Big Game

CHAPTER ONE

A BEATEN-UP Land Rover County roared into the clearing, the diesel engine thumping loudly and slightly out of sync.

The driver’s side door swung open, and a lanky figure a little more than six feet in height, square-jawed and with wide shoulders that strained against his oilskins coat, stepped down into the mud. Cameron Jamieson had a rugged, handsome face not unlike that of a young Matthew McConaughey, though with fairer-colored hair. His straight nose was a little too big for his head, and at the corners of his yellowish-green eyes, the skin was marked by crow’s feet that made him look fifty even though he was closer to thirty-five. As he walked towards the house, the oilskins swished about his ankles and brushed the cotton fabric of his patched moleskin breeches. He wore a battered and sweat-stained dark brown Stetson cowboy hat with a black band halfway up the crown.

He kicked his boots off at the door and shrugged out of his oilskins, hanging them on a hook above the pile of worn leather boots. He padded into his office, a lived-in room, its walls crammed with grainy photos of hunting expeditions and hard-fought trophies. Spread upon the floor was a rug made from a grizzly bear, and the head of a bull elk in all its taxidermic glory took center stage above the stone fireplace. There was also a pair of old bolt-action rifles hanging above the door.

He dropped a pile of mail on the old African mahogany library table that he used as a desk, sighed, then leaned back in a green leather wingback chair. My luck’ll change soon enough, he muttered, propping his feet up on the desk. Pop was patient, and if I am careful with what funds I have left and continue on as if everything is normal, then my streak of bad luck will end soon. I don’t need to be rich; that doesn’t make a man happy. Just need enough to stave off the banks and fix up the buildings.

As he looked around familiar surroundings, the tightness drained from his chest, the stress from his mind. He would call the accountant later. Jean-Marc Baptiste wasn’t a bad accountant, but prone to switching between English and his native Québécois French when he got excited, a habit Cameron found infuriating.

He picked up the mail and flipped through it, not bothering to open obvious invoices, which he slipped under a heavy paperweight that balanced precariously on at least two hundred other unpaid bills. He lived off credit these days, but he knew that this would come to an end soon, and he would pay back everybody he owed in full, with a nice little cash sweetener to show his appreciation.

The homestead wasn’t alone with problems. The First Nations village further down the coast was almost starved of fresh meat, so Cameron had organized a moose cull on his land to get the villagers through winter, a winter that was fast approaching. It had been a poor hunting season this year, so there was little choice but to have a large-scale kill-off to fill the villagers’ freezers. To ensure the success of the cull, he had to round up several extra hands from the village by noon tomorrow to prepare the meat and skins in a timely fashion. Already, there were problems—perhaps the cull was a bad idea after all. He understood why the hunters weren’t happy; they had loudly voiced their opinions on the other side of the Quatam River a few hours ago. The wet bottomlands favored by moose were vile, and the deep mud and persistent drag of soaked clothing wore the hunters down. During conversations at the temporary spike camp—a makeshift village of huts hastily fashioned for the cull—the name of one young hunter who could be truly useful had cropped up more than once. Cameron intended to track him down later this evening in the village.

CHAPTER TWO

TWELVE MILES FROM the village, Cameron slowed the Land Rover. Dark clouds scudded low across the hills; their grey underbellies resembled the granite bluffs that lined the edge of the road. He flicked on the high beams and strained to see through the rain and mist, trying to hear anything above the repeated swish of the wiper motor. Damn it. I thought this might happen. There’s a bloody washout ahead. I’ll have to cut down to the beach.

At a spot farther along the beach, he turned the wheels back towards the brush and shifted into low gear, though it took several attempts since the gearbox, like him, was worn out. Eventually the gears meshed and he managed to crawl back up the bank, though at one point the bald tires that he should have replaced two years earlier skidded sideways on the leathery salal shrubs and rotten limbs that stuck out of the wet bank.

Around the next point, the bay opened up before him and the full brunt of the storm hammered the Land Rover. In the dying light, he could just make out the faint lights of the village wavering in the distance. The waves curled and thumped headlong against the stony beach beneath him, pounding plumes of spindrift high into the air. The resulting spray blended with the relentless downpour, lashing and rattling the aluminum roof of the Land Rover like a bombardment of pine nuts.

