West of Here Read Online Free PDF Page B

possession of a considerable store of the Queen’s English but was in fact a formidable conversationalist, inquiring as to the progress of the opera house being erected next to the colony hotel, the railroad said to be soon arriving from the east (in spite of their vacant offices), and the great fire that was said to have consumed the white man’s settlement in Seattle.
    “Why didn’t you say anything before?”
    George shrugged. The slightest of smiles played at the corners of his mouth. “You didn’t ask.”
    On the far bank, Ethan left George with a handshake and some soggy biscuits. The old Indian gratefully accepted this bounty, which he would soon pass on to the boy, who would refuse the boat and swim across the river clutching the biscuits above the water.
    With a final wave to George, Ethan reshifted his load, hefted his new rifle, and proceeded upriver along the left bank until he picked up the trail. As he began to gain elevation, the path diverged from the river and the ground was mottled with snow. The understory thinned out considerably, allowing the eye to penetrate further into the wooded interior up the hill. The sound of the river grew fainter as Ethan plodded on, preceded by the fog of his own breath.
    On the far side of the first rise, Ethan met with a swamp, where, from the higher vantage of a rotting cedar, he paused to smoke his pipe and chart the least treacherous crossing. Three days later, Mather’s mules, Dolly and Daisy, each cinched up to the tune of two hundred pounds, would bay miserably at the prospect of this crossing and would eventually become hopelessly mired, unburdened of their loads, and finally extracted, forcing the party to circumnavigate the swamp by a steep overland route, adding a half day to their journey. Ethan considered such an option but decided to meet the challenge head-on in spite of the chill.
    He removed his socks and trousers, replacing his boots on his bare feet. Shivering, he refastened his bundle, and set off in his underwear to conquer the soggy terrain. He soon found himself mired in bog water well past the knee, his boot heels heavy with the suck of mud, pulling himself along by the limbs of bare alders.
    As he mucked his way through the swamp, his body grew warm from the effort. He found his thoughts ungovernable. Flashes of Eva and the baby (a son, God willing, to whom he would assign the name Ethan Eben or perhaps Ethan Allen), flashes of a life yet to be lived, a bounty to be plucked out of the wilderness for the taking. And no rustic life, either — no buckskin jackets and boiled hams, but a life with electricity and running water and chamber music by firelight, a life of consequence, of virtue and good fishing, a life of ever-perpetuating golden opportunities. And maybe a saloon. Why not? Tasteful, of course, nothing Eva would object to. Just a piano player and a civil game of poker. And maybe the occasional pleasure of a whiskey or a half bucket of beer. Everything in moderation, of course.
    Ah, but who was he kidding? What did he know of moderation? When had he ever capitalized on opportunities? An inventory of his life would show that he’d squandered opportunities at every pass — his education, his trade, every chance he ever had of winning the heart of the woman he loved. Eva was right. He did not inspire confidence.
    This self-doubt was short-lived, as Ethan emerged from these ruminations at the head of a canyon in a small, clear meadow, just as the sun darted out from between clouds. From this vista he could see straight up the gut of the valley and over the foothills to the rugged snow clad peaks of the divide, where a marooned cloud bank unfurled its wispy arm into the valley. A hundred feet below him, the Elwha thundered through a narrow channel of mossy rock.
    Ethan stood in his boots and his jacket and his muddy underwear on a rock spur jutting out over edge of the narrow abyss, and the hairs of his legs stood on end as though