The Moose Jaw (17 page)

I watched for animal tracks and human bodies along the bank.  As always, while walking that stretch of river, I found sign of several wolves and weasels and various creatures of the night.  There was no evidence of bears, of course, but I’d gotten used to that by now.  I still didn’t understand it, but it no longer surprised me.  Halfway down to the landing strip, I discovered where the big bull moose had come across from the far bank in the night, and filed it in my memory.  By ten o’clock I was back at the cabin. 

I never return directly to camp without first hanging back a while to study it for danger.  You never know what or who has arrived since you left, so I always come in slow.  I stopped in the woods on the high bank a hundred yards upstream of The Varmitage.  I hunkered down and loaded my pipe and looked the place over.  It didn’t look like anything had changed since I left.  The door was still closed and smoke was curling lazily out of the chimney.  I waited a few more minutes, then lit my pipe and set off down the hill.  The two birds in my jacket’s game pouch bumped against my back with each step as I ambled down the slope to the gravel bar and across the ground to the cabin.

She was still out cold.  Hadn’t stirred since I left.  Man, this was going to be a long nine days.  I lay my palm on her forehead and she felt a little hot.  Maybe it was my imagination.  I had, after all, been exercising, so maybe the heat was my own.  I threw off the top cover and pulled the fleece blanket down to her waist.  Then I checked her over.  I couldn’t say what I hoped to learn from this activity but, let’s face it, I liked to look at her.  As fate would have it, I did notice something.  She was drying out.  I don’t mean she was finally drying out from the drowning.  I mean her skin didn’t have the sheen to it you see in healthy animals.  She appeared to be dehydrating.  ‘Great,’ I thought.  ‘What next?’

I filled a tin cup with spring water from the tap and sat on the edge of the bed.  I lifted her head with one hand while trying to get her to sip the water.  I managed only to dribble it down her chin.  It obviously wasn’t going to work with her flat on her back.  Even if I succeeded in getting the water into her mouth, I’d probably drown her.  I sat her up a bit so gravity would help keep her mouth open.  I had to get an arm around behind her back and snug her up against me to keep her upright.  A bit awkward, but effective – also, not unpleasant.  After holding her that way and pouring small sips of water into her mouth for about ten minutes, I managed to get nearly a cup into her.  She could swallow; that was a plus.  And, after a few mouthfuls, it seemed her mouth was cooperating by opening and closing at the appropriate times.  Reflex, I supposed. 

When she’d finished the cup, I was satisfied that I’d be able to get broth into her using the same approach.  I toweled off her chin and chest and belly, then lay her head gently back on the pillow and covered her with a blanket.  Since there was nothing more I could do for her, I went outside to set a pot to boil on the Coleman.  Holding her close and nursing her had left in me a warmth and contentment I had not felt for a long time.  Solitude is wonderful, but it quickly becomes loneliness.  It was nice to have another human in the cabin.  It was especially nice that the human was female and young and slender.  Her vulnerability and mystique only enhanced her charm for me.  I found myself whistling softly as I went out into the sunlight.

After I had the water heating, I went back in to rummage through my kit for anything that might moisturize her skin.  The only thing I had was some rendered goose grease I used to waterproof the leather uppers of my boots and soften the leather of my rifle sling and knife sheath.  I kept it in a two pound coffee can.  It seemed to work well on my skin, as I always rubbed it into the leather with my bare hands, and my hands seemed to benefit from it.  I had plenty; the can was three quarters full.  Why not?

I fetched the tin off the shelf and, by way of a test, went to my patient and rubbed a little goose grease into the skin of her arm that lay exposed above the blanket.  I thought I detected some improvement.  The grease would work, but I decided it would have to wait.  The first thing she needed was a good washing.  I put the can back on the shelf and went outside to see if the water was boiling yet.

It was close, but not quite ready.   I hadn’t yet tried out the boiler on the side of the cook stove, but since I had a few minutes to kill, I took the time to go in and fill it.  When I went back outside, the water on the camp stove was boiling, so I poured a little into the wash basin and set it aside for Red’s bath.  Then I cut up a few carrots and potatoes and plopped them, with the two birds, into the pot and clapped on the lid.  I left it to simmer on the Coleman, then took the basin into the cabin and added enough water out of the tap to cool it.  When I judged the temperature to be just right, I snatched a clean washcloth and towel off their pegs and took everything over to the bed. 

