So rapid was the passage of the boat, that the water, as it parted before it, rose up on each side as high as his shoulders, and foamed like a torrent past me.
—JOEL T. HEADLEY
The search hadn’t started officially until just before dawn. Though Frederick had quietly sent out some of his men the evening before, they’d come back with no sign of Mike. By late that night, when Mary could no longer avoid the sheriff or the doctor, she had to give in and tell them Mike had vanished. Mary, with Frederick Durant at her side, met with the sheriff in Frederick’s office. The sheriff, a Scott named MacDougal, was not pleased.
“Ma’am, wi’ all due respect to you, your laddie looks guilty as a fox in a chicken coop. Him running like he has don’t look good. No’ good a’ tall.”
“Now, Mister MacDougal,” Frederick broke in, “we don’t know that Mike is running. You can’t assume that and have no definitive proof to make such a statement.”
Despite Durant’s manner, MacDougal didn’t budge much.
“I know who you are, Mister Durant. Know who your cousin is, too. But the fact is a man gets to thinkin’ on his deeds an’ his legs just can’t keep still. Aven’t seen a runner yet wasn’t guilty,” MacDougal said with a mixture of skepticism and deference. He shrugged and went on. “Canno’ prove it yet, I’ll grant ye, but if he’s lost, it’d be damned bad timing, I’d say.”
Much of the rest of the interview went the same way, with a thick bedrock of suspicion underlying most of the sheriff’s questions. What Mary hadn’t paid as much attention to was that MacDougal had asked a number of salient questions about Tupper, the method by which he’d killed the man in New York and the steward on the Albany night boat. He still thought it was damned suspicious that Mike had disappeared when he had, but if it wasn’t for Mary’s fear and anger she’d have noticed that he seemed to have a good many questions for the doctor as well.
Mary didn’t know what to think by the time she left. She’d kept her temper though. She’d had too many dealings with cops over the years not to know how to handle them. There wasn’t much she could do, anyway. She felt powerless, helpless, lost. Her city-bred self-assurance had been stripped away.
In New York, with her money, her discreet influence, and her police captain husband, there was little she couldn’t accomplish, few she couldn’t bend to her will one way or another. Here, she was just another tourist, albeit one who had Durant’s ear. Durant was her only card, and perhaps Duryea, too; though, of him she wasn’t as sure. Mary had learned by hard experience to work with the cards she’d been dealt. But this was a bad hand, a loser’s hand.
She was relieved, though, that she’d been able to dispose of Lettie’s pantalets before the sheriff arrived. There had been too much else to try to explain without having to deal with that little question, too. The thought of them made her wonder. She didn’t like to even entertain the thought, but sometimes her mind took her places she didn’t want to go. Mary suppressed a shiver and bent her thoughts to how to find Mike.
She got Frederick’s promise to again send some of his guides in search of Mike and asked if he thought Duryea could help.
“The general’s not in the best shape for a prolonged search,” Durant said with an absent look in the direction of the Duryea camp. His attention seemed riveted on a stage as it left the hotel. It was piled high with luggage, and passengers clinging to every available perch. The top-heavy coach rumbled off slowly, wallowing and pitching as it went.
“His boys might pitch in, though,” Durant went on, regaining his thoughts with a small sigh. “They’re a high-spirited pair and could be of some help, I suppose.”
Mary nodded. “It appears I’ll need all the help I can get,” she said. She didn’t like to think what might happen if MacDougal found Mike first.
“Can I get a boat to the general’s, Frederick?”
Durant watched a few minutes later as Mary, with Rebecca at her knees, was rowed around the point. He fingered the telegram in his pocket. He’d have to tell her, he knew. But with all the attention focused on her son, adding to her worries for her husband hardly seemed fair. He hadn’t thought it wise to tell her before her talk with the sheriff. MacDougal had been very curious on that point, and he’d worried that Mary would have revealed his whereabouts.
The message from William had been ominous, but at least it was clear that Tom was somewhere near Raquette Lake. Frederick had already sent a man to find him and tell him about Mike’s disappearance. He’d hoped to send Owens in search of Tom, but the man was said to be at Raquette already, with a client.
He’d told his man to find Owens, too, if he could. With a little luck, perhaps one of them would be able to catch up to Tom. Turning back toward the hotel, he saw MacDougal standing on the lawn below the verandah. He was gazing at the point of land where Mary had just disappeared.
Tupper watched from the top of the ridge. He had a good view, could see the carry, the long, narrow outlet from Raquette and a bit of the river beyond. His long-laker lay nearby. He’d hauled it up the ridge, a thing nobody would expect and never think to look for.
“A warrior who does what his enemies expect wins no battles,” his grandfather said as he’d looked up the steep ridge.
