William Krueger - Thunder Bay

Henry understood now the reason for the Xs carved into the trees. They were Wellington’s assurance of finding his way back without the guide. He looked down at the rifle in his hands. Why hadn’t he used it? He should have shot Wellington when the man was in the open. But the scene-the execution of the Indian-had surprised him.

Snow drifted out of the sky and coldly kissed Henry’s face. He lifted his rifle, sighted on the door, and waited. He steeled himself for what he was about to do. He’d killed often, killed well and without regret. But this was different. This was no bear or moose or deer. This was a man like himself.

Not like me, Henry thought.

He was weak from his wound and from the long, difficult walk. His arms trembled as he tried to hold the rifle steady.

Wellington had been in the cabin for a long time when the wisp of smoke from the chimney turned into a billow, black against the gray clouds and the white snowflakes. In another minute, dark smoke began to roll out the cabin door and windows. Henry lifted his head away from the rifle stock. Where was Wellington? Where was Maurice? Why was the cabin burning?

Wellington stumbled from the cabin door, smoke clinging to his back. Henry quickly sighted. The wind hit the smoke from the cabin and, for a moment, a black curtain was drawn between Henry and his target. Henry pulled off the round anyway, keeping his aim at the spot where Wellington had been.

The smoke cleared a moment later. Wellington had vanished.

“Henry?” Wellington called. “Is that you, Henry?”

The voice came from the protection of the far side of the cabin. Henry’s arms and shoulders ached from the long ordeal of trying to hold his stance.

“Your friend the Negro, he’s inside, Henry. He’s still alive, but he’s going to burn to death pretty soon. You going to let that happen?”

Maurice alive? Was Wellington lying?

Yellow hands of flame thrust through the black smoke and felt their way along the top of the door and windows.

“Know what it’s like to burn alive, Henry? Another couple of minutes and you’ll be hearing his screams. It’ll be too late by then.”

Henry tried to think. There was nothing between him and the cabin, no cover of any kind. If he tried to save Maurice, he would be a clear target for Wellington. Henry considered Wellington’s revolver. He didn’t know much about handguns, but he thought the weapon’s cylinder carried only six bullets. Wellington had fired two at the campsite and one into the Indian. Three left, if he hadn’t reloaded. What was the effective range of a pistol? Not far, Henry hoped.

He had no choice. He stepped into the open.

Through the ragged veil of smoke that drifted across the clearing, Henry saw Wellington’s head and shoulder appear around the corner of the cabin. His arm snaked around next, the revolver in his hand. The first shot hit the outhouse wall far to the left of Henry. Wellington fired again, this time hitting nothing. Henry kept coming. The next time the pistol popped, Henry was no more than fifteen yards away. The bullet creased his left arm, but by now Henry was like the cabin, full of fire. He barely took note of the bullet, and he felt no pain. He saw Wellington pull the trigger again and again. Nothing happened. The man’s eyes grew large and afraid and he vanished behind the cabin. Henry hobbled as quickly as he could to the corner, his rifle raised and read to fire, but Wellington was gone.

Henry limped along the back wall to the far corner. No sign of the man. He completed a circle of the cabin. It was clear to him that Wellington had fled into the forest. Henry would gladly have hunted him down, but Maurice was still inside the burning cabin.

Through the doorway all Henry could see was the murk of the smoke and the yellow-orange dance of flame. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and dropped to the ground. On all fours, he crawled inside. He came to the Indian first. The man lay on his back. The side of his head was missing a chunk, and the raw pink of his brain hung in pieces along the ragged hole in his skull. To Henry’s great astonishment, however, the Indian wasn’t dead. His eyes followed Henry and his mouth moved, speaking words Henry couldn’t hear above the rage of the fire. Henry hesitated only a moment before moving on to find Maurice.

His friend was slumped in a chair to which he’d been bound with rope. His chin lay on his chest. His eyes were closed. Henry pulled out his pocket knife, snapped open the blade, and cut the ropes. Maurice fell into his arms. Henry scooted across the floor to the door, dragging his friend with him. He inched past Pierre, whose terrified eyes tracked him and whose mouth kept working in soundless desperation. Henry tugged Maurice across the threshold and outside. Twenty yards from the cabin, his strength gave out and he collapsed and lay on the ground coughing out soot and smoke.

He wanted to lie there, to do nothing more, but he couldn’t let the Indian burn to death. He scanned the clearing to make sure there was still no sign of Wellington, then he gathered his strength and crawled back to the cabin. The smoke had thickened, and Henry’s eyes watered, so that he couldn’t see. He felt his way along until he touched the Indian. He hooked his hands under the man’s arms and hauled as he inched himself back out. Exhausted, coughing up black junk, a beast of pain chewing on his leg, he lay between Maurice and Pierre while the cabin burned.

“Henry.” Maurice’s voice was a low, choking rattle.

Henry propped himself on his arm. Next to him, Maurice’s face was a mass of drying blood and swelling. His right eye was completely closed. He wore no shirt, and across his chest and stomach Henry saw lakes of discoloration darker than his skin. Maurice coughed and his face squeezed against the pain. Bright red blood leaked from his mouth.

“South,” he whispered to Henry. “Go south. The river. Village.”

“I’ll take you with me.”

Maurice gave his head a faint shake. “Legs. They broke them both.” He coughed again, hard, and groaned painfully.

Henry studied the bruises on his friend’s body. He didn’t know what Wellington and the Indian had used-their fists or clubs of some kind-but they’d made a mess of Maurice. He was probably bleeding badly inside.

“They did this for the gold?” Henry asked.

“I tried not to tell them. I knew what they would do to this place once they found it.”

Henry understood. The beauty of the land Maurice loved would not survive what Wellington would do to get at the gold it held.

Henry rolled toward the Indian, who lay on the other side. The man’s face was slack, but his dark eyes said a great deal. Said fear, pain, please help. His mouth worked at words that never reached his lips. All that came from him was an unintelligible moaning.

There was nothing Henry could do for him. He turned back to Maurice. He shrugged off his coat, slipped it under his friend’s bare back, and wrapped it around him for warmth.

Maurice shook his head again, faint but insistent. “South,” he whispered urgently. “Now.”

The west wall of the cabin collapsed in an explosion of spark and cinder. The south wall followed a few minutes later. The heat from the fire kept him warm, but the temperature was dropping. When the cabin was reduced to a smoldering ruin, he gathered logs from the winter store and built a fire in the clearing near where the two men lay. In the smokehouse, he found a wooden bowl that he cleaned in the stream and filled with clear water. He brought it to Maurice, who sipped a little, then Henry tried to get the Indian to drink. The man wasn’t able to swallow, and Henry finally gave up. He took some deer meat from the smokehouse and tried to feed Maurice, who shook his head at the offering. He’d stopped insisting that Henry leave and lay on the ground staring up at the snowflakes that made his eyes flicker when they lit on his lashes.