by Rob Buckman
"Max, if this has traveled more than a quarter of a mile I'd be surprised." The wolf interrupted his rumbling to belch in total agreement. "I can see you're going to be an immense help if that's all you have to say." With one last scratch and a soft pat on the head, he banked the fire and killed the light, not needing it to find his bed.
Taking the Beretta, he unscrewed the silencer and dropped it into his pocket. Fixed to the gun it was just a little too long to put under his pillow comfortably, and a bitch to drag out if he needed it in a hurry. Max started to follow him into the tent until he realized his girl friend wasn't following. Turning, he ran across the clearing, vanishing into the night.
'Deserted again.' Mike thought, chucking to himself. "Have fun Max." he said to the night, looking up at the stars and seeing them slowly disappearing behind the increasing cloud cover. Pulling the flap down, he zipped it half way. Knowing Max would come in when the rain started, and curl up on the pile of pine needles in the corner where it was warm and snug. Tonight Mike knew he'd sleep well after working hard all day, hoping he could pass the night without dreaming. For once he did.
The morning brought a surprise and disappointment. Surprise at finding not only Max in his usual place but his girlfriend as well. She looked a little nervous when Mike first climbed out of the sleeping bag, and she growled in response. Max calmed her down again by licking her face and ears, and rubbing up against Mike's legs to show her that he was a friend. Mike shook his head in disgust. It's too early in the morning for this shit, he thought. Mike was something of a bear before he'd had his morning coffee. It looked as if he'd been adopted again whether he liked it or not. The disappointment was the river. It had risen during the night, and was still running high with dark, murky sediment. He doubted he’d be able to do any dredging today. Much of his clean-off work would need to be re-done before he could start working the bedrock. The skies were clear, deep blue with a few fleecy white clouds high up. Making it a good day to work if the river had been clear.
"Oh well, that's life." he said to Max, who yawned, having a dog's philosophy about life. If you can't eat it, drink it, chase it or screw it, then piss on it, which he did frequently, this philosophy having done him quite well so far.
A large cup of coffee with cream and sugar came first, then breakfast. While he was doing that Max and company took off to play. Or do whatever it is that wolves do, when they're running around acting crazy. Mike decided to walk down to town, as there were a few items he needed to stock up on. It would also give him a chance to drop the liberated property at the Sheriff's station while he was there, and go and see Charley Savage and his wife. Mike cleared up, tidying the camp before shouldering his pack. After scanning the area, he picked up his rifle and headed for town. Max and company would follow at their own pace. He checked the dredge before leaving; ensuring that the riverbed anchors and spring line were still in place. They were. His trip to check the dredge, gave him a chance to slip out of the camp a different way. He never took the same trail out of camp, nor down the mountain for that matter, old habits die-hard.
Moments later, he vanished into the trees, becoming part of the forest, ghosting along like a shadow. His faded green jacket blended with the surroundings, he doubted anyone could find him, except Max. Many times, he would find Max waiting on a rock, or the stump of an old tree, his girlfriend not too far away. Sometimes he would stop for a moment to survey the countryside and find Max sitting beside him, his bright red tongue lolling out, almost as if he was grinning. He didn't understand, but liked the game. Mike would give him a quick pat and a scratch behind the ear before setting off again. Three hours of hard travel brought him to a spur on the mountain overlooking the town. Here he took a rest, sitting down with his back to a convenient rock, lighting the first of the four 'Blackroot' cigars he allowed himself each day. Leaning back against his pack he laid his rifle across his lap and surveyed the countryside around him. Max turned up a few moments later and lay down beside him, placing his head on Mike's thigh, waiting for his scratch. His girl friend sat down a few feet away, a disapproving look on her face. Below, the later morning sun lit up the buildings nestling in the trees and flashed gold and silver from the early autumn leaves. The cool air was sharp with the odor of pine drifting down from the heights above on the light breeze. The dark, emerald green forest gently wrapped itself around them like a comforting blanket, as Mike and the wolves were more children of the forest than human, both liked its cool depth and moss covered rocks, or chasing game through high alpine meadows.
Peregrine Creek was like a thousand other hamlets scattered through these mountains. All left over from better days when the mines were active, having something of an old west flavor about it. A hundred and fifty houses scattered over more than ten acres of hillside with an asphalt road winding itself up the mountain like some giant black snake, connecting the town to the interstate some thirty miles away. The road widened as it entered the town, climbing the last two miles in a giant 'S' shape bend before vanishing over a rise and back into the forest again. The town was built along the 'S' shaped road that at one time had been nothing more than a stopover on a logging trail. That was until some fool had found gold. Then buildings popped up almost overnight, transforming the place into a boomtown. That lasted until the easy gold ran out, and the town slipped back into a semi prosperous logging existence. Even that was almost gone now, what with the 'greenies' and environmentalists halting logging of ‘old growth’ forests. Many of the old clapboard buildings still stood, rebuilt, and renovated by their present owners. With thick insulation and central heating to keep out the winter cold, the old buildings were still serviceable. Outwardly, ‘Peregrine Creek’ still retained the appearance of a western town, giving it that special favor that the thrill seekers liked. The place now catered to the ski crowd in the winter, hunters, back-packers, hikers, and gold prospectors in the summer. The one distinction that helped this place stay alive was that it had the only year round airstrip in the region.
