“Right, I forgot about that. But you are still wearing a shielding-suit.”
“That's different, that's my insurance. I have to draw the line somewhere.”
“I hope you are successful, Mr. Sportsman, but not too soon. I still want to get more sleep.”
“Sleep. That's all you ever think about.” Galen pulled on his hat and gloves, cradled his rifle, and stepped through the open hatch to the snow covered ground below.
“Close the hatch! You are letting all the heat out!” Terran pulled the blanket back over his head.
Drawing a deep breath of the cold, dry air, Galen walked up the short distance to Windy Pass. The pine scented breeze was increasing. He allowed enough illumination from his hand-light to see his way through the scattered boulders. His footsteps, squeaking in the powdery snow, came to a stop at the top of the pass. He risked a brighter light to examine the descending mountainside stretching off into the west.
**********
Finishing his coffee and stuffing a sandwich into another pocket, Martin climbed out of the truck and put on his down parka. He loaded five cartridges into the magazine of his 8mm Mauser, slung the rifle onto his shoulder, turned to the northeast, and walked into the darkness of the trees. The road became a wide trail lit by the fading stars and the glimmers of dawn. The delicate crunch of snow under his lugged boots was the only sound a deer or awakening bird might hear.
The air began to move. The approach of dawn was starting the great wind engine that drove these peaks and passes. A few snowflakes from the Lodge Pole pines drifted down, caressing his warm face. Soon all the trees would be dumping their snowy loads on any unfortunate soul beneath them.
**********
Turning his back on the westerly wind, Galen worked his way back down the eastern side of the pass, turning south at the edge of a small meadow flanked by fir and spruce thickets, still black in the fading starlight. Studying a topography map he located a trail and continued his southerly direction, turning west again around a shoulder of the mountain. With the wind once more in his face, Galen moved stealthily along the trail with a minimum of illumination from his light. A fresh set of large deer tracks entered the trail, moving in the same westerly direction. He smiled to himself and continued on.
**********
Martin was surprised by the shock wave of a nearby rifle firing in the dark. The rolling roar of the large caliber continued to echo down the canyons and roll back, finally dying out, leaving only the faint rustle of the breeze tipping the snow out of the top branches of the tall pines. The chickadees were silent, not even moving. Everything was silent. Standing still, Martin strained for a sound but nothing floated back.
Then he heard it. A branch snapped, and then another, mixed with the muted thuds of hooves coming down the hill ahead. Another branch snapped followed by a heavy thud, and then stillness. Listening carefully he began to recognize the sound of an injured animal. He guessed it was a deer. But why had it been shot now? It was still dark, a true sportsman wouldn’t be hunting deer at night. He stood silently, listening to the faint rhythmic breathing. Another faint sound, also rhythmic, intruded gently on the first. The steady squeak of deliberate footsteps in the snow descended the hill. The steps drew closer. The animal’s breathing quickened, it gasped and coughed as it struggled to get up. To Martin’s amazement, an intense white light illuminated the animal, a five point mule buck, one of the largest he’d ever seen. The buck, bloodstained on its lower chest, panicked and struggled to leap away. It crashed into a Hawthorne bush, sending up a sparkling cloud of snow. Blinded by the light, the deer guessed where to jump. The rifle roared again, echoing through the mountain sides. The hapless buck leaped again down the mountain side as the intense light faded to darkness. Quick muted steps followed. The crashing of the wounded deer continued, growing fainter as it descended toward the creek bottom.
Martin remained still. He couldn’t hear the buck or the hunter anymore. He waited for more light to continue walking up the trail where the deer had crossed. Tufts of brownish gray and tan hair hung from the thorns of the Hawthorne bush, and dark drops of blood drilled the snow below it.
He wondered why the hunter didn't kill the deer. Footprints in the snow showed he was close enough. Using a light was illegal. Anger began to grow in his heart. If he got the chance he would report the hunter to the Fish and Game.
Minutes later as Martin rounded the heavily timbered mountainside below the southeast ridge, the boom of a distant rifle again caught his attention. His anger rekindled as he recalled the agony of the wounded animal as it tried to escape, and the hunter using a bright light. Martin's face flushed hot with indignation.
Martin had long ago lost the thrill and heart racing feeling of the kill. As the years went by, he found himself more reluctant to squeeze the trigger to end an animal’s life. The protection and preservation of them had grown in his mind and heart, and he wondered how long he’d continue to hunt. He reasoned that hunting was necessary for the health of the animal population, and he truly did like the meat, depending on a supply of it to carry him through the long winters. And the ritual – could he ever really stop? He loved the mountains and the hunt. He loved the battling of wits with a creature his own size or larger that survived not only by instinct, but by caution, cleverness, and speed.
Following the ridge north for half a mile, he turned eastward again at the head-wall along the upper end of the valley. He crossed a frozen stream and approached the eastern base of Windy Pass. The rising wind was at his left as the dawn approached. Martin slowly shifted into position in the deep woods at the eastern edge of the pass. It was only a matter of time until hunters worked their way up the western side and drove the big bucks to him. He’d done this before and he could wait.
