During November it snows almost every day. Most of the men have left the settlement to check their traplines, and Bean-Trap is getting restless. He knows they’ll come back at Christmas with heaps of furs, and then there will be parties and lots of money to throw around.

Mr. Benton told me that the Alaska Highway is nearly completed, stretching fifteen hundred miles from Mile Zero at Dawson Creek B.C. to our old home of Fairbanks, Alaska. “Those big Caterpillars working from the north and the south will meet any day now!” he said.

Jay Smith and his family have been working on the highway, somewhere around the Liard River. He doesn’t write very often. I’ve only had two letters from him since I met him in June. Both Teddy and I write to Bugs, too. He sent Teddy a domino set and a hair comb made with dyed porcupine quills for me. I keep them hidden from Bean-Trap. Mr. Benton gives me the letters personally; he seems to understand that Bean-Trap doesn’t need to know everything. I keep them in my treasure box and re-read them until the paper shreds in my fingers.

I have Jay’s last letter, dated July 16, almost memorized:

I am at our sawmill camp on the Liard River just a few miles away from where the new highway is going through. Dad and I bought partnerships in this mill, so maybe we’ll get rich!

I think of you and your brother often. Write when you can steal a moment.

P.S. Bugs’ letters are enclosed with mine-to save on stamps! He is studying to be a magician. Maybe he can make you appear here!

Teddy and I both like Bugs. He’s eighteen, has lots of freckles and enjoys a good joke. He’d worked in a bank in Edmonton before deciding to head North for a bit more excitement. We’re “North,” but it doesn’t seem so adventurous to me.

Today Teddy and I are learning about the Sikanni people. Millie told me their story and I wrote a lesson.

“Sikanni means ‘People of the Rocks’ because they lived in the mountains,” I begin, and Teddy says, impatiently, “I know! Ernie told me.”

“They are of the Athapaskan group,” I continue, ignoring his fidgeting. “Long ago the Sikannis lived in pole lodges covered with spruce bark. In the summertime, the men wore laced sleeveless shirts and leather leggings made from animal skins. They used porcupine quills to decorate their clothes and wore bear-claw necklaces.”

“I know. Ernie’s dad has one. He showed me. He said the bear is his guardian spirit.”

“Really?” I put down my notes.

“A few years ago, he was sent out into the bush alone. He didn’t eat for four days. He dreamed of a bear. Now that bear looks after him. Ben and Ernie will have guardian spirits, too. Maybe even the wind or thunder.”

“Do girls get guardian spirits, too?”

Teddy wrinkled his nose. “I think so. They can also can be healers, medicine people. Ernie’s grandma is one.”

The people here might be different than we are, but we share the same land, and the same hopes. “I wish Millie and her family could still visit us,” I say quietly, remembering her stroking my hair.

“Yeah,” Teddy agrees. “It’s boring with no one to talk to but you.”

“Okay, smarty, let’s draw. That way, no one has to talk.” Teddy decides to draw a bull moose wading into a swamp to eat some juicy plants. “Moose have big lips and broad teeth for browsing,” I say, noting the pointed teeth he’s drawing. “They don’t graze as much as deer, and certainly don’t have fangs like a wolf!”

Teddy ignores me and continues with his sketch, to be filled in with water paints later. I stroll around our cabin looking at the curtains, tablecloth and rag rugs which have given it a cozy look. The old stove has holes in its sides, but it still works, and we’ve never been cold. I wonder how our place would look to Jay.

I jump at a knock on the door. We haven’t had any visitors for a long time. Teddy stops painting, his brush held in mid-air. We look at each other. I tip toe to the door.

“Who’s there?” I say in my best grown-up voice.

I can barely hear the voice from the other side.

“Millie.”

I fling open the door. She stands looking down at her feet. “Come in!” I say with a huge smile.

She edges inside and I close the door against the blast of wind.

“Come in, take off your coat. I’ll make tea!”

She hands me a small can of jam, like a peace offering, then shrugs out of her parka and removes her snowy mukluks.

“Hi!” Teddy says, happy for the diversion.

“A moose!” She says picking up his drawing. “It’s good. He is two years old.”

“How do you know?” Teddy asks.

“Long straight horns. Next year, they will be wide.” She spreads the palms of her hands to show us the width of the horns the bull moose will have in his third year.

I set out the teapot, cups, and cookies. Before I can pour our tea, Millie says, “Your Dad-he is okay. We are sorry. He didn’t let Pete play cards. He didn’t take his money.” Her face turns even redder. “I told them, the cards are for me to learn numbers. That man, he told lie. He is bad man.”

“Can I play with Ernie and Pat now?” Teddy asks, and Millie nods. “Yippee!” Before I can stop him Teddy has pulled on his parka and mukluks, and is out the door. Millie and I settle back to enjoy our tea, and the first real talk I’ve had in nearly two months.

Some of the trappers start drifting into the settlements a few days later. They’d had good fall catches and decided to pull their traps and come home well before Christmas. Bean-Trap is delighted. In the mornings before he goes to work, he sings songs from Ireland about Paddy’s Pig and Mrs. Murphy’s Chowder. He plays cards with us by the hour, teaching us new games. He also shows us how to prepare a “cold deck” so that not even an expert would notice the exchange of a specially-stacked deck for the deck that had been shuffled in front of the players.

Trouble surfaced the first week in December. When Black Mike Michaluk came snowshoeing down the river, carrying a bag of gold and a mysterious bundle of American money, everyone knew something was going to happen. Black Mike Michaluk didn’t tell anyone where he’d got his money, and no one asked.

“Mr. High-and-Mighty Benton better keep his mouth shut,” Bean-Trap said one day, just after Black Mike had arrived. “If he squeals to the Mounties about Mike carrying a ‘bomb,’ he’ll be sorry. Real sorry.”

“A bomb! He’s got a bomb? Like in wars?” Teddy asks anxiously.

“No, a ‘bomb’ is cash. Money. Lots of money.”

“Oh.”

“But there is something funny about that guy. He’s no ‘apple’.

I knew that “apple” in Bean-Trap’s language meant “sucker.” Black Mike wasn’t the kind of man who’d give up his money easily in a card game or some other scam. Black Mike was tough, a mysterious man with dark secrets.

“He’s likely chilled someone off,” Bean-Trap said. “I ain’t trying any gimmicks on him. Guy like that, he’d shoot me between the eyes and leave me out for wolf bait.”

Bean-Trap is good to us, but I can’t deny that he’s dangerous. Some say he’s bad, and that he may be found dead some night with a ‘shiv’-a long thin knife, like the one he carries in his boot-stuck into his ribs. In Weasel City, word of danger travels fast.