Jack Pine, page 3
He shook his head slowly.
“Don’t think that’s going to happen anytime soon?”
“Ya, probably not. So then, yer on official business up here?” Pete nodded. “Brought your reinforcements, I see.”
Gus leaned over and spat into the water. His white beard was smoothed back from wind still and his watery red eyes glared out from a cliff of a forehead.
“Survived the channel crossing so I’m ready for anything.”
Pete grinned. “Oh, ya, now you’re supposed to go through there quarter-speed, but if yer on police business then that’s different here.”
“I’m looking for a big Indian, Pete.”
“Ya, who’s that?”
“Tommy Tobin.”
He leaned back.
“Oh ya, picked that up off the wire.” He smoothed his mustache and chinned his shoulder. “Heard he was up pushing boats there for Jeep for a while. I see you’re expecting some trouble from the look of that hardware there. You aren’t after him for not paying his taxes, then?”
Reuger thumbed his hat up.
“Trouble down by Pine Lodge. A logger shot and his slasher burned. Maybe a rape.”
Pete’s face darkened. He turned around, pointing over his shoulder.
“You be headed for his cabin, then?”
“Don’t find him at the portage.”
“Ya, that Tobin could be a hard one to find there if he wants to disappear.”
“Think so?”
“No one can disappear like an Indian, you know.”
Reuger tugged the brim of his hat.
“Keep an eye for me, will you, Pete?”
“Oh ya, you bet.”
* * * *
An hour later, they puttered toward a man in green waders with a camouflaged cap. Blue buoys strung the bay marking the convex bend of the falls roaring like a far train. International Falls separated the United States and Canada, and on the far side, a steel peg drilled into a slab of granite marked the official line. Reuger watched the clear green glass sheer the rocky cliff before exploding into white snow where four or five deadheads lay on the break. The man pulled his oily cap lower.
“Ah, the sheriff, it is,” he called wading toward them.
Reuger raised his hand.
“How she go, Jeep?”
“Oh, not bad here.”
The falls dumped water from Moose Lake down to Basswood but to get a boat down to the lower lake required the boat be manually towed down a road. Reuger watched another boat on a trailer of spoke wheels plunge into the lake and float off. Six young men in cut-off shirts and crew cuts manned the modified boat trailer. Reuger cut the engine and guided his boat into the slide of the empty trailer.
“Fishing, sheriff?” Jeep asked, guiding the boat.
Reuger jumped down into the water.
“What say, Jeep?”
“Fishing, I say?”
“Might say that.”
Jeep Pardu stood in the water, facing a high school boy in a cutoff shirt and bathing suit. Jeep was a wiry man with a mottled nose, pockmarked cheeks, and small, squinty eyes. He wore his hat low and wiped a bulbous nose. He’d been working the portage as long as Reuger could remember and took his name from the broken down jeep he used to pull the boats across.
“So, now, where are the others?” he asked the boy.
He shrugged and pointed down the road.
“Bringing up some fisherman’s boats there.”
“Well, tell them to hurry here, damn it. Sheriff’s boat here going to need taking across.”
Jeep turned back to the bay hearing the motor of another approaching boat.
“Now what in hell? They get a good workout here, and I get a lot of trouble taking these here boats down from Sucker to Basswood Lake and back up again, that I do!”
Four boys jogged up the road like a squad of soldiers, and Jeep barked two up front and two in back. The trailer streamed water as it rolled ashore onto the sand road.
Jeep hollered down the road.
“All clear!”
Reuger leaned against the transom of the boat while the boys pulled the trailer toward the steep hill. The tires rutted canals smelling of dead fish and algae. Jeep kept one hand on the trailer.
“Not yet! Pull back! Don’t want to lose this to the forest here!”
Reuger dug his heels into the packed road against the strain of five hundred pounds of metal and gear starting to roll. The boys trenched the road with legs locked.
“NOW! Let her go!”
