by R. R. Irvine
Harry nodded her agreement and started driving. They were halfway home when she said, “Don’t underestimate the town council. The mayor either, for that matter. He knows you aren’t totally committed to the Hunting Ground. He won’t stop until he’s got it in writing. As for Del Timmons, I don’t think he’ll stop until you leave town.”
“Don’t worry. I realize what I’m up against.”
“Do you?” Harry took her eyes off the road to shake her head at him.
Graham caught his breath. “Look, I lost my hand in one car accident. I don’t want to lose another.”
“Sorry.” She held her head rigidly to the front. “Moondance tends to make us careless because there just isn’t that much traffic.”
It was raining steadily now, enough to obscure the mountains. The road looked black and slick, though Graham had no feel for it because he wasn’t driving.
“If you don’t cooperate,” Harry said, “they’re going to take your land.”
“How?”
“The city can use eminent domain.”
“Only if the land is to be put to public use.”
“They’ve thought of that,” she answered. “They’ll take it and then make you take them to court. Even if you win your case, all you’ll get is money, which they offered you in the first place.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I don’t know. Hi Benyon will go through the roof when he finds out I told you.”
“I won’t tell him.”
“But I will,” Harry said. “It will do him good. Someone has got to make him stop and think about what he’s doing.”
“If you ask me, your mayor knows exactly what he’s doing.”
“I don’t know. He’s changed in the past few months. The Hunting Ground has changed him. It’s made him do things that he would never have considered before.”
Graham snorted.
“It’s true. Hi Benyon means well. Whatever else he is, he’s a God-fearing man.”
“Under pressure, rottenness comes out,” Graham said. “I’ve had experience along those lines myself, acting badly when the going got tough.”
After a long silence she asked, “Are you going to explain that?”
“Only my ex-wife can do that.”
Harry sneaked a glance his way, but it didn’t affect her driving. “Until now, the worst thing I’ve ever known Hi Benyon to do is play with that pipe of his. And that’s not a sin unless he lights it.”
“He may have secret vices.”
“Don’t we all.”
“What are yours, Harry?”
“I’ll ignore that because there’s something else I want to say. It’s about that Indian you saw. I want you to be careful living away from town like you do.”
“Do you think he’s dangerous?”
“I don’t know. In a way I’d be relieved if I knew it was Yeba Kah. That way at least there’d be a logical explanation for what happened to the TV crew.”
“Are you talking about murder?”
“I don’t know, Jack. There have been unexplained deaths in these mountains before.”
“Was the Indian involved?”
“I don’t see how. Some of them go back too far for that.”
“Well then, there’s no reason to worry about him.”
Harry shivered. “One of these days,” she said, “I’ll show you my files at the Ledger. Then you’ll see why I’m worried.”
After Del Timmons left city hall, he went directly to the Zions Mercantile. The clerk behind the counter, Heber Young, smiled expectantly.
Timmons said, “I want a rifle, something with a lot of killing power.” His head bobbed up and down.
“What happened to your shotgun?” Young asked.
“Whaddya mean?” Timmons was alert now. Maybe the whole town knew about his run-in with Graham. Maybe they were all laughing behind his back. “I’m not here to play twenty questions.”
Young stepped back a pace. “I just meant your twelve-gauge has a lot of wallop, that’s all.”
Timmons eyed the clerk for a moment. “I need something with more range.”
“It’s your money,” Young said and ambled over to a display rack that held half a dozen weapons. He pulled a clump of keys from his pocket, then took his time locating the right one. “The sheriff says I gotta keep „em locked up,” he said by way of explanation. “Though what he’s worried about in this town, I don’t know. He’s as fussy as an old woman.”
“I recognize four thirty-thirties,” Timmons said. “What are the other two?”
“A Savage and a Browning, both thirty-aught-sixes. But I want you to know out front that the Browning’s not made in this country.”
“What is it, a Jap gun?”
“Hey, you know me better than that. It comes from Sweden, I think. Someplace like that anyway.”
