The Moose Jaw (18 page)

“Only trouble I’ve had around here was with a cinnamon sow,” I said.  “Got between her and one of her cubs.”

While Roy and I discussed the bears and the weather, and the past salmon run and the opening of moose season, Larry wandered off upstream, scouting along the water’s edge.  Before he got around the bend, he turned and came back to join us.  It was just as well he hadn’t gone any further.  I didn’t know their business, but I didn’t want them seeing the deep tracks I’d left while carrying Red from the bank to the cabin.  I didn’t know why, but I knew I didn’t trust these guys, and I didn’t want them privy to my business.

When Larry had rejoined us Roy said, “Larry, why don’t you just scout around downstream a ways?  See if that ole’ griz been botherin’ our neighbor here.”

Larry grunted something unintelligible and headed off downstream. 

Roy was stirring the gravel with the toe of one of his hip boots.  His hands were in the pockets of his canvas pants. He looked up suddenly.

   “Don’t happen to have any coffee on do ya?”

It was clear they were making some kind of re-con run, and he wanted to get a look inside the cabin.  I tried to make it just as clear that I wasn’t going to invite him in.

“Sorry,” I said.  “Just threw out the dregs of a pot.  I’d brew up another but I’m runnin’ kinda low.”

“No problem,” he said, “just thought it would be neighborly to share a cup of coffee.”

He closed one eye and squinted the other at me.  He figured he had come up with a clever ploy and was waiting for me to cave in. “Neighborly” is a big deal in the bush.  Protocol demanded that you offer visitors the comfort of your campfire and something to eat or drink.  Fortunately, I still had my hip flask in my pocket.  I produced it.

“Well, this ain’t coffee, but if you don’t object, I guess we could share a neighborly drop of dew.”  ‘Good lord!’ I thought, ‘I’m beginning to sound just like them!’

Roy was momentarily taken aback.  He knew I’d played a trump card.  There was nothing else he could say to work his way into the cabin.  I hadn’t invited him in, but I’d offered hospitality.  That it was offered at the water’s edge didn’t diminish the gesture one bit.

“Well,” he said, recognizing defeat, “mighty neighborly of ya.  Don’t mind if I do”.

He took the offered flask and gave me a silent salute, then put it to his lips and took a delicate sip.  He smacked his lips, nodded, took a bigger sip and passed it back to me with an appreciative smile.  His teeth were yellow and tobacco stained, and there was a gap in the bottom row.  The hair on the nape of my neck bristled.

“Fine whiskey,” he pronounced thoughtfully.  “Mighty fine indeed.”

I don’t think he saw my hesitation before taking the flask from his hand.  Nor did he notice that I didn’t take a drink myself before screwing the cap back on and returning it to my pocket.  He was still trying to figure an angle that would get him a look inside the cabin.  He didn’t lack for persistence.

“Nice place you built here,” he offered.  “Looks cozy.  You got it all fixed up nice inside?”

He cocked his head and grinned at me. 

“Not yet.” I countered, “Pretty raw still.  It’ll be a while before I can entertain company.”

Larry came trudging back up the bar.  When he got to us, he looked pointedly at Roy and shook his head.  Clearly, he hadn’t found what he’d been looking for.  I was beginning to get the uncomfortable feeling that I knew what that was.  He began absently picking at a scab on the back of his hand.

“You check the cabin, Roy?”  It was as if I weren’t even there.

Roy shook his head.  “Nope – didn’t get no invite.”

Larry shifted his pig eyes to me.  He tilted his head back a little and cocked it to one side so his right eye could peek out at me from under the droopy lid.  When he had me in focus, he studied me as he continued, slowly, picking at the scab.  Sizing me up. 

He must have decided I was of no consequence because, at length, he announced, “I’ll go see.”

It stood to reason that Larry wasn’t often invited places.  So, like a bear, he just went where he pleased; if you wanted to try and stop him, have at it.

A small, speculative smile crossed Roy’s lips as he waited for my reaction.  I didn’t make him wait long.  I was still positioned between them and the cabin.  They stood with their backs to the creek and they weren’t close enough to their canoe to reach their rifles.  Larry, of course, was wearing a sidearm, so the winner of this little battle of wills was going to be the guy that got his pistol out first. 

I don’t know what Larry had in mind, but he took a step in my direction. 
I pulled out my .44, aimed directly over his shoulder, and squeezed the trigger.
  KABOOM!  Larry let out a startled yelp, clapped a massive paw over his bandaged ear, and dropped to his knees in the mud.

