The last dogleg in the canyon was an abrupt, narrow vee, where in one spot erosion or maybe an earthquake had knocked down part of the canyon wall. In summer, it was a tumble of sharp-edged and unexpectedly and treacherously mobile boulders, impassable by anyone who wasn't wearing steel plate armor and chain mail gloves. In winter, beneath a continually replenished layer of snow that was steadily being packed down, it was by comparison an interstate highway, albeit with one hell of a grade. Kate took her time, stopping often to breathe before her heart burst out of her chest. She also took a moment to be proud of her foresight in purchasing a new pair of lightweight snowshoes, rectangular ovals of hollow metal with a continuous strap that zigzagged across her foot from toe to instep to heel, fastened with three quick-release plastic buckles. They certainly weighed less than the old wooden ones, and were narrow enough that she didn't waddle like a penguin when she wore them. When she wasn't climbing a mountain in them, they even gave her a fairly good turn of speed.
While she was thus congratulating herself the boulder slope flattened into a tiny saddle, the other side of which looked down on the steaming ponds of the hot springs, small, dark, lustrous pools nestled in perfect snowy settings, joined one to the other like a string of black pearls displayed on a rich rumple of white velvet. At the head of the canyon she was mildly surprised to see the log cabin still standing, and was further heartened when she saw smoke wisping from the rudimentary rock chimney.
There was no one stirring outside the cabin but she lay down on her stomach anyway and wriggled forward until she had a panoramic view. She fished out the binoculars residing in one of the parka's inside pockets, where they would stay warm for use. They were anti-frost, anti-fog, digital day and night vision, and effective over three hundred yards, which view had cost her almost two dollars a yard. Not one penny of which did she grudge when through the lenses and the inexorable onset of the dark Arctic night the individual logs of the cabin sprang into view, revealing that much of the moss and mud chinking between the logs had dried up and fallen out. She could actually see inside the cabin from here, at least in places. It reminded her of Vidar's ramshackle cabin in Tikani, and she was pissed off all over again.
It was only marginally lighter inside the cabin than it was outside, a sullen glow coming from what appeared to be a stove crafted from the black curve of what was probably a fifty-five-gallon drum. A shadow moved and she jerked involuntarily. Mutt started, too, and then whuffed out a breath and gave her a reproachful look.
"Sorry," Kate said, her voice barely above a whisper, and looked through the binoculars again.
The shadow was a dark, bulky figure, which moved out of sight after a moment. What might have been a pair of legs were stuffed into a sleeping bag, whose owner might be leaning into a corner. That's where she'd be, too, given how well ventilated the cabin was, her back tucked into a corner she'd padded with her sleeping bag and probably anything else she had on hand.
She didn't see a third man. She scanned the area outside, and identified various mounds of new-fallen snow that might be hiding snow machines and sleds. There appeared to be a well-trodden path around the back, where she dimly remembered there was an outhouse.
To pee, all men had to do was hang it out the front door and shake afterward. Women required at minimum a bush and, best-case scenario, toilet paper. But sooner or later, everyone had to take a dump, and there nature had leveled the playing field. It was one of the reasons the passing of the Sears catalog had occasioned more mourning across all genders in Alaska than anywhere else in the world.
An hour later she'd worked her way around behind the cabin, mostly on her belly, leaving her snowshoes on the saddle. For once she damned the silence of the great unknown, sure that every accidental crunch of snow, every rasp of spruce bough over her parka was resounding off the walls of the cabin like the gong of a temple bell. But no one called out in alarm or came to the door, and she hunkered down against the back wall of the outhouse to wait. It had developed an ominous tilt to starboard and Mutt wrinkled her nose at the smell, a sentiment Kate heartily if silently endorsed. At least at this time of year there were no flies. She only hoped the damn thing didn't fall over before someone came out to use it.
There were fewer chinks in this more sheltered wall of the cabin, so she couldn't see inside as well when she peeped around the corner of the outhouse. She heard the occasional murmur of voices, and eventually sorted them into three distinct identities. It was enough to keep her there, muscles slowly atrophying from inaction and cold. She was grateful for the warm weight of Mutt, leaning against her, impervious to the snow and the cold.
Finally, after an hour or so, there was the sound of a heavy tread from inside the cabin, a corresponding protesting groan from the floor, a toe hitting something and kicking it across the room, a stumble and a curse, and then a creak and a thump as the dilapidated door was wrenched open. The crunch of footsteps in the snow came around the cabin and directly for the outhouse Kate and Mutt were crouched behind.
The door to the outhouse creaked open and slammed shut again, bouncing a couple of times on a door spring that sounded as if it were on its last legs. There followed a rustle of clothing, the sound of flesh smacking down on wood, and a "Jeeeeesus Key-rist, that's cold." The outhouse as a whole gave an ominous creak.
Mutt looked at Kate with eyes that shone bright even in the dark. Kate opened her mouth and leaned her head back, took a deep breath, and at the top of her lungs let out with an "Oooooh ooooh oooooooh!"
Mutt didn't think much of this imitation wolf howl, and she leaped to her feet and raised her muzzle to the sky to show Kate how it was really done. "OuououOUOOOOOOOOH!"
Wolves howling miles away were scary enough. It wasn't fun when you were right next to one putting her all into it, even when you were expecting it. Kate couldn't imagine what it sounded like on the other side of the aging and insubstantial wall of an outhouse in the middle of nowhere where you were sitting with your pants down around your ankles, very probably, or so Kate hoped, unarmed.
"Holy SHIT!" the man in the outhouse cried. There was sudden movement from inside, punctuated by a thud when he leaped to his feet. The outhouse shuddered and protested again. "Ouch! Fuck! Ick! Ick, do you hear that! Ick, there's a wolf out here!"
There were more thuds and then the door slammed back with a crash. Something fell off the outhouse with a loud thud. Against her back Kate felt it lean over a little more.
"Ick, get the rifle, get the fucking rifle!"
From the cabin came a series of startled shouts and thuds and bumps and crashes. Kate motioned to Mutt and crept around to the front of the outhouse.
"Ou-ou-ouoooWOOOOOOO!" Mutt said.
"Get that fucking rifle out here, Ick! Gus! Help!"
The door to the outhouse crashed back and Daedalus Johansen stood in the opening.
"Hey, Dead," Kate said. "Your fly's open."
He gaped at her and she dropped to the snow, catching herself on her right hand, and hooked a foot behind one of his ankles and rolled, catching both his ankles in both of hers. Off guard, off balance, and tender parts well on their way to being frostbitten, he toppled backward, one wildly floundering arm catching the door frame to arrest his fall only partially. When he hit the rim of the toilet seat the outhouse groaned another protest and teetered another couple of inches to starboard.
Kate was instantly on her feet. She grabbed both his hands and slipped a plastic tie over his wrists with the end already thoughtfully threaded through the clasp. She yanked on the free end and it tightened up instantly and very nicely indeed.
It was great when a plan worked out.