William Krueger - Northwest Angle

They quickly retreated inside. Meloux crossed to the wall where a rifle lay cradled in a rack. He took the rifle down and said to Rainy, “The box in the cupboard. There are cartridges.”

She opened a door and pulled out a small, beautifully carved wooden box. She lifted the lid and spilled the contents into the palm of her hand: six cartridges. She looked down at them, then up at Meloux, and asked, “Uncle Henry, when was the last time you fired that old Winchester?”

He worked the lever and pulled the trigger and said, “It will fire just fine.”

“It’s not the rifle I’m worried about,” she said and held out her hand to him. “These rounds look pretty old.”

“They will have to do,” he said. One by one, he took the cartridges from her palm and fed them into the rifle’s magazine.

“Now wait a minute,” Aaron said. “Before we go off half-cocked and shoot an innocent someone, I think we should talk to this woman. Maybe she’s Ojibwe and is coming to you for advice? Or maybe she’s just a lost hiker or something. Hell, maybe she’s not even there anymore.”

“She’s there,” Stephen said from the window. “And she gives me the creeps.”

Meloux started toward the window. In the middle of the room, however, he stopped and stood dead still as if paralyzed. Jenny was afraid that he might be suffering a stroke. But a kind of light had come into his face, and she saw his body change, straighten, draw erect. She watched a new spirit enter him. What had been a thin construct of flesh and quivering muscle and brittle bone became sturdy and strong. As if it were an actual stream of substance, vitality filled Henry Meloux.

“Ah,” he said.

“What is it, Uncle Henry?” Rainy asked.

He put out his right hand, and it held steady in the air. “No trembling.”

“I don’t understand,” Rainy said.

“Neither did I, Niece. But it is clear to me now.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The problem and its answer are out there in the woods,” he said.

“I don’t understand what you mean, Uncle Henry?”

“I believe that you will, Niece,” he said. “Very soon.”

“This is crazy,” Aaron said. “I’m going out to talk to her.”

“She will not talk,” the old man said. “She is here for one purpose. To bring death.” He looked down at the ice chest, where the baby lay watching Jenny with quiet intent.

“Is it Noah Smalldog?” Jenny said. “He’s found us?”

“That’s not Smalldog. It’s a woman, for God sake,” Aaron said. “Henry, you point that rifle at anyone, and there will be hell to pay. Look, you all just wait here. I’ll go talk to her and clear this whole thing up.”

“No, Aaron. Please don’t go.” Jenny grabbed his arm.

“It’s all right. Really. You’ll see.”

“Henry,” Jenny pleaded.

“It is a mistake to go,” the old Mide said to Aaron. “But if it is to be done, then I will do it.”

“It’s my idea,” Aaron said stubbornly. “I’ll go. You stay here with the others. If you’re right, they’ll need someone who knows how to shoot that thing.” He smiled indulgently, gave Jenny a kiss on the cheek, opened the door, and walked out.

“What do we do, Henry?” Jenny asked desperately.

“We honor his wish.” The old man knelt at the open, screen-less window and laid the rifle across the sill. “And we cover his back.”

They gathered behind Meloux and watched Aaron cross the meadow toward the woman, who stood just inside the shadow of the trees.

“He’s right, Henry,” Jenny said, trying to convince herself. “I’m sure she’s just a lost hiker, like he said.”

The old man didn’t reply. He gripped the rifle, laid his wrinkled cheek against the stock, and sighted.

FORTY-EIGHT

Overturf flew a legendary bush plane, a De Havilland Beaver. Rigged as a floatplane, it had a maximum airspeed of 155 miles per hour. The distance from Windigo Island to Iron Lake was almost two hundred air miles. Under normal circumstances, it would have been a beautiful flight over lovely wilderness scenery and would have seemed relatively brief. But to Cork, every mile felt like ten, and every minute like an eternity.

They’d done as Kretsch suggested, gone to Amos Powassin for help. He’d listened, then had called Overturf and said what he needed. He’d told them where on Windigo Island they would find Overturf’s place. They’d found it without any problem; the De Havilland on the water was a dead giveaway. They’d docked, and as they approached, a young collie who’d been drowsing in the porch shade of the little yellow house had scrambled to his feet and began a furious racket.

“Ojibwe burglar alarm,” Cork had said, and they’d waited in the yard until the front door opened and a man stepped out. He was big and wore a ball cap and wrinkled khakis held up by red suspenders. He had on a green T-shirt with a NASCAR logo across the front, faded but unmistakable. He’d stood very still, studying them. Finally he’d said something to the dog, who’d ceased barking and sat on his haunches. The man had lifted his arm and beckoned and hollered, “You the folks Amos called about?”

He had already gassed the De Havilland, and they’d flown out immediately. He’d taken them high over Oak Island. There were four boats still at the dock, Bascombe’s launch and three others, but of the men who’d stayed behind—Tom Kretsch and Noah Smalldog and Seth Bascombe—or of those who’d come from Stump Island, nothing could be seen. And if there was yet gunfire, it couldn’t be heard over the sound of the De Havilland’s engine.

“Look there,” Overturf had said.

He’d pointed toward half a dozen boats speeding across the lake from the direction of Windigo and Little Windigo. In the blue water, all had left wakes that fanned out behind them like the white tail feathers of eagles flying in formation.

“Amos Powassin spread the word,” he’d told them. “Bunch of our guys are heading over to Oak Island to give Smalldog and that deputy a hand.”

“If they’re still alive,” Anne had said.

“Listen,” Overturf had offered. “If I could choose any man to have at my side in a firefight, it’d be Noah Smalldog. And Tom Kretsch, he’s got heart. The Seven Trumpets people’ll have their hands full, believe me.”

Cork wasn’t himself much inclined toward hope, but he appreciated the man’s sentiment, and the effect his words seemed to have on Anne and the others.

Now they were nearing the south end of the big water. Overturf radioed the Lake of the Woods County Sheriff’s Department. He was told that, in response to a frantic 911 call from Young’s Bay Landing, units had been dispatched to the Angle. Cork got on the radio and explained the danger in Tamarack County. He asked that the sheriff’s office there be notified; it was imperative that armed officers be sent to Crow Point on the Iron Lake Ojibwe Reservation. The dispatcher gave him over to a deputy named Spicer, who listened as Cork once more told the bare-bones facts. Spicer, God bless him, gave a ten-four and promised to make the call to Aurora. He came back on the radio a few minutes later and confirmed for Cork that the Tamarack County’s Critical Incident Response Team was being mobilized. Then he said, “They tried the cell phone number you gave me for Rainy Bisonette. No answer. They’ll keep trying. And listen, O’Connor, you’ve got friends down there. Sheriff Dross personally asked me to let you know she’s got every available officer headed to Crow Point.”

Cork signed off and sat back in the seat next to Overturf.

The pilot leaned to him and said, “I’ll get you there as fast as I can. Believe me, even if all I’ve got to land on at the other end is a puddle of rainwater, by God, I can do that.”