“Pit trap,” he says. “It’ll be covered in brush, but that hollow is a giveaway. There’s another one. Can you see it?”
I take a moment. Then I point and say, “About five meters left of that black spruce.”
“Good.”
“There’s another low spot over there, closer to the cabin, but it looks completely cleared from this angle.”
“Yeah, that’d be a work area, maybe fire pit. Gotta be careful of the hollows and the dense undergrowth, which could be hiding a snare. Snares are particularly hard to see. I say don’t even try—just lift your feet when you walk, so you don’t drag through one. Even if you do, it’s easy enough to get out of. Most of these just are to warn Cox of trespassers.”
“But aren’t snares more likely to be set off by animals?”
“Yep. Which means dinner.”
“Ah.”
We’ve gotten about halfway to that cabin when Dalton catches my shoulder again.
“Around here, walking up and knocking is not considered neighborly. Get your gun out but keep it lowered.”
I do, and he calls, “Silas Cox?”
A noise from inside the cabin.
“Cox?” Dalton shouts. “We want to talk to you.”
The door swings open. There’s no one behind it. Then a voice calls, “What do you want?”
“We’d like to talk.”
“Well, you’re talking.”
“Face-to-face.”
A shuffling sound. Then, “Tell your boy to step away from you and put his hands up.”
“I’m not a boy.” I pull off my hat and then tug out my ponytail band. Dalton hisses under his breath, but I know what I’m doing—getting Cox’s attention.
“You brought a girl?” Cox calls. A moment of silence, and I glimpse a head as someone peers out at me. “You Injun, girl? Fuck. You come to tell me this isn’t my land? Hell yeah, it’s mine, and—”
“We aren’t here to discuss territory. Can we just speak to you, Mr. Cox? Please?”
“Tell your buddy to take off his hat, too,” he says. “Let me get a look at him.”
Dalton does. Silence stretches.
“Step closer. You, boy, not the girl. And put your hands over your head.”
Dalton obeys, pocketing his gun first. Cox doesn’t seem to notice—or care—that I have one. Dalton takes three steps and says, “There, now—”
Cox cuts him off with a whoop. “Well, look at that. If it ain’t the jungle boy, all grown up.”
Dalton tenses. “That you, Tyrone?”
“Anybody else call you that these days?” Tyrone Cypher steps into the doorway. He’s well over six foot, a big bear of a man. Too big to be the man in the snowsuit? That’s impossible to say. He definitely has the dark hair and beard.
Cypher leans against the doorway. “The boy who was raised by wolves. I remember when your daddy brought you to Rockton. You looked like the kid from that cartoon, covered by more dirt than clothes. Always thought the Daltons were fools, taking you in. Shoulda brought you down south instead, put you in a sideshow, made a bit of money.”
Dalton’s eyes narrow before he throws it off. “Good to see you too, Tyrone.”
“Oh, listen to you, boy, talking like a regular person. Put the ape in proper clothing, teach him proper el-o-cu-tion, and he can pretty near pass for human. He even brings along his little Injun Jane.”
“That’s Tarzan,” I say.
Tyrone squints at me, as if the trees have spoken. “What?”
“The jungle boy who was raised by wolves is Mowgli. The book is by Rudyard Kipling. Jane belongs with Tarzan. Raised by apes. Books by Edgar Rice Burroughs. And if I look Aboriginal, you need glasses. Also cultural-sensitivity training. But I suppose they don’t offer a lot of that…” I look around. “Here.”
“Got a mouth on you, huh, girl?” I wait for the inevitable offer to show me other ways to use it, but he doesn’t go there.
“Where’s Silas Cox?” Dalton asks.
Cypher screws up his face in fake confusion. “Silas’s what?”
“Where is Silas Cox?”
“Still can get jokes, can you, boy? I’ll talk to your girl instead.”
“Silas Cox,” I say. “This is his cabin, and we’re looking for him.”
“Well, then you’ve found him. Close by, anyway. He’s hanging out over yonder.” He hooks a thumb behind the cabin.
“Call him for me,” Dalton says.
“Well, now, I don’t think that’ll work. I can try. But I’d be damned surprised if he answered.”
I glance at Dalton. His jaw is set, eyes narrowed in a look that says he doesn’t quite know how to handle this. I’ve dealt with enough guys like this that I step forward and say, “Did you kill Silas Cox for his cabin?”
“What? This old thing?” He pounds the wall. “Hardly worth killing a man for, don’t you think?”
“Did you kill Silas Cox? Regardless of the reason.”
“Nope. I’m a mite insulted you’d ask that.”
“So Silas Cox is over there.” I gesture. “Is he dead or alive?”
“Alive last time I saw him. But I got the feeling the condition wasn’t permanent.”
“If you did something to cause his death, that’s still murder.”
“Oh, look at you, getting all technical about it.”