Another man climbed from the belly of the plane. He carried a rifle. Henry’s hope cracked into a thousand pieces.
Wellington saw his face. “Expecting Maria? You’ll never see her again, Henry. That’s the way she wants it. You killed her father. That’s right, he’s dead. Yesterday.”
Henry stared at the man who’d come with Wellington. He didn’t look like a policeman. He looked Indian, and familiar.
“Maria told me about the Negro, Henry,” Wellington went on. “We have a deal to offer you. Take me to him and the police will never know it was you who killed Carlos Lima. You have my word, eh.”
Henry didn’t answer. He felt dull, thick-witted. Nothing made sense.
“She hates you,” Wellington said. “She wanted to come with me and tell you that herself, but I persuaded her to let me handle this, man to man.”
Henry opened his mouth. He had no idea what he was going to say. What came out was, “I don’t believe you.” He eyed the Indian, who now stood behind Wellington, the rifle cradled across his chest.
Wellington smiled sadly. “I understand, Henry. You love her. Love makes you blind. But if I was lying, how would I know about the Negro? She told me everything. Except she couldn’t tell me how to get to his cabin.”
Henry studied the Indian. He was as tall as Wellington, over six feet, lanky but powerful-looking. His black hair was cut short in the way of a white man, with flecks of silver throughout. Henry remembered where he’d seen the man before, on the dock at the lake where the floatplane had landed to refuel on the flight north.
“Boozhoo,” Henry said to him.
The man showed no sign of understanding the familiar Ojibwe greeting.
“I want to make a deal with this Negro fellow,” Wellington went on.
Henry focused on Wellington’s eyes, dark and small, like rabbit droppings. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Wellington lost his smile. “I’m talking about the gold, Henry.”
“I don’t know about any gold. I don’t know about this Negro.”
Wellington reached behind him, under his leather jacket, to the small of his back. When his hand reappeared, it held a revolver with a blued barrel, which he pointed at Henry. “I’d just as soon kill you, but I need what’s in your head. You’ve got five seconds to start telling me how to find the Negro’s cabin.”
Henry eyed the Indian, who watched impassively.
“One. Two. Three. Spill it, Henry. Four. Five.”
The revolver popped. Wellington’s hand jerked. The bullet struck Henry’s right leg, high above the knee. It felt as if he’d been hit with a baseball bat. He went down, sprawled on the ground. He grabbed his thigh. Worms of blood crawled between his fingers.
“Tell me where it is, Henry, or the other leg is next.”
Henry bit down hard and held to his silence.
“Another five count. One. Two. Three.” Wellington thumbed the hammer back. “Four. Five.”
The gun barked again. This time the bullet burrowed into the dirt next to Henry’s left leg.
Wellington grinned. “I thought you might be reluctant. That’s why I brought Pierre with me. Claims to be the best tracker in northern Ontario. Guess we’ll have to see. With all that traipsing back and forth you and Maria did to the Negro’s cabin, I figure you must’ve left a decent trail, eh.” He spoke over his shoulder to the Indian. “There’s some rope in that far tent. Get it.”
The Indian did as he was instructed and returned with a coil of hemp rope.
“Get him over to that tree. I don’t imagine he’ll be able to travel on that leg, but let’s make sure he’s not tempted.”
The Indian tossed Wellington the rope and slung his rifle over his shoulder. He grasped Henry under the arms 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.