To the Lake [Chapter Five] They both slept until morning, the fire was almost out, the sun was actually out, and the meat was burnt. They woke up, looked at each other, and laughed for some odd reason; maybe because they were both still alive, perhaps because they didn't want to cry, yet tears came with Feba's laughter, and Blue knew it was only the beginning for her grieving process. But he grabbed the moment, and laughed with her. They both looked at the dark piece of meat dangling in the air, tied to a branch on the tree. And with a quick grip to his knife, he grabbed it, and started to cut a piece for Feba, and one for him. It was a good three pounds of meat. The top layer was all darkly burnt, but under it, the meat was good. It tasted like rabbit, Blue told Feba. "Yaw, it is rabbit alright," she hesitated, and then added, "it' has only been frozen for a few days." No more was said; even the rabbit brought hurtful memories back. Blue left it alone; he didn't need to know who caught it. It tasted good, and to whom caught it, thanks. "We got to go," stated Blue. "Yaw, I know, it's not safe here. I guess I never really felt safe in this area." "I'll start putting out the fire, I hope you can direct the journey, I know it's South, but that's about all I know." "We are about ten miles north of a big lake called we need to get to that area and we can cross avoiding a lot of the snow and wooded area, we have now traveled about five miles south as you know, after we cross the lake we need to continue to go South [Brainerd by Deerwood]. We can go a little West and go to a city called St. Cloud, we will be about twenty-miles from there, or we can continue to Pigs Eye, which will be about thirty-five miles from there. I also know when we get far enough, there is another town to the east, we will be but fifteen-miles from there, called Stillwater, or again about the same distance to Pigs Eye." "Let's just go south until we hit Pigs Eye, it sounds like a direct plan, and I like plans, unless somehow we got to alter it." As they started packing their things (what few things they had), Blue noticed in the far distance someone on a horse in the dense dark of the wooded area across from the burnt out house. It was an Indian, he seen a few feathers coming from the back of his head. Feba didn't notice and Blue left it alone, he felt if she knew she'd lose her composure, she had just lost her whole family, and her life was not too valuable to her right now, at this moment. And he didn't need that yet. Plus, if the Indian wanted a fight, he knew where they were. He'd most likely wait and see if the cold took care of them first. He was a renegade most likely, like the band that set fire to Feba's house. If he fought he wanted a battle. That is why he was standing there. To let Blue know he was a warrior, not a coward, and so Blue went to the front of the forest, stood proud like a tower. "What you doing Blue," cried Feba, "you will get killed if you are not careful; the Indians may still be around." "Sorry, Feba just wanted to get a last look at the house. To bad, it's just too damn bad." Next they both started the journey through the woods. But this time they had a horse, Feba had a bear skin wrapped round her body, it was heavy, but it was warm. The fur was on her body, and the skin-hide side, was exposed; as was Blue's bear skin, likewise. It was only about five-below zero Feba told Blue, and no wind. It wasn't bad compared to the last few days thought Blue. Then it dawned on Blue, this was not the way he wanted to die, being frozen like an ice-sickle, falling off a roof of a house: frozen with his eyes open, and lips frozen open half open from shivering and teeth showing their white to the world, as his body was all wrapped up in cloth to show people the cleverness of a Minnesota winter; dying slowly away, only to be frozen to death at a later time. No, he was a gunfighter; a bullet in the head, the heart by a faster man that was how he dreamed he'd die, when he was too old to pull the gun from his holster. And of course, Blue knew there was no man alive that was faster, sharper and more deadly with a gun then he. I mean he knew, being fast was one thing, but being calm and fast, and knowing the gun you had like you knew your horse was part of the game, the deadly gave. Caution and instinct were other qualities to keep you alive. Then after he walked a few miles in the cold snow, perhaps this maybe, maybe, just maybe, he told himself, this is the way to die, since no gunfighter can kill me. What a joke the God in heaven is playing on me: wild wolves that live in this woodland, Indians, and the god-forsaken cold, his worse nightmare, one of these elements will surely get me; so he told himself (thought in his in his mind as he walked mile after mile. If a wolf killed him, he told himself that would be worse than an Indian, or gunfighter. He wasn't even a human: "I'd rather die in battle," he murmured, and Feba said: "What did you just say?" He didn't answer, not sure if he even heard her: '...was I to be spared death,' he thought, 'or die as an animal in the cold-wild?' |