The muzzle blast of a .44 magnum is deafening.  It even sounded loud to me, and I was standing behind it.  Its effect on the McCaslin boys was most satisfactory.  Roy had lost his nasty little smirk, and had thrown both hands up over his head.  He was looking at me in terrified astonishment.

I let a few moments pass before I spoke.  “Sorry,” I said calmly.  “Wolf on the far bank.  Pushy bastards have been coming in too close lately.  I don’t like them crowding me.  Know what I mean?”

I still had the .44 in my hand.  I don’t know if either of them could hear yet, but they understood. 

Roy studied me for a moment, looked at his brother still kneeling in the mud, and slowly lowered his hands.  The fear that had been in his eyes was gone.  Now, there was only hatred.

“Sure,” he said, his voice flat. “Thanks for the whiskey.  We gotta shove off.  Lotta river to cover fore dark.  Let’s go Larry.”

With that, he climbed back aboard the canoe and took up his perch in the stern.

At the word whiskey Larry’s face took on a look of total bewilderment.  It was clear he had no idea what had just happened, but he knew he hadn’t been offered a drink.  He rose slowly from the mud, glowered at me, and then, as Roy had instructed, walked to the canoe.  He took hold of the bow, lifted it effortlessly free of the mud, and waded it out into the current.  Then he swung it downstream and stepped in. 

I hadn’t moved, and I still held the .44 in my right hand.  I watched both of them very carefully, making sure they picked up their paddles and not their rifles.  It looked like Larry thought about it, but Roy uttered something low and menacing. Larry spit in my direction, then took up his paddle and plunged its blade into the water.

***

I watched them until they were out of pistol range and then I ran back up to the cabin and got my rifle off the porch.  I quickly checked to make sure the magazine was full, and levered a cartridge into the chamber.  Then I replaced the spent round in the revolver.  My hand was steady as I thumbed the fresh cartridge into the cylinder, but my mind was racing.  This had been quite a day, I thought.  First that damned bear, then I nearly get run over by a moose, and now these guys show up.  I ducked inside, checked on Red, and grabbed a box of ammunition for each weapon.

Back outside, I quickly scanned the creek and its banks, then jogged down to what remained of my log pile and crouched in its cover on the upstream side.  It was a good position from which to watch the creek below the cabin, and the gravel bar and willows all the way back to my drying rack.  I didn’t know if the McCaslins would come back soon, but if they did, I’d be ready.

As I waited there in my makeshift bunker, I thought about the implications of their visit.  They were looking for Big Red.  I was pretty certain of that.  I took out my flask, wiped the neck with my shirtsleeve and took a generous sip.  I thought about my redhead in their hands, and what they might have done to her.  Then I tipped up the flask again and drained it.  It made me sick to think about it, but I couldn’t get Roy’s gap toothed smile out of my mind.  

I waited there an hour.  When my visitors failed to materialize, I trotted upstream to the place where I’d found Red, cut a willow and rubbed out my tracks all the way back to the porch steps.  So far, the McCaslins had no reason to believe the girl was in my cabin; they had just been snooping around.  But the deep tracks I had left while carrying her would have told them everything they wanted to know.  They weren’t very smart, in the conventional sense, but they were woodsmen.  If they came back to do some more scouting, they would, no doubt, find my erasures.  They’d wonder about them, but still, they wouldn’t know for sure.

After my cover-up exercise I went back down to the landing and studied both their boot prints.  Larry’s wouldn’t be hard to recognize; you didn’t see many that big, so I focused on Roy’s.  His showed a faint saw-tooth tread pattern, and they were distinctly smaller than my own.  I judged them to be about a size nine.  I stored that in my memory for future reference and hoped I’d never cross their tracks again.  Somehow, I didn’t think I’d be that lucky.

I kept myself busy outside the cabin while the ptarmigan and spruce hen bubbled away with the carrots and potatoes.  I also kept a wary eye on the river for the McCaslins’ return upstream.  It was nearly dark when they finally paddled into sight.  I was chopping wood and paused long enough to raise a hand.  I wanted them to know I was watching.  The silhouette in the stern lifted a hand in acknowledgment, and they continued silently upstream.  When they had rounded the bend, I tossed aside my ax and trotted up the path into the spruce.  I took up position on the ridge overlooking the landing strip and the next two upstream bends.  I’d just ducked into some cover when their canoe came into view.  I watched them until they had rounded both bends.  There was some cloud cover, but the moon was still quite bright, and it lit the landscape well enough that I could follow their progress until they passed from sight.  I breathed a sigh of relief, and then made my way back to the cabin. 

