Devil's Pass by Sigmund Brouwer

shifted his pack on his back.
    It still felt a little heavy. He had gone down to the Mackenzie River and put rocks into his backpack earlier. He had started with the backpack half full and had been taking them out, one at a time, dropping them along the road as he walked the streets of Norman Wells.
    â€œYou the guy who just landed here with a guitar?” the kid said.
    â€œStrictly speaking, the plane landed. I was on it.”
    â€œWith a guitar?”
    â€œWith a guitar,” Webb said.
    â€œGood. You just made me a hundred bucks.”
    The kid turned his bike around and pedaled about twenty steps back up the trail. Then he stopped the bike and faced Webb again. He pulled a walkie-talkie off his belt, held it to his mouth and stared at Webb while he clicked the side button.
    Webb heard the chime, and then the kid said, “Found him. On the path. Headed toward Raven Road.” He released the button.
    The walkie-talkie crackled. “Keep him in sight. I’m driving that way.” A man’s voice.
    â€œYou’re kidding me,” Webb said. “You’re a bounty hunter?”
    â€œHundred bucks,” the kid said. “Not gonna turn that down.”
    His walkie-talkie crackled again. A kid’s voice this time. “Joey, remember our deal. Whoever finds him splits with the others.”
    Then another kid’s voice. “Yeah, man. That’s like thirty bucks each.”
    â€œThree of you,” Webb said.
    â€œBrent Melrose, he’s someone you don’t mess with. It was either take the money or always be on the run in this town. Nothing personal, you know.”
    â€œMakes me feel a lot better,” Webb said.
    At the airport, he’d been able to surprise Melrose, who was so much bigger than him that surprise was about the only weapon Webb had.
    And now that element of surprise was gone.
    Still, better to see the fight coming than to get stabbed in the back.
    Webb wondered if it would be better to take the fight to the woods instead of the road. He stepped off the path into boggy ground. Branches tore at his backpack. The trees were short and skinny but close together. No way to run from a bear in this stuff, and, as a predator, Melrose was worse than a bear. The thickness of the bush also made it a bad place to fight.
    Webb heard the walkie-talkie chime again, then the first kid’s voice. “He’s in the trees.”
    â€œFollow him,” came the reply. “Let me know where he is at all times. He’s going to have to come out somewhere.”
    This was true, but Webb had a rough idea of the layout of the town in his head. When he’d jumped off the truck, he’d known he wasn’t in the wilderness. This area was framed by the streets of Norman Wells.
    Moving through the bush was loud and progress was slow. The kid on the bike would have no trouble following, and Webb wouldn’t be able to escape.
    Webb took a deep breath and turned back to the path.
    When he got there, the kid gave him a respectful distance.
    â€œDon’t worry,” Webb told the kid, “I’m not going to do anything to you.”
    Webb could have reversed direction and gone back to where he’d jumped out of the truck, maybe get some help from passing traffic, but it would only have been relative safety. Because, until Webb got out of Norman Wells, it seemed like Melrose was going to find him.
    So Webb continued walking in the opposite direction. He was going to face Brent alone and get this over with.
    That was the one good thing about having a stepfather who tortured you. Soon enough, pain didn’t bother you that much.

TWELVE
    The path twisted and turned through the short spruce trees and came out on a quiet road, where Brent Melrose was leaning against a black truck with beefed-up tires. He took a swig from a bottle of beer.
    The kid on the bike had stayed behind Webb the entire time he trudged up the path, reporting Webb’s