yes. I think it was instant, if that helps.”
She stared at the slope, not really focused on anything. Finally she said, “Thank you, John.”
He was already working on freeing her arm. It was as he suspected—her coat cuff had become trapped, wrapped around the protruding wood handle, though it probably only twisted like that when the sled began its roll. He looked at her. No tears.
“Sigrid? I need you to focus here. I have to free your arm without jostling the sled.”
As he spoke, the sled began to slip. Without the weight of the dogs securing the nose of the battered craft, it had become loosened.
“Sigrid, unbutton your coat . . . now! I thought I had more time, but I was wrong. Get out of the coat, slip your arm out. I have to get above this thing and hold it in place before it heads downslope again and pulls you with it. You might not be so lucky the next time.”
He had already made it upslope, and jamming his feet into the slope, with the backs of the snowshoes crossed beneath him, he grabbed the undercarriage of the still heavily laden sled. Its ample load had shifted but remained trussed beneath the canvas tarpaulin and layers of rope.
He’d helped her secure it that morning and knew it was well tied. He took the tip of his left mitten in his hand and pulled it off for a better grip, then with a groan he took on the weight of the sled. The sudden bulk of the load tugged on him while needles of fire raced through his injured left shoulder.
“How’s that coat coming?”
“Nearly there,” she said, and he could see by the determined look on her face, on her set, muscled jaw, that she knew the gravity of the situation.
One second, two seconds more . . . then the load he thought was well tied shifted downward and pulled him with it. He slid several inches, gritted his teeth, fighting back the urge to shout at her, at anything that might make this situation solve itself. But he knew, as he always did in such moments, that he had to rely on himself alone. Just like you did with the grizzly, Slocum? Stop that nonsense, he told himself. Hold tight to that sled or she’ll break her arm, or worse . . .
He watched as Sigrid did her best to tug the injured hand out of the tightly wound sleeve. She had already lost the mitten on the way down, and what he could see of the hand was bluish purple, though he suspected that resulted from the wrenching it had received more than from the cold. Her hand bunched, the sled shifted, Slocum ground his teeth tighter together, and a hiss escaped his mouth.
Then, with a groan that told him her arm was most definitely in pain, she was free. She cradled her injured wing but a moment, then snatched at the twisted coat, unwinding it from the handle. Instead of pulling it over her shoulder, she tossed it aside, and jammed a boot into it, packing it into the snow so it wouldn’t slide downhill. She skittered to her right and sat beneath the sled, wedging her boots firmly into the snow downslope.
“What are you doing, Sigrid?” Slocum puffed as he fought to get a better grip on the sled.
“I can hold it better from here. You must unload it, jam the goods into the snow, stack it successively upslope, and it won’t go far.”
“You should get out of the way. This thing weighs too much; it could roll right over you if it cuts loose.”
“Only if it’s still packed. You should unload it now before the danger increases, don’t you think, John?”
There was that almost playful tone to her voice. But he knew better. She was just telling him that she had made up her mind and he had better do as she said. Besides, he knew she was right. “I’m going to ease off the pressure now. You’ll feel it in your shoulder. If the thing starts to cut loose, you promise me you’ll lay flat and let it go over you. Put your hands over your head.”
“I will. Now unload it, please.”
He eased off the rest of the pressure, looking at the load even as he pulled out his knife again. This was not going to be simple. The ropes were a network, all interdependent and all crucial, now more than ever, in keeping the load from shifting. Finally he found a likely spot to slice and he cut the first rope. So far, so good. He cut a second, no movement. Then a third, and the sled leaned toward the back. He grabbed for it. “Sigrid!”
“I’m okay. Hurry, though. Get the weight off it and it will be okay.”
He lifted the back edge of the tarpaulin and snaked a hand under. The first thing he found was the bundle of green grizzly hide. She had rolled it in sheeting, then wrapped that, too, in its own canvas, before tying it. Removing its significant weight lessened the load substantially.
The next items came out much easier, and before long he had most of the sled emptied, the various boxes and bundles jammed securely into the slope. He glanced a few times at the dogs, but they all seemed too disturbed by what had happened to come any closer to the sled. To them the thing must represent danger and death.
“I have the sled now, Sigrid. You can get out of there. Put your coat on, I can hear your teeth rattling from up here.”
She didn’t argue with him, and he could tell by the slowness of her actions that she was cold and hurting. He’d have to get this battered sled to the top, get a fire built—if he could find a sheltered spot—and get her warm. Maybe the dogs would come around by then.
As he worked, he told her what he planned to do and made sure she responded to him.