Chapter 6
“We should string ’em up! Tack their hides to the barn!” Matt’s father boomed, thick arms braced against the edge of the oak dining table, cards fanned in his big hands.
Sitting next to Matt, Seth popped a handful of popcorn into his mouth. He didn’t have to stretch his imagination very far to know where Matt picked up some of his ideas. He studied his hand: one ace, king, and queen—all hearts—good cards, wrong suit. They were playing clubs.
Nonsense, a white-faced golden retriever, shifted under the table and lay on Seth’s stocking feet.
“I don’t get it,” said Stubby, whose nickname matched his stout build and weed-whacked hair. As Matt and Seth returned from the field, a new red pickup had pulled into the driveway. It was Matt’s two older brothers, home to hunt from St. Cloud. “I remember you hunting wolves from planes when I was little,” Stubby continued.
Mr. Schultz smiled and combed his thin mustache with his fingers. “Lots of wolves. We’d just fly down above an ice-covered lake and shoot. And we got paid for doing it, too. Now that was when the laws made sense. A bounty of fifty bucks per hide.” He slapped down a card. “And then, when the laws changed, someone protested by leaving a dead wolf on the steps of the county courthouse.”
“Oh yeah?” Brett said. “Never heard that one.” He hooked a thumb beneath his orange suspenders and ran it slowly up and down.
“I’m gonna call that Kruppa fella,” Mr. Schultz said. “Get him out here first thing in the morning. The government’s payin’ for this one, not that four hundred bucks is nearly enough. If we can’t kill wolves, then we sure better get something for our losses.” He squeezed his fist. “And not like two years ago, either. What a fiasco. You can remind your dad of this, Seth—”
Seth looked up. He felt on the spot, somehow expected to cover for his father’s decisions. It wasn’t the first time someone was frustrated with how his father handled things. “They want to make up their own rules,” Dad had said once, “even when I tell them how the laws read.” No way. Seth wasn’t getting himself stuck in the middle of this one.
Mr. Schultz went on, “Lost two calves, and because we couldn’t find any evidence, we didn’t get paid. Well, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know what happened! Those wolves were just waiting in the woods for the cows to give birth, then they snuck right in and carried the calves away—probably before they could even get up and walk.”
Matt elbowed Seth. “See?”
Seth played dumb. “What?” But he pictured the scene. Wolves waiting in dense woods, watching cows thick with pregnancy, waiting for them to drop their young—a slippery calf on unsteady legs. Weakened from giving birth, how was the mother cow suppose to defend her young? If that’s what happened, then he had to admit, wolves were smart.
Stubby played a card on top of the pile, then scooped it toward himself. “Ericksons lost their dog to wolves. They came home from work and the only thing left on the chain was the collar.”
Nonsense groaned beneath Seth’s feet.
“Huh,” Brett said, running his finger over his lower lip. “No loss. That squeaky, annoying dog? Always yipping when I jogged past it.”
“Protected for too long,” said Mr. Schultz with finality. “It’s time to open up a hunting season on ’em, same as deer.”
Seth glanced at the pile of orange hunting gear—shells, boots, and clothes—in the middle of the living room. A hunting season on wolves? Seth pondered that for a moment, lifting a can of root beer to his lips. It’s not as if anyone would eat one.
Stubby dealt another round of cards.
Seth drew his cards toward him, fanned them, and regrouped them by suit. Not much better.
Mr. Schultz said, his voice growing louder, “I can’t concentrate anymore.” He put down his cards. “This makes a lousy end to a bad week. First, we nearly had the football season in the bag—then Matt got his leg all bruised up and crawls to bed with a sore throat.” He glanced toward Matt.
Matt grabbed a handful of popcorn and crammed the whole thing in his mouth, focusing on his cards. He’d been mostly silent since they returned to the house with the bad news.
“When I was his age, I got the flu, threw up during halftime, then went right back out there.” He looked at Brett and Stubby. “And you guys, you didn’t let nothin’ get in your way. That’s how you earned those scholarships.” He paused, shooting Matt a glance. “Y’know, Matt, you could learn a little something from your brothers. We lost—all because of a little sore throat.”
Matt, his mouth stuffed like a chipmunk, glanced at Seth. His brown eyes were darker than usual, pained.