Martin watched and waited for a long time, but nothing came his way. With no activity but the rising wind, he retraced his steps on the trail that had brought him. He turned onto a different trail that dropped down lower on the mountain. The wind lessened and the jays and chickadees reappeared, lightening his heart and reconfirming his love for the forest’s inhabitants. The usual satisfaction of the first day’s hunt was unfulfilled, his heart wasn’t in it after seeing the hunter with the bright light. The ritual seemed empty. Was it something his father would have done, or something that memory and loss drove him to do? Thoughts and memories like these brought back the ache of his father’s disappearance. Only the soothing balm of the forest lifted his spirits.
The weak winter sun at mid-morning signaled a stop along a south facing hillside. Several hundred feet below him ran a small stream, virtually unseen for all the snow and ice except for a few dark holes in the snow. After a sandwich, he worked his way down the steep hillside to the stream and scooped up the cold, refreshing water with his hand. Scooping up another palm full, he glanced upstream and froze, water dripping through his fingers. Partially hidden by a bush was the body of a large mule deer laying in the creek. To Martin’s surprise and disgust, the deer had no head.
Trophy hunter! Deep anger stirred in him again. He vividly recalled the consuming rage of his father many years ago when the two of them discovered the headless carcasses of three magnificent bull elk. He still mirrored his father's sentiments.
“Nothing is more wasteful or arrogant!” his father had said. “To kill these stately animals just to hang their heads on the wall is criminal. The hunter should use the meat or at least give it to somebody that needs it. It’s too bad this hunter’s head isn’t hung up on a wall for us all to jeer at!”
He pulled the deer up the bank some distance for the coyotes to finish. Dropping the legs and turning to go uphill a brilliant gleam caught his eye. He bent down and reached for a small metallic object caught in the crotch of a double tree. It was a rifle cartridge. The metal was iridescent like an oil film on water. Stunned, he looked at it carefully. It appeared the same as the three unusual casings that had been found when his father disappeared so many years ago. Long years
of unanswered questions and agonizing memories once thought conquered suddenly sprang alive in a hideous rebirth.
For hours he scoured the area for anything that would provide a clue. The wind had erased any tracks but could not blow away the lingering doubts and nagging questions. Was this the same hunter that left the previous casings years ago? Was this the same hunter that used the bright light? Did this hunter have anything to do with his father? Does it all fit together or is it just coincidence? Finally, he returned to the trail and made for his truck.
The chickadees were still flitting about and chattering in the upper branches when Martin reached the old truck sitting forlornly by the big firs. Small drifts of snow had banked against the wheels. The truck door opened with a groan and he climbed in. He started the engine and let it run while pouring himself a cup from his thermos. The coffee smelled so good. It was a relief to be out of the wind enjoying the warmth of the heater and his favorite brew.
Still full of questions, Martin started back down the rough road, easing the old four-wheel drive down the steep hills that didn’t seem nearly so steep going up. He should have left an hour ago, when the sun was still shining. The southwest mountains now hid the lowering sun, silently signaling the approaching twilight.
A half mile down the road, his retreat was halted by a fallen Lodge Pole pine. The wind must have knocked it down. He climbed out to assess the situation.
The twelve inch diameter tree was wedged between standing trees. Without an ax or saw, and no winch on the truck, he wasn’t going anywhere except on foot. He walked slowly to the butt end of the tree where it was still attached to the stump. Looking closely, he realized it had been cut and made to appear as if it had blown down naturally. Both sides of the road were too steep and tree bound to drive around the fallen tree.
“Who would do this? This doesn’t make any sense,” he said, shaking his head. Now he faced a long walk back to the main road, most of it in the dark. At least it would be downhill. He might as well finish his coffee and sandwich in the heated truck. He would have to get back out in the cold soon enough.
Chapter IX
“I told you I was feeling lucky,” Galen said. “Look at the size of this buck! Five points on each side. Have you ever seen such antlers on a deer? He's almost the size of an elk!”
“Impressive – but you know more about this sort of thing than I do,” Terran said. “Did you take him with the first shot?”
“You had to ask. No, I didn't. It took three shots to finish him off and he led me on a wild chase. But it was worth it.”
“How is the preservation chamber working? I don't notice the gamey smell anymore.”
“Perfectly!” Galen said. “I'm anxious to fill the other one. I think I can do it soon.”
“Really?”
“I back-tracked on my trail and discovered another set of tracks. They match what I'm looking for, as best as I can tell. I'll rest awhile and then resume my hunt.”
“Will you be back in time to leave tonight?”
“I'll try. I'm prepared to stay out all night if I have to. This might be the opportunity I have been waiting for. I don't want to pass it up.”
“Well, if you must stay out all night, I hope you don't freeze.”
“I'll be prepared,” Galen said.
**********
Martin finished his coffee and shut down the old truck. He started the long walk down the road in the early darkness, his rifle cradled in his arms. The tree blocking the road, the hunter with the light, the headless deer, and the empty cartridge casing made him suspicious. He would keep his rifle with him. Bears were hibernating now, but mountain lions were still a threat. He also might need to signal in an emergency.
