Mitchell Smith - Snowfal

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SNOWFALL
BY
MITCHELL SMITH
© 2002 By Mitchell Smith
ISBN: 0-812-57933-X
Version 1.0
Ah, Warm Times, Warm Times!—"Oh, Paradise Lost," as the poet says. Before the Spoiled Orbit of Jupiter.
Today, we copied our Rand McNally again, the highway map of Colorado—where, I informed the children, we
reside... up here in the mountains just below what we call "the Wall," the edge of the ice.
I wish to Our Lord we could get a topographical to copy. The men are always going on about it, how useful it
would be. The highway map copy was fine for Warm-times, hundreds of years ago. Not much use to us, alas, except
for finding a few old-steel sites.
I've just finished reading our Aymond Chandler copybook again. We think we understand everything in these
old books. We copy them, and read them with our Webster's, take our first names from them, and learn how to write
and speak from them as if we lived in those times. But I think we misunderstand a great deal.—I don't believe this
Aymond Chandler work could only concern breaking laws, and people talking and driving their machine-cars in
the state of Map-California, which our Rand McNally shows to the west, against the Pacific sea.
There must be religious significance which we miss, and now will never know. This is likely true of our
Chandler, even our Hunting on the Continent of Africa book the men love so much.
My face hurt today—old damaged nerve endings, just as Doctor Monroe said. How I miss that wonderful man.
I'm uncertain, faced with illnesses and injuries he used to meet smiling, and I have little faith.
How could Mountain Jesus allow a baby girl to wander into dog-lines, and be so bitten and torn? My father
used to call me "Precious-as-Paper," and "little Lark," after "Like the lark, which at the break of day ascending,
sings hymns at heaven's gate."
FROM THE JOURNAL OF DOCTOR CATANIA OLSEN
CHAPTER 1
Sam Monroe was leading a two-day hunt. He had three Olsens and William Weber with him.
The five men, all senior hunters except William, were the left hand of a two-hand hunt of the last winter herd. Six
other men, Olsen-Monroes and Richardsons, were playing right-hand, swinging wide to the west around the flank of
Alvin Mountain to hunt the stragglers as the caribou trailed by. They had taken the dogs and sleds with them.
Sam Monroe was a big man, like all the men in his family, with heavy shoulders and a thick, muscled belly. His
face was broad, deep-lined, and wind-beaten, burned the color of seasoned wood by more than forty-six years of
sunlight glaring off snow. His hair, mustache, and beard were cropped short and grizzled gray.
Old for a Trapper, he was still strong and enduring, so breathed easily after their long climb up the glacier's col.
Sam had never cared for slit-goggles, which, it seemed to him, made too narrow a world, so he left them in his parka
pocket and squinted into the brightness of late-afternoon sunlight on the snow, surveying the great river of ice.
The Trappers called this glacier "The Old Man." It cut across their hunt country from north to south, paralleling
the route of the great herds. Above the hunters, the glacier narrowed to only a mile or so as it shouldered its way
between the two mountain peaks—Alvin, to the west; Mount Geary rising even higher to the east.
The river of ice was frozen in immense curtains, laceworks thousands of feet high, draped and festooned one
upon the other as if a torrential mountain flood had suddenly been halted, stopped still in its race and rapids, and
turned instantly to stone, perfectly white, glittering now in June sunlight.
Its stillness was deceptive. Among those enormous cataracts of ice were blue-black crevasses so deep that a
large stone dropped into them soundlessly vanished, dwindled into darkness ... and was gone, with no echo heard of
its fall ending.
"They ran down the ridge." Sam Monroe pushed back his parka hood and stood leaning on his bow.
"More'll be along." Jim Olsen was a tall bony man with a thin, fierce face. He was eleven years younger than Sam,
and preferred to lead the hunts he went on.
And the truth is, Sam thought, the bastard is a good hunter. He had a momentary vision of himself, older, his
knees stiffened, trailing along behind the others while Jim Olsen led them. He imagined the men turning to look back
down the trail at him trying to catch up... shaking their heads, saying to each other, "Why doesn't the old man stay
home?"
"We're not going to wait up here, hoping they'll herd high. We'll go down for outrunners." Sam pulled up his
parka hood. He was dressed, like the others, in dark-brown caribou hides cut and sewn into soft trousers, and a
loose-fitting parka trimmed with wolf and lynx. His high moccasins were lined with fur and double-soled with elk
leather, piss-tanned and boiled.
He led them over the east ridge at a trot. As they crossed it, the Wall loomed into view behind Mount Alvin's
peak. Blue-white in the distance, the Wall ran across the mountain range west to east, horizon to horizon.
* * *
The Olsen-Monroes and other families of the Range had been told—by travelers stopping by to beg a hunt, and
by Salesmen come to trade old-steel, southern paper, or copybooks for fur— that the ice-wall ran from the Atlantic
Sea, thousands of map-miles to the east, all the way past the Range to the Pacific Sea, where people in water-boats
hunted swimming seals.
The Wall was almost a mile high. The Trappers hunted along its base in the winter, sometimes, before the spring
thaw. Then it became too dangerous. Clouds gathered along its rim, and storms crashed and thundered down the
cliffs, so fools prayed to Weather to spare them, forgetting their copy-Bible.
In the three weeks of summer, great pieces of the Wall broke free and toppled from it, so the earth shook.
Sometimes waterfalls poured down from the crest and foamed high surf in flooding lakes. These cataracts stopped
toward the end of August, when all froze and became silent again.
Over the glacier ridge and down the flank of Mount Alvin, Sam led the hunters through late afternoon, never
stopping to rest. After a while, the five Trappers left deep snow for thin snow, then thin snow for granite, and finally
left that, and went down into the spruce and hemlock that forested the base of the mountain.
They made good time through these dark-green woods. Old snow and spruce needles crunched softly beneath
their moccasin boots as they trotted along in single file. They carried yew longbows, each almost as long as its owner
was tall, in their left hands. Thick hemlock branches plucked at the full quivers strapped to their backs, and caught at
their arms and legs as they passed.
Even in deep green shade, the men could see the scattered tracks and occasional dung droppings that a small
group of caribou had left when they split from the great herd to feed.
When he paused and bent to test it, the dung was still warm in Sam's fingers.
