But the Adirondacks are quite another affair. There you do not visit Nature, you are enveloped by her. You lie on her breast, and her arms are around you. She mixes your blood with the balsam of her caresses. All that she loves—her happy solitude, the floor of glassy lakes, her woodland song and odors—she gives you. In the Adirondacks you are wholly American.
—THOMAS GOLD APPLETON
The bullets had not bounced off this time. Whatever magic had been his was lost. His grandfather had nothing to say about that. In fact, the old man had been nowhere in sight when the bullets started flying. Tupper winced at his wounded leg. He’d bandaged it in haste with a white shirt he’d pulled from the pack of one of the fishermen.
He knew better than to use colored cloth. The dye would kill him as sure as any bullet once it got into the wound. He moved his foot, stretching the calf muscle, which had a four-inch furrow carved in it. The leg would stiffen up if he let it. He’d be slowed. Slow was something he could not afford to be.
He flexed his hands. They still tingled. When his rifle had been shot away, his hands had gone numb. It was an evil magic, and Tupper thanked Hodianok’doo Hedi’-iohe’ that his hands were returning to him. He looked at the rifle. It was of little use now. The forearm was shattered, the loading tube bent.
When it had happened, he was knocked on his back, dazed. He’d crawled back to the boat dragging the broken rifle. More stunned than he realized, he knew his grandfather must have been with him for him to even make it that far. His luck held, though, and he’d gotten well away, pulling with hands that could not feel the oars. Even when the bullets started again, he’d been hopeful. The range was long, the night black.
Then the boat erupted in splinters. There was a burning slash across his leg, like a rope of fire. He could see through a hole in the stern. Water was running in. The lake bled through another hole beside him. Blood and water mixed in the bottom as shots splashed close by, or whistled past.
Still, he did not stop rowing. A shot cracked into the blade of an oar. splintering the tough wood lengthwise, ripping the oar from his hand, and tearing open his blistered fingers. Tupper regained it as best he could, but he slowed, his rhythm thrown off. He went slower once he got himself going again, for fear of breaking the oar altogether. His bleeding hand slipped on the handle. The boat filled, though he stuffed clothes in the holes. Finally he pulled for shore just before the lake smothered the craft entirely. As he stuffed a packbasket, he considered himself lucky. Pursuit was nowhere in sight. He didn’t understand it. He didn’t question it. He just started walking.
Later that morning Mary and Rebecca sat on one of the stumps that dotted the broad lawn of the Prospect House. They’d eaten early, then gone down to the pen to feed the white buck. He’d been restless, but ate from Rebecca’s hand once he’d settled down.
“Remember when Snowflake bit Mikey?” Rebecca asked. She’d taken a notion to name the deer a couple of days before, and had called him by it so many times since that Mary could swear he was starting to answer to it.
“His hand was all bloody. Snowflake was bad then, but now he’s good. When Mikey and Daddy come back they’ll be surprised.”
“Yes they will, ’Becca,” Mary said, though her throat tightened almost too much to speak. Rebecca had somehow come up with the idea that Mike was with Tom. She seemed quite convinced and had mentioned it more than once. Mary prayed that repetition would make it so.
Once the deer lost interest in food, they went to sit and watch the lake, while Rebecca’s heels beat an uneasy rhythm on the stump. They sat like that for some time watching, as if Tom and Mike might come rowing up to the dock at any minute. They were there when a man rode up to the Prospect House from the direction of town. He tied his horse to one of the posts of the verandah and came ambling across the lawn toward them with an intent but curious cock to his head.
“Would you be Mary Braddock, ma’am?” he asked.
“I am,” she answered, standing to meet him.
“Have a message for you. Your husband described you well,” he said, holding out a folded piece of paper. “I’m Sol Sabattis, Mitchell’s brother.”
“My husband?” Mary said, brightening but confused. “But who’s Mitchell? I’m sorry, I don’t know any Mitchell. What was the last name again?”
“Sabattis, ma’am.”
“I don’t understand. What does this have to do…,” she said, but stopped when she saw the writing in the note. Rebecca watched Sol as Mary read.
“You’re an Indian,” Rebecca said. Sol just nodded. “Do you live in a tepee?”
“’Becca!”
“It’s all right, ma’am,” Sol said with a grin, then, to ’Becca, “I live in a regular house, with a porch and a green door; but when I was a boy my granddad used to say how he lived in a long house when he was little. It was covered with bark.”
