"Yellow grizzly off to the left." Mull swung the tractor uphill and found a point where all could see.
Professors scrambled for photographs. Chugger was pleased that they did not edge in on the bear. It was wise to remember that a grizzly could start faster than a race horse, and telephoto lenses could bring an animal close, making stalking unnecessary.
Just in case, Mull brought his rifle out of the vehicle. Appleby's lay in the tractor's cab. Chugger had not even brought one along. He had his short-barreled .44 Magnum pistol strapped on as his "Just in Case." With other rifles around, his would not be needed. If they did things right, no one would be shooting anyway.
An hour later, while working their way along the edge of an insignificant streamlet bravely named, Sargent Creek, Appleby found a moose.
The large bull lay in a thicket, undetected by all but Appleby. Mull idled closer, and the moose stood up.
Chugger asked, "Will he go fifty inches, Acre?"
"Very close."
"How did you see him?"
"A bird flew, and his ear moved."
Amazing.
In early afternoon, camp was made on the far side of Jarvis Creek. Two army sidewall tents were raised, one for ladies, the other for men. Mull and a blonde took the tractor across the bar for firewood. They towed back large limbs that Acre sawed shorter with a small chainsaw.
There would be little dark to add coziness to the campfire, but wind off the Riley Creek glacier was chill, and the fire was warming.
Supper was easy with everyone doing a little. When the talk began, one blonde extracted a notebook and busily jotted away.
The professors and Acre mostly listened to Mull's and Chugger's rememberings. Chugger believed he was pithy and concise. Mull on, the other hand, lied and exaggerated, while dragging out dumb stories of little interest. Chugger wondered that the women could stand it.
Acre did not tell stories, but Chugger managed to draw comments on game or hunting conditions from him. At times professors questioned, and later, they began telling things about themselves.
None, it seemed, were professors. They were instructors who taught undergraduate students basic subjects for a lot less money than professors could command. Leave it to Mull to mess up the facts, although Chugger admitted that it didn't really matter,
Acre Appleby's head turned as though he were listening. Chugger did not hear anything, but after a minute or two, Acre raised up a little to see further. Sure enough, someone was trudging along, more or less in their tracks, and heading for their camp.
One man, carrying pack and rifle, Chugger judged. The figure dipped from view, and Acre snorted an amused sound that Chugger could share.
The poor devil was fording a creek rivulet, and there would be more than one at least crotch deep before he reached the camp.
Whoever the hiker was, he would be cold and wet. Chugger tossed wood onto the fire.
+++
Watching Martin's camping gear go into the pickup, Smoke Cole had felt sure the author was on his way back to Ernestine Creek. Smoke followed Martin from Fairbanks.
Then Martin had turned into a homestead before Delta Junction. When he came out, he was part of a large, tractor equipped party. It upset Smoke that the Fairbanks Indian was along. He got the feeling that too many things were happening that he did not know about. Smoke could only follow.
While they cached the Ford truck, Cole stayed way back. When the tractor left with the trailer in tow, Cole had a real dilemma. Did he wait until they came out? It could be a week or even two. Or, did he hike in after them?
Smoke Cole had sat for so long he doubted he could tolerate much more. He rigged his pack, shouldered his rifle, and started down the tractor's fresh path.
Cole planned as he went. Tonight he could probably catch up. When he did, he would try to sign on. Martin had looked right through him without recognition in the Sportsman's Shack. It should be safe enough.
Hell, he would pay if he had to. Sitting around as part of the crowd, he might hear something. Maybe he could turn the conversation so that helicopter or illegal hunting came up.
Anything was better than just sitting. O'Doran might get nervous when he didn't call in, but it could be worthwhile.
+++
The hiker hallooed the camp from well out and came in at their waves. Chugger heard Acre Appleby again snort softly, but he could not identify the reason.
The newcomer was a hard enough looking cuss with flat planed features and broad, full back shoulders. He was soaked almost to the waist, but was grinning broadly as he came. His words were humor filled, directing laughter at himself.
