[Canadian West 02] - When Comes the Spring (14 page)

"I doubt it," he said, without any trace of concern whatever. "But
if they are, there is nothing whatever to be worried about. I suggest
you just lie here in front of the fire and listen carefully, Elizabeth. You can almost count how many there are in the pack by the difference in
their cries. They are a part of our world here in the North-a part that
needs to be respected but not feared. Accept them-maybe even enjoy
them if you can."

I doubted I would ever live to enjoy the cry of a timber wolf, but
I did try to be calm. Another cry tore through the night air.

"Hear that?" noted Wynn close to my ear. "I'm guessing that was
the leader of the pack. Did you hear the authority in his voice?"

I tried to shake my head, but Wynn was holding me too close.
Authority? Not particularly.

Another cry reached us. This one was shorter and farther away.

"That one now, he's answering the boss. Checking in. Could you
hear the difference?"

This time I could. It was unbelievable.

There was another cry. It came from very near our cabin, yet it
wasn't as spooky and bloodcurdling for some reason.

"A female," commented Wynn. "Probably the leader's mate."

"Are the females tamer than the males?" I asked, thinking that this
one sounded so much gentler than others.

"Oh, no," laughed Wynn. "In fact, the female can be even more
aggressive and more deadly than the males-especially if she has pups.
The hunting pack always consists of some females. I'm not sure how
the males would fare without them. The pack depends on their skill
and aggressiveness for the kill. The female must have food not just for
herself but to feed her young-and she will do anything to get what
she's after."

The wolves were a part of Wynn's wilderness. I wasn't sure I would
ever be able to listen to their howl without shivering, but Wynn's calm
and easy acceptance of these wild creatures had certainly helped me to
see them in another light.

Another howl. Another shiver. Another explanation from Wynn.
He seemed to paint a picture of the pack around us, locating and identifying each member. He did not describe them with sparkling red eyes
and drooling tongues. I was seeing them as needy, hungry creatures,
depending on nature and their skills to feed themselves and their families.

"Contrary to what you may have heard," Wynn told me, "the
wolves only hunt to survive. In the wilderness, survival is not always
easy.

I listened to the echoing calls of the wolves as they moved on, away
from the cabin. My heart quit thumping. I found myself even wishing
them good hunting.

We took the trail the next morning to the small, hastily constructed
buildings that formed the small outpost. Before we had left the little
cabin, I had remade the bed and washed the dishes. Wynn had brought
in a fresh wood supply, making sure he left more stacked against the
wall than we had found the night before.

The trail through the woods crossed a stream on steppingstones,
and Wynn pointed east to where the beavers had dammed the water
and made themselves a small lake. The morning sun was already promising a fair day, and the birds sang and winged overhead among the
trees. The walk would have been perfect had it not been for the miserable insects. Even Wynn walked with a screen of cloth draped from
his hat at the back.

When we reached the fort, I looked about at the sorry arrangement
of small buildings. Even from the outside, I was sure I wouldn't have
wanted to stay overnight in any of them. I was so glad Wynn had
arranged for the cabin.

"I think you should wait out here," Wynn said to me. I wondered
why, but did not question him. I found a nearby tree stump and sat
down. No one seemed to be around, so I lifted my skirt to inspect my
leg. It was no longer covered with a bandage; Wynn had decided the
air would do it good.

Ugly scabs of various density and color covered the shin. I moved
my foot back and forth. Almost all the pain was gone. Wynn had said
that it was most important to have bodies capable of healing themselves
when one was miles away from medical help. He seemed very pleased
he had picked a woman with this quality.

Wynn was not in the cabin for long. He returned with a look of
frustration on his face.

"What's wrong? Are they drunk?"

"Drunk isn't the word for it. They are out! Every last one of them.
I couldn't even raise them."

"You're angry with them for drinking, aren't you? I don't blame-"

But Wynn didn't let me finish my intended consolation.

