Dead of Winter by Brian Moreland Read Free Book Online Page B

crate of severed deer heads.
    Tom stopped at the threshold. “Excuse me, men.” The voyageurs all shot glares in his direction. Tom recognized several he had arrested for brawling at the saloon. A large wolfhound with a humped back snarled.
    “Quiet, Makwa!” yelled Michel Bélanger, a stout man who stood well over six feet.
    The shaggy-haired beast lay back down, issuing a low growl.
    Bélanger approached, his enormous hands dripping red. He had long blond hair and a thick beard. “What can I do for you, Inspector?”
    “I’m looking for my son.” He scanned the rugged bunch standing around the table, but they were all men with weathered faces and angry scowls.
    Bélanger said, “Your boy is not with us.”
    Tom felt his blood pulse. “I know Chris left the fort with you earlier. He’s back at the Indian village, isn’t he?”
    The Frenchman narrowed his eyes. “Why should I help you? You’ve done nothing but spit on our people.”
    The other laborers, still gripping their bloodstained knives, gathered behind Bélanger.
    “Because my son’s outside the fort during a goddamned blizzard,” Tom said, resting his hand on his pistol. “If anything happens to Chris—”
    Bélanger raised his palm. “No need to blow your lid, Inspector. He’s in good company. We left him with Chief Mokoman.”
    “Then take me to him.”
    17
     
    Snow swarmed like white mosquitoes, biting Tom’s face, as he rode on Bélanger’s dogsled to the Ojibwa village. They crossed the bridge over Beaver Creek. The pines towered high above like ancient sentries. Shadow shapes hovered within the spiky branches, clotting out the moonlight. Beware the woods after dark , the soldiers had warned, o r the manitous might make ye their next meal.
    Christopher Hatcher knew of the dangers of being outside the fort, yet he continued to ignore them.
    The sled rode past a tree decorated with animal skulls. The top one had moose antlers. The snowstorm whirled around Tom with relentless fury. If his son was truly at the Indian village, then he was with the last people Tom wanted around his boy.
    Bélanger’s sled reached the Indian village. Along the border, several skinned deer carcasses hung from the trees, spinning in the wind. Beneath them were snow-dusted blankets covered with rocks, fetishes made from bones and feathers, and bowls of frozen blood.
    Tom shook his head. “Damned savages.”
    The Indians believed the beast that had been stalking the woods was not a grizzly but some kind of evil spirit.
    Passing the deer carcasses, Bélanger pulled the dogsled to a stop in the center of the village. It was made up of a dozen or more birch bark huts. Among the smaller homes stretched long wood structures with domed roofs called wigwams. The village normally bustled with Indians, but tonight none were outside. Perhaps waiting for Silvertip to collect its offering of meat and blood and move on.
    “Take me to him,” Tom said.
    “How about asking politely?”
    Tom glared at the big Frenchman. Bélanger waved his arm. “All right, this way.”
    Tom followed him to a wigwam that was illuminated from within. It resonated with the sounds of beating drums and chanting. Through the stretched-hide walls, shadows danced.
    Bélanger stopped outside the entrance. “The natives are in ceremony. We wait.”
    “Bugger that.” Tom lifted the flap and stepped into the wigwam.
    A dozen natives were sitting in a circle, beating drums and singing in their Ojibwa language. Several elders dressed in ceremonial costumes were dancing backwards around a fire. Past all the movement of feathers and flames, Tom glimpsed a teenage boy with blond hair and blue eyes. Chris Hatcher was sitting cross-legged in the circle and wearing a deerskin parka. His face was painted white with red stripes. He accepted a pipe from Grandmother Spotted Owl, an elderly woman with silver braids. Chris puffed on the pipe a few seconds and then coughed.
    “Christopher Orson Hatcher!” Tom