High Hunt

by Eddings, David

  I went back to the deer and started gutting him out. I wasn't nearly as fast as Clint was, but I managed to get the job done finally. I did seem to get a helluva lot of blood on my clothes though, but that didn't really matter.

  I was trying to get him rolled over to drain out when Clint came riding down the ridge, leading Ned and a packhorse.

  "Damn nice deer," he said, grinning. "Six-pointer, huh?"

  "I didn't count him," I said. I checked the deer. "Yeah, it's six points, all right."

  "Have any trouble?" He climbed down.

  "No. He came out on the ridge, I shot him, and he kind of staggered down here and fell down. I'm afraid I busted up the liver pretty bad though." I pointed at the shredded organ lying on top of the steaming gut-pile.

  "Where'd you take him?" he asked.

  "Right behind the shoulder."

  "That's dependable," he said. "Here, lemme help you dump 'im out."

  We rolled the deer over.

  "Heavy bugger, ain't he?" Clint chuckled.

  "We're gonna get a rupture getting him on the horse," I said. "Say, how'd you get above me anyway?"

  "I come up through the meadows and then across the upper end of the ravine at the foot of the rockslide. Gimme your knife a minute."

  I handed it to him.

  "Better get these offa here." He cut away two dark, oily-looking patches on the inside of the deer's hind legs, just about the knees. "Musk-glands," he said. "Some fellers say they taint the meat — I don't know about that for sure, but I always cut 'em off on a buck, just to be safe." Then he reached inside the cut I'd made in the deer's throat and sliced one on each side. "Let's turn him so's his head's downhill," he said.

  We turned the deer and blood slowly drained out, running in long trickles down over the rocks. There really wasn't very much.

  Clint held out his hand. I wiped mine off on my pants, and we shook hands.

  "Damn good job, Dan. I figure that you'll do."

  It was a little embarrassing. "Hey," I said. "I damn near forgot my coat." I went on up to the ridge-top and got it. The sun was just coming up. I felt good, damned good. I ran back down to where Clint was standing.

  "Easy, boy," — he laughed —”you stumble over somethin' and you'll bounce all the way to Twisp."

  "OK," I said, "now, how do we get him on the horse?"

  "I got a little trick I'll show you," he said, winking. He took a coil of rope off his saddle and dropped a loop over the deer's horns. We rolled him over onto his back, and Clint towed him over to a huge flat boulder with his horse. The uphill side of the boulder was level with the rest of the hill and the downhill side was about six feet above the slope. Then he led the pack-horse over and positioned him below the rock. I held the pack-horse's head, and Clint slowly pulled the deer out over the edge.

  "Get his front feet on out past the saddle, if you can, Dan," Clint said.

  I reached on out and pulled the legs over. When the deer reached the point where he was just balanced, Clint got off his horse and came back up.

  "You're taller'n me," he said. "I'll hold the horse, and you just ease the carcass down onto the saddle."

  I went around onto the top of the rock and carefully pushed the deer off, holding him back so he wouldn't fall on over. It was really very simple. Once the deer was in place we tied him down and it was all done.

  "Pretty clever," I said.

  "I don't lift no more'n I absolutely have to." He grinned. "Fastest way I know to get old in a hurry is to start liftin' stuff."

  "I'll buy that," I said. "Which way we going back down?"

  "Same way I come up," he said. "That way we don't spook the deer for the others. You 'bout ready?"

  "Soon as I tie on my rifle," I said. I went back and got it and tied it to the saddle. Ned shied from me a little — the blood-smell, probably.

  "Steady, there, knothead," I said. He gave me a hurt look. I climbed on and we rode on up to the top of the ridge. We cut on across the foot of the rockfall and out into the meadows.

  "Cap was gonna come up," Clint said, "but somebody oughta stay with the Big Man, and I know these packhorses better'n he does."

  I nodded.

  We rode on slowly down through the meadows toward camp. I could see the others over on the ridge, standing and watching. I waved a couple times.

  "God damn, boy," Miller said, "you got yourself a good one." He was chuckling, his brown face creased with a big grin.

