Slocum 428 Read Free Page A

of snow.
    â€œHo there! Ho there, boys!” the fur-wrapped man’s cries echoed down at Slocum, along with a light wash of snow spray from the great hair-fringed hooves that excitedly clomped to a begrudging halt, the horses’ heads bowed, mouths champing, breath pluming into the morning air.
    The teamster, perched atop the big log sledge, eyed Slocum through a slit in a hoar-frosted woolly scarf wrapping his head. Finally, just as Slocum was about to greet him, the man spoke. “Who be you? And more to the point, is that real coffee I smell?”
    The man made no motion that Slocum could construe as threatening, and kept his mittened hands held tight to the wrapped lines, since the big brutes towing him seemed a mass of quivering muscle, on the verge of bolting down the trail. It struck Slocum as impressive that the slight figure above him could contain such power.
    Slocum sipped his coffee, then held up the cup. “I’m the man who just made that pot of coffee.” He nodded vaguely behind him, to where his small but robust fire still crackled. “You’re welcome to a cup, if you have the time.”
    Since the man and team obviously were engaged in some sort of logging activity, Slocum hoped the man might at least offer him a bit of friendly advice as to where the Tamarack Logging Camp was located. Mostly he was happy to see a living soul up here in high-timber country after not having seen another human for several days of slow travel. Something about the cold—and if he had to admit it, the freakish noises of the night before—had gotten to him.
    â€œWell, right neighborly of you to offer.” The sprightly little man was already setting the long-handled brake and coiling the lines around it, chattering like a camp jay all the way.
    â€œFact is, I’d about kill my best friend’s best friend for a cup of the real stuff. Been a long time up to camp and we’ve had nary a sniff nor a whiff of the stuff. ’Bout thin on other supplies, too. That’s how come I’m headed downslope. On a dead run I am, too. Made a wager with the men, you might say. They don’t believe I can make the run down to town for supplies and get back in time afore they starve. Course, that ain’t likely to happen, what with the deer and other critters we been chewin’ on.”
    He swung himself off the narrow rail on which he was balanced, hung out over the deep white snow off to the side of the trail, then dropped into it, plunging in up to his waist, still yammering, this time to his horses.
    Smiling, Slocum led the way to the fire, kicking as much of the snow out of his path as he could so the shorter man might follow with less trouble. He fished his second tin cup out of a saddlebag and filled it with piping hot coffee. By the time he’d stood up from the fire, hot cup in hand, the man was nearly beside him. The stranger unwrapped the frost-crusted wool scarf to reveal a thin, patch-bearded face sporting mostly silver-white hair. Deep creases along his cheeks, around his mouth, and across his forehead seemed to surround the two glinting blue eyes.
    Slocum realized with a start that this man was no youngster as he had assumed. But whatever life he lived—presumably one in and around the great logging camps of the Northwest—it agreed with him. The man’s ruddy skin looked like leather stretched over a bone frame. Even under all that fur wrapping him, Slocum doubted the man carried a smidgen of fat—he looked to be made of bone and gristle, with an extra helping of grit, all topped with mischief. This man, Slocum could tell, was a genuine, bona fide character.
    The little man thrust out one mittened hand for a shake, to which Slocum obliged. Though Slocum gave as good as he got, the small man’s impressive grip was like iron.
    â€œI’m Jigger McGee, rowdiest log roustabout this here country’s ever seen. Normally I’m in the woods,