They trotted, almost silently, for another little while, then stopped. Standing still, the Trappers could hear
through a rising breeze the very faint, soft, clicking sounds of moving caribou. The men silently braced and strung
their heavy bows, then slid long arrows from their quivers. The arrows were perfectly made, strictly straight, and well
polished. They were fletched with goose flight-feathers—edge-tinted in trade powder-paint with each Trapper's family
colors—and tipped with broad hunting-heads filed from fine-hammered steel. Each arrow was banded in a hunter's
personal pattern of narrow stripes, painted with evergreen sap and rock ochre.
Their bows ready, arrows nocked to strings of twisted thread-stripped tendon, the five men spread out and
moved quietly down through the trees. The breeze was slightly stronger now as daylight dimmed, and they moved
only when its slow chill gusts came through, so their sounds became the wind's sounds. At last they reached the
border of a small clearing, deep in soft old snow and dotted with sprigs of seedling spruce.
The caribou were there. A branch-antlered buck, a younger buck in velvet, and a doe and her fawn were grazing
along the clearing's other edge.
Sam stood watching the animals from a screen of hemlock. He saw a flicker of motion to his right, a distance
along the clearing's edge. Shit. It would be William, for sure. The boy is shaking that branch as if there were August
blueberries on it!
Sam decided not to wait. He stepped out from behind the brush as he drew his longbow, touched the arrow's
feathers to his cheek, and released.
His bow pulled ninety Warm-time pounds, and the long arrow sprang from it humming. Across the clearing, the
young buck had only time to come alert before the broadhead struck him, chopped into his chest, and knocked him
down.
An instant later, Sam heard a bow-string twang behind him. Jim Olsen, he thought, and the arrow flashed across
to take the older buck through the throat as the doe and her fawn leaped and landed running, crashing away through
the evergreens.
The Trappers ran to the fallen bucks, drawing long double-edged knives from their belts. Sam and Jim, by
custom, cut their own kills' throats, and touched their foreheads with bloody fingers. Then the bucks were strung up
into branches by their heel tendons, and the men gathered round and butchered them. They tied off the bowels, drew
out the guts, bellies, livers, spleens, gall, lungs, and hearts.... Then rumps, hams, ribs, and loins were butchered out
and wrapped with the innards in the fresh hides, to make heavy bundles for carrying.
"William," Sam said, but smiling, since they'd taken so much
good meat, "—when are you going to learn to be still in the woods?"
The Olsens nodded, and William said, "I was still." Younger than the other men, stocky, and with lighter-colored
hair, William Weber ate so much that in the summer weeks he had fat on his body.
"Never still and never quiet," Jim Olsen said. "You fart loud enough to scare the herds away." The men laughed.
William, his face red, started to answer, and an arrow struck him in the back.
Very much as the caribou had, he gave a little jump and started to run. But Sam seized him as he staggered near,
and dove with him into the evergreens as Jim and the other two Olsens jumped into cover beside them.
For a moment, they all crouched silent in the greenwood brush, arrows nocked to their bowstrings.
William groaned and tried to sit up, and the shaft stuck into the small of his back moved as if it were driving
deeper into him. Jim leaned over to hold William still, and get a better look at the arrow. It was slender, painted black
with pitch, and fletched with owl feathers.
"Tribesmen," Olsen said. "That's a Cree arrow."
"Why?" Tom Olsen spoke softly. He was young, not much older than William. "They've come down before, and
they never hurt anybody!"
Now they have, Sam thought. Pitch arrows, short wood-and-sinew bows. Soft puffs of fur around the string just
below the bow-tips, to muffle the twang of the shot. And more than one of them out there, to take on five Trappers.
Jim was staring at him, waiting for a decision.
"All right. Pick William up and let's get out of here."
The three Olsens—Jim, Tom, and a cousin named Chapman— took William's bow and quiver, then lifted him up
and slid quickly back into the denser forest behind them. Sam stayed, down on one knee, his longbow held horizontal
and half-drawn, watching for a Cree to show himself.
But nothing human stirred across the clearing, only small branches shifting in the breeze gusting down from the
glacier ridge. The big blotches of caribou blood were freezing dark red in the snow beside the bundles of meat....
William had left smaller drops of his blood behind, still warm and bright in the failing light.
Sam looked along the clearing's opposite edge once more, then stepped quickly into the woods and trotted after
the others. Now, William was leaving no blood trail, but the scuffling track of the men who carried him was easy to see,
even in gathering darkness under the trees.
Carrying William, they would not be able to run from the Crees—or hide from them, either.
Jim had found as good a place as possible for cover in the forest, a space between two big fallen trees. Struck
and split by lightning a few years before, they rested almost side by side in the snow.... Jim and the other two Olsens
had laid William down between these logs and crouched beside him, waiting for Sam or the Crees, whoever caught up
with them first.
Tom Olsen, watching the forest up-slope, saw Sam coming, waved him in, and kept watching.
Sam slid over the near snow-covered log and crouched low beside Jim. Behind them, William Weber lay still.
"See any?"
"No," Sam said. "But I guess they'll be along, unless they just wanted the meat."
"Which you don't think is so?"
"No, I don't think they just came by and wanted the meat. They were waiting for us to come down. I'd say there
are maybe ten, maybe twelve of them, to start this killing trouble." Sam sighed, drew his long knife, and drove it into
the log in front of him so the elk-horn grip was ready to hand.
"They won't rush us," Jim said.
"Not till night."
Olsen's bony face was taut with anger. "It was a Cree moved a branch back there—and you mistook it for William
being clumsy."
"... Yes, I did."
"Your mistake—and likely to get us killed."
"When you're killed, Jim, you come complain about it." Sam crawled over to William. Someone had pulled the
arrow out of him. He gripped William's arm, turned him over, and saw he was dead. His eyes were half-open, shadowed
blue, and his tongue was hanging out of his mouth.
"Oh ... Jesus."
The arrows came in then—one, then two more hissing close over their heads and flicking away into the woods.
Sam and the Olsens bent their bows, looking for targets, but the spruce and hemlock stood so thick around them they
saw only rough tree trunks through dark green boughs, and here and there a narrow beam of fading light on the snow
of the forest floor.
