While he rummaged through an old camelback trunk, Sharon continued to take in her surroundings: the fireplace built of local rock, the squared logs hand-hewn by a craftsman long dead, the rough plank flooring, the pine-board table and worn wooden chairs, the kerosene lamp that cast their shadows onto bare log walls. From the blue enamelware coffeepot on the potbelly, her eyes followed the stove’s flue up to where it angled into the wall, just below the roof beam.
“Got it!” the old man said, holding up the white plastic box with the red cross. Closing the trunk, he set the kit on the table. Then he pumped a pot of water and set it on the potbelly to heat. “Soon’s ’at heats up, you can tend to your wife.”
He wandered back over where the rifle leaned against the wall. “So, you two got caught in the storm, eh? Mighty careless, don’tcha think?” He picked up the enamelware coffeepot from the stove and asked him if they could use some. “Made it fresh a little while ago.”
“Thank you,” Kanesewah said. “We must have gotten caught up in all the natural beauty of this area. And our weather radio doesn’t seem to work up here.”
* * *
Kanesewah could see through the open door to the bedroom at the end of the cabin, and the old brass bed that took up half the space. It must have gleamed at one time, but now it stood empty and tarnished. The old man must have some rope around here somewhere for hanging and dressing a deer. He pictured stripping Sharon naked and tying her wrists to the thick, tarnished posts at the head, and her ankles to the posts at the foot, her legs spread wide and inviting. He imagined standing at the end of the bed and looking down at her openness to him, studying it, watching it glisten as her breasts heaved and her belly undulated with fear. And then he would play with her, just as he had with the Braun girl and so many others. And out here, there would be no one to hear her screams. No one to disrupt his entertainment. All he had to do was rid himself of the old man.
* * *
“My wife had me haul that thing up here,” Breckenridge said, noticing his guest’s interest in the brass bed. “Damn pain in the ass, but she wanted some kind of civilization up here, so I compromised.”
“Don’t we all,” Kanesewah remarked. “Coffee smells good.”
“Don’t get any visitors up here,” Breckenridge said. “Sorry ’bout the rifle, but you can’t be too careful.”
“No harm,” Kanesewah said. “It’s understandable—all kinds of weird people in this world.”
Breckenridge finished pouring coffee into three chipped enamelware cups and set the pot back on the stove. He brought two cups to his guests. “Got no cream. Take mine black as sin with a little sugar tossed in.” From a wooden shelf just right of the stove, he took a white glass sugar bowl resembling a white basket with a nesting hen as the lid. “My wife got this when we moved up here forty-five years back.” He spooned three mounds of sugar into his cup, stirred vigorously, and put the chicken back on the nest. “You want some?”
Sharon shot a quick look at Kanesewah and said, “Yes. Thank you.”
Breckenridge placed the bowl on the table, handed them each a paper napkin, and walked back over by the rifle, as if to check on the pot of water. It had started to steam, so he picked it up with a pot holder and set it on a clay tile on the table.
Kanesewah was playing along with the charade and reached for the cloth, but Sharon snatched it up and said she would take care of it. He gave her a stern look that the old man seemed to notice over the top of his coffee cup.
“How long did you say you been hikin’ around?” Breckenridge asked between sips.
Kanesewah spooned in two mounds of sugar and stirred. “About two weeks, right, hon?”
Sharon looked at him. “Right,” she answered, gently pressing the hot, wet rag against her face and letting the warm water soothe her bruised and swollen cheek and nose. “About two weeks, I’d guess. It’s so beautiful up here, we kind of lost track.”
“Can’t disagree with you there,” Breckenridge said. “The wife and I knew this was the place for us the minute we got out here.” He looked at Kanesewah. “Good thing you got a woman likes the outdoors. Most of ’em’s version of roughing it is a motel somewhere with no room service, if you can even get ’em out here at all.”
As the old man opened the potbelly’s door to throw in a couple of splits, Sharon watched Kanesewah take note of the carving-knife block on the wall table, and a worn leather holster with what looked like a large caliber revolver dangling from a wooden peg by the door … and, of course, the rifle leaning against the wall.