  "Had it all gutted out and ever-thin'," Clint told him.

  Sloan came out of his tent. He was still breathing hard, but he looked a little better.

  "Hot damn!" he coughed. "That's a beauty."

  I climbed down off Ned.

  "I fixed up a crossbar," Miller said. "Let's get 'im up to drain out good."

  Clint slit the hocks and we slipped a heavy stick through. Then we led the packhorse over to the crossbeam stretched between two trees behind the cook-tent. Miller had hooked up a pulley on the beam. We pulled the deer up by his hind legs and fastened him in place with baling wire.

  "Damn," Miller said, "that's one helluva heavy deer. Three hundred pounds or better. Somebody in the bunch might get more horns, but I pretty much doubt if anybody'll get more meat."

  We stood around and looked at the deer for a while.

  "How 'bout some coffee?" Clint said.

  "How 'bout some whiskey?" Cal giggled and then coughed.

  "How 'bout some of both?" Miller chuckled. "I think this calls for a little bendin' of the rules, don't you?"

  "Soon as I see to my horse." I grinned at them. I walked over toward Ned, and my feet felt like they weren't even touching the ground, I felt so good.

  25

  I got up at the usual time the next morning and had breakfast with the others. I felt a little left out now. The night before had been fine, with everyone going back to look at the deer and all. Even with the skin off and the carcass in a large mesh game bag to keep the bugs off, it looked pretty impressive. Clint and I had salted the hide and rolled it into a bundle with the head on top. I wasn't sure what I'd do with it, but this way I'd be able to make the decision later. After the big spiel I'd given Clydine the day I'd left about not being a trophy hunter, I was about half-ashamed to keep the head and all, but I knew I'd have to have it in case of a game check. I thought maybe I could have the hide tanned and made into a vest or gloves or something — maybe a purse for her.

  At breakfast I watched Cal carefully. He was coughing pretty badly, but he insisted on going down. I noticed that he didn't eat much breakfast.

  We all walked on down to the corral, and I watched the others saddle up. Ned came over and nuzzled at me. I guess he couldn't quite figure out why we weren't going along. I patted him a few times and told him to go back to sleep — that's what I more or less had in mind.

  "Go ahead and loaf, you lazy bastard," Jack said.

  Miller chuckled. "Don't begrudge him the rest — he's earned it."

  "Right," I said, rubbing it in a little bit. "If you guys would get off the dime, you could lay around camp and loaf a little bit, too."

  "Of course, all the fun's over for you, Dan," Sloane gasped.

  I'd thought of that, too. We went back up to the tents so they could pick up their rifles.

  I stood with my back to the campfire watching them ride off into the darkness. The sound of splashing came back as they crossed the little creek down below the beaver dam.

  "More coffee, boy?" Clint asked me.

  "Yeah, Clint. I think I could stand another cup."

  We hunkered down by the fire with our coffee cups.

  "Now that you've shown them fellers how, I expect we'll be gettin' a few more deer in camp."

  "Yeah," I agreed. "If they'll just get off that damn nonsense about that white deer."

  "Oh, I expect they will. I got about half a hunch that all you fellers shootin' at 'im the other day spooked 'im clear outa the territory."

  "I sure as hell hope so," I said.<
br />
  "Knew a feller killed one once," he said. "He gave me some steaks off it. I dunno, but to me they just didn't taste right. The feller give up huntin' a couple years later. I always wondered if maybe that didn't have somethin' to do with it — 'course he was gettin' along in years."

  I wasn't really sure how much Clint knew about what had happened that day, so I didn't say much.

  "What you plannin' on doin' today?" he asked me.

  "Oh, I thought I'd give you a hand around camp after a bit," I said.

  "You'd just be under foot," he said bluntly.

  "We can always use more firewood." He grinned.

  "Then I might ride old Ned around a little, too. I wouldn't want him to be getting so much rest that he's got the time to be inventing new tricks."

  "Oh, I wouldn't worry none about mat. I think you and him got things about all straightened out."

