The Empire of Shadows (33 page)

“Twisted my ankle when I turned to run,” Mike told Tom. “Fell on my face. Lucky for me it was beside a rock. A branch whacked me good before I could get up, but I think the rock saved me from the worst of it.”

“Seen men crushed like a bug,” the foreman said. “You was lucky.” Turning to Mitchell he asked, “What were you boys doing down there, anyway?” Mitchell said nothing. He just turned to Tom, who gave the man a shortened version of their story. “Damned bad luck then for you,” the man observed. “Don't suppose you'll catch 'im any time soon.”

Tom looked at Mike. “I don't know. I'd say our luck was pretty good.”

Mama Dupree wasn't a doctor, but she did as good a job of doctoring as any doctor could.

“Ribs ain't broke bad,” was her diagnosis to Tom after she'd had a chance to “see to 'im proper.”

She rigged up a brace around his middle, a corset, really, with some added whalebone extending up the torso. She wrapped it tight and fixed a poultice for his twisted ankle, too, putting a bandage where he'd ripped the skin back in the marsh.

“Can't thank you enough, ma'am,” Tom said late that afternoon as she bustled about the crude kitchen, working up the dinner meal.

“Sure, sure,” she said. “Give 'im some rest; he'll bounce back fine. The young ones always do. Now git on outa here. Got work ta do.”

“How's the boy?” The foreman asked as the men started filing in late in the day. “Better,” Tom said “He's anxious to get moving. The man we're after, he's on the move, I can tell you that.”

The foreman grunted, “Guess I'd be too, if I'd killed a girl. The boy good enough to travel?”

Tom shrugged. “Says he is. Not real sure though. One thing's certain, he won't sit still for long. That girl that was killed, she was his—you know, ah, girlfriend.”

“Oh!” the man said, “I understand now. Won't get far tonight, though. May 's well stay here, get some food in ya.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Tom said. “I wouldn't mind a hot meal, but we gotta go. We're losing ground every second we sit here.” Tom saw 'Brose come in along with the other man who'd taken exception to getting beat. He nodded in their direction. “They won't give us any trouble, will they?”

The foreman smiled. “Nah. They just like ta fight. And from what they say, you really did beat the tar outa them boys.”

“Guess I did,” Tom said.

The foreman laughed. “Them two don't really mean no harm. Just got too much piss an' vinegar, that's all. C'mon, you two,” he said over his shoulder. “You got whupped square,” he said, “now shake an' have done with it.”

The one called 'Brose shoved a hand at Tom. His nose was purple and both eyes were blackened. Tom stood and shook with him.

“No hard feelin's,” 'Brose said, cotton balls stuffed up his nose.

“Sure,” Tom said, uncertain of how to take the peacemaking. “You okay?”

'Brose touched his face and winced. “Ain't the first time had my nose broke. Reckon I'll live.”

Tom smiled. “Had my nose busted twice,” he said. “Hurt like a sonofabitch.”

'Brose grinned. “Hell, I'm jus' glad my head's still 'tached. Hope the boy mends up,” he said, then turned and walked out. The other one shook without a word, then turned and limped away.

“That'll keep 'em quiet a couple o' days, I reckon,” the foreman said. “You're the first man ever licked both of 'em.”

Mike winced as he rolled out onto his side a few minutes later, then pushed himself upright. He gripped the edge of the bed and clenched his teeth.

“Okay?” Tom asked, his eyes narrowing.

Mike nodded.

“Take it slow.”

“Mama Dupree's got some things fixed up for you. Keep you goin',” the foreman said, shaking with them when they were ready. “Good luck.”

Tom, Mike, and Mitchell set off into the growing gloom, the logging camp fading into the woods in a feeble glow. Disembodied voices singing along with a screeching fiddle echoed for a few minutes before the forest swallowed them whole.

Mike was afraid to tell Tom how bad he was hurting, afraid if he showed his pain he'd be left behind. Every breath was a deep ache and sometimes a sharp stab that seemed to lock his lungs up so he could hardly breathe at all. He felt bruised all over, as if someone had taken a bat to him. When they set out, all Mike carried was the Winchester. Tom split Mike's load between him and Mitchell. Mike was grateful, but still barely able to keep up.

