And this isn't the way to get into shape at his age. Much more of this and I wouldn 't bet on him coming through. But I can't take him off carrying the stretcher for at least some of the time. There's too much else to do and I'm the one who knows how to do it.
"By the way, Mike," Signe said, obviously pushing the worry aside with an effort of will. "There's something you should consider about 'mystical crap,' as you put it."
His brows went up and she continued by putting her hand out, fingers cocked like a pistol and making a ffff-fumph between lips and teeth, uncannily like the way his gun had sounded when he tried to fire it.
Have to admit, you've got a point, he thought, and was about to say it aloud when he heard Eric's voice, cracking with excitement: "A deer! She got a deer, and it's running away!"
Havel was on his feet and running forward in an instant, scooping up the rabbit stick and tumbling Signe on her backside with a squawk; she was up and following him half a heartbeat later, though.
He passed Eric, but the twins were right on his heels as he flashed into the clearing; their legs were long and their hightops were better running gear than his solid mountain boots. Astrid was a hundred yards ahead, sprinting fast with the bow pumping back and forth in her left hand; and the blood trail was clear enough for anyone to follow- bright gouts and splashes of it on snow and mud and last year's dry grass sticking through both. He pushed himself harder, knowing all too well how the tap could turn off suddenly on a trail like that, unless He went through a belt of lodgepole pines, like seventy-foot candlesticks; the ground beneath them was fairly clear, and the wounded animal was following the trail; that wasn't too surprising, since it was on level ground and would make for maximum speed. Massive tree boles flashed by him, and then they were out into bright sunlight with mountain ridges rippling away to the west and south like endless green-white waves on a frozen sea. Thin mountain air burned cold in his chest; Astrid's hair was like a white-silk banner as he pulled past her. Then the trail jinked a little higher.
Good! he thought exultantly. Make him work at it!
The blood trail wasn't dying off; getting thicker, if anything. Then he saw the animal in a patch of sunlight not far ahead.
That's no by-God deer, he thought.
It was an elk; a three-year bull still carrying his rack, a six-pointer, and he knew it must be badly wounded-a healthy elk could do thirty-five miles an hour in a sprint, and twenty all day long. As Havel neared it staggered, gave a gasping, bugling grunt of pain, and began to collapse by the rear. Blood poured out of its nose and mouth; the forelegs gave way, and it lay down and groaned, jerked, and went still with its thick tongue hanging out of its mouth.
Astrid and the twins were only a few seconds behind him. "Stand back!" he said sharply, controlling his breathing.
As if to back up his words the beast gave a final galvanic kick; it was a little thin with winter, but sill magnificent- glossy reddish brown on most of its body, with a shaggy gray mane on its thick neck and a yellowish patch on the rump around the small white tail. He could just see the fletching of the two-foot arrow against its rib cage behind the left shoulder; Astrid must have been lucky. The blade of the broadhead had struck with the edges up and down, slipping between two ribs and going through right into the lungs, probably cutting a big artery or nicking the heart too. The arrow could never have punched through the outer ribs if it had struck horizontally, not from a twenty-five pound draw.
Even so, that was a light bow and a short shaft to bring down something this size; bull elk were the size of a medium-sized horse. This one wasn't quite full-grown, but it would dress out at four hundred pounds or more of steaks, roasts, chops, ribs and organ meat, enough to feed six people for a month. The main problem would be carrying it; in this weather it would keep a long time once he'd drained it properly and dressed it out.
Astrid was dancing from one foot to another and crowing with glee: "He stepped right onto the trail! He was only twenty feet away! Go me! Go me! I got him, I got him!"
"That you did, kid," Havel said. "That makes up for a hell of a lot of lost rabbits!"
Signe hugged her sister and danced her in a circle. Even her brother gave an admiring whistle.
"I take it back, Legolamb," he said. "I'm gonna say 'sorry' with every mouthful."
Havel nodded agreement and moved in to make sure of the elk with his knife; on the one hand there was no point in letting it suffer, but on the other he didn't want a hoof through his skull or six inches of pointed antler in his crotch either.
"Sorry, brother, but we needed it," he said, in an almost noiseless whisper-he never spoke that aloud, not wanting to be thought gooey or New-Agey-and passed his hand over the beast's eyes and then his own.
Maybe we could camp for a day's rest, he thought. Mrs. Larsson isn 't looking very good, and -
Then what he was seeing through the stand of mountain ash penetrated.
"Eric," he said. "Come on."
"What?" the young man said.
Havel pointed and grinned. "The ranger cabin's just through there," he said. "I figure we can get your mom into a real bed and start the stove in about twenty minutes."
Clean underwear, even, Michael Havel exulted the next morning.
What was more, he was clean; it made his gamy clothes repulsive, but he pulled them on and padded out into the hallway carrying his boots and followed his nose to the kitchen, gratefully taking a cup of bad instant coffee from Astrid at the doorway.
The four-room log cabin had been built by the WPA back in the thirties, and it had a big woodstove with a water heater, plenty of stacked firewood, a meat safe and even some food in the pantry-flour in a sealed bin, canned fruit and vegetables, salt and pepper and baking soda-left for just this sort of emergency. There were blankets in a cupboard too; even in this year of grace 1998 you didn't have to assume vandals and thieves would be by, not in the middle of the Selway-Bitterroot, you didn't. That kind usually didn't have the stamina for a three-day hike through frigid mountain forest from the nearest road.
For castaways like Havel and his passengers, the Forest Service would be forgiving.
The radio was thoroughly dead, and the batteries too- not even a tickle from the tongue taste-test, which didn't surprise him although it was annoying as hell. Right now he was satisfied with something besides MREs or cold rabbit stew for breakfast.
Signe Larsson was cooking; he'd done ribs and steaks last night, and started a big pot of "perpetual stew" that still simmered on the back plate. If you brought it to a boil now and then, you could add fresh ingredients and water daily and keep it going indefinitely.
"Flapjacks," she said over her shoulder; her wheat-blond hair was loose, and still slightly damp and tousled from washing with a scrap of soap. "And canned peaches to go with them-yum!"
"Food for the gods," he said sincerely, accepting a plateful; his body craved starch, and sugar only a little less.
Eric and Astrid were concentrating on eating; like their sister, they'd bounced back with the resilience of healthy youth.
I did too, Havel thought. Only the rubber's just the slightest touch less resilient at twenty-eight!
Ken Larsson was looking less like walking death; partly due to a night on a real mattress, even if there were only blankets rather than sheets, and mostly that his wife seemed to be doing a lot better too.
"OK," Havel said, looking out the window after he'd cleared his plate the second time. It was just past dawn, with sunrise turning the snow on the peaks opposite rosy pink; if he hadn't quit soon after he'd left the Corps, this would be the perfect time for a cigarette. It was a pity tobacco was so goddamned bad for you!