Boundary waters

17

Stormy Two Knives set a hard pace. He never seemed to tire. Partly, this was due to his build, his massive upper body with its foundation in cutting timber and its elaboration in the boredom of prison life. Partly, it was his anger. He stabbed at the water like a man in a killing mood. Louis didn’t complain. When he was tired, he rested his paddle across the gunwales. The canoe never slowed.

Cork watched the two agents closely. Grimes was an easy read. If he were a dog, he’d have been a pit bull. He struck Cork as an odd type to have been successful in the Bureau. Too independent and dangerously glib with his authority. Cork wondered what his service file looked like. Rife with reprimands he cared little about, probably. But Cork could tell why Grimes had drawn this assignment. He knew wilderness. He handled a paddle like he was born to it. He was strong on the portages. Cork suspected it was Grimes who’d chosen the canoes and selected the agents’ gear. In a fight, Cork would have appreciated the man on his side.

Agent Dwight Sloane was a harder read. The authority of the big black man was quiet, considered, even a little reluctant, which was as odd in its way as the heavy-handed enthusiasm of Grimes. He let Louis lead them without comment, questioning the boy occasionally on distance and direction. With Stormy, he was different-hard and watchful. He kept father and son apart on the portages and eyed Stormy intently whenever they rested. Cork knew the gun and the money the agents claimed to have found were part of a frame. Although he’d never stooped to such tactics himself when he’d been a cop, he knew plenty who did and who didn’t feel such zealousness was wrong in the pursuit of justice. Cork had often seen distrust of Indians in the eyes of white men, but it surprised him in Sloane, in the man who’d taken the trouble to learn the meaning of the word ma’iingan.

By the time sunset was at hand, they’d portaged three times, the longest a muddy hundred rods over bad trail. They double-portaged, leaving some packs behind to be retrieved when the canoes had been successfully carried to the next body of water. It took longer and was harder than Sloane must have imagined. Although he said nothing, his big body moved slower and slower with each hour and each portage.

The sky was a pure evening blue with the high clouds pink as flamingo feathers when they completed their final portage along a shallow creek called Sandy’s Gold and reached the big body of water Cork knew as Bare Ass Lake.

“We need to stop,” Sloane grunted. He eased out of the Duluth pack he was carrying that held most of the food and sat down with his back against a tall jack pine. “We should eat something. And I need to do a radio check-in.” But he made no move to do either. He simply closed his eyes.

Cork scanned the lake. Sandy’s Gold emptied into a small inlet. Beyond that, the water opened up in a rough circle that stretched away to the horizon unbroken by a single island. Officially, it was named Embarrass Lake, and the story was that it was embarrassed because it had no islands. It was known locally as Bare Ass Lake. Same reason.

“Which way do we go from here, Louis?” Cork asked.

The boy pointed due north.

“What’s that mean?” Sloane asked. His eyes were open, just barely.

“It means we should keep going,” Cork said. “It’ll be a hard paddle to reach the other side before dark, especially if the wind changes.”

“Why would the wind change?” Sloane asked.

“I’m not saying it will. But if it does, we could be in trouble.”

“Then we stay here,” Sloane said.

“We’ll reach the woman faster if we don’t,” Cork said.

Sloane let out a big sigh. “Fifteen minutes won’t make much difference either way. Grimes, what have we got to eat?”

Grimes bent to the pack Sloane had shrugged off. “Jerky,” he said. He glanced at Louis. “And how about a Snickers bar, kid?”

“What do they call this lake, Louis?” Arkansas Willie asked. He’d been asking every time they reached a new lake. He seemed to love the sound of the Ojibwe names and the stories Louis recounted that he’d been told by his Uncle Wendell.

“She Does Not Weep,” Louis said.

Willie Raye sat down on the trunk of a fallen pine. He kneaded the muscles of his upper arm. “Pretty name.”

“Yeah,” Grimes said. “So what gives?” Although he didn’t seem anxious to admit it, he’d listened as closely as Raye to the stories Louis told.

Between bites of his Snickers bar, Louis related the story his uncle had told him.

“Once there was a great hunter who lived here with his wife and children. Everyone said he was the greatest hunter in the world. Nanabozho heard this and was angry because he considered himself the greatest hunter in the world.”

“Who’s this Nanabozho?” Grimes asked. “He’s a spirit full of tricks,” Louis said. “He’s always causing trouble.”

“You ought to relate,” Raye said to Grimes.

Grimes only flashed him a grin. “Go on, kid.”

“One day, when the children were playing alone, Nanabozho disguised himself as a bear and came and snatched them. He hid them in a cave far away, then he returned to the hunter’s wigwam disguised as an old man. He told the hunter he’d seen a huge bear carry away the children. The hunter’s wife was very upset, but her husband assured her she shouldn’t worry. He would hunt the bear and he wouldn’t come back until he found the children. Nanabozho thought it was all very funny. He followed the hunter, and he was surprised at how well the hunter tracked. Within a few days, the hunter had found the cave where Nanabozho had hidden the children. He had won Nanabozho’s admiration. But when they went into the cave, the children weren’t there. The hunter found tracks of the Dakota, a warring tribe, leading from the cave. He vowed to pursue the Dakota until he’d rescued his children. He told Nanabozho, who was still disguised as an old man, to return to his wigwam and give his wife this news. Ashamed, Nanabozho returned. The wife listened and remained very calm. Nanabozho was amazed by her reaction, but she explained that her husband was the greatest hunter in the world and he would bring the children back, even if it took years. She grew old waiting, but she never cried, because she kept on believing in her husband. In the end, Nanabozho turned her into this beautiful lake where she still waits without tears for the return of her husband and her children.”

“That’s a great story,” Willie Raye said. “And you tell it well, Louis.”

Grimes scanned the lake, a deep unbroken blue in the late afternoon light. “She Does Not Weep. No tears, right? And those would be islands?” He thought a moment. “So tell me, kid-how does a place get a name like vagina?” and he laughed.

While Sloane had been on the radio, Cork had been watching the sky. “We should go now,” he said when Sloane finished his transmission.

Sloane must have heard the urgency in his voice. He looked where Cork was looking and saw what Cork had seen. Rising on the horizon like smoke from a great fire was a thick bank of clouds.

“On your feet, gentlemen,” Sloane said. “Let’s move out quickly.”