Whether the shout and the slap had to do with it or not, Danny did not know. But Fitzcairn groaned then, and gasped. He sputtered water from his mouth and nose, and finally he opened his eyes. Stark in his white face, they looked like the blue marbles Danny had played with as a lad.
Fitzcairn’s lips were blue, too, but he still managed a whisper of a smile.
“Ah, I was having a lovely dream, Danny my boy. But I think I’ll forgive you for waking me.”
The sled was packed. Duncan had seen to Sam’s leg, sprinkling more sulfa powder into the ragged wound. He lifted the Indian as gently as he could and carried him to the sled. He was secured there now, resting among the gear, swathed in fur.
Both men had eaten; Duncan some hardened biscuits and the Indian more soup. The fire still burned—damping it would be the final task—and Duncan had turned to harnessing the dogs.
He was, every move he made, every step he took, painfully aware of the passage of time. He and the Indian had exchanged only a handful of words since dawn, but in Sam’s dark eyes, Duncan read the words: Englishman dead, Irishman dead.
Rip had survived the night and seemed to be fit. A six-dog sled team could be a problem, if the two lead dogs would not work together. But six dogs was what they had. And if there were only the two of them, he and Sam, they would make excellent time.
Blast you, Danny O’Donal!
Duncan thought.
If—when—I see Fitz again, he’ll na forgive me if you are lost.
The traces had to be lengthened to accommodate the extra dog—that would take a few minutes—and getting the dogs to their feet and into their harnesses a few more.
The cold, the blasted cold! He reached for the pieces of leather just as Vixen leapt up and began yipping furiously. She was fairly dancing with excitement.
Duncan felt it then, and turned to see two figures rounding the river bend, walking one behind the other, moving quickly back over the trail Danny had broken the night before.
Siwash Sam lay on the sled watching the three men gathered around the fire.
Englishman dead,
he thought,
under the ice.
But the Englishman was not dead. He sat with the others. He was drinking the hot tea that he had demanded immediately and eating smoked fish.
The young Irishman had said that he had found the other on the riverbank, where he had crawled after pulling himself out through another hole in the ice.
Sam did not believe this. He was, in fact, fairly sure that the account was for his benefit. And even if it were true, soaked in icy water, lying in the snow overnight, the Englishman would be frozen as solid as the land around them.
Sam had seen men die so.
But these men—they were not ordinary men. The Englishman had been shot at the White Pass. And he had lived. All three had fought the bear. And lived. There was something in their eyes, the Scotsman’s particularly. It should have frightened Sam, but it did not.
Instead, it gave him hope that even if the land played more tricks on them, they might all survive, they might all live to see the wooden walls of Fort McPherson.
Now, though, he was tired and needed to rest. Let the three—whatever they were—argue among themselves.
Sam closed his eyes and slept.
“Look, Highlander,” Fitz said, taking off his glove and wiggling his fingers, “all the important bits are still attached.” He put the glove back on, hastily. “I will admit that many of them, including one in particular about which I am somewhat concerned, are still numb. But”—he swallowed a huge gulp of steaming tea—“I can walk, thank-you-very-much. Six dogs may be a full team. But they’re bone-tired, the poor beasties.”
“They can carry two men, Fitzcairn.” Duncan insisted. He lowered his voice. “You may be Immortal, but you’re not made of iron.”
Fitz snorted. He held his cup out to Danny, who took it and filled it again.
“If I were, I’d be bloody rusty by now.” He drank. “The dogs can carry two, yes. But they needn’t.”
“Ye need sun for rust, which you may have noticed we hardly have,” Duncan replied. “But what we do have is miles and miles of nothing. Now, I don’t know about the two of you, but I want to get across this white wilderness. Back to somewhere where there is something that is warm and dry and some other color besides white or gray”—Duncan took a breath—“as quickly as possible. So if ye don’t mind, finish your tea, and move your English arse onto the sled.”
Fitz blinked, considering a retort. Then Danny spoke.
“MacLeod is right, Hugh. You were faltering behind me, you know. By this time tomorrow, you’ll be fine, no doubt. But now—”
“Well,” Fitzcairn said, draining the cup, “I can’t be arguing with the both of you.” He rose slowly and made a show of looking over his shoulder. “My English arse is one of the numb parts, as it happens. So be sure to treat it with respect.”
