Season of Death (10 page)

“Dis da greatest!” Lewis shrieked.

Ray reached for a birch and pulled their kayaks onto a shallow sandbar.

“Whattya doin?” Lewis wondered in dismay. “Come on! Can’t stop now!”

“Sure we can,” Ray argued. Sliding from the kayak, he climbed up on the bank.

“Dis be great!” Lewis insisted.

“Dis be stupid.” He swung the tandem around and helped Billy Bob out.

“Boy howdy!” the cowboy exclaimed. “Don’t solid ground feel good?”

“We gotta shoot ‘em,” Lewis demanded. “Only way to caribou.”

“Caribou, shmaribou,” Ray said, smirking. He’d had enough of Lewis’s immature antics. It was time to take control of this runaway boating trip.

“Can’t stop! How we gonna get home?” Lewis protested. “If we miss da plane …”

“We won’t miss the plane,” Ray grumbled, already pulling the kayaks out of the water. “Not unless there are a lot more rapids downstream. Of course, we don’t know whether there are or not, because
nobody
bothered to check it out.”

“What you gonna do?”

“Portage. You do whatever you want to. You wanna blast that nasty stuff, fine. Have at it. We’ll catch up to you on the other side. If you’re still alive.”

Lewis considered this, then shrugged. “Okay. See ya on da udda side.”

“We’ll see that your remains are shipped back to Barrow, if we can find them.”

“I gonna run da mudders,” he assured them “Take care a Fred da Head.”

They watched as he floated downstream, quickly picking up speed. “Anybody that’d do that there mess,” observed Billy Bob, “has got ta be plumb outta-his-head crazy.”

With the kayaks safely on the bank, Ray removed the tent poles, and they began extracting their load: Billy Bob’s borrowed backpack, Ray’s still-damp sleeping bag, the cowboy’s bundled, twenty-pound catch.

After slipping on the pack, Billy Bob lifted his boat and shook it. “These thangs ain’t too bad. Long as we don’t have ta portage fer too far.” He hoisted the craft up under his arm, ready to carry it like a stack of schoolbooks.

“Hang on.” Ray gestured for him to put the kayak down. “Lift it over your head and use your shoulders. That way you don’t fatigue as quickly.”

Billy Bob made a face, then started to lift the boat again.

Ray stopped him. “We need to do something with this.”

The cowboy stared vacantly at the two bundles Ray was bearing: down sleeping bag cradled in his left arm, sweatshirt-bound head in the other.

“Turn around,” Ray told him. When he had complied, Ray set his burden aside and unzipped the main pocket of the cowboy’s pack. He began pulling out clothes: a shirt, a pair of jeans, a belt with a silver-and-turquoise buckle. He tied a light jacket around Billy Bob’s waist.

“Whatcha doin?”

“Making room for Fred,” he replied, tying a work shirt around his own waist. He fastened the jeans around the pack frame and stuffed the skull into the space he had created.

“Dang! These skeeters are about to carry me plumb away.”

Ray zipped the pack shut, strapped his sleeping bag back to the outside, then fished a bottle of Cutter’s from a side pocket. Squirting out a palmful, he offered Billy Bob the repellent. “We’ll trade off with the pack. How’s that?”

“Fine with me.” He smeared white lotion on his face.

“You bring a hat?”

“Just ma Stetson.” His face fell, remembering the loss back at the lake.

“I mean a real hat.” Ray started to explain why a hat was essential, to conserve body heat, to guard against the sun, against insects, to keep from having to slop Cutter’s into your hair … His own hat was decorating the bottom of Shainin Lake as well. “Put lotion everywhere you’ve got exposed skin,” he instructed. As the cowboy patted and lathered himself, Ray found a pair of bandannas in the pack, flaming red and bright yellow.

“Ever play pirate when you were a kid?” Ray asked, folding one of the scarves.

“Nah. Mostly just cowboy and Indian stuff.” His pronunciation of the word Indian made it sound like something that would power a car.

“What a surprise.” After fastening the yellow bandanna around Billy Bob’s head, he put on the red one. “They’re not waterproof, but they’ll have to do.”

Billy Bob turned around and faced Ray, eyes scanning up and down. His cheeks puffed out as he tried to suppress a laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“You. That’s what’s so funny.”

Ray dropped his head, examining his attire: high-water jeans with the fly half down, a shirt tight enough to qualify him for inclusion in the Village People, an extra shirt draped around his waist … He couldn’t see the bandanna, but Billy Bob’s was enough to get the point across. They looked like gang members whose clothing had spent too much time in the dryer.

Lifting the kayak over his head, he nodded at a narrow, neglected trail that ran away from the shore. “We’ll follow the moose track until we get past the falls.”

“How do ya know it’s a moose track?” Billy Bob wondered. He grunted and teetered, struggling to balance the craft on his shoulder.

“Scat.” Ray pointed with his boot. “See the pellets?”

“Them little thangs come from a big ol’ moose?”

“Yep. They
shore
do. And a word of advice. If we see any, keep your distance. They’re usually no problem. But if you get between a cow and her calves, watch out. Same with bears. Make noise so we don’t surprise anybody.”

Billy Bob’s eyes were saucers. “Thank we’ll see some? Some bars, I mean.”

Ray shrugged and started down the track, moving slowly until they cleared the thick band of alders. The trail twisted right, left, wound around a knoll, wandered down a hill. As soon as they entered the dense foliage and were protected from the breeze a squadron of mosquitoes and gnats descended on them.

“You shore you know where yer goin’?” Billy Bob’s breathing was labored, the chore of bearing the pack and boat over uneven ground already taking its toll.

“I’m sure.”

