Stabenow, Dana - Shugak 09 - Hunter's Moon Page 4

  "Why, you interested?" Old Sam said.

  "Of course he's interested," Kate said, snuggling back ward into Jack's ready embrace. He was interested, too, and she smiled into her pillow.

  He couldn't do anything with three men in the room. She wriggled some more, to torture him.

  "It's a funny group," George said thoughtfully. His cot creaked as he rolled to his back, staring at the shadows cast on the ceiling through the cracks in the stove's fire door. "Dieter's the only one who appears to have any real interest in hunting. The rest of them don't seem to care one way or the other. They aren't even urban warriors. I can't figure out why the bunch of them aren't at Club Med, laying around on a beach and knocking back mai tais."

  Old Sam grunted. "I can. Dieter's the boss. He signs their paychecks. He wanted them to go skydiving on their vacation, they'd say how high you want us to jump from."

  "You think any of them have shot a gun before now?" Demetri said.

  Old Sam snorted. "Not hardly."

  "Great," Jack grumbled, raising his voice to be heard above the partition. "So that means we're going to be giving shooting lessons along with everything else?" "Looks like it," George said glumly. "Kate, I want you with Dieter and Eberhard when we go out." "After what happened tonight?" Old Sam said. "Dieter's as likely to shoot Kate as he is a moose, George. Might want to rethink that."

  "Dieter's looking like the only one with enough experience to hurt himself," George said.

  "He'll probably show off all the more with a woman watching," Old Sam said. "He's the type." "Not after tonight," George said. "Not in front of Kate. He knows he can't buffalo her now. Which is why I want her to keep her eye on him." "Oh?" said Old Sam. "While you will be keeping an eye on who, exactly?" "Why," said George, elaborately casual, "I think that Senta requires some hands-on supervision."

  Old Sam snorted. "Imagine my surprise."

  "We might as well split them between us the way they're split between the cabins," George said. "Kate'll take Dieter and Eberhard, Jack, Gunther and Klemens, Demetri, Hubert and Gregor, Old Sam, Fedor and Hendrik--"

  Old Sam snorted again and made a production out of pulling all his blankets loose and rearranging them and himself on the cot.

  "--and I'll take Senta."

  "And the mountain," Demetri said demurely.

  "And the mountain," George agreed.

  The Great White Hunters straggled into breakfast one at a time, Senta first, to George's clearly demonstrated delight, Dieter second, Klemens third. Kate thought the lines of his face looked deeper than they had the day before. "Did you sleep well, Klemens?" she said, handing him a mug. The cabins were rudimentary affairs, with small wood stoves for heat and plywood bunks with thin pads for sleeping. An older man with less supple bones might find them less than comfortable.

  He smiled at her with obvious effort. "I slept very well, Kate," he said. "This coffee is wonderful." "Kaladi Brothers," Jack said cheerfully. "A local roaster. You can pick up some on your way back through Anchorage if you want to. Who's making breakfast this morning?"

  Old Sam made breakfast, eggs, home fries, toast and caribou sausage, the latter because George wanted his hunters to see the proper outcome of a successful hunt. "Moose steak for dinner," he told Demetri, who had cooking duty that night. "And some of your chocolate chip cookies for dessert," he told Jack.

  Since chocolate chip cookies were the beginning and the end of Jack's expertise in the kitchen, he was agreeable. He and Demetri cleared away the breakfast dishes while George explained the drill to the guests.

  "All right, folks, here's how it works. I'm going up in the Cub to take a look-see."

  "An aerial survey," Dieter said, nodding.

  "Er, yes," George said, "an aerial survey. No point in walking farther than we have to, right, guys?" There were emphatic nods all around.

  "Let's see, it's"--George looked at the calendar on the wall--"okay, it's Wednesday, September twenty-seventh. I'm sure Dieter passed on what I said before you left home, but just in case, let's go over it one more time."

  He was on his feet, standing at the end of the table. A map of Alaska was taped to the wall in back of him, a window on either side. Kate looked at the assembled party and wondered what they made of the lodge.

  The linoleum underfoot was clean but worn and cracked and coming up in places. The planks lining the walls were painted white to reflect much needed light but they were rough and unfinished. The gas stove was utilitarian, and the sink drained down a rubber hose that led through the wall and into the row of pansies planted outside.

  There was a wooden table and molded fiberglass chairs in the center of the room. A shelf full of tattered paperbacks hung on one wall, with copies of National Geographic, Aviation Week and Field & Stream stacked beneath. On another wall was a gun rack, full of rifles and shotguns and with knives in sheaths hanging from it. Boxes of ammunition were stacked on counter, table and floor.

  Coleman lanterns hung from hooks on every wall, and an Aladdin lamp, its chimney immaculate, sat next to the stove. A length of pipe suspended from wires nailed to the ceiling served as a coat rack, and the Blazo boxes that did double duty as kitchen shelves and room divider were clean and neatly organized, but they were still Blazo boxes, proclaiming the fact in loud red letters on each exposed side.

  Every couple of years George married someone who took it into her head to dust.

