Heather Harris - Under ravens wing

"Where did you learn to make a travois?" Maggie asked Sandy as Robert leaned back against the blue tarp slung between two long poles.

"Sometimes we moved more wounded than we had gear for. You learned to improvise," he answered. "Okay now Kyle, just lean him back and set the pole on your shoulder."

The slow walk down the trail was subdued, each absorbed with their own thoughts. Maggie led the party carrying the lantern, while Sandy and Kyle dragged the travois to the bridge by the cabin. Robert crawled across the narrow expanse, and they assisted him the rest of the way to the beach.

After they settled Robert onto a log near the plane, Sandy noticed the glow of the eastern skyline. "We've got to hustle if we're going to get that boat hidden, and take off by first light."

"You said we were low on gas," Robert said irritably. "If we take this kid along, how are you figuring to get us back with the extra weight?"

Sandy frowned. "I've been thinking about that. I'm pretty sure we can at least make it to the log camp up by Mahoney Bay, if Kyle doesn't have too much stuff he needs to take out."

"Don't worry about the extra weight. I'm not leaving just yet."

Maggie shook her head. "We're not leaving you by yourself."

"I'm more set up out here than I would be back in town. There's plenty of food, everything I need. Anyway, there are still some things to take care of around here before I go back."

"It would sure simplify things if Kyle stays here awhile. Sandy admitted. We could charter a plane and come get him in a later, when things die down."

"Actually, now that I have the maps, I'll just come back in the skiff when I'm ready. There's plenty of gas. I don't want anybody else knowing about this place."

"How do we know you aren't planning to rob their grave? What's to stop you?" Robert glowered.

"Part of the reason I'm staying is to make sure something like that doesn't happen." Kyle focused on Robert. "I don't want you knowing if I'm out here or not."

"Well, if we're going to make this work, we'd better get moving," Sandy advised.

Once they loaded Robert into the plane, Sandy hopped down next to Maggie. "Let's get that skiff hidden."

"I'll handle that," Kyle said. "Tide's coming up fast. It'll be stashed by sunrise. I've done it lots of times."

Maggie climbed through the door. "You sure you'll be okay?"

Kyle nodded, pivoting the float plane around so that it faced the bay while Sandy climbed aboard. The propeller blew mist off the calm water. Kyle waved as they circled the bay, and watched until the aircraft disappeared over the crest of the valley.

He slid the bolt and stepped inside the cabin, returning to the deck with the fiddle. Seated on the log round, he adjusted the tuning, then tightened the bow, wincing at the pain in his fingers. At least it wasn't his fingering hand. He'd splint them soon. As he started in on one of the tunes his Grandfather played in his dream, a raven settled into the branches of the thick spruce next to the porch.

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Large flakes of snow drifted down lightly, melting as they neared the steam rising off the hot springs. Kyle dipped his head and pushed his long hair back, then rose and walked dripping to the shore. A thin crust of ice rimmed the edge of the stream bank. He pulled a towel from his backpack.

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Leaning on the weathered walking stick, Kyle bent and picked up a glossy black feather from a moss covered log, adding it to the others he carried in Jasper's old leather pack.

As he approached the cleft of the cave entrance, he noticed movement at the edge of his vision. A pair of wolves slid quietly through the trees. Kyle waited, studying the brush until he located the three smaller wolves, standing rigid and nearly invisible behind stalks of winter-thinned foliage. "Hey Bob, how's the wife and kids?"

He pushed the back pack ahead of him through the cave entrance, smelling wood smoke from the coals remaining in the fire pit. He stacked more branches on the embers and settled onto his foam pad with his back against the contoured stone.

When the flames rose, he lifted a black bundle from the floor beside him and sat it on his lap. Feeling for a narrow recess in the rock to his right, he located a needle and thread. He extracted a broad feather from the pack and, over-lapping it in line with the other feathers on the old leather jacket, he stitched it firmly in place.

Kyle Thornton hadn't thought of it as stealing, really, until that moment. It appeared the officer had no problem with the distinction. As the large rear tires of the empty wheelchair bounded the curb of the Pioneers' Home parking lot, Kyle felt the threat of a cramp tighten his upper thigh. He hadn't had the need to run since he couldn't remember when, but a risked glance over his shoulder assured him this was one of those times. The Alaska State Trooper was out of his patrol car and running, damn fast for a guy that big.

Kyle leaned on the chairs handles, skidding around the corner where the side street met the main road. When his line of vision cleared the overgrown hedge, he breathed relief. The idling pick-up still waited for him. It wasn't far to go now. With a sick twinge in his gut, Kyle noted the change in expression of the man behind the wheel when the charging Trooper appeared from behind the hedge. The engine revved.

"Come on compadre, stick it out!" Kyle wheezed. "You're my wings!" The tires chirped and the truck sped away as the wheelchair arched into the air toward the bed. The chair's metal framework clattered to the asphalt on the spot where the truck had been. A keg tied in the front of the box busted loose with the sudden strain and skidded, crunching an outward bulge into the center of the tailgate.

"Hey man! That's my beer!" Kyle gasped between ragged breaths. He turned to face the oncoming Trooper. "I'd like to report a theft."

With smooth, fluid movements, the officer grabbed his wrist and spun him half around. "Give me the other hand, kid." The stench of stale whisky lingered in the air.

Kyle offered the appendage. As the cuffs tightened, he cranked his head around, smiling. "You know, you're good at this. Ever consider pro-wrestling? The money's gotta beat what youre pulling down now, and the babes! Ha-cha!"

The Trooper clamped a hand on the collar of Kyle's worn leather jacket and led him back to the patrol car. He popped the trunk.

"Can I trust you to stand quietly here a second?"

"I am a man of honor, despite current appearances."

He slid the chair inside. "Got any I. D., driver's license?"

Kyle fumbled with his linked hands, produced a wallet from his back pocket. "Its in here."

"Just a second." The key turned in the cuffs. "Remove it from the wallet."

Kyle handed over the license and stuffed the wallet back. The officer reattached the cuffs and guided Kyle's head through the rear door.

Once behind the wheel, the officer called in, "Kyle Thornton, age eighteen. Oregon license number..."

"Yeah, but I was born here though," Kyle cut in. "My family's from Hooligan. Great-granddad on dads side was one of the first white men around here. He was a miner. My granddad on moms side logged and trapped, but he was best known for playing fiddle for dances. My folks moved south when I was just a runt. Dad came back here when they split. Mom shipped me off after the Holidays, for reasons best left unsaid. So what's your name?"