One mornin’ ’fore daylight, Jim Lou he got mad
Knocked hell out of Mitchell and the boys was all glad
His wife, she stood there, and the truth I will tell
She was tickled to death to see Mitchell catch hell
Derry down, down, down derry down.
—“THE RACKETS ’ROUND BLUE MOUNTAIN LAKE”
“Are we there yet, Uncle Chowder?” Rebecca asked in a weary little voice from the back of the shay.
“Pretty soon I think, ’Becca,” he said, though he wasn’t all that sure.
They’d been on the road nearly three hours. The sun was strong, the road rutted and dusty. Like brown talcum power, it rose up as they passed, settling on everything. Their throats were dry. In their haste, they’d forgotten to bring water. Rounding a bend in the road they saw the silvery flash of water and a lone house amid a field of stumps.
“Hey there,” Chowder said. “See, what did Uncle Chowder tell ya? There’s the town.”
Rebecca jumped up. “That’s not a town. A town has lots of houses, lots and lots.”
She was right. They drove another mile and more before they came to anything that looked like a town, passing a few cabins and houses on the way, none of which looked too prosperous.
Cresting a rise in the road, they saw a scattered cluster of houses, a church in the distance, and what appeared to be a general store.
The town did not hold their attention, though. A small group of men were milling about the shore of the lake. Two seemed to be examining a pair of boats.
“Oh,” Mary said, putting a hand on Chowder’s arm, “that’s the sheriff, MacDougal, the one in suspenders, with the high boots. Sol Sabattis, the one I told you about, he’s the one kneeling.”
They pulled to a stop a moment later. The sheriff walked toward the shay, squinting at Chowder once he’d recognized Mary.
“What good you think you’ll do here, I’ll be damned if I ken,” MacDougal said to Mary.
“It’s no help you’ll be, that’s certain.”
Rebecca gave the sheriff a sour look.
“Och, an’ ye brought your little missy with ya, too. Ain’t that just grand.”
“It’s my right to be here,” Mary said. She had her hand on the whip and looked as if she might use it.
MacDougal ignored her. Looking at Chowder, he said, “And you’d be Sergeant Kelly.” He extended a hand as he looked Chowder up and down.
“At your service, boyo,” Chowder said with a smile that was no smile at all.
“A Mick! Don’t that beat all. Come to show us rustics how things’re done,” MacDougal said with a wry grin. “Suppose I won’t hold that agin ya. Glad of the help, if ya gotta know. Not much of a pool o’ trained detectives up this way,” he said, throwing a thumb over his shoulder at the deputies behind him.
“Detective Sergeant Kelly,” Chowder said, trying figure whether or not he should take offense. “Here to help. That’s all. What’s your interest in those boats?”
MacDougal hooked his thumbs behind his suspenders and set his legs apart.
“Well, Detective Sergeant Kelly, this is how matters stand. Missus Braddock’s boy is on the run. There’s those that say he killed a pretty, young maid, but I suppose you ken that.”
MacDougal paused, but when Chowder said nothing he went on. “Seems he’s joined up with his father an’ Mitchell Sabattis. Don’t suppose you knew that. The three o’ them’re chasin’ this Tupper fella all over hell’s half acre. Was a gun battle on the lake last night. Found one boat shot up, the other bashed, an’ three kinds o’ shell casings. That’s how I know Mike was there,” MacDougal said, as if this were proof of his detective skills.
“Exemplary police work,” Chowder said, as if he meant it.
MacDougal huffed. “Well, it sure didn’t come from Sol. He can be one dumb Indian when it suits ’im.”
“I’m sure,” Chowder said without inflection.
“An’ another thing, Chauncey Busher’s dead. He’s the guide Braddock set out wi’ after Tupper.”
“Mister Busher’s dead?” Mary said. She tried to sound shocked, but wasn’t sure she pulled it off. She’d certainly suspected as much.
“He told me the beaver poem,” Rebecca said. “He’s not dead. I saw him last week.”
She looked up at Mary for confirmation, but all Mary could do was offer a distracted frown. Though Mary knew that going after Tupper was a thing fraught with danger, she somehow never believed that anyone but Tupper might be losing his life because of it.
“When did it happen? How?” Mary asked.
“Not real clear on the details. Don’t have the body yet, just the report. Sol tol’ me that much.”