  "But the first thing I'm gonna do is go back to bed for a while," I said, grinning at him. "This getting up while it's still dark is plain unhealthy."

  "It's good for you." He chuckled. "Kinda gets you back in tune with the sun."

  The more I thought about that, the more sense it made. Whatever the reason, when I went back to bed, I rolled and tossed in my sleeping bag for about an hour and a half and then gave it up as a bad job. I got up, had another cup of coffee, and watched the sunrise creep down the side of the mountain.

  I finally wound up down by the beaver pond, watching the trout swim by.

  "You wanna give 'em a try?" Clint hollered from camp.

  "You got any gear?" I yelled back.

  "Has a duck got feathers? Come up here, boy."

  Miller was sitting by the fire mending a torn place on the skirt of one of the saddles. "Old Clint never goes no place without his fishpole," he said. "He'd pack it along on a trip into a desert — probably come back with fish, too."

  The little guy came back out of his tent putting together a jointed, fiber-glass rod. He tossed me a leather reel case. I opened it and took out a beautiful Garcia spinning reel.

  "Man," I said, "that's a fine piece of equipment."

  "Should be," he growled, "after what I paid for it."

  Somehow I'd pictured him as the willow-stick, bent-pin-and-worm kind of fisherman.

  "How you wanna fish 'em?" he asked me.

  "What do you think'll work best? You know a helluva lot more about this kind of water than I do."

  He squinted at the sky. "Wait till about ten or so," he said.

  "Sun gets on the water good, you might try a real small spoon — Meppes or Colorado spinner."

  "What bait?"

  "Single eggs. Or you might try corn."

  "Corn?"

  "Whole kernel. I'll give you a can of it."

  "I've never used it before," I admitted.

  "Knocks 'em dead sometimes. Give it a try."

  We got the pole rigged up, and I carted it and the gear down to the pond. I'd never used com before, and it took me a while to figure out how to get it threaded on the hook, but I finally got it down pat. After about ten minutes or so I hooked into a pretty nice one. He tailwalked across the pond and threw the hook. I figured that would spook the others, so I moved on down to the lower pond, down by the corrals.

  The lower pond was smaller, deeper, and had more limbs and junk in it. It was trickier fishing.

  On about the fourth or fifth cast, a ranker about sixteen inches or so flashed out from under a half-buried limb and grabbed the corn before it even got a chance to sink all the way to the bottom. I set the hook and felt the solid jolt clear to my shoulder. He came up out of the water like an explosion.

  I held the rod-tip up and worked him away from the brush. It was tricky playing a fish in there, and it took me a good five minutes to work him over to the edge.

  "Does nice work, don't he?" Clint said from right behind me. I damn near jumped across the pond. I hadn't known he was there. When I turned around, they were both there, grinning.

  "He'll do," Miller said.

  I lifted out the fish and unhooked him.

  "Want to try one?" I asked, offering the pole to Clint.

  I saw his hands twitch a few times, but he firmly shook his head. "I get started on that," he said, "and nobody'd get no dinner."

  "Shall I throw him back?" I asked, holding out the flopping fish.

  "Hell, no!" Clint said. "Don't never do that! If you don't want 'em, don't pester 'em. Put 'im on a stringer and keep 'im in the water. Catch some more like 'im and we'll have fresh trout for lunch — make up for that liver you blew all to hell yesterday."

  "Yes, sir!" I laughed, throwing him a mock salute.

  "Don't never pay to waste any kinda food around Clint here," Miller said.

  "I went hungry a time or two when I was a kid," Clint said. "I didn't like it much, and I don't figger on doin' it again, if I can help it."

  The hollow roar of a rifle shot echoed bouncingly down the ridge.

  "Meat in the pot," Clint said.

  There were three more shots, raggedly spaced.

  "Not so sure," Miller said, squinting up the ridge.

  "We going up?" I asked, gathering up the fishing gear.

  "Let's see what kind of signal we get," Miller said.

  We waited.

  There finally came a flat crack of a pistol. After a minute or so there was a second.

  "Cripple," Clint said disgustedly.

