Part 2
Tom kept the latch down. “No. Not out there.” He loosened the pup’s teeth from his pants. This time the youngster didn’t return to scratching. He settled across Tom’s boot, put his muzzle on the leather, and let out a small, breathless whine. Tom could feel it through his sock.
Ellen would already have been reaching for a blanket. Tom could almost see her waiting by the door, expecting him to get his coat.
He reached for his thick socks. “All right. But you’re going to have to wait for me.”
He sat in the chair by the window to change his socks. Beyond the glass, snow erased the end of the woodpile. He would have to stay close enough to see the pup, and turn back if that became impossible. His knees ached from kneeling, so he waited for the stiffness to ease before trying to stand.
The youngster lifted his head when Tom reached for the canvas pack. Whatever was out there had kept him trying the door even after food and warmth. Tom opened a carton and worked the first-aid tin free, then set it beside the pack.
He put on his insulated boots and the heavy shearling coat that hung by the door. From the canvas pack he took a compass, checked it, and put it where he could reach it without removing his gloves. He packed rope, waterproof matches, the first-aid tin, a clean blanket, and the thermos. There was still hot water in the kettle. He filled the thermos and wrapped a tea bag separately in paper.
He remembered the flashlight before he remembered the shotgun. The light had a broad beam and a wrist loop; the old gun had a sling. Both would leave him a free hand when he needed it. He checked them, pulled his cap down over his ears, and stood for a moment with the pack against his back, judging the weight.
The pup was waiting at the door.
Tom banked the fire before he opened it. He meant to come back to warm coals. Then he turned the lantern down, opened the door against the wind, and followed the youngster onto the porch. He pulled the door firmly shut behind them.
The pup headed toward the trees instead of the road. Tom kept the beam low, picking out the dark shape between pale bursts of snow. He could see the next few feet well enough, but lifting the light made a white wall in front of his face. At the tree line he looked back, fixed the cabin’s direction in his head, and checked the compass.
For years he had crossed this slope with survey crews, noting drainage and damaged stands. Now he had to recognize it in pieces: the shallow draw below the cabin, the cluster of cedar at its edge, the ground rising past it. He wasn’t far from home yet. The work was in getting his feet from one firm place to the next.
The youngster bounded through a drift and sank to his chest. Tom caught up while he was struggling out. He pressed a trail through the snow with his boots, keeping to the lee of the trees where the drifts were shallower. The pup followed in the hollow he left, then pushed ahead whenever the route turned.
At each turn Tom stopped long enough to let him choose. The animal nosed at the sheltered bases of trunks, hesitated, and moved again. Sometimes Tom could see the old packed game trail under the fresh snow. Often he could see only the torn ear ahead of him.
His right knee began to catch. He shortened his steps and leaned into the slope, annoyed at how much thought each movement required. On ordinary patrols he would once have been considering the stand above him or the next day’s work. Tonight he counted ten steps, then ten more, and watched for the pup to stop.
An uprooted spruce blocked the shallow draw ahead. Its branches reached from the bank into the lower brush, laced together with snow. The youngster tried a gap near the trunk, backed out, and tried another. Both ended in a packed tangle. He stood looking through it, whining.
Tom followed the beam along the fallen tree. Going around the root plate would mean climbing the exposed bank; the crown lay downhill in brush he couldn’t judge. Near its outer edge, though, he found a space beneath two large limbs. The dead branches filling it were thin enough to break.
He secured the gun on his back and set the flashlight on a branch where its loop would hold. Then he went to work. Some twigs snapped; others bent and whipped back against his gloves. He cleared the loose snow first, pulled the broken wood toward him, and kept his body between the opening and the pup until it was safe to pass.
By the time the gap was wide enough, his sleeves were crusted white. He moved aside. The youngster scrambled through and waited beyond the branches, his narrow chest working. Tom lowered himself after him, dragging the pack. A splinter caught the side of his coat and held him halfway through.
He stopped pulling before the tear grew worse. For several breaths he couldn’t reach the snag. Then he twisted onto his good knee, found it behind his hip, and worked the coat loose. He came out with spruce needles in his collar and a strip of lining hanging at his side.
The trees beyond the windfall broke the worst of the wind. Tom reached back through the opening for the flashlight and stood, breathing through his mouth. The pup touched his glove with a cold nose, then turned uphill. He left the faint trail entirely and began climbing toward the black ridge above them.
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