William Krueger - Thunder Bay

“A few months ago, Carlos and I flew up to the village. The Ottawa people didn’t know exactly where the Negro lived. He was always clever in his coming and going and they couldn’t follow his trail. But they told us it was generally up this way. We flew over the region and I liked the look of this lake. I did a brief preliminary survey and took samples of the sediment on the lake bottom. The results were extremely promising and we decided to return and spend more time before the snows came.”

“Promising? Hell, you said you were certain,” Lima snarled at Wellington. “So far we have found nothing.”

“It’s here, Carlos.”

“How can you be so sure?” Maria asked.

Wellington stood up and paced restlessly as he spoke. The firelight ran the length of his body, so that he seemed to be a man in flames. “Gold is found in the oldest rock on earth, Maria. Usually that rock is too deep beneath the surface to get at the gold, eh. But where the rock has been pushed up through the surface-by volcanic action, for example-that’s a good place to look. Also in a place scraped clean by glaciers in the Ice Age. Like the Quetico-Superior wilderness area north of where Henry lives. Or here. Those ridges across the lake are volcanic in origin. And the rock that underlies all this area is some of the oldest exposed rock on earth, the Canadian Shield. When I heard the story of the Negro’s gold and saw this place, I knew it had to be true.”

Maria spoke up. “But it is, as you said, the Negro’s gold.”

“Not if he hasn’t filed a claim,” Wellington said.

“And if he has?”

“Then we’ll strike a deal. It’s just a question of figuring out what a man like this Negro would want.”

“What if there’s nothing he wants?”

Wellington looked at her as if she were hopelessly naive. “There’s always something, Maria.”

That night, Henry lay with Maria in his arms. They no longer made love at night; it was too difficult to be quiet, and Henry was afraid of what would happen if the white men knew. With Maria’s head on his chest, her hair soft against his cheek, her breath rolling warm across his skin, Henry had never been so happy.

“They know about Maurice,” Maria whispered.

“They’ve found nothing. Maybe they will give up.”

“Maybe,” Maria said. “What are we going to do about us?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t ever want to leave you, but when my father’s finished here…”

Henry hadn’t thought beyond the moment, beyond the happiness beside that wilderness lake. Which was unusual for him, in a way. His life depended on looking forward, reading the signs in autumn that would tell him about the winter to come, watching the skies in spring for the return of the birds, whose timing and number revealed much about the summer ahead.

“We could live here,” Maria said. “Like Maurice and Hummingbird. They were happy.”

Henry understood how hard that life would be. For the woman who’d loved Maurice, it was different. She’d been of this country and knew the hardship. Maria had lived another life.

There was something else to consider: Henry didn’t know about love. He didn’t know if love would always be enough for Maria.

He kissed her hair. “Sleep,” he told her. “Just sleep.”

He woke in the morning later than he’d intended. The tent canvas already glowed faintly with dawn. He slid away from Maria, who was still deep in sleep, her face relaxed and so beautiful he risked a kiss, a touch of his lips to her eyebrow. She stirred but didn’t wake. He crouched at the tent entrance and reached out to open the flap. From outside came the cough and spit with which Carlos Lima greeted most mornings. Henry heard the crackle of fallen leaves as Lima made his way to his toilet. Henry waited a minute before leaving the tent, to be certain Lima had settled into his business. He eased the flap aside just a slit and peeked out to check the campsite. It looked clear. Quickly, he slipped from Maria’s tent. As he stood and turned toward his own tent, he spied Leonard Wellington standing ten yards away, urinating into the underbrush. Wellington spotted Henry at the same time. The white man’s eyes held on him, slid to Maria’s tent, then crawled back to Henry.

“Appears that wolves aren’t the only nocturnal predators up here. Carlos!” he called.

“I’m busy!”

Wellington buttoned his trousers. “Finish up, compadre. You have family business to attend to.” He circled, watching, as if Henry were an animal about to bolt. “Carlos, get your Cuban ass over here.”

Though there was menace in the white man’s voice, Henry wasn’t afraid of him. He was afraid for Maria because he didn’t know what Wellington and Lima might do to her because of this sin. He kept his position blocking the opening to her tent.

Lima appeared, hiking up his trousers as he came. “There you are, Henry. Where’s the fire, damn it? And hell, boy, where’s the coffee?”

“Henry’s been busy with other things, Carlos. I just caught him sneaking from your daughter’s tent.”

Lima, as he walked, had been concentrating on the buttons of his pants. When he heard Wellington’s words, he stopped. His eyes rolled up and he took in Henry and the tent where his only daughter slept. Rage flared on his face.

“You savage son of a bitch,” he spat. “I will kill you.”

He ran at Henry. Lima wasn’t a big man, but he was powerfully built, especially in his upper body. He raised his arms and lowered his head. He reminded Henry of a charging moose.

Henry dropped low, caught Lima in the gut with his shoulder, and used the man’s momentum to lift him off his feet. Lima tumbled over Henry and landed flat on his back. He tried to rise, but clearly the wind had been knocked out of him.

Wellington started toward Henry, but not with commitment.

At the government school in Flandreau, Henry had learned to box. Now he braced himself, brought his fists to the ready, and dropped into an easy fighter’s crouch. It was enough to make Wellington pause.

“Henry?” The canvas flap rustled at his back. Maria touched his shoulder. “Oh, no.” She rushed past him and knelt at her father’s side. “Papa?” She looked at Henry. “Did you hit him?”

Before Henry could reply, Wellington said, “Your father was just trying to defend your honor. Henry nearly killed him.”

“Maria?” Lima’s breath had returned. He reached out and took his daughter’s hand. “Tell me it’s not the way it looks.”

“Papa, I love Henry.”

“Love?” He snatched back his hand. He rolled to his side and pushed onto his knees. “Love?” he bellowed. He brought himself up fully and leaned threateningly toward his daughter. “This is not love. This is rutting. This is what wild animals do. I did not raise you to rut like an animal.”

“I’m not an animal. And Henry’s not an animal.”

“He’s not a man.” Lima turned to Henry. “A man would not take advantage of a girl this way.”

Maria grasped her father’s arm. “I’m not a girl.”

He pulled away. “Clearly not anymore.”

“I’m a woman, Papa.”

“Maybe.” He glared at her. “But you will never be a lady. Not after him. What man would want you now? I gave you the best of everything, and this is how you thank me? You are no better than a street whore.”

He slapped her hard and she spun away. He raised his hand to hit her again. Henry lunged and grabbed Lima’s arm. The man turned angrily. Henry hit him full in the face and felt the shatter of bone. The man went down. His head hit one of the rocks that ringed the fire, and he lay still, blood leaking from the left side of his head.

“Jesus,” Wellington said. “You’ve killed him.”