Chugger's Hunt

by Roy F. Chandler

  Someone had driven a fire-hardened willow peg into a tree trunk for hanging things. Chugger looped his rifle's sling over the peg. The rifle hung muzzle down, keeping rain out of the barrel. The rifle's magazine was loaded, but until a shot was imminent, Chugger left his chamber empty. That way, no accident could happen.

  Most hunters and mountain roamers carried high-powered, bolt action rifles. Most were long barreled with large variable power telescopic sights. Chugger's rifle harked to an earlier time, and a different hunting philosophy.

  Chugger's gun had begun life as a Winchester model 71, a lever actioned rifle that fired a .348 Winchester cartridge. In the early 1950's, Harold Johnson, a Cooper Landing gunmaker, rebarreled the rifle to .45 caliber and called his creation a .450 Alaskan. Shooting heavy, flat nosed bullets, the rifle was certain death out to about two hundred yards. After that, velocity dropped sharply and so did the bullet. In close, the .450 was perfect for the big bears. The smooth as grease lever action provided swift follow up shots, in case a hunter blew his first try.

  The gun had been Dan Martin's, and Chugger's mind remembered the rifle as it swung from his father's shoulder. It was a good memory, and Chugger hoped that his father knew his son was putting the special rifle to use.

  When hunting bear, the .450 was the right rifle. It was also Chugger's favorite protection when photographing on a trip like this one. He did not intend to shoot, but if he had to, whatever got hit would stay down.

  They had hunted together, old Dan and his too young son. The boy had come late in the parents' lives, a welcome surprise, but still in life's latter quarter. By Chugger's college time, both parents were gone.

  Dan had begun the Chugger business. Dan Martin claimed the Lord had built his son's butt too close to the ground. Short legged and block bodied, the child had labored through the wild Alaskan ground cover, just chugging along like an old freight train. Dan would say, "Come on, Chugger," and they would go out to flush ptarmigan or to get rabbits running. The nickname stuck, and only on official records did Chugger use his real name.

  Chugger's shelter was an old style pup tent. Most backpacker tents required fanciful pole arrangements. Too often an aluminum pole got bent or lost. Chugger did not bother with tent poles. Usually lines to convenient trees did the job. If not, a pair of willow sticks worked as well.

  Sometimes, ferocious winds funneled down valleys to rip and tear with hurricane force. Chugger held his tent edges down with heavy rocks lashed to the sewn-in eyelets. His camp stayed in place, no matter how the elements howled.

  Before starting up the mountain, Chugger had stacked dead willow branches inside his tent. If the weather turned foul and rain drenched everything, he would at least have dry firewood for cooking.

  Chugger restacked his wood outside and covered it with his rain gear. It took only a few minutes to gather enough fresh wood for his fire. In the high country, where forest cover was thin, dry wood was surprisingly easy to find.

  Further down, beneath the spruce, the sun had a harder time, and a man got used to a smoky fire that stunk up everything.

  All the wood was soft and burned quickly. Alaskan's rarely had the deep, glowing coals of lower forty-eight campfires to gaze into until sleep time. The wise Alaskan camper built his fire small. Unless he had a chain saw and a forest to cut down, a big blaze burned too much wood to enjoy.

  Because he had been a week in the mountains, Chugger's supper choice was limited. These days he carried in freeze-dried foods. When he could, he got surplus army rations. The rest were Alpine Aire or Mountain House, because a friend gave him substantial discounts.

  Tonight, it would be pork and beans with some army crackers. Sounded good. Almost any food was good in camp. If bacon fell into the coals, what the hell, ashes added grit and flavor. If cooking had to be epicurean, a camper could not make it in the mountains.

  Chugger had only one cooking and eating utensil anyway. His was a flat bottom pan about three inches deep. Chugger cooked and boiled in it. Then he ate from it. His silver service was a single spoon and his hunting knife, if he needed it. A number of the military's fingernail-size can openers were tossed into Chugger's duffle. A little looking always turned one up, in case a can had to be opened.

