“Other than your enemies,” Hans Storhaug said with a snort.
“Well, maybe I overstated that just a little…” The man grinned a bit guiltily.
NS or patriot, he was a profiteer, and didn’t know quite how to answer. Or if he was in any trouble, trying to judge the reaction of the group, trying to laugh it off, but still, with worried, flitting eyes.
“Watch him, Eric,” Ronneberg said to Gutterson. “If he makes a wrong move, you know what to do.”
“Aye, Lieutenant,” the Yank said, motioning with his gun. “Come on, pull out some water. You can sit over here.”
The rest huddled a few yards out of earshot. Each knew what they’d been ordered to do. Ronneberg looked around for the feel of the group. “So…?”
“I don’t like it,” Storhaug said. “There are Germans in Uvdal. If we let him go and he opens his mouth back there, we’ll have two divisions up here after us.”
“That may be, but Norwegians don’t kill Norwegians,” Nordstrum said. “Unless they’ve betrayed their homeland. And there’s no proof he has.”
“He said he was NS,” Jens said.
Olf Pedersen nodded. “Yes, he did.”
“He would have said anything to save his skin,” Nordstrum argued. “He had no idea who we were. What would you have said?” He looked at Storhaug. “He likely thought we were Quisling.”
“It’s not just about the politics.” Storhaug took a swig of water and spit it out. “If we let him go and he runs his mouth off over a beer at the local pub, who guarantees who that person will tell? Or if the Germans offer him a wad of money for something he claims to know? He’s already admitted he’s a profiteer. You think he’d turn down a payday out of any allegiance to the king?”
“How about if I keep an eye on him?” Nordstrum said to Ronneberg. “We can take him along to Grouse and then tie him up there in the cabin. When we get back we can set him free.”
“There’s no guarantee we will get back.” Storhaug kept at it. “All that you’ll do for him then is drag him along a long way to make him freeze to death or starve.”
Nordstrum nodded, though his instincts insisted the man was who he said he was. But there was a case for disposing of him as well. And no doubt Wilson and Tronstad would have argued for it without hesitation.
He looked toward Jens.
“I’m afraid I’m with Hans on this one, Kurt.” His friend shrugged guiltily. “It’s simply too much of a risk.”
“Me as well,” Olf Pedersen said. “You may be right, Kurt, he’s just an average guy trying to make the best of it in a war. But if you’re wrong and he does like Hans says…? What if we’re facing German half-tracks up here in a day? How would you feel then about letting him go?”
Stromsheim looked at Nordstrum and nodded. “Me too, I’m afraid.”
Nordstrum saw it was a losing cause. And maybe they were right. They looked back down the hill. The hunter just stood there, chatting with Gutterson, puffing on a cigarette, but at the same time, intermittently glancing up at them with unease.
“So, it’s decided then,” Ronneberg said, capping his canteen.
“I’ll make it easy on you.” Storhaug exhaled. “Since I was the one who argued for it.” He pulled his tommy off his back.
“At least make it quick,” Ronneberg said, shaking his head.
With a nod, Storhaug headed back down the rise. “I see the two of you seem to have become fast friends…,” he said amiably.
“Our families are from the same region,” Gutterson said. “The Sognefjord.”
“Is that right? Come, we need to check out what’s in your packs,” Storhaug said, a hand on the man’s back. “So you say you’re a supporter of the king, are you…?”
“Absolutely,” the hunter said and went with him, looking back at them once, not sure if he should be worried or relieved.
“Then that’s too bad then.” Storhaug stopped and pulled back the bolt on his Thompson. “I’m sorry, friend.”
“Listen—” The hunter put up his palms. “Just hear me out—” Storhaug let off a short burst, sending the man backward into a drift, his arms spread wide.
Then he went up and stepped over him. The man’s eyes were wide, his deerskin coat pelted with black, wet dots. He put one more burst in his chest, just to be sure.
Gutterson stared at him, his eyes lit with anger. “He was just a trapper. He was no more a threat than me.”
“Had to be done,” Storhaug said. “Sorry, lad.” He slung his tommy back over his shoulder. He put a hand on Nordstrum’s shoulder. “Sometimes you’re a bit too honorable for your own good, Kurt. That’ll come back to bite you in the end.”
“We should bury him,” Ronneberg said.
“Of course.” Nordstrum nodded. “Who’ll help?”
“I will,” Gutterson offered.
“I guess I should too.” Storhaug shrugged. “Considering.”
“And if any of you know anything, it might be right to say a few words,” Ronneberg called after them. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at that kind of thing.”
“I know a few words,” Gutterson said. “I’m Lutheran.”
They dragged the hunter’s body over to a tall drift and swept fresh snow over him. Come spring, when it melted, someone would find him. Hopefully before he became a target for wolves. But for now, as time was short, it was all they could do. It took a while to fully cover his boots. In a couple of minutes the large man had completely disappeared. They decided against putting his rifle in the snow as a marker and buried it with him.
The group settled over him and they all pushed back their hoods.
“Heavenly Father,” Gutterson started in English, “receive this soul and forgive him for his sins.…”
Jens said, “That’s all?”
“I guess I didn’t go so often.” Gutterson shrugged.
In war, Nordstrum said to himself, sometimes things you wouldn’t do in life were unavoidable. Things that one day you might look back upon with regret. In the end, it was all best left unsaid. What did it really matter for Kristian Kristiansen? NS or patriot, all he’d been was an unlucky man who had skied the wrong path.
It was God’s job to do the judging.
“At least one good thing,” Nordstrum said. “We can make good use of the sled.”
They loaded several packs of their supplies on the hunter’s sled and then headed back to rejoin the men.
“We ought to move out now.” Ronneberg pointed toward the sun. “We’ve lost a lot of time.”
They strapped their packs back on and each skied by, Gutterson and Storhaug dragging the hunter’s sled. There was no sign of blood. No sign he’d even been there, Kristian Kristiansen, other than the lonely herringbone pattern of his tracks in the snow, which the seven skied quickly over.
29
It was still a couple of hours’ trek over the Songvaln to Lake Maure. The sun had started to wane. Tired and winded, they came upon the flat-roofed cabin Kristiansen had mentioned that he’d stayed in the night before.