As he closed in on the village, he thought of the floatplane and its vulnerability in this weather. It was due this evening, bringing valuable supplies to the isolated village—along with a few cartons of cigarettes and several crates of whiskey to keep him going for another three or four months. Cameron hoped, though, that the pilot was not foolhardy enough to attempt the flight up from Vancouver this particular evening. They were good pilots, he realized, and a good pilot never took undue risks. Anticipation of a carnal evening to come pushed thoughts of floatplanes from his mind as he slowed and parked in front of the medical clinic.

The village was little more than a central muddy square surrounded by ramshackle buildings and cabins spread far and wide down into the bay. Other than the shabby medical clinic, with disintegrating cinder block walls marred by chinks that had begun to reopen in the loose mortar, the other prominent structure was a colonial-style Roman Catholic church with flaking white paint sitting majestically in the background. The clinic was brightly lit, but the rest of the village lay largely in darkness, with only a handful of lights burning low behind dingy curtains drawn over cobwebbed windows. Cameron could see two nurses standing in the clinic next to one of the thinly framed aluminum windows. He recognized one of them and smiled.

He slid slowly out of the vehicle and shuffled carefully up the front steps of the clinic, careful not to grunt too much. Years earlier he had taken a nasty tumble over an escarpment when one of his guests had missed his shot and only winged a grizzled old bear that had then almost taken Cameron’s life. The enraged beast’s final charge had ended at Cameron’s feet, the bear looking up at him through rheumy eyes, its chest shattered and lungs punctured with the shrapnel of a thousand metal fragments from a .350 Remington cartridge.

Cameron walked in. He noticed a young boy propped up in a bed at the end of a long row of beds. The look of uncertainty on the boy’s face softened into a wide smile as he recognized the visitor.

Lewis, your father, the great hunter of moose, told me you broke your leg. How is it coming along?

Good, thank you, James. The boy beamed, unable to pronounce either Cameron or Jamieson. The nickname made Cameron laugh, and he cupped the boy’s rosy cheeks with his large, leathery hands.

Two weeks and you’ll be walking. I promise you. Three weeks, and you’ll be playing soccer with the other lads.

Don’t you dare put ideas into his head! One of the First Nations nurses made her way over, her ample bosom bouncing jauntily beneath her flowery smock. She was middle-aged with warm brown eyes, her long hair recently braided down her back with colorful beads: two prominent pigtails and adornments glowing beneath the humming fluorescent tube lights.

The serious look on her face belied the feigned scorn in her voice. She was anything but hostile towards Cameron because Henrietta, or Hetti, as she liked to be called, was his surrogate mother of sorts.

Mother, it’s great to see you, said Cameron, his words turning to laughter, which hadn’t happened in months. He held his arms out and wrapped them affectionately around her abundant midriff in a long hug. There was no chance of getting his arms all the way around, which brought a smile to his lips. More of you to love, he whispered.

What’s that?

I was saying—it’s been far too long since our last hug.

Yes, replied Hetti, peering at him through round reading glasses. So you’re moving to the village to be closer to your kinfolk? She frowned slightly at his neutral expression. We’re your family, and we miss you. Haven’t laid an eye on you since late 2004. And that was last year. That’s about eleven months, isn’t it? The question was less query and more accusation. Cameron’s handsome brown face screwed up, and she wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment or guilt that brought this on.

See these? She held up both of her big paws, the fingers fleshy as pork sausages. I delivered you myself with these bare hands down at Powell River General Hospital. Your mother was a drunk, a social butterfly, not fit to raise puppies, let alone two young energetic boys. She pronounced this declaration with pride and more than a touch of love. Then she leaned forward and studied his face more closely. Oh, Cameron, you’ve aged ten years since last I saw you. Is everything okay?

He involuntarily rubbed his hip. I feel old.

Her eyes widened. You are young.

I’m young, but I feel old.

Hetti glanced at his filthy moleskin breeches. She ignored the dirt, feeling slightly sorry for him. Does your hip hurt still? And when he nodded, she asked to take a look, but he politely refused.

No. It’s fine. There’s nothing you can do. I have to bear with it. Once I get moving and hiking the mountains, the pain goes away. It’s the sitting around that makes it stiff and sore. There’re other people who need your help more than me.

