procedure by the low lamp, until his eyes crossed with fatigue. He closed the manual, blew out the light, and looking at the dark sloping roof over his bed, counted a pattern of knotholes in the wood. Were the other men having him on about the droppings?
Next morning, Constable Turner climbed from a cold bed on to the freezing floor.
'Bright enough day,' said Cook, rattling his pans.
'Plenty of sun,' said Constable Turner. 'Spot a turd ten miles away.' He went out of the cabin towards the woodpile in the rear. Crossing the yard, he heard the distant barking of dogs. Looking down Red Deer Hill, he saw a dog team coming out of the fir trees below.
'Mail sled,' said Cook, joining him on the hillside.
' Bonjour, messieurs ,' said the postman, a natty little Frenchman. Carrying his pouch into the cabin, he presented Lieutenant Belfast with the correspondence from the post in Regina. Belfast slowly and carefully went through the month's orders.
'Constable Turner,' he said, getting up and walking to the large wall map of the territory.
'Yes sir,' said Turner, crossing quickly to his side.
'There's a man in trouble here,' said the Lieutenant, pointing to a northwest spot on the map. 'You'll leave tomorrow and take him to the hospital in Edmonton.'
'Yes sir.'
'You might take a look at this.' Lieutenant Belfast handed Turner a wrinkled letter, written in a thin unsteady hand:
20 Sept 1909
Deer sir a trapper name John live up snake lake an is craze for some year might send a man afor He kill someone I saw him summer an he think he a moose I am miner W Nettlebrew
Turner spent the day prowling restlessly around his laid-out pack, adding and eliminating, finally settling the great bundle in the corner by his bed. He spent the evening by the oil lamp studying the trail map, and traced his 120-mile route carefully with red ink.
With the first grey light of dawn, he was outside preparing the dog team. He slipped the lead dog into the harness, then the rest of the dogs in pairs, seven in all, yapping happily.
'Here's your grub,' said Cook, handing him a filled knapsack, which Constable Turner tied in with his own large travel pack.
Lieutenant Belfast handed him the long sled whip. 'Take care of yourself, Constable.'
'Thank you, sir.' Turner saluted, cracked the whip, and before he could say mush ! the eager dogs were on their way. Along Red Deer Hill they ran, and then down; Constable Turner looked quickly back over his shoulder but the cabin was already out of sight.
By the time the sun was noon high, he was beyond the woods he knew, breaking new trail with map and compass, northwest towards Snake Lake. 'Mush, mush!' he cried, whipping the air. The snow flew and Constable Turner's dreams fluttered in brilliant crystal designs, converging into the shape of glistening medals, falling on his jacket.
At dusk he searched along the ridge of a hill for a campsite, settling finally by a large rock in the side of the hill, out of the driving wind. The sun had gone and the bitter cold of the north came on, penetrating through the several layers of his uniform, deep into his bones.
He took dry wood from his pack and built a fire against the rock wall. Laying a frying pan on the flame, he thawed out the dogs' dinner of frozen fish. His own dinner followed—warm beef and scorched potato. He heated snow in his cup, turning it to water and then to tea into which he dunked one of Cook's biscuits.
Dinner ended, the dogs huddled closer to him, chins on paws, ears back, eyes glistening in the firelight. He took a shovel from his pack and dug a hole in the snow. When the hole was large enough for his entire body, he unrolled his sleeping bag into it. Slipping into the bag, he scooped a blanket of snow over himself and lay down. The wind blew over his grave bed. He turned his face into the sleeping bag and the dogs crept closer. The fire collapsed, went to embers, to ashes, and disappeared beneath lightly falling snow.
Four days he
Next morning, Constable Turner climbed from a cold bed on to the freezing floor.
'Bright enough day,' said Cook, rattling his pans.
'Plenty of sun,' said Constable Turner. 'Spot a turd ten miles away.' He went out of the cabin towards the woodpile in the rear. Crossing the yard, he heard the distant barking of dogs. Looking down Red Deer Hill, he saw a dog team coming out of the fir trees below.
'Mail sled,' said Cook, joining him on the hillside.
' Bonjour, messieurs ,' said the postman, a natty little Frenchman. Carrying his pouch into the cabin, he presented Lieutenant Belfast with the correspondence from the post in Regina. Belfast slowly and carefully went through the month's orders.
'Constable Turner,' he said, getting up and walking to the large wall map of the territory.
'Yes sir,' said Turner, crossing quickly to his side.
'There's a man in trouble here,' said the Lieutenant, pointing to a northwest spot on the map. 'You'll leave tomorrow and take him to the hospital in Edmonton.'
'Yes sir.'
'You might take a look at this.' Lieutenant Belfast handed Turner a wrinkled letter, written in a thin unsteady hand:
20 Sept 1909
Deer sir a trapper name John live up snake lake an is craze for some year might send a man afor He kill someone I saw him summer an he think he a moose I am miner W Nettlebrew
Turner spent the day prowling restlessly around his laid-out pack, adding and eliminating, finally settling the great bundle in the corner by his bed. He spent the evening by the oil lamp studying the trail map, and traced his 120-mile route carefully with red ink.
With the first grey light of dawn, he was outside preparing the dog team. He slipped the lead dog into the harness, then the rest of the dogs in pairs, seven in all, yapping happily.
'Here's your grub,' said Cook, handing him a filled knapsack, which Constable Turner tied in with his own large travel pack.
Lieutenant Belfast handed him the long sled whip. 'Take care of yourself, Constable.'
'Thank you, sir.' Turner saluted, cracked the whip, and before he could say mush ! the eager dogs were on their way. Along Red Deer Hill they ran, and then down; Constable Turner looked quickly back over his shoulder but the cabin was already out of sight.
By the time the sun was noon high, he was beyond the woods he knew, breaking new trail with map and compass, northwest towards Snake Lake. 'Mush, mush!' he cried, whipping the air. The snow flew and Constable Turner's dreams fluttered in brilliant crystal designs, converging into the shape of glistening medals, falling on his jacket.
At dusk he searched along the ridge of a hill for a campsite, settling finally by a large rock in the side of the hill, out of the driving wind. The sun had gone and the bitter cold of the north came on, penetrating through the several layers of his uniform, deep into his bones.
He took dry wood from his pack and built a fire against the rock wall. Laying a frying pan on the flame, he thawed out the dogs' dinner of frozen fish. His own dinner followed—warm beef and scorched potato. He heated snow in his cup, turning it to water and then to tea into which he dunked one of Cook's biscuits.
Dinner ended, the dogs huddled closer to him, chins on paws, ears back, eyes glistening in the firelight. He took a shovel from his pack and dug a hole in the snow. When the hole was large enough for his entire body, he unrolled his sleeping bag into it. Slipping into the bag, he scooped a blanket of snow over himself and lay down. The wind blew over his grave bed. He turned his face into the sleeping bag and the dogs crept closer. The fire collapsed, went to embers, to ashes, and disappeared beneath lightly falling snow.
Four days he
Similar Books