  The group didn't seem to be taking much notice one way or another. They gave a collective impression of patient endurance, which made Kate wonder how many times Dieter had shanghaied his staff on one of these so called retreats. What was next? Diving the Great Barrier Reef?

  Climbing Everest? George was right about one thing, at least: They would have been more at home at Club Med.

  Senta was smoking a thin, brown cigarette, Klemens a pipe, Dieter a cigar, naturally. The smoke met and mingled in the air, creating graceful swirls gilded by the sunlight now cascading through the windows like four individual cataracts. If George had known how it also lit up his scalp through his thinning hair, he would never have stood there.

  Kate caught a whiff of cigar, nearly gagged and moved out of range.

  "This is moose season," George said, standing very straight and sounding very stern. "Today, tomorrow, Friday and Saturday, we're hunting moose.

  Plus I see most of you are packing shotguns, so we can hunt some birds, too, if you like, spruce hen, ptarmigan, we'll probably run into some Canadian geese and maybe some wood ducks, too.

  Bear season, however, doesn't start until the first of October. That's Sunday."

  George cocked an eyebrow and even went so far as to waggle a finger.

  "Now, that doesn't mean you won't see any bears between now and Sunday, that just means you're not supposed to shoot at them until Sunday. If they charge you, that's a different story, but half the time it'll be a false charge. Let your guide decide whether or not to shoot, okay?"

  He leaned forward, both hands flat on the table for emphasis. Dieter started to smile, met George's flinty gaze and changed his mind.

  "We've got some pretty strict laws in this state about what to shoot and when," George said, slowly and with deliberate emphasis. "You shoot something when or where you're not supposed to, and there's a state fish and wildlife protection officer watching, which they are more often than you know or like, then you're likely going to be fined, plus chances are pretty good you'll do some jail time, too." "How much money?" Dieter said.

  "How much jail?" Klemens said.

  "For shooting an illegal moose, which is what we're hunting today, the maximum penalty is a five-thousand dollar fine and a year in jail."

  Dieter shrugged. Five thousand American was pocket change to Dieter, the shrug said; he probably tipped more than that on a night out. Or liked people to think he did.

  Klemens frowned. "One year? That is a lot of prison time for shooting out of season. Our laws are not so strict."

  Old Sam glared. "Probabl
y not, since you people hunted your last bear along about the time of the Reformation."

  Klemens looked startled at first, met Old Sam's fierce eyes and gave a sudden laugh. "You could be right," he admitted, and Kate liked him all the better for it. Judging from his expression, so did Old Sam, although he wouldn't have admitted it unless his fingernails were being ripped out by red hot pincers.

  George ignored them both. "The sentence depends on the offense, what kind of game, what game management unit you're in, how cranky the agent who catches you is, what side of the bed the judge got up on that morning, like that." George straightened. "In case you think I might have some pull with the local authorities in these matters, let me tell you that it doesn't matter who you are or who you know. A while back, the director of the Division of Fish and Wildlife and an FBI agent buddy of his got liquored up and illegally shot a caribou in a closed area on the Glenn Highway. They were both arrested, convicted, fined and they both did time. As I'm your guide, if you screw up I'll be liable. I could lose my guide's license, my lodge. My planes."

  He looked each of them in the eye, one by one. "I guarantee you, folks.

  You make that happen, you'll pray the state gets to you before I do."

  There was a short silence. Kate watched everyone translate George's words into German and back again. They turned almost as one to Dieter, waiting for a response to this comprehensive and unsettling threat on their lives.

  "I have told them this already," Dieter said.

  George gave Dieter a cordial smack on the back that in no way diluted the menace of his warning. "Just a friendly reminder, Dieter, is all.

  Listen to your guides, let them estimate the width of the rack and count the brow tines. And don't shoot unless and until they give you the go-ahead. Now, anybody have any questions?"

  No one did. "Okay, anybody else want to say anything?" "I do," Old Sam said, and stood up to bend a severe eye on the gathering. "There ain't a damn bit of difference between a bull moose in rut and a drunk chasing girls in a bar."

  Gunther's giggle was high-pitched and nervous.

  Old Sam ignored him. "You people have chosen to hunt in the rut, fine.

  You don't care about meat, you're looking for racks, I understand that.

  Just you understand up front that moose are like people as soon as they get to chasing girls. They get to fighting and flexing their muscles and doing a lot of stamping and snorting and grunting and whoofing. They'll charge anything that doesn't get out of their way fast enough." He raised a pontifical finger.

  "Don't get in between a bull moose and his girlfriend. Don't get in between a bull moose and another bull moose who's in between the first bull and his girlfriend. The only time a moose should know you're there is the second after you shoot him, just before he falls down dead." He paused, added with emphasis, "What I'm saying is this. You get your sorry ass stomped by a moose, I ain't packing you out."

  There was a brief silence. Kate examined the upturned faces, sternly repressing a grin. When was the last time this bunch of autonomous executives had had such a talking to? When was the last time anyone had dared?

