Henry Olsen - The Northland Chronicles - A Stranger North

“Who is Ramses?” John asked, cutting her off.

Doris straightened and prepared to answer, when another voice chimed in.

“Ramses left, oh, about ten months back,” the familiar voice said. “Ambitious — overly so, I’d say. Thought he could do better out on his own.”

John looked toward the voice. It was Pierre, approaching the group.

“I’m with Cynthia on this one,” Pierre continued. “Nobody has caught even a whiff of him since he left. Frankly, unless he joined another community, I’d be surprised if he made it through the winter.” He paused for a moment, shaking his head. “Smart kid, just too big for his britches.”

John looked up at Pierre. It struck him that he was sitting on the ground, like a kid with three adults hovering around. As he pulled back a leg and started pushing himself up, Cynthia held her hand against his shoulder to restrain him.

“Whoa there, cowboy! Where do you think you’re going?” she said.

Ignoring her question, John shrugged off her hand and stood up.

“Cowboy, huh?” John said, grinning as he mulled over the word. “Well, you should know — a cowboy’s work is never done.”

“You’re still going to go to Sawbill Lake tomorrow?” Pierre asked.

“I said I would, and I do what I say — always,” John replied.

Pierre smiled gently. The old man’s body looked tired from the night’s events, but his eyes glistened with renewed vigor.

“After seeing what you did tonight … well, I’m sure you won’t let us down,” he said, giving John a big wink. “Make sure to take good care of Nathan.”

“Sure thing,” John said.

“Sawbill Lake? What’s he gonna do at Sawbill Lake?” Doris asked.

“Doris, Pierre — could I have a moment with my patient?” Cynthia said.

“Hey, why is he going to Sawbill Lake? I wanna know,” Doris said in protest.

Pierre gently reached for her arm. “I’ll explain everything ,” he said, leading her away.

Cynthia looked at John sternly. “How do I know you aren’t gonna pass out again tomorrow, right when the kidnappers start shooting at you? I didn’t spend half a week fixing you up just to send you back into danger.”

John shrugged.

“I have a job to do,” he said. “Danger comes with the territory.”

“I get that, but aren’t you being reckless?” Cynthia said, putting her hands on the waist of her thin dress. For the first time, John noticed how slender she was.

“How does that arm of yours work, anyhow?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” John muttered through his beard.

“You don’t know?” she asked. “I just saw you rip down a chicken coop and you tell me you don’t know how you did it?”

John scowled. “You wanna know what I know?” he snarled. “I know I lost my arm in combat, and when I woke up, I found this godforsaken piece of techno-crap attached to my shoulder!” He shook his left arm in the air.

Cynthia frowned — then she slapped him across the cheek.

“We’ve all lost things — husbands, wives, children, friends — and you’re sulking because you lost your arm? Not to mention got a replacement that just saved our village from burning down,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. “Be grateful for what you have, John.”

John stood mute, watching her blue dress flutter as she turned to walk away. What had he done to deserve that ? He rubbed at his cheek. He imagined he’d have had a red mark if it weren’t for his beard. Shaking his head, he started back toward his tent.

Nathan ambled from his house to the Frontier View Co-op, guiding one of Cynthia’s tvapas — a brown one with white speckles. The early morning light poured into his eyes, obscured only by the wispy clouds that crawled across the azure sky. It was perfect weather for traveling.

The single tvapa pulled a cart that Nathan had borrowed from Cynthia. It had waist high wooden wheels on either side of a square platform that his canoe rested on. Ropes held the canoe to the cart, fastened with trucker’s hitches to metal brackets on either side of the platform. Two telescoping beams extended from the cart, serving as its tongue. Nathan had adjusted them so the bow and stern of the canoe would balance evenly over the cart. Leather straps affixed to the tongue were tied around the neck and back of Cynthia’s tvapa. It was possible to jury-rig the cart so that multiple tvapas could pull it, but one pack animal would suffice for transporting a canoe to Sawbill Lake.

The canoe itself had long since lost its metallic shine. The aluminum body had a dull matte texture, thanks to scrapes and dents accumulated over time. Despite its appearance, Nathan imagined the canoe would serve him for many years to come — it would take a high impact puncture to breach the hull.

He had placed the canoe keel side down so that he could place gear inside — paddles, the map, his Remington 870, and a blue backpack full of odds and ends.

The sun was just peeking out from above the trees as he arrived at the Co-op — right on time. Yet John was nowhere to be found. Strange , he thought. He’d expected that the bearded man would arrive first.

As he waited, the Co-op’s manager, Tom — a lanky, middle-aged man wearing a beige cowboy hat — strolled in, whistling as he rounded the corner of the building. He selected one of the many keys on his key ring and inserted it in the Co-op’s blue door. He smiled at Nathan, greeting him with an upward nod.

“Hey there, Nathan — heading to Sawbill Lake I hear?” he said, turning the key in the lock.

“That’s right,” Nathan answered, surprised that Tom had heard the news.

“With that bearded guy, right?” Tom said. “He’s really something else.”

“He is?” Nathan asked.

“Anyway, I wouldn’t want to hold you up,” Tom said, taking one step inside the store. “Just let me know if you need anything.” With a wave and a smile, he stepped inside and closed the wooden door.

What is he talking about? Nathan wondered as he stared at the door. Had Pierre gossiped to the whole town about the ransom note?

“Good morning, kid,” said a voice from behind. Nathan spun around and saw John. The bearded man was wearing the same dark blue flannel shirt and jeans he’d had on the day before, along with a bulky green pack on his back.

“Why’re you late?” asked Nathan.

John raised an eyebrow, then went to the canoe and swung his pack into the center of the boat.

“You’re a heavy sleeper, aren’t you?” he said.

“Am I?” Nathan asked, tilting his head to one side as he pondered the question. He didn’t see the connection, though he was known to fall into a long slumber from time to time — Emiko called it “hibernation.”

“You’ll see,” John said. His lips curved up into a sly grin and his eyes twinkled playfully. “I trust that you packed the things we talked about?”

“You bet,” Nathan said, giving a single, affirming nod.

“Then let’s go,” said John. “You lead the way.”

Nathan tugged at the rope attached to the tvapa’s muzzle, and the heavy beast jerked its antlered head upward, lumbering forward one hoof at a time. Tvapas were slow but steady — assuming no setbacks, they’d arrive at Sawbill Lake in four or five hours.

John trotted to catch up with Nathan, meeting his stride and walking slightly behind. The pair walked past the rows of cabins as they went on their way to the trail out of town. As they approached Pierre’s cabin, John pointed over to his right.

“Take a look back there,” he said.

Nothing looked unusual, until Nathan noticed the burnt grass and the charred remains of Pierre’s chicken coop behind the cabin. He blinked a few times in disbelief before accepting what his eyes saw.