White Silence (21 page)

Danny had sat with his cup of tea and a bit of bread, paying no mind. He’d stared out, past the fire, past the dogs, past the Indian lying in the sled, past the other two of his kind.

On the horizon, he could have sworn that he saw a ship, all sails rigged, cresting the pure white waves. He’d recognized it, though that could not possibly be—it was the very ship that had brought him across the great ocean when he was a wee child. He’d narrowed his gaze, and it was gone, vanished into the sunlight.

Hour after hour, one foot at a time. Danny had searched and searched for another glimpse of the vessel. He’d seen the dancing figures again. He’d seen the wolves, loping in a perfectly straight line not more than five hundred feet away. They turned their heads, and their eyes were washed with rainbow hues. He’d seen other eyes, laughing eyes, green, blue, floating before him.

But he hadn’t seen the ship, until he stood at the top of the hill. There it had been, all of a sudden, right before him! The gangplank lowered, and a voice bade him come aboard. He had stepped forward—and found himself falling, falling through a silent space of brightness.

He’d lain stunned on the snow. Behind his closed eyes, rainbow colors flashed and flashed again. Like fireworks they were, exploding in his head.

Then Hugh was there, bending over him. Danny had heard the worry in his voice.

And when he’d opened his eyes, all he’d seen was—white.

Siwash Sam had decided. The cheechakos must all hear what he had to say. By now he knew that they took their lead from the Scotsman. But this must be said to all, not one.

He asked to be brought closer to the fire. Then he began to speak.

“Four dogs we have left,” he said. “One no good. He trouble. He should be shot.” He doubted they would do that though, and he hadn’t the strength.

“Even if he not, four dogs not enough for what is to come.”

The Scotsman looked straight into Sam’s eyes then. Sam could read a great worry there, but no fear.

“The wind from the south—it will bring more snow with it.”

The Englishman swore under his breath.

“Maybe as much as before, maybe more.”

“When will this be?” the Scotsman asked.

Sam shrugged, then winced at the pain.

“After the dark comes tomorrow. After the first light of the day after. Soon.”

“Well, what can we bloody do about it?” the Englishman said. “It’s not like there’s some snug hotel nearby that we can check into until the storm is over.”

“I will tell you. The fort of the redcoats is not far now. If a man were to travel light, it could be reached before the snows came again.” He took a deep breath. That caused him to gasp and choke.

“Leave me. Leave the gold. Take only what you need for four days journey. Leave at first light, and do not stop.”

“I’ll not be a part of leaving the gold behind,” the Irishman said. “Sighted or not, I’ll fight the man who tries to do so.”

Sam sighed. He had expected that. And what came next.

“And I’ll not be a part of leaving Siwash Sam.”

“My journey is about to end, Scotsman. You know that. I have seen the knowledge in your eyes.”

The Scotsman shook his head, firmly. “We came through one storm. We can survive another. We’ll make it to the fort, all of us. Together.”

Sam could do no more. He thought of taking the knife and opening the big vein in his throat. Even the Scotsman would leave him if his spirit were no longer in his body. But that would not be a death with honor, worthy of his brother and of the bear.

In Skagway, he had made a pledge to these cheechakos. Though he needed them now far more then they needed him, he had given his word. So he must live on and see this through, whatever lay ahead.

Chapter 10

“Well,” Fitzcairn said, as he pointed. A small log cabin lay ahead, nestled in a stand of winter-bare trees. “Do my eyes deceive me, or is that not a snug hotel!”

Duncan braked the sled. The four remaining dogs, harnessed now in a fan shape, dropped in the snow. They’d been on the move scarcely an hour, making decent time under the rapidly lowering sky.

“Shall we check in?” he added.

“Wait,” Sam said weakly. “It always wise to knock before opening door.”

“I’ll go.” Duncan said. He handed the leather leads to Fitz and drew the
katana
from the gear on the sled.

The one-room cabin, it turned out, was not occupied. From the doorway, Duncan quickly surveyed the interior. There was an iron cot on the right, a tangle of blankets thrown over it. The headless pelt of a white bear lay on the floor in front of the stone fireplace set in the middle of the back wall.

Duncan entered cautiously. He bent down by the fireplace. A poker lay on the rough hearth, amid a scattering of cold ashes.

