Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

He sat and wondered what sort of an arrangement he had dropped into. It seemed strange, somehow, but he couldn’t work up any great interest. He felt the familiar dull lethargy creeping over him. He shivered in the sudden chill that swept in from the lake. He walked to the bunkhouse and climbed into his bunk.

Just before he fell asleep, Sam Frick came in and climbed into his bunk. He lit a kerosene lamp and found his place in a ragged magazine. He didn’t speak. Post watched the sullen face for a time, watched the man’s lips moving as he read. Post fell asleep, after deciding that maybe it would be a good thing to leave. He decided he would leave without finding out what it was all about. He drove the growing curiosity down into himself and commanded it to be still.

He climbed out of bed when the air was still chill. Strane was asleep, a nasal snore rattling in his throat. Frick’s bed was empty. He wandered across to the kitchen and looked around. He decided to wait until either Frick or Strane could show him where to find the supplies. He wondered how they kept the food cool. He walked down to the lake and skipped flat stones out over the still water. His aches and stiffness were gone.

After a time Strane came out and showed him where the food supplies were kept. They used a crude windlass to lower supplies which had to be kept cool down into a narrow hole that appeared to be at least twenty feet deep. The butter was hard and the eggs were fresh.

He cooked the breakfast and they ate it separately, without comment. After he had cleaned up, Strane came in and made up two baskets of food supplies to take to the two cabins. Post walked over to the bunkhouse and picked up his suitcase. He walked out of the building and toward the entrance to the trail. He decided to walk slowly and enjoy the morning.

He hadn’t gone more than twenty feet up the trail when Sam Frick suddenly stepped in front of him.

“What’s the matter, Post? Don’t like cooking?”

“Cooking’s okay. I just don’t like the setup. I’m leaving.”

Frick didn’t move out of the narrow path. He put his big hands on his hips and turned to a bush and said in a mincing way, “Mr. Post doesn’t like it here. He’s leaving.” Then he turned back to Post. “Get on back there, sucker. You love it here. Besides, you told the boss you’d work. If you want to quit, you got to talk to him.”

“They keep telling me it’s a free country. How about getting out of the way?”

In answer, Frick put his big hand against Post’s chest and shoved. Frick was on higher ground. Post tumbled backward onto his side and rolled into a bush. His suitcase snapped open and the clothes slid out onto the dirt.

Post got to his feet. Frick still stood above him, a half smile on his face. He said, almost kindly, “Get on back, Post. You’re not in shape for this sort of thing. Don’t make me hang one on you and drag you down. Let’s keep it pleasant, hey?”

Post stood and looked at the broad chest, the thick wrists. He thought of how quickly the man had moved when he had pushed against his chest. The smile faded from the heavy face and Post knew that the man would move again in a few seconds. He knelt in the trail and gathered his clothes back into the suitcase. He turned and walked back down the trail. He walked into the bunkhouse and slid his bag under his bunk. He sat on the edge of the bunk and lit a cigarette. His hand trembled. He felt angry and vaguely frightened. He tried to retreat back into the calm of indifference, but he couldn’t do it. He knew that they weren’t going to let him leave.

He wondered what kind of a chance he would stand with either Frick or Strane. He peeled off his shirt and tried to look at himself in the battered steel mirror hanging on one of the bunk posts. He could see flashes of white flesh, of a roll of fat around his waist. His arms looked soft and formless.

Within a half hour he was standing out beyond the kitchen stripped to the waist. He could feel where the axe handle was going to raise blisters. Sweat was soaking him around the waist of his trousers. He set another chunk on the block and split it cleanly through the middle with the double-bitted axe. It was as easy as a problem in addition. He could sense trouble ahead, and for some reason he wanted to be ready for it. The better shape he could get into, the better chance he would have. He stopped and wondered why he wanted a better chance. He stared out across the small lake. Maybe he just didn’t want to be pushed around. He set another chunk on the block and imagined that it was Sam Frick’s hard head. He sunk the blade so deeply into the block that he had to smack the handle up with the heel of his hand to loosen it.

After he had split a sizable pile, he sat on the block to rest for a few minutes. The sun felt warm on his shoulders. He heard footsteps behind him and glanced around. A soft fat man, with crisp curling black hair and white jowls that sagged below his chin, stood with his plump hands on his hips and stared down at Post. He wore a tan sports shirt and flowered shorts. His hairless legs were scarred with a hundred insect bites.

“So there’s another one of you guys, hah? What’s he running, an army?”

“Are you Mr. Burke or Mr. Benderson?”

“Burke, and I always thought I was a smart operator until I walked into this with my stupid eyes wide open. Where’s your boss? I want to talk to him now.”

“Not around.”

The man turned and looked toward the cabins. A tall tanned blonde in a yellow playsuit stepped carefully across the uneven ground. She looked blankly at Burke and Post. Her face was puffy. Her eyes were wide, brown and dull.

“Millie, this new guy says the boss is away. When’ll he be back, fella?”

“Don’t know.”

Millie pouted. Post saw that the roots of her bright hair were streaked with black. “Gee, Burky, I got to get outa here. All the time you keep telling me to wait. I got other things to do. Maybe they’ll let me go now.”

“You shut your face and get back to that cabin. You’re not getting out until I do.”

They walked back toward the cabins. Burke tried to grab her wrist but she twisted away from him. Burke raised his fat clenched fist and then let it drop wearily at his side. He stopped just before he was out of sight, bent over and vigorously scratched both legs.

He didn’t meet the others until late afternoon. When his hands were too blistered to continue chopping wood, he found Strane on the trail. The lanky man was leaning against a tree peeling the bark from a slim stick.

“You guys got any objection to me walking around the lake before we eat?”

“Why should we care? Go ahead. Only don’t make us wait supper.”

He circled the lake, walking along the north side first. The brush was so thick that at times he had to splash through the shallow water. Once he stumbled and soaked himself to the hips. But he made better time than he expected. As he came back along the south shore, he found the walking easier. There were long stretches of flat gray rock slanting down toward the water. The slant wasn’t so steep that he couldn’t walk across it.

Finally he saw the gray buildings of the camp ahead of him. He looked up into the brush and saw a small gray cabin. It was surrounded with half-grown spruce. Beyond it he could see a part of the roof of a second cabin.

As he stood and stared, he caught a flash of movement down on the rocks. He turned. A slim girl was stretched out on her back in the sun. She was wearing a scanty white bathing suit laced with red. She had a book, sunglasses and a bottle of white lotion. The sun had turned her the soft brown of coffee with cream.

She raised her head. He was standing ten feet from her.

“Hello, there,” she said. He recognized the flat clear accent of Beacon Hill. He walked over to her, and because it seemed awkward to stand above her, he sat down and wrapped his arms around his knees.