It didn't take Mitchell long to find Tupper's trail. He went to where they had been stopped by the falling trees, then searched the ground in the direction Tupper had been heading. Somehow, in the gray light Mitchell sniffed out the trail. They were far behind Tupper now, so far they had little hope, unless he stopped. Still they plodded forward, trusting whatever luck was theirs. None of them spoke of giving up.

The forest was cool. The sky brooded like a leaden sea, hovering so low it seemed they might bump their heads on it. They trudged through the woods as in a netherworld, a place not quite of this earth, where outlines faded one into the other. Shapes and shadows in the trees seemed to be more than they were, as if another forest lurked just behind the one they could see. It had become a cold unsettling place. The warm browns and greens of the day were warm no longer. Spirits sagged as the hours wore on.

Even Mitchell seemed weighed down. He went forward bent double, trying to see Tupper's prints. Mike's ribs ached so bad he couldn't bend much at all, and he was panting like a dog. Still, there was no complaining. Though Tupper had melted into the heart of the forest primeval, they would follow. Though the forest was vast and deep, so deep no man could know it all, they knew in time he would surface. When he did, they would be there. They were his shadow, dogging his steps, nipping at his heels. Only a dead man loses his shadow.

They passed through the forest like shadows, a bent fern, the snap of a twig, the scuff of a boot their only markers. When the sun had given up the last of its light, Mitchell stopped.

“We can go no further,” he said, shucking off his pack, “not without light.”

He rummaged in his pack, pulling out a kerosene lamp. “I figure we're about three hours behind,” he said. He lit the lamp and adjusted the wick to get the best light. “We can track him for that long before we'll have to camp. I don't know about you, but I don't care for the idea of coming upon him with a lantern in my hand.”

“No argument here,” Tom said. “Best to get after him again at first light.” He looked at Mike, who was pale and sweating. “Maybe we better take a rest for a few minutes, though.”

Mitchell agreed. He turned out the lamp and they sat for a while in the darkness, nibbling at the food Mama Dupree had given them. They rested only fifteen minutes, but Mike felt better for it.

In fact, it was he who got up first. He picked up the Winchester and said, “Ready?”

They trudged on through the night, following the yellow halo of Mitchell's lamp. More than once Tom imagined it was a ghost they followed, a spirit of the forest, leading them farther away from all they had ever known. He tried not to think that way, but it was hard not to.

When at last they stopped, it was a cold camp they made. They lit no fire, cooked no food. They bedded down together in the shadow of a big boulder, crawling into their blankets spread on a bed of hemlock. Mitchell extinguished the light and they were asleep within minutes. Wisely or not, they kept no watch. They were too exhausted. They did, however, sleep with their weapons.

The sun had started to paint the horizon a pale rose when Tom woke. Mitchell was already up, standing with his back to Tom, looking at the lightening forest as the trees emerged from the morning mist. Tom studied the old Indian. There was something timeless about the way he stood, silent and watchful. Tom felt as if he saw Mitchell's elemental self, the culmination of a long, unbroken line of forest men, centuries of knowledge and lore and skill passed down from father to son. He seemed ageless, timeless, a man not entirely of this world. Mitchell unbuttoned his pants and sighed as he urinated on the leaves.

They came upon Tupper's camp within an hour. It wasn't more than a mile and a half from where they'd slept. Tupper had made no fire. Like them, he'd slept on the ground. Mitchell examined the site. He dug under the leaves and came up with a white bandage caked with dried blood, with a bright red center.

“Changed bandages. There's some blood here and there. Nothing serious.” Mitchell felt the ground, a shallow depression in the leaves where Tupper had slept. “Cold. He was up at first light, just like us.”

“At least we've gained on him,” Tom said. “Might be as close as we were before the tree fell on Mike.”

Mike smiled. “That'd be good,” he said. Part of him was feeling guilty for getting in the way of that tree and ruining their chances. “Let's keep going.”

