by R. R. Irvine
A violent shake of his head served to clear away the dead past. He had to think of the future, beginning with today. Today he was wearing his two-pronged hook. His plastic hand was safely stowed upstairs in his suitcase.
With a shrug of his shoulder, Graham shook open the contraption. The gesture was almost second nature to him now, because he’d learned to work the hook first, long before the hand. Hands come later, the therapist had insisted. Master the hook first. When you’re good enough with that, you just may be able to operate the hand. Remember, do what I tell you, because most people in your situation give up. They refuse to learn anything properly, and so they are condemned to live with useless stumps.
Eating was still no easy matter. But he’d developed a system of sorts. He kept his knife wedged in his hook, using the blade as a sort of backstop for the left-handed shovelings of his fork.
When he was finished, he ordered a second cup of coffee, then asked the waitress for a paper.
“The Salt Lake Tribune won’t arrive in town till sometime tonight,” she said. “It has to come in by truck. But I might be able to find a copy of yesterday’s paper, if you’d like?”
“I’d appreciate it,” he said.
She returned a few minutes later with a copy of the Moondance Ledger. “It was all I could find. But it’s the latest issue. You can read all about the Hunting Ground right there on the front page.”
The paper was dated a week ago, the middle of May. The Hunting Ground story took up the entire front page. The text was arranged around a picture of the Uinta foothills, a black and white view very similar to the one seen from Graham’s hotel window. But without dancers, he thought cheerfully as he began to read.
The Moondance Town Council has completed final arrangements for the gala inauguration of the exclusive Hunting Ground, Mayor Hiram “Hi” Benyon announced today.
The mayor himself flew to Hollywood, Calif., to meet with representatives of the American Broadcasting Network, which has agreed to videotape a segment of its popular weekly coast-to-coast program, “The American Huntsman,” here in the Hunting Ground. This special Moondance telecast will star Jimmy Keene, host of the network’s nightly talk show, “PM.”
Keene, when contacted by the Ledger, said that he “was honored to be selected as the first hunter to stalk game in the Hunting Ground.”
An experienced hunter, Keene has tackled big game in both Alaska and Mexico. But he says, “This will be the first time I have hunted in virgin territory.”
He was referring to the newly created 7-thousand-acre Hunting Ground, the only privately owned land in the middle of the 244-thousand-acre High Uinta Primitive Area, federally protected land where no hunting has been permitted, except for food, since the creation of the preserve by the U. S. Park Service in 1931.
Keene concluded by saying that he was “amazed and heartened as a sportsman to learn that the townspeople of Moondance have responded to this country’s growing recreational needs by pooling their land, by giving up their farms and ranches to create a truly unique hunting preserve.”
Mayor Benyon noted that taping of “The American Huntsman” is scheduled for sometime in the middle of May, although the Hunting Ground will not open officially to the public until June 15.
So why all the fuss? Graham wondered. And why didn’t Harriet and Timmons want to talk about it? After all, hunting was already big business in many parts of the state. What possible difference could one more Hunting Ground make?
He still hadn’t come up with an explanation for their behavior by nine o’clock, time for the local stores to open.
When Graham walked out of the hotel, the weather surprised him. Where yesterday morning’s temperature had been near freezing, today was balmy. He glanced up at the sky. The thunderheads had disappeared. Only a bright blue canopy rested atop the surrounding Uintas.
Across the street and down half a block, a storefront caught his eye: “Zions Mercantile.”
Zion, according to the Book of Mormon, was the promised land.
The clerk greeted Graham with a businesslike smile. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so. I need some advice.”
“Heber Young,” the clerk said, introducing himself.
“I’m—”
“I know.”
Graham felt as if he had been the front-page story in the Ledger. He muttered something about the sudden change in weather.
“Don’t be lulled into thinking the good weather’s here to stay. Because a few hours from now—wham!” To demonstrate, Young smacked a fist into his open palm. His eager face was that of a crafty old-timer taking delight in astounding a tenderfoot. “It can dip below freezing anytime, even in July or August.”
“That settles it then. I’m going to need some heavier clothes.”
Nodding, Young continued his forecast. “What you’ve really got to watch out for is the rain. Normally you can set your watch by it. You’ll be able to see for yourself this afternoon. Just keep an eye on the sky. About two, the first real thunderheads will start rolling in.”
“There were clouds this morning.”
“Sure, left over from last night’s rain.”
“I didn’t hear it.”
“You must be a sound sleeper.”
Graham felt dazed. Surely there had been no rain last night, only bright moonlight. Unless . . . unless he dreamed the whole thing. “Are you certain it rained?”
The clerk nodded his head. “You keep a lookout for those thunderheads. By four o’clock they’ll be piled up but good and then—wham!” Again his fist made a smacking sound. “Four o’clock and the rain comes. You can set your watch by it.”
“Then I’m going to be need a new raincoat,” Graham said, conceding the sale if that’s what the man had in mind.
“Don’t get caught thinking just rain either. This is high country, remember, semiarctic if you want to get technical about it. There’s snow all year round in these mountains. Heck, you get up there high enough, above the timberline, say, and you can freeze to death any time of the year.”
