William Krueger - Thunder Bay

We found the Bronco covered with grasshoppers. They flew off the doors as we reached for the handles. The grill was full of the insects we’d plowed through on our way there.

When we were inside Stevie asked, “Are there grasshoppers everywhere?”

“I think so,” I said. I put the key in the ignition.

“This many everywhere?” he said.

I was glad to see he was curious and had moved on to a subject other than Walleye.

“I don’t think so, buddy,” I said. “This is pretty unusual.”

I turned the engine over.

“There were grasshoppers smashed all over the Canada car,” Stevie said.

“What Canada car?”

I checked the road behind me, preparing to turn around and head toward town.

“The one that went by when we stopped.”

“It was from Canada?” I looked over at my son. “How do you know?”

“The license plate in back. I saw it.”

Even deep in his concern over giving Walleye back to Meloux, my son had caught details that escaped me. But then, I’d been more worried about the SUV taking off my door. It wasn’t necessarily a significant thing. Canadians came across the border into Minnesota all the time. But it struck me as chillingly coincidental, especially in light of the fact that up the gravel road where the SUV had gone there was no real destination.

Instead of turning around, I drove straight ahead. Not far from the double-trunk birch, I came to one of the old logging trails, unused for so long it was mostly overgrown with weeds. Parked just far enough among the trees off the road so that it couldn’t be too easily seen was the SUV.

I reached across to the glove box where I kept my cell phone, intending to call the sheriff’s department, but I was too far north of town to get a signal. I swung the Bronco around so quickly Stevie fell against his door.

“What are you doing, Dad?”

“Henry’s in trouble.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, son. I just know he is.”

I drove past the trail to Henry’s cabin. A quarter mile farther I came to a lane that headed toward Iron Lake. A big wood-burned sign was posted at the entrance to the lane, NORTHERN LIGHTS RESORT. The resort cabins stood on the shoreline a couple of hundred yards through the trees. They were owned by Melissa and Joe Krick, both Aurora natives. I’d known them all my life.

I said to Stevie, “I want you to run as fast as you can down to the Kricks’. Tell them that Henry’s in trouble, that someone’s trying to hurt him. Tell them to call the sheriff’s office and get deputies out to Henry’s cabin right away.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Try to help Henry.”

“I want to be with you.”

“Just do what I ask,” I snapped at him. He looked surprised and hurt. “This is important, Stevie. For me and for Henry and for Walleye.” I reached across him and popped his door open. “Go. As fast as you can. Go!”

He hesitated a moment more, then leaped out and his little legs pumped like crazy as he ran down the dirt lane.

I’d used precious minutes taking Stevie to the Kricks’. I didn’t really think the sheriff’s people would arrive in time to be of use, but I wanted to be certain Stevie was out of harm’s way.

I pulled to the side of the road at the double-trunk birch. I jumped out, ran to the rear of the Bronco, and popped the tailgate. There was a locked toolbox welded to the frame in back, which I opened with one of the keys on my ring. Inside was a smaller lockbox. I opened that with another key. The lockbox held a basket-weave holster, a. 38 police special wrapped in oilcloth, and six cartridges. As a result of incidences that had occurred when I was sheriff of Tamarack County, I’d taken to keeping the firearm in the Bronco, close at hand. I pulled it out once in a while to clean it, but since I’d given up my badge, I hadn’t fired it except to practice.

I slipped the holster on my belt, filled the cylinder of the. 38, and slapped it closed. I dropped the weapon into the holster and secured the snap. Then I hit the trail at a sprint, heading for Meloux’s place.

I’d completed two marathons in my life, but during all the unpleasantness on Chicago’s North Shore the year before, I’d taken a bullet in my leg and I still wasn’t a hundred percent. I figured I could make it the half mile to the clearing in three or four minutes. I was breathing hard by the time I reached Wine Creek, halfway to the cabin. As I danced over the stones that formed a loose bridge across the stream, I heard Walleye begin barking fiercely in the distance ahead. A few moments later came a rifle shot and a pained yelp and Walleye stopped barking. A second shot followed immediately.

I reached the edge of the trees. Much as I wanted to bolt for the cabin to check on Meloux, I forced myself to stop. From the shadows I surveyed the clearing, the cabin, the outhouse. Except for the grasshoppers springing up everywhere among the wildflowers and the long grass, nothing moved.

The door to Meloux’s cabin stood open, but I couldn’t see anything in the dark inside.

Two shots. Heavy weapon. A rifle.

I scanned the meadow, the lakeshore, and finally eyed the outcrop of rocks just beyond Meloux’s cabin. A path led from the cabin through the rocks to a fire ring where Meloux often sat and burned cedar and sage to clear his spirit. It would provide good cover if someone wanted to take out the old man.

The meadow grass stood more than knee high. I lay on my belly and crawled from the trees into the grass, making my way slowly across the clearing. Every few yards I lifted my head to check the situation.

As I neared the cabin, I heard a low wail. It came from the rocks where the trail snaked through to the fire ring. I paused, listened, and finally understood. I got to my feet and cautiously took the trail from the cabin. Beyond the rocks, I found Meloux.

The old Mide sat cross-legged near the circle of stones, which was full of ash from many fires. At his back, the blue water of Iron Lake stretched away, a perfect mirror of a cloudless sky. Next to him lay Walleye, a graze of blood along his flank. The dog licked at the wound. In front of Meloux, facedown, was sprawled the body of a man. The back of his head had exploded in a gaping wound full of white skull fragments, raw pink brain matter, and blood.

Meloux’s eyes were closed as he sang. I recognized the chant. He was singing the dead man along the Path of Souls.

I sat down and waited. When he finished, the old man looked at me.

“Are you all right, Henry?” I asked.

“I am confused.” His dark eyes dropped to the dead man, where a grasshopper crawled across the thick, white neck. “He hunted me. What kind of game is an old man like me?”

“What happened?”

“You left and Walleye sensed something. He’s old like me, but that nose of his is like a pup’s. The scent he caught was not good, I could tell. I took my rifle from the wall and I put in a cartridge. We were downwind of the rocks, which would he a good place for a bad man to hide. I was not thinking it was a man, though, but a different animal-a wolf, maybe, or a mountain lion. So he surprised me. But a man does not get old like me without luck. Just before he fired, a grasshopper flew into his face. His shot went wide. Mine did not.” Meloux reached out and gently patted Walleye. “His bullet nicked my good friend. My good companion.” He shook his head. “What satisfaction is there in hunting an old man and an old dog?”

I got to my feet and walked to the body. Although I knew I shouldn’t move it, I rolled the corpse just enough to see the face. Meloux’s bullet had entered the right eye, but the features were still quite recognizable.