The North

The dogs ate snow while running.

Every bush and every tree was dressed in a coat of white. Huge flakes of hoarfrost crumbled under toboggan slats as the sleds slipped silently across the crusted drifts. Huskies pulled the Mad Dog, and malamutes pulled George. Both breeds had thick fur to withstand extreme cold, but short hair so ice didn't cling and weigh them down. Both sweated only through the; pads of their feet, now wrapped in dog shoes to protect them against ice cuts, small boots of leather and canvas pouched on all fours. Huskies are Eskimo dogs of unstandardized breed. Malamutes are Alaskan dogs with a wolf strain. The best sled dogs there are, deep-chested, long-limbed, strong, and stout, with ears pointed forward and tails curled like knights' plumes, they pulled these Mounties single file through the throbbing stillness of a cold Canadian night.

"Haw!" turned them left.

"Gee!" turned them right.

This was how it was when the Force became myth, a fact confirmed by the smiles on both men's faces. With each mile they established deeper rapport, sharing the lead to equalize trail breaking between the teams. Only when dogs passed each other was the whip used, a quick flick in the air to keep them apart. The most powerful dogs were hitched next to the sled to handle "the wheel" on sharp curves when the rest of the team was pulling at an angle. The tug ropes of this pair were tied to the sled bridle ring, not the tow rope proper. Experienced, they knew how to avoid being run over.

The fastest dogs were hi the lead. The importance of a leader sprang from there being no rein. The leader responded to verbal command, and his actions controlled the team. All dogs knew "Whoa" was the command to halt, but they kept pulling until the leader stopped. When he lay down during halts, the other dogs did, too. His job was to "hold out" the towline, keeping the other six in place, and when, like here, there was no trail, to cut one according to the driver's command.

The Mad Dog's leader was Sitka.

Ghost Keeper's was Wrangler.

So through this wooded white waste came the night patrols, breath trailing behind them like jet streams, surrounded by unbroken solitude and pines blobbed with cream, a long, icy run of rime, frost, powder, and pack, the cold and the darkness, the darkness and the cold, a dreamscape where snow faded into phantoms like Big Foot and other myths.

The dogs chose their own gait and speed.

If one slowed, it was urged on by name.

A two-minute halt every mile was enough to recuperate the teams.

During a break the solitude was broken, too.

A howl of unbridled terror.

From a human throat.

Shhhhewwww . . .

Weird and wan, the Northern Lights shimmered above the frozen river as Vern and Bo hauled toboggans across the ice and through the shadows near the bank. Whatever scars might mar the land after thaw, they were smoothed over and hidden behind the white mask of winter. Winter was the season of the infinite here, the longest season of the year. This was a land hushed to its inner depths by merciless cold, the forest dark against the spectral dance of the aurora, the night so still and motionless that the streamers overhead seemed to whisper to Bo and Vern. .

Shhhhewwww . . .

But it was just an arrow from the bush.

The razor-head sliced through Bo and carried on, a stealth cruise missile hugging the land. Spews of black blood pumped from his throat as Bo dropped to his knees in prayer, gargling something to the Lord as he pitched forward to kowtow the ice.

Vern heard the thud behind and turned to see, just before another Shhhhewwww . . . whispered near his ear. The spike end of an arrow poked out the front of his chest, the feathers back there.

His lung collapsed.

It sounded like a lone wolf, this "Owwwwwww!" torn from Vern, a pitiful howl that echoed off surrounding peaks, but any bushman who heard the wail of pain would understand—some poor fuck was staring down the jaws of death.

Vern was flopping about on the ice like a fish out of water. His hand that gripped the razor-head was black with blood, for, except for the hues above, this was a black-and-white world. From the woods along the bank a ghost emerged, all white except for the RealTree camo on his bow and yellow fletching on the arrows in a quiver behind his shoulder.

The wounded man got to his knees, but collapsed on his chest, howling as the arrow rammed back through his lung.

Snowshoes passed him, heading for Bo, and Vern saw a white glove tear off his buddy's toque to grip him by the hair, the bow placed on the ice to switch it for a knife. Then whack! the ghost swung the blade and hacked off Bo's head.

Bushwhacked.

As a trophy.

Snowshoes passed Vern again, Bo's head dropping in front of his terrified eyes as the ghost vanished back there. It wasn't a friendly gesture that helped Vern to his knees, the hand that gripped his belt humping him off the snow, the other hand slitting the knife down the crack of his ass, and suddenly—riiip!—it was breezy back there.

Dog-style was Vern's favorite position for sex, as long as he was on top.

Which he wasn't tonight.

Cresting the ridge, the Mounties gazed down on the Shegunia River, near one bank of which a figure climbed off another, gripping the underdog by the lianas wails of dread gibbered. His shriek was cut off as cleanly as his head.

By the light of the Arctic moon they skidded downhill, applying brake chains to keep sleds from running into dogs. Then they were mushing up the frozen flow of the river as Winterman Snow, heads in one hand and bow in the other, snowshoed up the bank to vanish into the snow-choked woods.

There was movement across the Shegunia.

The party of rebels from Totem Lake coming to haul in the weapons.

Four of them.

With AK-47s.

As the Mounties braked to a halt near the headless bodies, they heard the whistle of Winterman Snow streak from the trees.

Shhhhewwww . . .