“Tupper’s a maniac,” Chowder said. “You should be grateful Braddock’s taking a hand in this.”
“Braddock’s got his son in mind more ’n anything about catchin’ Tupper, with all due respect, ma’am,” he said with a nod toward Mary. “Not that I blame him. Done enough pokin’ around the last day or so to know a thing or two. I ken that your son an’ Lettie were not alone that last day when they were—” MacDougal caught himself, then thought of a more delicate way to phrase it, “when they went for a walk. I ken there was someone spyin on ’em, and not one, but maybe two.”
“What do you mean not alone? Who else was there?” Mary said, frowning.
“Have a good idea it was Tupper. Matched a wagon track to the one he left at Merwin’s; got a big nick in the rim. But someone else maybe was watchin’, maybe somebody even Tupper didn’ ken was there. Hard to tell.”
“What would Tupper have been watching Mike for, and someone else besides? This is bizarre!” Mary said. She was frowning and pacing beside the carriage.
“Couldn’t agree more, ma’am. I’d like knowin’ a few things myself,” MacDougal said. “But you’re not helpin’ here, Missus Braddock. We need ta get a move on. We’re off ta Tupper Lake to head them off. Signs point to them headin’ there.”
“The three of you?” Chowder said with a nod to the other men.
“Ey.”
“You could use a fourth. I’m coming along, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t,” MacDougal said.
Chowder half expected a different response and was caught off guard.
“I…” Chowder started off, before he realized he wasn’t getting an argument. “I’m glad to be of service,” he said with a shrug.
“That’s grand, then!” MacDougal chuckled. “You ready to go?”
“Mike! Mike!” Tom shouted as he ran back to where the tree lay in a settling cloud. There were shouts from the ridge above and the sound of running feet.
“Mike!” Tom clambered over the tree, fighting his way through the splintered, twisted branches. Broken boughs lay thick on the ground. Tom kept calling and digging, Mitchell too. He saw a flash of color and doubled his efforts, digging and clawing with frantic strength. The taste of fear rose in his throat. Mike lay motionless.
Tom bent low over Mike, feeling at his neck for a pulse, putting an ear to his chest. Loggers came running.
“Mike,” Tom said, shaking him and slapping his face.
“Fuckin’ fools!” someone said.
“What the hell you doin’ down ’ere?” another man grumbled.
“Who’s hurt? Not one of ours, is it?” another asked.
“My boy, goddamnit,” Tom said. “You dropped a fucking tree on him.”
Four men stood over them talking at once.
“You crazy? Can’t ya hear when we call timber?” one said.
“If ’n he’s stupid enough ta stand under a fallin’ tree, well—”
Mike began to rouse. His eyes fluttered.
“Serve ’im right, he got his head busted. Stupid sport. Can’t take a shit in the woods ’out a tourist poppin up.”
Mike groaned and opened his eyes. A couple of the men laughed. Mike looked up at Tom. “Sorry—I…,” he started to say, wheezing, his words almost lost in the laughter.
Tom was on his feet. He turned to one of the men and with a snarl, kicked him in the stomach, a sideways kick that would have pleased old Master Kwan. The man went down like a tree. Pivoting to his left, he caught a second startled logger with a slashing chop to the neck and a right to the solar plexus. He spun again, lashing out with a foot, taking the legs from under a third, dumping him in a heap with a tremendous blow to the chest. He ducked under a fist, grabbed a shirt and, using the man’s momentum, threw him to the ground. Mitchell stood to the side, leaning on his shotgun, a faint grin painting his creased features. Tom turned back to Mike
“Ribs,” Mike said, holding his side.
“Okay, Mike, just lie still. We’ll get you taken care of.”
“Tom,” Mitchell said, hardly raising his voice.
A logger charged from behind. Tom, still in a crouch, didn’t rise to meet him. He dove at the feet, sending the man tumbling forward into the fallen tree. Tom rolled to his feet. The biggest of the four was almost on top of him. He aimed a vicious kick at Tom, his boot whistling so close to his head he could smell wet leather. Tom diverted the blow, letting it glance off his arm, which threw the man off balance just a little. Tom came out of his crouch and hit the man square in the nose, a blow that splattered red across them both and knocked him hard on his back.
