by Jessie Haas
Which reeked. He imagined the smell like a firebell clanging through the woods. Quickly he stuffed socks in boots, tied his laces together, and hung his boots around his neck.
Trying to step only on sticks, to leave no track, he approached the dam. His feet were hot and red. They liked the first feel of sun-warm, shallow water.
But as it got deeper—he rolled up his pant legs—it got colder. His ankles ached. He wanted to hurry, but bare gnawed sticks poked up everywhere. He had to be careful, go slow.
Out along the dam now. Abandoned or not, it was still solid. Sticks and packed mud created a firm surface that hardly gave under his weight. Pointy and scratchy, though. He took a moment to slip his boots back on, and listen.
Yes, there was something.
He made his way as quickly as possible to the middle of the dam, took off coat, shirt, boots, pants, and rolled the coat around everything to make a bundle, tied it tight with the Collinses’ rope.
Naked in the sun, he squatted and dug into the dam. The sticks were wedged tight, but he made an opening and stuffed the bundle in, pulling sticks back over it as best he could.
And now.
Phin stared at the chill green water. Solid as a moated castle, the lodge gleamed in the sun. His skin crawled. But something was coming closer, crashing in the distant trees.
He crouched, slipping and wincing on the sticks, and pushed himself off gently, trying to make barely a ripple.
It was as cold as it looked. Phin’s skin sizzled. His wrists ached. His breath came in sobs. But he swam without a sound, hands and feet never breaking the surface. The lodge seemed no nearer, but when he looked back he was twenty feet from the dam, and when he looked at the lodge again, he could see a grass stem growing on it. He kept going, finally gliding onto the back side of the mound.
He was crying by then. Just plain crying, no other word for it. He crawled out of the water and collapsed on the sun-warmed sticks. They scratched and poked the soft parts of his body, but the blessing was that he couldn’t feel it much. His skin seemed far away from him, thickened and pimpled like cured pigskin. His hands were blue, his fingers barely flexed, his teeth rattled. Only his tears were warm, trickling down his face and onto his arm.
Soon, though, the approaching sounds grew loud enough to draw his attention.
He didn’t take the risk of looking, just listened to the trample as the horse neared the shoreline. There was a pause, and then the crack and snap of breaking sticks coming through the muck toward the dam.
Suddenly he could see the stallion’s head. Phin shifted, putting more lodge between himself and his pursuers. They were at the beginning of the dam. Fraser would have to tie the horse and walk out if he thought Phin had gone that way.
For a long time there was quiet. The sun heated Phin’s back. His goose bumps subsided, and the breeze raised more. Wave reflections shimmered on the sticks in front of him.
What was Fraser doing? Moving? Not soundlessly. He’d have to take the stallion back and tie him—
Maybe not.
Phin had to know. He eased himself toward the top of the lodge to risk a quick look. But just below the crown he saw a peephole, a looser place in the interlaced branches. Peering through it, he saw Fraser on the stallion, reins slack. His hat brim slowly turned as he looked up the pond, down the pond.
The stallion’s head turned, too. Phin saw the bit sway below the curved black throat. He remembered that from the chase in the woods. Why? Did a bit somehow spoil the sense of smell?
Time passed. Fraser’s patience was chilling. Had Phin not found this eyehole, he would have peeked over the lodge by now. Fraser would have seen him. The skill, the unrelenting persistance, seemed professional. Pinkerton. Had to be. The detective agency’s emblem flashed in Phin’s mind—a single wide eye and the motto “We Never Sleep….”
Fraser dismounted. He did something to the noseband and the stallion drank, ripples spreading out from his muzzle to lap eventually against the beaver lodge. The horse lifted his head and drops fell back into the shimmering water.
Fraser took a canteen off the saddle. He drank long, then squatted and filled it again. He refastened the canteen to the saddle, put the bit in the stallion’s mouth, then mounted and sat another while, still looking. The stallion laid his ears back, and lashed his tail. Phin heard the hiss of it all the way out at the lodge. The animal was impatient; not Fraser.
