by Julie Weston
Matches—that was what she needed. Everyone was shocked when she smoked a cigarette in public, part of the reason she did it. “Nice women don’t smoke,” she was told repeatedly. After long practice, she could blow smoke rings, and that was always her answer to her critics—a series of O’s in the air. She found the matches in her jacket and struck one on the metal hinge.
Light flared. The dog yipped. Nellie avoided looking at the body on the floor and scanned the room for a candle or lantern. A table was overturned, and beside it, the glass chimney of a lantern broken into pieces. Just as the flame reached her fingertips, she spotted a candle in a bottle with cold wax in a drip down its curve on a sideboard. With another match, she made her way to the candle, stepping carefully out of reach of the iceman on the floor and lit the wick. The steady candlelight illuminated more of the room. At the other end was the fireplace, empty of anything but ashes. At the end nearest her was an old cookstove. Maybe that was where the smoke had come from. She touched the top surface. Cold.
Beside the stove was a neat stack of kindling. Someone must live there after all. Or rather, Nell thought, with a sideways glance at the man on the floor, did live there. She took a stick, opened the stove top with the iron handle, and stirred in the ashes. A single remnant of an ember, almost gone, rewarded her search. Again, she scanned the room and saw a bundle of what appeared to be newspapers and magazines at the end of the counter. She grabbed one, tore off several pages, and crumpled them. As she used the candle to start a fire, the date on one page jumped out at her: January 31, 1923. It was a weekly from Ketchum, only one day old. She looked back at the man. He must have frozen to death. The ice on his face was thick. If he’d been there that long, should it have been thicker or almost gone? And who lit a fire in the stove in those two days?
The moon dog crowded against her leg, maybe trying to warm himself. His tongue hung out, then retracted, and he closed his mouth. Had the dog been licking him? Water, probably the dog needed water and food. A shudder lodged in her throat. Maybe the dog would have eaten the man if she hadn’t appeared. A pump at the edge of the sink yielded water after a couple groans. Nellie wondered why it wasn’t frozen. She filled an empty dish gathered from the floor, then walked back to her pack on the sled and retrieved her camera, her plate case, and the half-sandwich she hadn’t eaten, and fed a piece of the sandwich to the dog. He almost took her hand with it, and then looked pleadingly at her.
Warmth seeped into the room from the fire in the stove. Now what to do? The man on the floor wasn’t the first dead person she’d seen. He must have passed out and then frozen to death. Still, the ice on his face was unsettling. It looked like a death mask.
In Chicago, people wanted photos taken of their loved ones in caskets. As low man in the pecking order, that had been one of her duties. After the first few corpses, she had lost her distaste for the work and treated the subjects as any other paying customer. The lighting was a bit trickier, as was the angle of the photo, but she had become expert at it, even moving a head slightly, or a hand, not something she liked, but was willing to do. Maybe firelight would work to photograph this one.
Before the thought was fully formed, she was dragging the body by its boots toward the cooler end of the room. Carrying camera gear had strengthened her arms, but she was unnerved when the axe in the man’s hand caught on a board, flipped up, and clunked back. She hurried out to her sled, looked toward where she thought the road might be, and saw in the last of the moonlight fading behind the mountains, nothing but smooth snow around her single labored track.
As she set up her tripod and camera, Nellie calculated how much light she might need and how long an exposure should be. Chicago newspapers printed ghastly news and pictures all the time. They might pay well for a photo of a man’s face covered with ice. Already, it seemed less thick. She would have to hurry to finish before the ice melted. Scotto couldn’t call this sentimental.
Carefully, so as not to disturb the ice mask, Nellie sat the man at a slight angle, leaning against a couch that had seen better days. She focused on his face and shoulders in the dusky light of the candle. The dog paced to the stove and back again, slurped from the water dish, and then sat down by the man as if protecting him. He licked the man’s face once.
“Don’t do that, Dog! Come here, boy.” She clicked her tongue and he crept toward Nellie, as if he understood the man no longer could take care of him. To confirm that impression, she gave him the remainder of the sandwich.
