by R. R. Irvine
“Technically, we’ve been on the Hunting Ground ever since we left the highway and drove past the Graham place. But from here on, there are no tracks or roads. This is virgin country, Mr. Keene. You’ll be the first to blaze a trail.”
Keene made a face. “Somehow I thought we’d be using Land Rovers.”
“This country is too rough,” the Mayor said with pride. “You can’t appreciate it until you’ve walked over it.”
“Walked!”
“Where we’re going, it’s even too much for horses. We’ll use burros to carry our gear.”
Keene turned to his producer. “You didn’t tell me about walking, Sid.”
The producer’s smile looked sickly, Graham thought, as he began wondering himself if he’d be up to such a trip.
“Jesus Christ,” Keene sputtered.
The mayor winced at the exclamation. “We intend to clear regular horse trails as soon as we can.” Benyon rummaged in a pocket until he came up with his pipe. “But we thought you’d want to break new ground.”
“Our advance crew was supposed to do that.”
Again, Benyon winced.
Keene shook his head. “If you want something done, you’d better do it yourself.”
Jarman, the cameraman, spoke up. “I’ll need one burro for my gear alone.”
“I think we can manage,” said the mayor.
“Besides my camera,” persisted Jarman, “there’s a video tape recorder, spare cassettes, lights, and extra batteries. It’s a lot of weight.”
“Why the lights?” Harry asked, speaking for the first time since they’d alighted at Trail’s End.
“You can’t depend on the sun,” Jarman answered. “We can’t have Jimmy obscured by shadows.”
Keene shrugged. “Why can’t we all ride burros?”
“It’s safer walking,” said the mayor. “Besides, we won’t have to go all that far to find game. Not around here.”
Keene grunted. “Remember, I don’t want to shoot any runts out there. I want trophies, something worth hanging on my wall.”
“We’ll start first thing tomorrow morning,” the mayor said. “I think we can promise you real action. Record kills if we’re lucky.”
******
Graham lay in bed but kept his eyes open. He didn’t want to sleep just yet. He wanted to savor the memory of Harry’s lovemaking.
She had left him weak, sapped beyond belief. Her cries of ecstasy, floating like moths in the warm, cocoonlike darkness of her bedroom, had made him a whole man again.
She was everything he wanted, and needed. She had made love to him as if it might be their last time together.
“Don’t go with them,” she had whispered between kisses. “It could happen again, just like with the first crew.”
Part of him agreed, but he couldn’t back out now. He had to prove himself.
Graham closed his eyes. If he didn’t get some sleep, he’d be in no condition to travel in the morning.
But instead of rest, there was the dream again and with it, the sound of amputation. His body twitched. The muscles of his throat spasmed.
Only seconds after falling asleep, he awoke, mistaking the sounds coming from his own mouth for those of metal slicing through flesh.
In panic, he groped for the bedside light, switched it on and then, half-awake, gaped at his left wrist. He had to shake his head hard before the image of a bloody stump disappeared.
Then he got up quietly, fixed himself a drink, and thought about the hunt that would begin in the morning.
24
THE BURROS, Katie, Alfie, and Clyde, didn’t seem to like the prospect of a long haul into the Uintas. They brayed constantly and did their best to bite anyone who came within range.
Graham sympathized; he felt like biting someone himself. He had a headache so intense that even the limited light filtering through the heavy cloud cover made him feel as if he were going snow-blind.
He would have given damn near anything for a pair of dark glasses. Instead, the best he could do was squint and pray that this was going to be one short hangover, though he had no right to expect it. Last night, he’d consumed a lot of whiskey in a vain attempt to dull the edge his nightmare had left.
Jimmy Keene interrupted Graham’s thoughts to say, “Those clouds don’t look any too promising. Maybe we should have waited for better weather.”
Mayor Benyon studied the sky. “May eighteenth is too late in the year for a big storm.”
When Graham peeked at the clouds, pain flared inside his cranium. “I’ve heard you can get blizzards here in May.”