It would soon be difficult to make out a man's shape. More difficult, if he was still. Sam and the Olsens knelt in
silence, waiting for the next arrow.... It came from behind Sam, where Chapman Olsen was watching, and whacked into
one of their guardian logs a foot from Jim's back.
Chapman returned the shot instantly, half rising to clear his bow-tip as he released. A man began to scream from
that direction, then came running, staggering, out of the trees toward the Trappers' shallow fort. He wore his clan's
sewn beast-suit of red fox fur and tail, and was masked in a false fox-head—its muzzle, of painted carved wood,
studded with elks' teeth filed sharp.
The fox-man stumbled and whined. Chapman's shaft had taken him just under his left arm, and was sunk in fox fur
to its feathers. The Cree called out in his language, gargling blood, and reeled first toward the Trappers, then away
from them.
Sam rose to his knees behind the tree trunk and shot the Cree through the heart—the arrow snapping right
through him—and the fox-man fell into the snow and pine needles, kicked, and died.
Then arrows came in like driven snow, sighing over the Trappers' low barricade, or cracking into the frozen logs,
knocking loose little patches of ice and crumbled bark.
Sam and the Olsens kept low and husbanded their arrows. They didn't speak to each other, as if the fighting was
making them too tired to talk.
Soon the sun sank past Mount Alvin. The mountain's shadow leaned over them and the light was almost gone.
The Olsens drew their knives as Sam had done, and stuck them in the snow or the logs in front of them, to be
handy when the Crees came rushing with the dark.
When the tribesmen stopped shooting so much—saving arrows, or settling to wait—Sam leaned back for a
moment to rest his cramped back. He stretched out his left leg to ease it, and an arrow flickered across his vision and
nailed his leg to the log he hid behind.
The pain was very bad. It felt as if his leg was lying in a fire. Sam sat up and started to yank the arrow out. It had
driven through his calf, caribou trousers and all, and pinned his leg firmly to the log. He gripped the arrow shaft to tear
it out, and to hell with the barbs.
Then he saw Jim Olsen watching him. Jim made a face, as if to say, "Will you look at this old asshole? Can't even
get his leg off an arrow."
Sweating, Sam took a deep breath and leaned forward to grip his leg at the knee and ankle, holding it as if it
belonged to someone else. Then, with a sudden heave, he jerked his leg up along the arrow's shaft and off, over the
feathers.
That hurt so fiercely that he fell back dizzy for a moment, sick to his stomach. And for the first time, as he lay
under the curve of the log, taking deep breaths of icy spruce-smelling air so he wouldn't vomit, he was certain he and
the Olsens were going to be killed.
We're not going to get out of this. My fault, for splitting the party and sending the other six men off around the
mountain. If we had those six men with us, we'd be chasing these fucking Crees back up onto the ice.
His leg began to feel better now it was off the arrow. He thought for a moment about the tribesmen—Crees, or
whatever the hell they were. Came trailing down after the caribou eleven or twelve years ago in little bunches, and
didn't bother anyone. Called themselves Indians, Native Amers, though most were white.... They'd just hung around
the caribou and took a few head, traded a little, and stayed out of the Trappers' way—until now.
Sam forced himself to sit up again, grunting at the pain, took off his bone-buckle belt and strapped it tight around
his calf to stop the bleeding. He could feel blood in his moccasin, slippery around his toes.... When he got the belt
fastened, he stuck his hands in his armpits to warm them for a moment, then got to his knees again behind the log, and
picked up his bow.
All right. One of you bastards move just a little out there. That's all I ask of Mountain Jesus.
It was becoming night. The evergreens were clusters of black in deepening shadows. As the four men waited,
listening hard because it was such uncertain seeing, another arrow came flirting, struck a low branch, deflected with a
soft sneezing sound, and whirred away into darkness.
It was so quiet, Sam could hear one of the Olsens, probably Tom, whispering to himself, praying.
Sam found himself getting sleepy from the cold and the wound in his leg. The blood was frozen in the moccasin
now; it felt like snow when he wiggled his toes. Looking out, it seemed to him the pattern of the forest had changed a
little, a shadow had shifted in the darkness. There was one more—or one less—black tree trunk out there; he was sure
of it. What he was seeing now, wasn't what he had been seeing.
He rose, bent his bow—the yew creaking in the cold—and shot at what was different.
A man yelped like a hurt dog, and what might have been a tree trunk rolled away, thrashing, then slowly settled...
and after a while lay still.
When the Cree began shooting at them again, they shot carefully, aiming to skim just over the Trappers' fallen
trees. Soon, Sam and the Olsens had to lie flat behind the logs, and couldn't raise up for even a quick shot back.
The moon was rising now, and the woods, which had been so dark, began to be lit here and there by slender
beams of moonlight filtering through spruce boughs. The snowy forest floor glowed pale silver.
Jim reached out to touch Sam's foot, and whispered to him, "They're going to come in on us pretty soon."
Sam could see Olsen's teeth shine in the moonlight.
"—We should run out of here right now. Some of us would make it...."
Jim looked at Sam expectantly, as if Sam was going to say, "Yes. Let's do that, and see how far I get with this hurt
leg, how long it takes these Crees to catch me and cut my throat."
Sam didn't say it. He lay looking at Jim until Olsen turned away. Son-of-a-bitch wants to get those skinny hands
on Susan... wants to be head hunter, too. Sam reached for his knife where it stuck up from the log, and worked the
blade free. He was sorry he'd thought about Susan; that made the whole thing worse.
It had gotten colder; Sam had to put his fur mittens on. Tom Olsen tried to raise up, find a target—and one of the
Crees put an arrow through the top of his right ear. Tom lay down fast, with his hand on the side of his head, and said,
"You motherfucker!" which was something no one said, because of Lord Jesus' mother.... Then the Trappers lay still,
huddled with William's body between the fallen trees. They couldn't even look over the top of the logs, the moonlight
now made them such fine targets.
They lay quiet, their long knives in their hands, and waited for the tribesmen to make up their minds.
Sam wondered if the Crees might just stay back and let them freeze to death. It would be smart of them to make a
fire back in the woods, then take turns watching while we freeze. I hope they're not that patient. I hope they come
soon, so I can still move and kill one.
He felt sorry even for Jim, now. And his leg was hurting so much he began to weep. The tears froze on his face.
