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.