Chugger's Hunt

by Roy F. Chandler

  "And Smoke

  "Yes, Mr. O'Doran?"

  "We ought to be done with this in . . . Well, how long do you figure?"

  "Most likely a few days. Unless he leaves the state or something, it will for sure be done in two weeks."

  O'Doran nodded and leaned across to open Smoke's door. "Call the number you have once in a while, Smoke. Don't lose touch."

  "I'll call, Mr. O'Doran." And Smoke was gone.

  Kelly O'Doran drove homeward with a slow fire burning somewhere in his guts. Jesus, it was turning sour. If Cole had missed the films the first time, how in hell could he find them now?

  Of course, this Chugger Martin might be playing a money game and would hand over the film when he got all his bucks.

  Then again, Smoke Cole might not be the only answer. Cole had been handy, and he had not hesitated, but Kelly O'Doran had another man in mind who might help, an acquaintance who could be just the right sort to oversee both Smoke Cole and Chugger Martin.

  Acre Appleby lived down the Kenai, over a mountain from Cooper Landing. A message left at the landing would get to Appleby eventually.

  If Appleby would help out, Kelly O'Doran would feel better. Then, he resolved, he would sit down and read Chugger Martin's books. They might tell him a lot about the man he was up against.

  +++

  Chapter 4

  Acre Appleby had a good, New England Yankee sounding name, but his white side ended there. Appleby's father may have had traces of Caucasian blood, but his mother was Athepaskan Indian. Appleby's maternal grandfather had been a shaman with special powers. Acre inherited some of his talents.

  While they lived, the parents chose Indian culture. They died young, worn down by primitive conditions that usually limited life spans to forty or so years.

  Their three sons lived much as their parents had. None attended school or saw doctors. Only Acre, the youngest, maintained contacts with White Alaskans. At forty, Acre Appleby had already buried his brothers.

  Appleby lived in the lashed and braced log, earth and assorted flotsam house of his father, but in season, Appleby worked for registered guides. None knew fish and game better than he.

  A grateful customer had given Acre a well-used Winchester rifle. Acre had sold the telescopic sight because he could get close enough for iron sights. When he hunted, Appleby carried only three or four .30/06 cartridges. He could not imagine needing more.

  Acre Appleby also hunted out of season. Appleby's personal code ignored or obeyed white law as he chose. Out of season, Acre dealt only with a few trusted outfitters. If an illegal trophy was needed, Appleby could deliver.

  He was never caught and he never failed.

  A year before, Kelly O'Doran had appeared. O'Doran paid very well, and he treated Acre with respect. O'Doran left open a possibility that Acre Appleby might fit into other plans, still maturing. The Indian believed the affable O'Doran. He had no way of knowing that the wealthy businessman often held people in thrall by the simple mention of personal interest.

  When he passed through Cooper Landing, Acre was given O'Doran's message. He could not read, but the post mistress explained and dialed the proper Anchorage number. Within minutes, Kelly O'Doran's hearty voice boomed in Appleby's ear.

  "Acre, it's been a time. How you doing down there?"

  "Good."

  "Well, I've got some work for you, if you've got time. It's a special job that you'll be doing all alone. Pay will be twice your usual. How's that sound?"

  "Good."

  "Your old truck running?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, if you're interested, drive on up here." O'Doran gave an address. "You'll be on the payroll starting now, even if you don't take the job.

  "How soon can you be here?"

  "Early morning."

  "All right, Acre. I'll be expecting you.

  "Oh yes. Bring your rifle and expect to be gone a while."

  Unanswered, the line went dead. Kelly sighed and hung his phone. Talking with Appleby was hard work. The Indian sure as hell didn't waste words.

  The man was coming and that was satisfying. What O'Doran would do was put Appleby on Chugger Martin and Smoke Cole. In town, Acre would be just another unnoticed native Alaskan leaning here or sitting there. If the chase went into the bush, Appleby would drift like mountain mist. He would be there, but neither Martin nor Cole would know it.

  The only question was, what was Acre to look for? The film? Of course, but Cole would do that.

  No, Appleby's job would be to report to O'Doran what Martin and Cole were doing and, if necessary . . . Well, O'Doran would approach that with some caution.

