and dragged him across the campsite to the pine tree Wellington had indicated. He lifted Henry to his feet, shoved him against the trunk, and held him there. Wellington stuffed the revolver in his belt and uncoiled the rope.
Henry tried to keep his weight off the wounded leg and his mind off the pain. As Wellington bound him to the tree, he tried also to flex all his muscles and expand his chest. Wellington cinched the rope tight from neck to ankle and stepped away.
“I’ll be back for you, Henry. Unless the wolves get you first.” Wellington turned to Pierre. “Find the trail.”
The Indian began in a slow arc at the edge of the camp, following one lead after another. Half an hour later, at the western edge of the campsite, he signaled with a whistle.
Wellington rose from where he’d been sitting near the black pine. “The hunt is on.”
The two men disappeared into the woods, following, Henry knew, the trail that would lead them to Maurice’s cabin. He was angry with himself for not having been more careful, but he hadn’t worried about leaving a trail. The white men couldn’t have followed the signs to save their lives. The surprise was the Indian.
His thigh was on fire. The leg of his jeans was soaked with red, but Henry thought the wound had stopped bleeding. He knew he was lucky. The revolver hadn’t been a big caliber, and the bullet hadn’t hit bone or an artery. He was also lucky in a way he didn’t understand. Why hadn’t Wellington killed him? The only thing that made sense was that if the Indian couldn’t follow the trail, Henry was the fallback.
But Henry was determined not to wait for Wellington’s return.
As soon as the two men were out of sight, he began to work on his bonds. He couldn’t move his head. The rope about his throat gave him so little slack he could barely swallow. Wellington hadn’t been as careful with the other loops, and Henry found that much of the advantage he’d hoped for in tensing his muscles he’d actually achieved. His hands and arms could move ever so slightly. First he worked his right hand back and forth, up and down. The rough pine bark scraped away the skin of his wrist, but he kept at it. Over the next half hour, by fractions of an inch, Henry gradually eased his hand free. Next was his left, easier because the release of his right hand created more slack in the rope. Gradually, he slipped both arms free, and when that was done, the loops fairly fell away. When he was free, he collapsed and lay at the base of the tree.
Wellington and his tracker had an hour’s head start, and they each had two good legs. Henry dragged himself up and limped to his tent. He cut two strips of the soft canvas flap. The first strip he folded and placed over the wound in his thigh. The second he wrapped around his leg and tied to hold the compress in place. From inside the tent, he took his rifle and stuffed the pockets of his jacket with cartridges. He grabbed a tent pole to lean on as he walked. With his rifle slung over his shoulder, he followed where the two men had gone.
THIRTY
Henry knew the way to the cabin. In this he had an advantage over Wellington, who had to wait for the tracker to read the trail. He desperately hoped this would work in his favor, allowing him to catch up with the men before they reached Maurice. His leg was the problem. Even with the tent pole to lean on, walking was agony. When he came to those places that required him to climb-over a fallen tree, up a low rock face, along the whole of a ridge-the struggle ate his strength. Normally it took him an hour to reach Maurice’s cabin. At the rate he was moving, it would take two or three times that. He was often forced to rest. There was nothing he could do about that. He had to gather his strength before he could go on, yet every second stretched into forever.
He reached the final ridge, the most difficult to climb. Looking up the long rocky slope, he wasn’t sure he had the strength. His breaths came in deep heaves. Salty streams of sweat stung his eyes and soaked his shirt. The canvas over his thigh was wet with blood. He sat on a boulder, tired beyond measure.
He reckoned more than two hours had passed since he’d left camp. He’d hoped Pierre’s prowess as a tracker might prove to be nothing but talk. It wasn’t. The whole way he’d seen evidence of the passage of the two men, an X cut into the bark of trees, deep enough to show the white wood beneath. He wondered at that. Why mark a trail the Indian could obviously read? He was certain they were already at the cabin. His hope was that Maurice had not been there when they arrived, and that he would become aware of them before it was too late.
There was, perhaps, another hope: Wellington would strike a deal that left Maurice unharmed. But that would be like a wolf trying to eat a rabbit without damaging the fur. He pushed to his feet, forced himself beyond the pain, and began the long climb up. He felt a cold tingle on his face and glanced at the sky. Small snowflakes had begun to drift down from the clouds.
When he topped the ridge, Henry could see a thread of gray wood smoke rising from the cabin, still half a mile distant. He worked his way down the ridge and followed the little stream. The wind shifted in his direction, and he could smell the burning wood. As he neared the clearing where the cabin and outbuildings stood, he slid several rounds into his rifle. He hid in the underbrush and studied the cabin. The door was closed. He saw no sign of Maurice or Wellington or Pierre. Had they taken Maurice away, forced him to show them the gold deposit? Which way was that?
He wanted to make a dash for the cabin, slip along the wall, and listen for anything inside. His leg would never give him that speed. He settled on a different strategy. Between Henry’s position and the cabin on the far side of the clearing, stood the outhouse. He decided to go for that first and from there to the cabin. He limped his way painfully across ten yards of open ground and fell against the back of the little structure. He paused there to catch his breath.
That’s when he heard the men coming. They approached from upstream, from the west. Henry eased himself along the wall and peered around the corner of the outhouse.
“You go on. Don’t worry about me.” Wellington’s voice boomed like the bellow of a moose.
A moment later, they stepped into the clearing, Pierre first, with Wellington not far behind. No Maurice.
“You’re sure you remember the way?” Wellington said to the Indian’s back.
“I remember.”
“More’s the pity,” Wellington said.
He reached to the small of his back and produced his revolver. He pointed the barrel at the tracker. From three paces back, he couldn’t miss. The revolver popped. The Indian’s head jerked forward, as if hit with a club, and he dropped. Wellington stood over him. He slipped the pistol into his belt, grabbed the man’s legs, and dragged him into the cabin.
Henry understood now the reason for the Xs carved into the trees. They were Wellington’s assurance of finding his way back without the guide. He looked down at the rifle in his hands. Why hadn’t he used it? He should have shot Wellington when the man was in the open. But the scene-the execution of the Indian-had surprised him.
Snow drifted out of the sky and coldly kissed Henry’s face. He lifted his rifle, sighted on the door, and waited. He steeled himself for what he was about to do. He’d killed often, killed well and without regret. But this was different. This was no bear or moose or deer. This was a man like himself.
Not like me, Henry thought.
He was weak from his wound and from the long, difficult walk. His arms trembled as he tried to hold the rifle steady.
Wellington had been in the cabin for a long time when the wisp of smoke from the chimney turned into a billow, black against the gray clouds and the white snowflakes. In another minute, dark smoke began to roll out the cabin door and windows. Henry lifted his head away from the rifle stock. Where was Wellington? Where was Maurice? Why was the cabin burning?
Wellington stumbled from the cabin door, smoke clinging to his back. Henry quickly sighted. The wind hit the smoke from the cabin and, for a moment, a black curtain was drawn between Henry and his target. Henry pulled off the round anyway, keeping his aim at the spot where Wellington had been.
The smoke cleared a moment later. Wellington had vanished.
“Henry?” Wellington called. “Is that you, Henry?”
The voice came from the protection of the far side of the cabin. Henry’s arms and shoulders ached from the long ordeal of trying to hold his stance.
“Your friend the Negro, he’s inside, Henry. He’s still alive, but he’s going to burn to death pretty soon. You going to let that happen?”
