by Jake Logan
He asked the chief that should anything happen to him, and if Sigrid was delayed at the village, could he please send someone to her place to tend to his horses. The chief had immediately handed the task to one of the young men, who nodded gravely at Slocum. That made him feel better about the coming trip. One last thing he didn’t have to worry about.
“The daughter of Lars will understand that you do this for good reason, John Slocum.”
He turned to face the chief, who was similarly outfitted, though clad in even more fur-trimmed hide garments than he’d worn earlier. The man seemed to be a good many years older than Slocum, but there was a toughness about him that belied his age.
Nonetheless, Slocum wished he were going at this alone. He’d tried his best to dissuade the man from accompanying him. He’d made the case that this was his fight, that ultimately he was the one responsible for driving the thieving killer into their midst, but the old man would hear none of it.
When Slocum turned to the other men of the small band of Cree, in hopes of gaining some look of support from one of them, they all looked away. So instead of pushing it further and risk angering these obviously proud people, he had smiled and agreed with a nod of his head.
And now they were ready to depart, but still Sigrid had not come out to see them off. Slocum’s concern for her, and his guilt over the situation, must have shown on his face. And he was sure the old man was pretty good at reading people’s faces.
“You seem sure about that.” Slocum smiled, but the old man looked surprised.
“I have known the daughter of Lars for a long time. She understands more than you know. We must leave now if we are to make the first peak before dark.”
“Don’t you have to say good-bye to anyone?”
“Why would I do that?” said the chief, again with a surprised look on his face. “To do such a thing would be to admit the possibility of defeat. And that is not acceptable.”
And to Slocum’s surprise, the old man cracked a smile. He was starting to like this chief. “Then let’s head on out,” said Slocum.
They made it fifty feet up a low trail winding behind the huts when Slocum heard his name shouted from below. He stopped, just behind the chief, who also paused and looked back.
“I told you—the daughter of Lars.” He nodded toward Sigrid, striding up the trail toward them, her arm still in the sling.
“Sigrid, I—”
“I came to give you this.” She handed him a small jar of the ointment she’d been rubbing into his shoulder and leg wounds. “You will need it.” Her jaw was set hard, her eyes glinted.
“That all?” he heard himself say, harsher than he’d intended, but her frosty demeanor rankled him.
“No. You must take care of yourself, John Slocum. If the man you seek is as you say, then he is hardly worth risking your good life for.”
He could only nod. She smiled at him then, and turned back to the village. He watched her for a few moments, wishing he were staying with her, wishing he had hugged her, wishing he had at least said thank you to her, the woman who had saved his life.
The chief tapped his shoulder and they turned and resumed their climb. In a moment, the chief said, without turning, “The daughter of Lars—”
“I know, I know,” said Slocum. “She understands more than I know.”
He could have sworn he heard the chief chuckle.
17
Whoever that son of a bitch was, thought Delbert Calkins, he wasn’t giving up on him—that much became pretty clear once those damn Indians had come back from wherever it was they went the other day. He’d been stuck in the camp with all those women and children, and one or two young men and a couple of old ones. They all seemed to trust him, but he noticed they didn’t let him go anywhere alone but to attend to his personal necessities.
A white man they’d never seen before, they said. Then they’d looked at him almost as if they were accusing him of something. And he supposed they had been. All because he made the mistake of telling them when he first stumbled into their camp that he was chased by a white devil man. He had hoped that would invoke a bit of charity and fear in them, and at the time it had worked pretty well, he had to say.
They took him in, gave him food, warmer clothes, told him he could stay until spring. Though of that, he had no intention. As soon as he could, he was headed for that mountain pass high above the Indians’ valley. They said it was not possible to get through there, but what did they know? They were a little ragged tribe of Indians living in the mountains in winter. They didn’t even have sense enough to get on out of there come snowfall. Shoot, he bet once he got on the other side of those mountains, he’d be looking at green grass and birds and trees and the lush valleys of California. He had to be close to California by now . . .
So when he heard that they’d invited some crazy healer woman to the camp to help with that pregnant Injun about ready to pop, and they said she was the same one harboring the new white stranger, he knew it was now or never. He had to make a break for that pass.
The night before he had waited until they were all asleep. Slipping out would prove no problem because they stuck him in a little hut with a fat snoring Indian who farted all night. It was like being stuck in a den with a bear. Yet another reason why civilized men should dwell in cities and not in this godawful place he had gotten himself lost in.
He had bundled himself up in the fur coat and hat and mittens they had given him, checked his pistols and money, and had stolen some of the dried meat they all seemed to eat—had Indians not heard of proper food? Soon enough he’d found himself outside, paused after clunking shut the low, heavy door of the dugout—the fat one slept on, snoring and farting.
Delbert had smiled to himself then, excited to finally be on his way. A day or two at most and he knew he’d be through that pass and into the promised land. He would lie naked in the sun for a whole day, stretched out on green grass once he got up and over the mountains. But first he had to get there. His eyes fell on a pair of snowshoes leaned against the little hut. Fine—they were built for the fat one, but they would get him up and over the mountains. He grabbed them and headed up the trail.