I worked quickly, trying to wash all of her while the water was warm.  I reminded myself to behave and didn’t wash any part or parts of her more thoroughly than the rest of her.  When I’d washed her top to bottom, front and back, I rubbed her down with the towel and covered her with both blankets.  I didn’t want her to catch a chill while she was still damp.  Then I went about my normal daily chores.  Since installing the running water, the only thing I really had to do was lay in a day’s supply of firewood.  I had planned to do a bit of chinking, but that could wait.  I had a little laundry to do, but I usually did it on a day when the sky was clear and there was a breeze to help with the drying.  Today was overcast, so once the wood was organized, there really wasn’t anything left to do.  I decided to resume the aborted goose grease test.  I was beginning to suspect my efforts on Big Red’s behalf weren’t entirely altruistic.  Behave, I reminded myself. 
I had a brief inner struggle and won.
  Take that to mean anything you like.

I went back into the cabin, took the can off the shelf, gave it a sniff and decided its scent could do with some improvement.  I sat it on the stove lid to warm and soften while I went back to the odds and ends shelf and found Haywood’s Skin-so-Soft.  There wasn’t enough of it to do her much good, but there was enough to lend fragrance to the goose grease.  I took it over to the stove, poured it into the coffee can, and stirred it into the grease.  After it cooled enough to use, I gave it another sniff, approved, and decided it was time for Red’s rub down.  I dragged the table and candle closer to the bed and stripped back the blankets.  Scratches, broken nails and tangled hair notwithstanding, Big Red was magnificent.  I tossed the blankets to the floor at the foot of the bed and began applying the grease.  I worked it into the claw marks on her back and then her bottom, and on down the backs of her legs.  It appeared to be doing some good, so I rolled her over and concentrated on her front side.  I started with her feet, one toe at a time.  After a half hour or so I’d done her, quite literally, head to toe, but in reverse order.  It goes without saying that I spent a disproportionate amount of time greasing her buttocks and breasts.   I’m not a lecher; they just seemed drier than the rest of her.

When I was satisfied that she was well oiled, I collected the blankets from the floor and, reluctantly, covered her.  I had a comb, so I broke it out and began combing the snarls and twigs out of her hair.  I talked quietly to her as I worked, telling her she would recover soon, and gently chiding her for letting herself fall into such disrepair. It was a pleasant chore, and I was surprised to find her hair was a good bit longer than I had imagined.  I combed and groomed her for nearly an hour. When I had finished, I was pleased with the results.  I sat back and admired her; she was, indeed, quite lovely.

I went out into the afternoon and satisfied myself that the birds were simmering properly and the Coleman had enough gas.  Since my hands were still greasy, I worked on my rifle sling and gun belt and even oiled the leather case of my father’s old hip flask.  I was amazed to see it was still half full; Haywood must not have noticed it.  When I’d finished tending to all my leather gear, I settled down on a stump, enjoyed a few sips from the flask, and basked in the afterglow of the goose greasing.  It had been too long since I’d enjoyed a woman and my “nursing” had been as close to sex as I’d come in a very long time.  I experienced a few moments of guilt over taking advantage of a helpless female, but they passed quickly in light of the fact that it was all for her own good.

“Right,” I said aloud and smiled.  “Pervert!”

My musings were rudely interrupted by the arrival of two strangers in an old aluminum canoe that had seen better days.  I could tell it had once been a deep green, but now showed more bare metal than paint, and was badly battered and dented.  It had come downstream and now, as its bow swung toward my landing, I studied the two men paddling it.  They appeared as battered and shopworn as their canoe.  Both were bearded and looked like refugees from a lumber camp.  Since moose season had opened yesterday, I assumed they were hunters.  But something was wrong; neither was wearing camouflage, and they had nothing in the canoe but their rifles.  That was odd, but it was possible that they were camped upstream and had left all their gear at camp while they hunted.  Maybe.  But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something about them was half a bubble off plumb.  I recapped the flask and slipped it in my hip pocket.  Then, recalling Hard Case’s warning, I stood and strapped on the .44 magnum.  It would have been rude to carry a rifle or shotgun when greeting visitors.  A holstered revolver, on the other hand, was pretty much uniform of the day.  You even wore one when chopping wood or fetching water – or washing your face in the stream if you had any sense.