After last night's rain, the air was crystal clear. The distant peaks sharply defined, the rocks, snow, and trees in perfect focus, appearing close enough to touch. As yet, the developers hadn't arrived to spoil this, much as they had done in so many other places, yet he’d heard rumors and whispers that someone was buying land. It was inevitable they’d come. Not that he cared, as long as they left him alone. Taking a back way onto Main street he stepped out a short distance from the ‘Buckthorn Bar and Grill’. This was a roadhouse come diner owned and run by a crusty old timer by the name of Charley Savage and his wife Ruth. Mike had known them both off and on for seven or eight years, liking and respecting them for not being nosy about his background. Charley had done his time in hell and didn't need the 'Semper Fi' over the bar, or the Marine Corps 'Force Recon' flash painted underneath it to tell Mike he'd been through there and done it. It was written in his face and body and the way he moved. It did tell any potential tough guys to walk softly and mind their manners. Here was a man who stood tall, walked straight, and told the truth. One of the few good men, as they say. At this time of the day the bar was closed as to Charley's way of thinking, a man shouldn't start drinking until the sun was over the yardarm. The restaurant was open, so if you wanted good home cooked food you came in and ate. If you wanted to drink, you went someplace else. Mike hadn't come for booze, but the good cooking. Walking in just as Ruth came out of the kitchen with an order.
"Well, hello, stranger, long time no see." She called out, deftly depositing lunch orders in front of three guests.
"Hi Ruth, Charley around?" He said, returning the greeting.
Mike placed his rifle in the rack beside the door provided for just that purpose, first clearing the breech, and unloading the mag. Next, he cleared his primary hand weapon, a .357 magnum auto and placed it in the handgun rack. Charley had the idea of installing the rack after an old marine buddy, who'd come up to hunt, needed a place to stash his guns. He liked them where he could keep an ey
e on them while he ate, having almost lost them at the last place he'd stopped. The idea caught on and the place soon became an attraction to other hunters coming down from the hills. It was a place where they could eat and drink in peace without worrying about getting their weapons stolen. It was also a way for Charley to stop some fool clowning around with a loaded weapon in his place, trying to impress some girl. Mike sat, taking the end seat at the counter, placing his back to the wall.
"He's out back.” Ruth commented as she walked pass. “Should be here in a second." She didn't need to ask if he wanted a cup of coffee. Just poured it, sliding the cream and sugar over to him. She watching as Max slipped through the door as a customer exited, lying down under Mike's chair.
"Is that free loader still hanging around?" Ruth asked pointing with her chin at Max. Mike nodded. Knowing he was being talked about Max looked up, first at Mike then Ruth, licking his chops hoping for a hand out. He wasn't disappointed.
"Think I can find something to keep him happy." She remarked heading back to the kitchen, passing her husband on the way in. They kissed in passing and Mike wondered for the thousandth time what kept them together. Charley was built like a Sherman tank, his chest arriving two minutes before he did.
Ruth on the other hand was slim and dainty, weighing in at ninety pounds soaking wet. She looked as if a strong wind would blow her away. They had been married for forty-five or forty-six years that Mike knew of—Ruth sticking with him through twenty-five years of the Marine Corp, and sending him off to two wars, plus half a dozen police actions. She'd just about single handedly raised four children, two of each, sending all four off to college.
"What are you doing down in civilization, wise guy?" Charley said for openers, shaking hands and drawing himself a cup of coffee. He liked his black and scalding hot, almost thick enough to float the proverbial Texas horseshoe in.
"Come to see if you lot had killed each other off yet."
"Nar! No chance of that my friend, to many of us. Besides that, we, the meek are supposed to inherit the earth."
"Yeah, but only after the strong have finished fuck... screwing with it." Mike said with a laugh. Mike knew Ruth's views on strong language.
"You've got that right. About the only item the meek are going to inherit is the six feet they get buried in."
"You're right! But how come you're suddenly including yourself in with the meek."
"You know me: I've done my time and hung up my guns. I let you young guys do the fighting and fucking now." he said, looking around quickly. Ruth hadn't returned yet.
"Oh, yeah. Who said so?"
"My wife of course and you know she would never tell a lie."
"I'll have to bring her down to the bar on a Saturday night and let her see you in action." he said with a laugh.
"Don't you dare! She'd chase me from here to Christmas and make me close the place down." Ruth came back in just then, placing a plate of steak, eggs, and fries in front of Mike. She dropped a knucklebone on the floor for Max.
"Oh, there's the freeloader." Charley said looking over the counter. Max looked at him out of the corner of his eye, more interested in the bone than conversation.
"Hope you have another one of those to go. Max has a girl friend now."
"Dog or wolf?" Charley asked.
"Wolf, I think." He said after a moment's reflection.
"Don't you know those are supposed to be dangerous?"
"No!" Mike said in mock surprise. "Do tell."
"The reason Mike gets on with them so well is that he is part wolf himself." Ruth stated her opinion on the subject as she walked past on her way to the kitchen. Both men stopped and looked after her in surprise, then at each other, Charley's eyebrows shooting up in surprise.