They ran the clay-packed road with the giant tricycle boring down the incline of International Falls with the wheels spinning water. They reached the bottom then rolled up a brake hill before slow-rolling back down to the landing ramp. The boat floated free and the boys pulled out and started up the hill with the empty trailer. Reuger splashed water on his neck and cupped the cold water to his mouth. Across the bay, the red maple leaf of Canada flapped in the strong breeze. Men in wide-brimmed hats and boots walked between tidy cabins with new boats lining the shore.
So now, what be yer business, Sheriff?” Jeep called walking down the hill with Gus. “By yer hardware I guess you not be fishing today!”
“Nope,” he said, wringing his hands then climbing onto the briny dock.
The men stared at the Canadian side of Basswood Lake with the pines clipped around cabins like homes in suburbia. The bay was so small they could have thrown a rock across and hit one of the cabins. A man with binoculars peered across the bay.
“Assholes always looking across there.” Jeep grumbled, picking a scab on his scarred cheek. “Give them the finger when they use them binoculars.”
“How come yer don’t have new cabins like them Canadians there?”
Jeep turned to Gus with hot eyes.
“The government is too cheap here! So there’s that, but they aren’t too cheap to let them tree huggers take away me jeep! Been pulling my boats for twenty years here with me own jeep, and they come up and say people have to pull their own boats now?” He stared accusingly. “People! People! They give me this goddamn tricycle here to haul a five-hundred-pound boat loaded with gear up a steep hill? By God, and who am I going to get to pull these boats here?” Jeep shook his head. “Them tree huggers shrug and say people wantin’ to go to Basswood Lake here have to pull they own boats. Weren’t for high school footballers here with the coach a givin’ me his linemen every summer to pull these here boats, I be out of business and that I would!”
He glared at the Canadians once more then turned.
“Now, would yer like some coffee, Sheriff, here, afore yer head on?”
“What say, Gus?”
“Could use a warm-up here.”
“Well, come on then,” Jeep grumbled, hobbling to a bark cabin of screens stuffed with tissue paper.
The cabin smelled of burnt wood and wet rugs. A chipped enamel sink was against one wall, next to a dirty white refrigerator. Property of the United States Forest Service was enameled to a wood-burning stove squatting in the far corner with ash snowing beneath. The warped planks groaned and moved as the men crossed the floor. Jeep filled the mugs by the sink and gestured to a pine scarred table with four folding chairs.
“This cabin here isn’t fit for a dog while them damn Canadians look like they just a come out of a store!” Jeep pulled off his greasy cap and squinted across the mirror-perfect bay. His head was smooth and brown with gray at the temples. “Country here with our size and wealth, and we should look so bad to them Canuckians!” He jabbed the window. “Make sure I get me flag up before that damn maple leaf of theirs starts a flapping, I tell you that!”
He shut one eye with the craters and crevices of his skin deeper in the window light. Jeep rested forward on his elbows like a man about to spit.
“So what brings yer up this way here, Sheriff?”
Reuger put his hat on the table and hooked a boot over his knee.
“Looking for an Indian. Tommy Tobin.”
“Oh, ya! Now he could pull a boat, that one. Give me four of them Indians, and I could get rid of these sniveling kids here,” he shouted, hitting the initial carved top. “God, ya, that Tobin pulls a boat up by himself! Strong as an ox that one, yes sir!”
“When did he work for you last, Jeep?”
He tugged his cap and rubbed his jaw with blackened fingers.
“So, now, let me think here, Sheriff, you know I employ a lot of people and don’t ask a lot of questions, just give me an honest day’s work and I’ll give you cash is my motto.” He lowered his voice. “So now of course that don’t hold for the high school boys here, but they get a good work out, way I see it.” He looked at the ceiling. “So there, then, let’s see, weren’t in the last two weeks, so must have been week before he was up here….Course I never knew if he were coming back that one, but he would appear at the landing and pull boats until nightfall most times.”
Reuger set the mug down.
“Last time he worked for you?”
“Ya, course, I almost asked him yesterday if he wanted to work, but he slipped by that one, by God he did!”
