Slocum and the High-Country Manhunt

by Jake Logan

  “What was that I will do?” He assumed from her laugh that alarm was evident on his face, but he didn’t care.

  “I will build up the fire and we will purify and cleanse our bodies with a sauna.”

  His look still expressed confusion, he was sure, so she continued, “It is a small building out by the pond. I will build up the fire and we will sit in the steam. It is good for our bodies, our minds. You see?”

  “Sure,” he said. In fact, he was familiar with such proceedings, but she was so pretty when she laughed, and he wanted to keep her talking.

  Later, she got him up on his feet, and with his right arm draped over her shoulders, he took a few steps. The leg the grizzly had raked was tender, but in no danger of opening up. His shoulder, however, was still mighty sore. Most of all, he felt a little weak from not having been up and around in so long. “How long,” he said, grimacing and shuffling forward away from the bed with her help, “have I been here anyway?”

  “More than a week,” she said.

  That stopped him cold in his tracks. “What?”

  “Yes, you do not remember it, because there were several days when you were unconscious. At first you were full of the coldness that can seep deep into the bones of someone close to death. And then you were filled with the fever and I feared you might die.”

  “I know I haven’t said it properly, and I don’t know as I can ever say it fully, nor repay your kindness, Sigrid, but—”

  She shook her head. “No, no, I will not hear thanks for gratitude. It is just the way it had to be. No more, no less.”

  He wasn’t sure what to make of such a statement, but he let it go for now. He owed her his life, and that wasn’t something he’d let go unacknowledged.

  They were in the kitchen now of the house, and it was sunnier, brighter, and more cheerful than he had expected. It was not at all like so many other settlers’ cabins, all chinked logs and few windows and filled with smoke. This place was very well constructed. He admired every detail now that he was able to see more than the closed-off sleeping space.

  The logs had all been squared off and fitted neatly together with the hands of a craftsman. The chinking was light colored, nearly white—he guessed there was lime in the mix. And the roof, from what he saw between the rafters, was a sod affair, but it was not messy and hanging down in sloppy strands. This one was tucked up there neat and tidy as you please.

  The biggest surprise he saw as he inched his way around the long, polished wooden table and chairs were the windows. They were many and multipaned, like you might see in houses in a town. But way up here? It must have taken a month of Sundays to get them here—and a whole lot of money to buy them in the first place.

  The rest of it was sparsely but comfortably furnished, with the sleeping area behind him built into a curtained alcove. He spied another alongside the handsome fireplace dominating the far end of the house.

  “This place is beautiful, Sigrid. Did you build it?”

  “No, not alone. My father was the builder. I merely helped him. As much as a child can.”

  “Your father sounds like quite an accomplished man.”

  “Yes,” she said, running her hand along the table top absentmindedly. “Yes, he was very talented. Not only was he a scholar but a builder, an inventor.” She looked at him, her smile resumed. “He was a great thinker.”

  “Not a bad tribute for a man to have,” he said.

  Slocum assumed the man was dead, but he didn’t think she wanted to be asked about that just yet. Still, he was curious as to how they’d ended up here. He pushed down the curiosity and continued to take in the room’s artistic features—red, blue, green, and white flowers were painted tastefully along the faces of some of the beams and wall logs, while others were carved richly into the beams themselves. The floor, too, was a planked affair, the wood worn smooth through years of use and labor and, as with everything else, kept spotlessly clean. The wood glowed a honeyed orange, as if he were walking on a light sunset.

  “It is good that you are stronger than I suspected, because I would like to sauna. I believe, from the smell of you, that it would do you good as well. We shall sauna together.”

  “And when will this happen?” he said, still admiring the artfully built fireplace.

  “Now.”

  He turned, forgetting his suspect balance. “Now?”

  Sigrid resumed her place beside him, draped his arm over her shoulder. “Now.”

  She guided him to the door, a Dutch door, split horizontally in the middle and able to be opened from the top or bottom. But it being winter, the halves were joined as one door with a pretty curtained window in it allowing in diffuse light.

  She led him outside, where he was pleased to see the day was sunny and warm, and the snow on the eaves was dripping. Sure, there was a whole lot of snow on the ground, but the fresh air felt so good on his face, he filled his lungs, coughed, tried again.

  “You will have your strength back in no time, John Slocum.”

  “Good thing, too. You’ve been taking care of me long enough. I hate to be such a burden on anyone.”

  “It is no bother. I am here anyway. Most of the time alone, so . . . come, let me show you the barn. You can see your horses and meet my dogs.”

  The barn looked much the same as the house, now that he was outside and could give them both a going-over. Each had lime plaster between the logs, red painted shutters on the windows, and boxes hanging underneath, where he assumed in the warmer months flowers might be planted. Even the shoveled paths were tidy.

  “Don’t you have trouble with Indians?”

  She looked at him as if he had guessed a secret of some sort. Then she smiled and shook her head. “No, the closest tribe, they are Cree, lives a few valleys away. But I was here first, in a manner of speaking. They used to winter elsewhere, but now they stay there year-round.” She shrugged, still smiling, and tugged open the big barn door.