"Yes, I'm angry. With their drinking? I don't like it, but I can't stop
it. That's their business, I guess-their way of life. That's the way they
ease through the difficulties of life in the North. When men don't have
God, they need substitutes. To my way of thinking, whiskey is a poor
substitute-but many men depend upon it. But what I am angry about
is that they didn't obey my orders."

I looked up in surprise.

"They were supposed to unload the barge last night before they
started their drinking. I knew very well they wouldn't be any good for
anything this morning. There sits the wagon, nothing on it; and in
there, sprawled out on the floor, are the men who were to load it and
the man who was supposed to drive it."

"What do we do now?" I finally asked in a small voice.

Wynn roused and reached over to cup my chin. He smiled then
for the first time since emerging from the house.

"We do it ourselves, my love," he answered, strength and confidence back in his voice.

It was a long, hard job. The morning sun was high in the sky
before we finished. I really wasn't much help. The crates and trunks
were all too heavy for a woman's shoulders, and Wynn would not even
let me try. Wynn had driven the wagon down as close to the dock as
possible in order to save unnecessary steps. I volunteered to hold the
team, as there was no hitching post. Wynn seemed pleased that I was
willing to help, but the job I had did not go well.

The horses were skitterish. The mosquitoes and flies were plaguing
them, and they kept tossing their heads and stamping around. Wynn
watched my efforts warily for a while and them decided to unhitch the
horses, take them up the bank and tie them securely to a tree. Now I
had nothing to do.

I tried to give a hand now and then but soon found I was more in
the way than anything else. At length I gave up and found a tree stump
in the shade.

As I sat there, I angrily thought about the men in the nearby cabin.
There they slept in a drunken stupor while my husband labored to do
the work they had been hired to do!

Finally the loading was completed and the horses rehitched to the
wagon.

Wynn made one more visit to the cabin to check on our hired
driver.

"Any luck?" I asked when he returned, his lips set in a thin line.

"None." It was a crisp, blunt reply.

"What do we do now?" I asked. "Do we have to wait here until he
wakes up?"

"No, we don't wait. We are late enough getting away now. We'll
never make it as far as we should today. We drive. When he wakes up
he walks."

The horses were not made for speed and the wagon was clumsy
and heavy. It had been much faster traveling on the river. The sun grew
hot on my back and the insects buzzed persistently.

We didn't talk much. Wynn concentrated on his driving, and I
tried to keep my mind busy with things other than my discomfort.
The river barge seemed like a pleasure boat compared to this lumbering
wagon.

We stopped at noon for a quick meal. Wynn ate with one eye on
the sky, for clouds were gathering. I knew he feared a storm before we
reached our destination. Neither of us voiced the concern, but I
noticed that Wynn pushed the horses a little faster.

The track could, at best, be referred to as a trail. It wound up and
down, around and through, following the path of least resistance,
much like a river would do. At times there was no way but to challenge
the terrain head-on. The horses strained up steep hills, then slid their
way to the bottom again, the wagon jolting behind. Fortunately, Wynn
was an expert teamster, and I breathed a prayer of thanks whenever we
reached fairly level ground again.

At one point, even Wynn feared for the safety of the horses and
wagon. He asked me to climb out and walk down the incline. It
seemed to be almost straight down. On further thought, Wynn crawled
down from the wagon, rustled through some of his belongings, and came up with the horrid men's pants. They had been washed since I
had seen them last, which I assumed Wynn had done himself.

"You'd best put these on," he said. "You might spend part of the
descent in a sitting position."

Without question I quickly obeyed and stuffed my simple skirt and
petticoat into the overnight bag lying on top of the load.

Wynn went first. I didn't really want to watch, but I couldn't tear
my eyes away. A good brake system on the wagon kept the wheels
skidding downhill, always on the heels of the sliding horses.

I stood there with bated breath, now and then gasping and covering my eyes, then quickly uncovering them again to make sure Wynn
was still all right.

