Winslow- The Lost Hunters

by David Francis Curran

  Winslow: The Lost Hunters

  By David Francis Curran

  ©2017 David Francis Curran

  Special Thanks

  Special thanks goes to Patricia Curran, the love of my life, who spent so many hours reading, editing, and making vital suggestions for improvements that she deserves credit for the book itself.

  Eclipse Day, August 21, 2017

  Notice:

  This is a work of fiction. All characters with the exception of the late Denny Two Guns O’Loughlin, whom Denny O’London is based on, are completely fictional. (Denny appeared in my feature film, Knapid, as himself and I’m sure he’d appreciate being included here.) Any resemblance to any other persons living or dead is coincidental. There is no Garnet County. Other counties mentioned and cities like Missoula are real, but any representation of said county or town is fictional.

  Time Line

  All events except flashbacks take place in a 16-day period between Friday, October 20, 2017, and Saturday, November 4, 2017

  Adahy

  October 23: 3:03 a.m.

  In the firelight from the wood stove, the dogs rose, alerted by a sound at the door. They did not bark. Instead, they went over to the dog door and waited. After a moment a small Native-American boy, with long black hair braided behind his head and wide owl-like eyes, pushed open the dog door. October was colder than normal with snow already blanketing the ground. A cold gust of wind blew in before the door swung shut. Mariah, the brown, longhaired, Australian Shepherd, whined softly and nuzzled the boy. The boy, nine, stroked her ear. Irene, a black and white Springer Spaniel mix, not to be outdone, moved up and licked the boy’s face. He giggled and pushed her away, scratching her head as he did so.

  The boy stood by the door. He looked over at the bed in the center of the room where a man lay sleeping. He watched the man for a long time. On the wall was a photo of the man, Winslow, and the boy’s late aunt, Lomahongva. The boy looked at the photo just visible in the firelight for a moment then turned away.

  The dining room table was not far from the door. The boy took a note from his pocket and placed it on the table. He smiled to himself as he did so.

  Having placed the note, the boy exited the cabin via the dog door. Irene followed him outside, but Mariah did not.

  An Unexpected Visit

  October 23: 8:02 a.m.

  It was just after 8 a.m. on an October morning a couple of days after the opening of big game season when I heard a knock at the door. For most people, this is not an uncommon thing. But for me, this is more of a rarity, though slightly less so during hunting season. I live in the Montana wilderness; not the official Wilderness. I don't live in the Bob Marshal or Scapegoat. But I live in the Garnet range at the top of a long dirt road that just doesn't see much traffic, much fewer visitors, even if you include hunters.

  Since I'm in this story I'm telling, I'll describe myself. I'm thirty-five years old, six two, and broad-shouldered. I basically cut firewood for a living, and lifting tree parts will make anyone very strong. I have a square face with a slightly jutting jaw. One woman I deliver wood to keeps telling me I should go to Hollywood and be an actor, and so she calls me 'Hollywood.' Another said my face was like frozen granite. I guess I haven't smiled much since my wife died. I have brown hair that was blonde when I was a baby, cut semi-short, and I am clean-shaven. I liked the way my late wife Lomahongva described me. She said I looked to her like a blue-eyed puma, a mountain lion. I like to think of myself in that way.

  As the knock came at the door, Blu, the four-month-old kitten I'd adopted just a week before, twisted to get loose from my hands. He is a longhaired dark grey, almost black tuxedo, with the white vest and feet but no white on his face. I transferred him to the crook of my left arm as I went to the wooden door I had crafted myself quite some years before. It had layers of foot-wide planks that I'd screwed together and cut to fit the opening in the lodgepole pine walls. The door was almost two inches thick, and unless you put your ear down by the built-in dog door there wasn't much chance of hearing sounds through it, but I listened just in case. There was no sound.