“Like a tree?”
“Just like a tree. It was as snug as could be, according to him.”
“That sounds like fun,” Rebecca said, and started asking lots of questions while Mary read the note with fumbling fingers. It was dated the day before and read:
My dearest Mary,
Mike is with me. He is well. We have had some setbacks, but Mitchell says we should catch Tupper tonight. I think of you often. Do not worry for us. We are in good company. Kiss ’Becca for me.
Your devoted husband,
Tom
Mary let out a long sigh and for a moment she actually felt as if she might fall down. “Thank God,” she whispered, her fears for Mike at least partly assuaged. She let the note drop to her side as she looked out at the lake, momentarily forgetting Rebecca and Sol.
They were safe, or at least they were a day ago. Relief drained the high color from her face, and she shook her head at her foolishness for ever doubting either Tom or Mike. She smiled at Rebecca and patted her head. Turning back to Sol, she said, “I can’t thank you enough, sir. This is most welcome news. You were right, ’Becca,” Mary said. “Mike is with Daddy.”
“Told you, Mommy,” she replied, as if she’d read the note herself.
“Tell me about Mitchell,” Mary asked Sol. “Anything you can about what he’s doing with my husband. And what happened to Mister Busher? There’s so much I don’t understand. I’d be most grateful for anything you can add.”
It didn’t take long. Sol wasn’t any more of a talker than his brother, and didn’t know all that much about the situation. He only said, “My brother is the best guide at Long Lake. Not a thing that walks, crawls, or swims he can’t track and kill, ma’am. He ran into your husband on Forked Lake, from what I hear. They been after this Tupper fella ever since. Couldn’t tell what happened to Busher,” he added, not meeting her eye.
Mary noticed, but didn’t ask more. There was a part of her that didn’t want to know. As she got over her initial relief, she still worried about Tom and Mike. Whatever had happened to Busher, it hadn’t been good. Tupper, it seemed, was every bit as dangerous as Tom had said, and perhaps more. Though Mary asked a lot more questions, she didn’t get many more answers. Finally, with a sigh, she asked if Sol could take back a note.
“Be glad to take the note ta Long Lake. Can’t promise it’ll find Mitchell or your husband, ma’am.”
“I know,” Mary said with a frown. “I’m relying on you completely.” Mary scribbled a note on the other side of Tom’s.
Tom,
I love you more than words can say. You can’t imagine how relieved I am to hear that Mike is with you. Please be careful! Sol won’t tell me what happened to Chauncey. I suspect the worst. Take no chances, and take care of Mike. Come back to me and ’Becca. All my love,
Mary
P.S. The sheriff is here, a man named MacDougal. He’ll arrest Mike if he finds you. Avoid him if you can.
After Sol had gone, Mary went with Rebecca down to the water’s edge. ’Becca liked to throw pieces of bread to the fish and seemed to have a bottomless supply stuffed in a little pocket. “I told you, Mommy. I told you Mike was with Daddy,” she said as she started throwing bread into the water.
“You were right. Right all along,” Mary said. “You are soooooo smart, you little daisy-face. Oh, I almost forgot. Daddy said to give you this.” Mary kneeled and gave her little girl the longest hug she could remember, and a kiss just the way Tom always did, one on both cheeks and one on the nose. Mary had just gotten to her feet when she saw a boat rounding the point. There was only one man in it, so she paid it no mind until it was almost at the dock.
“Ah, Missus Braddock,” she heard a voice say. Looking up, she noticed it was Owens at the oars.
“Why, Mister Owens, back from Raquette Lake?”
“Yes ma’am. Did what I set out to. Send the clients home happy, I always say.”
“I’m sure you do,” Mary answered.
Owens gave Mary a devilish smile as he tied up his boat. “Why, yes I do, Missus Braddock,” he said. His tone was suggestive, and he held her eye longer than was proper. Turning to get his gear out of the boat he said, “Saw your husband a couple days ago. Didn’t see me, though.”
“Really?” Mary said.
“Yup. Pretty dark at the time. Busher was with ’im.”
“I see. No one else? No sign of that maniac, Tupper?”
“Nope. Suppose he was makin’ himself small. Then again, wasn’t me looking for ’im,” Owens said, making it sound as if he’d have caught Tupper already if he was. Rebecca giggled as a little school of fish rose up from the shadow of the dock to fight for bits of bread.