“I know a lot of the Blackfoot around here,” Breckenridge said, “but you two don’t look familiar to me.”
“We’re not from around here,” Kanesewah answered. “We’re up from New Mexico on our honeymoon.” He made no mention of any tribal affiliation.
Breckenridge grinned widely. “Ain’t that somethin’. Congratulations!” He toasted with his cup and took a drink of coffee. “Pity you’re stuck here with me. I remember bein’ newlyweds, with only one thing on our mind.”
Sharon glanced at Kanesewah, then at Breckenridge, and managed to give a self-conscious smile. Then she dipped the now-reddish rag into the hot water and wrung it out. All she could think about was how to keep this old man alive. She resumed cleaning her tender face as the water began to turn the color of pink lemonade.
“No need to be embarrassed, ma’am,” Breckenridge said. “When you get to be my age, sometimes you just spout off without thinkin’.” His eyes turned to Kanesewah. “Apologies to you and your bride.”
Kanesewah sipped his coffee and smiled. No offense had been taken. Sharon moved the warm cloth over her forehead and down her other cheek, then scrubbed the dried blood trickle from her throat. she rinsed the rag and wrung it out tightly. The water now had the hue of strawberry Jell-O.
“Pretty as a picture, ma’am,” Breckenridge said.
Sharon smiled and laid the rinsed and wrung cloth on the tabletop. Breckenridge picked up both pot and cloth and, opening the front door, tossed the water into the snowy night. After closing the door, he walked back over to the stove and tossed the cloth onto the wall table, by the knife block. Sharon drank some of her coffee and patted her lips with the napkin—a move that surreptitiously drew Breckenridge’s attention. She had held the napkin in her left hand, and the diamond wedding ring was hard to miss. The next time Kanesewah’s beefy left hand lifted his coffee cup to his lips, it was obvious that he wore no ring of any kind.
* * *
The old man’s eyes went down casually, as if he had seen nothing of note. But he had seen it. These two had been trying damned hard to seem at ease, but they had an edginess that just didn’t feel like a couple of randy newlyweds. They appeared tense and uneasy. The man was keeping his cool, though; he would give him that. But he always seemed to be thinking. Breckenridge could see the wheels turning inside that busy mind. The woman, on the other hand, wasn’t very good at hiding her agitation. Yes, sir, something was damned odd about this pair. He would have to tread lightly with them. And for right now, he wasn’t going to stray any farther than an arm’s length from his rifle.
“You two hungry?” he said. The fireplace continued to pop.
* * *
“We could eat something, sure, but we don’t want to put you out,” Kanesewah said. He despised this idle conversation bullshit. The faster this old man shut up, the better.
“Hell, you ain’t puttin’ nobody out. Be glad to fix you up something. Ain’t gonna be fancy, but it’ll be good.” Setting his blue cup on the edge of the stove to keep it warm, he pulled aside a muslin curtain and looked through the canned goods on the pantry shelves. “I stocked up for winter with a lot of beans and vegetables and stuff like that. Got a bunch of soups, too—like this beef and potato here. Couple cans of that’ll stick to your ribs. Sound good?”
Kanesewah eyed the knife block below the can
ned goods and mixes. He had the switchblade in his coat pocket, but one of the larger carving knives would make shorter work of it in case the woman decided to get brave. And then there was the rifle. If he made a grab for it, could he beat the old man to it? The geezer was big and looked strong as a mule. And the woman—did she have enough strength left to help the old man try to stop him from getting to either weapon? Who the fuck knew. Either way, this was going to be fun.
“Beef and potato sounds great,” Kanesewah said, and shot a sideways glance at Sharon, sitting with her warm blue cup of coffee in both hands. “That okay, honey?”
* * *
Sharon nodded tentatively.
“You have bears up here, right?” Kanesewah said. “We thought we saw one yesterday.”