  Matches were never treated lightly. Without fire, the fun was gone, and conditions could become grim. Chugger had two waterproof, screw top containers filled with wax coated stick matches. He also carried a flint and steel fire starter perfected for wartime survival. In all his years, he had never had to use the flint, but, like a good traveler's check suggested, he never left home without it.

  Few humans genuinely enjoy weeks of isolation from their own kind. Most become bored with themselves and grow anxious about what is going on without their knowledge. The absence of creature comforts plague some, and the loss of power over others harries the self-important, much as the lack of outside direction worries others.

  Chugger was not one to claim that he preferred the loneliness of mountain solitude, but for a few weeks he was comfortable with himself. His writing helped. Lost in his story, living with his characters, hours slipped by as minutes. After a week or so, he often became unsure of the day of the week, but didn't care. Usually Chugger came out because his food got low.

  He ate over a five-stick fire that he nourished by shoving the sticks into the fire center as they burned down.

  Decades before, the old guide had leaned flat stones into backrests around the firepit. Chugger flopped his sleeping bag over one, plopped himself down, and ate and read a little in a novel about Perry County, Pennsylvania.

  The tale was of Indians in the early days. Filled with honorable combat, the story made a reader's heart pump. Chugger was into number twenty-four of the series. He hoped a lot more were coming.

  There were no such Indian tales drawn from the Alaskan experience. Eskimo yarns were always of whaling, sealing, or simply surviving. Chugger resolved to look into Athapaskan history. Those great and many tribes must have mighty traditions that could be developed into brave stories. He made a note of it and settled down to write.

  If his mind settled in, he would write until dark. Then he would sack out and sleep hard until morning light woke him. He would eat lightly before he hiked back up the mountain and across the top.

  The stars would bright and close. He hoped the night would stay clear and morning mists would not delay him.

  +++

  Smoke Cole scouted the cabins without attempt at concealment. As he had expected, both buildings were unused. One cabin was old and battered. Dogs had been quartered there. The newer cabin was nice, but weeds and brush had overgrown the steps. A long unopened padlock secured the door. A look through a dusty window showed the inside well equipped with amenities for year-round living. Smoke placed the snug cabin in a corner of his mind. If things got hard, or if he needed safe shelter, the place would be perfect.

  A vague path led up the creek edge, and Cole took it. Before the trace ran out, and a bulging cliff made fording necessary, he had found the boot marks of one recent hiker. It had to be his man, and the photographer was alone in there. Cole smiled satisfaction and stepped into the icy water.

  Halfway across, Smoke knew he had made a mistake. The plunging current tore crotch deep, and the footing was slick and uneven. Glacier gray water hid the rough bottom, and the best he could do was shove a boot ahead while struggling for balance.

  Smoke didn't make it. A foot slipped and he went under, rolling downstream like a log. Clutching his rifle, Cole thrashed his way ashore. Soaked, colder than an icicle, Smoke wrung out his jacket and shirt. His hat was gone, probably halfway to the highway by now.

  He had seen where the photographer had cut a willow pole. He should have done the same, but the creek had not looked that deep. At least he had gotten across. Cole drained water from his rifle and slung it upside down for a while. As long as it fired when he pulled, Smoke didn't give a damn about how the gun looked. When he got Kelly O'Doran's five thou
sand, he might, just for the hell of it, buy a new one.

  Thinking about the money raised Cole's spirits. There wasn't a chance in hell of the photographer getting any of it. Smoke would get the film. The picture taker would get lumps. Cole began following the creek, smashing and bucking his way through moose willows. It was a hell of a way to the glacier, then a lung-pulling climb to where they had shot the goat.

  The photographer could be gone from there by now, but his direction was more likely to be closer than farther. Most men made a base camp where there was wood for burning. If Smoke could find the man's camp, he might just hole up nearby and wait until the photographer came down. That would save a lot of climbing. Waiting could take longer, but it would also eliminate any odd chance of Smoke missing his man.