“Used to like that when I was a tyke,” Owens said with a nod toward Rebecca. “You want to go catch some real fish, missy?”
“Oh yes! Could we, Mommy? I would love that sooo, sooo much! Could I feel one?”
“Sure. Eat one, too, if you like,” Owens said.
Mary paused to consider that. “I don’t know, Mr. Owens. We never did fishing before.”
“Catching fish is a thing I know. I’d even take you for free, as a treat to the little miss here.”
“My name’s Rebecca, but my mommy and daddy call me ’Becca; Mike, too.”
They made plans then for later in the day, after lunch. Mary figured she wasn’t going to do much before Chowder arrived, anyway, so it could do no harm.
“Anyway, been out in the woods a few days,” Owens said, rubbing his hands on dirt-shiny pants lags. “Imagine I might be a tad offensive, ’less I scrub off a layer or two.”
They pushed off before the sun crested the mountains on the eastern shore. The boat leaked.
“She’s sprung,” Mitchell said. “Joints’re loose.” He’d never said a word about Tom running it up on the rocks, though Tom could see he cared about the thing like a father for a child. Mike fished out an old shirt and started sopping up water, while Mitchell and Tom rearranged their gear to keep it dry. They hadn’t gone all that far when Tom spotted something in the water. It was a piece of Tupper’s oar blade, a long, narrow sliver with a jagged furrow dug into one edge.
“Bullet,” Tom said when they fished it out.
Mitchell nodded. “Good.”
Mitchell pulled for another half mile or so, while Tom worked the paddle and Mike glassed the shoreline and sopped water. Looking ahead, he said to Mitchell, “Rock coming up on your right.”
Mitchell looked puzzled and glanced about as if taking his bearings.
“No rocks here.”
“Well, I’m looking at one,” Mike said, glassing the water again.
“Not a rock,” Mitchell said without looking. He pulled toward the thing, which was no more than fifty yards off by then. Waves were lapping over whatever it was, showing something just below the surface.
“It’s a boat!” Mike shouted. “It’s Tupper’s boat!”
They pulled alongside the submerged craft. Just a bit of the stem and stern poked above the surface. A few rocks sat in the bottom, enough to keep it down, but not enough to sink the buoyant spruce boat entirely.
“Hasty,” Mitchell grunted.
Tom agreed, but said, “Never would have seen that at night. Would’ve been miles beyond here if we hadn’t waited till first light.” Mitchell said nothing. He just pulled for the shore.
“He’s gone on foot then,” Tom said, looking at the line of tress stretching for unbroken miles in either direction. “Wonderful!”
“Not wonderful,” Mitchell said as they beached the boat. “Not wonderful at all.” He shook his head, but he was clearly resigned to what they had to do. He managed a grin, though, and added, “Still, even a breeze leaves tracks in the forest.”
“Maybe so, Mister Sabattis,” Mike said, “but it’s a damn big forest. Busher said Tupper could disappear in there and never be seen again.”
Mitchell shouldered his pack with a grunt. Shrugging into the heavy leather straps, he said, “That’s how I think about the city, but I know that ain’t so. Besides, Busher ain’t me.”
They started by inspecting the shoreline north of where they’d landed. Mitchell led, his dark eyes scanning the shore and the forest floor. He talked as he went.
“Everything leaves tracks, if you know what to look for,” he said. “Twigs don’t break themselves. Leaves lie natural-like if undisturbed. Moss bruises easy. You have an eye for those things, they’ll tell you all you need to know.” He went so fast that Tom and Mike wondered how he could spot anything. They made no comment, trusting that he knew what he was about.
After a short while Mitchell stopped, then kneeled, looking left and right. Pointing to the ground he grunted, “Blood.” Turning left, he plunged into the forest. Tom followed. Mike knelt where Mitchell had, trying to see what he’d seen. A bit of moss scraped from a rock was all he noticed.
For the rest of the morning the three stalked Tupper’s trail. It took them through dense undergrowth and groves of birch so white they lit the forest floor. They followed a meandering trail that only Mitchell saw, through endless stands of hardwoods and tangled, stumpy ground where loggers had taken the spruce and pine. They scrambled around downed trees, over rocks and hills, ravines and bogs, while the sun climbed to its zenith.
From time to time Mitchell would stop to check for sign. He never seemed unsure or doubtful, not even when the trail led up a rocky creek bed where water gurgled unseen, rising up in little dark pools here and there. He’d stop and kneel to read the moss or leaves or rocks, as if he was reading a book at the library. He had the look of a scholar at these times, a man accustomed to a life of study and acute observation.