At last he stood in the stirrups. He cupped both gloved hands around his mouth, wide like the bell of a horn.
“Boy!” His voice rang across the water. “Quit running! I can help you.”
19
THIN DARK LINE
Phin’s heart rolled over in his chest.
He came so close to standing up that he saw himself doing it, naked, mouth open in astonishment atop the beaver lodge. Sticks dug into his knees and palms as he began to push up.
The words echoed in his mind: I can help you.
Can. Not will.
He sank back, pulse beating rapidly in his throat. He felt his own bareness. All his possessions were on the dam, across a stretch of cold water. The only thing he had was his wits.
Had he just taken leave of them? The man said he’d help—
Said he could help.
He took a breath, and counted his advantages. The solid mass of beaver lodge was between him and Fraser. So was the wide green water. Even though Fraser knew he was here—
But maybe he didn’t. Phin had felt seen, but he was probably meant to feel that way, relax his guard and show himself.
Anyway, how could Fraser know? The breeze was carrying his scent away. Even his clothes, reeking of Phin Chase, were downwind. He was well-washed and well-concealed. Fraser didn’t look committed to staying. He was ready to go, rolling the dice one last time to see what happened.
Nothing happened. Phin’s not-answering seemed to vibrate the air. A person who really wanted to help would say more, try harder. A person who wanted to really help wouldn’t have pursued him so relentlessly. He’d have said something earlier. He’d have made himself a lot less frightening. The best Phin could imagine was that Fraser wanted to help him into the witness chair. It might as well be the gallows.
Fraser touched the reins to the stallion’s neck. The horse whirled with a snort and surged toward the woods; jouncing Fraser on purpose, Phin thought, expressing his annoyance—
Fraser wheeled the horse abruptly, staring straight at the lodge. Phin ducked, eased back up to the peephole, and cursed himself. Fool! He’d done it again. He could only hope Fraser was too far off to see the flicker of movement. He should have more self-control by now. He shouldn’t have let Fraser startle him. He kept himself at the peephole, determined to make no more mistakes.
The stallion tossed his head angrily. Fraser patted his neck without looking down and watched a moment more, then turned the horse again. They disappeared into the woods.
But Phin didn’t believe it. Fraser suspected something. He wasn’t done looking. The hoofbeats went off a ways, then stopped. For a while he heard nothing, or maybe a muffled stomp, far off. He watched, certain that Fraser had crept back to the edge of the woods. But he saw only water, sticks, trees—or was that a dark hat brim showing behind a tree trunk?
He stared at it a long time. It never moved. It was a branch.
But the earth rang as a horse stamped its foot somewhere deep in the trees. Fraser was still here. To his small list of advantages, Phin added the stallion’s impatience, and the flies that tickled the slender black legs.
At last something moved; a man-size shadow among the tree trunks, going away. Another ruse, possibly. But after a time Phin heard hoofbeats, steadily receding.
Or were they?
No, they were above the dam. Fraser must believe he’d gone across.
He’d have to circle upstream to bypass the boggy ground. It would take time. Not much, with a horse of that quality, but some. When he reached the other shore, Phin and his scent-la
den clothes would be upwind. Time to make another move.
Phin let himself into the pond. He was hot enough that it felt good for several seconds. He gulped water as he swam, cooling himself inside and out.
Abruptly he was too cold, aching with it, gasping. His legs cramped with knifelike pains. He struck out with his arms, reaching for the dam, and sank.
He bobbed up, choking and splashing, and caught at the dam barely in time. Coughing, sobbing, teeth clattering, he dragged himself onto warm dry sticks.
Too much—it was too much. Deep in his ice-cold body a match-flame of fury caught and burned. He wasn’t an animal to be hunted like this.
He clenched his jaw to hold back the humiliating chatter. Shuddering, he retrieved his bundle and fumbled it open. Shirt, pants, then the coat, the wonderful coat. It felt warm as a coal stove after its time in the sun. He hugged it around him.
His feet were blue-white. He pulled his socks on, then the shoes, and finally checked his pockets. What did he have?
