“Of course, if you think it’s important.”
“Oh, it is,” Meserve assured him. “It will definitely be interesting.”
Lean paused for a moment, noticing how Meserve had replaced the criterion of “important” with his own selection of “interesting.” This could end up being some sort of historical footnote that would fascinate Meserve but prove of little worth to anyone else. Still, he assured the historian and Helen that he would see them again two mornings from then.
[ Chapter 38 ]
THE TRAIN NORTH HAD CARRIED GREY AS FAR AS BANGOR, where he disembarked before it would veer east for Canada’s Maritime Provinces. From Bangor a decent upland road followed the east branch of the Penobscot River. The first part of the journey was pleasant enough, passing through picturesque landscapes. Grey took note of islands in the Penobscot belonging to the Indian tribe of that name, where he was happy to see some thrifty-looking homes and farms. He traveled under the name of Poulin, his father’s name. Formally speaking, his father’s people were Abenaki, but the two groups had always been allied, and 250 years of struggles with Europeans had eased the distinction even further. They were all Wabanaki, the People of the Dawnland. The Poulin name and Grey’s physical appearance had the desired effect of gaining the trust and help of the local Penobscots he met along the way. A few remembered his father, including the older fellow who agreed to serve as guide to Mount Katahdin. Others were able to confirm that Chief Jefferson and another fellow had passed through no more than a day ahead of Grey.
The last fifty miles of the journey to the base of the mountain more than made up for the ease of the earliest legs. Their cart had to pass over many long stretches of old, poorly maintained tote roads used by loggers, which often resembled roads in name only. They crossed fords and swamplands, where logs laid crosswise formed what his guide called a “corduroy turnpike.” All the while the stark, weather-beaten figure of Katahdin loomed before them. The top formed a bare and jagged plateau. Below there its sides rose sharply, dark except where avalanches and slides had left pale scars on the precipitous slopes. Katahdin had no companions, no surrounding foothills to lessen the solitary dignity of its presence. It was a stone kraken, miles wide, thrusting itself up to rule over a wild and coniferous sea for hundreds of miles around.
His guide led Grey to the old Hunt farm, where he could spend one last night in an actual bed. Then three days of steady forest walking brought them to the base of the mountain, where Grey instructed his guide to wait. The solo journey to the top consisted of a grueling trek through stunted pines that gave way to great granite boulders spilled in endless drifts down the mountainside.
Grey kept his head up as he approached the higher ridges of Katahdin. Once there, he found a stretch of ground that was still rocky but fairly level. The past several hours of climbing and scrambling had gained his feet a sort of familiarity with the mountain terrain. Less intense scrutiny was required now when planting his steps. He was well above tree line and no longer shielded from the full force of the winds atop Katahdin. A thick layer of light gray clouds covered the sky, with only occasional patches of sunlight fighting through to the stark landscape. With the strain of the climb behind him, he felt the sweat cooling on his body.
He looked around, taking in the magnificent panoramas that were partly obscured as occasional low clouds swooped by. Two thousand feet below, he saw an endless forest, mostly evergreens with occasional light patches of hardwood growth, all punctuated by lakes and ponds and streams meandering off in the distance.
He marched on, moving up what he took to be the final rocky ascent to the summit. Below him, off to his right, a wide expanse of tableland stretched away, covered in sections by a short but dense growth of piney brush. Much of the great windswept plateau was littered with small boulders that seemed to have fallen from the sky in some ancient hailstorm of granite. The prevalence of lichen, moss, and other pale, fragile plants was enough that a person might be forgiven for thinking he’d somehow wandered into a strangely misplaced stretch of the Arctic tundra.
The summit was more clearly discernible from a distance, but even then it helped if a climber knew exactly what he was looking at. Katahdin was not a classically shaped and peaked mountain. With its bowllike cirques carved out by glacial movements, it resembled an ancient, blasted volcano, leaving a very roughly crescent configuration. A series of ridges ran along the top, dipping and rising to create more than one peak along the way. But ahead, amid various jagged outcroppings, he spied a small stone cairn that he took to be the work of prior adventurers marking the mountain’s official summit.