Tom turned to face the others. Two were up but showing no fight. A third rolled on the ground, groaning and holding his stomach. A glance at Mitchell showed he’d shifted the shotgun to the crook of his arm and his finger to the trigger.
Another knot of loggers was coming down the ridge.
“Got a man hurt down here,” Tom shouted. “Need a doctor.”
“Only man’s gonna need a doctor’s you, mister,” one of the loggers said.
“Hell, ’Brose, give it up,” another said, holding his stomach. “That your boy, mister?”
“Yeah.”
“Who gives a shit?” the one called ’Brose said. “Sonofabitch’s got a whuppin’ comin’.”
“Oh, shut yer yap, ’Brose. You can have your whuppin’ later, if you’ve a mind. The boy needs help. Go fetch Mama Dupree.” Turning to Tom, he said, “She’s the closest we got to a doctor.”
The other loggers had gathered about by then. The man who appeared to be the foreman looked from Mike to the loggers. “How many o’ you got hit by the tree? What the hell went on here?”
’Brose started shouting. He was hopping mad, literally jumping from one foot to the other, pointing and swinging his fists, saying how, “That big fella jus’ up an’ lit inter us fer no call at all.”
Now that ’Brose had a bigger audience he was getting brave again. Tom let him spout, restraining an urge to silence him for good. He turned back to Mike, ignoring ’Brose, which only seemed to make him louder. Mike’s breathing was quick and shallow, his skin pasty pale.
The foreman cut through ’Brose’s shouting. “Anybody call for Mama Dupree?”
“Tol’ ’Brose ta fetch ’er,” the one logger said.
Looking at ’Brose, the foreman shouted, “Then what the fuck’re you doin’ here? Get goin’!”
“But that bastard…”
“I don’t give a shit, ’Brose,” the foreman shouted back. “Your gang boss says go, you fuckin’ better well go, goddamnit!”
“This ain’t over, mister,” ’Brose said, pointing at Tom. “Got a reckonin’ comin’.
“Run, you bastard,” the foreman shouted, after him. “Run or you’ll spend the winter ice fishin’.”
’Brose broke into a trot, followed by a shoal of laughter.
Turning back to Tom and Mitchell, the man said, “How’s he doin’?”
“He’s not dead,” Tom said. “More than that I can’t say. Got some busted ribs, looks like.”
Mike nodded, holding his side. The foreman looked at Mitchell and nodded with a grin.
“Hey, Mitch.”
Mitchell grinned back.
“Boys,” the foreman said to the rest, “this is Mitchell Sabattis, best darn guide an’ boatbuilder in the North Country.” There was a murmur of recognition from the crowd. Tom cast a quick glance at Mitchell, who now stood against a tree, leaning on the muzzle of his grounded shotgun.
“We can sort out what happened later, not that I believe this fella kicked hell outa you fine specimens,” he said, laughing. They all laughed, except the three. “Meantime, we’ll see to the boy. Rest o’ you get back to work.”
The crowd melted as the foreman knelt beside Tom. “At least he ain’t bleedin’ much,” which was true enough. Aside from a few scrapes and a couple of rents in his clothes, Mike didn’t look all that bad. “Considering you got a tree dropped on you, you’re doin’ fair ta middlin’,” he said to Mike with a pat on the shoulder.
“Anything hurt besides the ribs?” Tom asked.
“Everything,” Mike said, doing his best to grin through the pain.
“Least his sense o’ humor ain’t hurt,” the foreman said. He stood a few minutes later as he saw a woman come rolling through the forest. She was six feet tall if she was an inch, and must have gone well over two hundred pounds. Her arms were huge and they swung freely from a massive set of shoulders, as she stumped through the woods with a black bag dangling like an afterthought. She had no visible neck, her head appearing to have been put on without one. Wiry hair was pulled back in a helmetlike bun. The legs that supported her were pink tree trunks framed by black boots and a line of brown lace at her hem.
“Christ,” Tom whispered.
“Not much to look at, I’d agree,” the foreman said under his breath, “but it don’t pay ta have a pretty woman out here, not with my lot.”
A dirty apron hung down her front, covered in grease and smeared, brown blood. She wiped her hands on it as she came. She bent beside Mike, ordering Tom and the foreman to “Gimme room, you two.”
