Free Zachary's Gold by Stan Krumm Page B

the third possibility had to be admitted: that he was entirely what he appeared—a lonely woodsman, made a bit trigger-happy by cabin fever—and that the only criminal was myself, killer of an innocent man.
    I poured another cup of whisky and examined the room once again without finding any hint of illegal activity or ill-gotten gains. Only the liquor saved me from worry and depression. Tomorrow, it appeared, I would have to widen the area of search and scour the campsite and surrounding bush for evidence of a hidey-hole.
    I was not totally disheartened, but in that dark and unfamiliar cabin, with only the sound of a strong wind for company, I couldn’t help feeling a bit nervous. I knew perfectly well that the trapper had lived alone, and yet some instinctual caution made me listen for sounds of someone returning—a rightful owner, ready to throw me out of this place.
    I must admit that my rather childish fear made me carry the lantern outside with me when I found it necessary to attend to the other activity associated with drinking. It was a beautiful night. If one must waste time casting spent liquor onto the ground, I supposed it was best done thus, with shadows dancing and windblown clouds scrolling hastily over a sparkling sky.
    Buttoning my trousers, I wandered the few paces through the bush to where my silent companion was dangling.
    â€œNed, Ned. You’re looking better this evening. I think the night air agrees with you.”
    The ropes had settled around his chest a bit, and his arms had dropped almost to his sides, so he did look a little less daunting. The cloth hat pulled down over his eyes was a great help as well.
    â€œMy friend,” I continued, “you have most excellent taste in whisky. And you serve it up unstinted. You are the perfect host, I must say. Sir, I salute you!”
    I daresay I appeared something of an oddity to the owls and raccoons that night—lantern in my left hand, ceramic mug raised to toast my suspended friend.
    â€œMy gratitude and my admiration know no bounds, Ned, but there remains one fact which is unarguable. You are a thief. You know it and I know it, and since you have divorced yourself from the cares and desires of this world, you might just as well come clean. Cough up, so to speak, my good man, and tell me where the gold is. Stop being coy. Where is it?”
    My cup was empty and I was cold.
    â€œYou let me know, then, but hurry it up. A stiff doesn’t get many good opportunities coming his way, you know. I’m going back inside, but you’ll like it better out here. Not being unsociable, you understand, but it feels like a real chill blowing in, and that’ll keep you, well, held together. Just mind them crows, and keep your hat down over your eyes. Those critters have no sense of decency when mealtime rolls around.”
    With my third cup of whisky in my hand, I stood again at every angle to the room and glared at each of the very limited number of nooks and crannies available for inspection. The place could very well have been drawn up in the Hudson’s Bay guidebook under the title “A Well Appointed Trapping Cabin.” No log sounded hollow; no piece of furniture covered a hidden pit; no tin or box contained anything but the proper sort of food. I slouched into the chair, cup on lap.
    The bottle of elegant Scotch had, by that stage of the evening, done Hell’s own business inside my tired brain, and done it well. Apart from my days in the goldfields, I was never much of a drinker, and I suppose the stuff took me by surprise. When I attempted to lean my chair back and swing my feet up on top of the shelves, I overbalanced and nearly wound up flat on my backside. Instead, I kicked the shelves apart with my flailing feet—one of the powder cases landing beside the stove, spreading its contents on the floor.
    I had time to utter only one mild profanity before I saw Dead Ned’s hiding place.
    Between the