High Hunt

by Eddings, David

  "Picked up somebody's scent," Miller said. "Breeze gets a little tricky this time of evenin'."

  We sat in silence, watching several does and a couple of small bucks pick their way on down the ravine. The sun crept slowly down toward the shoulder of the peak, and the shadows of the rocks and bushes grew longer. It was very quiet up there.

  The sun slid behind the mountain, and the lucid shadowless twilight settled in. After a while Miller checked his watch.

  "I guess that's about it," he said.

  We got up and went back to the horses.

  "Evenings are a little slower, aren't they?" I said.

  "Yeah," he agreed, "like I said."

  We mounted up and started down. McKlearey was already on his horse waiting for us, but we had to whistle for Stan and Jack. It was almost dark by the time we got down to the corral. We unsaddled and went back up to camp.

  "Boy," Jack said, "you weren't kiddin' when you said pickin's were lean at night. I don't think I seen more'n half a dozen."

  "You saw more than I did then," Stan said.

  "I seen eight or ten," McKlearey said.

  "I know some fellers don't even go out in the afternoon, Clint said, "but a man never knows when that big one'll come easin' by. Besides" — he grinned —”it gives me a chance to get supper goin' without havin' all you men under foot."

  We got the point and backed away from the fire to give him a little more room.

  "I don't mind goin' out," McKlearey said. "That's what we came up here for. I wouldn't want old Whitey gettin' past me."

  "Don't be gettin' no wild ideas about my deer," Jack said.

  "He ain't yours till you get your tag on 'im, Alders."

  "I'll tag 'im," Jack said, "don't worry about that."

  "Not if I see 'im first, you won't," McKlearey snapped.

  "I told you men yesterday," Miller said, "that there's a whole lot of deer up on that mountain. You get your mind all set on just that one, and you're liable to come up empty."

  "One of us is bound to get Mm," Jack said.

  "Not necessarily," Miller said. "There's a hundred or more trails on that ridge. He could be crossin' on any one of "em."

  "I'm still gonna wait a few days before I fill my tag," Jack said.

  I went over to see how Sloane was doing. I'm afraid that about two or three more smart remarks from my brother, and I'd have had to get in on it. Jack could be awfully knot-headed stubborn when he got his back up.

  "Hey, Cal," I said, poking my head into his tent. "How's it going?"

  "A little better now, Dan," he said from his bed. "I think it's startin' to settle down finally."

  "Good deal, Cal. I'm glad to hear it."

  "Come on in," he said, "have a blast." He giggled. That made me feel better right there.

  "Now there's an idea," I said. I went on into his tent. He fished out his bottle and we each had a small snort.

  "I'll tell you, buddy," he said, "it just damn near had me whipped there for a while. About ten this morning it was all I could do to climb up on that horse."

  "You been sleeping straight through?" I asked him.

  "Dozing," he said. "I feel pretty good now. Except I'm hungrier'n hell."

  "Wouldn't be surprised," I said. "We couldn't interest you in lunch."

  "I couldn't have eaten lunch if you guys had all held guns on me."

  "You about ready to make an appearance?" I asked him.

  "Sure thing. Chow about ready?" He sat up, carefully.

  "Should be."

  "Good." He pulled on his boots and got slowly to his feet. "I ain't about to rush it this time," he said.

  "Good thinking."

  We went out to join the others, and there were the usual wisecracks about Sloane loafing around camp. He laughed and giggled as if nothing were wrong. I could see the relief in Miller's face. We all felt a helluva lot better. Having a man sick like Cal had been is just like having a heavy weight on top of everybody's head.

  "You're lookin' a helluva lot better there, Sullivan," McKlearey said.

  "Who?" I asked him.

  "Sullivan there." He pointed at Cal with his bandaged hand.

  I shrugged. Maybe it was some kind of goof-off nickname.

  "Come and get it," Clint said, "or I'll feed it to the porky."

  "Where is that little bastard anyway?" Jack said as we walked toward the fire.

  "Oh, he's still around," Miller said. "Just watch where you set."

  We lined up and Clint filled our plates. Then we went over and sat around the fire to eat.

  "Hell," McKlearey said suddenly, staring at Cal. "You ain't Sullivan."

