Chase (10 page)

P
hin's heart rolled over in his chest.

He came so close to standing up that he saw himself doing it, naked, mouth open in astonishment atop the beaver lodge. Sticks dug into his knees and palms as he began to push up.

The words echoed in his mind:
I can help you.

Can
. Not will.

He sank back, pulse beating rapidly in his throat. He felt his own bareness. All his possessions were on the dam, across a stretch of cold water. The only thing he had was his wits.

Had he just taken leave of them? The man said he'd help—

Said he
could
help.

He took a breath, and counted his advantages. The solid mass of beaver lodge was between him and Fraser. So was the wide green water. Even though Fraser knew he was here—

But maybe he didn't. Phin had felt seen, but he was probably meant to feel that way, relax his guard and show himself.

Anyway, how could Fraser know? The breeze was carrying his scent away. Even his clothes, reeking of Phin Chase, were downwind. He was well-washed and well-concealed. Fraser didn't look committed to staying. He was ready to go, rolling the dice one last time to see what happened.

Nothing happened. Phin's not-answering seemed to vibrate the air. A person who really wanted to help would say more, try harder. A person who wanted to
really
help wouldn't have pursued him so relentlessly. He'd have said something earlier. He'd have made himself a lot less frightening. The best Phin could imagine was that Fraser wanted to help him into the witness chair. It might as well be the gallows.

Fraser touched the reins to the stallion's neck. The horse whirled with a snort and surged toward the woods;
jouncing Fraser on purpose, Phin thought, expressing his annoyance—

Fraser wheeled the horse abruptly, staring straight at the lodge. Phin ducked, eased back up to the peephole, and cursed himself. Fool! He'd done it again. He could only hope Fraser was too far off to see the flicker of movement. He should have more self-control by now. He shouldn't have let Fraser startle him. He kept himself at the peephole, determined to make no more mistakes.

The stallion tossed his head angrily. Fraser patted his neck without looking down and watched a moment more, then turned the horse again. They disappeared into the woods.

But Phin didn't believe it. Fraser suspected something. He wasn't done looking. The hoofbeats went off a ways, then stopped. For a while he heard nothing, or maybe a muffled stomp, far off. He watched, certain that Fraser had crept back to the edge of the woods. But he saw only water, sticks, trees—or was that a dark hat brim showing behind a tree trunk?

He stared at it a long time. It never moved. It was a branch.

But the earth rang as a horse stamped its foot somewhere deep in the trees. Fraser was still here. To his small list of advantages, Phin added the stallion's impatience,
and the flies that tickled the slender black legs.

At last something moved; a man-size shadow among the tree trunks, going away. Another ruse, possibly. But after a time Phin heard hoofbeats, steadily receding.

Or were they?

No, they were above the dam. Fraser must believe he'd gone across.

He'd have to circle upstream to bypass the boggy ground. It would take time. Not much, with a horse of that quality, but some. When he reached the other shore, Phin and his scent-laden clothes would be upwind. Time to make another move.

Phin let himself into the pond. He was hot enough that it felt good for several seconds. He gulped water as he swam, cooling himself inside and out.

Abruptly he was too cold, aching with it, gasping. His legs cramped with knifelike pains. He struck out with his arms, reaching for the dam, and sank.

He bobbed up, choking and splashing, and caught at the dam barely in time. Coughing, sobbing, teeth clattering, he dragged himself onto warm dry sticks.

Too much—it was too much. Deep in his ice-cold body a match-flame of fury caught and burned. He wasn't an animal to be hunted like this.

He clenched his jaw to hold back the humiliating chatter. Shuddering, he retrieved his bundle and fumbled it open. Shirt, pants, then the coat, the wonderful coat. It felt warm as a coal stove after its time in the sun. He hugged it around him.

His feet were blue-white. He pulled his socks on, then the shoes, and finally checked his pockets. What did he have?

Matches. Knife.

Rope.

He stood for some minutes, looking at it, then glanced up at the sun. Riding high; edging toward afternoon, even? Best wait for dusk, if that was possible.

Crashing on the other side—the stallion was moving quickly. He'd crossed the brook already, was working his way through the brush toward the shore.

Phin walked back along the dam the way he'd come. He found the stallion's tracks, round and deep in the boggy ground, and followed them into the woods.

He nearly missed the scuffed place in the leaves; walked past it, and thought, Didn't I see something? and retraced his steps.

Faint tracks marked the spongy leaf litter. Phin followed down to the brook. Fraser would come back this way, since it had already proven passable.