Once the camera was ready, Nellie piled torn paper, kindling, and a couple pieces of wood from the stack by the fireplace onto the grate. She struck a match on one of several loose stones. It flared and died. She tried another and the paper caught briefly. She sat back on her heels. This wasn’t working and she needed the warmth as well as the light. Her shivering didn’t help—from cold, she told herself, not nerves. With trembling fingers, she tried again. Only two matches left. Again the paper caught, and this time a plume crept toward the kindling, which began to crackle.
Nellie warmed her hands while she waited for the light in the room to brighten, hoping the body was far enough from the flame to retain its mask and pose. Flames reflected off something metal at his waist. She found a belt buckle—a large tarnished silver clasp bumpy to her fingertips—and pushed it down so no light glimmered. She slid in her film holder, removed the dark slide, opened the shutter, and waited. Five minutes, ten minutes, how long? The flickering light from the fire, over time, would appear to be steady light on the face. At the same time she noticed the ice melting, she heard a call from a distance. Quickly, she closed the shutter, pushed in the slide, took out the film, and wrapped it.
At the door, she thought she saw faint movement across the meadow, but the night had grown dark with only starlight on snow to illuminate it. “I’m here,” she shouted. “In the cabin!” Then a light shone from the place where she had first stopped to take a photograph.
A few swear words preceded the next call. “Girl, are you all right? I can’t get there without some goddamned snowshoes!”
“Mine broke. I’m all right.” She ran back inside to move her camera and tripod away from its position by the fire. Not certain why, she only knew she didn’t want Rosy to know she had been photographing a dead man. The body had slumped sideways and the ice was gone. The dog was once again licking his face. “Stop. Leave him alone.”
Back to the door she went. “I’m all right. There’s a dead man here.” A breeze was beginning to sweep the snow along the surface of the meadow.
The words “. . . back . . . morn . . .” drifted to her. The light disappeared and she closed the door.
Alone again, Nellie felt abandoned and cold. At least Rosy hadn’t frozen to death. If only the body hadn’t been there in the room, she might have been able to feel a little comfortable. She looked around for something to cover the body or at least his head and shoulders. There was little furniture, except the couch, the overturned table, and a willow rocking chair near the fireplace. A makeshift cupboard perpendicular to the kitchen sideboard held several cans of food as well as empty Mason jars lining the lower shelves, as if they had once held preserved fruits, or perhaps moonshine, like Rosy’s. Along the side of the room, two bunks flanked a door. One bunk’s rope underpinnings were rotted through, but the other one contained blankets and a pillow, neatly arranged. Nellie spied something under the bed that reflected firelight. When she investigated, she saw it was nothing but a broken toy, small wooden wheels on a metal axle.
Nellie pulled the blanket off the bunk, but saw only a stained and ruptured pallet under it. Now that she was warmer from the fire, weariness dragged on her. All the slogging in snow, pulling her sled, setting up and taking down her equipment, and the shock of almost falling on a dead man threatened to knock her out. She would need the blanket herself. She wanted to lie down, but shuddered over sleeping next to the body. The dog nosed around the cupboard. With her bottle and candle, she searched the shelves and found
a can opener, selected a can of kidney beans from the shelf, opened it, and poured the contents, lumpy with frozen pieces, into a dish for the dog. He gulped it down in ten seconds. She righted the table and picked up the glass pieces, stacking them on the counter, found the lower end of the lantern, still intact with kerosene in it, and pumped more water for the dog and took some herself, drinking long and deep, even though it tasted rusty.
“Moonshine,” she said, her eye on the empty jars. That was a good name for a black dog.
Nellie sat on the bed with her feet up. Morning was still hours away. What if the body thawed and woke up? An impossibility. Still, she found the axe and rested it on the blanket pulled around her shoulders. She would rest, not sleep. “Curl up with me,” she said. The dog leaped up, crawled across her, and settled against the wall.