"Oh man, does that fire look good. Lordy, my legs are froze clear to my armpits."
He dropped pack and rifle and backed almost into the fire, sticking his wet rump over the active flames.
He looked around an instant and then said, "I'm Smoke Cole, and I'm pleased to meet you all." Smoke's grin was a little empty. It was wide and disarming, as though he wasn't the smartest kid on the block.
Introductions went around before Cole retired from sight to don dry pants and a pair of moccasins. He hung his trousers and stood his boots upside down, not too close to the fire. Chugger judged the man knew his way in the rough country. Cole seemed a likeable sort, and Chugger was eager to hear why he was heading alone into the Granite Mountains.
Cole's story was simple. He just liked looking at new country. He had been hiking in and had seen their smoke. It was nearly a mile across the gravel bars, and he hadn't known the creek rivulets would be deep. If he had, he would probably have continued on along the creek edge, up into higher country.
Smoke looked around, wriggled his moccasined toes at the fire, and leaned comfortably against his pack.
Broadening his grin, he allowed that with a camp as friendly as this one, he was glad he had come over.
Smoke Cole told good stories. He described himself as a guy who liked the out-of-doors and who often hiked in off the surveyed roads, just to see what was out there.
When Larry Mull explained the look-around camping trip his party was on, Smoke appeared so wistful that no one was surprised when the pair went off to talk alone. Within an hour, Smoke Cole was a group member. Mull's wallet bulged with Cole's more than generous payment.
No one voiced objections. There was room, Smoke seemed interesting, and the more the merrier seemed applicable. Chugger heard Acre Appleby's quiet snort, but again could not make it mean anything.
Acre was troubled by mixed loyalties. He knew of Smoke Cole's interest in Chugger Martin and some film, because of his former employment with Kelly O'Doran. That information could not be casually exposed. On the other hand, Chugger Martin had befriended Acre, and Appleby liked Martin. Should he not warn Martin that Cole was not what he seemed?
Acre decided he would watch and listen, as he had before. If Cole attempted harm to Martin, Appleby would stop him.
Smoke pitched a small tent, announcing his preference for sleeping separate. The gesture appeared gracious, but Cole could easily hear through the canvas walls. If anything pertinent to his quest was said, he would hear it. Sleeping alone would also allow undetected departure, if he chose to leave without notice.
+++
By midmorning the tractor had brought the explorers around higher ground and to the confluence of McCumber and Morningstar Creeks. It was a seldom visited place, hidden from view by spruce and willow growth thickets. A pair of cabins and broken down corrals moldered there.
Chugger knew most about the camp and described its history to the others.
"These cabins were put up by miners working the streams for gold. They found some over on Ober Creek, and there is other color here and there along various runs. Back then there were no roads, but a sled trail ran right across here.
"After the miners moved on, trappers worked the streams. Then the writer and hunter Russell Annabel used the cabins for a base camp when hunting the Granites. Annabel mentioned this place
in some of his stories. He got moose out on the flats and there is a non-migrating caribou herd that is still here. We will probably see them over on Granite Creek as we go along.
"In those days the hunters used horses. There is a lot of forage here and a good horse will eat willow tips, just like a moose does. That was important because, unlike our tractor, horses eat whether you are using them or not.
"Later, the guide Slim Moore and Arthur Rausch, one of the best hunters, camped here. By then, sheep were the big trophies. There is a huge mineral lick at the head of Granite Creek and big rams still come in there.
"Slim Moore used to line his hunters along the ridge above Riley Creek, while Art Rausch liked to go over the top into the July Creek canyon.
"Art Rausch was the first to really use track vehicles in here. They say his hunts were like African Safaris with marvelous meals and hot water waiting for hunters when they came limping back to camp.
"Old Art died on Christmas day years ago. No one has come here much since then."
Larry Mull explained how they would head toward the narrow gorge that led to the high-up source of Morningstar Creek. They would camp again before the ground got too steep. Along the way they should jump ptarmigan and there would be marmots for sure.