“The Savage then. It’ll have to be that.”
“The thirty-thirties are cheaper. Plenty of hitting power for deer.”
“The Savage,” Timmons repeated.
“Sure. Take a look, but . . .” Young seemed to run out of words.
Timmons blew his nose before accepting the rifle. He tested the weapon’s weight before bringing it up to his shoulder. As he squinted through the open rear sight, he imagined his target, centered and cut in two by the front blade sight. He grinned. Automatically, Timmons took a deep breath, let half of it out, then slowly squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened, not even a click, but he felt good about it just the same. His target was as good as dead.
“I’ll take it,” he said, writing out a check, which also covered ammunition.
Then he drove home. As soon as he arrived, he started getting ready. He opened the ammunition box and shook several cartridges into the palm of his hand, where they glinted dully. They were Springfield Super Speed, weight one hundred and eighty grains. When fired the slug would leave the muzzle of his new rifle at a velocity of twenty-seven hundred feet per second. At one hundred yards it would impact the target with twenty-four hundred and forty foot-pounds of energy. Which ought to be more than enough to kill one mangy dog. Or Jack Graham for that matter.
Timmons filled the pocket of his army surplus field jacket with shells, shiny new ones, not reloads. Never reloads. Not him. He wasn’t about to take a chance on a misfire, not once he got that mutt in his sights again.
When that moment came, Timmons wanted nothing to go wrong; he wanted nothing to stop him from splattering that cur from hell to breakfast.
Timmons tucked the .30-06 under one arm and headed for his pickup truck. But halfway there he stopped dead, cocking his head to one side. The last thing he wanted was to be seen driving the roads near the Graham place.
He ground his teeth and turned the other way, cross-country, toward the foothills that marked the beginning of the Moondance Hunting Ground. He had a five-mile trek ahead of him, at least half of it uphill. But what the hell.
An atonal whistle came from his lips as he strode along. There was nothing to stop him now. He had plenty of time before it got dark, and now that the rain had slacked off he wouldn’t have to worry about ruining his rifle, or his revenge.
His canteen, full of pure artesian well water, swung heavily on his hip. At the thought of it, he smacked his lips. Later he would drink to the death of his enemies, toast his victory with pure, God-given water.
14
AT GRAHAM’S insistence, Harry had driven back to the newspaper office. He wanted to see her files. His exhaustion had dissipated the moment she mentioned past deaths that had gone unsolved.
“To begin with,” she said, “let me read you something.” She showed him the date on the clipping. It was five years old. “The Uintas are famous for this kind of thing.”
All at once, Graham’s thoughts seemed to have sharp, dangerous edges.
“I can read for myself,” he said. “My eyes are fine.”
She squinted at him and then began reading out loud. “„Oren Wilson, forty-seven, a longtime
resident of Moondance, was found dead near Two-moose Lake at the edge of the High Uinta Primitive Area. Wilson’s wife, Beth, had reported her husband missing when he failed to return home from a fishing trip.’”
Harry paused to wet her lips.
Despite the circumstances, Graham found the gesture stimulating. He wondered what her lips would taste like.
She went on. “What I didn’t report in this story, Jack, was the fact that old man Wilson was probably poaching.”
“So?”
“A community paper has no business hurting people unless absolutely necessary.”
“No news is good news,” he said. It wasn’t intended as criticism; it was merely something to say.
Harry made a face, then read on. “„According to Deputy Sheriff Alden Fisk, Wilson died when he became ensnared in an old bear trap that had been set near the lakeshore. The trap, Fisk said, probably dates back to pioneer times when trapping was legal.’”
“Jesus,” Graham breathed. “That’s a hard way to die.”
Harry nodded. “Wilson’s wife was still living then. I couldn’t bring myself to cause her any more pain. So there were a lot of things I left out of the story.” Her gulp came through loud and clear. “My God, everything Alden Fisk told me is still fresh in my mind.”
