Uncertain Justice

Chapter 34

He rested until he had enough strength to sort through his belongings and spread everything out to dry. The cool breeze stirred clothing draped over branches he selected on saplings hidden from view from outside the stand of trees. Then he stretched his aching body under the broad limbs of the big spruce and slept.

A few hours later, he roused to eat another can of processed meat. More jerky and a freeze-dried package of chicken and rice mixed with approximately the right amount of water--he didn't bother boiling the water so that the sticky mess would be warm--completed the meal. He congratulated himself on finding great cover, accidental though it had been. Until his body recovered, he wasn't going anywhere. He dozed off again.

At sunset, he glanced at his watch for the first time and was astounded to see it was a full day later than he expected. He wondered what he had missed while he was dead to the world. Donning the parka again, he pulled the survival blanket around his chin and fell into a dreamless sleep. His breath steamed in the cold mountain night.

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The late afternoon sun was still high enough to warm him as he lay on his belly on the grassy bank watching a bobber drift in the current past the big boulder a few yards across the stream. He suspected there were some good-sized trout hiding in the shadows there and he intended to have them for dinner. Fishing a smaller creek yesterday had yielded a number of small rainbows and smaller brook trout. They'd tasted great skewered on sticks and baked in the heat of the first fire Miles had made since evading the search parties.

Every so often, he carefully straightened a leg or twisted his back to stretch still tender muscles, waiting for the inevitable stab of pain that had been a constant companion for the past week and more. The toxins that had built up in his muscles during the desperate physical exertions escaping from the manhunt had taken a long time to filter out of his system.

It had been four days before he could hobble well enough to move his camp a few miles north from where he'd crawled from under the mound of debris in the river. As his muscles recovered from the damage he'd done to them that night, he hiked cross-country ... a few miles each day were all he could manage ... further north and away from the search.

Since the night he'd almost been captured, he'd made his camps in the best concealment he could find, searching for places where it would be impossible for anyone to find him. That resolve had been gradually extended to include the hikes themselves as he moved from one overnight hiding place to another. He played a game with himself, pretending to be one of the solitary mountain men who roamed these mountains generations ago.

Every herd of deer or elk was a rampaging Blackfoot war party he had to avoid without them even being aware he was there. Each deer or raccoon whose tracks he saw became a group of Hudson Bay Company trappers who would kill to protect their territory.

The eagles and hawks gliding in lazy circles high above were reconnaissance aircraft searching tirelessly for him. He knew the latter clashed jarringly with the initial precept, but that was okay. It contributed to the purpose behind the game.

Obeying the rules whenever he traveled, he slipped from one bit of cover to the next, pausing before passing through clearings to observe them carefully before proceeding. He didn't much care for open spaces these days so, more often than not, he retreated and found a way around.

He'd learned to freeze when his peripheral vision detected movement. He'd found by staying motionless and quiet most animals would not see him. Yesterday, a black bear had ambled slowly past Miles' hiding place less than twenty yards away behind the thick trunk of a spruce tree. The animal hadn't noticed Miles until it was downwind and picked up the man scent.

The bobber dipped and he jerked on the line he'd been holding loosely in his hands. The fish began to thrash violently, trying to shed the hook Miles had set securely in the fish's mouth. In minutes, the fish tired and Miles brought it to the shore and pulled it out of the water.

Hefting the rainbow, he decided it would tip the scales at two, maybe two and a half pounds. A very nice catch, he thought; it was plenty for a solitary diner this evening. This trout ... and the three smaller ones he had already ... would be enough for tonight's meal and tomorrow too ... perhaps the day after also.

For a moment, Miles watched the fish gasp for the oxygen that its gills could not process from open air. He caught the fish by the tail and slammed its head against the rock to kill it. It was necessary to kill the animal for food, but there was no need to prolong its agony. He dropped the fish alongside the other three and began to wind the hook and line about the short branch he used in lieu of rod and reel.

Cleaning the fish was quickly done. Stepping briefly from the shadows under the tree-lined bank into the shallows, Miles deposited the offal beneath a rock and carefully replaced it in the same depression it had gouged for itself over the years. After he splashed water over the flat rock he'd used as a worktable, there was no sign he'd been there except the wetness itself and that would dry quickly enough.

Taking a last look around to make sure he wasn't being observed, he ran a short line through the gills of the four fish and scrambled up the riverbank. He wanted to get the fish cooked and the fire extinguished before darkness made the fire a bright beacon that would attract unwanted attention. He was thirty miles or more from where he'd awakened among the roots of the fallen tree and it wasn't likely anyone was hunting for him this far north and west. He gained nothing by being conspicuous though.

In a thicket of young saplings a hundred yards downhill from where he intended to sleep, Miles dug a hole three feet in diameter and a foot deep and started a low fire. He added water to clay dug from the riverbank until the muddy mixture was about the consistency of putty. Patting it out to a one-inch thickness, he wrapped each fish separately in the pasty concoction. Dropping the shells into the fire pit, he covered them with coals. The fish would be done in forty-five minutes or so.

Cutting the young shoots from the roots of a cattail plant he'd pulled from a small pond back down the trail, Miles peeled the green covering off to expose the white interior. He munched on the tender, sweet core while he cut the larger roots from the plant into small chunks and put in the camp pot to boil. He walked back to the river. The level of the water in both canteens was getting low again. At high altitude, one used a lot more water than in the flatlands.