The soup smelled rich and good in the cold night air.  I went directly to the camp stove, lifted the lid off the pot and decided the birds were thoroughly cooked.  I dipped them out of the liquid, boned them out, and returned the tender chunks of meat to the bubbling broth.  I left the pot to simmer while I disposed of the carcass bones.  I had a pretty good system for that now.  I simply took my scraps down to the creek and tossed them across for the fox family.  That served two purposes; it kept my camp clean, and it encouraged the foxes to remain on their own bank.  When I came back up from the creek, I turned off the stove, carried the steaming pot into the cabin, and left it on the table while I checked on Big Red.  She was still out, but she’d obviously stirred.  The blanket lay half on the floor and both her arms and one breast were completely exposed.  I couldn’t help admiring her; she was lovely.  Before I covered her I took another close look at the bruising around the exposed nipple.  I wanted to see if it matched my memory of Roy’s dreadful dental work.  Unfortunately, the bruises had faded to a pale yellow, and I couldn’t read the pattern for certain.  Nevertheless, I brought over the candle and examined her closely for as long as I considered decent.  I’m nothing if not diligent.

Having satisfied my scientific curiosity, I thought I’d best get the windows covered so no one could see in.  Due to the grade, the east side of the cabin was a few feet higher off the ground than the west, and there was no high ground downstream, so I could leave the window over the sink uncovered.  But the windows in the front and west walls needed to be addressed.  Anyone standing on the porch could look directly in the front window, and anyone up on the rise, at the top of the path could see in the west window.  I dug out a couple of my shirts and hung them on the pegs over those two windows.  That did the trick.  I also decided to make do with candles, because the kerosene lamps put out quite a bit of light and I didn’t want to throw definitive shadows.  Once satisfied of our privacy, I set about getting some nourishment into my beautiful patient. 

I’d already ladled out a bowl of broth and left it to cool on the table.  I carried it to the bedside, propped her up in my arm and spoon fed her until half the bowl was gone.  Then her mouth stopped cooperating and I gave it up.  A little was better than nothing.  I dabbed the misses off her chin and breasts, lay her back on the pillow and covered her with the fleece blanket.  The green stove was throwing out plenty of heat so I folded the wool blanket and draped it over the post at the foot of the bed. 

Ordinarily, I turned in pretty early.  In the long days, of course, that was difficult because it never really got dark.  But September had a reasonably normal day/night pattern, even in these latitudes.  Lately, I’d been going to bed shortly after sundown and rising at first light.  Tonight, however, I thought it might be prudent to stay up late and keep an ear cocked for prowlers.  I doubted the McCaslin boys would do anything rash, but I had humiliated the big one, and maybe even ruptured one of his eardrums.  Somehow, they didn’t look the forgiving kind.  On the other hand, they may have decided I was crazy and a little too trigger-happy, and it was best to leave me alone.

I nudged my mind away from the McCaslins and tried to focus on the problem lying in my bed.  I went back over everything I could remember since finding her on the bank.  Fact: She’d come out of the water, under her own power, sometime around sundown.  Fact: She’d nearly drowned, as evidenced by the bilge water I’d pumped out of her.  Fact: She wore leather hiking boots with no socks, yet her feet were in pristine condition.  Fact:  She bore signs of a bear attack, but they were beginning to heal and so, must have been inflicted at least two or three days prior to my finding her.  Fact:  She was lovely.  Fact: I was lonely.  Fact: She was helpless and we were alone – bad train of thought.  I forced myself back to the issues at hand.

One significant issue was Roy’s missing tooth.  That troubled me.  The bite mark on the breast was faded now, but I remembered it clearly.  Ten-to-one Roy had been the biter.  Yet, it was hard to imagine Red as a willing recipient of the bite.  I thought about the McCaslins’ visit.  Roy had mentioned a raft.  Had they really found a raft upstream?  And, if so, was it hers?  Had she been alone?  Roy had used the word survivors.  Did he know there was more than one person missing from the raft, or was he just using the plural form in a general sense?  He also asked about any strange “man tracks or woman tracks”.  He didn’t seem a likely candidate for Mr. Political Correctness, and he hadn’t cluttered up his sentences with the “he-or-she” bullshit required in every official document.  He was a redneck.  The only reason he’d even mention “woman track” was if he was hunting a woman.  Were they hunting for a woman or just looking for a woman’s corpse?  They wouldn’t be looking in my cabin for a corpse.  I thought about this for while.