22

Wade had been dozing when the distant sound of an engine intruded on his dreams. He ran out of the cabin just in time to see the plane, a black smudge on the moonlit snow, turning out of sight at the far end of the lake.

It was Dalziel, Wade was pretty sure. The visit was expected, but why had he pulled in up there? Had he been to the other lake, seen the burned cabin? Were the police with him? If so, they would die with the pilot, and he’d be long gone before anyone figured it out.

Wade ran back into the cabin to collect his rifle, pistol and ammunition. As he fumbled the ammunition into the small pack he carried on his patrols, he remembered that there was an old slide about a third of the way along the lake’s north shore, a jumble of trees, rocks and mud that must have come down with the snow a few years ago. The slide had almost reached the shore, leaving a narrow passage between it and the water. He could get up behind the corner of the slide with a view to the lake, which was bright enough to show anyone passing down it or close to the shore.

He moved quickly, never appearing on the lake, gained the slide and found a spot that gave him a clear sightline through two large rocks and some tumbled trees. He removed his snowshoes, stashed them behind him in the fallen trees and settled in.

He’d done this sort of thing many times since he’d headed into the bush. The trick was to stay put, not move. The only way the pilot would know he was there was if he could smell him.

Dogs! When he had first encountered the pilot and his partner in their camp, there had been dogs all around him, snapping at his pants and snarling. Would he fly dogs in here? Not if he was just coming for the pelts. But if he was coming for the pelts, what was he doing at the other end of the lake?

He cursed himself. He’d have to move to be sure, to a spot up higher, get flat out on a rock between some trees, with some space around him. The pilot couldn’t be close yet.

He lurched to his feet and turned toward his snowshoes, but there was a sudden explosion of movement from around the rock to his left. He couldn’t see them! He got one shot off at a speeding shadow and heard a yelp, but others were instantly on him as he floundered in the deep snow, teeth penetrating his leggings and his arm, twisting, dragging him down.

Then a voice said, “Stop moving or they’ll kill you.”

He stopped. The dogs still held his leg and arm in an agonizing grip.

“Let go of the rifle.”

He let go, and the rifle was taken from his hand. “Get them off me!” he cried.

“Why? You just killed one of them. You laying for me too?”

No answer.

“How come you’re not working the line?”

“Wasn’t getting’ nothin’! I was gonna move the line down the creek.”

“Funny,” said the pilot. “Marten tracks everywhere. There won’t be anything along the creek. I thought you said you knew how to trap.”

“I got pelts!”

“Where?”

“In the cache.”

“We’ll just look at those pelts, then. Easy.”

The dogs let go of him, but backed off only a few inches. Wade sat up. He could see Dalziel’s shadowy form squatting below him, two rifles, one of them his, slung over his shoulder. Wade had a sudden impulse to lunge, try to get at the pilot and then worry about the dogs. But Dalziel seemed to guess his thoughts; he lifted his arm and pointed a big pistol straight at his face.

“Take your pack off.”

Wade removed his pack. Dalziel dragged it to himself with his free hand, not taking his eyes off Wade. He shoved his hand under the lid.

“You expecting the German army?”

Wade didn’t answer.

“Get up, put your hands out and lean on that rock.”

Wade obeyed, struggled up, and was promptly relieved of his pistol and hunting knife.

“Where’s that .22 you brought in?”

Wade hesitated. He could lie, saying he lost it down the hole when he was getting water.

“Just make it easy and tell me. If I can’t find it, I’ll have to hog-tie you until morning.”

“In the overhang behind the cabin.”

Dalziel shouldered Wade’s ammunition pack and stepped aside, indicating that he wanted Wade to precede him and move toward the cabin.

“Don’t know if I can walk. Your dogs tore me bad.”

“Take all the time you need. I’ve got a feeling I already wasted lots of it anyway, bringing you in here.”

Wade did take his time, exaggerating his limp though it hurt enough. He thought of stalling by pretending he couldn’t walk any farther, but where would that get him? His right pant leg was damp with blood. Dogs! If he stalled, the pilot would set them to guard him and go on to the cabin and the cache himself. The best bet was to pretend that everything was normal.

“Got worried there was someone around,” Wade said. “Heard a shot when I was down the creek a few weeks back.”

No response.

When they came near the cabin, Dalziel said, “Wait here” and, to the dogs, “Stand.”

“How about me waiting in the cabin? I believe I got frost in one hand.”

“Rub it then. Just don’t try to walk or they’ll bring you down again.”

Dalziel passed in front of the cabin and vanished around behind it. Then the door banged open, a light flashed and the window glowed a steady yellow.

The dogs stood unmoving, nosed into his legs, eyes on his face, teeth bared.

The light in the window disappeared suddenly but reappeared in the trees beside the cabin. It moved up to the cache. A minute later, it descended from the trees and returned to the cabin. The window glowed once more.

Then the pilot was beside him, the .22 on his shoulder.

“You can go into the cabin now. Easy.”

“I got some tea on the stove.”

“I’ll camp up the lake and bring the plane down early in the morning. Get ready to go out to Simpson.”

“Why?” Wade almost sobbed it out. There was an RCMP post there, and a magistrate.

“You’ve been here over five months. You’ve got two or three months’ worth of pelts, and the season’s almost over. It’ll be a waste of money coming back to get you.”

“I’ll walk out myself. You don’t have to take me out.”

“Don’t be crazy. Pack up your stuff and be ready in the morning.” The pilot turned abruptly, ordered his dogs to heel and headed up the lake. Wade watched him vanish almost instantly, as if he’d walked right into the colossal silhouette of Cathedral Mountain.

Wade limped to the cabin. Inside, he checked his leg. It was punctured in six places, torn badly just above the back of the knee and swelling fast. He tore up a clean shirt and wrapped the wound. He fished the tobacco and lighter from under his bed and rolled a smoke, making a mess of it. But smoking calmed him.

He’d load up everything he had for the trail and head down to the canyon where he’d stored the dead man’s rifle. He’d rest there a couple of hours, until dawn, then keep going.