The Last Homestead

by Warren Troy

  Denny checked out all the building supplies, placed under tarps as they had been at the other hunting camp. Everything seemed in order. He took the chainsaw over to the tent, and sitting on the edge of the low wooden floor platform under the open front of the tent, he cleaned, fueled, and oiled the machine, then tightened and sharpened the chain. It was an older saw, with a rough exterior, but it was a high quality brand and, much like the old snowmobile he had gotten from George Levine, the funky appearance belied its solid mechanical condition. Denny was capable of making precise cuts with it, necessary to build a good cabin.

  Caraway made himself a couple of peanut butter and honey sandwiches for dinner, washing them down with hot tea. He really slathered on the peanut butter, loving the stuff, and putting enough honey on the bread so it dripped all around the edges while he ate. His grandfather had turned him on to peanut butter. His mother hadn’t considered it good food, only good if you couldn’t afford anything else, but Denny could sit and eat spoonful after spoonful of the gooey stuff, if he was in the mood.

  He was relaxing with a pipeful of tobacco when the sound of a single-engine plane coming closer caught his attention. He went outside the tent, pipe in hand, to see the Cessna 180 he had flown in on come down and land on the lake. Taxiing up to where he stood, he was surprised to see Carlton O’Bannion step out. The pilot kept the engine running.

  Shaking hands with Denny, O’Bannion told him he had seen the first cabin and was satisfied, and he needed him to get this one done as soon as possible.

  “When do you want it to be finished?” Denny asked.

  “I need it done and ready in nine days. Can you do it, or should I bring in someone else to help?”

  “No, I can do it. What’s up?”

  With an impatient look on his face, O’Bannion said, “I have a last-minute client coming who paid me a bonus to put him on a bear hunt right away. Is that okay with you?”

  Though Denny didn’t like O’Bannon’s tone, the man was obviously under some pressure, so he let it go.

  “I’ll have it ready in time.”

  Turning and walking away, O’Bannion said, “All right then, Caraway, see to it.”

  The unpleasant guide got back into the plane. Denny watched it taxi away and take off. He’d start early the next morning and get the shack done on time. He was rankled by Carlton’s attitude, and would be glad when the job was over.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was overcast the next morning, with a steady ten-mile-an- hour wind blowing. Putting his raingear on after a quick breakfast, Denny set to work. Luckily, except for some drizzle, no heavy rain came, so the work went smoothly. In a day and a half, the platform was finished and two days more had the wall framing up and the roof started. Denny spent long hours to get the hunting shack done in the nine days. He was more interested in getting it finished to be able to leave O’Bannion’s employ, rather than doing so to complete a worthwhile project. This was one situation he had no desire to remain in any longer than was necessary.

  He was halfway finished with the roof boards when the rain came back, but he had to keep going to meet the demanded deadline. Caraway hadn’t been in such a situation since he’d been a rep for the advertising company he had worked for in Reno, when he was under constant pressure to have things “all wrapped up” on time. He knew working for someone else again would not be enjoyable, and now longed to be back on the homestead, alone, and content to be so.

  Denny cut several boards to length standing under the finished roof covering, then took them up. He was almost finished when, climbing down the wet ladder, he slipped and fell backwards, landing flat on his back, knocking the wind out of him. Luckily his foot hadn’t caught between rungs or it could have been worse. He lay there a minute, waiting for something to hurt. Nothing did.

  Rising up, he seemed fine. However, Denny saw he had missed hitting his head on a rock by mere inches. Walking around to see if anything of his was damaged, and finding he was fit, Denny picked up another board and tried to continue working, but it was raining buckets, and he had to stop until the downpour let up.

  Now, he appreciated the propane heater, which was easy to start and quickly warmed up the tent, with the front flap part way open for ventilation. He’d called it a day around ten p.m., eaten some hot dogs and beans before turning in, falling asleep almost immediately. Any curious bears were on their own.