Hetti clucked her tongue. The old stubborn Cameron I know so well. You haven’t changed a bit, sweetheart, except for that old beard you’re wearing. Some day, you know, there might be a woman. She’ll want to take good care of you and shave that thing off. Perhaps wash your clothes for you, even cook some wholesome meals and put some much-needed fat on those bones. Anyway, if it’s not your hip, then what troubles you? Is it the cull?

No. Not the cull. That will be easy. I’m not worried about that. I’ve been thinking about something else. A way out of this mess I’m in. There’s a trophy out there with our name on it. A real champion. A trophy mountain lion or a prize buck. The weather is still okay. The local monsoon rains will be late this year. I’m sure of it. So the season might go a bit longer. My safari company will finally be on the map again. This trophy will turn the tables.

But in order to hunt, you need a client booking. Does this concern the bank? Are they still after you? Hetti’s concern and sadness was palpable. So that’s why you look terrible?

Oh, Hetti, trust you to be so honest, Cameron said, beginning to laugh to hide his embarrassment. He looked down and started to massage the calluses on the palm of his hand. The skin was layered like buffalo hide, and there was a layer for each year of hard work invested into the homestead. His thoughts drifted and he realized to lose the family home would be unbearable. But he believed in himself. And it was easier to be cheerful here, especially with family around him. He looked into Hetti’s eyes once again, noticing she’d become teary. He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. Don’t worry about me. The drought will soon end. In Australia they can sense when the dry spell is waning. Something in the air. The smell, humidity—something. It gives them hope. I smell it too. My luck will change soon. It has to. The head of a thousand-pound grizzly or the huge rack of a great bull elk will dig me out of this mess I’m in. It will come, and I will be ready. Our family name will once again be spoken of in high terms up and down the coast of Canada.

Hetti brushed his cheek. I’m very proud of you. I am, honest. When your father ran the lodge he was able to bag world-class trophies at will. It was easier then, less pressure. You’re a stickler, you never give up, and that’s what sets you apart from the rest.

And this time I feel lucky too. He hopped on one foot. His hip was aching and he tried to hide it to avoid her sympathy. He hated sympathy. Thanks, mum. Please continue to believe in me.

Hetti smiled. Alright then, I believe you. If you say you can do it, then that’s good enough for me. All you have to do is convince the rest of the world. And it isn’t going to be easy. She started to run her fingers through his coppery hair but he took her hand away gently and kissed it. Just a few short years ago he would have allowed her to comfort him and she missed those days. He was her surrogate son after all. He and his older brother. Both of them are handsome, she thought, and strong, but this one is foolish, a dreamer. She had heard that the banks were circling the homestead like turkey vultures, ready to foreclose any day now. She would never tell him the chances of bringing in a trophy, one for the record books—like his father and grandfather used to on the same chunk of land—were slim. She couldn’t tell him, not with those fierce brown eyes full of hope and determination. She just couldn’t. She looked away, masking her sadness with a smile. He simply is not a great hunter like his patriarchs were.

Cameron’s eyes turned soft once again. You were a godsend to me and my brother; I’ll never forget it, Hetti. When our mother abandoned us you took her place and we love you every bit as much—more. Cameron kissed her cheek then turned to the window. It was good to be back in the village, he thought, catching up with family and friends. If you like, I’ll finance a holiday for you when I bag this trophy. You probably haven’t had one in a while? He looked back at her.

Hetti laughed and smiled. Idle bodies bear—

—bear lazy thoughts. Yes, I know; your favorite saying. I’ve never forgotten it, Cameron said. His laughter joined hers.

She cleared her throat, and pulled her apron tighter across her belly and retied the drawstring at the back. Besides, no time, things to do—called work.

Yes. Good idea. Cameron pulled out a silver hip flask from the pocket of his oilskins. The finest Scotch whiskey in all the Highlands. Can’t wait a minute longer. He twisted the stopper and was about to take a slug when Hetti interrupted him. Not that kind of work, young man. She reprimanded him but her smile was once again warm and loving.

Oh. What did you have in mind? I’m exhausted.

The plane will be here any minute—

Are you serious? He prayed that she was joking. But the look on her face was not one of a liar he noted before peering over his shoulder once again at the window. It’s howling out there, a real gale. It’s far too dangerous to land! Now I definitely need a wee dram.

