Ride the Thunder (7 page)

“How did the wild game come through it?” inquired Fletcher.

“They always do better than the cattle. Deer, elk, and sheep will dig through the snow for forage. A cow will stand and starve even if there’s only four inches of snow covering the grass.”

Brig wasn’t sure why he had agreed to the lunch invitation. He should be checking out of the hotel and catching a cab to the airport. But this cagey hunter appeared to be an interesting man. In the span of a few minutes, his curiosity had been aroused. What was an hour or two? Brig sized the man up again as they entered the restaurant and were shown to a table.

Fletcher Smith was as tall as he was, an inch or two over six feet. His build was heavier, thicker and broader, but Brig wasn’t deceived by the bulk. The man was solid. There wasn’t any fat on his bones, only muscle. His hair was metal gray, whiter at the temples, but it had once been brown. He was loose and relaxed, yet possessing a hunter’s reflexes. Their timing might have slowed, but Brig suspected it was still faster than most men’s. Brig noticed the bulge in the inside chest pocket of the man’s suit—a glass case, which meant his eyesight was going. Fletcher Smith had reached the crest of his prime and begun the downward slide. The man knew it. That probably explained the young auburn-haired woman. He had been trying to show he still had what it took, reproving his manhood.

While the waiter was pouring their coffee, Brig
watched the way Fletcher’s brown eyes centered on his cousin, as if focusing on a target. “I haven’t seen you at our apartment for a long time, Max.”

“I was out of town or had other engagements recently and had to refuse several of your invitations.” Max smiled blandly as he opened the menu. “I guess your wife stopped inviting me.”

“We’re having a small party tomorrow evening. Why don’t you come?” Fletcher suggested.

“I’d like that,” Max nodded. But his acceptance hadn’t been eager. In fact, Brig noticed that he had hesitated.

“It isn’t a black tie affair, just an informal get-together. He glanced at Brig. “Naturally, you are invited, too, Mr. McCord.”

“I’m flying back to Idaho. Thanks, anyway,” he refused.

“You said your ranch was located near the Middle Fork of the Salmon? That’s isolated country.” Fletcher sipped his coffee, looking at Brig over the rim of the china cup.

“It is, but I like it that way. It suits me.”

“A tribe of Indians called the Sheepeaters lived in that area before the white man came,” he remarked.

“They were called Sheepeaters for the obvious reason that wild sheep were the mainstay of their diet, but they were more commonly known as the Shoshone Indians.” Brig smiled to himself. His knowledge was being tested and he wondered what this game of wits was all about.

“Have you seen any bighorn sheep in the area?”

“Some. They keep pretty much to the high country.”

“Any that were trophy size?”

Brig remembered the ram he had seen in the spring, but he didn’t mention it. “It depends on what your definition of trophy size is.”

“The horns should be a full curl or better. After that it depends on the circumference of the horns and the spread of the tips.” Fletcher leaned back in his chair, regarding Brig with a steady look. A wry smile
touched his mouth. “You know how it is. A hunter is always planning his next hunt. I’ve been talking to an outfitter in the Bitterroots about setting up a hunt in his part of the country for a bighorn.”

“It sounds exciting,” Max tried to participate in the conversation.

“The Rocky Mountain Bighorn is the only big game trophy that has eluded me in all my years of hunting. I’ve successfully hunted the Stone Sheep in British Columbia and the Dall in Alaska, but I have yet to get a Bighorn.” There was a haunting grimness in the determined expression.

“What are you trying for—a grand slam in sheep?” Brig’s gaze held a dusty, dry look of contempt. He’d heard of rich sportsmen resorting to any method, legal or not, to obtain trophies of all four North American sheep—the Dall, the Stone, the Rocky Mountain Bighorn, and the Desert Bighorn.

Amusement glittered in Fletcher Smith’s eyes. “That’s a dilettante’s goal. No self-respecting hunter cares about getting his ticket punched. The thrill is in the hunt. A hunter is like a fisherman. He’d be out there doing it even if the big one got away every time, because he loves the sport,” he stated, then sobered. “This may be my last chance at a bighorn. I may be too old when my turn comes around again. This time I’m going to give it everything I’ve got to bring one back. If I don’t, know I tied.”

