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Back The Trickster Save as PDF
Chapters (74)
  1. The Trickster
  2. Copyright
  3. Dedication
  4. Contents
  5. Preface to the 20th anniversary edition
  6. Introduction
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. Keep Reading
  70. FURNACE
  71. Acknowledgements
  72. About the Author
  73. ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
  74. About the Publisher

He looked at her steadily and there was no humour, no irony, no sarcasm in his eyes whatsoever when he said,

‘I don’t disbelieve it.’

55

Alberta 1907 Siding Twenty-three

Husband and wife looked at each other from a distance. In Hunting Wolf’s face there was no trace of bitterness or reproach. He looked through the curtain of falling snow at the woman kneeling and sobbing, and his weary black eyes filled with love.

But there was no time now. Not for reconciliation or explanation. Time only to face what he had evaded, and in doing so, had cost the lives of so many.

His son stood at his side, his face registering triumph and fear. The man stretched out an arm and touched the boy’s thick black hair, and the small face tilted up to look into his father’s.

Suddenly, both father and son turned their heads like startled deer towards the thick trees behind Singing Tree. The sound of voices. Distant, but approaching.

Hunting Wolf let go of his son’s head and without speaking or looking again at either of his family, turned and walked towards the tunnel. The woman and boy watched the tall, naked man go, then Walks Alone ran to his mother.

There was no sound, except for a lonely echoing drip. It took Hunting Wolf a long time to adjust his eyes to the gloom. He was still dazed, exhausted from his ordeals, but his spirit had purpose. He knew he had lost toes and patches of flesh the size of acorns on his body. He could see the whitened skin, the skin that the cold had destroyed, and knew that those innocent patches of numbness would kill, would turn black and diseased, bringing fever first then death.

But his family must live. That was what kept the fire in his soul. He stood silently, waiting until his eyes could see, and then when they did, prayed that they were wrong.

There was a dark shape by the rough wall, splayed crazily over the fallen rocks like a doll.

Henderson’s body lay in a dark pool of its own blood, and the shaman was glad that its face was turned to the wall, hiding the agony that he knew would be frozen there.

‘You die like worms on a thorn. You men.’

The pale face was only a few feet from his dark one. It regarded him with a half-smile and behind the pale blue eyes it had copied inexpertly from that tragic trapper the clouds of swirling black desecration moved as if stirred by a stick.

Hunting Wolf ignored the vision and bent to pick up Henderson’s totem. The cross lay by the body where it had fallen from his hand and the tiny white figure was red with the Scot’s blood. The Trickster was not to be ignored. It flared beneath its disguise like a torch.