“Hello, sweetie,” she said to Mike in a very different tone. “Why, look at you. You ain’t hardly hurt at all.” Pulling open her kit, she added softly, “We’ll just patch you up a bit. Have you doin a jig in no time. Here, have a drink,” she said, offering Mike a flask. “Doctor’s orders.”
It wasn’t long before Mama Dupree had Mike on his feet, though he looked ghastly pale doing it. With Tom’s help he hobbled toward the logging camp. It was on the other side of the ridge, about a half mile away. Mike was spent by the time they got there.
“Twisted my ankle when I turned to run,” Mike told Tom. “Fell on my face. Lucky for me it was beside a rock. A branch whacked me good before I could get up, but I think the rock saved me from the worst of it.”
“Seen men crushed like a bug,” the foreman said. “You was lucky.” Turning to Mitchell he asked, “What were you boys doing down there, anyway?” Mitchell said nothing. He just turned to Tom, who gave the man a shortened version of their story. “Damned bad luck then for you,” the man observed. “Don’t suppose you’ll catch ’im any time soon.”
Tom looked at Mike. “I don’t know. I’d say our luck was pretty good.”
Mama Dupree wasn’t a doctor, but she did as good a job of doctoring as any doctor could.
“Ribs ain’t broke bad,” was her diagnosis to Tom after she’d had a chance to “see to ’im proper.”
She rigged up a brace around his middle, a corset, really, with some added whalebone extending up the torso. She wrapped it tight and fixed a poultice for his twisted ankle, too, putting a bandage where he’d ripped the skin back in the marsh.
“Can’t thank you enough, ma’am,” Tom said late that afternoon as she bustled about the crude kitchen, working up the dinner meal.
“Sure, sure,” she said. “Give ’im some rest; he’ll bounce back fine. The young ones always do. Now git on outa here. Got work ta do.”
“How’s the boy?” The foreman asked as the men started filing in late in the day. “Better,” Tom said “He’s anxious to get moving. The man we’re after, he’s on the move, I can tell you that.”
The foreman grunted, “Guess I’d be too, if I’d killed a girl. The boy good enough to travel?”
Tom shrugged. “Says he is. Not real sure though. One thing’s certain, he won’t sit still for long. That girl that was killed, she was his—you know, ah, girlfriend.”
“Oh!” the man said, “I understand now. Won’t get far tonight, though. May ’s well stay here, get some food in ya.”
“I appreciate the offer,” Tom said. “I wouldn’t mind a hot meal, but we gotta go. We’re losing ground every second we sit here.” Tom saw ’Brose come in along with the other man who’d taken exception to getting beat. He nodded in their direction. “They won’t give us any trouble, will they?”
The foreman smiled. “Nah. They just like ta fight. And from what they say, you really did beat the tar outa them boys.”
“Guess I did,” Tom said.
The foreman laughed. “Them two don’t really mean no harm. Just got too much piss an’ vinegar, that’s all. C’mon, you two,” he said over his shoulder. “You got whupped square,” he said, “now shake an’ have done with it.”
The one called ’Brose shoved a hand at Tom. His nose was purple and both eyes were blackened. Tom stood and shook with him.
“No hard feelin’s,” ’Brose said, cotton balls stuffed up his nose.
“Sure,” Tom said, uncertain of how to take the peacemaking. “You okay?”
’Brose touched his face and winced. “Ain’t the first time had my nose broke. Reckon I’ll live.”
Tom smiled. “Had my nose busted twice,” he said. “Hurt like a sonofabitch.”
’Brose grinned. “Hell, I’m jus’ glad my head’s still ’tached. Hope the boy mends up,” he said, then turned and walked out. The other one shook without a word, then turned and limped away.
“That’ll keep ’em quiet a couple o’ days, I reckon,” the foreman said. “You’re the first man ever licked both of ’em.”
Mike winced as he rolled out onto his side a few minutes later, then pushed himself upright. He gripped the edge of the bed and clenched his teeth.
“Okay?” Tom asked, his eyes narrowing.
Mike nodded.
“Take it slow.”
“Mama Dupree’s got some things fixed up for you. Keep you goin’,” the foreman said, shaking with them when they were ready. “Good luck.”
Tom, Mike, and Mitchell set off into the growing gloom, the logging camp fading into the woods in a feeble glow. Disembodied voices singing along with a screeching fiddle echoed for a few minutes before the forest swallowed them whole.