“Only a man with hanisséono on his heels would drag a boat up this ridge, old man.”
Tupper had muttered, but he’d done it anyway, making up his mind to watch and wait from the top. Tomorrow or the day after he’d try the river, once he was sure he’d thrown off pursuit.
Tupper puzzled again on how damnably persistent the cops had been. He hadn’t counted on them tracking him so far. Maybe that cop he’d fallen on had died. Maybe that was the reason. Somehow he doubted that the New York cops could care all that much about the foreman he’d knifed. “Maybe they just don’t like their prisoners escaping on them,” he mumbled.
“The fisherman always tries hardest for the one that gets away, Jim,” his grandfather said in his ear.
Tupper nodded at the wisdom of that, but turned to his grandfather’s spirit and asked, “Who they were shootin’ at then?”
He’d heard the shooting hours before, the echoes rolling from somewhere over by Forked Lake. There had been too much shooting for hunters, although you could never tell about sports. They’d get out into the woods and lose all sense. He’d known them to drink, play at shooting, and generally act like schoolboys, once they got away from the lights of the city. He figured he’d never have an answer to all that shooting, so he thought he’d just sit tight. The extra time would throw them off, make them think he’d already slipped by. But it was all guessing and little knowing. In the meantime, he could rest, ease his aching muscles, and soothe his scraped side.
He found the herbs he needed near the edge of the lake, plants whose names he could not remember. He’d taken them without the appropriate prayers, he knew, which required a small fire and burning tobacco. He regretted that, but hoped that by removing the seed pods and planting them as the rituals required, that at least some of the medicine in the plants remained to him.
They seemed to work, though his side still burned like fire and cut like knives when the scab cracked. He opened a pack and fished about, coming up with a mason jar of preserved peaches. Tupper eased back against a log. Tomorrow would be soon enough to move, maybe even the day after.
“Half empty, and it’s the last week in August,” Frederick said to William as they picked at the last of their strawberry shortcakes in the hotel dining hall. The setting sun painted the lake in hazy hues of yellow and orange outside the open windows.
“Saw the coach leave,” William said, “thought the springs would bust from the weight.”
Frederick’s grin was far from merry. “This murderer’s got them spooked. The stories I’ve heard would curl your hair. You’d think the man was killing dozens of women, flying off mountains, stealing children in their sleep.”
“Damn shame,” William said, shaking his head.
Frederick tried to brighten the mood, though, and added, “Once Braddock catches him, it’ll put the whole thing right.”
“I pray you’re right, cousin, but I’m beginning to wonder. Braddock’s been chasing him two days, going on three. Thought he’d be caught by now.”
Frederick stopped picking at his shortcake and pointed a fork at William. A strawberry was impaled on it, dripping bright red juice.
“I wouldn’t underestimate him, Will. He’s the sort who does what he sets out to do. A lot like Colvin that way. He will not stop, not for anything. I know he doesn’t know these woods, but I sure as hell wouldn’t want him after me, not if he’s the man I think he is.”
William heaved a sigh. “I believe you’re right, but I hope you’re right sooner than later. I need this over with soon,” he said with an urgent tone to his voice. “I need…”
William seemed to catch himself and tried to shrug it off with an apologetic smile. He’d taken a look at his balance sheet the night before and didn’t like what he saw. Although he still had cash on hand, it was going out far quicker than it was coming in. In fact, it was hardly coming in at all. Almost everything he was doing was speculative, which made his hoped-for deal with Morgan all the more critical. Another bill for the construction on the yacht had arrived, too, a fact that did nothing to improve his mood.
“What, Will? Can I help in some way?” Frederick said. “Is everything all right with you?”
William shrugged. “Oh fine, Fred. It’s just that this all comes at a damned inconvenient time.” William shook his head slowly. “Nothing you can do, Fred. Nothing anyone can do.”
Frederick was silent. He rarely heard his cousin speak like this. Ever the optimist, he had let very little stand in his way while he carved his empire out of the wilderness.
“Will, surely there’s something. Is it Ella that’s got you down?”
William looked across the table at Frederick with a grim set to his mouth.
“Telegram this morning,” he said. “Morgan’s getting cold feet.”
“He’ll come ’round, Will. Once this all calms down he’ll be back, and hotter than ever,” Frederick said, trying to cheer his cousin, but not so sure he could. He’d heard that Will’s money was going out faster than it came in. He didn’t realize how fast.
They camped in the same spot Sabattis had been the night before. There was no sign that anyone had been through the carry around the falls in the last day.
“So, he’s got to be behind us,” Tom said when Mitchell finished searching for signs.
“Can’t say. Most I can say is he hasn’t been here.”