The silence of night was broken only by her own loud heartbeat. Then wood creaked and she grabbed the axe and sat up. She was alone with the dog. The candle had died, and the room was inky in its blackness. Deep quiet again reigned while she waited to hear something else. The dog slept as if drugged, so she relaxed. Her eyes felt scratchy; she closed them briefly.
A door rasped. A board squeaked. Nell opened her eyes and tried to see through the Stygian dark. Wind moaned down the fireplace flue. Or was it her dead man? Again, she grasped the axe and touched the dog, which didn’t move.
“Who is it?” Her whispered question echoed like a shout. An answering silence roared in her ears. Stop it, she told herself. She had dozed off and only dreamed of sounds. Minutes, maybe hours later, she heard a groan—was it hers? A cold, faceless moon shone on ice in her dreams. She wrapped herself tighter and held the axe and the dog.
CHAPTER 3
If Rosy had known he’d end up at Last Chance Ranch with the snippy little photographer from Chicago, he would never have agreed to take her out into “back country,” as she called it. Anyone who would pay one dollar each way had to be twice a fool, so he couldn’t resist. He needed drink and gasoline.
Last Chance Ranch, when he first saw it years ago, was a tumbled-down wreck. The hammered plank door sagged from one hinge. Pieces of warped floor had been fed to the fireplace—a butt end lay in the hearth. The river rock structure was as solid as the cottonwoods along the river. Maybe more so. It was a fall day with cottonwood fluff swirling everywhere, giving a glimpse of the winter to come. His panning for gold days were at an end, but not by choice. He was broke, hungry, and needed shelter.
He repaired the front door with fingers like sausages trying to grip the screwdriver, so the door wouldn’t fall in. After he slept in one of the two bunks along the side wall, he decided to stay awhile. The thrift shop in Ketchum yielded a rope to repair the bunk and he scrounged some lumber to brace the outhouse, a doorless shed that slanted with the wind, and mended the floor. The town wasn’t quite on its last legs in those days. Over the lintel, carved letters on a pine board announced past and future: Last Chance. Everyone in Idaho knew a Last Chance mine. Rosy had had a few first chances, some good and bad chances, a second chance or two, which he mainly muffed. A last chance was as good as any. He’d take it.
The journey to the Independence Mine for work took some doing, but he managed. Rosy discovered he liked being around other miners; many of them had tried mining alone too, with a mule, a gold pan, a sourdough starter, and a gun. The world was changing, though. He hadn’t gone to war, but the younger men did. The ones that lived brought back a knowledge of life and death and misery that he thought he would never have; they also looked to each other for friendship and company, something Rosy hadn’t needed. He’d left home in Missouri at sixteen and never looked back to a drunken father and a mother who’d given her last love to a baby that died. The only person he ever missed was his younger sister. He heard from her about once a year, but only if he wrote first. He had decided he could manage alone and he did for years.
He allowed as how mining gave him a working man’s dignity and friends. One or two of the other men bunked with him from time to time, until they could sort out their own ways: Tater Joe, who married a farmer’s daughter and left for Pocatello; Jack Bee, who played his horn and set dynamite until an avalanche ended his working days; Stumpy Skinner, who made more money selling furs than mining.
Rosy had grown proud of his Last Chance, and when he made enough money, he found the owner—an eastern dude down on his luck—and bought the place for a song. At one time, life was good.
Between then and now was a different world. Some men were lucky and others weren’t. The first pile he could count on one hand. The second, starting with him at the thumb, would need ten hands or more to keep track of, and two more just joined the stack.
Now, gnarled hands rested on the steering wheel and Rosy saw his blind eye in the front window. Here was this girl excited about the scenery and the snow and Idaho. He kept his snort to himself. All that landscape and two bits would buy you a shave and a haircut. That’s it.
At least this Nell Burns had given him a good laugh when she stepped out into the snow. He needed one, the devil knew. By the time she returned, he had finished off his last jar of moonshine. Only her dollars would satisfy his craving.
“Can we go back out tonight? The moon isn’t quite full, but I’ll get plenty of light anyway.”
“Nope. It’s gonna snow and I got things to do.”