The rain faltered and for a moment the vast puddles in the street lay still, reflecting the tarrying, dying shards of light. Cameron slipped the flask into his pocket and watched a group of people move across the street towards the clinic. At least half were parishioners, dressed in their Sunday best—long flowing skirts bleached pure white and held up off the ground with bunched fists. Greeting party’s here!

They’re hungry, said Hetti. Did you bring them their meat?

Would I ever let you down? He kissed her on the cheek and continued on his way to the door, his mind clearly elsewhere.

The kids reached him first and one grabbed tightly onto his leg making him hobble in circles. The kid laughed and the other children joined in. The village elders, lanterns bright with candlefish oil swinging at their sides, beamed with pleasure as they covered the last few yards to Cameron and the children.

A middle-aged woman stepped forward through the captivated crowd, her face stern. What have you brought us? she asked. Cameron took her by the hand, led her to the back doors of the Land Rover, and threw them open. A swarm of flies erupted from the course cloth sacking. Close to a hundred pounds of moose meat, he said. It’s not much, but it’s a start. With a bit of luck, there’ll be lots more to come.

The woman seemed despondent and backed away. Cameron noticed a small child slowly making her way towards him through the crowd. As she neared, he realized that it was not a child but a hunched up old woman, perhaps one of the village elders or even some distant royalty of this settlement which counted among its ancestors the Sliammon First Nation. She was obviously tees tahm, well respected, for most of her fellow villagers stood aside reverently. He now noticed her cedar bark hat, resembling an upside-down vase, which indicated the privilege of only the most distinguished elders. It was elaborately woven and barely concealed a repulsive, uncut thatch of matted black hair more than likely uncombed since childhood. He’d only seen this once before when it was pointed out to him that some coastal bands used spruce gum and seal grease to fashion such a wiry mess—in a far-north city called Sitka. She wore a rain cape that was made of finely woven bark, trimmed with what appeared to be sea otter fur.

Cameron saw that she was holding a basket, its weave coarser than the hat, with gaps in it where seawater dripped out. It was piled high with littleneck clams, cockles, muscles, and a few giant horse clams probably freshly harvested from the estuary at the foot of the sloping land where the village nestled. She elbowed a couple of parishioners aside, taking center stage before Cameron, mumbling under her breath and looking them up and down with mild condemnation. Her hand unexpectedly reached out and clasped Cameron’s wrist like a talon from a bird of prey, unsteadily at first, but with a grip that grew stronger until its power surprised him. He nearly winced but did not, knowing any sign of weakness might lose him respect.

The old woman looked up at his face, and the flickering golden light revealed heavy black bags under her eyes, and the lines, folds, and blemishes that decades of gathering seashells and cedar bark had engraved on her. Her chin was rife with long grey hairs that sprouted like a pubescent boy’s, and it seemed her entire body was decorated with ornaments of bone, coppery bracelets, as well as earrings of rough-cut stone. Her countenance was prepossessing and there was something about it that unsettled him.

What’s wrong? he asked with genuine concern.

Mam’la stole our land…ruined a`fisheries…destroyed a`way of life here`n Tla’amin. Nev`a forget when them white people dam tha`Theodosia River—`ya know, `wus so plentiful `ya could cross it on the backs of salmon fish. We are the salmon people, after all. That food `wus provided for us. We need to hold it in highest regard, she stuttered at first, but soon her voice grew spirited and clear.

Cameron realized that she was saying Sliammon; only the village elders still referred to this area as Tla’amin.

We used to have potlatches, big ones, good times, `till them folk banned them potlatches. Said a`were savage. She eyed a couple of the parishioners in their flowing white gowns with utter disdain. "The priests, blame them for corrupting a`old ways! Them first Christian missionaries—the Oblates o`Mary Immaculate—they forced us to burn a`ceremonial dresses, even took a`kids from us homes, you know, and sent`em to Residential School in Sechelt. And them Indian Agents and police `mus take blame too, forcing us t`forget a`language and not allow storytelling so we cannot pass down knowledge t`young ones.

"Them then colonial settlers come, gold-diggers, looking to rape our land. They ruined them chum spawn`n grounds pretty good with their logging, and wiped out the mighty Coho, and chum, and thekay by damming th`Tiskw’et to power their pulp mill. When I was a kid, oh, mebe five, six year old, ther`wa drying racks stacked up everywhere from them salmon. Her brow creased. But then, the spirits `came annoyed. Our clam grounds w`taken from us. They died away as them poisons trickled down from them darned pulp mills in Powell River. I remember big herring runs. Now small, and little herring roe to speak of." Her grip on his wrist loosened.