“We could wait for him here. Set up an ambush,” Tom said.
“River’s narrow. We’d have a good shot at him,” Mike added.
The guide seemed to consider this, standing by the rapids, looking back at the calm stretch of tea-brown water above it.
“No,” he said. “Tupper, or whoever it was shot at you, would be expecting that. I would.”
They watched all night, taking turns but staying close by the camp. Tom and Mitchell had agreed on it. They had no way of knowing if Tupper or anyone else had seen where they’d gone or had followed, but in the absence of that knowledge it was best to be prepared. Sabattis shrugged. “Always best to think your game knows more than you think. We keep watch.”
They stayed beyond first light, watching by turns, weary from sleepless hours. More than once during the night they each had the feeling they were being watched. Mitchell got a fire going, boiling coffee and frying ham. They ate, packed their gear in silence and, once the fire was doused, Mitchell went to fetch the boat. Fitting a small yolk between the thwarts, he heaved the boat up, and in one smooth motion had the yolk positioned on his shoulders. He carried the boat, bottom up, looking like a long wooden turtle. They hadn’t taken two steps when Mitchell stopped.
“What?” Tom asked, watching the guide’s eyes in the shade of the boat. With a small flick of his head he said, “Somebody comin’.”
From some distance below the falls there was a flash of color and movement between the trees. Tom put a hand on the butt of his pistol, Mike thumbed the safety on the Winchester.
Mitchell started walking down toward the pool at the bottom of the falls, making his way over the tumbled rocks. He seemed unconcerned. Tom and Mike followed.
Soon, two men appeared through the trees. One was clearly a guide. He was lugging a large packbasket and what appeared to be an easel. A rifle was slung over one shoulder. The second man carried nothing but a slim wooden box on a strap slung across his shoulders and a stout hiking stick. He was well-dressed in new linen breeches, tucked into high, polished boots. He wore a vest over a crisp white shirt and a wide-brimmed felt hat with a broad leather band. A heavy gold watch fob dangled across his middle. Mitchell set down the boat and waited.
“G’mornin’,” he said when they got close. The guide gave a small wave. The other looked surprised and a bit annoyed. He cast the guide a disapproving look, but managed a civil, “Good morning, gentlemen.”
“Word, Barney,” Mitchell said to the guide, motioning that he wanted to talk privately.
They stepped away and spoke in low tones.
“Are you an artist, sir?” Tom asked after a brief, awkward silence.
“Yes,” was all the man said as he looked at the falls.
“You’ll want to be careful out here,” Tom said. “Not entirely safe.”
“What place in this world is?” The man said in a distracted mumble.
“We’re in pursuit of an escaped murderer. Have reason to think he may come down this river.”
The artist looked at Tom with a distracted frown, as if talk of escaped murderers was an inconvenience he’d rather not deal with. He looked from Tom to Mike, and then to the guides, as if seeing them for the first time.
“I’m sorry,” he said, turning back to Tom. “You are?”
“Captain Thomas Braddock, New York City Police.”
The artist cocked his head and gave a slight smile. “A bit out of your bailiwick, aren’t you?” He extended a hand. “Homer. Winslow Homer.”
A light of recognition went on in Tom’s eyes. “You worked for Harper’s during the war,” he said. “I remember your work, the picture of the sniper, the Confederate prisoners, you’ll forgive me if I don’t recall the names.”
Homer nodded. “Yes, those were mine,” he said with no visible reaction at being recognized in the middle of the wilderness.
“Oh, and my favorite is the one of the veteran in the field cutting wheat,” Tom said. “But that was after the war, wasn’t it?”
“Right again. Good of you to remember,” Homer said. “One of my favorites, too; but, listen, about this murderer thing—I’ve come to paint,” as if that fact somehow excluded him from all earthly concerns. “I’m not going anywhere. Barney here is armed, so am I, for that matter,” he said, pulling his vest up to reveal a small Stevens single-shot .32 poking out of his pocket.
“I’ll be fine.” He stuck out his hand to Tom. “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure, and, ah, thanks for the warning,” he said almost dismissively, then strode off toward the base of the falls. His guide shrugged and followed.
“Barney knows how to look after himself,” Mitchell said as he turned to pick up the boat.
As they walked downriver Tom saw Homer unfolding his case as he sat on a large rock.
He had an excellent view of the falls.
It was near noon when they reached the small hamlet of Long Lake.
“Stop at my place,” Mitchell said as they rowed up the lake, a narrow body of water not much more than a mile wide. It was nestled between undulating hills on the left and a mountain on the right. Ahead it disappeared, with no end in sight. The hills near the scattered buildings that Mitchell called the town were bare, except for an army of stumps and little plots of garden, none more than an acre or so.