  The Appaloosa perked up his ears and came to the front of his stall. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Slocum and gave him a good shove with his head that nearly knocked Slocum down. Sigrid held him up and scolded the horse in her native tongue, words Slocum didn’t know the meaning of, but could well guess. He guessed the horse did, too, because the Appy hung his head and looked at the ground as if he’d been caught thieving hay.

  Even the packhorse seemed pleased to see him. He noted again what a fine little animal it was, stout and built for the mountains. He recalled it had spooked far less than the Appaloosa when the bear had emerged from its den.

  “Even though you don’t want to hear it, I thank you for taking such good care of my horses,” he said, rubbing the Appy’s chin.

  She smiled. “Come. We’ll meet the dogs and then it’s time for a sauna.” She led him straight though the little barn to the other end, opened a smaller door set into the larger one, and immediately heard an excited low yowling.

  There stood six long-haired snow dogs, looking almost like wolves but decidedly thicker and more doglike, from their ears and wider, shorter bodies to their varied-color coats. And they all looked very excited to see Sigrid. They were not chained but penned together in a low-walled enclosure that Slocum felt sure each could easily jump out of. Yet it looked so comfortable and inviting within it that he could see why they wouldn’t bother.

  “These are my babies,” she said, with a wave of her hand to indicate the dogs. Each wagged a tail and panted in that peculiar way dogs have of making it seem as if they are smiling. “I will not trouble you with their names now, but maybe when you are feeling better, I can take you on a sled run. It is . . . exhilarating.” Her face lit at the prospect of it.

  “I’d like that very much.” It was good to hear her talk—she’d said more in the last half hour than she had all week. Slocum stood for a moment, let the sun beat on his face. Considering his wounds, h
e felt damn good.

  As if she could read his mind, she said, “Soon, you will feel even better. A sauna can cure things that no amount of medicines and herbs can. Come.” This time she did not take his arm but preceded him on yet another cleared path behind the small barn that led to a path into the woods. They wound down a gentle slope through the trees, and not far from the barn, he began to hear a familiar sound—running water.

  “The river?” he said, stepping with care. He did not want to lose his footing and end up slowing his healing process.

  “Yes,” she said. “Just ahead, though it is quiet now, much covered in ice.”

  Soon they emerged into a small clearing, sunny and with a sizable frozen pond in the middle. There was a small dock leading into the middle of it. On land, at the foot of the dock, sat a squat log building with a sod roof and aromatic smoke puffing out the chimney.

  “Sauna?” he said.

  She looked back at him and smiled.

  13

  Sigrid waited for him at the door of the little hut. Beside the door were two hooks with what looked like soft, large pieces of flannel hanging from them. She left him puzzling at the frozen-over pond, and Slocum began to get an inkling of what she had in mind for him. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know the full extent of her plans. He was about ready to head back up the trail to the house when she popped open the door and a cloud of cedar-smelling steam billowed out around her.

  “Come on in,” she said, holding an arm out for him to take. He refused it and stepped into the hut on his own. She shut the door behind them.

  Inside there was only the light from a small iron potbelly stove in the corner, the front door of the stove open to reveal a warm cherry glow. Already he could feel himself beginning to sweat. The back wall was man-length and spotted a knee-height bench, deep enough to stretch out on in comfort. It was lined with fresh-cut cedar boughs, giving off a fine natural aroma.

  Atop the stove, steam rose from the rocks in the large metal pan over which Sigrid ladled water. Slocum didn’t know whether to run outside and roll in the snow or lie right down and enjoy the odd sensation he was feeling.

  “You like it?”

  He looked at her through the steam. “I guess so. Feels kind of good, but . . . it’s awful hot, Sigrid.”

  She laughed, a sound he was very much beginning to enjoy. He wished it were lighter in there so he could get a good look at her face. For such a pretty woman, it would be nice to see her face light up when she smiled.

  “That is the entire point, John.” Then she began unbuttoning her shirt.

  “What are you doing?”

  She paused. “Well, I am going to take off my clothes and hang them outside. And you are, too. Otherwise they will be wet from the steam.”

  “But I’m—”

  “Put away your little boy thoughts, John Slocum. We are here to sauna.”

  And before he could protest further, she had slipped out of her clothes and had them draped over her arm. Even in the half-light from the stove, he could see she was all woman, well muscled but soft in all the right places, too. He tried not to stare, and wondered just what he should do about this increasingly odd situation when she made a disgusted sighing sound. She tossed her bundle of clothes onto the boughs and began unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Here now, Sigrid . . .”

  But she didn’t stop. “John, I have seen everything there is to see of you since rolling that grizzly off you. Don’t think you are going to surprise me at this time.”

  “Oh,” he said weakly.

  “Hurry. We are wasting precious sauna time. I will be back in a moment.”

  She left, with her clothes, and he heard her bare feet padding down the long dock. Presently a scraping sound reached him. By the time she came back, he was down to his longhandles.

  “Those, too.” She held out a hand and beckoned for them. He sighed and peeled them off as well. It took him longer than he was used to, because his wounds kept him moving at an old man’s pace. He had to admit, though, that the steam felt damn good. Already he was feeling more limber and clear of head than he had in many long days.