As he began walking, Duncan drew him aside.
“A moment, Fitz,” he said, quietly. “There’s something you should know.” He hesitated. “I didn’t send Danny to search for you—”
“I should think not,” Fitzcairn interrupted. “In fact, I’ll wager you argued against it.”
“He told you?”
“Give me a bit of credit, MacLeod,” Fitzcairn said. “I figured it out for myself.” He glanced toward the sled.
“The Indian—you need to get him to that fort as quickly as possible, I’d say. You had no time to fritter away looking for stray Immortals.” He shrugged, then shivered.
Duncan frowned. “What you say is true enough, Fitz. But I might have—”
“Come now, laddie.” Fitz shook his head. “You’ve nothing to be glum about. I might have gotten a wee bit pruney after a while. But I wouldn’t have melted away, you know.”
Duncan felt an enormous sense of relief. “All right, then. Be reasonable. I’ll not try to apologize to you anymore.” He put his arm over his friend’s shoulders. “You’re chilled to the bone still, Fitz. Let’s get you settled in.”
“Of course,” Fitz added, “you’ll never hear the end of it. And the next time
you’re
trapped under a frozen stream, I most certainly won’t stir myself any too quickly—”
“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” Duncan gave him a small shove forward.
In a short time, he and Danny working together had Fitz bundled next to Siwash Sam, the dogs harnessed, and the camp broken. Duncan released the gee pole, cracked the whip, and the sled moved forward. Danny walked behind carrying the three remaining pouches of gold which had been removed to make space for a second rider.
The miles and miles of nothing, white and gray as far distant as could be seen, stretched before them as they moved on. And behind them, the only traces of their disaster were a small hole in the ice rapidly freezing over, the stiff body of one of the luckless dogs sprawled next to it, and a cavalier’s sword gleaming in the ripples on the river bottom.
“MacLeod,” Fitz grumbled, only half-awake. He nudged the form next to him. “Turn yourself over. You’re snoring like the devil him—” He stopped and opened his eyes. The fire still burned brightly. He could clearly see his three companions, sleeping soundly, wrapped snugly in blankets and fur robes.
It wasn’t MacLeod who had disturbed him. It was Vixen, lying by his side. She was growling softly. Her head was up, her attention directed beyond the fire’s glow.
“What is it, beastie?” he whispered. He raised himself on one elbow and reached out toward the dog. Under his hand, he could feel her neck fur bristling.
Vixen slowly got to her feet and walked a few stiff-legged paces forward, growling all the while. The other dogs, staked out in a group at one side of the night’s camp, began to stir. Rip rose from his place next to the Indian. His teeth were bared, and the fur along his spine stood straight up.
Fitz peered into the frozen darkness. There! Wait—was it his imagination? No, there was something moving just beyond the circle of light and warmth cast by the fire.
Then he saw the eyes. One pair. Two. Three. Gleaming red.
He blinked and shook his head. They were still there.
Not an illusion or a dream, then—quite, quite real.
One of the creatures came closer still. Fitz could clearly see the head and shoulders. It looked directly at him, then lolled out a long tongue and licked its lips.
Rip exploded into loud barking. He rushed forward, stopping short at the edge of the firelight. Vixen stayed where she was, but she, too, began to bark.
All the dogs were up now. The burly gray male the Indian called Klute joined in the chorus, straining at his tether. But the others whimpered in fear, cowering behind him.
The noise woke the three men. MacLeod was on his feet in an instant, his
katana
ready. Fitz saw the Indian’s eyes widen at the sight. Danny rolled to his knees, fumbling for his rifle.
But the flurry of activity drove the wolves away, back into the night.
Afterward, they all huddled close to the fire. Danny melted snow—whatever else they might be lacking, there was certainly enough of that around—and made coffee. Though he could tell that the Indian objected to it, Fitz tossed a bit of salmon to Vixen and Rip, who were both still pacing about, whining.
The Indian said that the wolves might indeed be back. They would lurk nearby. But they were not likely to attack. Unless, he added in that infuriatingly stoic way, they were hungry.