Phin retreated upslope to dry footing. The horse would come slowly through brook and bog. When he reached dry land, he'd accelerate. Phin could see it, hear it, and carefully he chose his ground, where the stallion would be moving fast, but not too fast, where the trees grew close around the tracks, where there was only one way through, and where, in the exact place that he needed them, two trees stood close together on opposite sides of the little trail.

A faint shout from across the pond; Fraser trying his ploy again. He seemed very sure of Phin, seemed to know his quarry had not moved on.

Good.

Phin fumbled the rope out of his pocket with numb fingers. Now, how high?

If he got it wrong, this wouldn't work. Fraser would pass beneath the rope unscathed and the next minute have Phin by the collar.

Run the rope low and trip the stallion. That would work.

But Phin couldn't do it, not spill the beautiful animal in the dirt, risk injuring him. It was Fraser he must spill. The horse gave Fraser his advantage. Take that away and what would he be? Just a man, two-legged. And if Phin could catch the stallion…

He reached out with his arms, trying to recreate the
feeling of grooming the horse. About this high—and Fraser was a tall man. His shoulders framed the stallion's ears as he rode. So, put the rope—there. Clumsy with cold, he shinned up and made a knot, slid down, climbed the tree across the trail, rope in hand, and tied it fast.

When he'd finished, it seemed glaringly obvious, a thin dark line in the woods where nothing else was straight. Pathetically hopeful; the woods were wide, and there seemed no real reason for Fraser to take the same trail twice.

So maybe it wouldn't work. The only way to find out was to try.

He returned to the pond cautiously. He didn't want to be seen yet. On the other shore Fraser sat still as a statue in the saddle. The reins were loose. The bit dangled. Phin checked horse and rider against his mental image of them. About right, he thought; probably.

The horse shifted into the wind like a weather vane, nostrils flaring. When he stopped, he was pointing straight at Phin. Fraser reached into his saddlebags and took out a field glass. He aimed where the stallion aimed.

Phin made himself stay still, though the glass alarmed him. Fraser must have used it when he watched from the woods, must have seen something that made him pretty sure.

Fraser watched awhile, then dismounted, dropping the reins. The stallion lowered his head as if tethered to the ground, and Fraser started out along the dam.

In the middle, where Phin had hidden his clothes, he searched the dam itself, crouching and examining the sticks closely. Then he hunkered back and stared at the lodge for a long time.

Go on! Phin thought. Swim out! He would have liked to see that, and know exactly how cold Fraser was.

It didn't happen. Fraser walked back to his horse and got on. The stallion resumed his alert pose, and Fraser resumed scanning with the glass.

Phin let this continue as long as he dared, let the sun slip lower, let more time pass. Hunger grew in him. He felt empty as a starved wolf, and thirsty, too, which seemed ironic. Shivers chased each other up his spine, even in the heavy coat, and yet a strange excitement filled him. In this long cat-and-mouse game, finally he was the cat. He watched the stallion with a kind of craving—the swift slender legs, the ears nervous, flicking. If he could be quick enough when it happened—

Fraser's shoulders slumped. He was giving up. Phin stood.

The glass froze.

Phin took care not to move again. He must act in character. A fugitive under the gaze of his pursuer would be extremely careful, making only one or two mistakes.

Fraser watched intently. The minutes stretched, shadows lengthened and darkened. Short fall days; number four on Phin's list of advantages.

Finally, with a shrug—a theatrical shrug, perfectly visible across the pond—Fraser put away his glass and turned the stallion, riding off into the woods.

Phin listened hard. Yes! He was circling back the way he'd just come.

He was shaking, Phin noticed; not cold this time, excitement. He hurried toward his trap, toward where the stallion would run when Fraser was unseated.

Crashing above the dam as bog sucked at the horse's legs. A last floundering squelch,
rub-a-dub
of hooves on firm ground—

Then came the sound Phin had been waiting for. He was surprised at how small it was; no shout, no rattle of bones. Just a thud, and the stallion burst out of the trees, galloping straight toward him.

T
he stallion's eyes bulged, white at the rims. Phin saw the swerve coming. The horse's momentum carried him closer but already, mid-stride, he was leaning away—

Phin lunged. His fingers brushed slick saddle leather. The stallion shied, melting under his touch, and it wouldn't work, Phin despaired—

The horse stepped on a flying rein, checked briefly, the rein snapped, and he exploded onward. In that brief pause Phin's hand closed on the saddle horn.