  He handed her the longhandles and she scooped up the rest of his clothes, then hung them outdoors, with his boots beneath on the steps.

  She came back in and doused the rocks with water again. The effect was immediate—he pulled in a deep breath as if urged by the steam. It seemed to fill his entire body with a deep, scorching feeling. Not entirely unpleasant, just damn hot.

  “Now what do we do?” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. Didn’t matter, it built right up again, ran down his cheeks and nose.

  Again she laughed. “We sit and—”

  “Sweat,” he said, trying to sound excited about it.

  “Yes, exactly. Soon it will feel just right.”

  And so they sat, side by side, on the soft boughs. She got up after a few minutes and tossed in another chunk of firewood, doused the rocks with water. The steam pulled Slocum’s breath from his lungs once again.

  He was about to cry uncle when he noticed he did feel better, different, but better somehow. All over, sort of like the feeling he’d get after a long day of setting posts or tracking a deer. A sense of wholeness, of satisfaction. He turned to find her seated beside him again, staring at him.

  “You like it?

  “I will admit I do like it, yes.” He leaned back, allowing himself for the first time since they got there to fully relax. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

  “I can tell you like it just fine,” she said, giggling.

  He opened his eyes and through the steam saw her looking down at his belly. Not really at that, though. And he saw what she was looking at—he was fully aroused and making a fine showing of it.

  “That’s not what one would expect from such steam,” she said, not quite taking her eyes from him there.

  “Well, I told you . . . you insisted.”

  She said nothing, so he blundered on. “You’re . . . a beautiful woman. I can’t help it. No man could.”

  “I am glad to hear that. Now just relax.”

  He did, leaning back once again and closing his eyes. He supposed he should show more gentlemanly decorum, as he’d heard such manners once described, but he figured if she didn’t mind, why should he?

  He barely flinched when he felt her hands on his legs, on either side of him, gently but firmly massaging his knees, then up his thighs, his waist—her hands kept traveling up his body. He didn’t open his eyes, but sat relaxed beyond any feeling he had ever known. All the way up, slowly as she traveled, she was working his body in a skillful massage that served only to deepen his feeling of deep relaxation. He wasn’t asleep, just calm in a way he’d not known in a long time, if ever.

  Her hands massaged his upper arms, gently along his wounds, just barely touching him there, but her fingertips dancing along his slick skin nonetheless. He raised his hands and rested them on her waist—he knew it would be there, without even looking.

  Soon he felt her breath on his face, squinted his eyes open to see her luscious mouth an inch from his, her eyelids closed. And what’s more, despite the heat of the room, he felt an even more intense heat at the head of his member. And then that heat wrapped itself around him, and as it descended on him, he knew he was deep inside her.

  Sigrid’s breath came out in a gentle rush, smelling of mint and sweat, and her lips barely grazed his, their sweat droplets touching, mingling. Her parted lips rested on his above, and she pulled gently on his bottom lip with her mouth, her breath clouding his senses. She held his shoulder and elbow and guided him down until he was flat on his back on the boughs and she above him, straddling him.

  She sat up on him, careful not to hurt him, as if she were trying to touch him without touching him. She moved up and down on him as slowly as any woman ever had,
and the effect, given that he was so full and throbbing and ready, was as a glass of water to a parched wanderer in the desert.

  He opened his eyes and saw her sweat-shining body arched above him, her strong hands resting on the tops of her bent legs. Her breasts, large and firm, swayed, her nipples like ripe raspberries. He reached up to them, mashed them, and squeezed them with his hands. She moaned almost in silence, her moans coming out as sighs, as breezes at the tail end of a workday in late summer when nothing more is expected of you and you’re enjoying a tall, cool drink of water.

  Soon, though, he tried to speed up the motion. But she was having none of it and kept on with her steady, measured pace. The only thing giving away that she’d understood his intention was a slow smile at the corners of her mouth. And he was glad she’d kept him in check, because it seemed to last twenty minutes or more, and every second of it was pure heavenly delight. He felt as if he were floating.

  The end came when the steam began to dissipate and the air grew slightly cooler, though it was still as hot as an oven in the little hut. She sped up, barely, and with a powerful grip that had nothing to do with her hands, he felt them both reach a peak of enjoyment together that was entirely her doing.

  If this is what injury means, he thought, I’ll take such a recovery every single time I find myself at the far end of a scrape.

  She leaned down to his face, kissed his lips lightly, then slowly stepped off him, lifting free, and walking directly to the door. She swung it wide, letting in a blast of raw, cold air. And then she ran. He heard her feet pound along the short dock, heard her offer up a sound between a scream and a shout—and then he heard more screams.

  Oh my God, he thought, doing his best to sit upright and instinctively reaching for a Colt, which was not there. He struggled to the door, stronger than he had been when they began the sauna, but still not in top shape.

  He heard her shouting, whooping, and laughing as she pulled herself up the ladder to stand before him, bright red skinned and smiling, her naked body glistening. She had piled up snow on the top of the pond at the base of the ladder, and had jumped into the snow pile. That’s what the scraping sound had been.