Search and Rescue: A Mountie short story of survival and justice in the snowy north

The Story Prompt

He’d tracked her across tundra, across scrub forest and frozen muskeg. He’d tracked her till his fingers ached and his three-day growth of beard itched and iced. He’d caught up to her, finally, finding her huddled in a makeshift lean-to: just a blanket draped over some branches thrust upright in the snow, unlikely to stand against the coming storm.

Crawling beneath the blanket she’d used as roof and wall, he’d declared, “Adelaide Metcalfe. I, Constable Daniel Thompson, am arresting you for the murder of your husband, Travis Metcalfe.” Then he’d lain down next to her and wrapped them both in his thick woollen bedroll. They’d huddled together all night, sharing what little body heat they had.

His sense of duty kept his heart beating. Her hatred burned within her. He’d tried to keep her talking, to know she still lived, but eventually, she’d fallen asleep in his arms. Just before drifting off, she’d said, “I didn’t kill him.”

The day dawned windless and bright, the weak winter sun glinting off the newly fallen crystals. The snow had saved them, forming a crude igloo over and around them. Constable Thompson sniffed the air, knowing they’d need to move fast if they wanted to survive.

He melted snow to drink, between the red serge uniform and his woollen thermals. The last of his hardtack and pemmican thawed against his bare chest.

Scanning the horizon, he determined their best chance was west, toward Devil’s Creek. “There’s a mine there. Maybe…” He didn’t finish the sentence. They’d find help, or they’d die. No need to put it in words.

Constable Thompson saw the mine in the first few hours of trudging across the miles. But he knew well that the snow and the light could play tricks, so he said nothing to Adelaide until they reached the dark hole in the mountainside. Winter had closed the mine and its surrounding buildings offered little shelter. They spent a night in the dark mine after Thompson scared away a family of foxes. The foxes meant it was free of more dangerous predators. The miners had left behind plenty of wood, old and dried, perfect for a fire. For the first time in nearly two days, they felt warm. Yet they still huddled together in the darkness, the wind sounding an eerie bugle call as it whipped past the unnatural opening in the hillside.

The last of their supplies gone, they drank more melted snow, tightened their belts and headed out again. At least the day was clear and bright, although the air smelled tangy with the snow of an oncoming blow.

Thompson set out, his eyes tearing in the weak sunlight after the darkness of the old mine. Only a few steps later, he realized Adelaide had not followed. Begrudging every extra footstep, he rejoined her in the mine’s gaping maw. She stood staring at a low-sided mining cart, the thick wood dark with soot and dirt, but sturdily built.

She’d said little to him over the time they’d spent together, but now she said, “We can ride this like a sled down the hill.” Lifting her skirts high enough to reveal woollen stockings above her hard-wearing mukluks, she paced to the back of the cart. “I can even steer it.”

He nodded, exhaustion stealing his voice. The rough-hewn cart was too heavy to lift, so they used logs as rollers to haul the old trolley from the mine.

No sooner had they maneuvered it into position when it began to slide away, heading downhill. The slope was gentle at first, so they had little trouble catching up with it and leaping in. Adelaide took up a spot in the back, quickly mastering the rudder-like steering to avoid the few trees and rocky outcrops dotting the hill.

Their makeshift sled gained speed as the slope steepened and slowed as it gentled. Where the wind in his face had previously been torture, now Thompson felt exhilarated.

His eyes teared with the wind. He didn’t see the figure charging toward them, pistol raised.

“I’ll kill you, you bitch!” the man shrieked. The shot echoed over the tundra like a cannon. Splinters drilled into the thick red serge of Thompson’s tunic as the bullet plunged into the solid wood of the cart. Adelaide screamed, steering their makeshift sled to the left, away from their assailant.

Anticipating her move, Thompson leaned into the turn, drawing his own pistol. Aiming carefully, he fired, hitting the man in the shoulder. Screaming in rage and pain, the man switched his gun to his other hand and fired, the bullet going wild. The sled skated down the hill, offering them a clean escape.

But then it began to slow, the wooden brake screeching against the snow and ice.

“Why are you stopping?” Thompson demanded incredulously.

“I told you I didn’t kill him,” Adelaide answered, drawing the sled to a halt. “And if you don’t bring him to justice, I’ll be convicted of a crime I didn’t commit and he’ll be able to come after me.”

Nodding his understanding, Thompson leaped from the sled and kneeled in the snow, taking careful aim. This time, his bullet struck home. Their attacker collapsed, a spray of bright red, shocking against the pure white snow.

Both Thompson and Adelaide clambered back up the hill. Thompson retrieved the man’s pistol before kneeling in the snow and feeling for a pulse. “He’s dead,” Thompson said, shaking his head.

Turning away, Adelaide rifled through the dead man’s pack. Having eaten little in days, she immediately began gnawing the dried fish and black bread she found there, using her free hand to offer some to Thompson.

He finished his fruitless search through the man’s pockets, then also fell upon the meagre food stores. They devoured most of it, carefully saving the rest. Then, together, they dragged the fallen man to their sled, leaving an almost cheerful swath of red down the side of the mountain.

They coasted another half mile before hitting a frozen river. Then they took turns hauling the sled along its icy surface. They spent one more night in the open.

“Goodnight, Travis,” Adelaide had whispered to the dead man’s corpse, as they added his bedroll to the two they already had. Using the axe they found in his pack, they broke up their sled, fashioning a travois to drag the body, and burning the rest for warmth.

They parted company in the tiny village of Twin Hills Junction. The minister’s wife offered Adelaide a tiny room under the eaves of the manse. They stored the body in the icehouse till spring, when the ground thawed enough to dig a grave. Constable Thompson headed to his local outpost to report in. He promised to come back for her, but by the time the roads cleared, she’d gone—leaving behind the body of the man who may or may not have been Travis Metcalfe.