William Krueger - Blood Hollow

Jeeter sat up. “And if I keep talking, what? You’ll arrest me? You know, I’m thinking it’s a hell of a good thing you’re not sheriff around here anymore. What with you being a half-breed. You know what else? Those times you hauled me in, if it hadn’t been for your badge, you and me, we might’ve gone a few rounds. I would’ve liked that.”

Johnny Papp intervened at that moment, dropping a plate of steaming cakes on the counter between the two men. “Go on back to your table, Jeeter,” Papp said. “Let the man eat in peace.”

“Sure,” Jeeter said after a long moment. “I got work to do anyway.” He stood up and headed toward the register. “Come on, boys. We got a lot of rotten trees to take care of and time’s a wastin’.”

After they’d gone, Johnny Papp said, “Sorry, Cork.”

“Not your fault, Johnny.” He slid off the stool and picked up his check.

“What about your cakes?”

“I’m not hungry anymore.”

Papp reached across the counter and took the check from Cork’s hand. “Then don’t worry about paying.”

“I drank your coffee.”

“It’s on me.” Papp crumbled the check. “And for the record, Jeeter Hayes is a jackass, and everybody knows it.”

The day was overcast. A chill wind came out of the northwest, straight out of Canada. Now and then, a wet snowflake splattered against the windshield of Cork’s Bronco, probably just the lingering echo of winter, but in that far north country, you never knew for sure. He was on his way to Sam’s Place, to work on getting things ready for the May opening. The grayness wedged its way into his mood, and by the time he arrived, he was feeling pretty lousy.

Long ago, after he bought the Quonset hut for a song from the Army National Guard, Sam Winter Moon had divided the building into two sections. In the front, he’d installed a gas grill, a freezer, a sink, storage shelves, and a food prep area. He cut out two serving windows in the south wall, and between them he hung a wood-burned and hand-painted sign that read SAM’S PLACE. During tourist season, the rear of the Quonset hut was his home. It consisted of a kitchen, a bathroom, a living area with an eating table and chairs that Sam had made from birch, a desk for doing business, and a bunk. There were bookshelves, too, for Sam loved to read.

Cork opened the door and stepped inside. The curtains were drawn over the windows, and the room was dark. Cork lifted his hand toward the light switch, but stopped when a voice said, “Don’t.”

“Solemn?” Cork let his hand fall, the switch untouched. It wasn’t so much that he’d recognized the voice immediately as he understood the rightness of the situation, that Solemn should seek shelter in yet another place where Sam Winter Moon had dwelt.

“Close the door.”

Cork did. His eyes were adjusting, and he could make out Solemn lurking in the entryway to the bathroom. He had something in his hand that Cork assumed must be a firearm.

“You can put the gun down.”

“Gun?” Solemn laughed quietly. He came forward into what little light filtered through the curtains, and Cork saw that what he held was a hammer. Solemn aimed the handle at him. “Bang.”

“Been here all night?”

“Most of it.”

“Hungry?”

Solemn seemed surprised by the question.

“I haven’t eaten yet,” Cork said. “I was thinking of fixing some eggs. You want, I’ll fix enough for both of us.”

Solemn looked at him, making some kind of assessment. “I could eat,” he said.

Cork drew open the curtains over the sink to let in some light. He opened the refrigerator, where he kept a small supply of food-eggs, milk, butter, cheese, fruit, bread-in case he got hungry while he was readying the place for the tourist season. During the time when Cork’s life fell apart and he and Jo were separated, he’d lived in Sam’s Place. The pans and utensils he’d used then were still in the drawers and on the shelves. Many of them were left from the time when Sam had lived there.

“You haven’t changed things much,” Solemn said.

Cork lit a burner on the stove and put a frying pan over it. He dropped in a pat of butter, then broke six eggs into a bowl, added a little milk, salt and pepper, and began to beat the mixture with a fork.

“Never saw much that needed changing,” he said over his shoulder. “Sam put things together pretty well.”

“Even smells the same,” Solemn said. “Fry oil.”

Cork poured the beaten eggs into the hot pan. He took a grater from a drawer and began to grate cheese onto a cutting board.

“Coffee?” he said.

“Sure.”

“In the cupboard, in a jar.” He nodded to his right. “Don’t have a drip coffeemaker. You’ll have to let it perk on the stove.”

Solemn took the old aluminum pot from the back burner and set about making the coffee.

“When’s the last time you were here?” Cork asked. With a spatula, he rolled the eggs carefully in the pan, cooking them gradually to keep them from becoming stiff and dry.

“Three years ago. Before Sam died.”

“You’ve never come by since I took over the place.”

“Figured it wouldn’t be the same.”

“Almost nothing ever is.”

Solemn looked around. “You’ve done a good job of keeping it up.”

“I spend a lot of time out here, even in winter. I use it as a getaway.”

“From what?”

“Bills. Phone calls. Life.”

Solemn lit a burner and put the coffeepot on the stove. “There’s a good spot for ice fishing about a hundred yards out.”

“I know,” Cork said.

Solemn walked to the table and sat down. Cork scraped the grated cheese off the cutting board into the eggs and stirred to melt it.

“I watch sometimes,” Solemn said.

“Watch what?”

“You. Here. With your kids. I stand out there in the trees.” He waved toward the copse of poplars to the south.

“What are you looking for?”

Solemn shrugged.

“What you had here once with Sam maybe?”

Solemn didn’t answer.

Cork turned the flame down low and put a lid over the frying pan. “When the coffee’s ready, we’ll eat.” He took a chair and sat near Solemn. “Why’d you run last night?”

“Because they think I killed Charlotte and because that ass-hole looked at me and grinned like I was some kind of rat he had in a cage.”

“The sheriff?”

“Yeah.”

“It was Gooding you slugged.”

“Was it? I don’t remember much. I just knew I had to get out of there.”

“How do you feel about it, knowing that Charlotte was murdered?”

Despite his moments of fire, Solemn, like many Ojibwe, could wipe all emotion from his face in an instant, become absolutely unreadable, and that moment he did. But that in itself was a sign. He had something to hide. Was it guilt? Or had he genuinely cared about Charlotte and didn’t want Cork or anyone else to know?

The coffee began to perk. Cork went to the cupboard and pulled down a couple of plates and cups. He took flatware from the drawer and put the things on the table. He let the coffee perk until the color was deep brown.

“Why don’t you pour us some,” he said to Solemn, “and I’ll get the eggs.”

At first they ate in silence. Solemn’s predicament didn’t affect his appetite. He stuffed the food into his mouth in huge forkfuls, and he followed each bite with a deep gulp of coffee. It was the way a hungry teenager ate, as if every meal were the last. Cork, as he watched Solemn, saw so much about the young man that was still not formed, but forming.

“What are you going to do now?” Cork finally asked.

“I don’t know. Talking to the sheriff sure didn’t do me any good.”

“At least you know where you stand.”