  "I never said I was." Sloane giggled through a mouthful of beans.

  "Hey, Danny," McKlearey said, "where the hell is Sullivan?"

  "Sullivan who?" I asked.

  "Oh, shit, you know Sullivan as well as I do."

  "Sorry, Lou. It doesn't ring a bell."

  He looked at me closely. "Oh," he said. "No, I guess it wouldn't. I guess I was thinkin' about somebody else."

  "McKlearey," Jack said, "what the hell are you smokin' anyway?"

  "Well," Lou said, grinning broadly at him, "I tried a pine-cone this morning."

  "How was it?" Sloane giggled. "Did it blow your mind?"

  "Aw, hell no," Lou said. "Turned it inside-out a couple times, but it didn't even come close to blowin' it."

  Who the hell was Sullivan, for Chrissake?

  We finished eating and cleaned up our dishes. Then we all sat down around the fire with a drink.

  "Same layout for tomorrow as this morning?" Sloane asked.

  "Seems to work out pretty well," Miller said, "and you men all got them posts you're on pretty well located by now."

  "God, yes," Jack said. "Let's not switch around now. I'd get lost sure as hell."

  "Well, then," Sloane said, polishing off his drink, "if there aren't gonna be any changes, I think I'll hit the sack."

  "Christ, Sloane," Jack said, "you been sleepin' all day."

  "Man, I need my beauty sleep." Cal giggled.

  "Somehow," I said, grinning, "I think it's a little late for that."

  "Never hurts to give it a try," he said, getting up.

  "I'll call it a day, too," Stan said.

  "What a buncha candy asses," McKlearey rasped.

  "Four o'clock still comes damned early," Clint growled at the rest of us. It occurred to me that the little old guy had to be up at least a half hour before the rest of us, and he might feel it was bad manners to go to bed before we did.

  "Why don't we all hang it up?" I suggested. "Maybe then you mighty hunters won't be so damn rum-dum in the morning."

  "I suppose a good night's sleep wouldn't kill me," Jack said. We all got up.

  "Man," Lou said, "this is worse than basic training."

  "But this is fun, Lou," I said.

  "Oh, sure" — he grinned at me —”I'd rather do a little sack-time with some high-class broad." He winked knowingly at Stan.

  Christ! Was he trying to get killed?

  Stan's face tightened up, and he went off to his tent without saying anything.

  The rest of us said good night and scattered toward our sacks.

  "Sloane seems a lot better," Jack said after we'd gotten settled.

  "Yeah," I agreed. "That's a helluva relief."

  "God, it must be awful — gettin' old like that," he said suddenly.

  "What the hell are you talking about?" I asked him. "Sloane isn't old."

  "You know what I mean," Jack said. "When your lungs or your legs give out like that."

  "Oh, hell. Sloane's got a lot of miles left in him," I said. "He's just a little winded."

  "It gives me the creeps, that's all."

  "That's a helluva thing to say."

  "I know, but I can't help it."

  "What's eating at you, Jack?" I asked him, sitting up.

  "I'm not gettin' anyplace. It's like I'm standin' still."

  "What the hell br
ought this on?"

  "God damn it, I've known Sloane since I was a kid. He's always been able to handle himself and anything that came along. He's always been the roughest, toughest guy around."

  "Jesus, Jack, it's not his fault he gets winded up here. It could happen to anybody."

  "That's just it. A couple more years, and it's damn likely to happen to me."

  "Oh, bullshit! You're not carrying the gut Sloane is."

  "It's not only that," he said, and his voice had an edge of desperation. "It's what I was sayin' before — I'm not gettin' anyplace. Hell, I'm not any further ahead right now than I was five goddamn years ago. I've got a marriage goin' sour. I've got a pissy-ass, two-bit job — hell, I had a better job year before last. Man, I'm just goin' downhill."

  What the hell could I say? As far as I could see, he was calling it pretty close.

  "It's been just too much booze, too many women, too many different jobs," he went on. "I've just got to dig in, goddammit, I've got to!"

  "All you have to do is make your mind up, they say." What an asinine thing to say!