"What brought that on?" Mike asked, giving him a puzzled look.
"You've got me." Charley said with a shrug. "Who can figure women? She thinks you spend too much time up in the woods." Charley refilled his mug from the battered pot on the back burner.
"You want some of this wimp!" Charley asked, holding the pot up.
"No, sir Gunny!" He said waving the pot away.
"You a mouse or a pussy cat? And I do mean pussy!" he said placing the pot back on the burner. He gave Mike one of those killer smiles. The one reserved for recruits and other lower forms or life. This was his pot, made especially for him by Ruth. You could tell if he liked you, if he offered to share a cup. Mike contemplated the question while cutting into his steak. If pots could talk, this one would tell a few tales. One time Mike had seen the pot after Ruth had carefully cleaned the outside. Not daring to touch the inside for fear of contracting something besides her husband's anger. Most of the engraving on the pot was almost illegible, but a few of the names and places it had been could still be seen. Fort Benning, Quantico, Pyongyang, Bragg, Kaesong, Perris Island, Khe Sahn and lastly, still bright and clear, Grenada. That pot had been around the block and back. It had been shot at, blown up twice by incoming mortar rounds and grenades and had ingredients inside it that were barely drinkable or edible. It had also been drunk from by some of the toughest SOB's to wear the 'Force Recon' flash on their shoulder. Nobody... but nobody drank from the pot unless he or she first had Charley's approval, which he gave grudgingly.
"Could you give me a better choice gunny?" Mike asked with a smile. The first two are somewhat limited."
"How about queer or steer?" His eyebrows came down and met in one line over the eyes. "You don't look like you're from Texas!" It was a look that had intimidated two generations of would-be Marines. So had the question. No matter what you answered, he got you.
"Moo?"
"Damn! I thought you were a man with the bark on." With a sigh, he shook his head, as if disappointed. Mike chuckled.
"At one time I'd have drunk that brew and come back for more, but not any longer." Mike thought of the cold night spent in some mud hole or other for hours, even weeks at a time.
"Me too!" Charley sighed.
"What?" The statement took Mike by surprise.
"Me, too. I can't drink it any more. The old cast iron gut won't take it. Ruth's been watering it down for years, thinking I wouldn't notice."
Ruth was a lot smarter than some people gave her credit for. She knew her beloved husband's pride would never let him admit to her or anyone else that his stomach couldn't take it. She had seen the many nights he'd tip toed into the bathroom and chewed half a dozen antacid tablets before coming to bed. So week by week, she'd made it with a bit less coffee, understanding his pride and strength and thereby increasing his love for her.
"Then by all means fill her up while I make a phone call." A giant grin spread across Charley's face as he filled Mike's mug, watching him walk across the room to the phone.
Walk wasn't the word to use, more like the soft tread of a hunting cat, Charley thought. Mike puzzled him. The way he carried himself and looked after his weapons said he was military. Yet careful questioning brought little or no response. That he carried extra weaponry was obvious, the .357 in the rack was for show. To the casual observer it made it look as if he was unarmed. He carried at least one extra handgun. A small auto loader in the small of his back by the lack of a bulge. Charley also knew he carried a Bowie under his left arm, but he never let on he was aware of it. The man never flashed it around to impress the girls, so it was better if nothing was said. Charley knew he was a ‘somebody’, as far beyond the ordinary grunt as he was from a recruit. That he'd done his time in hell went without saying, but where and with what outfit he didn't know, nor could he find out. All he got from his contact was that the man had never been in the military. Spending the last fifteen years studying at Columbia University. His answer to that bit of information was a simple 'Bullshit.' He'd trained too many of them not to recognize the signs. The thousand yards stare for one, and the way he positioned himself before sitting down in a room for another. Automatically covering the doors and windows, checking each person who entered. No way, Charley Brown,
there was a story behind this man, and Charley suspected a lot of dead bodies as well, unless he missed his guess. It bugged him. The thought of a hit man made him pause for a moment. 'Could it be...?'
"Got to go, Charley." Mike said walking back, breaking his train of thought.
"You coming back in for a beer later?" he asked, watching Mike finish off his steak and eggs and drain his coffee cup. Mike thought about it for a moment.
"Yes, why not, I'll be back for a short one before heading up the mountain."
"You're welcome to stay the night. Ruth could make up the spare bed in no time."
"No thanks Charley. I'd feel better out there." Charley nodded. There it was again. Ph. D's from Columbia don't feel better spending the night in the forest. Nor would any ordinary man.
So who? There were men who did. A special breed of man. More at home in the jungle or forest than any animal. Special forces, Recon, SAS, were a few he could think of. He almost had it, but it slipped away, elusive and slippery, like the Viet Cong or Montagnards.
"Some girl is going to have one hell of a job house breaking you boy," he said offhandedly.
"Never happen, Charley, too late." There was no way he could hide the note of sadness in his voice, nor could he take offense at Charley calling him boy. Coming from him, it was a note of friendship and respect, something he gave to few men.
"Since when has thirty been old?" Mike gave him a tired smile.
