The warning reminded Kate irresistibly of the warnings written on the margins of ancient maps: "There be dragons here." Mutt trotted ahead of her, and Kate took comfort in her presence. Unlike most dogs, Mutt did not go berserk at the sight of a bear. She was too smart and had been too well trained for that. At 140 pounds, standing well over three feet tall at the shoulder, she had backed down more than one bear, and would do so again. And it was July, after all; the bears had been eating since the first kings came up the creek in late May. A full grizzly was a happy grizzly, and less inclined to bother with anything lacking fins.

Or so she told herself, and took care to step on every piece of deadfall she could as she moved through the brush. The cracking and popping of dry wood breaking was a whistle past the graveyard. Behind her, she heard Jack doing the same thing.

The trail was faintly marked and bore signs of having been recently pruned, the white gashes of lopped limbs glowing white against the trunks of alder and spruce and cotton-wood. It was also darker in the brush, and once Jack tripped over an exposed root and staggered against her. "Sorry."

She caught his hands, which were interested in more than merely catching his balance. "Sure you are. Knock it off, Jack." He muttered something, sounding injured, and she bit back something that might have been a giggle.

He sensed it and snatched her up in his arms. The most protest she gave was a halfhearted wriggle, until she felt a tree press against her back. "No, Jack, we've got to get going." He dropped to his knees. "Oh." She swallowed. When she spoke again, her voice was breathless. "Really. They're waiting for us."

His words were muffled. "George told us to take our time." He looked up at her and grinned. "I'm just following orders."

She pushed at his shoulders. "Get up. No, dammit, I mean it." She slipped free, fastening her jeans, and sprinted out of reach when he came up off his knees and lunged at her. They romped up the trail, alternately led and pursued by a barking Mutt, both of them aware of and keenly enjoying a sense of play that had been missing from their relationship for a long time. Life was too short to be that grim, Jack reflected, and copped a quick feel before Kate darted out of reach again, laughing and warding him off. They emerged on the little gravel strip ten minutes later, out of breath, disheveled and light of heart.

The strip was within sound of the rush of water over stone, the more or less flat surface cut down to sand that sank beneath their feet. Good thing George's Super Cub was on tundra tires, Kate thought, enormous, cartoon-balloon tires dwarfed only by the acre of wingspan that made the Cub the quintessential Bush plane. It was drawn up at one end of the runway. George and Chopper Jim were standing next to it, waiting. Mutt caught sight of Chopper Jim, gave an enthusiastic yip and tore across the strip, sand flying, to greet him big-time Mutt style.