themselves, an unhappy bunch. It wasn’t too late in the history of this continent to be scalped.
I checked my Webley, my money, and my papers. All sound. Try not to make one. Unbuttoned trousers and emptied bladder. Twisting and sliding tendons across vertebrae cracked my neck. Roughly I welshcombed my hair and picked up a stone to suck on and stimulate saliva, combatting thirst. My flask was gone. Finger marks on the pewter could be dusted by police and used to tie me to last night’s slaughter. It was impossible to doubt but that it’d been an all-out disaster. Goddammit. Yesterday morning I’d cursed the rotten bed at my rooming house and now I was worse than an animal in the wild. Now would be a grand time for a drink of that terrible Scotch. Might’ve been useful to trade firewater with local tribesmen for a canoe out. Back in the old days Jacques Cartier had beaten the bush in this neck of the woods, brewing spruce beer as an antiscorbutic to keep his teeth. He’d made it home and so would I. As the day’s light grew brighter I walked the direction I best believed was north. To cheer myself I sang very quietly, whatever came into my head: “Three, three the rivals, two, two the lily-white boys, dressed all in green-o, but one is one and all alone and ever more shall be so.”
Through stands of maples shedding rusty leaves, slender pines, and clean white birches I stole my careful way. My gun was in my hand and I halted at every birdcall. Presently I came to a creek, perhaps the one I’d splashed through during my flight. With dark mud I washed my hands of the sticky pitch and after spitting out the stone drank clear cold water. When I cleaned my face specks of the truck driver’s blood washed downstream.
Following the creek led nowhere; it twisted on itself and petered out into a rank fen. Choosing an easy way I crept along through the undergrowth. Daylight grew stronger. In this manner I continued another hour or so until I smelled faint woodsmoke and heard metal on wood. With care I moved to the edge of a clearing.
A cabin sat alone with smoke trickling out a tin chimney. It was a ramshackle affair of unpainted boards, tarpaper, and crooked grey shingles. Staying upwind as best I might so as not to alert any possible dogs I slowly quit the tree cover, the gun now back in my belt under a buttoned coat but ready. Ready.
From the corner of the shack I spied on an old man with wedge and axe working away at a chunk of maple. Behind him a truck: my ticket out. No wires strung away from the shack and that meant no telephone, no chance for anyone to alert authorities. Play it easy with this rustic. Just a ride to the nearest town. As I watched the old man he took out a rag and wiped his leathery face. Gently and so as not to startle him I came out into the open and spoke: “Hey there.”
He turned to look at me but said nothing.
Naught. He balled the rag up and stuffed it in his overall pouch.
He moved with his axe but only to lean it against the chopping block.
“Lost,” he said.
“That’s right. You mind pointing out the road to town?”
From the sole word he probably wasn’t French. A Yankee perhaps, or an Indian. There was a slight slur in his speech. For myself, I’d be damned nonplussed to see a stranger in a ruined suit walk out of the bush. This ancient in front of me was pretty nonchalant. It gave me a notion. If he was inured to wanderers in these woods it was because he’d seen them before. Ours wasn’t the first convoy that’d headed south on this route. The Chevrolet parked out back looked new and the man hadn’t paid for it splitting timber. Motioning towards the truck I said: “Maybe you give me a lift, eh? And something to eat. Go on in. I’ll chop that wood. Got any grub?”
“Flapjacks.”
“Good deal. I finish here, we go for a ride.”
And with that I casually unbuttoned my coat, revealing the weapon. He kept his eyes on mine and I saw a faint flicker. The oldtimer knew. This was an act of will on my part. Had no mind to hurt or kill him, but would do what was needed in order to get out of here, even if it meant manual labour. At last he broke away and moved to the screen door. I followed to verify that he had no shotgun; I didn’t care for the prospect of buckshot in my back. He shuffled through the door to a potbellied stove and started mixing flour, buttermilk, and an egg while I watched. As the man poured out circles of batter on the skillet I went and made short work of the wood and came back with an armful for the grate. The geezer flipped the cakes. I sat at an oilcloth-covered table. He brought me a plate and a cup of coffee and sat down.
“You hear any fireworks last night?” I asked.
“Nope.”
The old man reached for a can of molasses and I almost laughed. Here we were in the heart of sugar maple country and all he had was black glue from Jamaica. As I chewed, my backcountry chef sat mute, his black eyes downcast, a beat-down broken figure. I was thoroughly exhausted and didn’t like him nearby while I ate. Strange sensation, cowing someone, making them fear you. Prerogative of the whiteman. This fellow looked at least part Mohawk, last of the braves mayhap.
“Why don’t you wind up that buggy of yours and I’ll get out of your hair. How’s that sound, grandpa?” I asked.
With nary a word nor glance he pushed away to put on a blue Mackinaw jacket and a flat cap. I turned the fork around the plate and swilled coffee, yenning for tobacco. Nothing doing until I’d left this wigwam far behind. From outside came the sound of an engine starting. I hurried out to see the codger behind the wheel and climbed in beside him. My devil’s luck. Out of a disaster some advantage. Try not to get shot out here. Let them kill you in town, if they must.
We turned around and drove along a cracked path, then out onto a gravel road. The country was flat and grey now, treeless farmland of blank fields bordered by long wire fences. Were I alone and walking these parts I’d stand out powerfully. End up dead in a ditch. A fluttering of my pulse restored anxious fear. There could be lookouts, a dragnet. Get to a train and bolt yourself in the lavatory.
“What’s the closest town with a station?” I shouted over the motor.
“Napierville.”
So, still in Quebec,
The sky cleared, hard fields stretching nowhere. After awhile I made out a dark line on the horizon. Getting closer it became a freight, headed the way I wanted. A decision.
“See that?” I pointed. “You pull up at a crossroad. If it’s slow enough you can let me off and go on home.”
The old man cleared his throat and spat out the open window. As he shifted gears his hand shook with a mild palsy, either St. Vitus’s dance or fear of the armed stranger barking orders. Keep him in your thrall. We braked at the tracks. The train was moving at a walking pace. Without another word I leapt out and ran up the grade to grasp a ladder, hauling myself up. The boxcar’s door was closed so I climbed up to the roof. As the train retreated I watched the old man reverse his Chevrolet and power away.
My perch provided a wide vista about midway along the ’cars. I resolved to stay wary and keep my eye out for railway bulls or brakemen. The freight picked up speed. I rocked along and lay flat to lower my profile and watch the clouds above break apart. For several hours we swayed forward, the train passing Podunk towns and lonely crossings, heading inexorably north. Superstitious, I crossed my fingers. Sometimes it would slow and halt in that baffling way of all trains, only to eventually lurch alive and groan on. The wind turned easterly but then would box the compass and send sooty engine smoke over me. It whipped leaves along the hard-packed earth and bent double spurts of yellow grass hanks tangled with rubbish. I turned to look ahead and was rewarded. Montreal. The rough hump of the mountain sat stark and Cyclopean against the surrounding plains.
We chugged through Brossard and I pressed my luck to the Victoria Bridge crossing. We shuddered onto the Eighth Wonder of the World, as it was once known. From my viewpoint, for a fleeting moment, I commanded it all: the river underneath with boats working the seaward current, the train en route to the smoking yards, the city huddled and steaming in the pale fall sunshine. My heart lifted and despite the danger I felt a thrill. This would never have happened without Jack. My eyes smarted but I blamed it on smoke and too soon we were slowing to nothing. The freight readied to stop and be shunted or broken apart so I gripped Fortune’s forelock and slipped down the ladder to the oil-soaked ground. A rich reek of creosote greeted me as I stepped over rails to bracken and
