Slocum 428 (5 page)

“It wasn't our fault, boss,” said the man with the smeared nose. “He just up and attacked us. We went up there like you said, looking for work, and he come at us with an axe. Ain't that right?” He looked at his companion.

The man beside him, thin and equally battered looking, swallowed and nodded, not taking his eyes off the steaming plate of food their boss had before him on his desktop. “Yeah, that's about right.”

Torrance Whitaker sighed, continued tucking his napkin under his chin, and lifted his knife and fork. “I did not ask you two men to engage anyone in fisticuffs. In fact, I did not ask you to do a damn thing. My boneheaded son did. But he was acting on what he thought was my behalf, so I will let this episode slide. You were not successful, however, in doing much of anything. Except ticking me off.”

“But boss—”

Whitaker thrust his knife at the thicker of the two men. “Don't you call me that. At least not until I get what I want.” He thrust a quivering wad of chicken into his mouth.

“What is it you want?”

Whitaker regarded the bold-talking man. “I want Jigger McGee. Everything he owns, in fact. I'd pay a whole lot for that.” He smiled, thrust more meat into his maw, chewed. His smile slipped when he saw the two battered men still standing before his desk.

“You two, get the hell out of here. I'm sick of looking at you.”

They fidgeted. Whitaker sighed and fingered a coin from his vest pocket, flipped it to the bolder of the two, obviously the brains of the pair. “Go away, clean up, drink, do something. As long as it's away from me.”

The events of the night before had left Slocum confused, tired, and not a little steamed at the gall of his fellow loggers. Not only had he been acting on their behalf, trying to find out what was ravaging their stock of supplies, but they had the nerve to seem to be accusing him of being in league somehow with whatever or whoever had done the foul deed. True, they hadn't said much to that effect, but the chilly tone was there.

Even Ned, who he'd thought he'd developed a bit of camaraderie with, had been cold toward him this morning. The only one who showed him any amount of gratitude—not that he was looking for it—was Frenchy.

The burly camp cook had chuckled and slopped down a ladleful of gruel, thick as Southern mud, and tossed a handful of raisins and dried apple rings on top. “Good morning, Slocum. You deserve
deux
helpings of raisins today for the help you gave us last night.”

“Wasn't enough to prevent the shed from being torn apart.”

“True, but keep in mind that it could have been so much worse,
non
?”

Slocum nodded in reluctant agreement, then took his place at one of the tables, the only one that seemed to have a space available for him to sit. He ate in silence, glad, frankly, to be on his own. He brooded for a few minutes while he spooned up the surprisingly tasty hot grains mixed with dried fruit.

He followed the gruel with a couple of cups of hot, black coffee, all the while doing his best not to brood on the thought most looming in his mind—that he should never have ventured this far north for a job. Hell, he shouldn't have come this far north in the winter for anything, not even a woman—though that particular promising approach had worked out for him in the past.

He longed for a normal life, one in which he was no longer a wanted man, on the run from the law. He wanted a life in which he could settle down, perhaps on his own spread somewhere that wasn't too hot in the summer, not too cold in the winter, with grazing and . . . bah! Enough with the self-pity. He knew he had to see this thing through. He was no quitter.

Never had been, and wasn't about to start now. Just because a bunch of burly loggers were too busy grousing about what was happening to them to solve the problem for themselves didn't mean he had to toss in the towel and let them get to him.

No sir, thought Slocum as he stood and carried his bowl, spoon, and cup to the huge copper cauldron beside the stove into which Frenchy was tossing the dirty dishes.

“Frenchy,” said Slocum in a voice loud enough for everyone in the place to hear. “I guess it's just about as perfect a day as any to get some work done, don't you think?”

“Sure, sure Slocum,” said the cook, looking a bit confused at Slocum's sudden loud utterance.

That was more for me than anyone else, thought Slocum. Got to make sure they don't get to me.

But all these hours later, after they'd gotten to the woodlot they were working, a couple of miles northwest of the main camp, the boss, Jigger's right-hand man, guessed Slocum, who it turned out was Ned, his erstwhile chum from the night before, had brought him quite a distance from the main group.

“I need these six trees limbed out by lunch.” He looked at Slocum. “Or no lunch. You got me?”

“Yep,” said Slocum. He was happy to play the silly games for as long as he needed to. As long as there was a chit for pay at the end of this deal, he'd do whatever tasks they set him to.

Slocum didn't wait for him to try to explain away whatever it was he wasn't telling Slocum, but instead set right to work. Limbing was a good, if mindless, task for him. He'd done plenty of it in the past and knew enough to get the job done in a decent time frame. Certainly by midday.

