Outside the tent, Wellington stormed about the campsite. “Damn you, Meloux. If he dies, I’ll see you rot in prison. God as my witness, I’ll see you hang.”
Henry made a fire and coffee and biscuits because it was something to do while they waited. He poured a cup of coffee for Maria and put two biscuits on a plate with a puddle of honey. Wellington barred his way into the tent. Henry handed the food to the white man, who took it inside. Wellington and Maria spoke in voices too soft for Henry to hear the words. Wellington emerged, drilled Henry with a killing glare, and headed toward the lake. He waded to the floatplane anchored just offshore, disappeared inside, and came out with a small satchel that he took into the tent.
Henry, in his life, had seen a good deal of death. Usually it came at the end of a long, hopeless vigil. This was different. In truth, he cared little about Carlos Lima, and he thought if the man recovered and ever struck Maria again, he would kill him for sure the next time. But if Lima died, could Maria ever forgive the murder? Or would her love for Henry die as surely as her father had? That was a possibility Henry couldn’t bear. He stood at the edge of the lake and he prayed- to Kitchimanidoo, to God, to all the spirits of the woods-to keep Lima alive.
Near noon, Wellington threw aside the flap on Lima’s tent and stepped into the sunlight. He walked to where Henry stood on the lakeshore.
“He’s not getting better. He needs a doctor. Maria and I are going to fly him out of here. Give me a hand getting the plane ready.”
They laid bedding in the small cargo area, then returned for Lima. Inside the tent, Maria sat beside her father. She looked so tired and worn that Henry wanted to hold her and weep. He took his place on one side of Lima, with Wellington on the other. They lifted the unconscious man, carried him to the lake, waded to the airplane, and eased him inside. Maria had gathered a few of her things in a knapsack, and after her father was inside, she got into the plane. Henry saw the edge of her journal jutting out from under the flap of the knapsack. Even in desperate circumstances, she couldn’t bear to leave it behind.
Wellington said to Henry, “Help me get some things from camp.”
“Maria-” Henry tried to step up to the door, but Wellington grabbed his arm.
“Now!” Wellington ordered.
“Hurry, Henry,” Maria called to him.
When they neared the tents, Wellington stopped and turned on Henry. “You’re staying here, you redskin son of a bitch. You make sure this equipment is safe until I come back. And you better hope to God that Carlos doesn’t die. Because if he does, I’m coming back with police, and you can kiss your red ass good-bye.”
Henry glanced toward the plane. “Maria.”
“I hear her name from your lips one more time and I’ll kill you where you stand.”
Henry wasn’t afraid of the threat. He’d been threatened by white men all his life. Mostly, they were nothing but words. But he’d made enough trouble already.
He said, “I’ll wait here.”
“Damn right you will. Give me a hand with the propeller.”
Wellington spun on his heel and hurried back to the plane. He pulled up the anchor, scrambled inside, and shut the door. Henry stood on the pontoon, and when Wellington gave him the signal, he threw the propeller. The engine coughed; the propeller made a couple of lethargic turns on its own, then caught. Henry stepped back onto the shoreline, and the plane maneuvered slowly toward the middle of the lake. Henry saw Maria’s face at the window. Her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear the words. He watched the wings square for a run across the water.
“Maria!” The word flew desperately from his lips.
He ran toward the plane and splashed into the water. The lake ate his body, swallowed him to the waist.
The floatplane began its run, leaving a silver crack in the water behind it.
“Maria!” Henry threw himself forward, swimming wildly toward the floatplane as it picked up speed and lifted into the air. “Maria!” he screamed.
He watched the plane grow small as a dragonfly and disappear beyond the ridges to the south. Then he let himself sink into the ice blue grip of the lake, which squeezed him until he was numb all the way down to his heart.
TWENTY-NINE
Henry sat all afternoon feeding the fire, watching the southern sky, though he knew it was useless to hope. He beat himself with the unknowns. Would Maria ever come back? Would he spend the rest of his life in prison? Should he run now instead of waiting for Wellington to bring the police? If he did that, how would he ever find her?
No matter how he looked at the situation, Maria was gone. Gone forever.
He’d lost much in his life, but losing Maria left him wanting nothing but to die.
A familiar voice at his back startled him out of his reverie. “I thought you had left.” Maurice came from the trees and sat by the fire near Henry. “I heard the airplane,” he said. “You look terrible, my friend. What happened?”
Henry explained the events. “They know about you, Maurice. They will be back. I don’t know what to do,” he confessed.
Maurice thought awhile. “Come with me.”
“But if they come back-”
“They won’t be back today. Come with me. There’s something I want to show you, something that might help.”
Henry followed in dismal silence. Never had the woods felt so empty. Never had he seemed so far from home.
They reached Maurice’s cabin on the swift little stream. Maurice led him inside and blew into the embers of the fire and stoked the flame. He put water on to boil.
“Some tea will help. Hummingbird’s recipe. Burdock root, sheep sorrel, slippery elm, and red clover.”
Henry sat in the cabin, but his mind was still on the airplane he’d watched lift off the lake that morning, spray streaming from the floats, Maria vanishing.
The hot cup was suddenly in his hands.
“Drink,” Maurice said gently. “And listen to me.” He settled into a chair facing Henry and leaned close. A shaft of afternoon light came through the open window and struck his face. The sharp cheekbones above his beard were like dark, polished cherry wood. “In all my time among white people, the one thing I understood best was that for them, money forgives everything. In their courts, money can undo any wrong, even murder.”
“Not murder,” Henry said hopelessly.
Maurice shook his head. “Money will buy a good lawyer, and a good lawyer with enough money behind him can sell a lie to anyone.”
“What lie? I didn’t mean to kill him.”
“You kill a white man, it doesn’t matter why. They won’t listen. Money will make them listen.”
“I don’t have money,” Henry said miserably.
“What I want to show you.”
Maurice rose from his chair, went to the bunk, and pulled it away from the wall. Henry saw the outline of a trapdoor beneath, cut into the floorboards. A knotted rope served as a handle. Maurice grasped the rope and lifted. He beckoned Henry to look. Beneath the floor lay a dozen deer-hide pouches, each larger than a man’s fist.
“Take one,” Maurice said. “Open it.”
Henry lifted one of the pouches, surprised by its weight. He undid the leather cord and looked at the heaping of yellow grains inside.
“Do you know what that is?” Maurice asked.
Henry said, “Gold.”
“It’s yours. As much as you want.”