When Nell didn’t answer, Rosy played a silence game. Her smile had disappeared and she looked out the window.
“Tell you what. If it clears tomorrow or the next day, I’ll take you out again and you can take all the pictures you want,” he said, “even in the dark.” He shifted gears. He could feel her smile at him. “But I need the money now. Got to get gasoline.”
Maybe a pretty lady would change his luck, just like before.
“Are you all right, Mr. Kipling?”
Rosy tried to grin, but it didn’t work. “ ’Course I’m all right. Get in and let’s go on your fool’s trip. I ain’t got all night.”
Nell Burns stopped in the middle of loading her gear in the boot. “But I told you. I need several hours to do what I want. You said—”
“I know what I said. Things come up the last day or two. You think a man don’t have a life of his own and can just stand around waiting on a city girl to freeze her—hands off?” Rosy motioned to Nell Burns to finish loading. He stomped around to the driver’s side, letting her climb in on her own. If she wanted to act like a man, dressed in pants, she could be treated like one.
“I’m taking you, ain’t I?” He slipped his hand under the seat to be sure his bottle was still there. Not as good as his own stuff, but it would do.
Rosy did not want to see Last Chance Ranch again, so he stopped short of it, but still in the same general area. There were trees and snow and already the moon lit the top of the back mountains as it was rising. It was light as a cloudy day. That would make his passenger happy, he figured. Not seeing Last Chance Ranch would make him, if not happy, at least content to sit for several hours. He had his bottle and a sheepskin robe to keep him warm and drunk. He needed a rest.
The moon came up. Rosy drank, trying not to remember old friends and enemies and life and death. He’d had his fill of those subjects. He decided to see what the girl was doing. Maybe she was a witch. He didn’t want her exploring too close to the ranch. All it did was represent trouble and tragedy and unfinished business. He walked around through trees where the snow wasn’t so deep. He could see her camera in the moonlight and her putting a cover over her head, just like a real photographer. Maybe she did know what she was doing. He shivered and trudged back to the auto. There he covered back up, took several long swigs. As tired in body and mind as he’d ever been, he slept.
When he woke up, the moon was down. Still no girl. Rosy climbed out, stumbled on the robe, and fell down. “Goddamnit.” Where was she? He waded out in the field, this time in her trough. The snow was deep.
“Hey! Girl! Where in hell are you?” He couldn
’t see her, but he did have a light with him and he waved it around. It was too small to give light beyond the first few feet or so. “Hey!”
“. . . at the cabin . . . ,” the girl’s voice called. A breeze was picking up and he lost most of the words. “Snow . . . broke.”
Rosy began to wade toward the house. He sank to his knee. Damned snow. He called out again. He couldn’t get there on her trail without snowshoes.
“. . . all right.” Then nothing for a second or two. “. . . here.”
Rosy debated. If he waded out there, he’d probably kill himself with the effort. Not that he cared, but she’d still be stuck. What a hell of a fix, and he was so addled he could hardly think straight. “Stay there,” he shouted. “I’ll go get shoes and come back in the morning. Stay warm!”
But first things first.
The trail from the north didn’t need snowshoes. Rosy drove his auto up around the corner. He could find his way in the dark, he’d traveled the route so often, but he carried his light anyway. His feet knew where to tread; it was his head that had the trouble.
On the river side of the cabin, Rosy stopped. No candle or firelight showed through the windows. Was the girl asleep? Passed out from fright? It was only then Rosy remembered the dog, Lily’s dog. Lily would not have been afraid, especially with a dog by her side. She never was afraid, even in the worst of times. He couldn’t say the same for himself.
Rosy eased up the steps and opened the back door by the kitchen to peer in. No sound. No light. He sat on the top step and pulled off his boots. His grunt, the sound of leather against sock, broke the quiet. He waited. Then he stood up, flashed his light inside, and turned it off. His old friend, stone dead, lay propped by the couch, not where Rosy last saw him. The girl slept as if dead in one of the bunks. The dog beside her snuffled but didn’t move.