On his ascent he’d seen Chief Jefferson and his partner far ahead of him, but now they were gone. Grey paused and scanned the space ahead of him. It took only a few seconds for him to spot the regular puffs of smoke rising from behind a midsize boulder. Grey assumed that his approach had been observed at some point during his climb, but in case he had the fortune to still go unnoticed, he took more care with his steps as he approached the peak. He knew he was outnumbered and did not want to announce his presence any sooner than necessary. Chief Jefferson and his accomplice were not simply going to hand over the thunderstone with a smile and best wishes. Grey slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and let his fingers settle into place around the grip of his revolver as he approached the summit.
He rounded a jutting piece of rock and stopped at the sight of Chief Jefferson, smoking a pipe and looking somewhat out of place for the late nineteenth century. The man wore rugged boots and heavy woolen trousers. A traditional Indian deerskin shirt topped the outfit. He was sitting on a flat piece of rock with a small mirror set up before him. His head was bare except for a thin band stretched across his crown. The man’s long, graying hair was pulled back in a tail. In one hand he cradled a large clamshell that held a gooey black mixture. Another shell holding red dye sat next to the mirror. Chief Jefferson had already covered his face in a layer of the red and was now using the fingers of his other hand to apply an overlying series of black markings.
The chief set the shell down, removed his lit pipe, and smiled. “I thought that might be you following us. Few others have the poor sense to come all the way up on a day like this.”
Jefferson glanced at where Grey’s hand rested inside his coat pocket.
“Please, Mr. Grey, there’s no need of that. You can see I am not armed. Katahdin is sacred ground. I would not shed blood here.”
“Where’s your partner?” Grey asked, not yet releasing his grip on his gun.
“About somewhere,” Chief Jefferson said with a nonchalant wave, “gathering up certain herbs and whatnot for the ceremony. You may as well have a seat. He’s likely to be a while. Good man, but not the speediest fellow.”
“I’ll stand, thank you. I don’t mean to stay long.” Grey spotted a blanket folded over a bulging object by the chief’s side. He left his gun in his pocket and pointed at the concealed item. “The thunderstone, I presume. It is stolen property. You understand I need to take it back. Now, if you only require the use of the stone for a brief ceremony and are then willing to relinquish it, we needn’t have any difficulty.”
Chief Jefferson smiled at Grey and puffed some more on his pipe. “That is most kind of you, Mr. Grey, and I certainly agree it is stolen property. But I’m afraid the stone belongs here on the mountain, the home of Pamola, and this is where I mean to see it remain.”
A click sounded to Grey’s rear right—a hammer being drawn back. He glanced over and saw Chief Jefferson’s comrade, a short, skinny, middle-aged Abenaki man. A long face with a prominent nose stared at Grey over the top of a hunting rifle.
“What happened to this being sacred land and not shedding blood?” Grey asked in the chief’s direction.
“That would certainly be our preference, Mr. Grey. We have no desire to see you harmed. But if push comes to shove, I’m sure the spirits would see it as the lesser of two evils. Better than letting the Stone of Pamola get stolen a
second time,” Chief Jefferson answered. “Now, if you don’t mind too much, how about dropping that pack you’re carrying.”
Grey lifted the strap over his neck and, remembering the telescope inside, gently lowered it to the ground.
“And now that gun from your right pocket. Toss it here.”
Grey did as he was told. Jefferson relieved his companion of the hunting rifle but kept it aimed at Grey.
“Grab that length of rope you brought, Louis. Tie his hands behind him and find something to set him tight to.”
The short man took a long rope from his own pack and proceeded to tie Grey’s wrists behind his back, leaving a length of cord free on each end. After that he had Grey sit up against a tall, thin rock jutting out from a ledge. Louis fastened the loose ends of the rope around the back of the rock, securing them tightly below a notch so that Grey couldn’t shimmy the rope up over the top and free himself.
“That’s not too tight, is it? Not cutting into your skin?”
“No, not too bad.” Grey said. The man was still looking at him with a smile, so Grey added, “Well done.”