Snot ran out of his nose, and that froze, too. He wiped his nose with his parka sleeve, shifted his knife to his right
hand, and took a better grip on it.
One of the tribesmen screamed in the forest. Then another man called out, yelled something. Suddenly, men were
running through the trees.
The Trappers struggled up, long knives ready.
Goodbye, Susan. My little sweetheart.. ..
Another Cree howled, and the tribesmen came rushing, their moon-shadows shuttling among the trees as they
leaped and dodged past the Trappers and off through the forest, brushing aside thick branches, their moccasins
thudding in the snow as they went.
Crouched gripping their knives, their mouths open in astonishment, Sam and the Olsens watched the Cree run
past them and away. . . . Then, the tribesmen were gone, and the forest silent as if they'd never been.
"What happened?" Jim's bony face looked like a skull in the moonlight.
"I don't know." Sam tried to stand up straight. His leg was very bad. I'm going to have to ask Jim Olsen to help
me. That's what this has come to.
"Why did they run away?" Tom still held his knife, ready to fight.
"What about William?" Jim said.
It seemed to Sam the Olsens were full of questions. "We take him."
"Take him?" Tom said. "Carry a dead man, when the Crees could come back on us? We're damn near dead,
ourselves."
"We take William with us!" Sam took a step and stumbled. Couldn't help it.
A voice sounded from the forest. "Sam ... you're getting old."
I have been consulted on the potatoes. Notion apparently being that a physician should be able to heal a tub
nearly frozen, so the buds were burned. My advice was to take a strap to Lucinda Sorbane, who is old enough to
tend a fire.
Speaking of Sorbanes, Peter has coughed too long. Doctor Monroe was always worried about tuberculosis.
Mountain Jesus and Weather help me, if that has come to the Range.
Treatment is rest. Rest and exposure to dry, cold air— the last no problem for us. In Warm-times, there was
medicine for some strains of this so-tiny bacteria. Apparently not medicine for all strains. ...
It occurs to me the copybooks do us few favors. They give us our language, our phrases, and old information—
at the price of reminding us what we have lost.
The Salesmen also remind us of what we have lost, with their history tales, and lying travel tales of discovered
Warm-time treasure, and monsters made in pregnant woman.
Peter Sorbane, that clever man, has been coughing too long-----
FROM THE JOURNAL OF DOCTOR CATANIA OLSEN
CHAPTER 2
A tall man walked out of the trees into a shaft of moonlight, and stood leaning on a lance, looking at them. He
had a longbow over his shoulder. A quiver and rawhide-web snowshoes were strapped to his back.
He wore hide trousers and boots and a thick fur parka of silver fox. The hood was up, shadowing his face.—Sam
noted the silver fox. There was no mottle to the pelts; this man had come from the east.
"How do you know my name?"
The tall man threw back the hood of his parka. He had a short black beard down a lank-jawed face and a long
straight nose above a flowing mustache. Deep-set eyes were shadowed in the moonlight.
"What, Sam," he said, "—no welcome for your little brother?"
"... Jack?" Sam had to clear his throat. "Jack, you son-of-a-bitch!" He felt Jim Olsen stiffen beside him.
"Jack Monroe," Jim said.
"That's right," the tall man said. "And you'd be which Olsen? Jim?"
"Yes. Did you drive those tribesmen off?"
"I killed a couple. Guess they thought your right-hand party had come up on them."
"Well, then," Tom said, "Let's get out of here!"
Jack Monroe walked over and took Sam's arm to help him across the log. "You men bring that boy along. Looks
like a Weber. William?"
Chapman Olsen started to say something, but Jim shook his head, and motioned to him to take William's legs.
The boy had frozen stiff and was hard to carry. When they were out of the forest at the edge of the mountain's
valley, the Olsens put him down, and Jim sat on the corpse and pulled the head up until the body bent in the middle.
Then, one man could carry it easily, and Tom picked it up and lugged it across his shoulder as the Trappers worked
their way west through the valley's deep drifts.
Sam's leg gave him more and more trouble. Shouldn't have left our snowshoes behind on the sleds, just because
we were going to be hunting high. First mistake....
They traveled in a line, Chapman coming last, carrying William's bow, quiver, and knife as well as his own.
Chapman looked back to the forest from time to time, to see if Cree might be chasing. Moonlight sparkled on the
snowfields behind them, but no one followed from the forest.
Jack was half-lifting Sam along, and pacing fast. Even stronger than he used to be—and he has his damn
snow-webs. Sam's leg didn't hurt anymore, but it weighed on him like a piece of frozen wood. He dragged it through the
snow, leaning on his brother.
"You rendezvous at Hot Spring?"
"Same as always, Jack." Sam could hear the others laboring along behind them, kicking through the soft snow in
moonlight. ... William lost—and all that good meat left behind. For certain, those Cree sons-of-bitches wouldn't have
run too scared to pick that up.
To the east, the moon—a sliced moon—was still high above Mount Geary's shoulder. Sam could see his breath
and Jack's mingle before their faces in a small cloud of frost. When the moon set, it would be full dark, the darkness
before dawn when only owls sailed silent above the snow. The Crees might follow, then.
It was going to be no pleasure to tell Helen Weber that her brother William was dead with an arrow in his
back. She'd know who to blame, and she'd be right.
The leg no longer hurt, but after they stopped for a moment so Jim could take the boy's body from Tom, Sam had
trouble getting back into his stride.
"Want me to carry you?"
Sam didn't have to look to see Jack smiling. "Kiss my ass," he said—a useful copybook phrase. It always
reminded Sam that Warm-time people had been no different from people now. Only luckier....
Jack moved fast, and Sam managed, and the Olsens kept behind them, silent. Once, Chapman started to run up to
the front, take a turn breaking trail, but Jim stopped him and motioned him back.
Though nothing had been said, Sam knew what had happened behind him. He'd heard Chapman stomp off their
trail, come up ... then stop and step back into place.
Jim Olsen ... The look on his face when he saw it was Jack come out of those woods. After six years thrown out,
here comes my brother Jack Monroe back again, and saves our bacon. Something I've never had. Pig's bacon.
Supposed to be salty and fat. Wild boar bacon's not the same....
They reached Hot Spring at moonset. Jack left them without a word, and went up to see if Cree might be waiting.