Matches. Knife.
Rope.
He stood for some minutes, looking at it, then glanced up at the sun. Riding high; edging toward afternoon, even? Best wait for dusk, if that was possible.
Crashing on the other side—the stallion was moving quickly. He’d crossed the brook already, was working his way through the brush toward the shore.
Phin walked back along the dam the way he’d come. He found the stallion’s tracks, round and deep in the boggy ground, and followed them into the woods.
He nearly missed the scuffed place in the leaves; walked past it, and thought, Didn’t I see something? and retraced his steps.
Faint tracks marked the spongy leaf litter. Phin followed down to the brook. Fraser would come back this way, since it had already proven passable.
Phin retreated upslope to dry footing. The horse would come slowly through brook and bog. When he reached dry land, he’d accelerate. Phin could see it, hear it, and carefully he chose his ground, where the stallion would be moving fast, but not too fast, where the trees grew close around the tracks, where there was only one way through, and where, in the exact place that he needed them, two trees stood close together on opposite sides of the little trail.
A faint shout from across the pond; Fraser trying his ploy again. He seemed very sure of Phin, seemed to know his quarry had not moved on.
Good.
Phin fumbled the rope out of his pocket with numb fingers. Now, how high?
If he got it wrong, this wouldn’t work. Fraser would pass beneath the rope unscathed and the next minute have Phin by the collar.
Run the rope low and trip the stallion. That would work.
But Phin couldn’t do it, not spill the beautiful animal in the dirt, risk injuring him. It was Fraser he must spill. The horse gave Fraser his advantage. Take that away and what would he be? Just a man, two-legged. And if Phin could catch the stallion…
He reached out with his arms, trying to recreate the feeling of grooming the horse. About this high—and Fraser was a tall man. His shoulders framed the stallion’s ears as he rode. So, put the rope—there. Clumsy with cold, he shinned up and made a knot, slid down, climbed the tree across the trail, rope in hand, and tied it fast.
When he’d finished, it seemed glaringly obvious, a thin dark line in the woods where nothing else was straight. Pathetically hopeful; the woods were wide, and there seemed no real reason for Fraser to take the same trail twice.
So maybe it wouldn’t work. The only way to find out was to try.
He returned to the pond cautiously. He didn’t want to be seen yet. On the other shore Fraser sat still as a statue in the saddle. The reins were loose. The bit dangled. Phin checked horse and rider against his mental image of them. About right, he thought; probably.
The horse shifted into the wind like a weather vane, nostrils flaring. When he stopped, he was pointing straight at Phin. Fraser reached into his saddlebags and took out a field glass. He aimed where the stallion aimed.
Phin made himself stay still, though the glass alarmed him. Fraser must have used it when he watched from the woods, must have seen something that made him pretty sure.
Fraser watched awhile, then dismounted, dropping the reins. The stallion lowered his head as if tethered to the ground, and Fraser started out along the dam.
In the middle, where Phin had hidden his clothes, he searched the dam itself, crouching and examining the sticks closely. Then he hunkered back and stared at the lodge for a long time.
Go on! Phin thought. Swim out! He would have liked to see that, and know exactly how cold Fraser was.
It didn’t happen. Fraser walked back to his horse and got on. The stallion resumed his alert pose, and Fraser resumed scanning with the glass.
Phin let this continue as long as he dared, let the sun slip lower, let more time pass. Hunger grew in him. He felt empty as a starved wolf, and thirsty, too, which seemed ironic. Shivers chased each other up his spine, even in the heavy coat, and yet a strange excitement filled him. In this long cat-and-mouse game, finally he was the cat. He watched the stallion with a kind of craving—the swift slender legs, the ears nervous, flicking. If he could be quick enough when it happened—
Fraser’s shoulders slumped. He was giving up. Phin stood.
The glass froze.
Phin took care not to move again. He must act in character. A fugitive under the gaze of his pursuer would be extremely careful, making only one or two mistakes.
Fraser watched intently. The minutes stretched, shadows lengthened and darkened. Short fall days; number four on Phin’s list of advantages.