“Yesterday?” Gus stared. “Yer just said you ain’t seen him for three weeks!”
“No.” Jeep shook his head. “Now, that’s not what I said here. Sheriff asked me here when he worked for me last. But no one asked me when I seen him last. Now, that’s a horse of a different color then.”
“Saw him yesterday then, Jeep?”
“Oh, ya, by God,” he nodded. “Come through here like a bat out of hell, that one, carrying his canoe across, walking through them boys here and putting his canoe in the other side, and by the time I come out, he was paddling for Canada. By God, he was!”
“Thanks for the coffee,” Reuger nodded standing.
“Ya, sure, always my pleasure here, Sheriff.”
They walked the dock with sun glaring hotly off the water. Reuger started the motor while Jeep untied the boat. A seaplane banked the far trees.
“Ya, them Canadians still get their goods flown in by God,” Jeep grumbled as the plane skied down on the far side. “Used to get steaks and beer flown up here until them tree huggers badgered that Nixon into banning the flyovers, but them Canucks have a plane come in every damn day!”
“We’ll see you, Jeep,” Reuger called turning the boat into the lake.
“So then, almost forgot, Sheriff.” He put his hand up. “What do you want with this Indian here?”
“Ask a few questions,” he shouted back.
“With that hardware there,” he yelled. “He’s likely to answer them!”
5
REUGER ZAGGED UP the muddy path disappearing into the forest with the pump-action shotgun in his right hand. He saw a flicker flying through the trees as sun seared his shirt back. He turned to his boat far below nudging a fallen tree. He turned back around and stared up toward the hidden cabin cresting the island. The government had made a deal with the Ojibwa, and part of the deal was Tommy Tobin’s grandfather was allowed to keep his cabin in the Boundary Waters. Tommy was the last of the line.
“Something!” Gus whispered.
They moved up the trail slowly until they saw a roof peaking the trees. The cabin burrowed into the hill but the roof had caved in over the door and some of the logs had rotted to dust. The door hung partially open by two straps of leather. Moss and sod eaved the roof and hung low like an awning. Reuger held the shotgun tight with the steel slippery in his palms.
“Cover me. Going to take a look inside here,” he whispered.
They were crouched down ten yards from the cabin. Gus gripped the Winchester like a man holding on for life. His face was red.
“Reuger, I ain’t that good a shot.”
“Just watch my back then,” he whispered, standing from the scraggly jack pines with the shotgun waist high, creeping over crackling fireweed and dead life.
Reuger hunched and tried to peer through the plastic wrap stretched across the windows. He flattened himself against the log wall then nudged the door with the barrel of the shotgun. An orange refrigerator with a gallon of Jack Daniel’s inside and a box of Spic and Span. Green painted cabinets stood empty, and a wood-burning stove had rusted orange. He lowered the shotgun and motioned Gus forward.
“No Indian, huh,” Gus called, appearing from the woods like some old trapper.
“Doesn’t look like he’s been here for a long time.”
“Not very good at housekeeping, is he?” Gus walked into the cabin. “Finished his whiskey, I see.” He dropped the bottle. “So, what yer think?”
Reuger went to the door and stared into the forest. The trees didn’t move. There was something, an extra vibration. Something that shouldn’t be there. He turned as a thrash of cold air whipped his ear with the sonic whine trailing the arrow into the back wall. Reuger dove to the floor and kicked the door closed with tree dust winding the planks. He stared at the arrow buried halfway up the shank in the back wall.
“Think we found him here,” Gus muttered with dust in his beard and mouth, flecking his cheeks, lying on the floor like a cripple.
A second arrow creaked the door with the head thrusting the other side.
“Gettin’ better with them arrows.” Gus spat floor dust. “By God, just when you think yer seen everything, you get shot at by an Indian with an arrow!”
“History’s a cycle.” Reuger crawled the floor. “Going out the roof there, Gus, and see if I can circle behind him.”
Gus levered up a shell and lowered his eye to the aiming pin of the Winchester.
“I’m goin’ to lay here, and anything come through that door I’m goin’ to shoot.”