“How cold does it get?”
“You mean now, in May?” The clerk paced back and forth for a moment. “Say, twenty degrees. Not much lower. Not normally anyway. But you never know. It can always get cold enough to freeze your anatomy off.”
Graham must have allowed skepticism to show because the man added, “Just don’t take our weather for granted, that’s all I’m saying. Outsiders have tried that before and paid the penalty. Why, last year a couple of poachers were found frozen up near The Devil’s Breath. Like ice cubes they were.” His head ticked from side to side like a metronome. “Strange, too, because that was one of the warmest summers in years.”
“What’s The Devil’s Breath?”
“A place up in the heart of the Hunting Ground.”
“I’ll stick close to town.”
“That’s smart, you being new and all. I guess that means you won’t be doing much hunting?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Still, I can give you a good price on a rifle.” The man pointed at a gun rack behind the counter.
The thought flashed through Graham’s mind that he ought to buy a gun for protection. After all, Del Timmons had threatened him. But that had probably been a bluff. If Graham bought a gun, he’d end up shooting at phantoms, like the one raising hell with his long-gone fingers.
“No rifle,” he said.
Heber Young sighed. “We’ve got to get some new money into this town.” The man glanced at Graham, then walked to the front window of Zions Mercantile. He stared up at the mountains for a moment before beckoning Graham to join him.
When Graham reached the window, the clerk said, “The Uintas are something, aren’t they? Whew! You wouldn’t catch me hunting up there.”
“Why not?”
Young stepped back from the window. “A . . . don’t listen to me. What do I know? I’m strictly a city man.”
Was everybody aro
und here nuts? Graham wondered. Or was it just those mountains that turned them a little strange? If so, he could understand why.
Whatever the case, he put himself in the clerk’s hands. “What I need is a wardrobe for a thin-blooded Californian.”
Surprisingly, Young sold him a minimum outfit, although Graham did leave the store feeling as if he were impersonating a lumberjack, complete with heavy red wool shirt and equally heavy brown corduroy trousers. His boots were ankle-high pull-ons that required no lacing.
His new arctic underwear, too warm for this particular Friday morning, was hidden in a brown paper bag along with the rest of his “big city duds,” as Young had called them. The load forced Graham to return to the hotel, where he left the bag before heading for the bank. There, he dazzled first a teller, then the president with a deposit of twenty-six thousand dollars.
An hour later, with a hundred dollars worth of groceries stacked into the back of the Jeep, Graham started for his uncle’s land—for home. Two blocks later the town ended abruptly. A quarter of a mile more and the houses disappeared. Beyond that was open country until he reached Timmons’s house, where Graham had dickered for the Jeep.
Graham took his eyes from the road just as a dog dashed into his path. He braked so sharply he skidded sideways, killing the engine. But he missed the dog, a half-breed shepherd by the looks of it, the same one that had been howling in Timmons’s backyard.
But Timmons didn’t miss. A blast from his shotgun caught the animal in the flank, sending it head over heels. It came to rest in a weed-filled ditch at the side of the road.
Graham scrambled from the Jeep as Timmons approached, reloading his double-barreled shotgun.
Graham broke into a run and reached the ditch first, where the blood-spattered dog was making a feeble attempt to stand. Finally, it saw Timmons, whimpered, and fell back on its side.
Timmons was bringing up his weapon for the coup de grace when Graham swung. The hook landed. Pain erupted all along his right arm. Tears blinded him, leaving him vulnerable to a counterattack. But when his vision cleared he knew he was safe, because Timmons was down on one knee, swearing and holding a hand over one ear. Blood was running down between his fingers, along his neck, and soaking into the collar of his shirt. The shotgun lay in the dirt at his feet.
“You bastard,” Timmons muttered. “You son of a bitch. I’ll have you arrested.”
Slowly Graham knelt beside the dog. “Easy, boy. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a member of the town council.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to shoot animals in the street,” Graham said, though he had no idea what the public safety laws were like in Moondance.
“I missed him back there on my property,” Timmons said.
Blood was oozing steadily from several wounds in the dog’s flank and hindquarters.
“Is there a vet in town?”
“That’s my dog,” Timmons recovered. “He’s never been to a vet and he’s not going now.”
“I asked you a question. I expect an answer.” Rage shook Graham’s voice. Pain or no pain, he was about to take another swing at the man. “Well?”
Timmons’s eyes flickered toward the shotgun.
“I’ll buy the dog from you,” Graham said.
Timmons cleared his nose and spat the result at Graham’s feet. “How much?”
“How much do you want?”
The man’s eyes glittered. “Fifty dollars.” He reached for the shotgun.
“All right.”
The councilman blinked in surprise. His hand forgot the gun and came out palm up, waiting to be paid.
Awkwardly, Graham extracted money from his wallet. “What’s his name?”
“Dead,” Timmons hissed through clenched teeth.
“Not yet . . . not if I can get him to a vet.”