  Caraway awoke to a clear sky with the sun shining brightly. Not wanting to waste a minute, foregoing breakfast, Denny got to work. It was day six. By the end of the day the roof was finished, and the two windows and door installed. He took an hour break, then started on the outer wall sheathing. The plywood went quickly and was well on the way to being done. Denny was beat, and was half asleep while eating his dinner, dropping onto the cot right after putting the cooking pot and plate out by the cook fly.

  When Denny woke up the next morning, the little metal cook pot was not where he had left it. Neither could he locate the food canister. After searching for a while he located the stainless steel pot on the other side of the new cabin site. It was all dented up, but had no actual holes in it, and was licked perfectly clean.

  The food canister took a little longer to find, and it was by pure luck he noticed it in the lake, floating about five feet from shore. It was scratched up, but had no other damage to it, and was still closed. Denny laughed to himself about the little canister and how he knew a bear or other predator could leave it somewhere far away on the tundra.

  Back at the work site, he found the installed roof boards were dry enough to cover, so the tarpaper and rolled roofing went on. Denny pressed on to start painting the place the same deep brown as the first shack. The next day he finished the painting, and built the bunk beds and counter. It was almost one in the morning when he was finished, exhausted. He was glad the weather had held until he was done. He gulped down some cold beans and bread with a cup of instant coffee, after which he repeated the familiar process of lying down on the cot and dropping off to sleep in minutes.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Caraway stood admiring his work, complete and ready to use as he had promised, on the ninth day. He moved the propane heater and Coleman stove into the shack, took down the tent as before, and waited for O’Bannion to arrive. It was barely half an hour later when the Cessna came in. Denny walked over to the lake to greet his boss, the client, and the assistant guide. Caraway was all packed up and ready to head for home.

  When the plane’s door opened, only O’Bannion and one other man stepped out, and he was definitely not the assistant guide. He was about five foot six and weighed, by Denny’s estimation, at least two hundred and fifty pounds. He was wearing new outdoor clothing, looking like African safari garb, the jacket a tight fit. To top it all off, he wore an Australian-looking hat with one side pinned up. He had on rolled-down hip waders he was probably wearing when the plane took off. All Denny could do was mentally shake his head.

  Caraway had a feeling O’Bannion was going to have an interesting hunt. He went to help the pilot unload, when O’Bannion took him aside, a tense look on his face. “Caraway, I have a problem and need you to stay on for this hunt. My assistant guide walked out on me and you have to fill in for him. I’ll pay you what I would have paid Jerry plus a bonus if you do, but you have to stay and guide Mr. Goulsby on this hunt.”

  Caraway took the tone in O’Bannion’s words and the look in his eye as almost a threat, which he didn’t appreciate one bit. He didn’t react as he normally would though, facing off with the man and getting things straight. He wanted to, but he could certainly use the extra money and knew he could do the job. Swallowing his anger, he told O’Bannion, “I’ll do it, but you’ll have to find someone else for the next hunt. This one I’ll do, and no more. After this, I’m quits.”

  “Yeah, fine, fine,” O’Bannion said. “Just help the pilot finish unloading and get the client settled in. I’ve got to get back and find another guide. Can you handle it?”
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  Denny hadn’t expected to be left alone like this with a client he knew nothing about, and regretted having agreed to the hunt. Denny knew he could work this country for a good bear, which is what the client had come for. He nodded his response to O’Bannion’s last question. Turning away, Denny’s boss went over to the client while Denny unloaded the man’s gear from the plane, his jaw muscles working overtime.

  Caraway thought for a minute about doing another hunt if O’Bannion still hadn’t found a new assistant guide by the time this one was over. He expected to be well paid for helping out, but already had a strong sense that getting his full payment from O’Bannion might be difficult. He had the man sized up by now. He decided to see how this bear hunt turned out before making a final decision.

  As they got all the gear from the plane, the pilot asked Denny if he had ever worked for O’Bannion before and when Denny answered no, the pilot told him to be sure he got his pay on time, if he could. “The man has a reputation, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

  A few minutes later the plane was gone, leaving Caraway and the client alone, the hunter giving Denny a quizzical look. Denny carried the man’s duffle over to the cabin and gave him his choice of which bunk he wanted to sleep on. He chose the lower one, and Denny took the other lower bunk on the other side of the one-room shack.