Reuger jumped on the table and peered over the roof sloping back to the hill. He laid the shotgun on the thatch and lifted himself onto the moss-covered grass and sticks then crawled back to the trees. He picked up the shotgun and crouched low through the forest delving through light and shadow with needles cushioning his footfalls. Plunging down toward the lake, he then ran along the water with the shotgun heavy in his hand.
Reuger started back up the hill bent over like a man stalking an animal. The barrel of the shotgun snagged fireweed and reeds slapped his face. Birds flitted the branches and a yellow butterfly on a mossy stump was strangely vivid when the arrow shot out like a black dot growing larger. He rutted the hard ground and lay flat, breathing hard. Reuger heard a crush of second growth with the footsteps prowling closer. He brought the shotgun slowly to his face and wiggled his finger into the trigger. He counted to himself then jumped up with another arrow whisking overhead. Reuger pulled the trigger and the shotgun blasted branches and scarred bark. He dropped and pumped out the smoking red plastic cartridge and fired again with the gun butt in his shoulder and the barrel compressed up. He shucked the shell and stared at the tree branches moving from the buckshot. There was silence after the explosions. Reuger heard someone crashing down the hill.
He bounded toward the lake through trees and bushes with branches slapping his face and tripping over hidden vines like a drunken man. He heard a splash and ran faster, crashing down to the boat roped to a fallen tree. He stopped with his breath loud in his ears. The bow bumped the log as the swells flapped and souped the break. He saw a space by the seat with the gas line lying on the bottom and swore. Reuger grabbed the gas tank from the shallows then turned to a man far out on the lake paddling toward Canada.
* * * *
Oars jumped the oarlocks as he rowed with his hat and vest beside him and a canvas coat the color of yellow deerskin. Reuger scooped his hat in the water and drank before flushing his neck. He smoothed back his hair and tore skin off blisters and picked up the oars again.
“Gettin’ to be purty good there. Sure yer don’t want me to give yer a hand?”
“Nope. We’re there now.”
Gus turned to the landing with the Canadian flag flying over the pines. He smoked with the arrows beside him and the guns in the bow. The arrowheads were slate and jaggedly sharp, greasy tallow coating the stems with the feathers dark and long. He watched Reuger pull the oars then turned and saw the Canadians watching their slow progress.
“Figures they come out and watch us and not offer a damn hand here,” he grumbled.
Reuger glanced over his shoulder, pulling harder with his left oar and guiding the boat toward the American side. Jeep walked the dock with his boys pulling the trailer behind. The oars ricocheted the oarlocks again and he gave one more heave toward the dock.
Jeep grabbed the bowline and scuffed the boat along.
“Where’s yer gas tank, Sheriff?”
“Reuger here wanted to get some exercise,” Gus nodded.
“Now is that right? Didn’t see you for one of them fitness types, Sheriff.”
He stepped onto the dock and smoothed back his hair. Jeep picked up the red tank of gas and shook it.
“Now, I can’t believe yer would run yourself dry here!” Jeep stared at the four greasy arrows. “Well, I’ll be damned. Did you find them arrows or did they find you?” His eyes glimmered under his hat. “Don’t be tellin’ me that Tobin been slinging arrows at you now!”
“Found Tobin’s cabin, and them arrows come a looking fer us,” Gus nodded, banging his pipe on the boat.
Jeep stared down at the crudely shorn arrows and rubbed his jaw.
“Now isn’t that something. Bet them arrowheads are from Knife Lake there. You can stub your toe on them along the shore. Now sheriff, you think this was the man who you was looking for then?”
“Might be,” he murmured, watching the boys milling around the arrows.
“That Tobin, then?”
“Dropped a barrel on him,” Gus nodded again. “But them Indians have strong medicine, and he disappeared when Reuger had him and headed for the Canadians in his canoe.”
“After he left yer gas tank at the bottom of the lake I wager.”
“Ya Reuger, this is Hector, can you hear me?”
He hefted the radio still hot from sun.