She lowered her gaze away from Cameron’s eyes. Disconsolate.

A couple of seconds later a sober musing shook her and her grip suddenly stiffened with fresh resolve. Even our place names been stolen from us. We been`ere thousands o`years. This land is like a mother to us, the rivers are the blood, the mountains are our spirits, them animals our brothers n`sisters. We are the true guardians of this land, she muttered. Not white man. Shaking her head. Ancient ways’ve almost been lost—but we hang on. We’ll always hang on to our old ways and our spirits too even if the white man laughs at them. We have to. Deep down, no matter what, us people`ll always be native. That we cannot let go.

Cameron nodded agreement. In many ways he felt guilty for owning land in the area. He had even gone so far as to write a clause into his Will that when he died all his land would revert back to Sliammon ownership, or more correctly, this offshoot of the Tla’amin Nation. The old woman is one-hundred percent correct, he admitted to himself silently; the land is rightfully theirs. The shellfish middens, ash layers and fire pits, the petroglyphs, pictographs, they are all there to prove it. It is indisputable. The land had originally been occupied by Northern Coast Salish peoples. Archaeological remnants of ancient villages and settlements dated back thousands of years. Perhaps as many as twenty thousand years.

The old woman went on, a little stronger now. Them forest spirits`re crying out again. They cry out `cause the mam’la has moved in t`great forests with his machines. We hear `em chainsaws howling eh, them logging trucks roaring down the roads, the thunder`n crash when great cedars rattle the earth where they came from. No`ne cares that the red cedar was once the core of our lives and a`culture. Without it, our way of life`ll be gone for good. And them moose herds migrating. If you do not help us we will die away.

Cameron nodded. The traditional Tla’amin moose herds had moved off the First Nations hunting concession and onto his land. If the clear cut logging kept up, there was a good chance the herds might never return to their traditional home; they probably would be permanently forced northwards onto Klahoose First Nations territory, territory where the Tla’amin had no legal right to hunt. This was why he had allowed the Tla’amin hunters onto his concession over the past few days to prepare for the upcoming cull. I sympathize with what you say, he said, shaking his freed wrist behind his back to get the blood flowing again. Your hunters are welcome to do their best on my land but in a few days the season ends and the permits expire. The hunting will have to stop.

The old woman nodded, then turned slowly, and used a frail arm to beckon someone. Cameron watched with interest as a young man, tall and lean as a Masai warrior, strode towards them. As he neared, Cameron noticed he had a deep scar that ran from his left eye down to the corner of his lip. His hair was dark and rich like a raven, glistening and cut straight as a bowl’s to within an inch of his eyebrow. He couldn’t have been much older than fourteen, though it was immediately apparent to Cameron he was more young-man than mere boy, with a fresh bloody welt on his chin probably from a recent attempt to shave. He was lean and sinewy, giving the appearance of a marathon runner, with a confident swagger yet not so confident as to be cocky which was corroborated by his eyes that appeared calm, calculating, and humble. His skin was burned dark as obsidian from long days spent in the sun perhaps fishing, or gathering, but more likely hunting bear or elk.

Tattooed symbols covered his upper bare torso; Cameron recognized some of them as Haida; others he couldn’t place but they seemed to symbolize mythical animal ancestors and spirits. A single eagle feather dangled from a worn silver earring in his right ear. Balanced tenuously on a half-rotten sling on his left shoulder, an outmoded carbine appeared to date back to the Korean War, and probably didn’t even work, and on the other shoulder, a canvas haversack hung down and it appeared to be held together by a pair of buckles. He wore jungle fatigues crudely hacked off just below the knees and a large hunting knife in a leather sheath that was attached to his leather belt. It did not escape Cameron that the sandals on his feet were well worn; this was the man he was looking for, and he was grateful. He was glad for it would save him scouring the village high and low.

His name is Koots George, the old woman announced. He got back late last night from Haida Gwaii. His first name stands f`Sea Eagle, an old myth `bout one of the undersea creatures with eagle features—she turned to the young man and looked over him lovingly—in his native Haida. Then turning back to Cameron. He’ll soon inherit privileges passed down through the ages with`s high-ranked name o`George, that’s if Father Mulcahy keeps his pious followers clear of a`potlatch! She hawked up a thick wad of phlegm and spat it at the nearest parishioner. And when he grows some sense, if ever, he will soon become big Chief—control all our tribal hunting grounds. He not let you down. Track a mosquito in dark, or who rides the back of a bull moose, he can.

