The Lighthouse Road(39)

He reached the Chinook River before lunchtime. The ice along the shore was firm, even at the mouths of streams and rivers, but the farther south and west he went the closer attention he paid to its tempers. He had seen his father's sled break through the ice not far from where he stood.



He would feed the dogs and test the ice at the mouth of the river. The vapor rising from the open water had disappeared, but now he could actually see the line demarcating the ice and water. He set the snow hook and parceled out the dogs' chow. Two fist-sized chunks of venison each. They ate as though their last meal had been a month ago.



Samuel took stock as the dogs ate. There were veins in the ice at the mouth of the river, but still it felt firm beneath him. He walked a quarter mile past the river, checking for cracks or ridges or undulations of any sort, none of which he found. By the time he returned to the sled the dull sun was already dropping. The dogs had finished their venison and each had dug a sizable chunk of snow and ice to suffice as drink. The lead dog, a bi-eyed husky Samuel called Nord, had dug a hole eight inches deep and a foot wide. When Samuel stabbed at the ice with his bowie knife, he was able to sink the blade to the hilt without tapping water. A good sign. He would run easy for an hour.



The dogs finished their snow. Alert now and ready. Samuel stepped onto the runners and had a good grip on the handlebar when he took the snow hook up with his free hand. The dogs were gone with the absence of the tension.



There was not much wind. But what did blow came from the northeast, helping his cause even as it foretold more cold. He wondered about the dogs he was fetching. Erlandson had told him about the bear, had given him two lengths of chain in the event they would not run with the team. This thought was unfathomable to Samuel, dogs that would not run.



He fed the dogs again before sunset and passed the settlement at Misquah in a dusk smoking with cold. The lake was holding up, but he ran very near the shore. On the beaches when he passed rivers and creeks. He heard wolves howling on Bear or Gull island. The dogs answered back.



By the light of stars he passed Copper Bay, then Otter Bay. When the sun rose he rested the dogs and lit a fire at Big Rock Bay, sitting on the beach in the lee of the towering cliff. The dogs stopped on command and collapsed, curling into themselves. Danny set the snow hook and slept on top of the sled without the comfort of the tarpaulin. He woke two hours later and fed the dogs again.



In the light of day he saw how precarious the ice was, even in the bay, so he ran up the Big Rock River until he crossed the trail, where he turned south again toward Castle River. He was there by lunchtime.





The Ovcharkas were kept like thieves, each in its own cage of metal bars, a floor spread with hay. At first glance Samuel mistook them for slumbering bears. Four of the six advertised dogs remained, each one black as onyx and measurably circumspect as Samuel approached them. In less than five minutes he had decided which were best suited for the task at hand. By the time the Laplander limped up the path from his cabin, Riverfish had begun talking to the dogs like he would a sweetheart.

"I heard your team yelping. Glad you left them down on the river shore," the one-legged man said. "Your father is good?"



Samuel extended his hand and said, "He sends his greetings."



"You running the mail?"



Samuel reached inside his coat and withdrew the sealed envelope Trond Erlandson had sent with him. He handed it to the Laplander. "The foreman up at Burnt Wood River has sent me for two of the dogs."



The Laplander took off his mitts and opened the envelope. "What for?"



"Wolves."



"To hunt wolves?"



"To guard the logging camp."



The Laplander shook his head. He lifted his peg leg from the spot where it had sunk and rested more lightly on it. He put the envelope in a pocket before replacing his mitts. "They'll guard against wolves. I'd put two of them up against a small pack."



Samuel was again eyeing the dogs. "I like the two with white ears. The one atop the kennel, she's a bitch?"



The Laplander nodded. "The other's just about the meanest dog I've ever met."



"Will they run with my team?"



"No, not all the way up to Gunflint. How big is your sled?"



"They'll fit on my sled." He looked at the dogs again. "Will they stand the ride?"



"We'll crate them, muzzle them. They might moan about it, but you'll get them home."



Samuel studied the dogs again. " Where did they come from?" he said.



The Laplander told him about his homeland, of the wolves that had nearly extinguished the sheep herd the year before he'd come to America. About a Russian who lived just across the border in Alakurtti, and how he had obtained from him three of the dogs. He told a summary version of his breeding the dogs and a yarn or two about their bravery, including the much-rumored treeing of the bear. A true story, he assured Samuel.