Opposite the bed was a table, shoved against the wall. One leg was missing, and it only stood upright because it was propped on a protruding wood knot.

There was an unpleasant odor in the air, which he traced to a half-full chamber pot shoved under the bed and fresh mouse droppings on the floor.

Whoever had lived here had left sometime ago, he judged. The cabin seemed secure. And the wind was rising.

In a short time, they did indeed check in. Sam was made as comfortable as possible in the bed. Fitz, holding his nose dramatically, emptied the chamber pot some distance from the cabin. Danny, who’d wakened that morning with his vision restored, found a broken broom and set to work sweeping the floor.

Duncan inspected the immediate surroundings. He found a nearly empty woodpile, sheltered from the snow by a slanting roof, behind the cabin. Loading his arms, he carried the wood inside. Then he checked the two square holes cut in the front wall that served as windows. They were covered in heavy canvas, tied down by thick rope looped through iron rings driven into the wall.

He looked around. Everything, even the sled, had been brought inside. They could wait out the storm here, and be back on the trail by tomorrow.

The tension in his shoulders began to ease. He crossed the room to help Fitz and Danny stow the supplies out of reach of the dogs, on the high shelves by the table.

As he did, the first blast of wind-whipped snow rattled against the heavy canvas over the windows.

The snow stung his face, icy pins and needles, stitching a pattern of pain on his cheeks and forehead.

Around him, the cannon thundered, bright flashes of red, fire against the white, blood against the white.

Then a man came out of the whiteness. He felt him before he saw him, a black-robed figure, like Death itself, walking the battlefield.

But this man was not death, oh no—quite the opposite. He was life and hope. And he spoke to Duncan in a low voice, asking him questions, telling him things that would change his life forever.

Duncan reached out his hand to call Darius back—and the hand that held his was soft and delicate. The face before him was golden in the light of the low fire.

Outside the tent, the wind howled on. Gently he touched her face, then slowly unwrapped her from her layers of fur.

He was her student no longer, he was now just a man and she a woman. And the battle that they fought, naked body to naked body, was one that had no loser.

He kissed her then, and whispered good-bye May-ling, as the snow caught on her lashes, melting on her cheeks like icy tears. She opened her mouth, threw back her head and growled deep in her throat—

He opened his eyes, just as the guttural growls turned to furious barking.

In the darkest corner of the cabin, he could barely see two of the dogs, facing one another.

He rolled to his feet. Fitz had already found the lantern. He lit it and brightness filled the room.

The dogs were too intent on one another to notice. They had fallen silent. Heads lowered, they stood only feet apart, each waiting for the right moment to attack.

“Bloody damn brute!” Fitz muttered. “Vixen!” He spoke sharply to the brown-and-white bitch who stood by him, growling softly. “Stay!”

The dog obeyed him, Duncan was glad to see. It was going to be hard enough to keep Rip and Klute apart without having a third animal to deal with. Bigfoot—well, Bigfoot was cowering under the table, whimpering.

The three Immortals approached warily. Rip seemed to take notice of them but Klute did not. Seeing that his adversary was distracted, he sprang at the other dog, all teeth and fury. But a sharp blow from the butt of Danny’s rifle threw him to one side.

Fitz quickly grabbed Rip and dragged the dog across the cabin. Duncan and Danny turned their attention to Klute, who was back on his feet. He slunk into the corner and faced the two men, snarling defiantly.

“Should I not shoot the devil here and now, and be done with it?” Danny said as he raised the rifle to his shoulder.

“No.” Duncan grabbed the barrel. He looked toward the iron cot where Sam lay in a desperately deep sleep.

“He’s strong still, maybe even stronger than Rip. We’ll need him when the storm is over.”

For a long moment, Danny stood, rifle still aimed at the dog. Then he gave a small shrug. “What, then?” he asked.

Duncan considered. There was the whip. What had Sam said? If the dogs were hungry enough, they’d lose the fear of the whip and of the men.

If he tried the whip and it failed, there would be no answer other than Danny’s.

Instead of the whip then, he’d use the hunger.

“Fetch me a bit of the dried fish, and a length of rope,” he instructed Danny. “And my gloves,” he added, as the dog lowered his head, teeth bared.