Breckenridge took a pot from the beam and a can opener from a shelf by the stove and turned. “That so?” he said. He opened both cans with quick turns of his wrist and tossed the opener back onto the shelf. After using a spoon to lift the sharp-edged lids, he pushed them back with his fingers. “Well, most bears—and we got both kinds in these parts: grizzlies and black—start hibernatin’ ’bout this time. So, if you seen one, it was headin’ for a den and won’t be out again till April.” He scooped the contents of both soup cans into the pot. “You ever hear of a guy named Treadwell?” Breckenridge asked.
Kanesewah and Sharon shook their heads.
“He was what you’d call a real bear lover. Spent thirteen years up in Alaska at a place they call the Grizzly Maze, trackin’ ’em, filmin’ ’em, and livin’ with ’em. Some say he wasn’t firin’ on all cylinders, but who the hell knows. Now, I been around these bears up here since 1970 and I wouldn’t trust ’em any futher’n I could toss one. They’re wild and unpredictable; I don’t care what anybody says. But this guy trusted ’em too much. And sure enough, a big grizz came into his camp one night and killed him and the woman he was with. Ate ’em, too.” Breckenridge shook his head over the pot of bubbling soup. “I heard the audio once. He was always video-recordin’ shit. Ghastly, hearin’ a man get killed by a grizz.” He absently stirred the soup. “It just rips and tears at you while you scream, never payin’ you no mind. ’Cause it don’t care. It’s just doing what nature taught a grizz to do.” He turned and looked at his guests. “You’re just part of the food supply.”
Sharon drank the last of her coffee and asked for more. Breckenridge pulled the pot off the stove and filled her cup, then motioned toward Kanesewah, who nodded and held out his cup. While his guests sugared to their coffee, he filled a couple of blue enamelware bowls with hot soup and set them on the table. Then he puttered about while the two ate, never straying too far from the rifle.
Sharon took a tantalizing spoonful and blew on it, glancing over her spoon at Kanesewah. He was shoveling the soup into his mouth, with his left arm curled around the bowl as if he were afraid she might steal it. She spooned the soup into her mouth and reveled in its steamy goodness. The thick, savory broth tasted like heaven, and it felt good going down her throat.
She had caught Breckenridge also paying attention to Kanesewah’s table manners. Men who had spent time behind bars ate that way, protecting their meal from fellow inmates wanting to assert their dominance in the dog-eat-dog world of prison. It was a habit that persisted, even in life outside the walls.
“You’re not eating?” Sharon asked after her third spoonful of the meaty stew.
“No, ma’am,” Breckenridge said, “I ate earlier. Seems like you two are hungry, though. Glad to see it.” Catching her eye for a split instant while Kanesewah looked down to scoop up another bite, he said, “You let me know if you want some more. Two of them cans make a lot.” Kanesewah, with his head down, missed Breckenridge’s knowing wink to Sharon.
Sharon missed nothing. She spooned some more soup as the old man’s eyes slid in the direction of the rifle, then to the .45 holstered on the peg by the door. Sharon slowly shook her head while stirring the soup in her bowl. Kanesewah continued scarfing away, his spoon clattering against the enameled metal bowl. When there was nothing left to scrape up, he said, “Think I’ll have some more, if you don’t mind.” He stood up. “That is some good stuff.”
Sharon watched Kanesewah cross over to the stove, take the wooden spoon, and ladle more soup into his bowl. Her eyes crossed back to the old man, and she nodded. Grab the rifle!
He hesitated, and the moment was gone. Instead of the wooden spoon, Kanesewah held a carving knife. An eyeblink later, it was hilt deep in Breckenridge’s belly. The coffee cup clattered on the plank floor as the old man’s hands found Kanesewah’s throat and clamped tightly around it. As the wide blade twisted through the old man’s insides, his strength quickly waned. Kanesewah shoved him away and watched him stumble toward the rifle before falling to the floor.
Sharon fell from her chair to her knees beside him and pressed both hands to the wound.
“Hold on, John Henry.” She turned her head to look up at Kanesewah, who was now standing over them, the carving knife dripping on the wooden floor. “You bastard!”
She gazed down into Breckenridge’s fading eyes and felt his breath grow weak and shallow. She looked up once more at Kanesewah’s emotionless stare, then solemnly closed John Henry Breckenridge’s dead eyes with her palm.