  The going stayed rough. Within a half mile Smoke was again forced to ford. Here the creek was squeezed by the mountains, and the current was deeper and swifter. Cole had only a hunting knife but he chopped at a soft willow until the tree fell. Cutting a pole to length was almost as tedious. Christ, Cole thought, a damned beaver did it better.

  Without the willow as a third leg, Smoke would not have made it. The warmer weather was melting snowbanks and the glacier. Ernestine Creek was about as deep as it would get.

  The best way to edge across was by facing downstream, bracing against the current using the pole as a third leg. Then a foot was moved cautiously sideward until it settled firmly. Next came the pole, into a new and solid position. Finally, the trailing foot was inched closer.

  Rushing water tugged almost to Cole's waist. He cursed fervently. Crossing was a repeated struggle for balance. If he went down here, he would be shot like a bullet almost back to where he had first fallen.

  The photographer had come this way, so Smoke could. The guy probably had a heavy pack, which Cole didn't, but maybe his legs were longer as well. Smoke made it across and kept his pole for the next fording.

  +++

  The way in got only a little better, and Smoke appreciated why the Ernestine goats appeared little bothered. There were too many easier goat hunting areas.

  Not many hunters would choose such rugged terrain. That realization made Cole wonder more about the man he hunted.

  It could be that the photographer was some kind of crazy loner that lived wild and was more animal than man. There were people like that surviving primitively out in the bush.

  Cole had looked over the parked pickup on his way in. Nice truck, not likely to be owned by a bug bitten, wild meat eater. Still, it did not pay to underestimate. Smoke resolved to be careful and thorough. No film, no five thousand, and Smoke Cole had already made plans for that money.

  Before the creek opened into a wider valley, Smoke ran out of daylight. Real dark would not come at all, unless clouds moved in, but the night gloom was hard to stumble through, and Cole just might miss the hoped-for camp.

  Smoke's watch read 11:15 PM. By 4 AM it would be light enough, even in this tight hollow. He would wait.

  Cole crammed himself into a brushy hollow, where no wind could raise the chill factor. He guessed the temperature in the high forties. Damper and colder than a well digger's butt, with wet clothes and no blanket, Smoke gritted his teeth and huddled in on himself.

  Should he risk a fire? The thought was repeatedly rejected. Any fire he could make would smoke, and the smell could as easily go up the canyon as down. Fire was out. He would comfort himself by reexamining what he would do with five thousand dollars, and the pleasure he might get taking the film off the damned photographer that was causing all this misery.

  +++

  By 4 AM, Smoke Cole could stand no more. He had dozed in snatches, but violent shivering awakened him. He tried exercising the cold away, but that warming barely took hold. By the first hint of new light he was up. If he delayed longer, Cole feared he would shiver his strength away.

  Only a few hundred yards along, the canyon widened. A strong stream joined Ernestine from the left. Above that tributary, a pole should not be needed. Smoke laid his aside, and, just in case, examined his rifle. The bore was clear, so were the scope lenses.

  The bolt operated smoothly. Cole chambered a cartridge and thumbed on the safety. With the creek's roar, there would not be much hearing. He wanted no surprises. Carrying his rifle at the ready, Smoke stepped out.

  Within a few yards he halted. A faint whiff of wood smoke had touched his nostrils. Cole sniffed, but it was gone. Imagination? Only a hoped for sign, the way a hunter's hunger to find a buck grew horns on a doe? Maybe, but Smoke doubted it. The soft breeze was down-canyon. Cole moved ahead, but kept his nose working.

  It came again, a fleeting tendril brought on the wind. Old smoke, filled with ash and coal spices. Probably the scent of an almost-dead fire.

  So, the photographer had come down to a base camp.

  The man might even be on his way out. Too late for that.

  He was not getting down Ernestine until he coughed up his goat film.

  Being careful not to roll rocks, Smoke worked up the gravel beds that floored most of the canyon. The campfire scent grew stronger with the arriving daylight, and Smoke began looking for the camp itself.

