Jamie McFee allowed the river to take the hard work out of paddling because the canoe was heavy with bales of furs on top of which lay his long rifle. It had been a hard winter but a fruitful one, the animals had developed fine thick furs and he hoped for good trading. He had left it late coming in but finally his supplies and ammunition had driven him to make the journey down stream to trade.

     He was hoping for a good price for the furs. He would trade first but then he would have a bottle, a hot bath and a soft bed before returning back up river. He could not tolerate too much civilisation or too many people. They were usually trouble.

     With the run of the river, it did not take long. Soon he was swinging the laden canoe into the rough hewn wooden jetty. The usual group lounged about on it. They represented the buyers and would be vying to pursue the trappers to sell to their employers. It was always a good sign to see so many, it meant that the demand was still strong.

     They crowded onto the jetty offering him whisky and help to unload the canoe. He took Armstrong's man's bottle and help quickly so that the others would leave him alone. Anyway, John Armstrong paid well and the Englishman was an honest man. He dealt quickly, the Englishman paid neither too little or too much.

     After the dealing was done, Armstrong invited him to dinner and drinks. They had a steak and a drink together. As they parted, the Englishman gave him another bottle. He knew of McFee's habits well. They had traded together too many years for him not to know them.

     McFee strolled across to the only hotel there was, took a room and went to bed. He had drank enough whisky to dull all of the aches he had acquired on the journey and had been earned by age and a hard life, then there were the old wounds too. He slept well in a bed that was feather soft to him after the bunk in his crude cabin.

     The sun, through the one window, awoke him. He packed up his possessions, left the hotel and strolled across to the saloon for a full breakfast. The store was able to sell him everything he wanted and the lad there helped him carry it to the canoe. Once it was ready, he pushed it out and began to paddle against the flow of the river.

     He had not gone far before he realised that he was being followed, they obviously did not want to catch him mid river. He had caught sight of them in the distance on a bend, there seemed to be three of them. He could not see them well enough to discern whether they were Indians or whites. It was more likely that they were whites, Indians would have taken him by now. He suspected that they were river pirates, he had heard that they were attacking craft, stealing, killing and raping.

     He could not outdistance them, three men propel a canoe faster than a heavily loaded one. They must have seen him in the settlement. They also saw that he had money.

     They would not come at him until he was on dry land. There were too many chances of an upset and they had no reason to hurry. He eased his hurried paddle strokes, harnessing his stamina, his intention was to keep moving. As long as he could stay on the river they would not attack, or so he hoped. As his canoe slowed, they slowed, as he expected they would.

     He paddled through the night, guided by the silver sheen of the river in the moonlight. His pursuers still came on by the light of the oil lamp on the prow of their canoe.

     The bump against the hull hardly shuddered the heavily laden canoe. McFee thought it was a bough broken from one of the old trees that lined the river. Then he saw the glint of metal in the waning moonlight, he grabbed at it as it passed and found himself fighting the river for the possession of a body, the body of an Indian. He had dropped his paddle in the effort to grasp the Indian's arm, causing the canoe to swerve towards the riverbank. It bumped against the mud.

     He pulled the Indian up onto the mud bank causing the canoe to spin in its effort to escape back into the river's flow. He fought it back and careened it on the mud then pulled it up onto more solid ground. It was easier to move it along on the grass so he pulled into the first patch of undergrowth that he reached. He thought he saw the Indian move and he walked back with only his long rifle. The Indian was alive, a gurgling came from his throat as he lay on his back. McFee turned him over and water gushed out of the Indian's mouth causing him to cough and choke.

     He thumped the Indian on the back to encourage the water to be expelled then he dragged the struggling Indian up onto the grass. As the pursuers passed in the misty dawn, McFee knew that they would be back when they realised that he was no longer in front of them.

     The Indian was attempting to sit up and McFee first saw the blood dribbling down his neck. Still sitting, the Indian backed away.

     "Come on, Indian, let me look at that.", he indicated his own neck then pointed to the Indians. The Indian's hand went up to his neck. McFee walked towards him. The Indian pointed at McFee's long rifle and then pointed to his own head.

     "Gunshot, ah.", McFee gently parted the Indians hair, "Grazed you, knocked you senseless I expect."

     He reached into his leather coat and brought out the whisky bottle and poured it neat onto the Indian's head. Although it must have stung and smarted him he did not flinch. McFee had met, one way or another, most of the Indian tribes but the Indian that he was now with was like none of them. First of all, he was taller than most of them and wore only a breechclout. The amulet he wore looked, for all the world, like pure gold and his feet were wrapped in animal skin but were not handmade moccasins.

     McFee looked at the man more closely, the eyes were dark and Mongolian. He was shorter than McFee but then McFee was a very tall man. The knife stuck into his breechclout was of flint with a horn handle.

     These discoveries were interrupted by a yell followed by the explosion of a shot, something thunked into the tree close to him. The Indian leapt up and ran deeper into the trees, McFee close behind. Two further shots followed them as they ran full pelt deeper into the woods which grew darker as the trees grew closer together.