After a while, he came back. The Spring was all right.
They built a little damp-wood fire by the water, and huddled round it. The Spring flowed from under a rock shelf,
and its hot water steamed and smoked in the night air.... The water here was no good to drink; it gave the trots. But it
was wonderful to lie down in naked, so hot and soothing.
Sam, nursing his bad leg by the fire, wished he could do that— get out of his dirty furs and go and lie in the hot
water. The water would ease him, take the cold from his leg, then take the pain. He imagined living the rest of his life in
the Spring, swimming in steaming warm water though the years, even when winter blizzards came screaming off the
Wall.Jack had taken a stick of jerky from his parka, and sat cross-legged, chewing on it, looking into the fire. The three
Olsens didn't say anything, though they glanced at him from time to time.
Sam sat with his bad leg stuck straight out. The wound was thawing in the fire's heat, and hurting more. Look at
those Olsens. Jim doesn't know whether to shit or go blind—another fine copybook saying. But only the Weather
knows what the Olsens and Auerbachs are going to do about this. It was Auerbach Olsen that Jack killed, after all.
Sam moved his leg away from the fire. It felt better frozen. What a fight that was. Never saw a fight like that in
my life. Old Auer was tough as a white bear, but not tough enough that morning by Butternut Creek.
After a while, then a while longer, the stars faded over both mountains and the eastern sky began to turn blue.
Jack Monroe and the Olsens had stayed awake, but Sam had gotten sleepy, and nodded, sitting back from the fire. He
jerked awake once, when a branch cracked in the flames, then drifted off into a dream of remembering.
Jack Monroe was one of the best hunters on the Mountain Range. Not as good at trapping, true—he hadn't the
patience for it. But he was a very good hunter, very strong, and a really fine bowman, probably the best archer in the
six families.
The Monroes had been the second family on the Range. First the Richardsons had come, then the Monroes ...
and afterwards, Olsens, Sorbanes, Weber-Edwards, and the Auerbachs.
There had been, over the years, good and bad blood between the families, depending on marriages, hunting luck,
where trap lines were placed, and whether the caribou herds came down early or late. Even so, they never fought, not
family against family. They'd voted a law against that kind of fighting, and against duels. Later each family voted
against any kind of killing, even inside the family. They felt this was proper as a rule of the Mountain Jesus, and
sensible for people who needed every bow alive and healthy for trapping and the hunt.
When this law was broken—and it was, sometimes—the man who won the fight was sent away, and never came
back to the mountains.
One had tried to come back, thirty-two years ago. A boy named Michael Sorbane had killed a Richardson and run
away. Two years later, this Sorbane had come back to the Range. . . . The Richardsons had wanted to kill him, and to
prevent that, his own family had had to do it His uncles had killed him with their lances.
That was the way the rule worked on murders and killing fights in the Mountain Range. And that was the way it
had worked when Jack Monroe beat the brains out of Auerbach Olsen at Butternut Creek.
Sam had been there—and now dreamed it very clearly, so he saw that sunny afternoon again. In the July thaw,
six years ago, a number of people had been at the creek, cleaning hides. The women scraped the skins as thoroughly
as they could, then put them in the creek to soften and let the minnows clean away the tiny scraps their knives had
missed.
Naomi Sorbane had been working there. She was Auerbach Olsen's second wife. His first, Sally Weber, had been
killed by a black bear two years before.—Auerbach hadn't cared much for Sally Weber, but he loved Naomi. She was a
skinny red-headed girl, what the men called a laughing fucker. She had liked to make love to many men, until she was
married. Then Naomi had settled down and behaved very properly until Jack Monroe came after her. Jack was known
on the Range for being a good lover, and Naomi started to have fun all over again.
Sam and Charlie Weber had been sitting under a tree, fletching arrows—anyway, Charlie Weber had been
fletching. He was a wonder at it, stripping the long gray flight feathers, notching the arrow shaft, then fitting the
feather vanes in with a line of hot glue dipped from a little trade-pot of boiling turpentine and caribou hoof.
Sam and Charlie Weber had been sitting there, talking, when Auerbach Olsen came walking up the other side of
the creek. They saw him stop and say something to Naomi, who was bent over, working on a hide. Naomi said
something back-—and the next thing anyone knew, Auerbach was beating her, hitting Naomi with his bow-stave and
kicking her, too, as if he wanted to kill her.
It happened so fast that nobody moved for a moment, then two women ran at Auerbach to make him stop. But he
was a big man, and strong, and threw the women back.
Sam, Charlie, and another man, Allen Richardson, had all started across the creek when Jack came out of the
tanning hut and saw what was happening to Naomi.
... Sam dreamed he saw Jack's face clearly, as it had been that sunny afternoon. Charlie and Allen Richardson had
seen his face then, too, and stood still while Jack ran along the creek bank and went for Auerbach Olsen.
It was a terrible fight. Jack knocked Auerbach down and twisted the longbow away from him. But Auerbach drew
his knife and got right up again. Sam was across the creek by then. He tried to come between them, and Auerbach cut
him hard on the arm. After that, he and the other men stayed out of it. Two women took Naomi away; others kept the
children back as Jack and Auerbach fought along the shallow side of the creek, Jack with the bow-stave, Auerbach
with his double-edged knife.
He cut Jack right away, first on the hand, then low on his left leg. Auerbach was a big man, almost as tall as Jack,
and heavier, but he was quick as a boy ... at least at first.
Then Jack began to hit him with the bow. Ducking away from the knife, he stepped in and swung the bow-stave
at Auerbach's legs, trying to break the big man's knees. He did this twice. Then Auerbach sliced down Jack's left side,
but he was limping, and couldn't quite reach to kill him.
Both men stood back from each other for a moment, catching their breath. Jack's blood was spattered on the
creek bank's pebbles.—Catania, who had just become the Doctor, called to them to stop fighting, but they paid no
attention to her.
When they started again, Auerbach crouched low and went straight at Jack like a bull elk, to knock him down and
under the knife. But instead of striking at his knees, Jack thrust his bowstave into the big man's face, and the pointed
tip struck him in the eye.
Auerbach's eye was knocked out of his head, and hung bleeding from a knotted red cord. He shouted at the pain,
stumbled—and Jack raised the bow-stave high in both hands, then swung it down with all his might.