“Those aren’t storm clouds,” said the mayor. “I ought to know. I’ve lived here all my life.”
“It feels too cold for rain,” Graham offered. The thought of getting wet appalled him.
“It’s always cool this early in the morning,” replied the mayor as he rolled back his glove to check his watch. “It’s seven already. We really should have gotten an earlier start.”
Graham closed his eyes against the light. The world began to spin, so he opened them and suffered.
“If we move a little faster,” said the mayor, “we’ll warm up.”
They were climbing toward the first ridge, with the sheriff leading the way through the sparse aspens and low brush.
The burros brayed shrilly.
“Please,” Graham whispered, “my head.” He patted the nearest animal. Instead of biting him, it quieted. So he tried stroking the others. They, too, calmed.
Behind the sheriff came Keene and the mayor, both doing their best to stay abreast of one another, while Sid Norris, Boyd Jarman, and the girl, Marilyn, followed in a close group, staying together in case it became necessary to video tape sudden action.
Since Graham was nothing more than an observer, he brought up the rear with the burros, that were so placed, he soon discovered, so the rest of the party wouldn’t have to step in their droppings.
However, Graham didn’t really mind. The burros were probably the best friends he was going to have over the next few days.
With a drawn-out, throat-scratching sigh, he glanced down at his gloved hand. Even with fleece lining, the glove did little to keep out the cold.
But it was his invisible hand that was causing him the most trouble.
Then it occurred to him that his left hand might be numb. Fear of frostbite started him flexing his fingers. He kept at it for several minutes. Frostbite was one thing that could make last night’s dream come true, make him a painter without hands. He could see himself now, holding a brush between his teeth. No, that wouldn’t work. He’d need his teeth to hold a beggar’s cup.
“Damn,” he muttered and shook his head, deliberately steeping himself in pain, anything to rid himself of self-pity.
He squinted at his companions. Keene, Benyon, and Sheriff Fisk were all armed with rifles, .30-06’s, plenty of gun for anything they were likely to encounter, according to the mayor.
Graham smiled through his pain. The mayor was probably right, because if they ran into anything like the visions conjured up by Harry’s newspaper articles, the caliber of rifle would hardly be important.
Marilyn, at Keene’s insistence, had been issued a pistol, which she wore around her waist in a military-style holster, complete with snap-down flap to keep the gun from falling out accidentally.
Graham had declined the loan of a rifle. His choice of weapons, he’s said, was sketch pad and pencil.
At the moment, however, the thought of looking at a blank white piece of paper was out of the question. He had all he could do to keep moving. Each step brought a fresh shock wave up his spine to explode at the back of his neck.
Fortunately, his nausea was ebbing. Even the smell of the burros had stopped bothering him. The dominant aroma now was from the pine trees that were increasing with elevation. There was also a dampness to the air caused by the clouds that seemed to be climbing right along with the hunting party.
By the time they called a
halt for lunch, Graham’s hangover had dissipated. In its place was ravenous hunger.
“How far do you think we’ve come?” Keene asked between sips of steaming soup that had been warmed on a small gas stove. His face was the color of old snow:
“As the crow flies,” answered the mayor, “maybe three miles.”
“Some crow,” said Jarman.
“Three miles, for Chrissake.” Keene’s head swung back and forth in disbelief. “My feet tell me it’s a hell of a lot more than that.”
“We’ve been going up and down a lot,” Sheriff Fisk explained.
“Then there’s the altitude,” added the mayor. “We must be over seventy-five hundred feet by now.”
“You know it.” The cameraman grinned. “Jimmy looks in need of oxygen. That or a new makeup man.”
“I can do without your humor.”
“Who’s being funny?”
“Would you like a sandwich,” Benyon interrupted. “Roast beef. My wife made them just before we left.”
Keene accepted the offering but kept on glaring at Jarman.
After everyone had received sandwiches, the mayor said, “I’m so used to the Uintas I sometimes forget just how rugged they are, especially to outsiders. Take Jack, here. He looks just about all in.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Graham responded. “I’m good for another hundred yards at least.”