The wind had abated for the night and the quietness was broken only by the soft crunching of his boots in the crusted snow. The young moon was approaching the mountains. It's soft light illuminated the road ahead, accompanied by a host of brilliant winter stars. The thick trees, close and dense, formed impenetrable black walls on either side. The road was a faint, narrow ribbon of white between them.
After half a mile something tugged a corner of his consciousness forcing him to look behind. Back where his truck was parked the tops of the trees were lit up, illuminated by light at ground level. He stood and listened but no sounds came. The light stopped after a few seconds. He remembered the wounded deer and the hunter’s light from earlier that morning. It aroused his curiosity but heightened his feeling for caution. Martin climbed up the steep bank to his left until he was a hundred feet from the road and doubled back in the direction of his truck. It was difficult and slow going among the dark trees. He moved skillfully, making little noise, and stopped from time to time to listen. After going some distance he turned back toward the road, quietly making his way half way down before turning left again in his original direction. He slowly paralleled the road. He stopped often. He waited patiently. Finally, faint crunching footsteps floated to his keen ears. Martin remained motionless. He strained to pick up every nuance. The footsteps continued on by him at a steady pace. Martin followed through the trees, gradually working his way down toward the road.
He could now see a darkened figure ahead of him steadily moving in the soft moonlight. Suddenly it stopped and Martin quickly checked his own movement. A brilliant white light illuminated the road ahead and swept around just as Martin ducked behind a densely needled spruce tree. White slivers of light on each side of him moved off as the light continued sweeping around. The figure focused the light on Martin’s footsteps going up the hill. The figure hesitated and looked around once more with the light. Looking up the bank again, the figure climbed up as the light faded out.
At that moment Martin’s suspicion was confirmed. He was being hunted. He made his way back to the road and walked in his own tracks a short distance before dropping off the right side at a rocky spot. With more regard for speed than stealth, he worked his way down toward the creek bottom that lay below him. He had only gone a short way when the trees around him were stabbed with a sharp white light, followed seconds later by the deafening roar of a large caliber rifle. A tree near Martin’s shoulder splintered as the bullet tore through it. Martin plunged a zigzag path down the mountain. Questions raced through his mind. Who could it be? Why were they after him?
More than once the dead fall tripped him in his headlong plunge toward the creek bottom. He fell numerous times, gouging himself on the snag ends of broken branches, all the while struggling to control his panic. Gasping for breath, he huddled behind a tree and flicked off the caps of the scope. He loaded a cartridge into the chamber of the 8mm and waited behind a tree. A branch snapped in the distance above him, and then another one. Martin continued to wait. Suddenly the snow beside him was illuminated with intense light, the patterns of bark on the tree trunks jumped out in rugged detail. He squinted to avoid losing all his night vision and continued to wait. Not yet – not yet, he told himself. Then it was dark again. The breaking branches continued and drew closer. Martin readied the rifle at his shoulder and waited. The throbbing pulse in his head quickened in anticipation. Time crawled. The waiting seemed like it would endure forever.
All at once, light illuminated his surroundings. Martin was ready. With his right eye to the scope, he swung the rifle around the base of the tree and aimed at the top edge of the light. The light through the scope was painful, like staring at the noontime sun. In a disciplined split-second he found his target and squeezed off the shot. The 8mm roared as the bullet found its mark. The light fragmented into a thousand sparks, there was blackness again.
He hoped that would even things out a bit. He turned downhill but no shots followed him as he zigzagged through the dead fall. With a haunting suddenness the sound of laughter floated down from the hillside above. Martin stopped abruptly behind a tree.
“Well met!” said a deep voice followed by more laughter, this time harder and longer.
Martin continued his plunge down the ravine to the c
reek bottom. The laughter had sent an uncommon shock of terror through him. This person was playing with him, hunting him like an animal.
He lunged forward, straining his stiff and aching muscles, trying to follow the creek in the dense darkness. He continued along the creek for a long distance, slipping and falling many times in his haste. He reached a point where the ground fell more steeply and he struggled down the backside of an ancient rock slide. Anxiety and fatigue made him careless. He slipped again, instinctively grabbing for a tree, but grasping a rotten branch that pulled out of its socket. He began to slide backwards in the dark over what felt like the edge of a cliff. Clutching his rifle in his left hand, he pawed at the ground with his right, hoping to find anything to stop him. With a sickening dread, he slid over the edge, the rocks scraping his belly and chest. Terrified, he plummeted down in the darkness. The cliff sloped at the bottom and Martin slid onto the snow-covered boulders. He stopped abruptly and lay still.
The snap of a branch jarred Martin to painful consciousness. Rocks tumbled down in the darkness. He groped for his rifle. The chatter of more rocks brought back the danger that pursued him. He struggled to stand up. How long he had been lying there? Testing each footstep he painfully made his way down to the trees. In a short distance he discovered a large spruce tree with dense, low growing branches so thick the snow and wind could barely penetrate. A thick blanket of dried needles lay beneath it. Cold and exhausted, he decided against going on, and buried himself in the thick bed of needles. His rifle, with the safety off, was beside him. He would trust the tree and the forest that he loved to watch over him for a while.
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