“I’ve had lots of practice. Sometimes in the traveling shows, I’ll tie up a woman, you know, as a hostage when we stage the battle, and the white cowboys ride in to save her and all that. Course, your wrists are a bit larger than a woman’s.”
“Good to know. I’ll take comfort in that while I’m tied up here against my will. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Louis said with a nod before walking over to join Chief Jefferson, who began to apply a series of red and black stripes and dots to the man’s face.
Grey was left staring out over the mountain’s enormous and roughly cone-shaped basin. Far below him, down thousands of feet of ledges, boulders, and rockslides, sat a pond that had formed over the ages at the bottom of the cirque. From this great height, it seemed little more than a still, dark puddle. On a sunny day, it probably sparkled a brilliant blue, but not under today’s overcast sky.
He had to crane his neck to the right to see what Jefferson and Louis were doing. The thunderstone was set on what looked like a naturally occurring perch. Chief Jefferson kindled a small fire on a flat rock that lay in front it.
“I assume you would have killed me already if you meant to?” Grey asked.
“I spoke the truth, Mr. Grey. I mean you no harm.”
“But am I to understand that you intend to leave the thunderstone here on the mountain?”
“Yes,” the chief said.
“Not to make you reconsider your decision to leave me unharmed, but after this is done and you march me down the mountain at gunpoint, what’s to keep me from climbing up again tomorrow to take the stone back? Or even if I never returned, the next person up the mountain, white or Abenaki, is going to see the stone and think it would make a fabulous keepsake.”
“I don’t mean to leave the stone in plain sight. I will bury it. And in the night Pamola will come and take the offering and carry it back with him into the heart of the mountain.”
Grey remained silent for a moment, considering the chief’s explanation and waiting to hear if there was any more to the plan. When nothing more was offered, Grey said, “I see. Hide it beneath a few loose rocks and it will remain safe forever. A foolproof plan.”
“You have learned the white man’s way of closing your eyes and your heart to anything but that which you can see and touch, measure in weights and scales, and put a price on. I won’t waste my breath trying to convince you otherwise. I have long since learned that’s a fool’s chase.”
Chief Jefferson finished applying the ceremonial mask of red and black dyes. He stripped off his deerskin shirt, revealing a torso that was still muscular for a man of his age. He began applying the dyes to his body, making several various patterns and animal shapes.
Grey smelled different herb-tinged fragrances wafting past him from the fire. He heard Chief Jefferson’s high, clear voice, then the lower rumbling sound of Louis as he joined the chanting. It was a prayer of offering to the Great Spirit and the storm god, Pamola. Grey could follow most of the words, but he tried to put the chanting out of his mind. His two captors were distracted. He tried shifting his tied wrists back and forth in an effort to fray the cord, but there wasn’t enough slack in the rope.
While he worked, his eyes scanned to his left, back down his earlier path to the summit. It had the advantage of familiarity if he were able to untie himself and somehow grab the thunderstone before making a dash for freedom. On the other hand, the long downhill stretch would leave him unprotected against any attack coming from above and behind. Plus, unless he could disarm the Abenaki men, an escape in that direction would mean a footrace. He was younger than his captors, but perhaps they were more accustomed to strenuous climbs. Their legs might not be as sore and tired as Grey’s were from his ascent. His eyes went right, out past where Chief Jefferson was conducting his incantations. There the ridge led toward a treacherous crossing over the thin, rocky ridge known as the Knife Edge.
The trip north had provided ample time for Grey to read up on various accounts of Katahdin. None of these ever failed to mention, in the most respectful tones, the Knife Edge. A mile long and a mere two or three feet wide in spots, the crossing was not for the faint of heart, or even the brave when strong winds or poor weather kicked up. That direction was unappealing, but it might provide the best chance of escape. The crossing would require each man’s full attention. If Grey could get a hold of the thunderstone and reach the Knife Edge, he would have a chance of putting space between himself and his pursuers. The terrain there was treacherous enough that they would be preoccupied with their own safety and unlikely to be firing a rifle at him. Besides which, if they did shoot, Grey would tumble off the side and fall thousands of feet to his death with the thunderstone in his arms. Then the stone truly would remain on the mountain for all time, but Chief Jefferson would never be able to complete his ceremony.