I went down to the landing.  The prow of their canoe grated on the shallow bottom just as I reached the gravel bar.  The big man in the bow stepped over the side, into the water.  He then gripped a gunwale in a massive paw and effortlessly dragged the boat, and its remaining passenger, well up onto the shore.

He was truly enormous, perhaps six foot-seven or eight
, and had to weigh well over three hundred pounds.  His right eye had a droopy lid and his mouth hung agape in a way that suggested an open circuit somewhere in his wiring.  He was dressed in a wool hunting shirt and black rubber waders. They barely fit him.  He accessorized this ensemble with a striking leather gun belt and enormous revolver worn on the outside of the waders.  The fur flaps of his hat dangled loosely each side of his head, like the ears of a hound.  There was a bloody bandage peeking out from under one of the flaps.  ‘Fashion plate, Alaska style,’ I thought.

When the canoe was securely grounded, the smaller man, still seated in the stern, greeted me.

“Howdy,” he said flatly.  At least he wasn’t long winded.

I nodded to him, “Hello.”

Since they had come calling, it was incumbent upon them to explain their presence.  I waited.

Formal greetings behind us, he surprised me with, “We’re neighbors from upstream.  I’m Roy McCaslin.  That’s Larry.  He’s my brother.”

He had a hillbilly accent and drawled each word out slow and easy, but there was an undertone of menace in his voice.  There was no way these two were neighbors; I’d been up and down the creek all summer, and had never seen so much as a single man track.

Roy was still talking.  “You’ll have to excuse Larry, he don’t talk much.  He’s a little slow, and shy around strangers. You understand.”

I studied Larry briefly.  He was standing ankle deep in water, gazing across the creek, mouth agape, with one forefinger two knuckles deep in his left nostril.  I had to admit he didn’t exactly radiate intelligence.  Roy didn’t strike me as brilliant either, but I could tell he was quick and crafty.  They both looked mean.

“I understand,” I said sincerely.  “Didn’t know there was anyone else living back in here.  How far upstream is your place?”

Roy mulled that over. “About three miles, I reckon.  We got a lodge a little way up the first creek beyond the burn.  Been in here off-and-on a lotta years now.”

Judging from the condition of their canoe, that much, at least, was probably true.  I’d never ventured up Deadman Creek, so there could have been a dozen cabins back in there I didn’t know about.

“What brings you this far downstream?  Hunting?”

I didn’t really believe they were hunting moose this far down.  They looked like experienced woodsmen.  Seasoned veterans knew enough to kill their moose upstream of camp, if possible.  It was hard enough paddling an empty canoe against the current.  If you had to kill a moose downstream, you did it as close to home as possible.  Three miles would be out of range.

“Just doin’ our civic duty,” Roy said solemnly.  “Found a grounded raft couple miles above us.  Nobody around.  Looked like maybe a bear attack.  Lookin’ for survivors to see if we could maybe help.  Ain’t had no visitors, or seen any strange man tracks or woman tracks around lately have ya?”

Nothing about these two inspired trust.  I decided to keep Big Red to myself until I got a better read on the McCaslin boys.

“Fraid not,” I told them.

Then, to change the course of the conversation, “Haven’t heard of any bear attacks lately.  You been having trouble up at your place?”

“Nuthin’ but,” Larry grumbled, studying something on the tip of his finger.  Roy ignored him.

“Sure have.  Big three toed griz what’s got a hard-on for mankind.  Damn near tore Larry a new asshole couple weeks back.  Caught him comin’ down the ladder outa our cache.  He was lucky to get back up top and throw down the ladder fore he got him.  Kept him treed up there over a hour.  If I hadn’t come alookin’ for him he’d still be up there.  Ran the big fucker off with the shotgun – gave him a load ‘n the ass.  He’ll remember me alright.”

Larry nodded miserably as Roy talked.

I looked across the creek and thought, ‘Three toed griz.  How about that?’  I decided to keep quiet regarding my encounter with the bear too.  I didn’t want to give them any reason to hang around.  I wanted them to get back in their canoe and go away.