  He supposed he would have a time getting Appleby to understand the importance of using inconspicuous telephones. O'Doran would be told of the call to a business number, and he would return Acre's call.

  Still, it felt good to know the Indian would be out there, if needed. O'Doran expected Appleby would do anything asked—if the money was right.

  +++

  Finding Chugger Martin's apartment was easy enough.

  Smoke was surprised at how common the place was. A man with the money Martin must be making ought to live higher.

  The author's apartment was built onto the side of a pretty good house. Cole judged Martin's layout by his windows. A porch and a front room faced the road. Then a kitchen and bath; finally, a pair of bedrooms opened onto a back porch that had been closed in, probably for junk storage.

  A one-car garage with an attached wanegan stood empty in the backyard. Chugger Martin was not home. Smoke examined the gravely drive and decided no one had driven in or out for some time. Where then was Chugger Martin?

  When the pilot had dropped Smoke off in Valdez, Martin's truck had been parked where Cole had left it.

  Bushed by a sleepless night, hard long hiking miles, and two airplane trips, Smoke hit the sack and slept late.

  Near noon he got his gear together and prepared to go back up Ernestine Creek. He did not relish the tramp, but—Smoke smiled inwardly—the pay was awfully good. This time, he really would put Martin's head in a bag, a plastic bag, and Martin would tell all Smoke wanted to know. If film existed, Smoke would have it. If it did not? Well, Martin would not be wandering around telling his story anyway.

  Smoke was not sure about Martin's truck. Maybe he should drive it back to Ernestine. Eventually the truck would be found no matter where he cached it. Someone, a friend probably, would know Martin had gone up Ernestine Creek. Finding a body up the creek and the truck in Valdez would cast doubt on an accident. Cole guessed he would take the truck and park it right where Martin had left it. Then he would hike in and work out the accident.

  Only the truck was gone.

  Smoke studied the empty parking space as though it had something to tell him. Had police towed the truck away? Improbable. It could have been stolen, but that was at least as unlikely.

  Cole figured Martin had come down the creek, hitched a ride into town, and, while looking for a flight home, had found his truck, which was about the way Smoke had expected he would.

  Yet, how to know for sure? Cole thought he could find out.

  Martin had been more than a little hurt by the two kicks in the head. That had to be. Smoke got hospital information on the line.

  "Hey, I'm a friend of Chugger Martin. Martin the author, that is,

  "I heard he came in last evening for treatment. Is he still there?"

  There was a delay to examine records. Then, "I'm sorry, sir. Mister Martin has already checked out."

  Smoke said, "Well, that's good news. Thank you very much.

  Good enough. Martin would be heading home. Who wouldn't with his stuff burned, his rifle and camera ruined, and his head lumped?

  Smoke would be close behind.

  Only Chugger wasn't at home.

  Smoke drove to the Book Cache and bought all three Martin books. He parked well down the street from Chugger's apartment and settled down to read.

  Before dark,
Smoke packed it in and found a motel. He began to worry. He could be wrong. Martin might have recognized Kelly O'Doran in the helicopter's door. Hell, he might be beating on O'Doran's door right now. Worse, he could be selling his goat hunting photos to the Anchorage Daily News.

  Man, that would knot Kelly's guts. Smoke Cole didn't give a damn, except that he hoped to work O'Doran for a lot more money before he was done.

  Maybe Martin would show tomorrow. Smoke would wait.

  +++

  Chugger wasn't as well as he had thought. He got to Delta Junction, but his head ached abominably and anything strong enough to dull the pain would trash his driving. Chugger turned off the highway and pulled into Larry Mull's sprawling layout.

  Mull was a friend from way back; Chugger had always known Larry. A small time entrepreneur, Mull made hay, sold military surplus, and hauled garbage. He owned a piece of a gas station and did a little odd job gunsmithing. Mull also guided parties into the nearby Granite Mountains. Chugger gulped a painkiller and crawled into an empty bed. Before the drug took hold he was sound asleep, breathing noisily through his nose and wired teeth.

  While still crossing his yard, Larry Mull began hollering for Chugger's appearance. The racket dragged Chugger from heavy sleep, leaving him blinking leadenly at the ceiling, wondering where he was and why his face hurt.