She took a deep breath before continuing. “Those bear traps are strong. They had to be, to hold an animal that size. Once they snap shut, it takes someone who knows what he’s doing to get them open again. And this particular trap was God knows how old. It was rusted so badly that it shouldn’t have worked at all. But it did, and once caught in it, there was no way Oren Wilson was going to get loose, not without help.”
“Exactly where is that lake?”
“Miles from anywhere, in the heart of the primitive area. And that’s not all. It was November. Winter was coming on. That late in the year, people know better than to go into the high country. But then, that’s exactly why Oren Wilson was there. He knew he wouldn’t be disturbed. He knew there wasn’t a chance in a million that he’d be caught poaching. He already had one bearskin to his credit when they found his body.”
Graham didn’t want to hear any more. His imagination was too good. He could almost feel the man’s panic, trapped out there alone, knowing there’d be no rescue.
“Wilson wasn’t the kind of man to tell people his business,” Harry went on. “Not even his wife knew exactly where he was.”
“Did he have a gun?”
“Yes. It was found a few feet away, just out of his reach. According to the sheriff’s report, Wilson clawed his fingernails off trying to get hold of that gun.”
“I need a drink,” Graham said.
“There’s more. They figured Wilson must have been trapped there several days before he started chewing on his hand.”
Graham’s right arm jerked up sympathetically.
“He’d caught his right hand in the trap,” Harry said. She kept her eyes averted.
Graham swallowed to quiet a spasm in his throat. “Come on,” he croaked. “I might as well hear it all now.”
“He . . . he wasn’t even close enough to the lake to get a drink. Thirst and pain must have driven him out of his mind. Apparently he’d used rocks to hack at his wrist. When that didn’t work he began chewing at himself, anything to get free. I’ve heard of animals doing the same thing when they’re caught in traps.”
“The poor bastard.”
“He managed to chew his hand all the way off before he died.”
For a long time, only their labored breathing scratched the silence.
Finally Graham thought to say, “You can’t compare that kind of accident to what happened to the TV crew.”
“There’s one more thing I haven’t told you.” Harry nodded her head forcefully. “A forest ranger had camped on that very spot only a week before Wilson. That ranger swore there was no bear trap then. That means that somebody put it there deliberately.”
******
The long climb had taken its toil. Ragged, painful breaths puffed from Timmon’s open mouth. Each gasp was clearly visible in the chill air. Total exhaustion wasn’t far off, he knew, but he wasn’t about to turn back, not before he’d dealt with Mr. Smart-ass, Jack Graham.
Timmons tried to purse his lips for a whistle, but then decided against it. He needed every last bit of breath to climb the remaining two hundred yards to the summit of the hill above him. From there, thank heaven, it was downhill all the way to the Graham place.
Downhill. Timmons savored the word. He rolled it around on his tongue and would have spit it out for the world to hear, but for the fact that he barely had enough breath to keep on climbing.
Downhill, he thought. Yes, indeed, it was going to be a long downhill descent for Mr. Graham, right to hell. For the likes of him, shooting was too good. But it was more than good enough for that dog.
Timmons snorted. If he had his druthers, he’d wring Graham’s neck just like he’d done with the chickens. Timmons’s free hand, the one without the rifle, twitched as he thought of how the man’s neck would feel beneath tightening fingers. In his mind he heard cartilage pop, followed by a gasping gurgle. After that . . .
Above him there was a noise, a real noise. He halted and fought to keep his panting as quiet as possible. On the crest of the hill, a doe stood poised. The wind, blowing in Timmons’s face, kept the deer from sensing danger.
The range was less than a hundred yards. An easy shot. At such a distance his rifle’s twenty-four hundred and forty foot-pounds of killing power would turn the animal into burger.
He brought the .30-06 up to his shoulder, but then thought better of a standing shot. He dropped to one knee. As he did so, he realized that there wasn’t any vegetation to block his view even in the most secure prone position. He eased all the way down.