He was jerked off his feet, flying along half turned away from the horse. Trees rushed at him. He closed his eyes
and twisted toward the stirrup, grabbing for it with his free hand, struggling to drag himself up, bashed by tree trunks, whipped by branches, thunder in his ears and his arm stretching—

His sweating hand started to slip.

It took forever, fraction by fraction. He was nothing but a hand, a failing grip. The rest of his struggles and flailing, the scratches, the buffets, felt distant, unimportant. Don't…let…

He lost hold suddenly; empty hand, empty air, and the ground came up under him hard.

Leaves under his cheek. Hoofbeats shaking the ground, smaller, farther, lighter, gone.

He opened his eyes. The world spun. He squeezed them shut and lay still.

He didn't know how long he lay there. Cold seeped up from the ground, even through the heavy wool coat, and that was what got him up finally.

The woods around him were completely unfamiliar. He had no idea how far the horse had carried him, or what to do next, which way to go.

Walk, then. Just walk.

His thoughts chased themselves, circling a hole in the center of his mind. He picked his way through the trees
without really seeing them. His eyes couldn't seem to focus. Was it getting darker?

It was getting darker. The sun hid behind fast-moving clouds. A wind mixed streamers of cold air down from above. The wild gray sky matched Phin's mind.

He was in a very strange state. A small, detached part of him knew that, but he lacked the ability to examine it. He walked, not listening behind him anymore, feeling no fear and no urgency and in fact, no anything. Maybe this was all a story in a book. Maybe he wasn't really here.

Darker. Sun behind the hill.

He had no idea why he sat down. His knees just gave suddenly, and he collapsed on the leaves.

Keep going.

While it was still light.

He should…

He picked up a prickly nut, turned it in his fingers, pressed it hard. The sharp burrs hurt. He was here. He lifted the nut and tried to see it through his mental fog.

Nut.

Nut! Beechnut!

He looked around him on the ground. Another. A third. A scattering—

A squirrel on a branch above him scolded loudly.

A squirrel!

Phin got up on hands and knees and scrambled, grabbing nuts, putting them in his pockets. So tiny. So many. He stopped once, opened one with the Barlow knife, popped the sweet kernel into his mouth.

But over there a squirrel was working, getting some—he charged, chased it into the trees, dropped on his knees to hunt for more.

The sun was long down by the time he stopped. He couldn't see beechnuts anymore, could barely see the fallen limbs and twigs he must find to build a fire. It was getting cold. His hands felt raw with it.

He gathered sticks as quickly as he could. Not as many as up in the pinewoods. He had to roam far, though his back and hips and knees ached. Dark drew down rapidly. Returning from his last foray he almost missed his stick pile; stumbled into it by accident.

Better quit.

He wasted a match; it broke when he struck it. But the second flared, and after a few anxious moments feeding in tiny pieces of tinder, the fire took hold.

Phin sat close, stretching his hands to the blaze. He felt light-headed, and in spite of his frenzy about the nuts, not hungry.

That couldn't be true. He must be hungry. The woolly feeling in his head kept him from knowing things, kept the whole world distant. Out beyond him in the dark, he imagined Fraser reunited with his horse, but the figures were tiny, too far away to matter. He took out a handful of nuts—

Never mind nuts. Feed the fire. He shivered in his coat, crouching so close to the flames that the heavy wool started to smoke.

After a while he noticed that his sensible hands, with no urging from his mind, had been cracking beechnuts and supplying them to his mouth. He supposed they tasted good.

They seemed to.

Taste good.

Brr!

Dark now, black dark. No moon. He'd had the moon with him this whole trip. Now it was gone, too.

The last stick was long and thick. He fed it into the fire gradually, shoving it deeper each time the end burned off.

Curled up beside it.

Pillowed his head on the end.

Face warm, anyway.

 

A touch on his cheek awoke him.

He sprang up, hitting and his hand struck something. His eyes popped open.

The sun glittered on a pillowy white landscape. Snow bent the branches and made caves and tunnels of the surrounding woods. The air smelled clean and moist.

In front of him the stallion backed away. He seemed gigantic, crisply black, with round smooth limbs and flowing mane. His eyes sparkled, his nostrils dilated, his tail dusted the snow, and his hard hooves trampled it.

He'd come close, the tracks showed, reached his nose to Phin's cheek. A gesture of friendship?

