Survival in Style Page 4

  Chapter 4: The Ranger

  After about twenty minutes, I forgot to be angry. “There’s the river,” I pointed, relieved that I hadn’t been imagining things. “The cabin shouldn’t be too far from the river.”

  “Let’s stay in the trees,” Tony said. “Just in case they fly over again.”

  I shook my head at the irony of hiding from a helicopter. The insides of my thighs began to chafe where the wet denim had rubbed. My toes also cried for mercy from the hard leather of my new boots. I slapped a mosquito at least once a minute, and I was watching the ground for snake holes and loose rocks so much that I sometimes forgot to watch for branches. Tony did what he could, holding them back for me, but he walked so fast that sometimes the branches came slicing back with inches to spare.

  When we stumbled across a real path - packed dirt, clear-cut so the only saplings that grew near were on either side - I felt some hope at last. That hope solidified when we saw a large sign that proclaimed, “Ranger Station: 2 Miles.”

  Tony grunted. “Miles, huh? That means we didn’t cross into Canada.”

  The path took a sudden sharp turn away from the river bank, but we felt certain we were going in the right direction. Another bend in the path brought us a welcome surprise - a ranger, dressed in full uniform with his gray button-up shirt, green trousers, and khaki straight-brimmed hat. His gold badge glinted in a sunbeam, and he was striding straight toward us.

  He looked startled. “You’re alive!”

  We stopped. I could practically see Tony’s muscles tensing.

  “Got a radio call that a plane crashed near Turtle Lake. You guys the survivors?” He stopped a few paces away from us.

  “We’re just out for a hike,” Tony said, taking a half-step in front of me as if he was a human shield.

  The ranger laughed, a bit forced. “This far out in the middle of nowhere, without any camping equipment? Good one. Nah, I got a fax with your face on it. You’re Tony Wexler.” He turned to me. “And who are you?”

  Tony clenched a fist. “No fax with her face?”

  “Not unless there was a second page,” he replied. “Doesn’t matter. Come on up to the cabin. You can dry your clothes there and wait for your folks to come pick you up.” He reached for my hand and shook it. “Ranger Nelson, at your service. But most folks just call me Smoky.”

  “Like the bear?” I asked, studying him. He seemed like the sort of person accustomed to soothing wild animals, but he also seemed fake somehow, with his big toothy grin.

  “Ha! Just like the bear.” He turned around to lead the way.

  I started to follow. Tony caught my arm.

  “I don’t trust him,” he said, his voice so low that I had to bend close to hear. “How could he have gotten a fax so soon?”

  “Maybe some campers saw our plane fall and reported it,” I guessed. “I mean, surely they get cell phone service out here.” I whacked my forehead, realizing that I’d left my own cell phone in my backpack, back on the plane. How would I live without my cell phone?

  “Spies everywhere,” he whispered. “Can’t trust anyone.”

  “What’s your problem? He’s a ranger. They’re the good guys, right?”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “Look, I’m still cold. If he has a clothes dryer - or even a hair dryer - I’d like to use it.”

  Tony still did not release my arm. “Wait. It’s too early for anyone to notice we’re missing. We’re not due for another hour or so.”

  “What are you kids whispering about?” called Nelson, turning around.

  “Nothing,” I said. I shot a dirty look at Tony, and then rushed to catch up to the ranger, leaving Tony standing in the middle of the narrow path.

  “Got some hot cocoa at the cabin,” Nelson said, taking a step toward Tony. “I know it’s the end of June, but that water’s always cold. Fireplace is running, too. Don’t know why I bothered today, but now I’m glad I did...”

  Tony pasted on a fake smile. “Sounds good,” he said.

  Stupid, stupid, I chanted to myself. I don’t know why I thought that, but once I did, the words in my mind kept cadence with my footsteps. And there it was again, that frown that seemed to be becoming part of my daily face. “Frowning causes wrinkles,” Mom always says. Oh, shut up, Mom, I thought, trying to get my forehead to relax. But what if Tony was right? The ranger seemed nice enough, if a little fishy. Even so, who hides from rangers? Then again, who hides from helicopters?

  I stumbled over a tiny little stick as I thought about the past hour. I’d been shot at, survived a plane crash, and nearly drowned. And Mom probably still though I was mad at her, and the last time I’d talked to Dad, I had been really snippy. What if I had died? What if I was still going to die? Shut up, shut up! I told myself, forcing my thoughts into silence.

