THREE TIMES IN the night, the Cessna rumbled Active awake for a few seconds. Then his brain identified the sound and he drifted off again.
The next time Cowboy started the plane, twilight suffused the tent. Active realized this must be what passed for dawn in the foggy bottomlands of the Isignaq. He pulled on his Sorels and parka while Mercer slept.
He crawled out to find Pudu at work over Cowboy’s camp stove as Two-Five-Sierra idled nearby, fanning snow across the slough behind it. Steam wafted up from a coffee pot, smelling as only coffee could on a cold morning. A saucepan simmered on the burner next to it.
Active poured himself a cup of coffee the color of crude oil and pointed at the saucepan. “Is that oatmeal?”
“Arii, that Cowboy, no Eskimo food in his plane,” Pudu said with a dour look. “This kinda weather, you need quaq and seal oil, but I put in some of that caribou.”
“That sounds good.”
“Build a fire in your belly, all right.”
Active headed into the brush for a few minutes. He returned as Mercer crawled out of the Arctic Oven. She yawned, stretched, and peered about, parka still open over the black snowgo suit.
“What’s that, Mom?” Pudu pointed at Mercer’s throat. Then Active saw them, too, a pair of angry red welts down the side of her neck. One showed a few beads of blood.
“What?” Mercer touched the place. “Ouch! How did that happen?”
Pudu drew the parka aside and studied the welts. “I dunno, look like maybe on the zipper of your sleeping bag when you’re getting out?”
“I am such a klutz!” Mercer inspected the damage in her selfie camera. “But as long as they’re there, let’s get some video for Facebook and YouTube—further proof you never know what’ll happen in the Alaskan Bush!”
Pudu went to the plane for his video camera. Active passed Mercer his handkerchief. She started to dab at the scratches, then seemed to think better of it.
Active gave up the attempt to figure her out, scooped caribou oatmeal into a bowl and spooned it down. Caribou did punch up a clump of amorphous gray mush. He had to admit that.
As Pudu shoot footage of the scratches on the First Neck, it occurred to Active that Mercer might well have scratched herself on purpose, just to get the video. What would Tundrabunny make of it when it hit the Internet?
Cowboy shut down the plane, covered the engine, crunched over to the stove, and filled a bowl with the caribou oatmeal. “The Air Guard’s got a C-130 overhead,” he said in a tone of wonder. “All the way from Anchorage. I was just on the radio with ’em. Apparently they’ve been up there a couple hours now waiting for us to get up and turn on the radio.”
“A C-130?” Active said. A C-130 was a giant four-engine transport plane about as capable of landing on the Isignaq as a space shuttle. Active craned his neck and squinted up at the fog. Maybe he heard engines in the sky, maybe not. “I thought you said it would be snowgos from Walker or Isignaq.”
Cowboy mumbled something that never made it past the oatmeal in his mouth, then swallowed. “Apparently there’s a TV crew on board.”
“Ah,” Active said.
“That’s my Air Guard.” Mercer grinned as she dabbed the welts with Active’s handkerchief. “Always got my back.”
Then Active remembered that Mercer had appointed her sister’s husband commander of the Alaska Air Guard.
Cowboy, his mouth now clear of oatmeal, reminded them that, as of yesterday’s landing, he had expected to be able to fly out this morning. “But now I’m guessing we could have another twenty-four hours of this stuff.” He jerked a thumb at the Cessna that popped and rang as it cooled down behind him. “Looks like Two-Five-Sierra ain’t goin’ nowhere today.”
“Arigaa!” Pudu said. “Maybe I’ll catch some caribou, all right.”
“What!” Mercer said. “I’m not staying here another day. Cowboy, you do something!”
“It’s already being done, ma’am. A bunch of guys on snowgos left Isignaq a couple hours ago. They should be here any time now.”
“They can find us in this stuff?” Mercer waved a hand at the fog around them. “Really?”
“Of course,” Cowboy said. “They know this slough. They know everything in this country.”
“Of course,yeah.” From Mercer’s expression, Active sensed Cowboy might pay a price for suggesting she had lost touch with how things worked in the Bush.
Active picked up the faint whine of snowgo engines through the fog. He, Mercer, and Pudu turned as one to look down the slough.
“Is that them?” Mercer asked.
“Is that who?” Cowboy cocked his head, then turned to look as even his damaged ears caught the sound. “Yeah, must be. We probably oughta get you packed up.”
“But wait,” Mercer said. “Snowgos? All the way back to Chukchi? I mean, nothing’s flying, right? I don’t want to ride a snowgo all that way.”
“No problem, Governor. Roland Sweetsir’s with ’em. He’ll wait out on the main river while the snowgos get you off of this slough, then he’ll drive you back to Chukchi.”
Mercer beamed. “Homin’ home to home in Chukchi with Isignaq Ready-Ride! What could be more perfect?” Then she paused in thought. “Will the TV people be there when we arrive? Is Alaska Airlines getting into Chukchi in this stuff? Or the Air Guard?”
“Not even the Air Guard, ma’am. Chukchi’s still flat on its back. They’ve got the same fog as us, plus a hellacious crosswind.”
“No matter,” Mercer said. “Pudu can always get some tape of it. Right, Pudu?”
Pudu raised his eyebrows, yes.
The snowgos buzzed closer as Mercer, Active, and Pudu packed up for the trip to Chukchi. Cowboy struck the Arctic Oven, stuffed it into its bag, and threw it into the back of the Cessna as two snowgos swam out of the fog, dogsleds behind, and pulled up at the plane.
“You better get your stuff into one of the sleds,” Active told Cowboy as Mercer walked over to where drivers stretched and stamped to un-kink muscles and warm up.
“Nah, I’m gonna wait it out here.” He pointed at a half-dozen red jerry jugs on one of the sleds. “See that avgas? Our agent in Isignaq sent it up. Somebody’s gotta keep Two-Five-Sierra warm or it’ll take most of a day to get her thawed out and started by the time this stuff does move out and I can get back up here from Chukchi to take her back. So I might as well stay.”
Cowboy moved the jerry jugs to the bank of the slough while the other three loaded their duffle and the governor’s caribou kill into the sleds. Active and Pudu each took a seat in the basket of a sled, where the riders from Isignaq had stashed the customary caribou hides and sleeping bags for cross-country travel by snowgo. Mercer hopped on the seat behind the best-dressed of the drivers and insisted Pudu get out and unpack his camera once more to get video as she started down the slough.
As Active bounced along in the dogsled behind the snowgo carrying Mercer, he looked back. Cowboy sat on one of Two-Five-Sierra’s wheels, a Marlboro at his lips, and watched them go.