They walked hard, but rested frequently. The stops were only enough to catch their breath and perhaps chew on a bit of dried, smoked venison. They walked in silence, spread well apart, Mitchell first, Mike in the middle, and Tom behind. Tom often stopped to watch the trail, waiting hidden for Tupper to come stalking up behind. He’d wait behind cover until Mike and Mitchell were lost to sight. Sometimes the forest held its breath, sometimes it seemed to whisper. Tom’s pistol grew hot in his hand, but he saw nothing.
As they walked deeper into the forest, Tom began to realize how lost he was. The trail had twisted and turned around swamps and streams, rocky ridges and tangled windfalls. The only thing he was at all sure of was that they were headed generally west. He began to appreciate how much they were depending on Mitchell. It was not a good feeling, considering what had happened to their last guide. At least on the water there were borders, ends and beginnings. Here all was the same, or so it seemed to Tom. The trees marched away in all directions, infinitely varied but essentially the same, one direction no different from the next. It was like a Coney Island house of mirrors, except the mirrors were trees.
The ground they crossed became low, with swampy areas thick with alder, balsam, and silver birch. Mitchell went on following an invisible trail as though he were on a city sidewalk. Though he’d stop to read the signs, he seemed to know exactly where he was going. He followed the trail through heavy brush, where the earth went from spongy loam to sucking mud. There, for the first time, Tom saw a clear footprint of the man they were after.
“This man has at least one wound,” Mitchell said, “maybe two. He’s favoring the left leg. You can see by how he sets his feet and the depth of the tracks.” He pointed to a set of three and Tom could see, now that Mitchell had pointed it out, that indeed the left track was lighter, the right deeper.
“Not slowing him much,” Tom said. “We’ve been moving pretty fast.” Mitchell just nodded.
They waded a muddy, sluggish stream bordered by high grass dotted with delicate harebell and blind gentian, with its clusters of blue flowers. Tom went first, charging across the open space, while Mike and Mitchell covered him from hiding.
Tupper had been there, but he’d moved on. Clouds of thirsty mosquitoes were all they found. Tom and Mike slapped at them. Mitchell took no notice. After a while he stopped and fished in his pack.
“Try this,” he said. “Make it myself.”
He handed Tom a corked bottle half full of a viscous, black liquid that left a greasy ring on the inside of the glass. Tom pulled the cork and sniffed at it.
“Ach! For the love o’ Christ, what’s in this?”
Mitchell grinned. “Can’t say. Keeps the skeeters off though.”
Tom and Mike daubed it on, trying to hold their breath.
“Smells like coal tar, turpentine, and bear shit,” Mike grumbled. He held his hands out at his sides not knowing what to do with them. He finally shrugged and wiped them on his pants.
“Pretty close,” Mitchell said, corking the bottle before putting it back. “Works,” he added with a shrug.
They started to climb then, going up a steady incline that got steeper as they went. The trail ran straight up and over a small mountain.
“What mountain is this?” Mike asked the next time they stopped.
“Got no name I know of,” Mitchell said.
“You know where you are?”
Mitchell didn’t speak at first. He crunched some hard crackers as if he hadn’t heard the question. “We are in the hunting ground of the Mohawk, keepers of the eastern door to the Iroquois nation,” Mitchell said at last, “Land that was theirs for as long as the stars were bright. My father, Captain Peter, fought here with the Yankees against the British. It is the land I’ve known since I was a boy.”
Mary sat on the verandah, Rebecca at her side. She fingered the bit of cloth in her pocket. Since Tom had started chasing Tupper, she’d kept it with her. It wasn’t much, just a small patch of plaid flannel, with blue and green and brown threads hanging loose where it had been torn. When the sheriff had arrived, she wondered if she shouldn’t turn it over. It was evidence, after all, but she worried what the reaction would be. Coming from her, a woman who’d never even seen the body, and whose son was the prime suspect, she thought she knew. Her word would never be respected, as much because of he sex as for the more obvious reasons.
The piece of cloth Tom had found in the Burman girl’s mouth would mean nothing coming from her. It might even be “lost,” or dismissed outright, its value and meaning gone forever.