“Anything else?”

“That's enough,” said Ned, already heading back down the trail that led to the rest of the crew. He offered a halfhearted one-handed wave over his shoulder, a stream of pipe smoke following him back down the trail.

Slocum set to his task. The day was coming off mild, and the sun was a high, bright spot in a clear sky. It was the first fully blue day he'd seen in a week, and the day's warmth filtered down, reaching him in the newly made clearing. Soon he had worked up a full head of steam, chips flying from the gleaming blade of the double-bit axe assigned to him. He'd also been loaned a pair of stout spiked boots to help keep him atop the massive felled trees' rough hides while he swung his axe first left, then right, lopping off endless branches to make the tree into an enormous log.

He wasn't sure how many hours had passed by the time he stopped for a long, much-needed drink from his canteen. The woods in full sun were still somewhat dark among the massive trunks, but the ghostly mounds and rolling scape of snow reflected the increasing sunlight and gave the quiet forest an odd, yet comforting glow.

For a while at least, he thought. Until dark comes, then this place will probably echo with the shrieks of whatever it is that lurks out here.

And that was when he heard the far-off, but drawing closer, sound of . . . someone singing? And not from the direction of the crew. Who could it be? Another logger working at limbing even farther up the valley than him? He held his hand over his eyes and squinted upslope, using spotting skills he'd employed many times in locating bighorn sheep and mountain goats, deer and wolves far away on hillsides and in terrain similarly riddled with rocks, trees, and blow-downs.

There was a shape, definitely human, moving slowly in his direction. Whoever it was looked to be making a beeline for him, and would reach him in minutes. He had cooled sufficiently that he pulled on his wool button-down shirt back over his tight longhandles. Wouldn't do to catch a lung disorder out in the wilds like this. One cough could lead to a fast trip to Boot Hill.

He lifted down his gun belt hanging where he'd draped it—within reach—close by on a branch nub. He strapped it on and checked his Colt Navy, loosened the leather thong from the hammer, and made sure his long skinning knife was still sheathed. Then he hefted the axe and rested it atop his shoulder and waited.

He didn't have long to wait—whoever it was making his way though the snow wore snowshoes and made good use of them, too, kicking up a fine spray of snow dust, like vanishing feathers, behind him. He was an average-height man, thin, but well clothed for the high country from which he'd descended. On his back Slocum saw what looked to be an ash pack basket. A trapper? This high up? Maybe in the valleys there were plenty of beaver ponds, martens in the forests, maybe weasels, fishers, fox, coyote, wolves, lynx, and bobcat.

He saw a few critter tails bouncing from where they hung from the top of the basket. The man carried a rifle, a Henry from the looks of it, and wore a black-and-red-checked wool coat lined with sheepskin, the thick, full hood worn high, forming a point above his head. Green wool mittens adorned his hands, and black wool trousers flared just above high leather lace-up boots.

Still yards away, the man, his breath pluming out visibly, halted and threw up a hand, but said nothing. Slocum returned the universal signal of greeting.

The trapper resumed his march, slow and steady, through snow that Slocum would have quickly foundered in up to his chest.

When he was but five yards away, the man halted again and pushed the hood back off his head to reveal a round-faced, apple-cheeked woman. She smiled at him, large blue eyes reflecting the sunlight that itself was reflected off the glittering snow all around them. Thick, honeyed hair, the color of fall leaves with sun punching through as they whispered in a breeze, had spilled loose and framed her face, freed from the hood.

“Ho there!”

“Well, ho there, yourself, ma'am,” said Slocum, nodding in greeting but still not willing to remove his hand from the butt of his Colt, no matter how lovely the high-country nymph before him might appear.

“What are you doing up here in my woods?” She looked Slocum up and down with an appraising stare, as if thinking about purchasing him for use at a future time. Her slight smirk told him everything he needed to know—she might well be toying with him, though she also probably believed that these woods were her domain, deed or no deed.

Slocum returned the smirk. “Ordinarily, on meeting for the first time, strangers exchange greetings. For instance, I am John. John Slocum. Pleased to meet you—I think. And you are . . . ?” He leaned forward, canting his head as if in expectation of an answer.

Her sudden, wide smile brightened her already welcoming face and told Slocum he had little to fear from her and that she was indeed pulling his leg.

“Serves me right, John Slocum. I'm afraid I've been out here with the critters and such for too long on my own.”

“How long has it been?”

