“Knowledge is like the sun, Blainey: it sets only to rise once more. While the guns might help us, though, I must warn you that most of my men will want nothing to do with them. The spirits have been stricter with them than they have with me.”
“We can’t let them go into this empty-handed, Indian.”
“We won’t. Each embodies the spirit of his weapon. Their prowess will surprise you.”
“Just so long as it keeps us alive. …”
“You must share the details with me now, Blainey.”
McCracken pulled Terrell’s map from his pocket and spread it out on the Indian’s bed. “This is Horse Neck Island in Muscongus Bay. The island’s our target, and we’ve got to reach it no later than seven-thirty tonight.”
Wareagle glanced out the window and inspected the little remaining light. “Just two and a half hours away. A difficult task even if the spirits are with us.”
“You know the area in question?”
Wareagle nodded. “The shorelines of all the islands in these parts are treacherous. But before we can reach that obstacle, there remains a difficult drive ahead of us and an impossible journey across the waters.”
“Impossible?”
“The storm will have forced all worthy boatmen off the docks; their crafts will be worthless to us.”
“Not if we can steal one.”
“Only a seaman familiar with those waters would stand a chance of eluding the rocks in such weather. A boat by itself is useless.”
“Your spirits taking Christmas Eve off, Indian?”
“They advise, Blainey. They do not work miracles.”
“Then let me tell you something. It might take a miracle for us to pull this off. And there’s plenty more at stake than just our lives; it’s the whole goddamn country we fought for in that godforsaken pit and the enemy on Horse Neck Island is worse than any we faced over there.”
Wareagle was nodding, expressionless as always. The snow on his hair had melted to shiny wetness.
“We will get to the docks, Blainey,” he said, “and the spirits will find us a way across the water. They would not have guided you here to me if that wasn’t their plan.”
“So all we need now is one of our own.”
Wareagle began pointing to spots on Terrell’s scale drawing where guards were sure to be posted.
“The problem, Blainey, is that we must approach in a boat. Even the spirits will not be able to hide that from the island lookouts.”
A howling wind whipped through the trees. Blaine’s eyes strayed out the window. “But the blizzard will.”
“Only from a distance. Once we cross the rocks and approach this single dock here, the flakes will no longer shield us.”
“Then we’ll have to think of something.”
A knock came on Wareagle’s cabin door. The big Indian opened it to find Running Deer standing outside, slightly out of breath. Quiet words were exchanged. Wareagle turned to Blaine and then briefly to Sandy.
“My men are waiting for us outside. I think you should meet them.”
There were six of them including Running Deer. They stood in a single row, the light of the fire dancing off their faces.
“They know what’s happening, don’t they?” Blaine asked Wareagle in a whisper as they approached the men.
Johnny nodded. “The spirits have much to say in these parts, Blainey, for all who listen.”
Sandy stopped halfway between the men and Wareagle’s cabin. Something about the group chilled her. Their faces were fearfully stark and barren, eyes darker than the night and shining like a cat’s. Their potential for violence was held in those eyes, a violence they had come here to escape but that once again had sought them out. Only one of them besides Running Deer was physically handicapped. Instead of a hand he was missing a leg and wore a wooden replacement.
“We’re moving out,” was all Wareagle told them. “Ten minutes. Prepare your weapons.”
The six Indians moved away quickly but not in a rush. The one with the wooden leg hobbled to keep up.
“I think we can leave Tiny Tim behind,” Blaine suggested.
“Nightbird was a sharpshooter in the hellfire, Blainey. He will be of great help to us.”
“There’s only two rifles, Indian, one for you and one for me.”
They were walking back toward his cabin. Wareagle shook his head. “For you and Nightbird, Blainey. The bow is much more to my liking these days.”
When they were inside again, Blaine finally looked at Sandy.
“You’ll stay here.”
“Not on your life!” she replied sharply. “I don’t even know where the hell I am. If you guys don’t make it back, I’ll be stuck here for the winter.”
“Then we’ll drop you off along the way.”
Sandy glared at him with both shock and anger. “Maybe you’ve forgotten that they tried to kill me too. You really think I’d be any safer making my way through Maine alone than I would going to the island with you? Let’s face it, if you screw up, I’m as good as dead anyway.”
McCracken looked at Wareagle, who nodded. “Can you fire a gun?” Blaine asked Sandy.
“I can learn.”
McCracken gave her a.45, which she stuck uncomfortably in her belt and also made her responsible for toting two green canvas knapsacks full of extra ammo. The big Indian carried the most potent explosives. Blaine slung the M-16 with the grenade launcher over his shoulder and issued the standard version to the sharpshooter Nightbird. Running Deer boasted an assortment of handmade tomahawks suspended from his belt. Of the other men, one carried a crossbow, another an assortment of throwing knives; a third preferred a long ball and chain, while the fourth opted for a bow and arrow just as Wareagle had.
Ten minutes after the men had separated, two four-wheel-drive, enclosed jeeps pulled up to a halt. The snow was thick on them everywhere but their front windshields and rear windows. The wipers did their best to keep up with the snow still pouring down.
“The spirits cosign the financing for these babies, Johnny?” Blaine asked.
As always, Wareagle ignored his attempt at humor. “Withdrawal from society does not mean an abandonment of reality, Blainey. Emergencies come up. Supplies are needed. Besides, it was not machines that were responsible for the struggles within our souls.”
Sandy and Blaine rode in one jeep with Wareagle and a driver, while the other five Indians crowded into the second. They headed down a snow-covered road that seemed to have been cleared by nothing more elaborate than machetes. Collapsing branches scraped at them as they passed; with the snow intensifying, the visibility was reduced to near zero. Standing still in the woods, they had not realized how savage the storm had become. Johnny guessed ten inches had fallen already with another one likely before they reached the dock on Horse Neck Island.
It was an agonizing ten minutes before they turned east onto Route 17. The driving, even for the four-wheel-drive jeeps, was treacherous. Occasionally a drift appeared nearly as high as the jeeps themselves, and only the nimble reflexes of the drivers saved the vehicles from becoming hopelessly stuck.
They saw not a single other car or snow plow on the road, and the closer they drew to what should have been civilization, the worse the road became. The jeeps’ lights were useless. Sandy had no idea how their driver could possibly anticipate the corners and obstacles, but somehow he did. The journey was maddening, and she could not stop her heart from lunging toward her mouth around each blind curve. The snow lashed against the windshield, sometimes coating it with a thick blanket which temporarily stopped the wipers. They struggled hard, managing to win, but each instance seemed to take more out of them as the snow grew still thicker.