  Living in the middle of nowhere has its perks in it being quiet and your life being undisturbed. On the other hand, it did have its dangers. Some people, when they get in the wilderness, lose sight of the constraints that keep them in check in the cities of the world. They think they can do most anything, or, I should say, get away with anything. So I hesitated, considering whether I should get my Taurus Raging Bull revolver in .454 Casull before opening the door.

  Blu twisted to get loose. I didn't want him outside unless I could watch him. He knew nothing of birds of prey much less the other predators who made it dangerous for kittens. There was another knock. In the back of my mind, I had toyed with the idea that it might be Adahy, my nephew. And almost in answer to that thought, I saw a note on the small table near the door. Adahy had apparently come in during the night and left it. The boy was the only one the dogs would not have barked at. Although he lived miles away by road, his home was less than a mile from mine through the woods. His widowed mother, my sister-in-law, drank. She would not have heard him leave. I picked the note up and glanced at it. It said he’d like to go elk hunting with me today. I had promised I’d take him. The knock came again, and I realized that though it was a fairly soft knock, it was just a bit too heavy for Adahy's small hand.

  In the back of my mind, I heard my Lomahongva whisper kiddingly, "I don't think it's an evil spirit." She was speaking to me more and more lately. I was wondering if I should even consider the things I heard her say as something to be taken seriously in my real world when I heard a young voice say, "Maybe he's not home, Mom!"

  I opened the door.

  "But his Jeep is here," a petite woman, in her late thirties or early forties, with long blonde hair was saying to a boy of about six. He was the age my son would have been and had light brown hair. The boy backed up a bit on seeing me. My size makes me a bit intimidating to some people. Both mother and son had a smattering of freckles across their noses and dark brown eyes.

  I looked at the boy first. "I am often not here when my Jeep is," I said. "I tend to go on very long walks." I turned to the woman and smiled, extending my hand. "Winslow Doyle at your service. What may I help you with?"

  I assumed that they were here in regards to a lost pet. I had a reputation of being able to find lost dogs that had vanished in the woods. Most of the pets I found had simply run off after being tired of being constrained for long periods of time in their masters' homes. The thing was that town dogs often lost their sense of direction when let loose in the wilderness for the first time.

  The woman shook my hand quickly and looked into my eyes. I read pain in hers. I glanced at the boy and sensed he was not simply just ill at ease at meeting a stranger for the first time. He looked worried. I looked back at the woman who was very pretty in her way and returned her gaze.

  "I'm Callie Carew. The sheriff said you might be able to help me." Her words were anxious. Some people really get upset when pets disappear, but this woman seemed more upset than I'd seen before.

  "Why don't you come on in," I said and waved them into the doorway. After they had passed, I shut the door and put the plastic sleeve down over the dog door. My dogs were out, and they would interrupt if they came back while I had visitors.

  "This is my son, Geoff," she said introducing the boy.

  I put my hand out, but he did not take it. He shyly followed his mother who had spotted my couch.

  My cabin is not large. There are just two rooms within its odd octagonal shape. In a blueprint, the smaller utility room would look like a rectangle on the side of the handle of the war club that's the
cabin. In the main cabin, a boxy wood stove with an Isinglass door sits in the exact center. The corner of the smaller room reaches out not quite to the stove. The walls separating the smaller room from the larger are not chinked, and gaps let the heat flow through. The utility area houses the battery bank for my solar panels and for storage. I have the larger living area of the cabin roughly sectioned into four areas:

  1) The kitchen which features a sink with a bucket beneath to capture greywater, a propane cooking stove for use in the warmer months when the wood stove would make the cabin too warm, some homemade cupboards, a counter for food prep, and the small table where I eat.

  2) The bedroom area which pretty much just contains my bed and a night table.

  3) My work area which consists of a computer and bookshelf.

  4) And the sitting area with a two-seat couch and two chairs facing it.

  Mother and son sat themselves down on my couch. Geoff looked a lot like his mother.

  I put Blu down, and the kitten ran up on the couch's arm by the boy. Geoff reached out and petted Blu gently. But he had a very sad look on his young face.