“Easy,” Phin croaked. His throat hurt, but he was beginning to take in more. A long scratch marred the shining saddle leather. The reins were broken, and the bit still dangled.

Phin held out his hand. The stallion shied.

Something strange about the bridle. Phin's eyes felt prickly. He wasn't sure he was seeing right.

He reached in his pocket for some beechnuts, rattled them on his palm. At that the stallion's ears pricked and his dark eyes brightened. He minced forward, stretching his nose toward Phin's hand. Phin felt the familiar velvet muzzle, the strong lips squirming—

But barely opening. Hot breath on his hand, eagerness, but the horse only fumbled at the nuts.

Phin reached forward with his free hand. He took the dangling, broken rein stubs. The stallion bobbed his head lower, acknowledging capture, and Phin gasped.

The noseband was high on the bones of the stallion's face, and cruelly tight. It pinched the delicate skin into pleats and bulges. A small iron ratchet, like a latch, held it closed. The horse could open his lips but not his jaws, and he couldn't have eaten since Fraser had been swept from his back.

What kind of a man would do a thing like that?

Phin reached for the latch. The stallion tossed his head.

“Easy—” Phin suppressed his cough. Sudden sounds and movement had always disturbed this horse. Gently he scratched the velvet nose, rubbed upward and sideways. “Shh,” he said. “Shh.” A Dennis sound. They don't go by words, Dennis said. They go by what you do.

His fingers touched iron.

The latch was tight and took some strength to open, but it was well-made and worked smoothly. The leather band released. The stallion put his head down, shaking it, then shook his whole body, filling the woods with an enormous shuddering sound and the squeak of saddle leather.
Graciously he accepted a mouthful of beechnuts, delicately mindful of prickles.

Holding the reins as the horse crunched, Phin took his first real look at the morning. Five inches of wet snow had fallen. The clouds above were purple-gray like a pigeon's breast, and moving fast. It wouldn't snow anymore, he thought.

His throat ached badly. His feet were cold, but his hands must have been deep in the coat pockets all night, because they were fine. The heavy wool had kept his heat in, prevented it from melting the snow on top of him. He'd slept warm, really. He was all right. Just lost.

He looked at the horse, the saddle. The bridle with no reins. If only he had his rope—

He listened to the silent woods. Fraser was afoot now—they were both afoot. How far apart? Where was the pond? The road? The farm?

The stallion nudged his pocket. Phin brought out another handful of beechnuts and, offering them, stretched his arm, stepping toward the stirrup. The horse swung his rump away, unwilling for Phin to mount.

“Shh.” It hurt less than speaking. “Shh.”

As the horse took the nuts, Phin grabbed the saddle horn and stabbed his foot at the stirrup. The stallion
whirled, the motion throwing Phin into the saddle. Snowy branches whapped his face. One hit hard, taking his cap. Snow went down his neck.

He ducked low, clinging to the horn with one hand and a twist of mane with the other. The horse wove through trees, his head low. Phin saw tracks, maybe horse tracks, but he was moving too quickly to focus.

Where was he being taken? The pond? The road? Somewhere else entirely? All Phin knew was the spring and power of the animal. He'd ridden mine mules and phlegmatic freighters who trudged and plodded and shuffled and jogged. This was something else entirely. Even the train seemed slow by comparison.

The trees thinned. The horse paused, and Phin raised his head.

In front of him stretched black water; a white-covered mound in the middle of it; a long, white-covered dam. A pair of ducks flew up and the water shuddered; rings spread.

The horse seemed to listen for some sound which didn't come. Now he went to the shore and drank. The rings spreading from his muzzle met the rings from the ducks, a pattern of shivering diamonds on green-black water.

With a sigh the stallion lifted his head. He gazed across the pond, then turned and looked toward the trees. With a little bob of his head he set off up the bank and into the woods, and at a familiar-seeming place, turned downhill.

Phin saw the dark line in the air, and a long shape in the snow beneath, unmoving. No, he thought. No, not dead. He never meant that. A fog filled his stomach.

Fraser lay face up, half flung against a tree. Snow was on him. One hand rested on his leg, gloved fingers loosely pointing toward the sky.

The stallion lowered his head. Phin gripped the saddle horn as dark muzzle brushed dark beard.

Fraser's eyes opened.

Phin vomited; just in time he leaned and missed soiling himself. The stallion shied, dumping him beside Fraser in the snow.

Fraser turned his eyes toward Phin. His tongue passed across his lower lip, moistening it.

“Grass,” he said.