“And losing that calf,” Mr. Schultz continued. “If you’d brought those cows in first thing when you got home, before it got dark outside, maybe—not that I’m blaming you—but sometimes, Matt, you could use another brick of self-discipline.”
Why wouldn’t he just stop? Seth thought. Hadn’t he already said enough? But Mr. Schultz plowed ahead.
“Look at your brothers. Stubby’s not an accountant by accident. And Brett, some thought he was washed up his freshman year, but he’s still playing hard with the big boys at the U.”
Finally, Brett quietly piped in. “Dad, he’s still a kid. He’s got lots of time to grow up.”
Matt threw down his cards, jaw firm, and pushed away from the table. He motioned to Seth with his arm. “C’mon.”
“Guess I’m done,” Seth said, and followed his friend around the corner, down the stairs to Matt’s bedroom, a jungle of dirty clothes, schoolbooks, and football gear. Seth agreed, a guy could only take so much. Besides, it was late, and he hadn’t slept much in the past twenty-four hours.
Matt flopped himself on his water bed, back first, and gnawed furiously at a fingernail. “He doesn’t think I can do anything right! Sometimes,” he said, motioning his head toward the trombone case leaning in the corner, “I think I’d rather play in the marching band … see how he likes that.”
A knock came at the bedroom door. “Good night,” Mrs. Schultz said, opening the door a crack. Nonsense slipped past her pear-shaped form and jumped up on the end of Matt’s bed. With a groan, he stretched out on his side.
“Seth,” Mrs. Schultz said, “you know, I don’t see why you couldn’t hunt tomorrow, too. As long as we’re all going.”
Seth looked up, surprised. “Sure.” If he were hunting with adults, it had to be okay. Why hadn’t he figured that out? He’d hurry home in the morning, take care of Quest and Fudge and Midnight, and then return with his license and gun.
“Stubby and Brett will want to leave at dawn, but you two could leave with us, after we deal with the wolf problem.” Then she turned away.
Seth climbed into his sleeping bag and stared at the mobile of colorful NFL helmets turning slowly above him. His thoughts spun from deer hunting, to Lizzy, to Fudge, to the pool of dark red on the snow.
Finally, Matt spoke, his voice stretched like steel wire. “I’m shooting the first wolf that lays another tooth on one of our calves.” His words were barbed.
Seth stopped rubbing his toes against the soft flannel lining of his sleeping bag. Matt couldn’t really be serious, could he? If he were, he certainly wouldn’t be talking like this to him, son of Kevin Jacobson, conservation officer. Matt was probably just blowing off steam.
“Even if the government pays,” Matt said, his voice softening, “money can’t replace Star, y’know.”
“Yeah,” Seth said. “I know.”
“I had hoped to show Star at the county fair this year,” Matt said. “Guess I can’t now, can I?”
Seth felt bad for Matt and wished he could do something, but what? Only a week ago, Matt had helped him that first night after getting the moose calf back to the barn. In the stall’s back corner, the calf had lain motionless, half-dead, head drooped on the straw.
When Seth hadn’t a clue what to do, Matt had suggested bottle-feeding it.
Matt had leaned against the stall
, chin on crossed arms. With two hands, Seth extended the bottle of warmed milk replacer. Fudge stretched his neck slowly toward it, then pulled back, like a turtle into its shell.
“Hey, you gotta drink something,” Seth pleaded. The calf didn’t move. Seth let the weight of the two-quart plastic bottle pull his arms down.
“Try again,” said Matt.
Seth extended the bottle.
This time, the moose calf stretched out its splayed hoofs, readying itself to stand, then lowered itself flat again. Seth studied the moose, its bony frame, its dull coat.
“Maybe he’s got brain worm,” Seth said, wiggling the bottle back and forth, touching the end of the calf’s muzzle.
“I’ve heard of that. What is it?”
“Deadly, that’s what,” he said. “There was a moose wandering around the streets of Atikokan, completely confused.”
“Don’t deer pass it on to moose somehow?”
“Yeah. The parasite doesn’t bother them but they pass it through their droppings, then slugs feed on the droppings, pick up the parasite, and slime their way to a nearby plant. When a moose comes along, it munches down the slug with the plant.”
“Mmmmm,” Matt said. “Tasty.”