  "It happens," Miller said. "I'll go. This might take some time and —”

  "I know," Clint said. "I gotta fix dinner."

  "I'll come along," I said.

  Miller nodded. "Might not be a bad idea. We might need some help if the deer run off very far."

  I took the gear back to camp and then went on down to the corral. "Any idea who it was?" I asked Miller, who was scanning the ridge with his glasses.

  "Not yet," he said. "Yesterday we could see you goin' on over the other ridge."

  "I got a hunch it was Stan," I said. "That pistol of his has a short barrel."

  "Ain't the Big Man or your brother," he said. "I can see both of them, and they ain't movin'."

  I waited.

  "Yeah, it's the Professor, all right. He's just comin' up out of the gully."

  We saddled our horses as well as Stan's horse and the pack-horse.

  "We'll cut along the bottom here and go up on the other side," he said.

  "All right."

  We rode on up to the head of the basin and crossed the ravine just above the tree line. We could see Stan's fluorescent jacket in the brush about a mile up above. We started up.

  We found him standing over the deer about a half mile from the ravine. The deer was bleating and struggling weakly, several loops of intestine protruding from a ragged hole in his belly.

  "Why didn't you finish him off?" I demanded, swinging down from the saddle.

  "I — I couldn't," he stammered, his face gray. "I tried but I couldn't pull the trigger." He was standing there holding his pistol in a trembling hand.

  I pulled out the .45, thumbed the hammer, and shot the deer in the side of the head. He stiffened briefly and then went limp.

  I heard Stan gag and saw nun hurry unsteadily away into the bushes. We heard him vomiting.

  "His first deer?" Miller asked me very softly.

  I nodded, putting the .45 away.

  "Better go help 'im get settled down. I'll gut it out. Looks a little messed up."

  I nodded again. The deer was a three-point. I think we'd all passed up bigger ones.

  "Come on, now, Stan," I said, walking over to him. "It's all done now."

  "I didn't know they made any noise," he said, gagging again. "I didn't think they could."

  "It doesn't happen very often," I said. "It's all over now. Don't worry about it."

  "I made a mess of it, didn't I?" he asked, looking up at me, His face was slick and kind of yellow.

  "It's all right," I said.

  "I just wanted to get it over with," he s
aid. "I tried to aim where you said, but my hands were shaking so badly."

  "It's OK," I said. "Anybody can get buck-fever."

  "No," he said, "it wasn't that at all. It was what happened the other day — when you saw me."

  I didn't say anything. I couldn't think of anything to say.

  "I know you saw me," he said. "I really wasn't trying to kill him, Dan. You have to believe that. I just had to make him quit talking the way he was — about Monica."

  "Sure, Stan. I know."

  "But I just had to get it over with. I've got to get away from him. Next time —” He left it.

  I glanced over at Miller. He was almost done. He was even faster than Clint. I was sure he couldn't hear us.

  "You all right now?" I asked Stan.

  "You're pretty disgusted with me, aren't you, Dan?" he asked.

  "No," I said. "It's not really your fault. Things just got out of hand for you, that's all. You OK now?"

  He nodded.

  "Let's go give Miller a hand with the deer," I said.

  He stood up and wiped his face with his handkerchief.

  "I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Miller," he said when we got back. "I guess I just froze up."

  "It happens," Miller said shortly, cleaning off his knife. "Bring that packhorse over here."

  I got the horse.

  We loaded the deer onto the horse and lashed him down.

  "Did you leave any of your gear over on the other side?" Miller asked him.

  "No," Stan said, "I brought everything along."

  "Well, let's go on down then."

  We climbed on the horses and rode on down to the bottom and across the ravine.

  "What's the matter with Cal?" Stan said, pointing up the ridge.

  I looked up, Sloane was standing up, weakly waving both hands above his head at us.

  I looked at Miller quickly.

  "Somebody better go see," he said.

  I nodded and turned Ned's nose up the hill.

  Above me, Sloane fumbled at his belt briefly and then came out with his Ruger. He pointed it at the sky and fired slowly three times, then he sagged back down onto the ground.