  He was reorienting and sitting up by the time Larry slammed through the door. Mull was loudly insulting Martin's lineage when he got a clear look at Chugger's battered features. The friendly abuse silenced abruptly. Mull looked closer.

  "Well hell, Chugger, either a moose kicked you or someone big and mean beat your head with a diamond willow club."

  Talking with his jaws wired restricted vigorous response, but Chugger managed an answer.

  "You should see the other guys."

  "Holy hell, your jaw is broke."

  Chugger tried to grin. "Just fractured a little."

  "That's the same as broke."

  "Whatever, Mull." Chugger wouldn't argue it.

  Explaining his injuries to Larry Mull helped Chugger firm his story. No one needed to know about the helicopter film, so Chugger left the attack on him a mystery. Why? He didn't know. Who was equally unanswerable. Martin concentrated on what had been done to him and his equipment.

  "So, there was my truck sitting in the airport parking." Chugger concluded. "I got in and drove this far. My head aches, and I'm tired. So, you've got my company for a day or so."

  Mull shook his head in disgust. "Imagine it, all to hell and gone up Ernestine Creek and you still got mugged."

  Mull's voice was somber. "The good times are past, Chugger. It's all downhill from here. First the hippies came in, then half of Mexico moved north, finally the pipeliners finished us off. Now every wide place has a mom and pop camper parked in it, and every caribou is surrounded by half-wits snapping pictures of what they think is a moose."

  Chugger tried to smile. "You forgot to berate the fishermen, Mull."

  "Yeah, the fishermen. Know what I saw just the other day? Two guys were on a bridge trying to kill salmon by dropping huge rocks on them. Hell, down on the river I saw a fist fight with six guys in it, all over tangled lines and a fish snagged on one of them. Why. . ."

  Chugger held up both hands in surrender. "Man, I'm sorry I brought up fishing. Get out and let me rest, Mull. We'll talk later."

  Mull sat down on the edge of Chugger's bed, looking doleful. "All beat up like you are, I suppose you won't go up into the mountains with me."

  As expected, Chugger's chin raised an inch. Mull smiled to himself. Unless he was really bad off, Chugger Martin would be interested. Mull raised a quizzical eyebrow. "You didn't get my messages?"

  "They don't have telephones on Ernestine Creek, Mull."

  "Well, it's all on your answering machine. Which doesn't do much good if you don't check now and then."

  "If I'd kept going I'd have heard it by now, so quit complaining. What trip are you planning?"

  Larry Mull turned his voice enthusiastic. He needed Chugger along on this one.

  "Three professors out of the university, Chugger. They're from outside and want to see the real Alaska."

  Mull rushed on. "Hell, this could be the start of something good for me, Chug. If I can show them an interesting time word will get around. Could be money in it, I figure."

  Chugger tried to curl a lip. "Now why would I want to go, Mull? And if you want to show them the real Alaska, take 'em to the oil fields, or to the wrong part of Anchorage. You were just complaining that everything is ruined anyway."

  Mull turned rueful. "Darn it, Chugger, I can't talk easy with college people. Man, they'll likely get onto Michelangelo or some other Frenchman. Then they'll begin talking about writers like Picasso or Dali. Hell, Chug, I need help."

  Chugger squinted an eye to ease the pain of his smile. "Mull, you're a phony. All you've got to do is put on your old sourdough act, the one where you spit a lot and talk about color in the streams. They'll love it."

  Chugger lay back, pressing the cool of his pillow against his cheek. "Count me out on this one, Larry."

  Mull threw his Sunday punch.

  "I just shouldn't be up there all alone for a week with three handsome young women."

  "What?" Chugger was listening again.

  "Oh, did I forget to mention that? Yeah, real nice looking girls, Chug. Out-of-door types too. All three single. Maybe a couple of years younger than you," Mull estimated Martin's renewed interest.

  "Fact is, I told 'em the famous author Chugger Martin might come along, seeing he was a special friend of mine and owed me lots of favors."

  Chugger began a protest, but Larry hurried on.

  "That impressed 'em, Chugger. Of course they'd heard of you. Perked right up and got real excited." Mull turned doleful. "Doubt they would have signed on if I hadn't said you would go along, Chug."

  "Damn it. Larry, my head is lumped. I've got a pulped cheekbone, and my jaws are wired. I couldn't . . . "

  "No problem, Chugger. The trip is almost two weeks away. You'll heal fast. No problem, Chug."

