“To hunt wolves?”
“To guard the logging camp.”
The Laplander shook his head. He lifted his peg leg from the spot where it had sunk and rested more lightly on it. He put the envelope in a pocket before replacing his mitts. “They’ll guard against wolves. I’d put two of them up against a small pack.”
Samuel was again eyeing the dogs. “I like the two with white ears. The one atop the kennel, she’s a bitch?”
The Laplander nodded. “The other’s just about the meanest dog I’ve ever met.”
“Will they run with my team?”
“No, not all the way up to Gunflint. How big is your sled?”
“They’ll fit on my sled.” He looked at the dogs again. “Will they stand the ride?”
“We’ll crate them, muzzle them. They might moan about it, but you’ll get them home.”
Samuel studied the dogs again. “Where did they come from?” he said.
The Laplander told him about his homeland, of the wolves that had nearly extinguished the sheep herd the year before he’d come to America. About a Russian who lived just across the border in Alakurtti, and how he had obtained from him three of the dogs. He told a summary version of his breeding the dogs and a yarn or two about their bravery, including the much-rumored treeing of the bear. A true story, he assured Samuel.
An hour after he’d arrived at the Laplander’s, Samuel had the Ovcharkas loaded on his sled. His own dogs were uneasy in the behemoths’ company, but he soothed his team and fed them before they started home. The Ovcharkas, in their leather muzzles, housed in chicken-wire crates, were magisterial in their silence, tolerant — Samuel thought — to the point of spookiness.
The Laplander sent twenty pounds of dried coho salmon with Samuel, and the boy stopped at sunset to feed the dogs. He built a fire at the mouth of the Big Rock River and melted snow. The frozen fish cooled the boiling water promptly. Samuel lifted the tops from the crates and lowered a bowl of potage into each. When he removed their muzzles and watched the Ovcharkas eat, he could hardly believe their voracity. They slobbered the water up even as they chewed the fish so that in no more than two minutes the black dogs had finished their feast. And as quickly as they ate they curled back up, in unison, to hold in silent abeyance a ferocity Riverfish could as much as feel in his hands and feet. When the huskies were done with their own hunks of venison, Samuel clucked his tongue and drove out onto the lake.
He ran all night and all day and with his spent team passed through Gunflint and turned up the ice road an hour before sunset. As Samuel pulled into camp and let the Ovcharkas out of their crates one at a time, each laid an enormous turd that stank of fish. It took all of Samuel’s strength to hold the dogs steady on their leads. One by one and according to their rank, his own dogs took turns stretching their traces taut in order to sniff the piles of shit.
Despite the frigid evening, Trond Erlandson hurried from the wanigan when he saw Samuel Riverfish. As he crossed the open commons of the camp, he met the bull cook, whom he directed to the stable. By the time Trond reached the dogs he had already pulled two twenty-dollar banknotes from his pocket and offered them to Samuel.
“You said twenty dollars, plus five if I met your deadline. This is too much,” Samuel said.
Trond didn’t respond, only went to the bitch and offered the back of his hand. He had no fear of the dogs. Satisfied she would allow it, Trond tousled the scruff of black-and-white fur behind her ear. He repeated the same greeting with the other dog. Finally he stood and turned to Samuel.
“Lord Christ, they are small mountains.”
Samuel agreed.
“How was it with them?”
“They rode on that sled as if bred for it,” Samuel said. “They never made a sound.”
Trond’s eyes widened as if he understood perfectly. He returned again to the bitch and knelt before her. He offered his hand for the second time but she did not so much as sniff it. Instead she lowered her head and leaned toward him. He ran his hands up and down her ribs, felt the muscle in her forelegs, lifted her face by the chin so he could see into her black eyes. She held his gaze for a moment, then cowered. Trond slowly removed the leather muzzle from her snout and let her lick the back of his hand.
He walked over to the other dog. When he removed his muzzle the dog’s lips quivered and he began to bare his teeth, but Trond clubbed him on the nose and the dog put his head down. The foreman knelt before the dog and raised its face to meet his own and said out loud, “You stay mean when you’re staked out there. You let me know when the wolves are coming.”
By then the bull cook and stable keeper were crossing the open yard. Each of them carried a length of chain over their shoulders, and when they reached Trond and Samuel they stopped short to take in the Ovcharkas.
“We could use those dogs to rest the horses,” the stable keeper said. “If it came to that.”
Trond smiled. “I want this cur out in the paddock. Stake him under the ridge. And make sure his kennel door is turned away from the wind. Keep her near the stable. And feed them.”
“Feed them what?” the bull cook asked.
Trond looked down at the Ovcharkas. He fed his St. Bernard scraps from the kitchen. These dogs needed square meals, though. This he could see. “Ask the ladies in the kitchen for whatever they’ve got leftover. I reckon these dogs aren’t particular.” He turned to the stable keeper, “Tell the teamsters to carry rifles tomorrow. See what they can hunt.”
Trond turned to Samuel Riverfish. “You’ve done well,” he said. “Those extra dollars are a gratuity. Your father will hear about this. Now, go get some rest. I can see you need it.”
Samuel thanked him and left with his dogs.
So the dogs stood sentinel in the dark — the bitch on twelve feet of chain near the horse barn, the dog staked out at the end of the paddock — each of them full on a gallon of sowbelly stew. That night, for the first time in a week, there was no wolf song to serenade the jacks. Thea, waiting for the howl, could not sleep in its absence.
XIII.
The snow had stopped but for those drifting flakes that rose as much as fell, and the silver light of the headlamps caught the flurries’ glimmer. The trail was cut for dogsleds, not pickup trucks, but it was the only way to the wigwam village. So Odd drove slowly, the soft boughs of the spruce trees sweeping the canvas canopy that covered the cab.
Rebekah sat next to him. He could see she was tired but couldn’t judge whether the exhaustion on her face was masking happiness or dread. He wished like hell he knew. She hadn’t said much since midnight, even with all there was to discuss.
“Danny’s gonna be rightly peeved, me showing up like this,” Odd said.
“Hmm.”
Odd looked at her. “Every hour counts now, Rebekah.”
She reached up and touched his whiskered face with her cold fingertips.
Odd grabbed her hand and kissed it.
The wigwam village was more properly a town unto itself those days. The wigwams themselves had become squat cabins with horse barns beside the smokehouses and woodsheds. There were bicycles leaning against some of the cabins, a motorcycle and sidecar outside Danny’s folks’ place. Danny had his own cabin, and smoke streamed from the tin chimney. Odd stopped the truck and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
“In two days I’m gonna have that boat floating in the water. We’re going to leave Sunday morning, before the sun. Come hell or high water, we’re gone. You understand? Pack whatever you need. Dress warm. As warm as you can. Danny will be out back of Grimm’s to help you with your bags. I’ll be at the end of the Lighthouse Road. We’ll be free.” He reached for her hand and held it tight. “Just you and me. Okay?”