Grey kept his wrists moving back and forth. The rope was snagging on the rock behind him, but he couldn’t feel any lessening of the tension. He leaned forward and bowed his head toward his knees, trying to put more pressure on the bindings behind his back.
The sharp report of a gunshot rang out clear in the thin mountain air. He thought it came from his left and slightly behind him, though it was hard to be sure in the open space and with the echoes and reverberations cast by the various rock outcroppings. He looked in the suspected direction. Two hundred yards off, he saw a thin puff of smoke.
Back to his right, he heard a short, inarticulate cry from Chief Jefferson. Grey’s head whipped around in time to see Louis crumple to the ground. A faint mist of blood droplets hung in the air where the man’s head had been a second earlier. As the short man’s limp body sank into place among the uneven rocks, Grey’s eyes settled on the ragged bullet hole in his forehead.
[ Chapter 39 ]
GREY TWISTED HIS BODY, ANGLING AWAY FROM THE DIRECTION of the shot to get the majority of his vital organs behind his rock. His bound wrists held him in check, leaving some of his limbs exposed. Chief Jefferson stared dumbly at the sight of Louis sprawled before him. He stumbled back a step, and a second bullet passed by. The chief flung himself to the ground behind a low wall of granite.
“Untie me, you idiot!” Grey shouted.
Chief Jefferson stared back at him, a blank look of shock on his face. Another bullet rang off the edge of the rock shelf behind which the chief crouched. The noise seemed to stir him back to the moment.
“How do I know he isn’t with you?”
“Yes, of course. That’s why he let your man sneak up and disarm me. We wanted to lull you into a false sense of security.”
“If he’s not with you, why’s he only shooting at me?” the chief asked.
“Because I’m tied up. He can kill me at his leisure once you’re dead.”
Chief Jefferson glanced around, looking for anything that might save him. He saw Louis’s hunting rifle lea
ning against the rock and within reach. He snatched it and checked that the weapon was ready to fire. After taking a moment to collect himself, the chief peeked out to get a look at the shooter’s location. Another incoming round forced him to duck back.
“Think of it this way—untie me and he’ll have two targets to shoot at.” Grey tried to keep the urgency in his voice from bubbling over; he needed to keep the chief reasonably calm under the circumstances. “You’re only half as likely to get killed on any given shot. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
Chief Jefferson ignored Grey and focused on his aim. He stared down the barrel, waiting for what felt like an endless stream of seconds to trail by. Finally he pulled the trigger and his head bobbed to the side, peering past the discharged smoke to see his target.
“Damn,” he hissed.
“He had time to choose his spot,” Grey explained. “Sheltered and with good visibility. Given the distance, and the hole in Louis’s brain, I’d say he’s an expert marksman, probably using a telescopic sight. You have a Trapdoor Springfield ’73, single-shot. I suspect he’s armed himself with a high-grade sniper rifle. He likely has an impressive quantity of ammunition. How many rounds did Louis bother to shove into his shirt pocket today?”
The truth of his ammunition problem landed on the chief’s face like a pile of rocks. He threw a desperate glance at his dead friend, as if he’d hoped that somehow his memory from the past two minutes had been false and the body was actually located within arm’s reach. Chief Jefferson set his hunting rifle against the ledge that shielded him. He got his feet steady beneath him and leaned forward in his crouch. One more look over the rock at the unknown shooter, a deep breath, and he pounced.
He landed, bounded forward once more, and reached Louis’s sprawled body. His hand darted into the breast pocket of the dead man’s shirt but came up empty. He didn’t have time to search Louis, so he reached across the body, grabbed hold of it by the shoulders, and yanked, trying to draw the body to shelter. The deadweight, angled away from him and draped awkwardly across the jutting rocks, was too much. The chief’s own frame remained fixed in place as he struggled with Louis’s lifeless husk. The pause was enough for the gunman. A bullet ripped through Jefferson’s left arm, just below his shoulder, taking a chunk of flesh with it.
A Study in Revenge: A Novel Page 25