  “So, when is Mr. O’Bannion returning,” asked the client. “I want to get out there early tomorrow.”

  Denny noted the man’s thick eastern accent, probably New York or New Jersey. “Actually, I’ll be taking you out on the hunt tomorrow myself. Mr. O’Bannion had some pressing business to attend to.”

  “Probably has to replace the lazy sumbitch who walked out at the airport. Have you ever guided before?”

  Denny thought a minute before answering. “I’ve been hunting in Alaska for over ten years.”

  “You didn’t answer my question; have you ever guided someone else?”

  “In all honesty, I haven’t. You needn’t worry, Mr. Goulsby, we’ll get you a good bear.”

  “I didn’t spend no fifteen grand to have an assistant take me out, I want O’Bannion himself to do it!”

  The guy was getting red in the face, obviously pissed about the situation, though no more than Denny himself. Avoiding unpleasant situations such as this, as he’d had to deal with many times in the past, was one of the main reasons he was living the solitary life of a homesteader, but he held his temper and told the man he could call O’Bannion and reschedule for another hunt, probably next year, or go out with him and get a bear.

  Mr. Goulsby, not wanting to lose his opportunity for a hunt, agreed to give Denny a chance. Glaring at Caraway, he said, “If I don’t get a good grizzly, you’ll find out who you’re dealing with.”

  Denny was not impressed. He simply nodded and went about preparing dinner, pan frying a couple of steaks, cooking some canned green beans and buttering thick slices of bread.

  Goulsby sat silently on his bunk giving Denny the evil eye, not saying anything. If he thought this would bother him, he was wrong. Caraway was relieved the man had opted not to talk. The silence lasted through dinner, of which Caraway had little, the rotund client eating the lion’s share of the meat and beans and five slices of heavily buttered bread. By dinner’s end, his safari jacket wasn’t spotless anymore.

  After the meal, Goulsby went outside to smoke a cigarette, and Denny went down to the lake to wash dishes. As he was finishing up, returning to the cabin, Goulsby came quickly waddling up to him, a set of large, expensive binoculars hung around his neck that were bumping his belly as he trotted over to Denny. Loudly whispering, he said, “I saw a bear, I saw a bear!”

  Caraway had him point out where he saw the bruin. Scanning the area through the client’s binoculars, he saw a small female grizzly with two cubs about two hundred and fifty yards away.

  “Is that the bear you saw, Mr. Goulsby?”

  Looking through the binoculars, Goulsby excitedly said, “Yeah, it is, shall we go after it?”

  Denny explained to him it was a small female bear with cubs and they weren’t going after them.

  Goulsby looked through the glasses again, and apparently saw the cubs this time. “Well, it still looks like a good bear to me.”

  There were some bugs out, and Goulsby trotted back to the cabin waving his arms around his head. Denny had half a mind to stay in the tent for the night, then figured he might as well see it through and not make things worse than they already were. Besides, he knew he would sleep better in the shack, and he needed to be alert the next day. He stayed outside a while, long enough to smoke a pipe, which helped him relax and avoid the irritating client. Glassing while outside, he saw on a far rise what appeared to be a big bear, maybe half a mile away. He’d check out the area in the morning with his client. With luck the big bruiser might still be around.

  Fortunately, when Denny entered the shack, the cantankerous Goulsby was already sleeping, snoring like a freight train. It took Denny a while to fall asleep, a couple of wads of tissue paper stuck in his ears helping him to finally get some rest.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Denny was up at five thirty, made a pot of coffee on the Coleman, and began cooking some eggs and bacon, being sure to make a big batch. Once the bacon was cooking, Goulsby woke up, stretched, farted loudly, and went outside to relieve himself.

  He seemed in a better mood, and talked with Denny about his experiences living in Alaska. The client had never been in the north country before. He had apparently shot deer in the eastern woods, and that was the extent of his hunting.

  Trying to make some light conversation, Caraway asked him what he did for a living.