The calf’s eyes followed the bottle as Seth passed it back and forth slowly in front of its muzzle.
Seth continued, feeling like Mr. Science. “When the parasite makes its way from the moose’s stomach to its brain, the moose goes slowly crazy. Can’t escape hunters—humans or wolves.” The moose calf suddenly stretched its rubbery lips, gingerly tasting the milk with its tongue, then began to drink.
“Good boy,” Seth said, smiling.
Like satellite dishes, the calf’s ears turned toward Seth’s voice. The bottle’s pale milk began to flow, disappearing down the calf’s smacking mouth.
A couple bottles full of warm milk, and that was all the calf needed to return to solid foods and water. Without Matt’s suggestion of trying the oversized milk bottle, perhaps the calf would have never made it.
Nonsense snored softly, his head draped on the edge of the bed, his lip flapping open as he exhaled. From the floor, Seth studied the dog’s mottled pink-and-black gums, its teeth badly in need of brushing. With a sudden jolt, the dog’s front and hind legs twitched spastically, then stopped. Probably a squirrel dream. If Nonsense were a younger dog, he might keep wolves away.
Years back there were no fences or trespassing signs. Wolves and humans lived side by side, sharing the same game—deer, caribou, moose. Now, if a herd of cows were only a fence line away from deep woods, could the wolf be blamed for going after easy food?
Seth took a deep breath—his mind tired—and reached for the olive-colored light on Matt’s nightstand. Life could be so hard to understand, he thought, before plummeting into a deep sleep.
Chapter 7
A grosbeak, red feathers puffed, landed on a swirl of Norway pine needles, pecked, then lifted into the air as the boys approached. Seth led, and Matt followed, matching footsteps in the two-inch layer of snow. The sky was muddy gray, the air an almost balmy fifteen degrees.
Seth breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, trying to hush his own breath. In the back pocket of his orange wool pants, he carried his hunting certificate. His Buck knife was strapped to his belt in a leather sheath, and in gloved hands he carried his father’s Remington rifle, angled slightly downward.
After the Schultzes learned that Kruppa couldn’t investigate the wolf problem until later, they decided to head out and were in the woods by nine o’clock.
Matt’s parents veered off together to hunt the east arm of Lost Lake, to use a stand complete with two armchairs and windows. More of a cabin than a deer stand.
“You boys stick together,” Mr. Schultz had said, “go ahead to Seth’s stand, and we’ll meet you back before dusk. If you get a deer, you can try to gut it, Matt, or else come and get me and I’ll give you a hand. I’ll get in there as close as I can with the four-wheeler if I have to.”
Clusters of brown oval droppings littered the path. Deer sign. Even if they hadn’t hit the woods at dawn, Seth had the feeling they were going to see some action. His pulse sped. A surge of energy filled him. He was an older brother now, and his parents had really trusted him to watch over things while they were away. If he were lucky, maybe he’d have a deer to show his parents when they returned. Venison. Yeah.
A red squirrel scurried across the arms of a birch, shrilly chattering, telling them they’d invaded its territory.
“Let’s take a shortcut,” Seth whispered. He pointed to a beaver dam, chewed logs and sticks buttressing a mud wall between a small pond above and a creek below. On the east side of the pond, a snow-covered beaver hut, a masterfully constructed mound of sticks, rose above the layer of ice. Seth imagined a pair of beavers nestled inside, their rooms fully stocked with aspen leaves for the winter months when their young would be born. Another expanding family.
“We’ll get to the stand quicker if we just walk the edge of the dam,” he said quietly, looking back.
Matt nodded.
Carefully, Seth placed one foot over the other, one arm out for balance. Before the snow came, he could easily walk the dam, but now, he was less sure of his footing. He really didn’t want to wipe out.
Halfway across, he stopped and squatted to look at some tracks. They were about five inches wide—much like a dog’s, but bigger. “Matt,” he whispered, “wolf tracks.”
“Oh yeah?”
The large tracks led across the top of the dam. Seth scanned the dark shoreline of the pond, wondering if a wolf was watching them. “Maybe it was coming across the dam when it heard us approaching,” he said. “Think it was after … nah.” He wasn’t going to let himself get worked up into another frenzy. He pointed to the hut, at the far edge of the pond. “Wolves eat beaver,” Seth said. “And sometimes, they’ll den up in an abandoned beaver hut.”
