Devil's Pass by Sigmund Brouwer Page A

did,” Webb said. “But there’s something about this land.”
    George looked at him. “I’ll tell you this. Last night I understood what it is with you and that guitar. What you played sounded like it came straight down from the sky and mountains. It was music touched by the spirits.”
    Webb hadn’t felt like ramping it up when he’d wandered away in the twilight to be by himself with his guitar. That’s what the sky and mountains did to a person.
    â€œSorry,” Webb said. “Next time I’ll go a little farther from camp. I should have figured sound would carry out here.”
    â€œIt wasn’t like that at all,” George said. “What I heard made me walk out a little farther so I could hear it better. Your grandfather was right. He told me you were an amazing musician.”
    â€œYou spoke to my grandfather!” This was a surprise to Webb. He’d expected George at the Norman Wells airport, but only because of the instructions he’d been given by letter. It had never occurred to him that George and his grandpa had ever had a conversation.
    â€œI did,” George said. “He wanted to know more about the Canol Trail and what it might be like for you. He asked a lot of questions. He said he had plans to send you out to find something and that someday I would hear from you. I enjoyed my conversation with him. He sounded like a remarkable man.”
    â€œYes,” Webb said. “He was.”
    â€œTwo things he wanted me to pass along to you when the time was right,” George said. “This feels like it’s right.”
    Webb waited.
    â€œThe first he said you already knew: That which does not kill us makes us stronger .”
    â€œNietzsche. Frederick Nietzsche. A German philosopher.” Webb had looked him up online.
    â€œYour grandfather said the two things he wanted to pass along came from that man,” George said. “The first thing, yes, very wise. I think about this, the land. The longer you survive it, the stronger you become. But the second thing? I don’t know how it matters on the Canol Trail.”
    George closed his eyes and Webb could see that he was making sure to tell him word for word what his grandfather wanted to pass along. “ He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. ”
    George opened his eyes and nodded. “Yes, that was it. All of it. That make sense to you?”
    Webb shook his head. “Not at all.”
    â€œMe neither,” George said. He shrugged. “Next time you play guitar at night, you join us at the fire, okay?”

TWENTY-THREE
    â€œHey, guitar boy. Yes. You.”
    Fritz. Or maybe Wilhelm. Webb couldn’t tell since they were walking up behind him. Webb was sitting on a rock overlooking the valley ahead. The distant hill was dotted with caribou.
    Webb stood and faced them and spoke. “No speak English.”
    â€œYes,” Fritz said. “Very funny.”
    â€œYes, funny, like how you sell our equipment last night,” Wilhelm said. They kept their shoulders close together, gaining strength from each other. “Give us the money.”
    Webb couldn’t see George anywhere nearby. Not that it mattered, much.
    â€œSure,” Webb said. He had the ten-dollar bill in his pocket. “It’s yours. Every penny I got for all of it.”
    They looked disappointed, like they were hoping he would put up more of a fight. That made it worthwhile to Webb—disappointing them.
    â€œNot enough,” Wilhelm said.
    â€œTell that to the cowboy,” Webb answered. “I did the best I could to get more money from him.”
    â€œNot enough,” Fritz said.
    They moved closer, as if Webb’s refusal to put up a fight made them bolder. Proving Webb right: they were bullies.
    For Webb, it was just like another street