  I took this as another indication that these two had more to worry about than a lost pet. I looked back at the woman. "What can I do for you?"

  "My husband is missing," Callie Carew said. There was fear in her voice, and that struck me.

  "And Cassie," the boy said.

  "Yes," Callie continued, "My husband Greg and our fifteen-year-old daughter Cassie. They went hunting three days ago. It was supposed to be an overnight stay and then a one day hunt on opening day. It was my daughter Cassie's first time. They were going to return that evening. They never came back."

  "So they had camping gear, sleeping bags, food?"

  "They had camping gear but really only had food for one day."

  A tear appeared at the corner of the woman's right eye. The boy reached out and touched his mother's hand.

  "I had heard my husband tell Cassie to put down 292-50 for her mule deer tag so I knew where they'd be. I told the sheriff that, and this morning he told me he has had deputies keeping an eye out in that region, but so far there has been no sign of my husband's truck or my husband and daughter."

  I knew that 292-50 indicated they'd be hunting in section 292; the West Garnet Range area. It is a huge area shaped roughly like the silhouette of a dog lying with its head up. It encompasses thousands of acres and miles and miles of road. Without more information, it could be impossible to find them.

  Just then there was a rustling outside the door and then the sounds of claws scraping the plastic sleeve covering the dog door.

  "Sit!" I said loudly. The sound of scraping stopped.

  "My dogs," I said. "But they can wait." I didn't know how Callie Carew or her son felt about dogs, but there was no problem letting Irene and Mariah cool their heels outside.

  I looked into the woman's eyes. The sheriff would have asked her if there had been problems in their marriage, or if it was possible that they had just decided to stay another day. But she had already told me that they did not have food for a longer trip, and her emotional state revealed a very loving relationship.

  "Is it possible they bought more food?"

  Callie shook her head. "The sheriff asked that, too. I am pretty sure my husband didn't have much cash. The sheriff checked. No money has been withdrawn from our joint checking or savings accounts, and Greg's credit card hasn't been used."

  "Do you happen to know your daughter's and husband's shoe sizes?" I asked.

  A distressed look appeared on Callie's face.

  "I need to know what size shoe your daughter and your husband wear, just in case I can find tracks," I explained.

  Two Days Earlier: A First Time Hunter

  October 21: One hour before sunrise.

  Only Greg Carew's crew-cut blond hair peeked out as he woke to a chill that reached into his sleeping bag and touched his cheeks. He stretched his long thin legs but stayed huddled in the bag as he fought wakefulness. He had been dreaming that he and his wife Callie were already at the West Wind Inn on Sanibel Island, Florida, and when he tried to rise, she had pulled him back into bed. The cold helped the dream fade. Finally, he sat up with his sleeping bag held to him, revealing his long nose and jutting jaw to any creatures that might be about, and looked out the back of the truck's camper window. He saw in the dim predawn light that it had snowed again, adding at least another inch to the five or six inches already on the ground. A covering like a layer of sugar had coated the hillside where his Chevy Silverado was parked. Before he and Callie headed to Florida for their long-awaited vacation, he meant to see their daughter Cassie get her first deer.

  "Cassie," he said softly. There was no sound from his sleeping daughter who lay curled in her sleeping bag next to him. Only a strand of her blonde hair could be seen above the fabric of the twenty-below bag. "Cassie, honey, you got to wake up."

  Cassie gave off a soft moan as her head poked out of her sleeping bag, and a puff of white appeared by her lips. An instant later she turned as if trying to go back to sleep.

  Greg reached over and grabbed her hip through her sleeping bag and shook her.

  Cassie tried to twist further away, but Greg shook her again. This time her head rose, and she opened her eyes.

  "It's still dark," she said.

