William Krueger - Boundary waters

For nearly an hour after the hard dark hit, they plunged through the night. Finally Cork felt a slack in the wind. He knew they’d moved into the protection of the trees on the northern shore. He unlashed the flashlight and cast the beam ahead of them. An unbroken line of rock and trees stretched into the darkness on either side of the light. The other canoes drew up alongside.

“Well?” Sloane grunted. He looked as if he didn’t have another stroke left in him. His paddle lay across the gunwales and he leaned on it heavily. His face was slack with exhaustion.

“We’re west of Diamond Bay,” Cork told him.

“How far?”

“Can’t say.”

Sloane turned and stared into the dark of the east. He took a long breath, lifted his paddle and said, “Let’s get to it.”

They weren’t so far as Cork had thought. In fifteen minutes, they entered Diamond Bay and easily located the landing. They drew the canoes up onto shore. Sloane inspected the area with his flashlight. “Good enough,” he said wearily. “We camp here.”

“The Little Moose is less than twenty rods down that trail,” Cork said. He shot his flashlight beam down a narrow corridor through a stand of birch. The trail was covered with fallen leaves so golden they made it look like the yellow brick road. “There’s an official BWCAW campsite there.”

Sloane shook his head. “No more tonight. We stay here.”

“You might want to think about moving on,” Stormy suggested.

Sloane gave him a dismissive look. “And why’s that?”

“Because,” Stormy replied, “we’re being followed.”

Grimes took a good long look behind them at the vast black of the lake. “Bullshit,” he said.

Cork looked there, too, and saw nothing but a deep, impenetrable emptiness. Sloane moved up beside him and peered a long time before he asked Stormy, “Why do you think we’re being followed?”

“Ask Louis,” Stormy said.

Sloane knelt down. “What is it, son?”

“There’s a star on the water,” Louis said.

“A star? I don’t see anything.”

“It comes and goes,” Louis said.

“A star that follows us, that comes and goes.” Grimes laughed. “Sounds like another one of your Indian tales, kid.”

Cork continued scanning the dark of the lake. “I’m not so sure. Could be that someone back there’s smoking and Louis saw the ember.”

“What do we do?” Arkansas Willie asked.

“I think Stormy’s suggestion is a good one,” Cork said. “We portage to the Little Moose. That’s the only trail on this part of the lake. If they’re really following us, they’ll have to portage down it same as us. We’ll be waiting.”

“I’m giving the orders here, O’Connor,” Sloane reminded him sharply.

“Fine,” Cork said. “What do you suggest?”

“If there is someone out there, they’ve probably got nothing to do with us.”

“And if they have?”

Sloane considered. “Grimes, you position yourself here, somewhere out of sight so that you can monitor any activity at the landing. The rest of us’ll go on to the Little Moose and set up camp.”

He handed Grimes the rifle he’d carried himself on every portage. From the pack that contained the agents’ gear, he pulled a box slightly smaller than a loaf of bread and took out a scope. Infrared, Cork guessed. Or maybe night vision.

“Use your head back here, okay?” Sloane handed Grimes a walkie-talkie. “Check in at fifteen-minute intervals.”

“Might as well leave me the radio, too,” Grimes said. “Less for you to carry. I’ll bring it down when I come.”

Grimes took his pack, the rifle, and the radio and settled himself at the edge of the landing behind the trunk of a fallen birch that was covered with a thicket of raspberry vines. The others grunted into their packs, maneuvered the yokes of the canoes onto their shoulders, and began the portage to the Little Moose. Louis bent under the weight of the food pack, a heavy load for the small boy, but he didn’t complain. He brought up the rear and held a powerful electric lantern in his hand that he shined ahead on the trail so that the men with the canoes could see the ground they walked over. They went slowly. The portage was flat, dry, and well worn. In less than ten minutes, the liquid sweep and gurgle of the Little Moose could be heard ahead of them.

Cork had been on that river before. It was a swift flow, tea colored because of the seepage from bogs along its watershed. There were tough sections on it, funnels where the water thundered between high cliffs, but along those sections there were trails for portage. In season, the river was a good, deep passage to the lakes farther north. This late in the year and with the weather as dry as it had been, Cork wasn’t sure how smooth that passage might be.

They found the campsite beside the river at the end of the trail. They set down the canoes and the packs. The first thing Sloane did was check in with Grimes via the walkie-talkie. Grimes had nothing to report.

“Think you can build us a fire, O’Connor?” Sloane asked.

“That’s not such a good idea.” Cork kept his voice low so Louis wouldn’t hear. “By firelight, we’d all be pretty good targets.”

“For the record, O’Connor, I’m inclined to agree with Grimes. The kid’s story is bullshit.”

“Why’d you post Grimes back there?”

“I’d be a fool not to make absolutely certain.”

“Then let’s be certain before we build the fire,” Cork said.

Sloane looked like he was tired of arguing. “Get the wood,” he said. “We’ll wait on the fire.”

Cork untied the small ax from his pack and removed the sheath. “Stormy,” he said. “Mind cutting us some firewood?”

“I don’t want that man to have an ax,” Sloane barked.

Cork waited a moment for the brief flair of his own anger to pass. “Stormy was born with one of these in his hand,” he explained as calmly as he could.

“Nothing’s going in that man’s hand that could be used as a weapon.” Sloane reached for the ax, but Cork drew it back.

“If I wanted to kill you,” Stormy said to the agent, rolling his shirtsleeves back over the great muscles of his arms, “I wouldn’t need an ax.”

Sandwiched between Cork and Stormy Two Knives, Sloane looked from one to the other. Finally he gave a brief, grudging nod. “All right. But the boy stays here with us.”

Stormy took the ax from Cork and spoke to his son. “Louis, put up the tent.” He grabbed a flashlight, slung his jacket over his shoulder, and headed into the woods.

From his own Duluth pack, Cork pulled a tightly rolled tent, a two-man Eureka Timberline. “Ever put up one of these?” Cork asked Willie Raye.

“Not far outta Skunk Holler,” Arkansas Willie replied, lapsing purposely into a deep Ozark twang, “in the heart of the blessed Ozarks, God give us the best campin’ country a man could ask fer. Hell yes, I can ’rect one of these.”

“Good. I’m going to give the greenhorn over there a hand.” Cork indicated Sloane, who was looking doubtfully at his own tent bag.

“I’ve got another chore first,” Arkansas Willie explained. “Nature’s been calling for the last hour. You’ll excuse me?” He lifted a bag of toiletries from his pack, took a flashlight, and hurried into the woods.

Cork approached Sloane. “Let me give you a hand. It’s not hard once you’ve seen it done. Why don’t you hold the flashlight for me.”

Sloane didn’t argue.

As Cork pulled the rolled tent from the bag, he asked quietly, “Why are you so hard on Stormy?”

“He’s an ex-con.”

“And that’s all you know about him?”

“That’s all I need to know.”

Cork rolled out the tent and found the pegs and flexible rods for the frame. “What do you think of Louis?”