  "Christ! I wish I could be like you, Dan, you know that? You know where you're goin', what you're gonna be. Me, I'm just floppin' around like a fish outa water. I just can't seem to settle down."

  "Man, it's not just exactly as if you were over the hill or anything."

  "You know what I mean. I keep hopin' something will click — you know — make it all snap into place so I can get settled down and get started on something. Maybe this trip will do it." He stared gloomily at the fire.

  He was afraid! Jack had been talking for so long about how he wasn't afraid of anything that I guess I'd almost come to believe it. Now it came as a kind of shock to me. Jack was afraid. I didn't know what to say to him.

  "You want a belt?" I asked him.

  "Yeah. Maybe it'll help me sleep."

  I fished out my bottle and we each had a quick drink. Then we both sat staring out at the dying fire.

  We were still awake when McKlearey started screaming again.

  "Sullivan," he screamed, "look out!" Then there was a lot more I couldn't understand.

  By the time I got untangled from my sleeping bag and got outside the tent, Lou was standing outside, still hollering and waving that goddamn .38 around. I wasn't just exactly sure how to handle it.

  "McKlearey!" It was Sloane. He had his head out of his tent, and there was a bark to his voice that I hadn't heard him use very often.

  "Huh?" McKlearey blinked and looked around, confused. "What's up, Cal?"

  "You're havin' another bad dream," Sloane said. "Settle down and put that goddamn gun away."

  "What?" Lou looked down and saw the pistol in his hand. "Jeez!" he said. "Sorry, you guys. I musta had another damn nightmare." He lowered the gun and went back into his tent holding his left hand carefully in front of him to keep from bumping it.

  After a minute or so I heard the clink of a bottle in there. What the hell? As long as it kept him quiet.

  22

  I woke up the next morning before Clint came around to shake us out. I could see the little old guy and Miller standing over by the fire and hear the low murmur of their voices. I got up quietly and went on out of the tent.

  "Mornin', Dan," Clint said.

  "Clint. Cap," I said.

  "Coffee'll be done in just a bit," Clint said.

  "Ol' Sarge seems to have got settled down," Miller said, his low voice rumbling. "At least I didn't hear him no more last night."

  "I think he's only good for about one of those a night," I said.

  "Well," Clint growled, "I don't know about him, but it's about all I'm good for."

  "Amen," I agreed.

  "I better go check the horses," Miller said and went off down toward the corrals.

  I finished dressing and asked Clint if I could give him a hand with breakfast.

  "Naw, Dan, thanks all the same, but I got 'er just about ready to go on the fire."

  "OK," I said and got cleaned up.

  "Coffee's done," he said as Miller came back up.

  "Thanks, Clint," I said. "It's a little chilly this morning."

  "Some," Miller agreed, shaking out his cup.

  "I sure hope we don't get any snow," I said.

  Miller grinned at me. "You got a thing about snow, son?"

  "I went on maneuvers two winters in a row in Germany," I said. "I got a little used up on it."

  "We could get some," he said, "but it's not very likely. I wouldn't lose no sleep over it."

  The three of us had coffee. It was kind of sleepy and quiet — a private sort of time of day. None of us said much. The moon over the top of the peak was very sharp and bright.

  "I better roust out the others," Clint said finally.

  "I'll get 'em," I said.

  "OK. I'll get breakfast on."

  I woke up the others and then went back down to the fire. The smell of bacon and frying potatoes was very strong, and I realized I was hungry.

  Jack came straggling down to the fire, his unlaced boots flopping loosely on his feet and his baseball cap stuffed down on his scrambled hair. "Son of a bitch!" he said, "it's colder'n a witch's tit."

  "You keep company with some mighty strange women," I said, just to be saying something.

  Clint doubled over with a wheezy, cackling kind of laugh. Even Miller grinned. I didn't really think it was all that funny myself.

  "Always a smart-ass in the crowd," Jack growled. He finished dressing and washed up. By then the others had come out.

  Sloane looked a lot better, and we all felt relieved about that.

  "This cold'll hold the deer back a little," Miller said as we started to eat. "They're liable to be dribblin' across them ridges most of the mornin', so I won't be back up to get you men till 'bout noon or so." We all nodded. "Clint'll fix you up with some sandwiches to kinda tide you over."