Off clicked the safety.
Then the deep breath, half expelled, followed by the steady pressure on the trigger.
Movement seen out of the corner of his eye destroyed his concentration. Rather than take a chance on a miss, he took his finger off the trigger.
A fawn, not more than a few weeks old, had run up to join its mother. Timmons fought back laughter. After all, he didn’t want them bolting, not now, not when they’d make perfect target practice for what was to come.
Then, momentarily, Del Timmons shook with frustration. He didn’t know which animal to shoot first, the fawn or the doe. Either way he might lose one in the time it took to work the rifle’s bolt action.
Suddenly, his eyes narrowed. The answer had come to him, and he gloated over it. In his excitement he almost whistled, which could have ruined everything. Pursing the nearly-errant lips, he took aim on the doe, the blade sight rock-steady as it bisected her chest.
The explosion surprised him, which was exactly the way it should be, perfect form, with no time to flinch and spoil the shot.
The doe didn’t have time either. The impact of the bullet hurled her against the trunk of a tree, where her broken body twitched. But Timmons knew there was no real life left in the creature, only reactionary spasms.
His mouth spread in a wide grin. The fawn had bolted at the sound of the shot but it would be back. And Timmons had plenty of time. He’d wait as long as it took.
It didn’t take long, only a few minutes.
“Come to papa,” he whispered as the fawn began edging out into the open.
The young animal glanced first right, then left.
“There’s no danger,” Timmons breathed. Ecstasy sharpened his voice. “I’m doing you a favor. Think of it that way. You don’t want to starve to death now that mama’s gone.”
The fawn trotted forward, its spindly legs looking as if they might collapse at any moment.
It was an easy shot, almost too easy. But still Timmons waited. He didn’t want to rush; he wanted to savor his victory.
Then, smoothly, his left eye closed, he took aim with his right at the approaching fawn, which grew larger and la
rger. The .30-06 seemed to become an extension of Timmons as he tracked the animal’s nervous progress.
Never once did he lose the proper sight picture. Old army training, he thought happily. It never lets you down. It keeps a man in control. Calm control.
But was he calm? Yes, he thought so. Then why could he hear the pounding of his heart? Speeding up, too, by the sound of it. He checked the gunsight Still rock-steady. No sign of overexcitement; no sign of buck fever.
All at once he realized that he felt the pounding too. In that instant, he knew it was not his heart. It was the sound, the feel of someone running up behind him.
“Too late,” he muttered. “This is one shot you won’t spoil.”
He gulped a breath, half expelled it in a gasp, then concentrated on correct trigger pressure.
The fawn looked bewildered as it nuzzled its dead mother. Then the tiny animal dropped to its knees and started licking her.
The shot echoed in the mountains, rolled across the landscape, flung frightened birds into the air.
“Dead center,” Timmons cried joyously as he swung around to meet his visitor, while calmly working the bolt action to chamber a new cartridge. He felt certain that lady luck was with him, that she had delivered Jack Graham and that rotten dog into his sights.
But there was nothing, only the wind that had begun to howl like a wounded animal. Or was it a man howling?
Timmons scanned the landscape.
“Nothing,” he whispered. “I don’t—”
Then he saw him, the Indian, standing on the ridge near where the deer had died. And the Indian was pointing a finger at him.
Timmons gnashed his teeth and raised the rifle to his shoulder. But by then the Indian was gone. Timmons fired anyway. After that he cradled the rifle across his forearm while he used his other hand to unsnap the canvas flap of his canteen cover. He extracted the metal bottle and drank greedily, all of it, without taking a breath and without taking his eyes from the ridge.
“Damn you!” he yelled. But the Indian didn’t show himself again. “I’ll see you dead.”
He felt certain the Indian had been Yeba Kah; but then, at a hundred yards one Indian looks like another. Whatever the case, Timmons had no choice but to turn back toward home. He couldn’t take a chance on having a witness, not to what he planned for Jack Graham.