The afternoon turned glorious and Chugger and the brunette professor dropped off to walk the last mile before the camp. The tundra vines and grasses rose nearly knee high and the best walking was in the flattened tracks left by the tractor and wheeled trailer.
The girl's name was Katherine, and that is what Chugger called her. To Martin's mind she was a step above her blonde tressed companions. The notetaker, Chugger had concluded, was not really very swift. A glance or two over her shoulder showed her notes to be pretty thin stuff that tended to miss the points and could not shed much light on anything. Her look-alike often stared a little glassy-eyed, as though everything were just a bit much for her to take in. Chugger wasn't condemning. They were out here, giving it a shot. The effort deserved credit. It was more than most attempted.
Katherine was different. Physically, she was stronger acting. Chugger figured that when they began climbing, she would carry her pack easily and keep up with little effort. Katherine listened well, and her comments and questions showed thought and understanding. Her humor was good too. Chugger valued people who could appreciate a funny side.
Chugger said, "Look at this old antler. Discarded last winter I would guess." He picked a small antler from the ground and held it for examination. " Caribou are the only deer with both sexes having antlers. Small horns like this one are usually from cows. See how the marmots and other small critters have chewed it all up, teeth scratchings all over it. I think the rodents get salt from old antlers, but it could be they also sharpen their teeth on them." Chugger grinned, "I'm not really up on the subject."
Katherine had taken naturally to calling him Chugger, and she was interested in his writing and photographing. Chugger intended to find out a lot more about her before their trip was over.
Larry Mull placed their camp on a small flat, almost on the edge of Morningstar Creek. Unlike the glacier-fed Jarvis Creek, Morningstar ran clear and swift in one channel. Chugger wondered if there might be greyling, but Mull would not talk fishing. He was concerned about weather brewing on the far horizon.
Mull said, "It's going to rain, damn it."
Acre Appleby nodded agreement. "Rain will come with much wind, but it will pass in the night."
Mull was doubtful. "More likely a drizzle will settle in, and we will be stuck here for three days." He shrugged in resignation. "So, we will rig with that in mind."
At Mull's direction, they butted the tents together and placed the tractor at the mountain end. Larry stretched a tarp from tractor to tents and they had a long, dry passage for living and moving around.
Tent stakes were driven deep. Where the soil would not hold, the stakes were laid flat with large creek rocks piled on.
Acre suggested, "We should run lines across the tent tops."
Mull hesitated, then nodded. "All right, it isn't that much work, but this isn't a windy time of year."
Smoke Cole did more than his share in camp pitching and was readily accepted as part of the group. Because of the expected rain, Smoke moved in with the men.
Wind came off the mountains and funneled down the creek canyon. It came without preliminaries, and its howling fury filled ears and set the tents straining against their tie-downs. Some of the blasts were diverted by the bulk of the tractor, but ropes creaked, and flap ties cracked like pistol shots.
Buttoned within, the humans huddled closer, judging strains and expecting the rending rip of over pressured tent cloth.
Stakes and stitching held. Wind moderated, and the first rain roared down the mountain in a wall of seemingly solid water. The deluge pressed the tents with a huge water weight that drummed on the fabric like a thousand emptying buckets.
Acre Appleby leaned against a vibrating tent pole, his eyes closed, as though seeking in his mind the soul of the mountain tempest. Chugger watched Acre's calm, as he observed Smoke Cole's too-tense grin. Larry Mull's eyes darted about, worrying over the strength of his tents. Katherine had taken Chugger's arm, without awareness moving close, as though for protection. Chugger recorded the reactions, perhaps storing them for some future writing.
In the morning the sky was clear, and a soft, warming breeze drifted off the flats quickly drying earth and foliage.
Mull said, "Danged if Acre wasn't right."
Chugger agreed. Danged if he wasn't. Perhaps Appleby really had become one with the storm.
+++
Chapter 7
For five days Smoke had tried to edge conversation into illegal hunting. Necessary caution had left him unsuccessful.