There was a lull in the conversation as the waiter took Max’s order. Brig’s coffee was lukewarm and he drained the cup. He leaned sideways in his chair, resting an elbow on the table and thoughtfully rubbing the soft broom of his mustache.

Brig realized he had guessed right. Fletcher was conscious of his advancing years and had started to grab for the pleasures of life before they passed him by for good, whether it was a young, beautiful woman or the thrill of a hunt. He couldn’t condemn the man for it, because he couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t act the
same way in fifteen years. But who the hell could know?

“Is yours strictly a cattle ranch or do you have sheep, too?” Fletcher asked after the waiter had left.

“Both.”

“Domestic sheep are the most dangerous enemies of the bighorns,” Fletcher remarked. “They not only graze on his feeding grounds, but the domestic sheep carry diseases they have become immune to and transmit them to the wild ones.”

“The old, bitter argument between the rancher and the hunter.” Brig laughed without making a sound.

“A rancher can wipe out an entire herd of bighorn with the disease transmitted by his flock of sheep. A hunter is looking for the trophy animal, if he isn’t taking it for meat. Trophy size horns only belong to the old rams, the ones nature and the mountains would be killing anyway,” Fletcher pointed out.

“I’ve heard that argument. But all species on earth have to mutate, adapt, and grow stronger with the changing times. It’s the law of survival, nature’s law. My sheep carry diseases nature put here. If they didn’t transmit them to the bighorns, something else would. The bighorns will acquire immunity or they will become extinct. That is nature’s law, not man’s.”

“Then you don’t believe in preserving a species?” Fletcher challenged.

A smile played with the edges of his mouth, deepening the corners. “Personally, I thank God that we didn’t have any zealous conservationists back in the cavemen days running around yelling ‘Save the dinosaur!’ Can you imagine if we had a couple hundred of them in some sanctuary now where man would have to recreate its habitat and food supply as closely as possible? All creatures have a lifespan. So do all species. Man might become extinct someday. By his hand or nature’s, it’s one and the same thing,” he concluded.

“Man believes he can save the world,” Fletcher said with a bemused smile. “You’re saying he’ll be lucky if
he can save himself. That is a rather profound philosophy.” He took a deep breath and released it as a sigh. “It’s probably closer to the truth than any of us cares to admit.”

“The laws of nature often seem brutal and harsh because it’s only the fittest that survive.” Brig lit a cigarette and tossed the match in the ashtray.

“Ah, but it’s the arrogance of man to believe he is above nature.” Fletcher murmured. The waiter arrived to place Max’s lunch in front of him. “I hope our slightly morbid conversation didn’t dull your appetite, Max.”

“Not at all. It was very enlightening.” He shook out his napkin and placed it on his lap. “Brig is something of an expert on surviving through personal experience. When he was nine years old, he spent almost three months alone in the wilderness after his parents were killed in a plane crash. Later he saw action in Southeast Asia.” Max hesitated, as if intending to say more, then changed his mind. “And you are something of an expert on nature with all your hunting experiences. Fletcher You know all about the predator and the prey, and the changing conditions that have produced the decline in big game animals. The two of you figuratively stand on opposite sides of the fence, one the hunter and the other the rancher. You are the harsh romanticist and Brig is the cold realist.”

“You are very observant, Max. Sometimes I underestimate you.” There was a faint narrowing of Fletcher’s gaze. “You’ve done some hunting yourself, haven’t you?”

“I have, but it was a long time ago. Certainly nothing on the scale that you’ve done,” Max insisted modestly.

“We should go hunting sometime, you and I.” Fletcher spoke as the thought occurred to him.

“It sounds good,” Max agreed and laughed, “as long as you let me know far enough in advance so I can get in shape for tramping through the woods.”

Tapping his cigarette on the rim of the ashtray, Brig
realized that in many respects his cousin was an intelligent man, aware of his limitations and capable of exploiting his assets. What was the flaw in his character that prevented Max from being a success? Was it because he was willing to use any means to get what he wanted or because he always wanted what was someone else’s?

“You never did give me a direct answer about the game prospects in your area, McCord,” Fletcher reminded him.

“For bighorn?” Brig raised an eyebrow in query.

“Yes.”

“I’ve seen some,” he admitted.

“Trophy size?”

“It’s possible the ones I saw could qualify.” Brig took a drag on his cigarette and squinted at the smoke that curled into his eyes.

“Has it been hunted much?”