“Y’know, Seth, sometimes I think you’re a walking encyclopedia.”
Not a compliment. “Okay,” Seth said. He stood up. “I’ll shut up.”
“No, that’s okay. You just know so much, that’s all.”
“Comes from being home schooled,” Seth said. “I’m probably not as distracted by girls,” he joked, “like some guys I know.”
“Maybe you need to get a little more distracted. You know, get away from the woods and home a little. Stir things up. Not be such a Nature Boy.”
Though Matt’s tone wasn’t sarcastic, the words stung. Yet Seth knew there was some truth in them. Home schooling was mostly his mom’s idea, and it had worked out pretty well, but lately, he’d found himself thinking about going back to public school. Maybe playing football next year. Seeing more kids. Making more friends. Getting more involved. But when he’d brought up the subject, she didn’t seem to hear. Now, with a baby coming home soon—if Lizzy pulled through—he worried that Mom would lean on him to babysit, especially when she returned to part-time social work.
Seth walked along the top of the dam, trying not to step on the wolf tracks so Matt could see them. But his boot slipped, loosening a patch of brown earth that fell to the iced creek. He scrambled for footing, but there was nothing there. Next thing he knew, his body was falling, arms flailing. The gun flew from his grasp.
“Seth, watch out!”
But it was too late. He landed in a heap, one leg below the logs in muddy water. Cold trickled into his left boot, seeped through his wool sock. He struggled to pull his leg out, to get to the bank, before breaking through the ice completely. His gun, where was it? The walnut stock jutted up from a tangle of wood and water and snow. Seth grabbed at it, pulled it up from a thick vise of mud, and log by log, hauled himself to shore. His left ankle hurt, burned, but the cold water was quickly numbing the pain. He pulled himself up the slippery bank of the creek. As he neared the top edge, Matt held out his gloved hand. “Here,” he said.
“That was stupid,” Seth said, standing. He looked at h
is gun and groaned. Tufts of mud and weeds were crammed in the rifle’s small barrel. If he tried to shoot it, would it backfire, explode? “Dang. I really mucked it up,” he said, pulling off his gloves and picking at the gun.
“Got that right,” Matt said, shifting back and forth in his insulated rubber boots. “Wet?”
“Left foot’s soaked.” Seth snapped a twig off a nearby branch. Using it as a small pick, he loosened the mud around the gun’s tip and pulled at the weeds. An inch of impacted mud slipped out, free and clear.
Matt sighed.
Seth glanced up.
The corner of Matt’s lip fell slightly. “Well,” he said, disappointment in his voice. “We better go back. You’ll freeze.”
Matt’s oversized orange vest and insulated orange cap looked more like they belonged on a thirty-year-old. It was as if the two of them were playing “hunters.” Seth smiled, remembering the time they’d made antlers out of paper-towel tubes and turned Nonsense into a deer, then hunted him all afternoon with bows and rubber arrows. This was their first time deer hunting together. He shook his head. No, he wasn’t going to wimp out over a wet foot.
“Uh-uh,” Seth said. “We’re too close to stop now. We follow the creek right to the lake, and then—bingo—we’re right at my stand.” He felt odd, catching himself saying “bingo,” the word he’d picked up from one of the hunters at the hospital.
“You’re sure?” Matt’s mouth turned up slightly. He reached for his .30-30, which he’d set against a birch.
“Really, I’ll be fine. I’m already working up a sweat.” He unzipped his jacket, pulled off his green sweater and hung it on a nearby branch, then put his jacket back on. “There. That’s better.”
“Yeah,” Matt agreed, following Seth’s actions, stripping down to a T-shirt and baggy orange sweatshirt. “I don’t know why my mom insisted on so many layers.
“Hey,” he asked, gun in hand again, “did you bring a rope?”
“Yup.” Seth tapped his red waist pouch, the one he usually filled with waxes for cross-country skiing. Now it held a coiled length of yellow nylon rope. How they’d pull a full-grown deer through the woods, he didn’t really know. One thing was certain, they’d skip the shortcut over the dam.
Wolf Shadows (Fesler-Lampert Minnesota Heritage) Page 3