Everyone heard Auerbach's head break; it was a bad sound. ... Sam dreamed harness-bells were jingling as he
and the others stood watching Auerbach Olsen die. Then he woke, and still heard the bells ringing softly on the cold
morning air.
The sun had risen. The old snow on the meadow below Hot Spring had softened, then frozen again. The morning
sun shone off the ice so brightly that Sam had to put on his slit-goggles to watch the sleds come in.
The right-hand hunters were trotting beside their three sleds. Each long sled was made of flexible lengths of
spruce bound with fire-shrunk rawhide. The runners were railed with ribbons of thin beaten steel, and the sleds slid
over the snow smoothly as sticks floated down an early August river.
There had been six men in the right-hand hunt, led by young Torrey Monroe—and there were six men still.
Sam got to his feet by the fire, leaned on his bow-stave to ease his leg, and watched them come in. Two sleds
were loaded with meat. Three bucks, at least. And all I brought back was a dead man.
Torrey Monroe called and waved to them up at the Spring. Two of the men with him were Richardsons, Don and
Tall-David. Nathan Sorbane was with him, and two Olsens: Bobby Olsen and Dummy, his son.
The six men were laughing as they braked the sleds, cursing the dogs to a stop. There were seven dogs to a
team, lively dogs now, full of caribou guts. They were big solid animals, half wolf, savage, and very strong. Many had
the round blue eyes and thick black-and-white coats of Sorbane breeding. Those were the best dogs in the mountains.
Torrey and his men climbed up to the Spring, still laughing. They came to the fire, and saw Jack Monroe sitting
across from Jim and the other Olsens, saw William's body laid out on the snow by the smoking water. Then they were
quiet.Torrey Monroe was a tough young man, short and stocky, who usually had a smile on his face. There was no
smile now.
"Hello, Sam." He nodded to Jim Olsen. "Jim.... What happened to William?" He said nothing to Jack Monroe.
"Tribesmen," Sam said. "Looked like Crees to us."
"Crees kill a Trapper?" Torrey said. "Why would they do that?—They didn't come after us?"
"We saw five of them," Nathan Sorbane was staring at William's body. "—All they did was wave!" Nathan
looked ready to cry. He and Wanda had taken William and Helen to live with them when they were little kids.
"Where the hell were the rest of you?" Don Richardson was red in the face. He had a bad temper.
"Nothing we could do, Don." Sam wanted to sit down, get off his leg. "They were waiting in the spruce lead off
the mountain. William was hit, first thing."
"You men," Nathan said, "—you take a kid out, and let a bunch of fucking people from Jesus knows where just
kill him?"
"There were ten or twelve of them, Nat."
Torrey gestured to Jack Monroe. "And what about him, Sam? What's he doing back here?"
"He saved our butts, Torrey," Chapman Olsen said.
Jack Monroe stood, stretched the stiffness out of his muscles, then picked up his lance and started down to the
sleds. He walked past Torrey and the others without saying a word.
"You see that parka, Daddy? That silver fox?" Dummy Olsen stood staring after Jack with his mouth open.
"Yes, son," Bobby Olsen said. "We see it."
The copy-Webster word for Dummy was 'retarded,' but 'dummy' was in there too, under vulgarism, so people
called him that, and he didn't mind.... The Olsens and Monroes were like the Richardsons—if a word wasn't in
copy-Webster, they wouldn't say it. They never made up words, or talked with their hands the way the Auerbachs did
sometimes.
"Well, now," Torrey said, watching Jack walk away, "—this has turned into a shit day. To lose William, and have
a killer come back after six years gone."
"Your family," Jim Olsen said.
"Let's get moving." Sam tried his leg and found he could use it, though the knee wouldn't bend. "People at home
need to know about this trouble with the Crees."
"Right," Torrey said. He and Nathan picked up William's body, and they all went down to the sleds, Sam limping,
leaning on his bow-stave... . Jack Monroe was waiting by the lead dog of the first sled—and after Sam climbed aboard
that one, and William's body was lashed to the second sled, Jack reached out as though he had the right, poked the
lead dog with the butt of his lance, and called, "Musout!"
That dog—known as Three-balls because he was always after the bitches—belonged to Torrey Monroe.
Usually, he wouldn't run for anyone else, but the lance-butt persuaded him not to argue, and he led the team out with a
lunge.
The runners hadn't set on the glare ice, so as the dogs pulled out—buckled pair behind pair, not drawing in a
spread like tribesmen's dogs—the sleds glided away free and easy in a jingle of harness bells.
Except for Sam, and dead William, all the men stayed on their feet, running alongside the skimming sleds. Jack
had started them so fast that Bobby Olsen had to sprint to catch up. Bobby grabbed the lead sled's curved grips,
steadied the dogs, and leaned forward to talk to Sam, who was sitting back against the woven rawhide rest, wrapped
against the cold in the sled's bearskin.
"Going to be trouble with your brother coming back, Sam. Doesn't matter how good he did against those Crees."
Sam looked up at Bobby's narrow face, reddened by the cold wind as he rode the back of the sled, hauling left or
right to shift its weight, keep it running straight behind the team.
"Maybe. We'll see what happens."
"Something bad, Sam, is what'll happen."
Sam settled back in the furs. The sore leg had become something separate from him—or almost separate—so he
was able to consider other things, even when the sled bounced a little, and hurt it.... If Bobby thinks so about Jack,
then for sure the others will. Bobby's gentle—most Trappers would have set a dumb child out into the snow to sleep.
Or would have had the Doctor do it for them. Poor Catania.... But it hadn't turned out badly. Dummy was stupid,
and a clumsy archer, but set him a simple task and he'd work till it was done, and no resting.
The sun was well up, now, and the plains of snow blazed with reflected light. Sam dug under a fold of fur to his
parka pocket for his goggles. He didn't like them, but truth was that after a while a man could see almost as much
through those narrow slits as without them, though no one knew why.... He fitted them on, tied their rawhide string
behind his head, and watched Jack— out in front and to the left of Three-balls ~ running over the sparkling surface of
the snow.
Good glare crust, but even so will you look at that man run! Runs like a lobo wolf, head down, those long legs
just working away. Looks like he's never going to stop. The copybooks say, "I was never so glad to see somebody."