  Chugger sighed and again leaned back. "Just what is it you're planning, Mull? Where, how long, and exactly what?"

  Mull shifted to a chair and pulled it close. He sat down and shoved Chugger's legs aside so he could rest his booted feet on the bed.

  Chugger said. "God, Mull, get your shoes off the bed. You're an animal."

  "Forget it, Chug. Everything will have to be washed after you leave. Hell, Alaskan mud isn't dirty anyway." He eyed his boots thoughtfully. "Maybe we could package a mud gob or two in those little plastic bags that seal easy and sell 'em to tourists. We could label it 'Genuine Alaskan Soil Sample.' Then, 'Take home a piece of the Great Land.'"

  Chugger snorted, then held his achy cheek. "That isn't much worse than some of the other trash you peddle as souvenirs, Mull. Now give me the facts or get out. I need rest, man."

  "Huh, thought you weren't interested." Before Chugger could retort, he hurried on.

  "What I'll do is pick up a man to help us around the camp. We'll meet here and head out. We'll drive down the Richardson Highway past Donnelly Dome, to where an old coal road branches off. A mile or so in there's a trail that cuts over to Jarvis Creek and on up into the high country, if you know the way."

  Chugger was scornful. "My God, Larry, where is your memory? It was me that showed you that way in."

  Mull appeared surprised. "Was it you?" Then he went on. "First night we can camp on a Jarvis Creek gravel bar. Lots of wood there for a big fire. The professors will like that.

  "Next day we can probably show 'em a few moose and maybe some caribou along McCumber and Morningstar Creeks. After that we'll leave the tractor and hike to the top. Once you get high you can walk easy ridge to ridge. There'll be Dall Sheep for sure."

  Chugger said, "I don't want to go."

  Mull's eyebrows shot in surprise. "Why not?"

  "Hell, Larry, I've heard every story
you've got, and I've tramped that country end to end. Anyway, I'm hurt. I can't eat solid food, so I'll get weaker than a pup."

  Mull was patient. "Don't decide now. In a week you'll feel better." He looked thoughtful. "You need a pain pill or anything, Chug?"

  "God, you aren't peddling dope, are you, Mull?"

  "Of course not, but I keep painkillers around, just like you do, Martin."

  Chugger fingered his face. "My jaw doesn't hurt at all, but a face ache isn't fun. All I need right now is sleep."

  "I'm going, but you think about those mountains, Chugger. Prettiest in Alaska, you once claimed."

  He had said that.

  The Granites were only five thousand feet or so high. Glaciers fell off Mount Silvertip creating Jarvis, Riley and July Creeks. The Gerstle River began there too. It was sheepy country with good mineral licks. Mighty rams had been taken in the Granites.

  It was pretty up there. Chugger drifted off thinking about it.

  +++

  Smoke Cole read a book a day. The stories were good, action filled, with real life situations. The kind Cole liked. By the time he had finished the third book, Smoke believed he knew a lot more about the author—the missing author. Martin still hadn't appeared.

  A young couple occupied the house Martin's apartment was attached to. They left early in separate cars and returned late. Except for an Indian in an old pickup who occasionally drove by, traffic had been light and had no pattern.

  But, sooner or later, Chugger Martin would show up.

  If he hadn't yet blown the whistle on O'Doran's illegal hunting, he really might not have a film. How could you be sure? Frustrating.

  On the fourth morning Smoke poked his gloved fist through the glass of Martin's door. The couple had left as usual. Unless Martin returned, Cole expected no interruptions. He reached in, twisted the knob, and entered.

  Smoke doubted he would discover much, but having his place robbed might make Martin move—if he ever came back from where he was holed up.

  The house smelled closed, but it was neat and picked up. The kitchen was modern and surprisingly well equipped. The living room too was comfortable with real leather furniture. The gun rack held handsome weapons. Martin liked Weatherby rifles and Browning shotguns. He had three pistols, all .44 magnums. Smoke handled them appreciatively. The Ruger Redhawk and a model 29 Smith and Wesson had long barrels. A short-barrelled Smith looked well worn, as though Martin wore it a lot. All were Mag-na-ported to cut down recoil. Nice, Cole admitted.