“Not in the area that I’m familiar with.” He shook his head. “The sheep are far back in the wild, high country. They aren’t easy to get to, even with a packstring. It’s hard getting in and hard getting out.”

“Have you ever done any guiding, or considered it?” Fletcher studied him thoughtfully.

“Nope.”

“What would you say if I told you I’d like to hire you to guide and outfit a hunting trip for me?” he smiled complacently as he asked the question.

“Why would you want me?” Brig tipped his head to a wary angle. “I haven’t any experience. Besides you’re already making arrangements with an outfitter in the Bitterroots.”

“From all the information I’ve received, the bighorn sheep in his area and in Montana are young. Which means my chances of finding a ram with trophy size horns are next to nil. From the little you’ve told me about your area, I’d say my chances are better there. You are familiar with the landmarks and terrain. You own a ranch, which means you have access to good mountain horses for a packstring. As for your lack
of experience,” Fletcher paused, “you strike me as a man who would make certain that if you took someone’s money, he would receive what he paid for.”

“I’ve heard about guides who have planes to haze sheep toward the hunters,” Brig remarked.

“That’s illegal.”

“You know that. And I know that. But some hunters want a ram real bad.” A thin trail of smoke punctuated his drawling statement that was half challenge.

“If I get a ram, it will be strictly by the books, with nothing underhanded or illegal involved.” He traced the outline of his spoon on the tablecloth. “I’ll make it worth your while, McCord. Money is no obstacle for me. I’ll pay you three hundred . . . four hundred dollars a day.”

Brig sucked in his breath and tried to conceal his shock at the figures. “Getting in, getting out, plus the hunting time, it could take twenty days.” He’d already done the multiplication in his head and knew the sum would be a sizable portion of what he needed.

“That’s about average, depending on the weather,” Fletcher agreed, a complacent gleam in his eye at Brig’s barely disguised reaction. “There will be two of us going. Naturally that price is per person.”

He swore silently. That amounted to more than half the money he needed. Killing an animal for meat—for food to survive—was one thing. But killing it for a pair of horns to hang on a wall in some den went against the grain.

“If the pair of horns goes over forty inches, there’ll be a ten-thousand-dollar bonus in it for you.” Fletcher sweetened the pot.

Damn! He felt as if his guts were being torn apart as he was pulled in two different directions. “I know what that country is like. I can’t guarantee you’ll even come in range of a ram that size. It would be an arduous trek in some of the roughest country you’ve ever seen.” At that elevation where the bighorns roamed, the air was thin. Even the mildest climb would have the heart pounding like a locomotive. “I don’t
know whether or not you’re in condition for that kind of trip.” It would be a strain on him and Fletcher was more than fifteen years older than he was. Brig didn’t pull any punches letting the man know it.

“I’ll worry about whether or not I can take it.” His voice hardened. “I don’t for one minute think it’s going to be a joy ride. All I expect from you is to completely outfit the hunt and guide me back in there where the sheep are. I’ll carry my own gun and do my own shooting. Whether I hit or miss will be my problem. Yours is to show me the target. Is it a deal?”

“I’ll have to think it over,” Brig said in a taut voice. Hell! What was there to think over? He needed the money. But he refused to override his own request for time.

“Think it over,” Fletcher agreed. “You can let me know what your decision is tomorrow night at the Party.”

“That isn’t much time,” Brig protested.

“I haven’t got much time. The season opens the first of September and runs through the third week in October. I have to make my plans now. I can’t leave it until the last minute.”

“Stay over until Saturday morning, Brig,” Max inserted. “You don’t have any pressing reason to go back to Idaho today, do you?”

“No.” He made the admission grudgingly. He’d thought there would be paperwork involved in connection with the loan from Sanger. He’d made his return reservations for Saturday and wasn’t expected back until then.

“In that case,” Fletcher pushed his chair back from the table and stood up, “I’ll see you tomorrow night, anywhere between eight and nine. You, too, Max.”

“We’ll be there,” Max assured him.

An unreadable expression flickered across Fletcher’s chiseled face. “I’m counting on it.” His glance encompassed both of them. Fletcher signaled the waiter for the check. Max started to protest, but he was waved into silence. “I’ll take care of it,” Fletcher insisted as he
asked the waiter what the total was and handed him a bill. “Keep the change.”