     The Indian disappeared first and McFee was running so fast that the hole in the ground tripped him too. He fell some twenty feet and landed on a floor of deep rotting leaves.

     The Indian beckoned him into a tunnel in the far wall and strode along the tunnel with McFee still following. They travelled on for what seemed hours but it was hard to judge without the sun. The walls of the tunnel were of rock and were damp.

     As they walked on they turned a bend and McFee saw light at the end, ten minutes later they stood in bright sunlight and looked across a meadow towards more forest. Here the trees stood taller, their boles thicker and there was an undergrowth of scrub of plants that McFee did not recognise.

     The Indian loped across the meadow and into the forest with McFee trotting, breathlessly behind him. He realised that as fit as he knew he was, the Indian was more fit and, in the dense forest, he could no longer keep up nor could he see him.

     He came to a clearing and stopped. He sat down on a fallen tree and looked around, there was something alien about this forest. It was difficult to say how, it was a feeling rather than anything special, it felt odd. There was no sign of the Indian just a feel of threat, a sense of a presence.

     He stood up. He had to be sensible, it was only a forest. He had lived in forests most of his life. He turned and ten foot away was a sabre-toothed tiger facing him with cold flat eyes. For a long moment McFee stood frozen with a mixture of fear and shock. As the animal slid forward towards him, he saw the lifeless eyes flick over him, saw the foam that lined the mouth.

     He raised the long rifle and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell but nothing happened, sometime during this whole episode he had forgotten to reload. The tiger stopped, curious at the mechanical sound of the hammer.

     Suddenly from both sides of the forest, spears sunk into the animals sides. It spun around, first biting at the spear shafts before focusing on the little Indian that ran in to let loose an arrow into the tiger's neck. The long clawed paw slashed at the man.

     McFee hurried to load the long gun, brought it up fast and fired into the stripped muzzle. McFee never actually saw whether the shot hit or whether it missed. It may have been the report that caused the tiger to bolt. As it fled, a small group of Indians chased after it. They wanted the animal when it died of the wounds that had been inflicted on it.

     One Indian stayed to help the Indian with the lacerated arm caused by the tiger's claws. Before they entered the trees he turned and beckoned McFee to accompany them, McFee complied.

     The village was close, a long stockade surrounded an area of crude fields of crops. A cliff stood behind which was dotted with caves. Women and old men sat in their entrances while children played in front of them. There was a small herd of primitive ponies grazing in one corner of the enclosed area.

     His guide led him to a cave where a shriveled old man sat. The Indian that had helped the wounded man spoke to the old man in a guttural language. The old man looked at the wounded arm, turned and entered the cave, the wounded man followed him.

     The guide then led McFee to a larger cave and pulled him gently inside. Men sat around in a circle, a small fire burned in the middle. They were talking in hushed tone and the Indian did not interrupt their discussion.

     His guide led him to the old man that stayed silent. He spoke softly to him and the old man looked up at him. His dull, weary eyes flicked over McFee. The old man spoke softly to the guide and nodded. The guide pulled at McFee's sleeve to lead him away.

     By this time McFee suspected that he had somehow fallen on some kind of lost tribe that seemed to be living in a primitive environment. Whatever the old man had decided, McFee did not want it. He wanted to return to where he had been. Whether this was the real time or his time was real, this was not his real time.

     His guide escorted him to a small cave where furs covered the hard dry mud of the floor and left him there. McFee sat on an outcrop which looked to him to be manmade. He rolled a cigarette from his small pouch of stale tobacco and wished he had not washed his only whisky over the Indian's head. An old woman brought him some sort of meat that tasted like chicken and a crude jug of fruit juice.

     Later as the darkness began to fall, he heard dragging and saw men closing off the cave entrance leaving only chinks of light to enter the cave. In the dimness McFee felt his panic begin to rise. He looked around him seeking an exit.

     He was now a captive, there was no way out, the only way he was free to go was back deeper into the cave. How far he could go in that direction he did not know but staying where he would be fatal, far too vulnerable from the outside.

     Picking up his long rifle he began walking deeper into the cave. Many times he was forced to duck down or squeeze himself flat to get through. It was damp and, in places, wet but every yard he felt was uphill. The cave had places that were iridescent and he could see fairly well, other places were dark and he could only feel his way along the cave.

     At one place there was a deep crevice and he thought that he could go no further. He sat down for a short rest and just stared at the crevice. He felt frustrated and hopeless until he realised that with a run he could leap it. He walked back a short way then ran at it before throwing himself forward over the drop. Landing he fell onto his knees, bruising them but he was over.

     Now the tunnel, for that is now what it was, rose sharply and he had to climb to the sharp incline. He was still climbing when he found vegetation that allowed light to filter through. He hurried toward it and burst through. The noise deafened him. He stood on the edge of the motorway, too close, an articulated lorry tooted at him as it sped past. He stumbled backwards and caught his balance.

     The lorry behind pulled in and stopped, a big man leaned out of the cab, "You had better get off this motorway, mate. Want a lift, I'm going to the airport."