Part 7
They reached the station after dark. The last mile they went almost by feel. Snow lashed their faces, the wind filled in their tracks behind them, and only the dogs still held the direction with any confidence.
When the yellow square of a window showed between the trees, Owen let out a breath as if he’d found a whole town instead of an old cabin. “The radio.”
Elias was looking at the house, the porch, the woodpile, the window he had replaced himself last fall. The old kerosene lantern hung under the eave. The shovel stood to the right of the door, as always. Everything was in its place, and that made it worse.
Owen was already on the porch steps. “Uncle Eli.”
The old man shook himself. “Coming.”
Inside it was warm. The stove hadn’t cooled yet. On the table lay June’s photograph in its wooden frame.
Elias stopped. One step. Reach out, put it in a pocket. Owen saw and said nothing.
Elias picked up the photograph, then opened the table drawer. Notebooks lay inside, and beside them the small box of her letters. He reached for it, froze, and pushed the drawer shut.
Owen turned to the radio as if he hadn’t noticed.
The signal didn’t come right away. Crackle, hiss, nothing. Owen worked the dial, rubbing his thumb along the seam of his sleeve. “Base, come in. Base, this is Dunning station.”
Static.
“Come on, I’ve already…” Owen broke off and keyed the mike again. “Base. Come in. It’s urgent.”
A voice broke through, distant and choppy. “Copy. Who’s this?”
Owen straightened. “Dunning station. Who’s on duty?”
“Mitch is on tonight. Hang on, I’ll get him.”
Half a minute later another voice came over the speaker. “Owen, what’s going on up there? The weather’s gone to hell.”
Owen looked at his uncle. Elias took the handset. “Mitch, get your people up off the flat.”
A pause. “Up where?”
Elias pressed the handset tighter to his ear. “Up the slope, to the old rock road.”
The speaker hissed. “What for?”
“There’s water in the draw.”
Another pause. Then Mitch laughed. “Eli, what are you talking about? What water? It’s twenty-five below.”
“Under the mountain.”
Mitch was quiet. “Where?”
“In the old mine workings.”
Mitch wasn’t laughing now. “How do you know?”
“I saw it. Ice on the lower outlet, water behind it, higher than the old marks. The slope’s moving.”
The radio crackled. “Can it wait till morning?”
“No.”
Elias said it quietly. Owen had heard that tone maybe twice in his life. “Mitch. Now.”
The signal dropped. Owen tapped the case with a finger. Nothing. “That’s it for now. What if he doesn’t believe you?”
Elias looked out the window. The snow was flying almost sideways. “Then we go ourselves.”
“To the camp? Now?”
Elias was already pulling on his mittens. “You wanted to get out of here. So we’ll get out.”
Owen gave a short laugh. “So you do listen.”
Elias slid the photograph into his inside pocket. He took nothing else. He hung his own rifle on the nail beside his father’s; on river ice in the dark it would only weigh him down.
At the door he paused. Owen didn’t rush him. Elias looked around the room: the table, the stove, the shelf of mugs, the old water stain on the ceiling. Years ago June had complained about that very stain. She wanted the whole roof redone, and he kept promising to get to it in the spring. There had been plenty of springs. The stain stayed.
Elias closed the door. He didn’t lock it.
The snowmachine started on the second try. Owen got on to drive. “Lower road?”
Elias shook his head. “The cutline.”
Owen looked back. “The old one?”
Elias nodded into the dark between the trees. “It comes out on the river above the bridge.”
“You sure?”
Elias looked at him. “No.”
Owen froze for a second, then nodded. “Great. Let’s go.”
The first few miles went fast. The cutline was drifted over, but they could still make it out between the trees. Now and then they had to go around fallen trunks. The wind died in the woods and hit hard again in the open. They barely talked.
Once Elias looked back. No cabin, no light. Just snow.
Half an hour later the front of the snowmachine dropped. Owen barely held on. The engine roared, and the machine tipped.
“Whoa!”
Owen killed the engine, and they got off. Under the snow was an old washout that had drifted over, and the front ski had gone in deep.
“We can pull it out,” Owen said.
The old man looked over the machine, then the sky, then the cutline. “We’ll lose time.”
“And on foot?”
“On foot.”
Owen didn’t agree right away. Yesterday he’d have been the first to say ditch it. Now he stubbornly took hold of the handlebars. “Let’s try.”
Elias helped. For about five minutes they wrestled it in the snow. Owen yanked the machine again. Once more.
Elias put a hand on his shoulder. “Enough.”
“It’s about to come loose.”
“Owen.”
He stopped, breathing hard, then let go of the handlebars. “Shame to leave it.”
Elias smiled. “I left a whole house.”
Owen looked at him and smiled too. “Point taken.”
They took the packs and set off on foot. The camp was about five miles away, and over snow it could easily turn out to be more than the map said.
About an hour and a half later they heard the river for the first time. The ice, not the water. Somewhere ahead, something cracked with a dull sound.
Elias stopped. “Hear that?”
“Yeah.”
Another crack, longer.
Owen looked down the slope. “The river’s moving.”
“Let’s go faster.”
When they came out on the bank, they could see the bridge, a dark shape far downstream. To reach it they’d have to walk nearly an hour along the low bank, toward the very draw they expected the water to come out of. The old cutline picked up again straight across, on the far side.
Owen studied the ice. “I don’t like this.”
“Neither do I.”
“The bridge?”
Elias took in the dark shape below and the low ground between them and it. Deep in the draw, something thudded again, and the tremor underfoot came almost with the sound.
“Going down to the bridge, we’d be walking right where the water goes first.”
Owen ran a palm over his face. “And here the ice is already talking.”
“I know.”
They stood a few seconds longer. Then Elias looked at the cutline on the far bank. “Fast, and no stopping.”
They stepped out onto the ice. They didn’t run. Elias went first. Minnow pressed against his leg. Red kept getting ahead and coming back.
They were nearly at the middle when a low crunch came from underfoot. Owen froze.
“Don’t stand still.”
The ice cracked again, closer. Owen took a step, and his right leg went through almost to the hip. He cried out and fell on his side.
Elias spun around. “Don’t thrash!” He cursed himself in the same breath. Of course Owen was thrashing. Anybody would.
Elias went back, grabbed him by the jacket, and pulled. Minnow was darting around them.
“Drop the pack!”
“But…”
“Drop it!”
Owen tore at the strap, and the pack slid onto the ice. On the second heave his leg came free. They crawled to the side, and a few seconds later dark water welled up through the crack where Owen had just been…
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