Ah, said Cameron, a slight grin appearing on his face, you are the young tracker as I suspected. But I must warn you before you decide to join the expedition, there will be many trials and tribulations. He smiled at him and watched as the old woman ran her hand through her nephew’s thick, straight hair. He was at least a foot taller than her, a touch over six feet. It was at this point that Cameron noticed the forearm tattoos: identical Killer Whales painstakingly hammered into the skin on the inside of his forearms. And it did not escape him that the Haida’s forearms had been deeply cut and inked and he was helpless to stop himself taking up the young man’s arms in his hands to look more closely. Where did you get these?

They’re the marks of a`man, said the old woman. Only the most hardened.

Cameron smiled wryly at the old woman and she seemed to understand. A short pause ensued. He turned to the Haida. "Now please, will you tell me?"

Them ritual…part of me training. His voice was steady, softer than Cameron might have imagined. This he liked, a quiet confidence was better than loud brashness.

And who did them for you? You must have been drunk while they hammered away?

Koots hesitated, then pulled out an oily rag from his haversack, unwrapping a small jackknife smeared with oil and stained black with dye.

Cameron grimaced. You used that? Yourself?

Cut`s legs too, and rubbed `em with Indian hellebore! the old woman said with great pride.

Yes. It’s a ritual I’m aware of. Cameron smiled humbly. Not many do it these days. I know about this. You have my full respect; it must have been very painful?

Koots lowered his eyes modestly.

So, you see e`is strong. He will not let you down, the old woman continued. You would be foolish not t`take `em with you. But watch`em with the eyes of Raven, even when sleep keep one eye open for he is full o`trickery and a relentless schemer who shows little remorse. She grinned, but something in her eyes hinted that she wasn’t entirely joking. Cameron nodded, unsure what his response should be, but before they came to an agreement he felt he owed the young boy an explanation so that he could make an informed choice.

It’s probably not news to… he addressed the old woman, then restarted. Koots, something you should know about me. You should know that I am the butt of every hunter’s joke on the West Coast of Canada. They think me inept and a fool because I haven’t taken a decent trophy in over two years. God knows should I ever step foot into one of the local hotels I’d be laughed out the door. So I’d completely understand it if you don’t join the cull. But your people could sure use your tracking abilities if you’re willing. If my bad luck doesn’t scare you off, we leave at first light. Please, if you decide to come, no women tonight. Clean your rifle and ammunition and be waiting beside my Land Rover at first light. The day after tomorrow we begin to hunt. It’ll be dangerous—not fun and games. But it has to be done.

Koots nodded politely and muttered something that sounded like it ended in Big Tyee, then turned and ran through the crowd with the graceful gait of a mountain lion. As the young man disappeared behind a building, Cameron smiled with satisfaction knowing Big Tyee meant king, or big boss in Chinook jargon, a mixed language made up of native Indian, English, and French words that originated in the late eighteenth century by European fur traders and settlers who wished to communicate with the native inhabitants. Chinook jargon could be compared to the Lingua Franca of the Mediterranean, or the Negro-English-Dutch of Suriname. More importantly, other than the fact Koots was probably fluent in the language, was the use of respectful words.

For the first time since the old woman had gripped his hand, Cameron noticed a change in her attitude—the corners of her lips began to turn up in a guarded smile. The change in demeanor ended when a sudden loud rumble in the sky sounded. Cameron for a moment thought it was an aircraft engine misfiring before he realized it was thunder. A raindrop spattered against his cheek, then another and quickly the street was filled with jostling bodies as everyone headed for cover from the heavy rain. As Cameron crossed the street looking for shelter, he looked up to spot the bright flash of a tail beacon and the rough cough of an aircraft’s single radial engine. Jesus, the plane!

He leapt back and ran with a rough limp for the road that dipped down the hill to the bay. The white craft flashed above him over the trees and quickly the deafening engine washed away on the breeze.

