When I fire overhead, everyone stops. Even Storm.
The man who was charging at Dalton sees the dog, and he raises something in his hand, and Jacob drops on Storm, covering her.
"Stop!" I say.
I don't know if it will do any good. I believe they are capable of understanding the word; I do not believe they are capable of caring about it. I'm not even sure the guns matter, if the shot didn't just startle them.
Then I hear a voice, and the words are so garbled, it doesn't sound like English.
"Get on the ground," one of the men says again, slower, clearer, as the man Dalton knocked down rises.
Two others step up beside Dalton. Two men armed with clubs. One raises his and barks what I am certain is not a word, but the meaning is clear.
"Do as he says, Eric," Jacob says. "Please just do as he says." He glances over his shoulder and says, "You, too," and that must be for Kenny, sneaking up.
Dalton holsters his gun, and I wait for someone to tell him to hand it over instead, but no one does.
Dalton kneels and puts his hands on his head. His expression is blank, but I see the rage in his eyes. This is the second time today we have been ambushed, and that feels like failure, as if we are characters in a bumbling-cop movie. But the truth is that this is the Yukon wilderness, and we are always one step away from ambush, by human or beast. The forest swathes her threats in bush and shadow, and we can walk all day and see no more than hares . . . or we can be forced to lower our weapons twice.
In all this, the woman before me has not moved. When I fired, she flinched, but now she stands exactly where she was, watching me, studying. No one else pays me any mind. I'm standing with my gun out, but they don't seem to care. They have assessed our party and dismissed me. One man watches Jacob--still atop Storm--but makes no move to go closer.
Four men surround Dalton, and something tells them that this is all that matters.
Which is not wrong. Not wrong at all.
The man who spoke before prods Dalton with his club. "Jacket."
Dalton glowers, but even before Jacob can speak up, Dalton takes off his pack and tosses it aside. The jacket follows.
"Gun."
He lays that down.
"Shirt."
"What the hell--?"
"Eric?" Jacob says, and there's a quaver in his voice.
Jacob has spent his life avoiding the hostiles. There was an encounter years ago, when he'd been a young teen, after his parents died. I don't know details, but he's said enough for me to suspect it was not unlike the ordeal Nicole faced . . . in every way.
"We'll be fine," I say. "We'll be fine."
Dalton grunts and strips off his T-shirt. "There. If you want the rest, you're gonna need to--"
"We will take the rest."
The leader grabs Dalton's gun and swings it up.
I shout "Eric!" and lunge.
Dalton drops to the ground. The gun fires. And I fire.
I shoot the leader. I do not think about what I'm doing. I saw that gun rise on Dalton, and I knew what was happening. They made Dalton remove his j
acket and shirt so they didn't ruin the garments when they put a bullet through him.
The leader falls. Dalton's gun drops from his hand, and Dalton scrambles for it. It takes only a split second, and then we're back-to-back, our guns raised.