“You in the cabin!” a voice yelled. “I know you’re in there, Kanesewah! Let her go and we’ll talk!”
Leonard Kanesewah darted to a curtained window and pushed it slightly aside with his left hand while his right hand still held the carving knife. The forest was dark, and the moon was hidden behind a bank of clouds.
Hearing Arthur’s voice, Sharon felt hope wash over her. She had always known he would find her, because she never lost the feeling of connection. She sprang up from the floor and grabbed the worn towel from the washstand where it hung.
Kanesewah darted from the window and grabbed her by the arm, jerking her around to face him. “That your husband out there?”
“Damn right,” she snarled. “And now you’re going to die.”
Kanesewah grinned and grunted a short laugh. “You first.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Arthur Nakai and Abraham Fasthorse crouched behind the large trunk of a fallen tree some thirty yards from the cabin. Ak’is stood at attention behind them, ears perked, nose twitching, golden eyes piercing the night.
The snow had all but stopped, and the wind had died down to barely a breeze. But at 9,500 feet, the cold still managed to penetrate Arthur’s clothing in its ongoing campaign to freeze the marrow of his bones. Only the adrenaline coursing through his veins was keeping the pain at bay. And Abraham, with his aging wounds, was no doubt feeling it far more. But the Blackfoot lived here; he was used to this weather. And like Arthur, he had been well trained to tolerate pain during his three tours in such places as Kabul and Kandahar.
“You suppose the old man is in there with them?” Arthur asked as his breath fogged in front of him.
“I would bet on it,” Fasthorse replied. “Unless Kanesewah has already killed him to remove his last barrier to freedom. Less than ten miles of valley is all that stands between him and Canada.”
“You’re forgetting the two of us,” Arthur pointed out.
Fasthorse nodded in agreement. “How do you want to play this?”
Arthur peered over the fallen trunk carefully enough to study the terrain. They were about forty-five degrees right of the cabin’s front door, ninety feet away with no obstructions. Flanking the door were two newer double-hung, simulated multipaned windows. The logs of the right wall were unbroken with windows of any kind, and he had already checked the left and back walls. Like every century-old cabin he had ever seen, this one had no back door. This put Sharon in even greater danger because they lost the element of surprise. Arthur glanced up. A gibbous moon rode high behind dense clouds that floated in the night sky as if they had been conjured by the fath
er of the sun god himself. Tklehanoai was carrying the moon on his back this night and seemed to be on his side. Arthur looked left to a stretch of higher ground near seven o’clock, just past the edge of the clearing, and began plotting a line of fire.
“That high ground at seven o’clock,” he said. “Think you can get a clean shot from there if I can get him outside?”
“It looks a little farther away than here,” Fasthorse said, “but there are no obstructions that I can see, so yes. Turn on the PTT now.” He put out his hand. Arthur took it. “This is almost over, my friend. But remember, the fire burns hot in your heart. Do not let its smoke blind your eyes.”
Arthur gave a brief nod, and Fasthorse took off at a fast jog through the snow-laden trees, his snowshoes kicking up little puffs of white as he made his way through the woods. Arthur switched on his radio. Ak’is watched Fasthorse vanish from sight, then moved up into position beside Arthur. The canine’s breathing remained steady and even, which was more than Arthur could say for himself. Everything he had done, witnessed, or even thought in the past few days had come down to this moment, this place. Now. Arthur watched as the curtains in the window left of the front door fell together, cutting off the yellowish glow that had escaped from them. Then the window to the right of the door went dark. Arthur looked left, searching for Fasthorse, but could not see him. He pressed the push-to-talk button on his radio. “You in position?”
Static. “I am ready.”
Again Arthur shouted, “Kanesewah! Let her go and we’ll talk! Nobody has to get hurt!”
* * *
Leonard Kanesewah glanced sideways at Sharon as he picked up the old man’s rifle and worked the bolt. Seeing the loaded cartridge, he pushed it back into the chamber and walked back to the front door. He opened it a few inches and braced it with his right foot.
Path of the Dead Page 16