  The canyon was wild and magnificent. Sky-blotting ridges bound it close on either side, and the glacier rising in slanting splendor sealed its distant end. In winter, the valley would be an icebox, its rocky splendor snow buried, its streams frozen in place. In July, the green things were at their best, and the creek's turbulent rush gave life to nature's majesty.

  Smoke figured he was safe in believing the photographer was alone. No other tracks appeared coming in, and only one set showed along the natural course a man would follow going up canyon.

  Ahead, a low tree-covered island lay centered in the valley. That would be it, Smoke figured. There, the land would be flat and high enough to be dry. The trees would break wind and provide dead sticks for burning. His quarry's camp would be there.

  Smoke moved more quickly. If he was lucky, the photographer would still be asleep. Hell, with a little luck the man wouldn't even get a look at him.

  +++

  Smoke saw the tent. It looked almost like an old army pup tent. The firepit occasionally puffed a tiny smoke tendril, and a rifle hung from a tree. No sound came from the camp, but the tent flap was closed, so Smoke figured his man was inside, sleeping, all innocent-like, never suspecting what was about to happen to him.

  Cole crossed the shallows in a rush. A few steps took him past the fire. He leaned his rifle against a stone backrest and stood for an instant close beside the tent.

  He could not tell for sure where the sleeper's head would be, but most crawled into a pup tent headfirst. Smoke reached down and jerked a tent corner free of its rock hold-down. He flipped the material aside, and there was a tousled head of brown hair, face half buried within a sleeping bag.

  As though place kicking, Smoke Cole drove his hard-toed hunting boot into the sleeper's face. The kick was solid. Smoke's toes curled at the impact. The jolt slewed the photographer's head sideward, and Cole gave him another brutal kick. Both were murderous boots. Smoke expected bones were broken. The man might even be dead; Cole did not care.

  There could be no question that the sleeper was out cold and wasn't about to rouse soon. Smoke considered giving him another in the ribs for having caused the trouble, but, what the hell; he had already been well marked.

  Smoke went through everything. He snaked the sleeping bag off the unconscious form and made sure it hid nothing. He found film, both new and exposed, and set it aside. He removed the camera's film and, just to make a point, tossed the Konica into the stream shallows.

  The rifle was damned nice. Cole wished he dared keep it, but guns could be traced. He propped the rifle against a stone and dropped a heavy rock on it. The stock snapped at the grip, and a second smash bent the barrel and magazine out of line.

  Smoke dropped the food cache and made sure it held no film. He took a few treats to make up for the meals he had
missed. He hooked the film bag to his belt and started out.

  Cole did not even check the unconscious form, lying exposed in its long john underwear. Smoke had already looted the man's wallet. He took money and a common ID card listing the victim's name and address. Smoke figured he might want to know who the guy was somewhere down the road. He also took the man's truck keys. Someone would have to hitch a ride into Valdez. Smoke figured it might as well be the other guy—if the poor jerk made it out at all.

  +++

  Going out was a lot easier. Smoke caught up his willow pole in passing and more or less followed the stream edge. He waded some and crossed the current when he had to.

  He passed the cabins before noon. The truck started on the first turn and ticked like a fine watch. Cole four-wheeled onto the highway. He donned a pair of sun glasses he found in the glove compartment and headed down the pipeline.

  He would park the truck in the airport lot and hoof it over to general aviation. With a little luck, the pilot would have him in Anchorage before Kelly O'Doran tucked himself in for the night. Cole flicked on the tape player. Willie Nelson—ALL RIGHT! All old Smoke needed now was a steak and a beer, plus the rest of the five thousand, of course.

  +++

  Chapter 3

  Chugger Martin woke up, almost wondering who he was. Pain laced him, and one side of his head was swollen as though killer bees had taken turns on him.

  He lay on the ground, an end of his sleeping bag tossed inside out across his feet. What on earth had got to him? It had to be a bear, but except for a melon-sized head, he was not savaged.

  He sat up, clutching his jaw as agony shot through it. Immobilized, the pain eased, and Chugger experimentally moved his chin a little. New agony. No question, his jaw was busted.