The moon was half-size and served on this crisp, starry night to light his way sufficiently enough. Every few minutes, Delbert patted his torso, where inside the coat resided his money, the most valuable thing he had. He would have need of it in California.
The going was easier than he’d expected, and the trail ran alongside the burbling, half-frozen brook that flowed through the Indians’ valley below, widening into more significance as it rolled along. Before long, the trail ended at the source of the brook. There looked to be much tramped and packed snow by a pool the Indians had obviously carved out.
Much of the pool, some twenty feet in diameter, had frozen over, but the constant rush of water out of the rock wall kept it flowing from its source down into the pool.
He regarded the cold, ever-running water. It made him thirsty, so he drank. Then the flowing water made him feel as if he had to urinate. A sudden smile played on his face and he yanked off his mittens and worked loose the buttons on his trousers. It took a few moments, but the sound of the running water did the trick. Soon he let loose with a steaming stream—straight into the spot at the edge of the pool that it was obvious the Indians had chipped open to retrieve drinking water.
“Damn Injuns,” he said, shaking his head as he buttoned up. He giggled once again and strapped on the snowshoes. “Serves ’em right for ending the path here. Now I have to make my own way over the pass. So be it.”
And soon he was swinging his arms in counterrhythm to his legs’ strides, deeper into the rising jags of rifts and peaks, higher and higher toward that beautiful, tempting, promising pass.
18
Slocum followed the chief along a well-used trail packed into the snow. It roughly paralleled the brook
the entire way up. He figured they’d come to the source of it before long, and sure enough, a few minutes later they reached a pool—and the end of the trail.
The chief paused beside it, staring. Slocum was grateful for the brief rest it would offer, and for the chance of a cool drink.
“I guess this is where your people get their water.”
The chief didn’t respond. Slocum followed his sightline down to a drizzled line of yellow snow that ended at the edge of the pool, where a spot had been chipped and cleared.
The chief finally looked at Slocum. “Would he think so little of us to do such a thing?”
“I’m afraid so, Chief. I tried to explain the sort of man he is.”
“This is no man we are after,” said the chief, adjusting the straps on his pack. “This is a diseased dog. Now, let us drink . . . upstream from his leavings. Then we will be on our way before the storm comes.”
“Storm?”
“Yes, John Slocum. Do you not smell it on the wind?”
Slocum closed his eyes and breathed deeply. There was that familiar bite to the air, but with something to it that reminded him of the taste of metal. “Yes, now that you mention it, I can.”
After they’d drunk their fill from the frigid burbling water, they continued onward, easily following the snowshoe trail Delbert Calkins had left behind.
What must the chief be thinking? wondered Slocum as he fell into a steady rhythm behind the chief.
The going grew more difficult the farther into the mountains they climbed. The air chilled, the breeze ceased altogether, and they felt the first faint touches of snow drops on their faces. The calm before the storm. Slocum knew the wind would soon pick up and the snow would really begin to lash at them.
Each man knew that the other wanted to push on until they had no choice, no way to move forward without misstepping, for the snow would wipe away most if not all traces of Delbert’s tracks. From what the chief had told him, there were few options for their quarry anyway. No trails out but the one they were now following. They had already passed the spot where he might descend down out of the passes toward Sigrid’s valley, and saw no sign of his tracks there. That meant he was still ahead of them.
Still, despite what the chief had said, Slocum did wonder if there wasn’t some way through the pass, some route the Cree hadn’t found. They had seemed just a pinch superstitious about it when he’d mentioned tracking Calkins up here.
“I can’t imagine he’ll be much more than dead when we find him, Chief. In fact, I’m mighty surprised he’s lasted this long.”
The older man paused, half turned, and eyed Slocum. Both men breathed deeply, their breath pluming into the chill air.
“But there is a reason he has lasted this long, John Slocum. He has something that not many men have. But you have it. I think I have it, too. Do you know what I speak of?”
“Maybe, but tell me just the same.”
“The man you seek has a fighting heart. He will not be defeated—even when he finally is defeated, he will not admit it, will not believe it is happening to him. And so, he will never truly die. He will never become a satisfied spirit.”
“Is that what I’m destined for, then?” Slocum watched the thickening snowflakes settle, then melt on the man’s weathered cheeks, his long nose.
“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “I do not know, John Slocum. I am only a man.” He began walking again. “But I do know that you should not think so little of this man you seek. He may be a bad one, a diseased dog, but he is a smart one. He will not like being cornered.”
Slocum nodded, even though the old man was staring ahead, working his way up the steepening trail. The chief had given him food for thought and maybe a warning, too. Maybe he was underestimating Delbert Calkins. After all, the chief and his people had spent a whole lot more time with Calkins than Slocum ever had. Hell, any time they spent with the murdering bastard was more time than Slocum had.
Still, thought Slocum, I’d like to come up on his near-frozen body. That would make my life a whole lot easier. An angry frozen man, I can deal with. Drag him back to civilization, thaw him out, and let the judges and juries and lawyers do the rest.
