William Krueger - Boundary waters

“Letter?” Sloane’s face folded into creases of concentration.

“We always brought out a letter to mail for Shiloh.”

“The letters she sent to Elizabeth Dobson in California,” Cork reminded Sloane. “And to her father in Tennessee.”

“No,” Louis said.

Cork threw a quick, troubled look at Louis.

“Not to Tennessee,” the boy clarified. “Only to California. To Los Angeles. To a woman named Libbie.”

“Are you sure?” Cork asked. “Wendell went into the Boundary Waters without you sometimes. Could he have brought out letters on those trips that he mailed to Willie Raye in Tennessee?”

Louis shook his head. “He waited for me. We always walked together to LeDuc’s to mail the letters. They all went to California.”

Cork stared into the fire a while, but he wasn’t seeing the flames. “Raye told me he’d received letters from Shiloh. That’s how he knew she was up here.”

“How could he?” Stormy asked.

“I don’t know. Unless…”

“Unless what?” Louis asked.

Sloane looked at Cork and the same thought seemed to pass between them.

“Unless Raye was responsible for the letters’ being stolen from Libbie Dobson in the first place,” Cork replied.

“That-what did you call it, Louis? Majimanidoo?-of yours. Maybe he’s got a name now.” Sloane breathed shallow and fast. “Arkansas Willie Raye.”

Stormy took a stick and began to stir up the coals so that flames broke out at the edge of the fire where he sat. He tapped at them, making more and more flickers of fire, like Mickey Mouse’s ever dividing brooms of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. He said, “If that’s true, then it probably means he’s been working with the men who’ve been out here after us.”

“Bet he’s been in communication with them the whole time,” Sloane said in a venomous whisper.

“It would explain a lot,” Cork said. “I’ve been wondering how they tracked us so well.”

“That’s how they knew Grimes was waiting and where,” Stormy said.

“Sorry I ever blamed you,” Sloane told him.

“Forget it.”

“Of course,” Cork said suddenly.

“What?” Sloane asked.

“Remember when we were ambushed and I wondered why that guy didn’t just kill us? We were carrying the canoes on our shoulders. Our faces were hidden, so he couldn’t tell which of us was Raye. He didn’t know who not to shoot.”

“The shooter on the rocks today,” Stormy put in. “That explains Raye’s diarrhea. Every time he disappeared into the bushes, he was probably on a radio to the son of a bitch.”

“But Arkansas Willie was shot, too,” Louis said

Cork shook his head. “I’m pretty sure not, Louis. He went into the water as if he’d been shot. That added to the general confusion and gave him a chance to slip away from us.”

“He’s alive,” Sloane said, and even in his weakened state, his anger came through strong.

“Not only alive,” Cork added, “but joined up, I’d bet, with the guy who’s after Shiloh. Shit.”

Cork picked up a stick and threw it down hard among the coals of the fire. Blazing embers leaped away like little demons afraid of his anger.

“Maybe we held them up enough here so that Shiloh can get away from them.” In the firelight, Louis’s young face seemed bright with hope.

“I wish that were true and the end of it, Louis,” Cork said. “But those men have gone to a lot of trouble to try to kill her. I don’t think they’ll stop at the edge of the Boundary Waters. And if Raye is smart, he knows where she’ll go once she’s out.”

“Where?” Stormy asked.

“Wendell’s trailer. I’d bet on it. Her car’s there. And she probably believes it’s safe.”

Sloane’s hand slipped from under the clothing that covered him and he grasped Cork’s arm. “We’ve got to do something.”

“Yeah,” Stormy agreed. “But what?”

They sat silently for a long time, thinking, sat as people had for thousands of years, around a fire that lit a very small place in a very great dark.

“Maybe there is a way,” Cork finally said. “Maybe I can make it to Shiloh before they do.”

“How?” Louis asked.

“First thing in the morning, I run my second marathon.”

“You don’t exactly have a clear course here,” Stormy pointed out.

“Let’s take a look at the map.”

From the pocket of his pack, which was still wet, he pulled the map of the Boundary Waters. The map was wet, too, and he opened it carefully to avoid tearing the paper. He spread it on the ground near the fire, and he and Stormy hunched over it.

“The Noodamigwe Trail is east of here.” Cork put his finger on a black dotted line. “Looks to be about four miles.”

“Closer to five,” Stormy said.

“If I can connect with it, I’ll follow it until I catch the old Sawtooth logging road here. What is that? Ten miles? Then another eight or so to County Road C. If I can catch a ride there, I could be at Wendell’s by noon.”

“Lot of ifs,” Stormy said.

“I’m open to other suggestions.”

Stormy sat back and offered nothing. Louis was looking at Sloane, whose eyes danced with firelight. Sloane saw him watching. He smiled, real and true.

“Don’t worry about me, Louis. No way I’m going to miss the end of this. How ’bout a little more of that soup?”

Shiloh built a small flre on the southern shore of a boot-shaped lake the map called Desperation. On the map, she was only two inches from the place where she would leave the Boundary Waters, and only another four inches from the X that marked Wendell’s place. She could have calculated it in miles, but inches were far more comforting.

The peanut butter and bread she’d taken from the dead men’s pack had provided what felt like a sumptuous feast. Funny, she thought, how little it took to be happy when there was little choice. She knew she was still learning the lessons of the wilderness. To breathe, to eat, to sleep, and to do so fearlessly-how much more did anyone need to be happy? Wealth, Wendell had impressed on her, was not a value the Anishinaabe held. Sharing was the way of The People.

When, in the little cabin, she’d discovered how happy she could be with almost nothing, she’d made a profound decision. She intended to divest herself of the holdings that had given her wealth but never a moment of happiness. The decision filled her with more joy than she ever thought possible. Over the course of several weeks, she solidified a plan. She would begin by establishing a foundation for the preservation of Indian culture. Not just the culture of the Anishinaabe, but all Native American people. She would call it Miziweyaa, which Wendell had told her meant all of a thing-whole-for that was how she felt. After that, she would reorganize Ozark Records, make it a venue for Native American music. The voice of The People would be heard at last. And not just music, but the words of storytellers as well. She’d learned so much from Wendell’s stories. But why stop there? Why not include the music and stories of indigenous peoples everywhere? Despite all the noise technology could manufacture and send to the farthest reaches of the earth, Shiloh believed there had been a great silence in the world for too long.

Her last decision was to change her will. She intended to leave everything, whatever still existed of her wealth when she took to the Path of Souls, to the Iron Lake Anishinaabe.

She’d journaled extensively, talked the whole thing out on tape, and finally, unable to contain her zeal, had written to Libbie Dobson, pouring forth the whole plan.

To possess nothing but the full abundance of her heart, even now the very idea brought her to tears. Real tears of happiness.