Well, of course, there was no bloody way to ask them when they had last had a satisfying dining experience. So MacLeod declared that they’d have to stand guard, for as long as their unwanted four-legged company was threatening to drop in.
Danny volunteered to take the first watch.
Time alone to work on the dream house, I’ll wager,
Fitz thought.
The lad must be up to the attic by now.
MacLeod lay back down, the
katana
unsheathed by his side. The Indian groaned but was soon silent. Fitz tossed restlessly, his mind filled with images of burning eyes and dripping saliva.
He fell asleep finally to the sound of a long drawn-out howl that seemed to linger forever in the still air.
“They’re following us still, MacLeod.” Fitzcairn called. He was walking a few paces behind the sled, carrying the bags of gold.
The wolves had been with them for three days now. Duncan narrowed his eyes against the glare. He could just make out a scatter of burly gray shapes, moving like shadows across the landscape.
“They’re still keeping their distance, Fitz.” he said, cracking the whip at the yellow mixed-breed named Bigfoot. Placid, but somewhat lazy, he had a tendency to lag.
Danny turned at the sound. Duncan waved him on. Today, the young Immortal was breaking the trail. Though there hadn’t been any fresh snow for a while, his was still the hardest going.
“Bloody beasts,” Fitz grumbled. “They’re waiting for someone or something to die. Then we’ll see what distance they keep.”
Siwash Sam spoke up from the sled. His voice was tight with pain. “Wolves not eat things already dead. Wolves kill for themselves. Wolves like blood warm and fresh.”
“Thank. You. Very. Much,” Fitzcairn said.
Duncan smiled, then winced as his cracked lips bled anew. Sam had given them a salve, a greasy concoction of animal fat and herbs. It helped some.
And, of course, they healed quickly. But Immortality could not keep away the cold, could not keep a man’s lips from drying up, could not protect his nose and cheeks from growing numb, could not prevent frost from forming on his beard and mustache.
He took some comfort in the thought that it would soon be over. They’d been on the trail for over a week. The going had been slower since the sled went through the ice, but they were making steady progress. North and a bit west, over terrain that was difficult to be sure, but not impossible. Perhaps another two hundred miles lay ahead. At their current pace, they would reach Fort McPherson in another ten days, after Christmas but before the turn of the year.
The night before, he and Sam had talked it through, while he changed the dressing on the Indian’s leg. Duncan was concerned. Whether it was because of the cold or the lack of proper diet, the leg did not appear to be healing well. And the man was in pain though he tried not to show it. Duncan could only hope that there was some sort of doctor at the fort. And that the ten days’ estimate was an accurate one. It was enough—more than enough—that one good man had lost his life already on this adventure.
Was it worth it?
Duncan wondered, as he trudged behind the sled. When he’d stood with Sam and watched his brother’s body fall into ash, he’d thought then that he would give all his share of the gold to have him alive again.
But the truth of it had come back to him over the past days. As they made their way through this phantom land, the only sounds to be heard were the crystalline crunch of the snow under the snowshoes of whoever was in the lead, the panting of the dogs as they strained in their traces, and the sometimes snap of the whip. Conversation was difficult at best when your breath froze as it left your lips. It gave a man time to think.
He remembered what Connor had told him, what he had then learned for himself as the span of his life lengthened far beyond that of ordinary men. They were fragile, all the mortals. They had only so much time. And if you cared for one of them, as a friend or a lover, there was no denying the simple fact that you would lose them. Sooner. Later. It came to the same thing. There was nothing that could be done about it. Except to protect those who were important to you, as any man might do.
He thought of Little Deer. Sometimes, even doing that, even protecting those you loved, was not possible.
There were those among his kind who tried rather to protect themselves. They kept apart from mortal entanglements, choosing the company of other Immortals—those few they hoped could be trusted—willing to risk their heads before their hearts. That wasn’t Duncan’s way. It had never been.
Sam’s brother had been a good man, and his death was a terrible thing. But the gold they still had with them, the gold that waited for them back in the valley, had been important to him. He had judged it worth taking risks for. That was his decision, that was his life. Duncan might mourn him, but it was not his place either to bear any burden for what had happened or to bargain with fate.