It was late in the afternoon when they stumbled across a road. There was no way to know it was there. It just appeared before them, a narrow tunnel in the trees, rutted, with high grass down the middle. They stood there for several heartbeats, heads swiveling left and right as if they'd never seen such a thing in their lives.

“Logging road,” Mitchell said. Though it was barely a whisper, it seemed loud, and Mike imagined the words echoing down the tunnel for miles. “Probably goes back to the camp that way,” he said, pointing to his right.

“You think he took this?” Tom asked, looking at the ground. It hadn't rained for days, and the sandy soil would not hold a track well.

“Maybe,” Mitchell said. “I would. That way heads to Tupper Lake,” he said with a nod to the left. “Stay here. I'll check for signs.”

Mitchell stepped across the road. The way he did it reminded Tom of a man crossing train tracks, with a care for what might be coming around the bend.

“Nothing,” Mitchell said. He came back to stand in the road. Slowly he walked in the direction of Tupper Lake. He stopped twice, checking the ground and grass, then without a backward glance waved for them to follow.

The road wound through the forest for miles. At times it did not seem like a road at all where the grass grew thick, or where a rocky runoff crossed. Still, it had seen use. Wagon tracks were visible and the occasional pile of manure was recent.

They were stopped for a short rest when Mitchell turned to look back the way they'd come. Tom and Mike looked too. There was nothing to see.

“What is it?” Tom asked. Though his ears had grown sharp, they were still city ears.

“Someone coming,” Mitchell said. “Wagon.”

Movement through the trees became a horse. A buggy came behind. Four men rode in it, rifles bristling. Tom checked his pistol, flicking off the safety. Mike did the same. They stood still, letting the buggy come to them.

“That's Uncle Chowder in the back,” Mike said, amazed. Tom grunted agreement.

Though he was glad to see Chowder, he knew who the other men must be.

“Put up your weapons,” MacDougal called. Tom saw three rifles swivel toward them.

“Dinna move!”

“Do what he says, Mike,” Tom said. “Don't worry.”

Mike propped the Winchester against a tree, feeling suddenly naked.

“You too. Both o' you,” MacDougal said, waving his rifle at Tom and Mitchell. “Pistols, too.”

The buggy was close then. It stopped and MacDougal hopped down followed by Chowder and the two deputies. Chowder hung back, eyeing the others, one hand hooked on his belt. He winked at Tom and Mike.

“You're Braddock?” MacDougal said. Not waiting for an answer, he added, “And this'd be your murdering rapist of a boy,” but in a tone that Tom took to be sarcastic, as if the man didn't believe it. Tom bristled anyway, baring his teeth in a low snarl.

“Don't look like such to me, from the looks of 'im,” MacDougal added. “But then, we don't get much o' that kind up here.” He threw open his jacket, showing his badge. “Sheriff MacDougal,” he said. “Been lookin' for you, but I expect you figured that.”

When neither Tom nor Mike answered, he shrugged and said, “You dinna look surprised to see me. Put your hands out, Laddie.”

The rifles didn't waver. There was a long moment of silence. Mike looked to Tom, who gave him a slight nod. MacDougal pulled a pair of cuffs from a back pocket. “Hands in front,” he said. Mike watched in a trance as the steel clicked shut around his wrists.

“Sorry for this,” MacDougal said, “but it's a thing that's got to get done. You'll be going back wi' one o' the deputies to stand before a magistrate.”

He turned to Tom and Mitchell. “An' your part in this is done, you two. You've got no jurisdiction here. Anyway, I suppose you'll be wantin' to go back with your boy.”

Tom nodded. He might do more for Mike in the courts than in the woods, but giving up was not a thing Tom had a taste for. He swallowed it whole for now, the bitter flavor of defeat nearly gagging him.

“You still going after Tupper?” Tom asked.

“Aye. He's an escaped murderer, if reports are to be believed, and we can't have none o' them mucking around in our woods, scaring tourists an' such.”

Tom looked at Chowder. MacDougal followed his gaze.