That's in copybooks quite often. And it's true I was damn glad to see my brother—and not just for' his chasing those
Cree away, either. I was glad to see him, killer or not, and gone the last six years, Jesus knows where.
Sam closed his eyes behind the goggles and crossed himself. Thank you though, whichever, for bringing my
brother back. Forgive him for what he did to Auerbach Olsen, though that fight was fair—and see to it we don't
have to kill him to uphold the law.
Sam bit the inside of his cheek until it bled. It was a secret thing he did when he wanted special attention paid to
a prayer. Then he settled back and watched Jack run.
As the sun rose into mid-morning, the sleds swept on, tracking behind the galloping dogs in a music of harness
bells. They circled west around Alvin's foothills, running the flat open tundra snow-fields that lay between the
mountains and the distant great evergreen forest said to be far to the south, in Map-New Mexico. That used to be
mountain and desert country, they'd been told by Salesmen—but now, and for hundreds of years, deep forest, and
poor hunting.
The sun had begun to warm the Wall. The ice cliffs were muttering across the mountain range as falls and
avalanches carved their towering faces. Those sounds would continue until evening and the setting sun left the Wall
frozen and still again.
... An hour before midday, their dogs yelping greetings to those kenneled in dog-lines, the Trappers reached their
home. Long Ledge. The Richardsons, Olsens, and Monroes had lived there from the first years they'd come to the
Range, five long life-times ago. . .. Later, the Sorbanes, then the Weber-Edwards and Auerbachs had come.
A long, winding creek-bed curved through stands of spruce and some sheltered birches, along a narrow field
backed by a high granite cliff. Called the Gully, it was filled with a stretch of ice until mid-July, then ran with water until
September. A long ledge ran across the face of the cliff, halfway up, and weather had notched shallow caves into the
stone there. Only a narrow path wound up the rock to the ledge caves, and above them the cliff rose sheer to its
wooded rim.
The first families had started by living in those caves, high above the creek's valley. But after a while they had
come down, made small round houses of elk hide and spruce-pole along the Gully's bank and then lived more like
people in the copybooks, when those people were 'camping out.'
The Sorbanes had come, and the Weber-Edwards, and built houses. But when the Auerbachs came to the Range,
they climbed up to the ledge to live, and still had their homes in the caves there. Only Auerbachs—some of them not
even taught to read—would have chosen to stay in a place so cold and wet, with only a steep and narrow stone path
down to the Gully. One of every three of their babies died, but they kept to the cliff just the same.
The made-houses along the Gully bank were small, with narrow fire-places in corner chimneys built of stone
chinked with clay mud. The entrances were low, to keep heat in, and there was a saying on the Range: 'A great hunter
still stoops to come into his house,' referring to the foolishness of too much hunting-pride—and to the mastery of
women in their homes, as well.
There were many of these small houses below the cliff—and hide huts also, for storing fire-wood, smoked meat,
bud potatoes, spring onions, and fresh meat for winter freezing.
... Now, at almost noon, the hunting parties returned to their home, and found it untouched by the Cree.
Young children were playing along the frozen creek-bed, and several older girls were bent, feeding the slow fires
that warmed stones beneath rows of dirt-filled tubs of potatoes and onion sprouts. The hooped hide covers had been
taken off the long plank tubs, for daylight sun.
The children heard the harness bells and ran to welcome the sleds as they glided over Eight-log Bridge. Some
Trappers and their wives gathered to see what luck the hunters had had. Philip Richardson, the oldest man on the
Range at seventy-one—an extraordinary age for a Trapper—set his willow-basket work down and came over.
When the sleds were parked beneath leafless birches, the hunters unhitched the dogs and stood silent as the
Trappers came to them ... then saw dead William on the second sled.
Where there'd been talk and greetings, silence fell even among the children—except for William's sister, Helen,
who bent over him and tugged at his buckskins as if to wake him up. She called to wake him, then began to scream and
cry until the Doctor, Catania Olsen, pushed through the crowd to her, and touched William to be certain he was gone.
"Arrow wound," she said. "How?"
"Cree," Sam said.
Then the Trappers murmured among themselves, and a woman said, "Oh, Jesus ... oh, Jesus in the Mountains."
"Cree?" a man, a Sorbane, said. "Those tribesmen have been coming down for years—come down hunting."
"Only a few," another Trapper said. "And they always asked permission!"
"Carry him to Michael's house," Doctor Olsen said, and put her arms around Helen to comfort her.
Catania Olsen was a tall big-boned young woman with gray eyes and light brown hair she kept in one long braid.
She had a scar on her face that made her ugly... . When she was a child, she had wandered into the dog-lines and they
had dragged her down and torn at her. Part of her cheek, on the right side, had been ripped open, and though Doctor
Monroe—who was the families' doctor then—had done his best, and sewn her up with a small steel needle and
Salesmen's thread, she was left with that savage scar. It pulled the right corner of her mouth up slightly, as if she were
beginning to smile.
No man would marry a face like that, so Catania was apprenticed to the Doctor, to become a Doctor herself.
She'd done well at it, and was liked, so even men who weren't her Sunday patients would do what they could to
make her happy on holidays, and their wives said nothing against it.
... Catania started to lead William's sister away—and saw Jack Monroe sitting on a sled, looking at her. Her
ruined face went white as Helen's. She stood staring until he smiled, got up, and walked away down the creek toward
his brother's house.
A big man with thick shoulders was cutting firewood at a smoke shed as Jack walked by. The man's dark-brown
hair was cut short, and his face had been shaved clean with a knife. Blue dots were tattooed across his cheek-bones,
four on one side, four on the other. He rested the ax and watched Jack go by, his eyes a bear's eyes, small, brown, and
interested.
At the sleds, Sam's wife, Susan, called to Catania to come back and look at his wounded leg. Susan was slight,
and beautiful. She was carrying a child in an almost eight-month belly, and was pale and anxious about Sam and the
mention of tribesmen, so Catania soothed her and sent her home to make a warm bed ready. Then the Doctor bent over
Sam, sliced open his trouser-leg, and examined the wound.
Around her, people talked about the Crees coming down... and the return of an exile who had beaten the brains
out of Auerbach Olsen many years ago, by Butternut Creek.
... Jack Monroe is back. My heart hurt when I saw him.
