26

Wade stopped in the canyon alcove where he’d stashed the rifle he’d taken from the man he’d killed, and attended to the wound on his arm, using part of the dressing he’d put on his leg. The smaller tears on his leg were swollen and purple but drying. The bigger ones opened as soon as he unwrapped them. The graze on his arm was deep enough to cause heavy bleeding; though he’d held it together, his shirt sleeve was soaked with blood.

He shoved a couple of prunes into his mouth and left, planning to take the moose in the cache by his cabin and make for the alpine meadows due north of Glacier Lake. It was a long way, and he’d be out of food in a week unless he found game, but higher up there would be bare ground on the south-facing slopes; his tracks wouldn’t be so easy to follow. He’d move on in a big circle to the South Nahanni, build a raft and get on the river, where he could quickly gain some distance. Along the way to the river, at any place where they’d have to come to him from upwind, with no easy way around, he could try an ambush. The spot where he would leave the Nahanni would be untraceable.

An hour later, Kubla led Eppler into Wade’s camp in the canyon alcove. Eppler quickly took in the lean-to frame, the fire ring and some shreds of blood-soaked cloth, then followed the track back out of the canyon.

When Wade broke out of the forest near Glacier Lake, he saw wisps of smoke hanging over the water. Then he saw where they came from. The cabin was burned down to two rounds and still hot. He hadn’t left much there in his rush to pack up and get away from Dalziel, but it had included a few small packages of food. In the cache, no moose. The pilot meant him to move on.

He should’ve taken the time to put the moose into his pack.

Wade went around to his blinds, collecting a hatchet, a jackknife and a few more shells. Then he headed up the north shore of the lake, stopping only to cut the hind legs off the pilot’s dead dog. These he stuffed into his parka pocket to thaw.

Eppler arrived at the cabin just as Wade reached the upper end of the lake and started his ascent of the creek that ran in from the north. Staying in the willow, Eppler carefully examined the smouldering cabin and the surrounding area. Plumes of smoke were still rising and drifting lazily up the lake. Nothing else was moving, so he headed north, planning to intersect the shore of the lake about a mile up.

“Look at that lake, Kubla. Never would have guessed anything that big was up here.”

An hour later he arrived back at the lakeshore and intersected the track of the repaired snowshoes, heading for the top of the lake. The killer was walking on a track made by different shoes, coming down the lake. Eppler turned back to the cabin, noting on the way that this was another of Dalziel’s traplines, the trees marked with labels.

“The bugger has a line even here,” Eppler murmured.

Then he found signs of a struggle around the base of an old slide, blood on the snow and a dead dog with its hind legs missing.

“Our man’s hungry. That’s good.”

Continuing down the lake, he noted ski tracks out on the ice. Dal’s plane had come down to the cabin, then made a turn and headed back up the lake.

In the cache, he found his and Joe’s pelts.

Eppler lit a fire close to the cabin, made tea and grilled some meat. As he and Kubla settled in for the night, he said, “I still don’t get it, but this looks like an eviction. Some guy who didn’t work out. Maybe Dal was even flying down to tell us about him. Better late than never, I suppose, but too late for Joe.”