“An' he's going with me. Just him, mind you. One o' you city cops're more trouble than I need. 'Sides, you're too damn close to this. No telling what ye might do.”

Turning to Mitchell, he said, “Sabattis, you're welcome to come if you like.”

Mitchell shrugged. “Guess I won't,” he said.

They started off again, Mike riding handcuffed with MacDougal and the deputies, Tom and Chowder walking behind. Mitchell walked ahead, tracking.

“How the hell you find us?” Tom asked. “I couldn't even find myself in these damn woods.”

Chowder chuckled. “A good guess and some luck. The sheriff found the boats on the lake. He had a report of all the shooting and checked it out,” Chowder said. “A clever enough fella for local law, by the way.”

Tom shrugged. He wasn't in the mood to hear how good the sheriff was just then.

“Found the spot where you went into the woods after Tupper,” Chowder went on. “He figured you'd be going more or less for Tupper Lake, so he tried to head you off. MacDougal knew about that logging camp. His cousin's the foreman. MacDougal thought there was a chance you might have been there. We were there this morning. They told us about you,” Chowder said.

Tom nodded. “So you were trying to get ahead of us?”

“Something like that. MacDougal figured it might be easier than trying to catch up to you. Oh!” Chowder said, suddenly remembering, “Mary gave me this.” Chowder handed the swatch of cloth to Tom.

“Hmph. Damn near forgot about this. Seems years since I found it.” Tom said, turning it over in his hand, imagining the man who'd worn it. “Listen, Chowder, be careful with this one. He's dangerous. Tell you the truth, it might be more than one man. Mitchell, our guide, he says the man who shot at us back at Forked Lake was right-handed. Tupper's left-handed.”

Chowder shook his head. “Wait a minute. Who the hell shot at you?”

“Same man killed our last guide,” Tom said. “Might've been Tupper. Might not. We never saw him.”

Chowder frowned. “You've been havin' all the fun without me again,” he said, wagging a finger at him.

Tom smiled. “Not exactly. Listen, I've got to have a talk with MacDougal.”

Chowder grinned and said, “He knows there might be another man. Told me he found evidence of a second man near where Mike and the girl had their little tryst.”

Tom looked surprised. “How in hell?”

“Seems that was a popular spot with the help,” Chowder said. “One o' the maids told him. Mike's girl told her she was going to take him there. Besides,” he added with a nod of his head toward where MacDougal walked with Mitchell, the two deep in conversation, “I think he knows most o' that by now.”

Tom nodded. “Maybe MacDougal's okay,” he allowed. It made Tom feel a little better, knowing MacDougal wasn't the buffoon he'd feared he'd be. Still, Tom was afraid to fully voice his fear to Chowder, afraid of sounding weak to his old friend.

He needn't have worried. Chowder knew Tom better than to ever think him weak. He understood Tom's concern.

“Don't worry,” Chowder said, trying to make light of Tom's warning. “That's what we do, catch the dangerous ones.”

“Yeah I know, I know. But this one—you didn't see what happened to our other guide,” Tom said, looking straight at Chowder, catching his eye. “The man who wore this shirt,” he said, holding up the cloth as if it might poison him, “is capable of anything. Don't take chances. If you see him, shoot him. And watch your back.”

“But he's worth more to you alive, I mean to Mike and all.”

“Well sure, but so are you.”

Chowder chuckled. “Hell, Tommy, the bad guys haven't killed me yet. Too much of a damn, stubborn Irishman.”

Tom wasn't laughing.

The wagon stopped ahead. Tom and Chowder caught up. Mitchell had disappeared. They heard him in a thick patch of beech. He emerged in a minute and waved.

“Gone off the road here,” he said, pointing to signs neither Tom nor Chowder could see. The rest grunted as if they could read the trail as clearly as Mitchell.

MacDougal, Chowder, and one of the deputies split off once they shouldered their packs. Mitchell, Tom, and the second deputy rode with Mike in the wagon.

Tom put his hand out to Chowder. “See ya,” he said. Chowder grinned in reply and turned to follow MacDougal. Tom watched him check his pistol as he disappeared into the trees.