46

The torturous descent of the small river took three days. From time to time, Eppler watched from the forest edge as the killer ascended one of the many bluffs that slowed their progress, and Kubla sniffed up to some scraps of meat that had been gnawed and spat out, though these ended on the second day.

Eppler still hoped to weaken his quarry enough so he’d be tempted to surrender. Maybe that would happen when they got to the Nahanni, when the killer was forced to stop and make a stand or put a raft together.

If I can just get him alive, I can find out what happened to Joe, he thought.

Now the snowshoe tracks ended at bare gravel, a sweeping beach where the river Eppler was on widened into many channels and poured into the South Nahanni. Ahead, he could see an endless row of glittering chunks of shore ice. There were gaps in that wall, which would allow access to the river.

Kubla was picking up a trail heading south. In that direction, about a mile away, a low rocky bench, populated by spruce, crowded the shore. Eppler summoned him back and removed his saddlebags. He checked his rifle and poured shells into his pocket. The pack, toboggan and showshoes would stay behind.

“All right,” he said.

Kubla moved ahead, nose down. Crossing the open wash would be dangerous, but now there was no choice.

They made it off the wide outwash of the small river and onto the boulder-ridden, ice-strewn shore of the South Nahanni. Where the shore ice was split, and there was driftwood, that would be the spot where the killer would get onto the river. Or at the forested bench; there would be plenty of dry spruce lying on the ground.

As the beach started to narrow around the forest, Kubla edged toward a break in the ice. Then Eppler saw scrape marks on the sand and gravel. He whistled softly, and Kubla stopped.

“He’s dragged some logs through there. He won’t hear us over the river, but we got to be careful.”

He came up along the ice to the break, and peered into it. It opened to the river, but there was a large boulder close to the water, obstructing his view of the shore.

Kubla, suddenly agitated, sprang forward, but Eppler reached down to grab him. As he did, the killer appeared around the boulder and raised his rifle. Eppler dodged back, and the shot blasted some ice above his head.

As soon as he let go of Kubla to grip his rifle, the dog dashed into the opening.

“Damn!” Eppler immediately poked his head and rifle around the ice. No killer, and Kubla was running for the boulder. There was a loud splash. Kubla disappeared around the boulder and Eppler tore after him, his gun shouldered. Another splash.

The man he’d been chasing, stretched on a puny raft, was spinning into the current. Kubla, not 10 feet behind, was swimming after him. The killer tried to bring his rifle up but the raft tilted violently and the rifle went down. Then, as the raft turned a slow full circle, the rifle came up again, pointing at Kubla.

“Not my dog too, you son-of-a-bitch,” Eppler muttered, firing two shots, one at the killer’s head and one, as the raft rotated, at his hip.

The rifle slid into the water. The raft whirled into some waves and vanished.