Henry Olsen - The Northland Chronicles - A Stranger North

“What happened?” Nathan asked.

“Patience, kid,” John said. “It’ll be a good story for the road.”

***

Nathan and John followed the wide, unpaved road northward. A light wind blew through spruce and birch trees that hung overhead, as their boots trampled the weeds that had encroached upon the gravel path. Prior to the Desolation, the road would have been populated with travelers at this time of year — people heading up to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area for a chance to get away from civilization. Now it served as a reminder of a bygone era, a time when there was actually a world to escape from.

Every so often they would pass a sign proudly declaring the area a WILDERNESS, in bold uppercase letters. Nathan understood the concept of “wilderness” — he’d grown up in the Twin Cities, a metropolitan area that had been inhabited by millions, until he was eight — and yet the signs struck him as other-worldly, like part of a cruel, twisted joke. The Boundary Waters remained unchanged, but the wilderness now extended to his front door.

After they had put some distance between themselves and Frontier View, John told Nathan about his chicken coop adventure. The roaring heat, the townspeople throwing buckets of water at it, and then how he brought it all crashing down. John seemed to enjoy sharing the tale, speaking at length without any encouragement from Nathan.

After John finished, he didn’t utter another word for an hour or two. The silence broke when John stopped in his tracks and gazed up at the lush greenery overhead, spying something imperceptible to Nathan. He pulled out his revolver, aimed carefully with both hands, then cocked and fired. After the shot rang out, he cut through the trees and underbrush to look for his prize. When he reappeared, he was carrying a squirrel by the tail.

“Lunch,” he said with a smirk as he threw the carcass in the canoe. A short while later he repeated the feat, bringing back a second squirrel. After he tossed it into the canoe, he spun the revolver around his finger, then held it in his palm to show Nathan.

“This is a Colt Single Action Army — the Peacemaker,” said John, flicking his wrist to swing the cylinder open. “Chambers six bullets, but unless you’re in the heat of combat, you only put in five. There’s no safety, so if you keep a bullet in the top chamber, it’s liable to shoot you in the leg as you’re walking around.” He flipped the cylinder shut and handed the butt of the revolver to Nathan.

Nathan examined the ivory on the grip and the silvery barrel — well worn and dull, just like his aluminum canoe. The gun felt light in his hand, belying its imposing appearance.

“Where did you get it?” Nathan asked.

“I found it a couple years ago in an abandoned home, while I was wandering through Quebec. Been at my hip ever since,” John said, patting at his empty holster. “It doesn’t shoot the fastest or have the truest aim, but it’s reliable — even in the rain and snow — and easy to maintain.”

Nathan returned the revolver to John, who promptly returned it to its holster. Somehow, he’d expected a longer history between the man and his weapon.

“Why were you in Quebec?” he asked.

“Because I wanted to get out of Maine,” John replied.

Nathan waited a moment for John to say more, but the bearded man didn’t elaborate. The pair continued walking northward in silence, the summer buzz of the forest serving as their soundtrack.

***

The sun was at its apex when John and Nathan arrived at the south end of Sawbill Lake. John gazed out at the calm expanse of water. It was a windless day and the sun reflected clearly off the lake’s smooth surface. He watched as Nathan unhitched the tvapa from the cart and tied it up to the trunk of a sturdy white pine. Meanwhile, John fetched his knife from his backpack.

“I’ll prepare the meat. Could you grab some sticks and start a fire?” he asked.

“You’re not worried about the smoke? Won’t the kidnappers know we’re here?” asked Nathan.

“Doesn’t matter — they’ll be expecting us, anyway,” John said.

Nathan shrugged. “Alright.”

John looked on as the kid wandered off into the woods, then he began skinning one of the squirrels. He started by laying it on the ground and slicing its belly open. As his hands worked, his thoughts turned elsewhere.

The kid had made for a solid partner so far. Nathan asked good questions, listened well, and didn’t give John any grief. Still, the real test would come when they neared the kidnappers’ outpost. Would Nathan be able to maintain his cool then?

John set his knife aside, ripped the entrails out of the squirrel — careful not to squeeze the bladder, as that could ruin the meat — and tossed them in the lake. Better the lake than the woods , he thought — less likely to attract bears, not to mention wolves and bobcats.

He picked up his knife and cut off the squirrel’s head, limbs, and tail in quick succession. Then he flipped it over again and made an incision across the rodent’s back, allowing him to peel off the skin. After setting it down, he repeated the process on the other squirrel.

Nathan returned with a bundle of sticks, which he arranged in a teepee shape in order to create a cooking fire.

Once John finished filleting the second squirrel, he rinsed the chunks of meat in the lake then placed them in the bow of the canoe. The fire would take a while to become hot, so in the meantime he went to find a couple thin sticks with which to skewer the squirrel meat. When he returned, Nathan had the fire at a steady burn. After roasting their squirrels over the fire, John and Nathan tore into the tender, nutty meat.

John finished first and tossed his skewer stick into the small fire.

“Alright kid, finish up, then we’ll do some planning and recon,” he said.

Nathan took one last bite, then wiped his mouth with his wrist. He grabbed the map and unfolded it on the ground in front of John.

“These are all the lakes in the area,” Nathan said, pointing to a blue area on the map. “We’re here — Sawbill Lake. Frontier View is down here.” He dragged his finger south until it reached the edge of the map.

“Frontier View’s not on the map?” John asked.

“This map was printed before the Desolation,” Nathan replied. “Though Frontier View would fall to the south of it anyway.”

Sounds like the kid knows his stuff, John thought. “Alright, where is their outpost?” he asked.

“It’s not marked on the map either. The note said on the north end, right?” Nathan said, tracing his finger up the long, narrow lake. At the top, it forked east and west into two small bays. “It could be at either one of these locations,” he said with a frown.

“What’s this red line?” John asked, pointing at a line extending from the northeast bay.

“It’s a portage,” Nathan replied.

“A portage?” John asked.

“Yeah, it’s what they call the trails that connect lakes together,” Nathan answered. “Many date from the French and British fur trapping days.”

“I imagine the outpost would be there — easier access,” John said.

Nathan pointed to the northwest bay, which lacked any defining marks. “Not here?” he asked.

John took a moment to consider — was there any way to determine the outpost’s location? No, not with any certainty — their plan would have to be flexible. He carefully eyed the map one more time.

“Here’s the plan,” he said, pointing to an island in the center of the lake, nearly as wide as the lake itself. “We’ll paddle up to this island and use it as cover. As long as we’re behind it, anybody on the north end of the lake won’t be able to see us.”