  Well, they had signed on for a wilderness experience, and Old Sam was doing his best to provide one. Most big-game guides did everything up to and including laying a red carpet from plane to lodge for their paying guests, pampering them with comfortable beds, gourmet meals, packing their rifles in and their meat out, and sometimes shooting for them. As George said, "They want a wilderness experience, I give ' a wilderness experience. They want to be babied, they can take a cruise." "Okay,"

  George said now, and smiled widely for the first time that morning. "Now how ' I grab some air and go find us something to shoot at tomorrow?"

  "Can I go?" Gunther said, so eager his tail was nearly wagging.

  "Sure," George said, waving him on. "I can always use an extra pair of eyes." "Wait a minute," Dieter said, sitting up. "We aren't hunting today?" George shook his head and said firmly, "Remember what I told you, Dieter. No flying and shooting the same day. It was too close to dark when we finished flying everybody in yesterday for me to do an eyeball then. We'll go first thing tomorrow, though, so start getting your gear into shape. After that, you might want to get in a little fishing. I took a look this morning, and there's a mess of rainbows sitting under that log on the far side of the creek."

  Klemens brightened and made a beeline for his rod case.

  Shortly afterward the Cub rose off the strip and began making lazy circles in the sky, sometimes where it could be seen from the lodge, sometimes where it could only be heard, and sometimes, ominously, where it could be neither. Kate resigned herself to a long and anything but leisurely journey bushwhacking through the dense undergrowth of the surrounding countryside in search of the elusive moose.

  But that wasn't until tomorrow, and today the sun was shining and she didn't have to walk any farther than the creek if she didn't want to.

  She turned to Dieter. "There's stuff for lunch on the table in the lodge. Fill up on water or whatever you're drinking. Check your weapons, pack your ammunition."

  "I take five rounds," Dieter stated.

  He seemed to have decided to ignore what had happened the night before, and Kate, guiltily aware that she could have put George's hunting party and the assistant guides' paychecks in the toilet with one shot, strove for a tone of friendly inquiry. "Really? Five rounds of ammunition, total? Why is that, Dieter?" "Capstick says he takes five rounds to hunt tigers. He says if you don't get what you're aiming at in five rounds, you don't deserve any more shots." Dieter challenged her with a look.

  She kept her expression mild. "Fine, whatever you want, it's your hunt, after all." She had no idea who or what Capstick was. "You have no objection to my carrying an extra box of cartridges, I hope?"

  He couldn't quite succeed in keeping the condescension, perhaps even the contempt, from showing on his face. "Of course not."

  "Good." She gave him a cheerful smile, kissing her tip good-bye, and Dieter would have been the type to tip big. Oh well. "You see, Dieter, I've been charged by a bear. A bear is a large and scary animal, with a lot of teeth and a ton of attitude. I'm going to be toting all the ammunition I can carry. I'd just as soon be safe than sorry, myself."

  He didn't believe her, that was obvious, but he made a great effort not to show it. "Attitude?"

  "Means the bear is pissed off most of the time," Jack said, adjusting the straps of a pack board to fit his large frame.

  "What is that for?"

  "It's what we pack out the meat on," Jack said.

  Hubert gave Dieter a sideways look. "We are bringing the meat back?

  Why? We want the horns, not the meat."

  "We want the horns and the meat, as long as the meat isn't too rank from the rut," Jack said patiently. "And even if it is, we'd be breaking the law if we let it lay."

  He exchanged a glance with Kate. It continually amazed them how you could tell a cheechako something three times over and he still didn't hear it. "If it is, we'll turn it over to a couple of mushers we know for dog meat. The rule is, we can't waste it. Come on, pick one out and try it on, I'll help you cinch it up. You next, Dieter." Dieter said nothing, and after a moment's pause Hubert allowed himself to be fitted with a pack board To Kate, Dieter said, "Where are your weapons?"

  Kate, wondering if Dieter was going to want to fire a test round at, say, her feet, fetched her Remington bolt action .30-06 and her Browning single-barreled pump action twelve gauge.

  Dieter jerked his chin at the shotgun. "How many does the magazine hold?" "Five," Kate said. "And one in the chamber. Six, altogether."

  He looked down at his break top Purdey. "How much did they cost?"

  "A little over six hundred each," Kate said.

  "Six hundred dollars?" Dieter's voice scaled up in a disbelief parodying Kate's of the night before.

  "Uh-huh." She loaded the rifle and leaned it against a tree trunk close to hand.

  "Y
ou're not loading the shotgun?" Dieter said, watching her.

  "No need. Tomorrow I'm the guide, not the hunter. The rifle's plenty, should I need to back you up."

  She looked at Eberhard's weapon and her eyes widened.

  Hers weren't the only ones. "Goddamn!" Old Sam said. He stepped lively across the clearing. "Jesus, son, what is that cannon you're carrying?

  You must have thought we were gonna be hunting humpback whales." He held out a hand, and after a moment of hesitation Eberhard handed his rifle over.

  Old Sam probably had about thirty-five, forty years on Eberhard. He didn't quite come up to Eberhard's shoulder, and Eberhard outweighed him by a hundred pounds. Nonetheless, Old Sam tossed Eberhard's artillery around like it was a toy pistol and kept up a running commentary besides. "I'll be dipped and fried, a Weatherby Magnum378.