  “Might want to put some bandages on those blisters,” Nelson said, turning back to look at me. “Before they get any worse.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “How did you know I was getting a blister?”

  “Wet leather, new boots. Bad combination. You must be from the city.”

  I frowned. Add another name to the Let’s Pick on Alana list.

  “Actually, sit there.” He gestured to a large boulder. “I have some ointment that might help.”

  Tony kept an eye on him as he removed my socks and wet boots and tended my growing blisters.

  “Prevention is the best cure,” Nelson said as he worked. Apparently he liked the sound of his own voice, because he launched straight into a story about last year’s national forestry conference.

  As he talked, I kept glancing back and forth between him and Tony. He was staring at the ranger’s pistol in its hip-holster. Poor thing, I thought. I wonder what he’s done to live in such fear. He’s not that much older than I am...

  “...like those poor fish,” Nelson was saying. “It’s really sad when that happens. There, all done. Put your boots back on and let’s get home.”

  Nelson continued to talk as we hiked up the trail, quite content to play the tour guide. “Folks come from all parts of the state for this trail. “You got the waterfalls off to the east and the cliffs to the north. They’re so steep that even your fussiest mountain climbers are pleased to see them. Then you got Turtle Lake over there to the west, where you kids probably landed. Full of bass and pike and other fish that’s good to eat...”

  “And south?” I asked.

  “Just Dead Island Lake, nothing special. But she’s half a mile long. You can’t miss her. If you walk straight to her and turn a little west, it’s only a day’s walk to Otter Paw. That’s the nearest town from my here.”

  “How near is near?” asked Tony.

  “’Bout four days if you’re hiking, three hours if you’re taking a car, half an hour in a hydroplane, or eighty miles if you want to get technical. Depends on the wind and who’s walking.” He grinned. “Course, you can always take a canoe on the river and get to Scout Lookout; it’s closer, but it’s just a trading post and not a real town. Not even a movie theater or a clinic.” He looked at me. “And no mall, either. Nothing for you city slickers. Just a bunch of hermits living alone. A real paradise.”

  I was about to protest my ability to live without a mall, but he had already launched into another conversation. He was probably lonely from living in the middle of nowhere. So I let him talk. He complained about campers who didn’t properly douse their fires and warned us about how it was one of the driest seasons he’d had in a while. “Supposed to get four inches of rain in June,” he said, “but it hasn’t really fallen yet... Any little spark will set a forest fire when it’s like this.” He complained about people feeding the bears even though the signs said not to. He fussed about illegal hunting, about people who grew marijuana plants under the cover of a national forest preserve, and about folks who simply did not take time to enjoy the sight of a lady slipper, Minnesota’s state flower.

  His words almost lulled me into security, except t
hat he had a habit of brushing his pistol every few minutes with his fingers as if it were a good luck charm. I couldn’t tell if it was a nervous habit or if he kept expecting something to happen. In either case, it made me anxious - Tony, too, because he trudged alongside me in stony silence. Still, it seemed laughable that this talkative ranger could be a threat. Besides, I had learned more in the last fifteen minutes about the biological cycle of the forest than in all my science classes combined.

  “So I guess Chris drowned, then,” Nelson said, finally directing the conversation at Tony, who had tried to ignore him so far.

  Tony jerked his head in Nelson’s direction. “Sorry?”

  “Your pilot.”

  “You mean Mike?”

  Nelson paled.

  Tony stopped walking lifted a finger to point at him. “How did you know Chris was piloting today? That was a last-minute switch. Not even the control tower at Boundary Waters knows about that; Chris and Mike were gonna do the paperwork when we got home.” He kicked a stone. “I guess I know who’s the leak, now, huh? Mike’s not the guy I thought he was.”

  Nelson’s hand twitched near his pistol. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said with his fake smile. “When they reported the crash, I called control. That’s all.”

  Tony gestured to Nelson’s gun. Chin up, and in a calm voice that sent chills down my spine, he said, “My flight details are never reported. Admit it. You’ve been bribed.”

  Nelson flinched, then pulled the gun out and pointed it at Tony. “Don’t give me any trouble, kid.” When I gasped, he pointed it at me. “You, too. Stay where I can see you. Now let’s go.”