Mary prayed again that Tom and Mike would come back with the murderer in irons. It would be the only way to put all their worries to rest. Anything short of that left too much open, too many possibilities. If Tupper wasn’t caught, the piece of flannel might be Mike’s only defense. He had no such shirt, never had. Tom had told her to keep it safe. Safe it would stay until he returned.
“When are we going fishing, Mommy?” Rebecca said, shaking Mary out of her thoughts. “I see Mister Owens by the dock. See him? See? He’s waving.” Rebecca waved back. “Let’s go. I want to catch fishes now.”
They did catch fishes, “long ones with fins and little spots,” as ’Becca described them. Owens baited their hooks and told them what to do if they got a bite. He took care of everything else, netting when they got one in close, pulling hooks, and rowing the boat. Most of all, he was entertaining. He sang funny tunes, like “Bile ’em Cabbage Down”:
Jaybird died with the whooping cough
Sparrow died with the colic
Along came the frog with a fiddle on his back
Inquirin’ his way to the frolic.
His voice was rough and his pitch was off, but it only seemed to add to the fun when he went into a rendition of “Blue-Tailed Fly”—
They laid him ’neath a ’simmon tree
His epitaph is there to see:
“Beneath this stone I’m forced to lie
A victim of the blue-tailed fly.”
Rebecca caught a fish then. She squealed and clapped as Owens brought it in. She wanted to touch it, so Owens held it for her. She felt its side with just one finger.
“He’s so smooth, Mommy, and he’s cold,” she said with a giggle. She looked closely at the fluttering gills and open, doll-like eye.
“He looks sad, Mister Owens. Do you think he’s sad?”
“Couldn’t say. Never gave a thought to such a thing. Could be so, I guess,” Owens said with a look at the fish. “Plenty of things in this world to make a body sad.”
“We should throw him back,” Rebecca said in her gentlest voice. “Right, little fishy? You need your family, don’t you? You miss your home and your Mommy.”
“Throw him back, Mister Owens,” Mary said. “Maybe he’s sad at that.”
Owens smiled and let the fish slip into the water.
The hours passed, marked by stories and fish. Owens told how Robert Rogers made his slide down a cliff on Lake George to escape the Indians; how three men in a jamboat got swept away by a river full of logs, and then dug out of a sandbar days later and miles downstream; of how a famous Indian guide from Long Lake chased a mountain lion out of hiding, prodding him with a stick till his sport could get a shot, and when the sport missed, how he killed the lion himself.
“Every word’s true,” Owens insisted more than once. There were tales of bears shot, fish caught, and men lost in logging accidents. Not once did Owens talk about Tupper. He never mentioned Mike or Tom. Mary was glad of it. For a few hours she had been made to forget. Rebecca had wonderful fun, even though they released almost all the fish they caught.
And Owens was a charming companion and storyteller. He had an eye for Mary, of that she was certain; and when, at the dock he gave her his hand to help her out of the boat and she’d slipped, he’d caught her waist. His hands had lingered ever so slightly. And when Mary raised her dark eyes to thank him for the day, he’d not looked away.
“Mary!” someone called. A waving figure from up on the verandah caught her eye. A moment later Chowder Kelly stumped down the lawn.
“Uncle Chowder!” Rebecca cried as she ran to him.
“’Becca. How’s my favorite little daisy?” Chowder picked her up like a feather and whirled her about, skirts flying. “Oh, but you’re gettin’ so heavy. What’re they feedin’ you up here?” he said as he put her down. “Looks like you sprouted another inch, or I’m an Orangeman.”
“I eat pancakes every day,” Rebecca said. “They make them sooo big, and I can have as many as I want.”
“Chowder,” Mary said as she came up to them, “you are a sight for sore eyes. I’m so glad you’ve come.”
Chowder shrugged. “Gets me out of the city and away from the chief.”
Mary gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek.
“Are you going to find Mike, Uncle Chowder? He’s with Daddy you know, and Daddy always knows where he is.”
Owens came up just then. Mary wondered with a start whether he’d heard what Rebecca said about Tom and Mike. Owens’s expression didn’t give anything away if he had. He carried Rebecca’s bonnet in one hand, a string of trout in the other.
“The little miss forgot her bonnet,” he said, handing it to Rebecca. “I’ll see these fish ’re ready for dinner.”
Mary thanked him and turned to Chowder, who Owens had been eyeing.
“Detective Sergeant Kelly, at your service,” Chowder said, extending a hand.
“Owens’s the name. You’re up from the city to help find the killer, then?”