Benyon smiled. “From here on we’ll take it more slowly. In any case, the next valley over has always been full of game.”
“I hope so,” said Keene. “So far we haven’t seen so much as a chipmunk.”
“I’ve had glimpses,” Sheriff Fisk said. “Mule deer mostly.”
When Keene made a face, Fisk added, “But nothing worth shooting.”
“By God,” Keene spat out between bites, “I’d better see something pretty soon.”
Emotion, or the act of violent chewing, had brought color to his face. Even so, he’d look terrible on camera, Graham decided, because there was a yellowish cast to his skin.
Graham, on the other hand, was feeling good for the first time all day, despite his exhaustion.
“More soup?” Marilyn said to Keene.
“Why not?”
She was reaching for the kettle when she lost her balance. As her hand plunged into the blue flame, a high-pitched yelp sent a magpie soaring skyward from a nearby tree. The burros started braying again.
With surprising quickness, Keene moved to her side. “Are you all right?” he asked. There was obvious concern in his voice, though to Graham it seemed out of character. Or maybe it was merely wishful thinking on his part, because he preferred to think of Jimmy Keene as totally self-centered.
The girl was waving her hand in the cold air when Sheriff Fisk, acting very businesslike, produced a can of sunburn spray from his backpack. As soon as the anesthetic was applied, the girl’s face relaxed.
“You’re lucky,” Fisk said.
Graham looked up to see Sid Norris backing away from the fire. Only when he bumped into one of the burros did he come to a stop. Fear distorted the producer’s face until it looked like a grotesque mask.
25
GRAHAM BLINKED. The deer was so damned close he couldn’t believe his eyes. For that matter, he didn’t really want to. It would be like shooting animals in a zoo. No sport at all, not at this range.
Only a retarded animal would allow hunters to get so near. Yet somehow no one but Graham had seen the deer yet.
Cautiously he peered at the hunters, who were sprawled on the rocky ground taking a break. Maybe they had fallen asleep. Maybe the deer knew what it was doing. Maybe, but he didn’t think so.
He stared at the animal, willing it to run. It was so close now that it seemed like some kind of taxidermist’s trick, a false target put up in hopes that Jimmy Keene would waste his ammunition.
The animal swung its head as if testing the air for alien smells. Graham saw Sheriff Fisk jerk alert as he, too, caught the movement.
He whispered to Keene. “We’ve got a target.”
Keene craned his head but came up empty-eyed.
“To your left. Less than a hundred yards.”
Keene fumbled with his .30-06.
“It’s practically on top of you,” Fisk said.
The deer—Graham hoped that it was a buck, though it had no antlers—stood on the crest of what was to be their last hill of the day, beyond which lay Mayor Benyon’s promised land of milk, honey, and easy kills.
They were above the timberline, in country as gray as Graham’s mood.
“Just squeeze off the shot,” advised the sheriff. “Don’t rush it.”
Keene pulled the trigger but nothing happened.
“The safety,” whispered the sheriff.
“Shit.” Keene shook his head and complied. Again, nothing happened when he jerked at the trigger. Then, with a sick grin, he pulled back the bolt and levered a cartridge into the rifle breech.
A shout of warning echoed over the mountains.
The deer leapt straight into the air and then kept right on going, disappearing over the ridge before Keene could get off a shot.
Graham cheered softly.
In frustration, Keene fired into the hillside. Dust kicked up a few yards in front of him.
“None of that,” warned the sheriff. “I . . .” He stopped in midsentence, peering around suddenly to see where the shout had come from.
“Up there,” said Graham, using his hook to point at a pinnacle of rock that marked the mountain’s highest point, where the Indian stood clad in tribal garb, his arms flung wide as if imploring help from the heavens. He looked like a prophet of doom from the Old Testament.
“I’ll be a son of a bitch,” muttered Sheriff Fisk. “That’s Yeba Kah.”