Cameron skidded on the gravel and looked out across a narrow estuarine bay in time to see the delicate bird make an unsteady turn with its lower wing precariously close to the trees on the far side. He froze, waiting for the wing to clip a treetop and cartwheel, crashing. But miraculously, the plane kept flying, the trees getting ever closer, illuminated by the thin, brilliant beam of the landing lights.

Cameron let out a roar as he anticipated the impact. The plane seemed to bob in the gusting air as it continued its slow turn. He could see the faint outline of the pilot silhouetted against the illuminated instrument panel as he leaned on the heavy controls but it was hopeless, Cameron saw the wind was pushing him sideways and down towards the trees. He held his breath as the wing closest suddenly dipped; the flashing strobe only feet above the pitch-black forest. The little craft hung there, almost stationary on its side, hinging on one axis. Its groundspeed seemed close to nil.

Abruptly the plane leveled and the buffeting wings gained lift so that it floated like a kite, seeming to hover there near the edge of the land for minutes. Yet it was little more than a few seconds. The floats touched down successfully on the estuary, and the aircraft slowed to a stop.

Cameron’s heart was still in his mouth as he made his way down the trail to the little dock that jutted out into the water. The aircraft bumped against the dock, and Cameron tied the rope to the cleat. He jumped down onto the pontoon just as the engine of the de Havilland DHC-2 Beaver came to a spluttering stop. He climbed up and opened the rear cargo door. Are you alright? he asked rather breathlessly, barely able to see over the cardboard boxes piled in places to the cabin roof.

A young woman swung around in the pilot’s seat and looked back. Cameron almost slipped off the ladder in surprise. Jacqueline Munro, the daughter of John Munro—who owned Munro Aviation—was an astonishingly beautiful young woman. She had matured magnificently from the awkward teenager she had been when last he saw her. He was about to say something when a young girl rose up from the co-pilot’s seat and smiled warmly back at him.

Cameron Jamieson, Jacqueline said. How do you do. This is my daughter, Katy.

Katy was also beautiful, with the same large, brown, sparkling eyes as her mother but with straighter hair. Her skin was flawless too. They might have been sisters. For a moment Cameron was lost for words. You’re okay?

Yes, Jacqueline replied confidently, but we’re both exhausted. She stared longer than she might have at him.

Cameron still felt angry but he did his best to hide his emotions. He took his Stetson hat off and brushed his hair. You sure picked a hell of a day to fly up. Just glad you’re both in one piece. Did you bring my cigs and whisky? She feigned a smile, so he continued but more seriously this time. Clearly she was in no mood for jokes. You’re staying the night? he asked, slightly embarrassed at his poor humor. The earlier warmth returned to her eyes. In fact they were downright sultry and Cameron felt the skin on his neck prickle. She nodded.

Right. I’ll make sure the aircraft is unloaded. It’ll be nice to have some company in the village this evening. Things can get a bit stale up here.

He climbed back down onto the pontoon and helped Jacqueline down onto the dock, and then Katy. Glad you arrived safely. You know where the village is. Get going before it rains again. I’ll organize the villagers to bring the supplies up.

Jacqueline nodded and took Katy’s hand. They headed for dry land reaching terra firma just as the first group of villagers arrived at the dock. Cameron signaled to them, and when they arrived he handed the first box down through the cargo door to start the unloading process.

CHAPTER THREE

CAMERON, DEAR. THERE’S a meeting in my bungalow. I’ve made dinner, and there’s someone special for you to meet. Oh, and you should give those things up, said Hetti, entering the medical clinic. She’d caught Cameron smoking.

Cameron grinned, leaning on a pile of medical supply boxes stacked up in the corner of the medical clinic. He tucked the damp cigarette back into the little cardboard box that he’d pulled from his oilskins. Yes, mother, Cameron said the words slightly derisively, mocking her. But she was right, and he did as he was told. I was wondering—the tone in his voice made her straighten up—I’m a bit, you see…there’s a problem… He hesitated. I was wondering if I could borrow a couple gallons of gas to get me back to the spike camp early in the morning. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can. Promise.

Hetti was used to his requests for money and other small favors. She was about to roll her eyes but stopped herself. He was family after all, and she would do anything to help him out. Yes, of course, Cameron. You know where it is—the jerry cans are where you left them last time.

I’ll pay you back plus some, he said with all sincerity.

I know you will. Hetti smiled, but of course she knew he could not. Her heart went