For just as long, Smoke had dogged Chugger Martin's footsteps. If Martin walked over to peer into a hollow, Cole went along. He pretended admiration for Chugger's writing, and with his recent reading of the Martin trilogy, Smoke referred comfortably to incidents Chugger had written about. Smoke Cole stayed pleasant, interested, and ready to pitch in on every task.
Cole's big problem was the Indian, Acre Appleby. When Martin started out, Appleby slung his battered old Winchester and went too. It seemed to Smoke that the Indian was always standing between him and Martin. Cole felt Appleby's eyes on him. Suspiciously? Smoke could not tell. When he tried to catch the Indian watching him, Appleby was always looking elsewhere.
The girl, Katherine Summers, did not help either. Martin kept taking her aside, showing things, or explaining something. Then, Cole did not dare intrude.
Each day of travel left Smoke more confident that Chugger Martin had no film and had put the helicopter hunting and camp stomping behind him.
If he had no pictures, forgetting the incident could make sense, Cole figured. What could Martin do? To threaten the helicopter charter service would gain him nothing. No one there would admit anything. One thing was certain. Martin did not remember Smoke Cole from the helicopter hunt. Cole had watched carefully and was convinced Chugger believed him a stranger.
It was likely that in the excitement of the moment, with the helicopter jumping around, and only he, Cole, dropping to the ground, Chugger Martin had not recognized anyone.
Still, Smoke wished to hear Martin talk about the incident. Among friends, hundreds of miles from the site, and weeks removed from the happening, Chugger was likely to talk pretty straight. Smoke would keep trying and continue to listen. There were days to go. Once he was absolutely sure he would probably . . . Well, Cole would decide then.
Acre Appleby liked Chugger Martin. The feeling was special for Appleby. A distant man who lived alone and kept his own council, Acre was rarely drawn to another. In Chugger, Acre found an honest acceptance. Martin was interested but unprying in his personal questions. He listened with care to Appleby's opinions and few stories.
And, the magic of Acre's grandfather had worked on Chugger's injuries. Acre was
unsure why he had chanced the shaman skills on Martin, but it had proven to have been right, and Appleby was pleased. Martin had thanked Acre quietly, away from others who might not have understood. Most whites, Appleby believed, would have bellowed their compliments while slapping his shoulder, as though he had lit a fire with one match.
Uncertain of Smoke Cole's intentions, Acre stayed close to Chugger. If Cole went, Appleby was there as well.
The others, Acre gave little attention. Larry Mull was typical of many outfitters. His presence in the mountains was business. Mull would not be in the bush for pleasure. Unless money was involved, Larry would stay in town.
The women were white and made unnatural by civilization. Without men to care for them, they would die in the mountains. Appleby's kind of woman could live as he did. She could kill ptarmigan with thrown stones or shoot, butcher, and cook a caribou. Acre's woman would carry a load equal to his own. She would never soak her skin with the bottled stinks white women applied.
Acre admitted that Chugger chose the companionship of the most likely woman. The two with straw hair were like summer flowers that bloomed brightly but withered quickly. The darker one had strength in her bones and meat enough to give comfort to her man. She moved with strength. Her mind was open to the Denali. Perhaps Chugger could teach her things.
Working for Larry Mull was soft living. The days were short and the food was good. Without game to find and to care for, heavy work was little. When they left the tractor and climbed the mountains even camp work became nothing. The men's packs were heavy because the women carried little more than their bedding and a few token kindling sticks to make them feel part of the team.
On the mountain ridges there was no wood. Acre and Chugger Martin knew how to build and use a small fire, so Mull let them do it. The campfire warmed a few things, but food was heated over Sterno stoves. The fire's purpose was to give atmosphere to the night's camp. Acre understood that, but neither Cole nor Mull could have kept a fire small enough for their wood to have lasted more than one evening. If alone, he and Chugger would never have bothered.
Chugger's Hunt Page 8