Danny and Fitz kept back as Duncan crouched down. He extended the food with his left hand. Klute sniffed suspiciously, then came forward slowly. He was still growling, but the fur on his neck lay smooth.

As the dog reached out to take the fish, Duncan quickly slipped the rope over his head. Klute jerked back, then lunged at Duncan, biting viciously, tearing through the glove to the flesh beneath.

Fitz grabbed the rope, pulling the dog off Duncan. The animal raged on, but it was done. They tied him to one of the iron rings that held down the canvas over the windows. As a precaution, Rip, too, was tied, to the leg of the bed.

By the lanternlight, Duncan examined his hand. The bite wasn’t deep—the glove had taken the worst of it. There would be no sign of it by morning. He glanced at Sam. Best he had slept through it all. He would have noticed the hand healing, just as he had noticed how quickly Danny’s snow blindness passed. He hadn’t spoken of it, but Duncan knew.

“Do you need anything, laddie?” Fitzcairn asked.

“No,” Duncan replied, blowing out the lantern.

As he was drifting back to sleep, he heard Fitz’s voice in the darkness imploring all the saints and angels to stop the bloody howling of the bloody wind.

“How bloody long has it been?” Fitz asked.

“Three days,” MacLeod replied.

“So says the heathen,” Danny said. “How are we to know for a fact? We’ve not seen a thing but these four walls since this storm began.”

“We can’t know for certain,” MacLeod answered. “But Sam—”

“The Indian’s guess is as good as yours or mine,” Fitz interrupted. “But if we don’t get out of here in the very near future, we’re all going to die from the stench.” He took a deep breath, then blew it out.

“Or at least we may wish we were dead.”

Four men, four dogs, three or four days—and no open windows. The Highlander had tried—once only—to open a flap of the canvas and empty the chamber pot.

The result had not been pleasant. Years from now, he would no doubt remind MacLeod of it relentlessly. At the moment, the humor in the situation was elusive.

For adding to the problem was the foul smell rising from the Indian’s leg. MacLeod was deeply concerned about it, and rightly so.

Once or twice, Fitz helped him change the dressing on the wound. An infection had set in. It wasn’t gangrene. All of them, Danny included, had seen that horror.

But it was serious enough. Pus seeped from the edges of the tear in the skin where the broken bone had protruded. Even if the bone itself was knitting, the wound would not heal.

They still had some sulfa powder left in the medical kit, and MacLeod used it carefully. He applied hot compresses, which seemed to ease the swelling somewhat. And he brewed a tea from what looked to Fitz like bits of twigs and bark that helped the pain.

Yet the wound wept still, and the Indian grew feverish. His moans filled the cabin, louder sometimes than the incessant sound of the storm that still raged outside.

Fitz sighed, lighting his pipe from a firebrand. Small blessing, that. Within these four walls, he could at least have his tobacco. And for a brief time, the aromatic smoke rising in the still air would mask the stronger scents of human and animal frailty.

Danny sat at the three-legged table, polishing his sword. Sure and there was no more need for him to keep his weapon out of sight, by his figuring. Hadn’t the Highlander drawn his fancy sword more than a time or two in front of the heathen?

The man was dying, anyway. It was plain to see.

More gold for the three of them, then.

Daaa—

A whisper, under the wind.

Daa-nee

He looked around sharply. Hugh sat smoking by the fire. MacLeod was slumped on the floor by the bed, dozing.

Daaa-neeeee

Louder now, more of a scream. But not a one of the dogs even pricked up an ear.

Danny swallowed. His heart was racing, his hands shaking.

Danny-boy.

A voice, a clear voice. He turned his head, and caught a glimpse of white, fading like the sun sparking on the snow.

We’re here, Danny-boy

“No! Bloody hell, no!” Fitz’s face was flushed with anger. He stood toe-to-toe with Duncan in the center of the room.

Duncan glanced over at Sam. The Indian watched him impassively.

“The food was measured out when we left the valley, Fitz. For a certain number of days. We’re past that time already. The storm may be over, but we’re not going to be able to go on for a while. Have you looked outside? There’s four feet or more of fresh snow out there. And it’s still coming down.”