Page 50 of God’s Country

“You smoke White Owls,” I said.

“What of it? You’re not getting one, if that’s what you’re after.”

“I don’t smoke. And I’ve got a skillet to clean.”

It was dark when we settled around the fire. I’d added fuel. A light breeze had found its way into the bowl of Devil’s End, and the smoke from the fire swirled around us, helping to keep the mosquitoes away. Ollie was puffing on a cigar. Stan was quiet, thinking. Finally he said, “How long before we reach Canada?”

The truth was that I could have them there in a day and a half of hard paddling. But for the torments I had in mind, I needed more time.

“Two days if we were to go due north. But that’s what anybody looking for us will expect and that’s where the search will focus. So we won’t take a direct route. That will add at least another day, depending.”

“On what?”

“Weather. The portages. Ollie there.” I nodded at the big man. “He’s going to slow us down.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Ollie said and shot out a big cloud of smoke. “I’ll carry my weight.”

“You’re sure you know the way across the border?” Stan said.

“I’ve been traveling the Boundary Waters for sixty years. I know how to get to Canada.” I let a beat pass, then said, “You didn’t care much for your half brother, Crispin.”

“Spoiled little snot,” Ollie said. “Had it easy.”

“Until you got your hands on him,” I pointed out. “I’m guessing that when he made his last visit to prison before his father died, his old man told him where he’d stashed the pack. What I’m wondering is why your half brother brought you two into it. He could’ve had whatever’s in that pack all to himself.”

“Exactly what he had in mind,” Stan said. “We had a contact inside, kept us informed every time Crispin visited our father. Whenever he came back, we watched him pretty careful. After our old man died, Crispin right away makes a trip to Aurora. We follow, find out he’s dealing with the Indian.”

“Then we made him an offer he couldn’t refuse, even though in the end he tried.” Ollie grinned as if it was a pleasant memory for him.

“They both tried to leave us, him and the Indian,” Stan said. “Not together. The Indian wanted to quit before we’d been out a full day. Told us he was taking us back because we weren’t showing proper respect for the spirits of the woods. The Glock convinced him otherwise. Crispin tried on his own.”

“That’s when I had to get a little rough,” Ollie said.

“You didn’t have to kill him,” Stan said. “That wasn’t part of the plan.”

“Oh boo-hoo. You’ve always been too chickenshit to do the hard stuff. It’s always been up to me. And don’t forget that before he died, I made him tell us that our old man had shoved the pack up the devil’s ass.”

“Which made no sense,” Stan reminded him.

“Maybe not to us, but the Indian had an idea. Got us here anyway. Then he tried to sneak off. That’s when I had to shoot him. I’ll do the same with you if you try anything funny.”

I didn’t doubt it for a moment.

Stan said to his brother, “Sounds like we have a full day ahead tomorrow. We should get a good night’s sleep.”

Ollie stood up and grabbed the canister full of food.

“What are you going to do with that?” I asked.

“Take it in my tent. I get hungry at night sometimes. Why?”

“No reason.”

But there was a reason, an important one. Bears. You never store food in a tent in the wilderness. It’s an invitation to have your tent ripped to shreds and maybe you along with it. But if Ollie ended up tangling with a bear, so much the better.

“One piece of advice,” I said. “Put a tarp over that pile of wood I gathered, just in case it rains.”

Ollie looked up at the stars, a billion of them in a sea of black, and growled at me, “Sky’s clear, you dickwad.”