Chowder nodded.
“Yeah. Wish I could help s’ more, but this is our busy time. Have to be off for Long Lake this evening. Got work up there tomorrow.”
“Mister Owens has been very helpful already,” Mary said to Chowder. “He helped Tom when they first went after Tupper.”
“Oh? You are to be thanked then, Mister Owens. I’m sure I speak for the commissioner himself when I give you your due on behalf of the department. It’s a fine, hardy man who pitches in on the side of the law when there’s a pinch.”
“Nothin’ at all, Sergeant. Wish I could help more, like I say, but my idle afternoons ’re scarce as hen’s teeth now,” he said with a nod toward Mary, “but none more pleasantly spent, ma’am.”
They parted, Mary, Rebecca, and Chowder heading for the verandah. “Hell of a place, this,” Chowder said. “The very devil to get to, though.” He looked down the length of the verandah, then out at the lawns, the lake, and the boathouse. “Hardly a soul about. Them guides,” he said with a nod toward an idle group by the boathouse, “they don’t look overbusy. Stage was near full heading out, too.”
“Can’t blame people,” Mary said. “Everybody’s jittery over the murder.”
“Oh, to be sure. I just wonder what’s keepin’ Mister Owens so busy, is all.”
Mary laughed. “Not here two minutes and you’re busy detecting. Relax Chowder. Owens isn’t your man.” The laugh faded, the smile too. “It’s that lunatic, Tupper,” she said. “That’s why nobody’s around. Everybody’s scared to death. Tommy would be, too, if he had any sense, which we both know he doesn’t,” she said with a rueful smile that was still part pride.
Before Chowder could ask the obvious question, Mary answered it for him. “Mike’s with him, just like ’Becca says,” she said in a low voice. “You don’t know that, and I didn’t tell you, but he is.” She fingered the swatch of cloth in her pocket. “Hmm,” Chowder rumbled. “We obviously need to talk.”
In low tones, Mary told Chowder all she knew. She even told him about the piece of cloth.
“I suppose you should have this,” she said, handing it to him.
“Bit it off the attacker?” Chowder mumbled, examining it closely. “Arm about the neck, she struggles, bites.”
“That’s what Tommy thought.” Mary turned and called out, “’Becca! Stay where I can see you.”
Rebecca had strayed on the lawn while Mary and Chowder sat talking.
“I am, Mommy.”
Mary waved back.
Chowder waved too. “That sheriff you told me about, he doesn’t know about this?”
“No. He hadn’t arrived when Tom went after Tupper, so Tom left it with me. Tom didn’t trust that doctor.”
“Where’s the sheriff now?” Chowder wanted to know.
“Haven’t seen him today at all. Out searching, I suppose.” Chowder stretched and got up from his chair. “Think I’ll just go an’ ask.”
Chowder came back a few minutes later, clumping fast down the echoing wooden verandah. “He’s gone someplace called Long Lake with a party of deputies, according to the clerk at the desk. Got word there was lots o’ firing on the lake last night, a regular battle.”
Mary jumped up. “I’m going with you!”
Chowder was about to protest, but hesitated a moment then shrugged and said, “Better pack some things.”
They had bushwhacked for hours since their early lunch, a stop that hadn’t lasted more than ten minutes.
“He wasn’t wounded bad,” Mitchell said. “No more blood on the trail.”
“How far ahead you think he is?” Tom asked. “We must’ve made up some distance on him.”
“Maybe,” Mitchell said. “A trail don’t change much in a couple hours. Couple days is another tale. We’re close, though.”
“Close enough to catch him today?”
Mitchell shrugged. “Depends. He’s heading for an area that’s seen lots o’ logging. We’re lucky, he might get spotted. If we’re not, we might lose his trail. Logging chews up the forest. Could be tough tracking.”
“Great,” Tom said, spitting out the word. “Let’s go.”
A few minutes more and Mitchell stopped dead. Tom ducked down on one knee. Mike stood watching, too tired to recognize the danger. Tom waved him low. Mitchell bent and circled in a widening radius. When Tom felt it was safe, he advanced to where Mitchell was searching.
“He stopped here,” Mitchell said, not taking his eye from the ground. “He’s careless.” Mitchell poked at some leaves with his toe, turning up a mason jar buried there. He picked it up and sniffed at the open lid. “Peaches.”
“Peaches?”