I forgot to follow. When Wynn finally rolled the wagon to a halt
on comparatively even ground, I still stood, with my mouth open, at
the top of the hill.

I blushed and hurried down to join him. His call, "Slow down,"
came too late. Already I had picked up more speed than I could control
on the steep slope. I tried to brace myself against the momentum, but
soon my body was moving far too fast for my clumsy feet, and I felt
myself falling and rolling end over end. The next thing I was aware of
was Wynn's white face bending over me.

"Elizabeth," he pleaded, panting for air, "Elizabeth, are you all
right?"

I moaned and tried to roll over into a more dignified position. I
wasn't sure if I was all right or half dead. I did have enough presence
of mind to be glad for the horrible pants.

Wynn began to feel my bones. I roused somewhat, my dizzy head
beginning to clear.

"I think I'm okay," I told him, struggling to sit up.

"Lie still." he ordered. "Don't move until we are sure."

He continued to check. By now my-head was clear.

"I'm okay," I insisted, feeling only a few places on my body smarting. "Just embarrassed to death, that's all."

Wynn satisfied himself that nothing was broken and sighed with
relief. He then turned his attention to the scratches and bruises.

"Let me up," I implored him and he carefully assisted me to my
feet.

He brushed the dirt from my clothing and the leaves from my hair,
showing both relief and concern on his face.

"I wanted you to walk down to keep you from injury," he said
softly, shaking his head in dismay.

I began to laugh. Wynn looked at me with more concern in his
eyes and then he smiled slowly.

"That's some record for coming down that hill," I said between
gasps of laughter.

"I think," he remarked, "I might have set a record for coming back
up-Hey!" His shout made me turn to follow his gaze. The deserted
team had decided to plod on without us. They were not far ahead, but
they were still traveling; and if we didn't hurry or if something spooked
them, we might be walking for a long way. Wynn ran down the
remainder of the hill, chasing after them. I followed, but at a much
slower pace. I didn't want a repeat performance. I was already smarting
and aching quite enough.

Wynn caught the team about a quarter of a mile down the road.
They had not exactly followed the trail though, and Wynn was hard
put to back them out of the dead end they had led themselves into
among the trees.

Finally back on the trail again, we noticed the clouds had gathered
more darkly overhead. It had cooled off noticeably and the wind was
picking up.

"Is there anyone living nearby?" I asked him, sensing his uneasiness.

"Not that I'm aware of," he answered.

Even the horses seemed to sense the coming storm and tossed their
heads and complained at the load.

They balked when we came to a stretch of marshy land where they
were required to cross on corduroy (wooden logs placed side by side).
Wynn coaxed and then forced them to take the first steps. The logs
rolled and sucked, squeezing up oozy marsh soil as we passed over. I
felt as reluctant as the horses. I wished I could walk but then rethought
the matter. In places the logs lay beneath the surface of the water.

The horses clomped and slipped, snorting and plunging their way
ahead. One horse would balk and refuse to take another step while its teammate was still traveling on. Then the horse would give a nervous
jump and scramble on, slipping on the logs as he did so. By then, his
teammate would have decided to balk. We jerked our way across the
precarious floating bridge, and I breathed a sigh of relief when the
wagon wheels finally touched solid ground again.

The horses, sweating more from nerves than from exerted energy,
were even more skittery now, so when the first loud crack of thunder
greeted us, they jumped and would have bolted had Wynn not been
prepared and held tightly to the reins.

I moved uneasily on the seat, my eyes on the clouds overhead. It
would pour any minute and there was no place to go for shelter.

Wynn urged the team on. It was impossible to expect them to run.
The wagon was much too heavy and the track too poor, but he did ask
of them a brisker walk. They obliged, seeming as reluctant as we were
to be caught in the storm.

Just as the rain began to spatter about us, we rounded a corner and
there before us was a shed! It was not in good repair and we weren't
sure what its use had been in the past; but it was shelter, and Wynn
turned off the rutted track, heading the team quickly for it.