I faltered. “You know?”
“Gimme some more credit than that, little lady. A set of footprints changes step-by-step from a big old hound into a man—it ain’t exactly hard for an open-minded man of the woods ta put two an’ two together. I can respect a fella’s right to his own secrets, though—and I didn’t wanna go makin’ things uncomfortable for the poor guy—so I kept my yap shut. I sure wouldn’t mind if he decided to let me in on it, though. I’d love ta go huntin’ with a tracker like him someday. Ain’t many bloodhounds you can take out for a brew with ya after the hunt. Hah!”
We bade the trapper good-bye, and I left the hospital with at least that weight lifted from my shoulders. “I’m glad he seems to be on the mend,” I said. “I wasn’t sure . . .”
“Hudson never ceases to surprise me,” Jackaby said.
“You never did tell me. How did you come to be friends with a man like Hudson?” I asked.
“I’m a likable man,” said Jackaby. “Lots of people are friends with me.”
“Tell me,” I said. “Please? Where did you two meet?”
“Where else?” he said. “On the hunt.” The dusty road passed beneath us for a few steps while he reflected. “That may have been one of my own more spectacular failures, to tell the truth. A peculiar case had brought me up into the Appalachian Mountains in pursuit of a party of paranormal hunters. The Wild Hunt has a long tradition all across Scandinavia and England, down to Germany and France. European settlers brought the hunt here, and the hunt brought me to a snow-swept mountainside. Rather than trying in vain to keep up with the hunters, I had the foresight to position myself in the presence of their prey. As I predicted, the hunt came to me. I was admittedly less prepared for what that would entail.”
“So, Hudson was part of the Wild Hunt?” I asked.
“No. Like me, he had tracked the quarry on his own. It was a beautiful animal. The white stag. I’ve never seen its equal. I was enamored with the beast. It was powerful and graceful, and faster than any living thing has any right to be. By the time the first arrows had landed, it was gone. I was not so quick. If it weren’t for the trapper, I would not have survived the encounter. I thought he was a great bear at first—cloaked in a heavy hide and bounding out in front of me. He planted himself in front of the oncoming stampede like a living barricade and took the worst of the onslaught. By the time it was over, he had collapsed, exhausted. The hide looked like the world’s largest porcupine, and more than a few barbed arrowheads had found their way through to his arm and side. He woke while I was treating him, and what do you think he said?”
“Ouch?” I guessed.
“He said, ‘They didn’t kill the stag, did they?’ He didn’t want the beautiful creature to die. Of course they hadn’t killed it. The whole point of the white stag is to be pursued. It can never really be caught. It is the spirit of the hunt, the thrill of the chase. I think deep down Hudson respects that more than anyone.”
“That’s why you’re letting him get away with all of this, aren’t you?” I asked.
Jackaby looked back at me over his shoulder. “I think we can glaze over a few of the finer points of our report to Marlowe,” he said. “Hudson may have carried the match for a while, but he didn’t start this fire. He’s a good man, and I think he’s been punished enough.”
The engine was already steaming when Jackaby and I reached the train station. A porter ushered us toward our car, and I passed my suitcase up to Jackaby. I had one foot aboard the train, when a familiar face sidled through the station house doors. Charlie Barker stepped onto the platform, a black-and-white sheepdog trotting obediently at his heels.