William Weber is dead. Arrow driven through lumbar process, abdominal aorta pierced. CD: internal bleeding
and shock.
Sam Monroe is injured. Arrow wound transfixing gastro-soleus tricep. Fibula nicked—no fracture. Prognosis
positive.
. .. When the men first came to me, on Christmas, when I was seventeen—three years before Old Doc died— they
came all together to enjoy themselves. Well, to be fair, they came for my sake. But Jack didn't come with them. All
during the night, while we were drinking potato-vodka and they took their gentle turns with me, I waited for Jack
Monroe.
He came to me alone, in the early evening, three days later. And the first thing I did was cry. I got tears and
snot all over his shoulder. He kissed my eyes. He kissed my scar. When he went away in the morning, he carried my
heart in his hands, and I never got it back.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF DOCTOR CATANIA OLSEN
CHAPTER 3
That night, Sam Monroe lay at ease on bear-skin robes before his home hearth. The pegged rawhide bed had
been dragged close to a spruce-knot fire seething and cracking in the corner fireplace.
Susan had a stew-pot on—chunks of caribou steak, bunches of sprouted onions, and last year's potatoes
simmering in a Salesman-kettle. They'd eaten the last of the elk.
Sam lay watching his wife as she worked, slight, pretty, big-bellied with their child—their first child—she bent to
tend the food in ruddy firelight, her long black hair loose, and falling forward to shield her face.
My little one.... Scared to death on our wedding night. Truth is, I was too old for her... am too old. God knows
what she thought I was going to do to her. Susan absently tucked her hair back behind her ear, so her face was
silhouetted by the flames.... Look at that little ear. A field mouse's ear. Truth is, I didn't do anything to her for two
nights—three nights. She was so small, so pretty I was scared to do it.
His leg felt better; Catania had cleaned the wound, poured vodka in it, and wrapped it in boiled cloth, the woven
plant-stuff—linen—the Salesmen brought, and sold very dear.
Jack came stooping through the entrance, back from the privy. He went over to Susan's strapped-hide chest, took
out the leather vodka jug, and came to sit on the bed beside Sam.
"How's the leg?" He pulled the stopper and tilted the jug up for several swallows, his adam's apple moving under
the short black beard.
"Leg's feeling pretty good." Sam leaned over and took the jug.
"Not too much, Sam," Susan said. "... Dinner is going to take forever. These potatoes are frostbitten. Martha
says her girls always watch the tub-fires, but they don't."
Sam took a short drink and handed the jug back to Jack. "Now, you tell me how the hell you happened to come
on us, yesterday."
His brother sat looking at him for a moment before he answered. Sam was struck, not for the first time, how like a
sled-dog's eyes Jack's were—the same bright cold light-blue gaze.
"I didn't 'happen to,' Sam. I followed you people around for two days."
"Like hell."
"No surprise those tribesmen jumped you. You were careless travelers." Jack took another drink, wiped his
mouth with his hand.
Sam reached for the jug, but Jack held onto it.
"—I picked you up at Keep-on, saw the other bunch go off, and followed you the rest of the way 'round the
mountain. Thought I'd save some trouble and talk to you alone at the Spring—but you never came out of the spruce,
so I went up to see." Jack smiled. "You and those Olsens...,. What's that copybook thing? 'Babes in the woods'?" He
shook his head.
"I know that was my fault," Sam said.
"Oh, you have fewer faults than most," Jack said. "You were always a good brother to me." He sat staring into
the fire for a while. "—What is a Boxcar-man doing on the Range?"
"What?"
"A Boxcar-man, Sam." Jack touched his cheekbones. "The one with the shaved face and tattoos."
"Newton," Susan said. "His name's Newton."
"I saw those Middle Kingdom people come up-river, sailing ice-boats," Jack said. "Big boats. Your Newton is an
eight-dot man; likely important among them."
"He came to the Range three years ago," Susan said. "He married Lucy Edwards, and stayed."
"We knew where he came from," Sam said. "He causes no trouble."
Jack said nothing to that, only sat beside Sam and looked into the fire.
... Later, Catania came visiting, and brought a jug and her willow-wood harp—a trade-instrument.
"Dinner's going to be late," Susan said. It was more comfortable talking about dinner... talking about anything
but the Cree, and dead William Weber. She felt her baby heavy within her, and still, as if it were listening for news of
more trouble.
"Don't need to feed me." Catania sat cross-legged on the floor furs and began to tune her harp.
"Well, I will feed you," Susan said, and stirred the stew, "—but the potatoes aren't cooking."
"Then leave them be," Catania said, "—and come and sing."
She and Susan sang 'Alvin Mountain,' 'The Fisher-cat Hunt', and 'Sentimental Journey,' a very old copybook
song. The four of them drank vodka and sang old songs together. Sam had a fine voice, deep and true, but Jack could
hardly carry a tune. He sang out harsh and loud, but what he sang was always off—though it sounded fine to him, so
he said "What?!" when the others made fun.
Since Jack was a boy, singing had been the one body-thing he'd had no talent for.
Watching her husband as they sang, watching Catania, Susan saw how dear they both found that single
weakness in him.
... After a while, they stopped singing and sat on piled furs watching the fire, while Catania played softly on her
harp. Susan wanted to ask Jack where he'd been the past six years, but felt that would be rude. She remembered Jack
from when she was a young girl, and thought he looked bigger—and when they weren't singing, grim.
She went to the fire to stir the stew. "I think the potatoes are getting done at last."
Sam was dozing when someone whistled outside the entrance. Torrey Monroe pushed the door-hides apart and
ducked in. "Sorry to bother you."
Sam sat up. "Trouble?"
"No. But I think we better bring in our traps before those tribesmen steal the whole line. We can't afford to lose
trade-steel traps. Other families are out getting theirs."
摘要：

SNOWFALLBYMITCHELLSMITH©2002ByMitchellSmithISBN:0-812-57933-XVersion1.0Ah,WarmTimes,WarmTimes!—"Oh,ParadiseLost,"asthepoetsays.BeforetheSpoiledOrbitofJupiter.Today,wecopiedourRandMcNallyagain,thehighwaymapofColorado—where,Iinformedthechildren,wereside...uphereinthemountainsjustbelowwhatwecall"theWal...

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