“Telegraph here?” Tom said.
“Uh-huh. Been in a few years now. Not the most reliable, though,” Mitchell said. “Not more ’n twelve miles to Blue. Only takes half a day to deliver a message in person.”
“But we rowed for days, forty, fifty miles, I’d guess,” Mike said.
“You’d guess,” Mitchell said.
“We started off heading more or less west from Blue, Mike. But now we’re heading northeast. Came in a big circle,” Tom said. He’d been studying his map as they went, a somewhat sketchy thing based on the Colvin survey of ’76. Turning to Mitchell, he said, “Need to get word to my wife.”
Mitchell nodded and said, “Busher?”
Tom had been worrying about that. Sending word of Busher back to the Prospect House but not coming in person would only raise more suspicions; yet, in going back Mike would surely be arrested, assuming the sheriff had arrived. And if they went back, Tupper’s trail would go cold as a lake in February. There seemed to be a choice only between lesser evils.
“I’ll take care of Busher,” Mitchell said. “Send some men to fetch ’im back.”
Tom looked at Mitchell and nodded. “I thank you for that,” he said. Mitchell nodded, then looked over his shoulder at the smoke drifting from the chimney of a modest house set well back from the lake. “Wife’s been bakin’,” he said with a deep pull at the air.
“We can afford to take a bit of food. If Tupper comes, it won’t be till late. He’s hours behind.”
“What makes you so sure he’ll come this way, Mitchell?” Tom asked. “He could just go into the woods, right?”
“He could, sure. But that’s rough goin’, even for somebody who knows these woods. This lake, it leads to the Raquette River on the other end. That goes on up ta Tupper Lake an’ even further.”
“Tupper Lake?” Mike said. “How’d he get a lake named after him?”
Mitchell smiled. “Other way around. His family took that name ’cause they been hunting there for generations. When havin’ an Indian name got cumbersome years ago, they just started callin’ themselves Tupper.” They beached the boat then and walked on up to the house.
The Sabattis house smelled of bread fresh from the oven, of cakes and pies set out on windowsills to cool. They were welcomed by Mitchell’s wife, a small woman with a round face and dark eyes who came to the back door when she heard them coming through the yard. She didn’t appear surprised to find her husband home unexpected and in the company of two strangers.
A few words with Mitchell in a tongue Tom had never before heard was all that passed between them, that, and a short introduction for Tom and Mike. She bustled off moments later, wordlessly setting the table and getting up a quick meal for the three of them. Mitchell fetched an enamelware bucket and a bar of brown soap from under the dry sink, and with a nod toward the backyard said, “Pump’s out back. There’s rooms up the stairs.”
Simple though it was, Tom couldn’t remember a better meal. It was eaten in haste though, gulped down with cider and cool spring water.
“No time to dawdle,” Mitchell told them. “Tupper’ll be on the lake tonight.” With that Mitchell went out the back door with Tom’s note to Mary stuffed in a pocket and a promise to have it in her hand by nightfall. Tom had decided against the telegraph. He didn’t want to share his message with any loose-lipped operators.
“I’ll see if my brother’s free,” Mitchell said. “He’ll take this to your wife.”
Tom nodded. “Thanks.”
Mitchell returned an hour later, nodding to Tom that he’d seen to the chore.
As the day died, bleeding across the sky in pastels of orange and yellow and salmon and blue, the guide boat bumped ashore. The lake was narrow near the southern end, a couple of miles below the town. An island split the lake, leaving relatively narrow channels on either side not more than a couple hundred yards wide.
“Moose Island,” Mitchell said. “No moose now. Hunted out,” he said as they hid the boat on the north shore. Sabattis threw some branches on it to hide its outline. Mitchell had said this was the best spot on the whole lake to cut Tupper off. If he took this route he had to pass the island. “Might be tonight. Might be tomorrow, but I’d bet anything he’s heading this way.”
“Hope so,” Tom said. “Any luck, we’ll spot him in the narrows, then be in position to cut him off. Either way we’ve got him.” Tom looked back down the lake to where the Raquette flowed in, about a mile off.
“How long is this lake anyway?” Mike asked, craning north. “Can’t see the other end.”
“Some fourteen fifteen miles, give or take. Plenty o’ lake,” he said with a wave.
They settled in to wait, picking their spots while they could still see well enough and making sure of their route to the boat. They were all on the south end, Mitchell in the middle, Tom off to the west and Mike to the east. Mitchell accepted Mike’s role in the hunt without a word, never questioning his right or ability to be there.