  Goulsby gave him a hard look and said, “I’m in import-export.”

  Denny let it drop.

  By seven, they were out hiking towards the area where Denny had seen the bear the night before. Though it was only half a mile away, halfway there Goulsby insisted they take a break. When he started lighting a cigarette, Denny told him an animal could detect a cigarette from a long distance, and the smell might run it out of the area. The client gave him a sour look and flipped the smoke into some willows. Denny went over and extinguished the cigarette.

  “These bugs are driving me nuts,” Goulsby said. The sound of him slapping his clothes and trying to kill some of the mosquitoes was pretty loud and Denny finally had to tell him to stop.

  “Put some of this bug dope on; it will help a lot.” Denny offered him his bottle.

  “That stuff might give me a rash.”

  “Well, Mr. Goulsby, if you keep slapping at the bugs, you’ll probably spook anything shootable. So, which is it to be, a rash or a bear?”

  Taking the bottle from Denny, the sweating man spread some on his face necks and hands.

  Soon after they continued walking, Goulsby complained, “These hip boots are killing me. Can you go back and get me the hiking shoes from my pack?”

  Denny couldn’t help giving the man a look, which wasn’t lost on Goulsby, who told him to forget it. “Let’s just get my bear.”

  Denny had been glassing the area for a while from the rise where he had seen the bear walking, when he spotted a large grizzly moving in the willows about three hundred yards away, possibly the one he had seen the night before. It looked to be an old bear, with the slow rolling gait a mature, confident male would have. He told the client there was a big bear nearby and they would work around the rise they were on and try to come up on it from the left. Goulsby got all excited and began to move away. Denny gripped his arm and told him to stay right behind him and be as quiet as possible. The man nodded quickly.

  It took about half an hour for Denny to position them so Goulsby could make a clear shot, about seventy-five yards from the big interior grizzly. It should have been simple, easy, but when Goulsby aimed his fancy heavy magnum rifle, he shot too fast and hit the bear too far back. Roaring and snapping at the spot the bullet had entered, the bear took off through the willows, an
d was quickly out of sight. When Denny had yelled to Goulsby to hit him again, the man simply stood there saying, “I hit him, I hit him!” Denny had gotten one shot off with his 30-06, and was sure he had connected, but the animal hadn’t even reacted to the shot.

  What should have been a quick successful hunt had turned into the worst case for a guide. A wounded big bear and a client he couldn’t rely on to hold his sand.

  Scanning the direction the bear had gone in, Caraway was lucky enough to see it break out of a willow patch and then drop down out of sight. He got a gut feeling the grizz was going to stay put and wait for its attackers to come to him, then get some payback for the pain they had caused.

  “Let’s go after him, Caraway!” Goulsby yelled in Denny’s ear.

  It was all Denny could do to keep from grabbing him by the collar and shaking him. Instead, getting right in Goulsby’s face, staring directly into his eyes, he told the man, “You’re going to shut up and do exactly as I say or you’ll be going back to the cabin and wait until I’m done cleaning up this mess, do you understand?”

  The Caraway look stopped the man from his raving, and he calmed down enough to listen to what Denny told him.

  He explained they were going to wait for an hour, to let the hurt bear stiffen up or, if they were lucky, to die from its wounds. Then they were slowly and carefully going to track the animal to where it was lying and do what was necessary. “You stay ten feet behind me and follow until I tell you to do something else.”

  Goulsby nodded.

  Caraway found a good place to scope out the area where the bear was last seen and kept watch in case the bear went on the move. Goulsby sat behind him, smoking and acting agitated. Caraway was worried, partly about keeping this guy safe, and partly about not getting shot in the back by the damn fool in the heat of the moment.

  An hour passed and they headed out, Denny in the lead. He took his time and circled around far enough out to hopefully keep from arousing the bear. Finally, they were behind the place he had last seen it. He told Goulsby to circle around about twenty-five yards away and wait. “If the bear comes out, and he will come in a hurry, shoot him. Don’t wait for me to shoot, but shoot the bear, not me.”