After another hour, the chief paused, held out his arm in front of him. Neither man could see the end of his mitten. “We will stop here. I believe I know the spot, and it is wide enough that we will not tumble away to the bottom in our sleep.”
That shocked Slocum, as he’d been under the impression that they were still surrounded on both sides by the steep rock walls they’d been climbing between in a narrow, winding crevice. But now that he looked down, he saw, with the help of an errant wind gust, that they’d been trudging along close by the trail’s edge. It dropped off to his right, though how far down he didn’t know. Nor did he want to.
“Come,” said the old man, tugging Slocum’s sleeve. He led him to the left, to where the trail widened into an alcove, one edge of which was formed such that it blocked the full brunt of the snowfall and gusting winds.
As they settled back against the crusted wall, Slocum was surprised that the chief suggested they make a small fire.
“It is safe—and I am not as young as you are. I am like an old woman sometimes. The cold gets into my bones and mocks me. I would like to drive it out of my fingers, at least.”
In short order, they had a meager fire built with a small collection of tinder and twigs the chief produced from his basket. It was just enough to warm their hands and faces—and that was just enough to raise smiles on their faces.
“Have any of your people been up here recently?” Slocum said, chewing a piece of dried bear.
The old man chewed his own hunk of meat thoughtfully, swallowed, then said, “If you are asking how I know there is no pass ahead, it is because I have been as far as it is able to go there. And I am still on this side of the mountains. So that should tell you something.” He smiled.
“That pretty much tells me all I need to know, yes.” Slocum grinned and chewed another piece of meat.
After another lengthy pause, the chief said, “There is one thing you should know about it. The place is filled with bad medicine that is trapped there—falling snows and circles of wind. It is a place where no life can survive. The bad things cannot leave. Once you enter there, it is very difficult to get away. Always it pulls at you to come back. But you would be wise to stay away . . . if you are lucky enough to get away in the first place.”
“Like you,” said Slocum.
The old man nodded. “Yes, but . . .” He raised his hands as if testing the air for rain. “Look at where I am—I have come back here now. But that, too, is as it should be.”
That was the last thing either of them said for the night. Each man leaned back against the rock wall, bundled in their coats and filled with their thoughts, as their meager fired guttered and died out.
As Slocum drifted into a deep sleep, despite the cold, his thoughts mutated from bright, sunlit things to shadowed, gloomy entities that stretched and wavered like long, ancient shadows soaking upward into canyon walls until they covered everything with a thick gloom. And over it all like a hawk’s shrill cry echoed mocking laughter.
19
Delbert Calkins awoke in a dark, cold place, his jaw stiff from the cold, too stiff to allow his teeth to chatter, though he knew they wanted to. He lay still for a few minutes, trying to recall just where he was—ah yes, being chased by that determined fool—and just what he’d done to lead himself here.
It all came back to him slowly, as if viewed under murky water. The girl, sure that’s where this had begun. He wasn’t troubled by killing the girl’s annoying brother, even though he knew they expected him to be. But such things had never bothered him. He figured he was part of the great animal kingdom, as one of his old schoolteachers at Saint Ursuline had once called everything that was alive but wasn’t a plant or a m
an.
Why was it all right for animals to kill one another to take something they needed from the other, but not people? He had asked the question in the schoolroom, so long ago but he remembered it like it had happened just the day before. But the only answer he’d received was a clout to the head that set his ear ringing for weeks and got him sent to the headmaster’s office for a caning.
And that hurt nearly as long as the ear did. But the thing that hurt the worst had been the other students—even the ones he thought were his friends. They hadn’t laughed when he’d asked the question. In fact, he knew that some of them wondered the same thing. But they had laughed when he had been clouted by that pinch-faced Brother Barnabas.
Why was it fine and dandy for the teacher to clout him and the headmaster to cane him, but not for him to strike back? He lay there in the snow, rubbing a hand along the side of his head, still feeling the smarting sting all those years later.
Then he remembered where he was and smiled. He’d proven them wrong so many times over the years. People are nothing more than part of the great animal kingdom. If someone has something I want or need, just like a lion or a bear or an eagle, I will take it. And if they fight me, I will injure them. And if they keep on fighting me, I will kill them. This I have done and this I will continue to do. It is survival of the fittest.
This was something he guessed that the man who had chased him all this way knew only too well. It was a shame they were engaged in this foolish chase, because in different circumstances, they might become chummy. Certainly they could share such thoughts, for they were both obviously of the same mind. One man pitted against another. There could only be one way this would end—Delbert would kill the fool chasing him, of course.
He grunted to a sitting position, snow falling off his arms and chest. He blew it away from his whiskers and mustache and pulled a mitten off. He tried to twist and curl the ends of his mustache but they were having none of it—the wax and oil had long since vanished. When I get to Frisco, I will luxuriate in the finest hotel for a week. I will be bathed by Chinese girls and anointed in oils from the Orient. And I will make damn sure I shave.