The night was long. Minutes crawled like hours and hours didn’t seem to move at all. Though they were all rested, the night lulled them. The lake, as smooth as black glass, stretched into the distance, merging into the deeper black of the forest. Off to the north a light or two twinkled between the trees, but soon even those died. All that was left was the night sky, the stars, and ghostly, motionless puffs of cloud. It didn’t take long for Mike’s thoughts to turn to Lettie.
He never had time to grieve. Things had happened far too fast. It was all still unreal, her death, the suspicions surrounding him, Busher’s murder; all of it felt as if it had happened to someone else. The image of Lettie’s blackened corpse laid out on the ice seemed to float to the surface whenever he thought of her, blotting out everything else. Try as he would to remember her flowing hair or the soft porcelain of her skin, it would not last. A corpse was all she had become. Mike shuddered, though the night was warm.
Tom had been right. He should not have gone to see her that last time. Tom had been right about a lot of things.
Mike looked up at the blue-black sky. The Milky Way stretched away in points of light uncountable. He imagined that from somewhere beyond the moon Lettie could see him, and that some part of her was with him. Mike smeared tears from his cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt. Through one clouded eye he saw movement. Rubbing his eyes, he looked at the twinkling canopy. A silver streak slashed across the sky, then another, and a third, burning so briefly he almost doubted what he’d seen. More came in ones and twos. He was dazzled. It was a sign, a shower of stars for him alone. His eyes ran again at the thought.
As he wiped away the tears he almost missed Tupper.
Mike pulled a kerchief from his pocket. He turned as he did, reaching back and twisting half about. It was then he saw the movement on the shore, a brief black-on-black thing he couldn’t identify. It was some distance north of the island. He thought at first it might be a deer, but when the shape separated from the shore he knew it was no deer, not unless deer had oars.
“Tupper! Dad, he’s got ’round us!”
Mike brought the rifle up when he saw the man double his strokes, putting his back into it. The boat shot away, so that even from over two hundred yards he could see the lake turn white at the bow. Mike fired once, twice, jacking bullets into the chamber as fast as he could work the lever. He couldn’t see his sights, couldn’t see where his shots went. The rifle cracked again before Tom and Mitchell came up, crashing through the woods.
“There he goes!”
“Where? I don’t see a—”
“There. There!” Mike said, pointing at the swiftly diminishing boat. Mike was about to take another shot when Mitchell said, “Waste of lead. Come!” Sabattis took off through the wooded island, dodging trees, branches, undergrowth, and logs with uncanny ease. Tom and Mike stumbled behind. Soon all they could do was follow the sound of his running.
The boat was uncovered and ready to shove off when Tom and Mike got there. Mitchell waited at the oars. He sat, saying nothing while they clambered in. Then Mitchell Sabattis started to row. Tom had never seen anything like it. The small, brown guide seemed to have the power of ten men. The boat surged forward like a thoroughbred charging from the gate. The lake foamed at the bow, sending up a small fountain on either side. The oars dipped and rose, reaching back in graceful arcs before dipping again. They made hardly a splash but dug deep into the water, leaving swirling, black whirlpools in their wake. Mitchell worked the long oars in silence, his breathing falling into cadence with his strokes. Mike sat behind him in the middle, Tom at the stern.
“Carried his boat right by us,” Tom said. “How in hell he figure that?”
“Hell of a lead, too,” Mike said, craning around Mitchell for a better look. “Three, four hundred yards, but damned if we aren’t gaining.”
“Won’t catch,” Mitchell said between strokes. “Too much weight.”
They’d gone over a mile by then, and even in the dark they could see the sweat shining on Mitchell’s face. “Switch when we get to the bridge. You row,” Mitchell said to Tom.
There was a narrow point a couple of miles up the lake spanned by a floating bridge. Tupper would still be out of range by the time they got there, but it was a perfect opportunity to switch at the oars. Tom was still fresh, while Tupper would be starting to tire. Mitchell slowed some from the inhuman pace he’d set, but he still worked the oars with vigor and efficiency. He showed little sign of fatigue beyond the running sweat on his leathery features.
Nearly another mile went by before Mitchell said, “Take shotgun.”
Mike picked it up. “Why not the rifle? He’s in range and…”
They’d narrowed the gap to maybe two hundred yards, but at night, with a single shot, the odds of hitting anything were remote at best.
“Shotgun!” Mitchell said again. “Fire when we stop. Maybe get lucky.”
Mitchell took another series of strokes, pulling with everything that was in him. The loaded long-laker seemed to leap half out of the water and the gap narrowed further. With a flick of one oar he turned the boat nearly half around, slowing it at the same time so it hit the bridge with a glancing blow, stopping almost immediately. Mike jumped out and knelt on the floating bridge, which bobbed and rolled under him.