  "That's a good idea," Jack said. "I got a little gaunt yesterday."

  We finished eating and went down to the corral and saddled up by moonlight again. Then we led the horses back up to camp, got our rifles and sandwiches and started up the ridge.

  None of us said very much until after we'd dropped Sloane off. Then Stan dropped back to where I was riding and pulled in beside me.

  "Did you hear him last night?" he said, his face tight in the moonlight.

  "Who?"

  "McKlearey."

  "You mean all that screaming? Hell, how could I help it?"

  "No," he said. "I mean before we went to bed. That clever little remark he made — about a 'high-class woman.'"

  "It didn't mean anything, Stan," I said. "He was just talking."

  "Maybe, but I don't think so."

  "Oh, come on, Stan. He talks like that all the time. It doesn't mean a thing."

  "I wish I could believe that," he said, "but somehow I just can't. I'm about to go out of my mind over this thing."

  "You're imagining things." God, he acted so positive!

  "Your post, Professor," Miller said from up in front of us.

  Stan nudged his horse away before I could say anymore.

  "He was daydreamin'." McKlearey chuckled raspingly. "He's got a young wife with a wild body on her." He laughed again. Stan didn't turn around, but his back stiffened.

  We rode on up the ridge and dropped off McKlearey.

  At the top Miller wished me luck and went on back down. He seemed to have something on his mind — probably the same thing the rest of us did.

  I sat on my rock waiting for it to get light and trying not to think about it. I didn't want it to spoil the hunting for me.

  Once again the sky paled and the stars faded and the deer started to move. I saw one pretty nice four-point about seven or so, but I held off. I still thought I might be able to do a little better. The rest were all either does or smaller bucks.

  The sun came up.

  By eight thirty I began to feel as if that rock was beginning to grow to my tailbone. I'd swung my sc
ope up and down the ravine so many times I think I knew every branch and leaf on the scrubby, waist-high brush, and there must have been trails out in the meadow behind me from my eyeballs. Nothing had gone by for about fifteen minutes, and frankly I was bored. Sometimes that happens when you're hunting — particularly stand-hunting. Maybe I just don't have the patience for it.

  I stood up and walked down the knob a ways. I wondered if I could see any of the others. I made damn sure the safety was on and then ran the scope on down the ridge. I could see the camp a mile and a half or so away. It looked like a toy carelessly dropped at the edge of the spruces. The beaver pond looked like a small bright dime in the middle of the yellow-green meadow.

  I was sure I could make out Clint moving around the fire, and I thought I saw Miller among the horses grazing in the lower meadow. I swung the scope up the ridge a ways.

  I could see the white boulder that marked Sloane's post, but Cal himself was under the upswelling brow of the next hump. I spotted Jack rather quickly. He was standing up, tracking a doe over in the ravine with his rifle.

  I searched the next post for a long time but couldn't locate Stan — which was odd, since his post was all out in plain sight with no obstructions in my line of sight. I thought maybe he was lying under some brush, but that orange jacket of his should have stood out pretty vividly against or even under the yellowing leaves of the sparse brush.

  I moved the scope on up to the notch. A lazily rising puff of cigarette smoke pinpointed Lou for me — even though he was the only one of us who wasn't wearing any kind of bright clothing. He'd rigged up a kind of half-assed blind of limbs and brush and was sprawled out behind it, his rifle lying against a limb. He was only about a hundred and fifty yards down the hill. He raised his arm to his face with a Clint and a flicker of that white bandage. He had a bottle with him. Maybe that's what had Miller so worried. McKlearey sure didn't seem to be hunting very hard.

  I was about ready to go on back up to my rock-roost when I caught a flash of color in the thick brush between Stan's post and McKlearey's notch. I put the scope on it.

  It was Stan. He was crawling through the bushes on his hands and knees. His face looked sweaty and very pale. He seemed to be trembling, but I couldn't be sure.

  "What the hell is he up to?" I muttered under my breath. I watched him inch forward for about five minutes. When he got to the edge of the notch, he stopped and lay facedown on the ground for several minutes. He was about fifty yards above and behind McKlearey.