“What if we get lost?”

“We won’t. These trails usually follow the river. Besides, I can hear the rapids.”

“Ya can?” Billy Bob held his breath, listening.

“I have a compass … maybe.” He checked his parka and found the device still lodged beneath a Velcro closure.

Ten minutes passed, their progress slow and arduous. After stumbling down a hill of wet tundra, they found themselves at a tributary. Luckily, it was only a yard wide, a foot deep. They forded it easily and labored up a steep incline, kayaks held high as a thousand branches and leaves reached to impede them.

“How much further?” Billy Bob wanted to know.

“A ways,” Ray responded, hoping he wouldn’t keep asking.

They continued on the moose track as it turned east. Narrowing, it began to split and fragment, degenerating into a network of overgrown paths.

“Great …” Ray groaned. “Berry bushes.” He eyed the tangle of thorns.

“Should we turn around?”

Ray considered this. The river’s voice was subdued, but still perceptible. They were facing away from it, looking down a meadow of willows. Apparently the local moose blundered through the berry patches en route to the trees. Moose loved willows and would do almost anything to reach them, even endure a hundred yards of stickers.

A trail led off to the right. Taking a slightly different tack at the bushes. To the left there were alders, bushes, patches of barren tundra. No trail. But left was where they needed to go, so …

“This way,” Ray said with an air of confidence, as if he knew exactly where they were and how to get to where they needed to be.

“Yer people shore do go to a heck of a whole lotta trouble to meet them caribou,” Billy Bob observed. His boat clonked against a tree and resonated like a timpani drum.

“No.
My
people don’t,” Ray argued.
“My
people go somewhere and wait for the caribou to come to them. It’s more like gathering in the flock than hunting big game. This … This baloney is Lewis’s idea.”

A frenzied outcropping of poplars and birch had risen up to stop them, but Ray continued on, slicing his way through. He was on the verge of sounding the retreat when the trees parted and they reached a clearing. A bona fide trail fell away to the left, in the direction of the river.

“Back on track,” Ray said.

There was a cracking sound to their right. Both men twisted their heads and froze. After another loud pop, they could hear leaves being crushed underfoot.

“Probably just a moose.”

“Or a bear?”

“Maybe. Whatever it is, it’ll leave us alone if it knows we’re here.” Ray listened for a moment, then shouted an Inupiaq phrase at the intruder.

“What’s that mean?” Billy Bob set his boat down and slipped off the pack.

“It’s something Grandfather used to say. A blessing to the
kila,
the animal’s spirit. Basically it means: go away.”

The cowboy deposited the pack at Ray’s feet. “This here is work.”

“You got that right.” Ray leaned his kayak against a tree, rolled his shoulders, then bent to pick up the pack. As he did, there was a boom, and something whizzed.

Before he could react, or even verbalize the obvious question, “What was that?,” his boat rocked and splinters of wood leapt into the air. He blinked at the neat round hole, and was still in the process of comprehending what was happening when there was a second explosion and another hole in the white, meaty trunk of the birch eighteen inches from his head.

If the tree had been a person, he realized as he threw himself to the ground, it would have been time to call the coroner.

ELEVEN

“G
ET DOWN!
”

A third clap of thunder rocked the woods. Ray winced as the bullet zinged past and ricocheted off into the trees behind them. He glanced up and saw Billy Bob standing there, frozen, slack-jawed, staring blankly in the direction of the gunfire.

Lunging, Ray cut the cowboy in half like a tackling dummy. Billy Bob groaned as his lungs deflated, and the two men hit the tundra hard, rolling clumsily into one of the kayaks. Six feet above them, the air was suddenly alive with lead pellets.

“Dang!” the cowboy exclaimed, fighting for breath.

The barrage continued for another few seconds, then … absolute silence. No wind. The entire Range seemed devoid of life.

“What the heck …?” Billy Bob exclaimed. “What’s goin’ on?”

Ray glanced around the clearing, trying to come up with an answer. To the left, a dense curtain of alders. To the right, a thick veil of poplars. He waited, expecting to see movement. But there was none.

“Somebody’s shootin’ at us,” Billy Bob declared in a burst of insight.

Ray cocked his head, straining to hear the assailant approaching,departing, reloading … Nothing. Not so much as a footstep.

“We coulda been killed,” Billy Bob panted, apparently thinking Ray was not aware of this. He was batting a thousand in the “no kidding” department.

“Get your gun,” Ray told him. He nodded at the abandoned pack.

“Cain’t. Lewis has it.”

“I mean your .45.”

“My rifle
and
my .45 are in Lewis’s pack.”

Ray started to ask why, but instead groaned, “Great …” He lifted his head to the edge of the kayak and peered over the stern. This drew an immediate response:
Bang-ping! Bang-ping!
The boat was no longer seaworthy.

Ducking, he swore at the bullets, at the nut shooting the bullets, at their predicament, at Lewis Fletcher, most expert guide. Ray suddenly wished they had chosen to follow the fool down the rapids. Better to be beaten senseless by a boulder than be hunted down like animals.

“What’re we gonna do?” Billy Bob asked. He looked at Ray, expecting a plan.

Ray shrugged. “Commando crawl out of here. Can you reach the pack?”

“I thank so.” Billy Bob flattened himself against the tundra and pulled his body forward in a convincing impression of an injured snake. He was almost to the pack when there was an explosion, a resounding boom that picked up a chunk of lichen and sent it skittering into the alders. Grabbing a strap, he flinched as bullets tore away at the clearing.

Safe in the shadow of the kayak again, he handed the prize to Ray, hands trembling, his sweaty face bereft of color. “This is just like Vietnam!”