“Both barrels,” Mitchell said, gasping out the words. The old shotgun boomed twice, sending out sheets of flame and smoke. None of them could see if they’d hit anything. They didn’t take the time.
Tom and Mitchell dragged the boat across the rough log bridge and jumped back in, Tom at the oars, Mike in the middle again, and Mitchell at the stern. Tom laid hold of the oars. Mitchell took up the paddle.
“Pull! Pull like the devil!” Mitchell shouted. “Pull!”
Tupper cursed. His wounded side had opened up, the scab cracking and oozing with each stroke. How had they seen him? He’d been so fucking careful, carrying the damn boat until he could carry it no more. Still they’d seen him. He’d expected a trap at every narrow spot on the river, and especially at Moose Island, and had gone well around; but still they’d seen him. When he neared the bridge, he was sure there’d be men waiting there to stop him. When he saw there weren’t, he was grateful for at least that small stroke of luck.
His grandfather could not explain it. He sat in the stern, not looking back or to either side.
Tupper fought through the pain and weariness. He’d rested all the day prior, watching from his perch atop the ridge by the outlet of Raquette Lake, but it was still not enough. He’d been on the move since sundown, carrying the boat down from his hiding place, rowing for miles downriver, carrying again around rapids and falls, and finally past the island at the south end of the lake.
He was bruised, blistered and bleeding but he went on, knowing the lake was his best hope. If he’d been able to slip by, a highway of rivers and lakes went clear to the St. Lawrence. But that chance was gone. He was in a race now, a race he was losing.
Tupper could not seem to keep the other boat from closing. He fell into a chant, one of the Eagle Society songs that had always held power for him. It helped. His pain was slowly lessened, chased away to a place not of himself. He rowed and chanted and rowed and chanted and rowed. His eyes became fixed on the dark horizon. He scrambled over the bridge, hardly aware of how he did it.
He didn’t watch the boat as it came on behind. He knew they were heavier. He knew, too, that the men who could match him at the oars numbered no more than the fingers on his hand. Still they gained, but Tupper did not alter his stroke. He thought he could outlast them, even as hurt as he was. They gained despite his strength and his trancelike concentration. Then they fired.
He saw the flash. The noise jolted Tupper, breaking his trance. An instant later a hail pattered around him, splashing in the lake, bouncing against the boat, grazing one arm and one hitting him square in the chest. Like a rock thrown hard it delivered a stinging blow, then bounced off rattling in the bottom of the boat. Tupper cried out but hardly broke stroke.
He screamed a long, triumphant call that echoed through the night, bouncing off the shouldering mountains. It was the call his ancestors made when they’d fought the French and their Huron dogs, a whooping shriek of victory and power. Tupper’s grandfather was smiling.
“Their bullets have no power,” the spirit said. “No power. It is you who have the power! Row now. Row while they are in dismay.”
Tom didn’t bother to look. He knew the range was long for a shotgun. He just gripped the oars and got to work. On his first stroke the long maple oars groaned and flexed. The boat shot forward. But on his second stroke his hands banged together. The oars splashed the lake and the boat slowed.
“Left over right,” Mitchell said. It was always hard for a novice to get the hang of the overlapping sweep of the handles, more like a racing scull than a rowboat. Mitchell worked the paddle, trying to compensate for Tom’s inexperience. He paddled and steered. An experienced guide could do both with the oars alone. Mitchell knew Tom could not do that.
But he could row. By sheer strength and will, Tom had the boat going even faster than it had before. The more comfortable he became, the faster they went. Mitchell eyed the oars, watching them flex.
“Easy,” he said, “not so much back.”
Tom eased off a bit. He knew he couldn’t keep up that pace anyway. Mike reloaded and was staring ahead.
“Must’ve missed,” he said. “He’s rowing like the devil himself.”
He cocked the shotgun.
“Don’t waste ammunition,” Mitchell grunted. “Need—closer.”
He dug hard with his paddle and Tom kept up a powerful stroke. Between them they had the boat moving as fast as any steamer, or so it seemed to Mike. Still, they could not seem to catch up.
“You have their power now,” his grandfather said. “They struck too soon. Their power is yours.” It did seem that way. Tupper had widened the gap. It was as if the shotgun pellet, a .32-caliber ball that now rolled in the bottom of the boat, had given him a new surge of energy. He focused on the stinging lump on his chest, seeing it in his mind as a source of strength, a symbol of his true power. It had bounced off. In all his years he’d never heard of such a thing. He had flown like an eagle. Now he was harder than stone.
Time stood still while the lake raced past. The only sounds were the creak of the oars, the rush of black water, and his own heavy breathing. Another mile went by. The town disappeared behind. The lake widened on either side. The end was still nowhere in sight, lost in the blue-black distance. Tupper’s side still burned. His bruises ached. But none of that seemed to be his concern.
