If you recognise it, it's not mine.
Of The Yukon
Clancy found the camp without too much trouble. Even with the coming storm, the hunter's tracks were clear across the land.
Not that there was much left of it.
Wolves, the bites told him that, even if horace's mad story hadn't.
He dismounted, looking around 4 corpses, looked like they'd been attack while sleeping off the drink. Poor devil's never stood a chance.
A moan reached his ears, and he spun around, his pistol raised.
A fifth corpse lay a short way off from the camp. This man mustn't have been as drunk as the others, must have rushed out, tried to drive off the pack. He touched the shotfun in his hands, the smell of powder still hanging in the snow. Got off a round before they over powered him.
So where idd the moan come from?
The answer for that lay a few meet from the corpse.
Clancy gasped as he saw a young man lying there, naked as a new born inspite of the cold. There was a vicious wound on his neck, and his chest was peppered with cuts, but as Clancy knelt down next to him, he groaned and tried to pull away.
The wound was bad. The fact the lad was alive at all was nothing short of micaculous. Probably would be dead before they reached town. Should probably shoot him. Put him out of his misery.
As Clancy cocked his pistol, blue eyes opened in the young man's face, barely visible admist the mass of black hiar.
Help me. The eyes seemed to beg.
Clancy put the safety back on the pistol, holstering it, before pulling the young man on to his shoulder and over to where Clareece stood waiting.
A Mountie's duty was defende le droit. And letting a young man die out on the tundra without even trying to save him, would be wrong.
****
The light above his head was bright, brighter than a fire, and he was warm and dry.
Confused, he looked around him, trying to discover a reason for this.
Walls made of logs surrounded him, with other objects also made of logs pushed against the walls.
Table a part of his brain he thought silent supplied. Chairs. Chest. Lamp. Door.
A man walked in.
"You're awake." He said, beaming. "How ya feeling, laddy?"
He blinked, trying to understand why he could understand these strange grunts that the human made.
"Not much of a talker huh?" the man took a seat on one of the chairs, looking at him. "well you're lucky you're alive. Now tell me, what were you thinking wandering out on the tundra naked as the day ya were born?"
He shook his head, trying to figure out how he had got here. He remembered running across snow, a pain in his chest, and then a wolf bending over him.
"you don't remember huh?"
He shook his head.
"Do you at least know your name?"
He paused, racking the corner drawers of his mind.
"Logan." He said, softly, though something in him protested that was wrong. But it felt right.
"Logan huh?" The man smiled at him. "Like the mountain."
"Mountain?"
"That's where ye are, laddy. Mount Logan in the Yukon." He peered at him. "I'm guessing you didn't know that."
He shook his head.
The man smiled. "I'm Dr. Mallard, though most folks here just call me Doc. I'll be the first to say Welcome to the neighbour hood."
He nods, though he can barely keep his eyes open.
Doc pats his arm. "Rest up laddy. I'll have Mary bring you some stew when you wake."
*****
"How is he, Doc?"
Seagent Fraser leant against the wall, regarding the town's medic with a seasoned eye.
"Tired, and hungry. But that's no surprise after what's the lads being though." The doctor moved over. "Wandering around the tundra in this weather. don't suppose you've any idea what he was doing?"
Fraser has a few ideas, but there's no he wants to share, so he simply shrugs.
"What about the wounds on his throat?"
"What about them?"
"Constable Clancy said..."
"Constable Clancy should stay away from the whisky, and you can tell him I said that!" Doc snapped. "there was some minor redness there, but nothing really worth mentioning. Certainly no gaping wound that he mentioned."
Fraser chewed his lip. Something was very strange here, not only because he knew Clancy was a teetotaller.
"He give you a name?"
"Logan." At Fraser's expression, he shrugged. "well it's better than Mongli."
"Or John Doe." Fraser agreed. He sighed. "I'll send his prints up to Ottawa with the next post. Just to check we don't ahve a missing heir or a mass murderer on our hands."
Both men the gold rush ahd left the town in it's wake, the idea of such a thing seemed ridiculous.
"Mean time, spoke to Jonnie Mac over at the Hudson. He says he'll give the kid a job when he's fit to be up again."
"Hard work for a little lad."
Fraser smield. "Reckon he's older than he looks. Plus it's a roof over his head and a square meal in his belly."
Plus, he thought, though he didn't say, means I can keep an eye on our Mr. Logan. There's something odd about him.
"Goodnight Doc."