Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

Nick went to his smokehouse and came out with a pail full of raw meat. He walked toward the dogs and they came to the ends of their chains again, but this time whining, heads lowered. Nick reached into the pail and took out handfuls of meat — it might have been venison or moose — and tossed a piece to each dog in turn. He started with the biggest. “That’s Chinook,” Nick said as the dog rent and devoured the meat, keeping a watchful eye on the rest of the pack. “He’s my lead dog. Never let me down yet.” With the pail empty and the other dogs snarling and tearing at their meals, Nick started back to the smokehouse, talking as he moved away. “That’s something you need when you’re out in the wild.”

“A lead dog?” I asked.

“A partner that won’t let you down,” Nick said.

When we got back into the cabin there was a girl sitting there. I wondered where she’d been when we arrived — perhaps outside and she’d come in through the back door. “This is my daughter, Rebecca,” Nick said as he took his chair again and began filling a pipe.

She was a dark-haired girl who looked nineteen or twenty, although Doug told me later that she had just turned sixteen. She stood up as if she was about to walk towards us when Faye abruptly handed her a snowshoe. Rebecca started working on it, but I could tell she was not as focused on the task as her mother was.

Nick, gleeful and rich in anecdote, was talking about what it was like working a trap line. Doug wasn’t listening. He had walked over and squatted next to Rebecca. I guessed they were talking about snowshoes because when I glanced over Doug had his hand on the wooden frame and was rubbing it gently. Rick was nearby, too, watching with interest.

Faye started to say something to her daughter, but all she got out was a sharp “Rebecca!” before Nick said it was time he got the fish.

Out by the tents, we had dined on Gumpert’s freeze-dried mashed potatoes, freeze-dried beef Stroganoff, and freeze-dried fruit cocktail. After it was gone we were still hungry. Everyone but me was looking forward to the fish.

Nick served us deep-fried pickerel and smoked sturgeon. I didn’t care much for either. Fish is not one of my favorite things. The odd tuna sandwich is okay, and fish and chips are fine, but there’s a big difference between a piece of deep-fried halibut and a slab of smoky, dark-tasting sturgeon. And the pickerel was full of bones and you had to be careful eating it.

I nibbled, pretending to take bigger mouthfuls than I actually took, discreetly wrapping the uneaten fish in a serviette. All the guys were enjoying the extra food. Doug was clowning around, as usual. At one point he took a piece off Rick’s plate and popped it into his mouth when no one was looking — no one except me and Rebecca, who smiled, and Faye, who didn’t.

When the fish was done, we noticed that the dogs had started whining.

“What’s bothering them?” Rick asked.

“Maybe there’s a wolverine out there, or a cougar or something,” Doug said with excitement.

Nick puffed on his pipe. “It’s rain,” he said.

“Pardon me?” Mr. Walker said.

“I’ll show you.”

He got up and put on a lined, plaid jacket and took a flashlight off a shelf near the door. It had cooled down, with a brisk wind coming from the northwest. “You can feel it coming,” Nick said as he led us to the top of the path down to the river. “Dogs can smell it and it makes ’em riled.”

“Why?” Mr. Walker asked.

In answer Nick switched on the flashlight and pointed the beam at the trunk of a tree that grew up partway down the path. There was a plaque nailed to the tree. The words engraved on it were just visible: High water mark, May 17, 1966.

“Is that true?” Bish asked.

“Yep. Lots of rain, lots of runoff. Flood lasted three days. Dogs spent the whole time on top of their houses, no food. Now every time it rains they get aggrieved.” He turned off the flashlight as the first fat drops hit us.

“I hope that won’t happen tonight,” Doug said.

Nick snapped the flashlight on again suddenly, holding it under his chin, the beam pointing up. It was an old Hallowe’en trick, but it worked. The shadows cast by the crags and fissures on his face made him look scary and mean. “Well, if it does,” he said, “at least there’s lots to feed ’em.” Then he turned the light off again and walked back to the cabin, chuckling.

When he walked, he made no noise that I could hear. I asked about that later and he said, “It’s good to move quiet in the woods. When you’re hunting, silence can mean the difference between eating and going hungry. Everyone who lives here learns that or they leave.” He bent close to me and lowered his voice. “Or they die.”