Finally, with a shrug—a theatrical shrug, perfectly visible across the pond—Fraser put away his glass and turned the stallion, riding off into the woods.
Phin listened hard. Yes! He was circling back the way he’d just come.
He was shaking, Phin noticed; not cold this time, excitement. He hurried toward his trap, toward where the stallion would run when Fraser was unseated.
Crashing above the dam as bog sucked at the horse’s legs. A last floundering squelch, rub-a-dub of hooves on firm ground—
Then came the sound Phin had been waiting for. He was surprised at how small it was; no shout, no rattle of bones. Just a thud, and the stallion burst out of the trees, galloping straight toward him.
20
BEECHNUTS
The stallion’s eyes bulged, white at the rims. Phin saw the swerve coming. The horse’s momentum carried him closer but already, mid-stride, he was leaning away—
Phin lunged. His fingers brushed slick saddle leather. The stallion shied, melting under his touch, and it wouldn’t work, Phin despaired—
The horse stepped on a flying rein, checked briefly, the rein snapped, and he exploded onward. In that brief pause Phin’s hand closed on the saddle horn.
He was jerked off his feet, flying along half turned away from the horse. Trees rushed at him. He closed his eyes and twisted toward the stirrup, grabbing for it with his free hand, struggling to drag himself up, bashed by tree trunks, whipped by branches, thunder in his ears and his arm stretching—
His sweating hand started to slip.
It took forever, fraction by fraction. He was nothing but a hand, a failing grip. The rest of his struggles and flailing, the scratches, the buffets, felt distant, unimportant. Don’t…let…
He lost hold suddenly; empty hand, empty air, and the ground came up under him hard.
Leaves under his cheek. Hoofbeats shaking the ground, smaller, farther, lighter, gone.
He opened his eyes. The world spun. He squeezed them shut and lay still.
He didn’t know how long he lay there. Cold seeped up from the ground, even through the heavy wool coat, and that was what got him up finally.
The woods around him were completely unfamiliar. He had no idea how far the horse had carried him, or what to do next, which way to go.
Walk, then. Just walk.
His thoughts chased themselves, ci
rcling a hole in the center of his mind. He picked his way through the trees without really seeing them. His eyes couldn’t seem to focus. Was it getting darker?
It was getting darker. The sun hid behind fast-moving clouds. A wind mixed streamers of cold air down from above. The wild gray sky matched Phin’s mind.
He was in a very strange state. A small, detached part of him knew that, but he lacked the ability to examine it. He walked, not listening behind him anymore, feeling no fear and no urgency and in fact, no anything. Maybe this was all a story in a book. Maybe he wasn’t really here.
Darker. Sun behind the hill.
He had no idea why he sat down. His knees just gave suddenly, and he collapsed on the leaves.
Keep going.
While it was still light.
He should…
He picked up a prickly nut, turned it in his fingers, pressed it hard. The sharp burrs hurt. He was here. He lifted the nut and tried to see it through his mental fog.
Nut.
Nut! Beechnut!
He looked around him on the ground. Another. A third. A scattering—
A squirrel on a branch above him scolded loudly.
A squirrel!
Phin got up on hands and knees and scrambled, grabbing nuts, putting them in his pockets. So tiny. So many. He stopped once, opened one with the Barlow knife, popped the sweet kernel into his mouth.
But over there a squirrel was working, getting some—he charged, chased it into the trees, dropped on his knees to hunt for more.
The sun was long down by the time he stopped. He couldn’t see beechnuts anymore, could barely see the fallen limbs and twigs he must find to build a fire. It was getting cold. His hands felt raw with it.
He gathered sticks as quickly as he could. Not as many as up in the pinewoods. He had to roam far, though his back and hips and knees ached. Dark drew down rapidly. Returning from his last foray he almost missed his stick pile; stumbled into it by accident.
Better quit.
He wasted a match; it broke when he struck it. But the second flared, and after a few anxious moments feeding in tiny pieces of tinder, the fire took hold.