“Well, let's put it this way—I see a whole lot of me, but they don't see me. And judging from the ones I've seen, I don't care for that situation to change anytime soon.”

“Then why talk to me?”

She appraised him again, looking him up and down, stood hipshot, one mittened hand resting on her cocked hip, one holding the rifle balanced on her opposite thigh. “You . . . I ain't seen before. And you're . . . different somehow.”

Slocum kept his eyes on hers while he lowered the axe and sank the blade with a satisfying thunk into the massive butt end of the tree he'd been limbing. “A lesser man might not know how to take that . . . ”

“But you are no lesser man, am I right?”

“You are right on that score.”

“And you're not lacking in confidence either, am I right?”

“Right again, ma'am. But I still don't know your name.”

“Why are you in such an all-fired need to know my name?”

Slocum shrugged. “You seem like someone a lonely logger might want to get to know.”

Her smile dropped like a deadfall limb. “I ain't that kind of woman.”

“I'm not sure what sort you think I'm referring to, but I can tell you I meant it as a compliment.”

Again, she eyed him up and down, let her eyes travel then settle on his face. “I suppose you are sincere. Or at least as much as you think you can be.” She chewed her lip, then looked at him as if she'd just come to a decision. She stuck out her hand and stepped forward. “I'm Hella Bridger. Though I think the loggers hereabouts call me something else.”

“Pleased to meet you, Hella.” They shook hands, and Slocum nodded again to her. “Do I dare ask what the folks hereabouts refer to you as?”

She sighed, then smirked again. “Crazy Trapper Lady.”

“And are they correct?”

“In part, I guess. I am a trapper, and I am a lady, in some sense. At least I used to be. And I think crazy is in the eye of the beholder, don't you?”

“Not sure what you mean by that.”

“For instance,” she said, “I don't necessarily think I'm crazy, but I can understand how other folks, seeing how I live, might think my train's gone around the bend. You know?”

“I think I've been there a few times myself. How do you live? I mean, you're a trapper, I see that.”

“Yep, got myself a regular old slice of heaven up here, hundreds, maybe thousands of square miles to roam, to trap, keep my lines moving so I don't overtrap any one area, then I move on, let the critters recover from me taking their loved ones away to the happy critter ground in the sky.”

“Why, that's right philosophical of you, ma'am.”

She gave him that appraising look again. “Seems like I was right about you, John Slocum.”

“How's that?” he said, easing his hand off his revolver's handle as she shouldered her rifle by its leather sling.

“Not many loggers would use a word like ‘philosophical' in regular conversation. Or any conversation, for that matter.”

“Well, I won't apologize for reading a book now and again.”

“Good,” she said. “Not enough people in the world who read.”

He nodded. “So you know Jigger, then? Or at least his crew—if only by sight.”

“I know Jigger McGee. He's a good man, about the only logger worth a spit. He runs his own crews, not like Torrance Whitaker, who hires out everything. The other thing that separates McGee from Whitaker is that Jigger seems to be the only logger to do what I try to do with the critters I trap. He's good to the trees, you know? Doesn't overdo it in any one spot. Now that, I have to admire.”

“That's good to know. I'm only on my second day with the outfit. First, if you consider I got a late start yesterday.”

There was a lull in the chat, and Slocum pulled in a deep draught of air. “Well, I best get back to it. But it's been a real pleasure to talk with you, Miss Bridger. I hope we can pass the time as pleasantly some other day. I expect, at my current rate, that I'll be here for the duration.”

“Fair enough,” she said.

They shook hands again, and as she turned to go, Slocum said, “One more thing. I can't believe I'm asking this, but here goes—do you know anything about a creature called the ‘skoocoom'?”

“Why?” There was that smirk again. “Do you think you saw it?” But there was something else behind that smirk.

“Yes, in fact. Well, I saw something, fleetingly. I also saw greenish glowing eyes, high up, maybe a couple of feet taller than me. And the sounds we heard were something else.”

“And?”

“Isn't that enough?”

“Yes, but what happened at the camp?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because something is always happening at the Tamarack Logging Camp. It's Jigger's lot in life. At least while he's working to pay off his debt.”

So that's it, eh? thought Slocum. Jigger's in debt. “Might help explain why he was in such a hurry to get to town yesterday, but not what happened last night.”

She looked at him, eyebrows arched, ready for enlightenment. He obliged. “Something I've never heard or seen evidence of before ripped apart the camp's storehouse, howling and making quite a ruckus. They did things I doubt a man—or a team of them—could have done.”