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and water in his duffel and caught up. As they walked, he began telling his quiet and unpredictable companion about his life. He grew up in a small town in lumber country and married his high school sweetheart, Janey. She died. Normally that was the end of the story, but Matt kept going because he was convinced the Stranger had a similar story of his own. He talked about the avalanche, waking up in the hospital months later, trying to go back to a simple life and the weird things he saw. “I had to shoot my best friend because he turned into a killer and I felt like what he became was my fault. Like I’d brought something dark and evil back with me.”
    Just thinking about Mr. Dark had Matt reaching to touch his ax. “I’ve used my grandfather’s ax to kill. I never thought I’d need to use it on people, but I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve needed it to defend myself or someone else. I don’t hunt them down. I don’t want to hurt them. It seems like some of them aren’t even that bad, but Mr. Dark does something to them. It’s like he can make the little bit of bad in a person stronger until that’s all they are.” Matt didn’t look at the Stranger. He didn’t want to see the reaction yet, because even though he knew it was all true, talking about the past wasn’t easy for him. If he had guessed wrong and the Stranger thought he was crazy, Matt didn’t need to know that right now. But the Stranger just listened and walked. Matthad told bits and pieces of his tale to others, but never the whole story. How could he? Any normal person would just back away slowly or call a cop.
    They walked another forty-five minutes in silence before Matt decided it was the Stranger’s turn to talk. “What is that? Cherry?” Matt pointed to the walking stick. He wasn’t making small talk. Matt was a lumberman who loved a good piece of woodworking. Timber had been his life. He liked to feel its weight and know its history. There was honesty in the simplicity of a fine piece of wood.
    During the long pause before the Stranger’s answer, he seemed to be considering much more than just whether to tell Matt the species of tree. “Mahogany. Belonged to my uncle. He was a land surveyor until the Revolutionary War. Then he became a captain in the First Pennsylvania Regiment. After he was wounded he had a terrible limp. A blacksmith offered to make him a sturdy walking stick with a metal cap and tip. Weeks later my uncle and some others were riding out to inspect a bridge and map its location when they were ambushed by the British. When he ran out of bullets, my uncle fought with the walking stick. It saved his life, and he was able to ride back to warn his regiment. Afterwards, he went back to thank the blacksmith, but the man and his shop were gone. He asked around, but nobody in town even remembered the blacksmith…”
    Again they walked in silence. If the Stranger’s uncle was in the Revolutionary War, the Stranger was much older than forty. Matt waited as long as he could before asking, “How long have you been doing this?”
    “I don’t bother with time anymore.”
    Matt grinned. The Stranger wasn’t getting off that easy. “How did you die?”
    “We were mapping the Northwest Territory for the government. I knew it was dangerous. I figured the natives might get us, but in the end it was just snow. There was a storm like I’ve never seen before. Snow for weeks. The others died before me, so I took their clothes and wore them over mine. Made me look fat, but I was starving. I remember lying down just before Christmas and thinking about those roasted chestnuts my mother used to make. I could even smell them and feel them burning my hands, because I never waited long enough for them to cool. Then I woke up in the spring with a wolf cub chewing on my leg. I picked up my walking stick when I thought his mama might try to make me supper, but she sniffed the air and snatched her pup by its scruff. The rest of my