It was as if they had become someone else’s pain. He was aware of them, but they were not his. What was his was the water, the stars, the breeze that cooled his scalp, and the thrill of the chase. He was confident now. The buckshot had made it so. The lump on his chest radiated power throughout his body, running down his arms in a warm, electric glow. He grinned at the thought. For a man who hated electricity, it was an irony, but true.
He snuck a quick look over his shoulder. Big Brook would be coming up on his right soon. For a moment he thought about trying to duck into the mouth of the river, maybe even follow it all the way up to Slim Pond. He could get to Little Tupper from there, but it was a nasty carry and the lake didn’t take him where he needed to go. He looked again at the boat that followed. In the darkness he had to squint hard to see it, but it was still in sight. Hiding in the mouth of Big Brook would not work. They were too close. The oars dipped and groaned and dipped again. Powerful or not, he was only one man and had not put enough distance between them.
He’d make for the Raquette. There was no other way. The river, which continued at the outlet of Long Lake, was a maze of twists and turns, oxbows, islands, and sandbars. It was made for ambush. Tupper began to plan as Big Brook materialized on his right.
“Six miles more,” Tupper grunted. “Then they’ll see what an ongwéonwe can do.”
Tupper rowed on. Sweat rolled off him in rivulets. He worked hard to keep his hands from slipping on the blood-soaked oars. He hadn’t rowed like this in months. His hands were not tough enough. He had scraped one in his flight from Castle Rock, too. His hands felt as if they were on fire. This too he pushed to some faraway corner of his brain.
“The niágwai is known to chew off his own paw to be free of the trap,” Tupper remembered his grandfather telling him. The old man’s spirit sat in the back of the boat, nodding. “Imagine that power,” the spirit said. “A man who can do that is a man above men. To such a man, pain is nothing.”
Tupper knew that was so, though he had no intention of chewing off his hand to prove it. Coming out of his thoughts, he checked again on the boat behind. At first he didn’t see it and thought he’d lost them altogether. Then they materialized from the deeper shadow of the trees. They were closer. At first he thought it was a trick of the light, but that wasn’t it. They’d made up the distance he’d gained. He could see the one in the stern working the paddle, saw the other with the shotgun.
It was at least another six miles to the outlet of the lake. He knew in an instant he would not make it. Their extra weight was overcome by the man on the paddle, and the big man who worked the oars had at least his strength and more. Tupper made his decision.
“He’s turning in!” Mike shouted. “Going for shore.”
Mitchell stopped in midstroke.
“Shore. Now!” he said in a low but urgent voice. He used the paddle to turn the boat, while Tom worked the left oar. “Big Brook,” Mitchell said. It was about all he could get out, he was breathing so hard. Tupper’s boat shot toward the north shore of the river. He’d make it to land before them.
“Fuck!” Tom growled with a look over his shoulder. “Puttin’ the river between us.”
Tupper’s guide boat disappeared into the shadows. He’d be on land and ready to fire in a heartbeat. Mike knew there wasn’t much chance, but he let go with both barrels, hoping for a lucky shot. Tom pulled hard. Mitchell steered.
“Go slower,” Mitchell said. “Careful! There’s rocks hereabouts.”
They were still twenty yards from shore when the boat lurched with a sickening crunch. Something ripped at the bottom. Wood splintered. The boat seemed to scream. Mike was in the water before he knew what had happened. He went under. Tom saw him disappear as if in slow motion, hardly believing it. He shot up from his seat without thinking and the crippled boat threw him over the side.
The water was cold and black. Down seemed the same as up. His clothes and boots and pistol pulled him under. Something jabbed at his leg. His boot caught on a submerged branch. For a long, horrible moment he thought he would not break free. He struggled to reach the surface.
When at last he came up, gasping and struggling, he saw Mike clinging to the side of the boat. Mitchell was paddling for shore. The boat sat low in the water. Bullets whistled about them. They heard them first, followed by the crack of the rifle.
Zing-boom! Zing-boom! One splashed close by, skipping like a stone. Another went high. A third, then a fourth sang about their ears before they could scramble up on shore. Tom collapsed against a tree, breathing hard.
“Sonofabitch! Everybody okay?”
His Colt was in his hand. His hair hung about his eyes and he was sucking air like a landed fish. But when he caught Mike’s eye, there was a light there that Mike had never before seen. Mike felt that light like an electric shock, and he could not stand to look long. Bullets continued to rip through the trees, thunking into trunks, rustling through the leaves.
“Where’s the shotgun?”
“Lost it,” Mike said between gasping breaths.
Tom just nodded.