Timmons snatched the money. “There isn’t one,” he said gleefully. “There hasn’t been for a long time.”
“I know there’s a doctor in town. Where can I find him?”
“You think he’s going to waste his time on a half-dead mutt?”
“Let me worry about that.”
“Doc Epperson will laugh in your face.”
“I don’t have all day. My dog is in pain.”
“He got loose and was starting after my chickens.”
“By the looks of him he was probably starving. Now, damnit, where is that doctor?”
Timmons counted his money. “Straight back down the road the way you were coming. A block past city hall. On the right, a white house with a sign out front.”
The man’s sudden surrender made Graham suspicious. He lunged for the shotgun, retrieved it without opposition, then threw it as far as he could left-handed, about five yards. It landed barrel first.
“That dog belonged to my wife,” Timmons said. He didn’t seem to have noticed what happened to his gun. “He never did like me.”
Graham touched the wounded animal experimentally with his hook. The dog growled.
“I hope he takes your other hand off.” Timmons’s tone of voice turned the growl to a whimper.
Then the dog’s bright pink tongue was licking at the hook as if the animal suddenly understood that Graham was trying to help.
Although his nonexistent fingers still throbbed with pain, he needed both hands, such as they were, to lift the dog. So far, so good, Graham thought. The dog twitched but didn’t bite.
“That dog’s got the evil eye,” Timmons yelled as Graham loaded the animal into the Jeep’s passenger seat. “He’ll cause you nothing but trouble.”
Graham climbed into the vehicle and started the engine. Only when he glanced down at the animal did he notice that it had one brown eye and one blue eye.
******
The doctor’s white house gleamed in the bright sunlight. Even when a billowing thunderhead doused the sun, the small wooden cottage continued to look cheerful. Graham hoped the man matched his house.
Once out of the Jeep, he hesitated. Should he get help to move the dog inside? No. It would be better to carry him right up to the front door. That way, only a hard-hearted villain would be able to turn them away.
When he used his toe to knock, the door opened immediately.
“I hope none of that blood belongs to you,” said a tall, gray-haired man, ramrod straight despite his advanced years. “I’m Dr. Epperson, and you have to be Lew Graham’s nephew.”
Graham nodded. “The dog’s been shot.”
“Bring him in.” Epperson led the way through a dining room, past a closed door marked “Office” and into the kitchen. “Put him on the table. I’d treat him in the office, but I don’t think my other patients would appreciate it.” He sounded flippant, but his eyes were grave and, if Graham read them correctly, full of concern for the wounded animal.
The doctor inspected the shepherd carefully. “Say, I know this dog.”
“Could be. I just bought him from a councilman.”
“Del Timmons?”
“Who also did the shooting.”
The doctor shook his head. “That man needs help, more than I can give him. As for our furry friend here, him I can save. You make sure he doesn’t try to get off this table while I go and get the things I need.”
Epperson disappeared into his office. Graham turned to the dog and said, “I think I like him. How about you?” His tone of voice must have been reassuring because the animal wagged its tail briefly.
The doctor returned to say, “I’m going to give him a mild shot, not much. I don’t know the correct dosage for dogs. But enough to dull the pain so I can work without getting him excited.”
With that, the doctor went to the kitchen sink and washed his hands thoroughly. Then he returned to the table, soaked a cotton ball in alcohol, swabbed an area near the wounds, and eased in a hypodermic. “He might need blood. I don’t know for sure. But there’s none I can give him anyway. Vets usually keep donor dogs for that, but my
conscience wouldn’t be up to that sort of thing.”
Once the shepherd began breathing more easily, Epperson plugged in an electric clipper and deftly shaved away the fur from around the wounds. “I can see five points of entry. No, make that six. Six pellets that have to come out. Hold the dog please . . . tightly.”
Graham gritted his teeth and did as he was told. After the first probe he had to look away. He couldn’t bear to see the shepherd’s reproachful eyes.
“Timmons ought to be put away,” Graham said savagely.
“Don’t judge him by this. He wasn’t always the way he is now.”
“He claims to be a deacon of the church.”
“When a good man turns bad, people look the other way as long as they can.”
Ten minutes later the doctor finished. Graham thanked him with words, the dog with a hearty thump of its tail.
Epperson clapped Graham on the shoulder. “It’s you who deserve thanks for saving this poor old dog. Timmons has been kicking it around for the past year, ever since his wife left him.”
“Somebody ought to kick him.”
“When we’re hurt we hurt back. We take out our rage and frustration on whoever or whatever’s closest. The dog just happened to be handy, that’s all. It doesn’t make Del Timmons a monster.”
“It doesn’t make him a nice person either,” Graham said. “At least people can take care of themselves. Dogs are at the mercy of whoever feeds them. What’s his name anyway?”
“Come to think of it, I don’t remember ever hearing Del call him by anything but cuss words. Maybe that’s part of the trouble, him not thinking of the dog by a real name. Strange though. The pooch ought to have a name. Del’s wife must have called him something. Oh, well. He’s yours now, so you might as well do the honors.”