It was also the same Indian Graham had seen twice before.
“Who’s he?” Keene wanted to know.
“A Godsend,” Fisk replied. To the Indian, he shouted, “You’re under arrest!”
“What for?” Keene said.
When the sheriff waved off the question, Mayor Benyon spoke up. “That Indian was the guide for your advance crew. He’s supposed to be dead.”
With a quick, precise movement Keene levered a fresh shell into his .30-06.
“Hold it,” snapped the sheriff. “That Indian’s not armed.” Fisk clamped a hand around Keene’s rifle barrel and slowly forced the muzzle down. “It’s about time we got some answers.”
The mayor moved to Fisk’s side. “What do you think?”
Abruptly, the sheriff twisted the gun out of Keene’s grip. “From now on our worries are over. The mystery is solved. We’ve caught ourselves a maniac.”
The mayor glanced at Keene and shook his head.
“What I’m saying,” Fisk went on, “is that we don’t have to blame nature when we’ve got Yeba Kah.”
Everyone stared up at the Indian.
“Stop!” Yeba Kah boomed out. “Go back.” His voice eddied around them.
The sheriff pointed Keene’s .30-06 toward the pinnacle. “Come down here.”
The Indian folded his arm across his chest. “Go back or die.”
“That sounds like a threat,” Keene said.
“It is,” chimed in the mayor. “Don’t take anymore chances, Alden. Shoot.”
“Everybody, quiet,” ordered the sheriff. “That Indian has the answers and I want to hear them. Not another word out of anyone until I get him down here.”
Yeba Kah pointed a rock-steady finger at the hunters. “You have angered the Great Spirit.”
Slowly, the sheriff moved forward.
“This land belongs to Him, to Koshari, Keeper of the Game. These are his sacred mountains.”
“I’m willing to talk about it,” the sheriff answered.
“The killing must stop.”
“We’ve done no killing.”
“Only because I intervened,” Yeba Kah shouted.
“He thinks he’s God,” Keene muttered.
It was then that Graham saw the cameraman, Jarman, begin easing his gear from a burro’s back. No one else made a move to help.
“All right,” Sheriff Fisk called. “You win. We’ll go back. All of us together, you included.”
Keene ran forward and grabbed a handful of the sheriff’s uniform. “Now, wait a minute.”
Fisk swatted away the hand. “Damnit. Use your head. I’ve got to say something to get him down.”
“Why don’t we just rush him?”
“Because I’m not taking any chances. He knows these mountains too well.”
Keene’s lips curled into a pout, which made Graham feel better because it kept the man in character.
“Very well,” Yeba Kah announced. “I’ll join you. But”—he stretched back his head to peer at the heavens—“it’s already too late.”
With that, he turned and jumped from the rocky pinnacle, disappearing from sight.
Muttering, Sheriff Fisk started forward, checking the rifle’s safety as he moved. He’d taken only a few steps when the Indian emerged from behind the stony outcropping, his arms raised high like a defeated soldier. Yet there was defiance in his gesture, as if somehow he was the one dictating the terms of surrender.
“There’s no escaping the will of Koshari,” he said.
Smoothly the sheriff pinned Yeba Kah’s arms. Handcuffs clicked into place. Even thus encumbered, the Indian managed to look commanding.
Mayor Benyon walked up and shouted in Yeba Kah’s face. “Damn you!”
“What did he do?” Keene asked.
Graham answered. “They think he killed your advance camera crew.”
Keene’s mouth dropped open as he eyed the Indian with what appeared to be awe.
The silence was broken only by the wind and the whir of Jarman’s minicamera, which everyone immediately turned to face like obedient tourists asked to smile into the lens.
“None of that,” Benyon ordered. “This has nothing to do with our hunt.”
Jarman looked to Keene for guidance.
“Forget it,” the man said. “For now anyway.”
While the cameraman repacked his gear, Keene circled the Indian. “Did he really kill them?”
To Graham, it sounded as if he were lining up a future guest for his late night talk show.