  "It's getting lighter out as we speak. And if you want to try for your deer, you'd better get moving," he said. He couldn't help but admire the beautiful young woman, Callie and he had made. They were already getting phone calls where the caller would hang up as soon as he or Callie picked up the phone. It would be worse, he knew, when Cassie was allowed to date.

  Lifting herself on her elbows, Cassie rose and looked out. "It snowed again?"

  "Yep, but not much. Let’s go."

  They each found private spots to answer the calls of nature, then broke out the sandwiches Callie had made. Greg discovered his PB&J sandwich had been cut into the shape of a heart. His wife, in twenty years of marriage, had not stopped letting him know she loved him. After eating, the two of them stood by the side of the truck with white clouds of breath rising from their noses and mouths, getting their gear ready.

  Cassie, at fifteen, stood a head shorter than her father. Her soft blonde hair extended down past her shoulders. Sky-blue eyes looked out from a face that he was sure many of the boys at Palmer High already dreamed about. It didn't ease Greg's mind that she had a body that was well past just blossoming into womanhood.

  Greg shouldered his Remington pump 3600 in 30-06 and watched as Cassie shouldered her .243 Winchester. The two, decked out in new blaze orange hunting jackets and identical blaze orange knit hats, each had a pair of binoculars hanging from straps around their necks.

  "Ready to get your first buck?" Greg asked in a whisper.

  Cassie nodded.

  Greg lifted his right index finger and licked the tip. Then he held it out in the open air, turning it about, slowly. He nodded in the direction of the fence. They were lucky. The wind was with them. They were walking into the wind so their scent would not alert any deer in front of them.

  Cassie nodded she understood.

  Her father led the way up through the short grasses that peeked out through the snow covering the pine leaf debris that carpeted this wooded area on land belonging to the Bureau of Land Management. Most of the stalks were dried to a yellow-brown, but quite a few grass clumps were still a vivid green, rising from the snow-frosted ground like green heads.

  The area had been logged years ago so that the trees formed a sort of wooded park with wide openings between trees. The ground in the park rose in an uneven fashion with rolling hillocks, nooks and all sorts of heavy brush. They walked as quietly as they could toward the crumbling cattle fence from the days eighty years before when ranches leased the land. The fence formed the lower border of a very large open meadow. This meadow rose upward in a lazy incline for hundreds of yards to an elevation of about two hundred feet above the
park they now crossed.

  The year before Greg had been here alone. Back then, as he neared this same fence, three does had suddenly walked out in front of him about twenty yards away. The does had simply stopped and looked at him. It was so early in the gun-hunting season that they weren't afraid of a human who suddenly appeared in their area. He froze. The deer watched him for a while then went back to feeding on the grasses. Once their gaze was diverted, Greg felt it was again safe to look about.

  There was a very good chance that if there were does there, there were also bucks around. Moving slowly, he turned almost ninety degrees to his right. To his surprise, a young buck stood only forty yards away. It seemed to be watching both Greg and the does. As Greg watched it, the buck seemed to become nervous. It began moving in the direction it had been heading, away from Greg. Greg had been carrying his rifle and swung it up. He had a bullet in the chamber, and as he lifted the rifle, he slipped off the safety. The buck began moving a bit faster. Aiming, almost instinctively, Greg fired. The buck suddenly vanished.

  Not knowing if he had hit the deer, he racked in another round. He picked up the spent case for reloading and moved slowly in the direction he had last seen the deer.

  He had not gone far when over the taller brush he saw the deer, apparently dead, lying almost in the exact location it had been in when he shot it.

  Greg had actually shot quite a few deer over the past few years in this area. And he knew on opening day that the chance of seeing a buck before all the deer became really spooked by hunters was at its best. The rut, where male deer were reckless in their pursuit of females, was a few weeks away. So for opening day he had brought Cassie here.

  He had shown Cassie how to walk quietly. The trick was not to try and walk tiptoe, but rather to look down at where you were putting your feet and put your heel down first. Once down, in an area free of sticks and other noisy debris, you put your weight on your heel as you eased forward.