“Peaches. See for yourself,” Mitchell said, holding the jar for Tom to inspect. “Probably doesn’t know we’re behind him. If he did he would’ve been more careful.”
Tom didn’t see how. The jar had been buried. Mitchell seemed to sense his skepticism. “There’s other sign he didn’t bother to cover. Crumbs there by the log,” he said, pointing them out, “and this.” He held up a piece of brown paper no bigger than a postage stamp.
“Need to be careful, but move fast. He’s not more ’n a mile ahead, maybe less. Run when we can.”
“Let’s go,” Tom said, waving Mike to follow.
They moved at a grueling pace, walking fast most of the time, and running when the way was clear. Mitchell didn’t seem to tire, though he went fast enough that he slowly widened the gap between him and Mike. They were going at a jog, Mitchell well ahead, when something caught his eye and he skidded to a stop. He peered at a large hemlock just to the right as Mike and Tom jogged up.
Mitchell cocked his head and was frowning, when suddenly he called out, “Stop!” Mike skidded on the leaves, his feet going out from under him. He felt his foot hit a root under the leaves, felt and heard something snap. There was a whoosh as a limb of the hemlock swept above him like a scythe.
“Sonofabitch!” Tom said, the big branch just missing him. “You all right?”
Mike got up as the branch swayed back and forth above him. He brushed himself, unhurt but scared.
“Sorry,” Mitchell said. “Moving too fast to spot it. You okay?”
Tom examined the branch, which had been held back with a length of rope rigged as a tripwire and buried under the leaves. “Damn lucky, I’d say. Might not have killed, but it sure would have done some damage, enough to slow us down at least.”
“He knows we’re here,” Mitchell said, “or he’s just being careful. We’ll need to go slower. Gotta be close.”
By the time they took their next break they were all breathing hard and dripping sweat onto the brown carpet of leaves.
“Holding up okay?” Tom asked when he saw Mike shuck off his pack and drop onto a log.
Mike wiped his forehead with a damp kerchief. “Sure,” he said with a gulp of air. “Besides, can’t let a couple of old guys get the better of me.”
Tom laughed but kept it low, just a rumble in his chest. “Got news for you. Mitchell could run us both into the ground.”
They took a quick drink and started again. The terrain became more rolling, the forest thicker, spotted with pine and spruce. The forest floor was cooler, the air more fragrant. They jogged, the packbaskets bumping on their backs, straps chafing shoulders. Mitchell stopped once more, Mike and Tom after. He stood listening, head cocked to one side.
“What is it?” Tom asked when he came up.
“Loggers. Thought I heard axes. We need to close up on Tupper if we can,” Mitchell said. “Keep spread out. Have a care.” He started again at a trot, following Tupper’s invisible trail along the side of a long ridge.
The pines were thicker, their needles sometimes slippery under foot. As they went, the sound of lumbering became louder. They could hear the chunk of axes and the calls of men from somewhere above them, up on the ridge. Still, the trail they followed seemed to skirt the logging, keeping within earshot but out of sight. Then a shout echoed from above. It carried like the ringing of a bell.
“Timber, timber, timber!”
They heard a long creaking groan as some giant of the forest went over. There was a whoosh, an impact, and a second, long, groaning shriek, another whoosh, an impact and another groan of tearing wood.
Each falling tree seemed closer than the last, marching down the ridge. Tom, Mike, and Mitchell stood frozen as the shrieking wood and crashing limbs thrashed toward them. They gathered speed. The third tree, then the fourth rocked the trees above and shook the ground beneath their feet. A wind went before, like a tornado it whistled around them.
“Run!” Mitchell had to shout over the noise. “Run!”
Tom followed Mitchell as he bounded ahead. They ducked behind a huge maple. The forest erupted behind them. Branches, bark, leaves, bunches of needles and pinecones rained down as an enormous white pine exploded where they had been. A cloud of dust rolled over them. Shafts of light stabbed through the forest canopy. “Mike!”
Tupper heard the crashing of the trees behind him. He grinned. With luck his trail would be lost in the carnage. He wasn’t sure he’d been followed, but he’d expected it and had moved as fast as he could despite his wounded leg. He told himself that only an expert, a man born to the woods would be able to pick up his trail. But such men could be found and were maybe already behind him. It was wise to go and go quickly.
As his grandfather had reminded him, “The rabbit does not stop to see if the fox still follows.” Like a ghost, Tupper flitted from tree to tree, until the noise of the loggers was lost in the distance.