“I’ll get the Winchester.” Mike crawled to the boat, which lay half submerged by the shore. Mitchell stood and waded back out into the lake. Without a word he dove in.
“Jesus Christ! You’ll never find it. Come back,” Tom shouted.
Mitchell paid him no mind. He swam out, then ducked beneath the surface.
“Damnit!” Tom growled. Looking at Mike, he said, “Ready?”
Mike thought he knew what “ready” meant. He nodded. He’d chambered a round and drained the water from the gun as bullets bit the trees above them, raining little bits of bark and twigs.
“C’mon!” The light in Tom’s eyes said the rest.
Tom got up, crouched low, then dashed forward toward the shore of Big Brook. They weren’t more than twenty yards from it, and Tom had covered half the distance, before Mike realized what he was doing. Mike stumbled after Tom’s shadow as it flitted from tree to tree. The bullets stopped for a moment.
“Behind that tree!” Tom called back to Mike, pointing to his right. Tom ducked behind a big maple. “Wait. He’s reloading,” Tom said in a hoarse whisper. “Fire at the muzzle flash.”
Big Brook was maybe one hundred yards wide at its mouth, but Tom wasn’t thinking of crossing. He had no idea of how deep it might be and no intention of exposing himself and Mike on the open water, not even under cover of night.
“Tupper knew what he was doing, putting this creek between us,” Tom said while he tried to catch his breath. “Bastard knows a thing or—”
Tupper’s rifle boomed again.
“There. See it?” Tom said, steadying his Colt against the tree. It barked, lighting Tom’s face in a brief burst of flame. He fired slow and steady, taking his time and aiming each shot. It was a long shot for the pistol. Mike tried to do the same. Tupper’s firing ceased after just two shots, then started again from a different location.
Tom and Mike kept up a deliberate, withering fire, driving Tupper from one hiding place to the next. They took turns firing and reloading, not letting up. Shots still whistled back at them, though none seemed to come near. In a brief lull, while Mike reloaded and Tupper’s fire had ceased, Mitchell came trotting through the blackness. He was dripping from head to toe, except for his hat, which he’d apparently left onshore. The shotgun was in his hand.
He took position behind a boulder. When Tupper fired again, all three cut loose at once, the shotgun bellowing and belching smoke, the Colt and Winchester ripping holes in the night. All fire from the other side of Big Brook ceased. Smoke settled over the oily, black water. The silence rang.
They waited while the minutes crawled by. None spoke. No sound came from the opposite shore.
“Dad,” Mike said. “We must’ve hit him, had to. What do we do?”
“Stay put,” Tom said, “at least for now. Could be trying to come at our flank.”
Mitchell got up and, in a low crouch, faded back into the trees.
“Where’s he going?”
“Watching our backs, maybe. Checking the boat, I don’t know.” Tom craned to see what he could of the lake. “Can you see Tupper’s boat?”
Mike said he couldn’t. “I’ll work over to the shore to get a better look.”
They were perhaps sixty feet or more from the lake shore. Their view of the shore on the other side of the stream was limited.
“Careful,” Tom said. “I’ll watch our flank.”
Mike went from tree to tree, making sure of his cover. Tom kept the pistol ready. From off behind he could hear a hollow bumping and scraping. Tom hoped it was Mitchell checking their boat. He hoped too that it wasn’t beyond repair.
Mike’s rifle shattered the silence. “He’s getting away!”
The rifle boomed again. Tom jumped up and scrambled to where Mike stood, firing. The boat was already well away and moving fast. They’d have missed it entirely, if Mike hadn’t changed position. Tupper was hugging the shadows close to shore, risking the rocks. Tom didn’t fire. Tupper was already out of pistol range.
“Brace the rifle against the tree,” Tom said. “Aim high. I’m going to check on the boat.”
When Tom turned back he could see a light through the trees.
“How’s it look?” Tom asked when he got back to where Mitchell stood over the stricken craft. It was on the shore, turned bottom up. Even in the weak lamplight, Tom could see the splintered wood. Mitchell was working fast with a hammer and a chisel. Tom didn’t bother to ask where the tools had come from. He’d come to expect the unusual from Sabattis.
“Be some time,” Mitchell mumbled, more concerned with the boat than with Tupper or whether Mike had gotten in a lucky shot.
“How long?”
“Less ’n we got. More ’n I like,” he said as he fished out a piece of canvas, some copper sheathing, a jar of copper nails, and a jar of spruce gum. Tom started to say something, but stopped himself and shrugged.
“What can I do?” he asked, tucking the Colt away.
“Find me a spruce branch. Two feet long, half-inch diameter,” Mitchell mumbled as he studied the damage. The Winchester went silent. Mike materialized in the lamplight. “He’s gone.”