Chugger's Hunt

by Roy F. Chandler

  Smoke found money in the bedroom. Less than a hundred dollars. He took it. A small vial of gold dust attracted him, but he would take nothing traceable. Money was faceless. Guns, jewelry, cameras, that kind of stuff, left a trail. Cole was too smart and not hungry enough to chance them.

  Smoke sat for a while, going through papers on Martin's desk. A word processor had printed pages stacked around it. Probably Martin's next book, Cole figured. He smiled to himself. That book was unlikely to appear in the stores.

  Unless Martin coughed up film that might not even exist. Smoke might have to end Chugger Martin's career.

  When he had seen enough, Cole departed through the broken windowed door. Only his gloves had touched within the house. He had left no clues.

  +++

  Acre Appleby knew the road between Anchorage and Fairbanks. He had driven without hurry but without rest. He had arrived in midmorning.

  Because he could not read, Acre asked directions to the house of Chugger Martin. Appleby questioned a native Alaskan, who loitered near the Chamber of Commerce building. He would be unlikely to care why another Indian wanted to know.

  Lathrop Street, Martin's road, edged the town. Across the street, the abandoned remains of the 1987 Alaskaland celebration moldered. There, Acre Appleby waited. He had twice driven by Martin's house and had felt its emptiness. He had seen Smoke Cole parked well down the street, also waiting.

  Acre chose a camp from which he could watch Martin's house, but so distant, his presence should go unremarked. Appleby felt no impatience. Martin would come or he would not. Occasionally, Acre checked on Smoke Cole. Each evening he called the Anchorage number and reported. Each call, he was told to keep watching.

  Acre watched Cole break into Martin's house. He wondered what the man hoped to find. Whatever it was, Cole failed. Appleby was sure when Cole resumed his vigil.

  Martin drove into his yard late on the day following Smoke's break-in. He parked his pickup and walked empty-handed to his door. Acre saw him bend to examine the glass broken by Cole's entry. Martin returned to his pickup. He chose a short length of pipe from his truck bed and slapped it solidly against an open palm. Then Martin went inside, fast and hard. Appleby admired that. A prowler or a bunch of prowlers could be waiting with knives or guns.

  Within minutes, Martin reappeared. He glanced into his garage—then tossed the pipe back into his truck.

  Before he reentered his house, Martin looked around. Smoke Cole's truck was hidden by roadside brush, but when Martin looked across the old Alaskaland site, Acre felt Martin's eyes pause on his pickup.

  Whatever he saw, Martin turned and went inside. He did not come out again. Acre left his watch only to report Martin's return.

  "Did Martin have a pack?"

  "No, he carried nothing."

  "Keep watching."

  When the dark of night came down, Appleby moved closer. If Smoke Cole made a move, Acre would see it.

  Smoke Cole decided to wait a day or two before dropping a bag over Martin's head. He would follow his quarry closely. Martin might even go to a film processing shop. That would be nice. Smoke would pick up Martin's film for him. Cole wished they were still out in the mountains. Who knew what eyes saw in a city like Fairbanks.

  Taking no chances, Cole slept in his truck. Martin was comfortable in his own bed. Acre Appleby, wrapped in a blanket, leaned against a tree. He slept lightly, an ear tuned to the night, but he too was comfortable and content with his situation.

  +++

  Chapter 5

  Larry Mull had been right. Chugger was feeling better. He had lazed around Mull's the next day, letting the ache fade and applying ice to his swollen face. Black and blue spread down to his collarbone, but that didn't hurt, and it would be absorbed in a week or two. He whipped chunky stew into slush in Mull's blender and drank through his wired teeth. He and Mull rode into Delta Junction, and Chugger sipped milk shakes. Two weeks of that calorie stuffing and he would be hog fat.

  Larry had business at Black Rapids, so Chugger went along. The Fort Greely test center was putting on a show, so he hung around an extra day for that. The fact was, he was not very interested in getting back into his Fairbanks routine of disciplined writing. Loafing with Larry Mull was better.

  But enough was enough. He had no cash. The camp wrecker had cleaned him out. Credit cards were not much good for buying milk shakes, and he couldn't live off Mull forever.

  Chugger did not agree to help Mull with the professors, and Larry had not yet found a camp man to go along. If his teeth were not wired, it might be different. Chugger tested his jaw against the wires. No pain, but the doctor had predicted a month before the fracture healed.

  Having his house robbed made Chugger ready to shoot. The only thing missing was money he had tossed into a drawer. How much had there been? He guessed fifty bucks or more. God, every crook in Alaska was living off Chugger Martin.

  It seemed strange that his guns had not been taken. Whenever a home or cabin was burglarized the guns disappeared. Many turned up eventually, and sometimes the thieves were backtracked. Chugger's thief or thieves had been smarter, or not so desperate.

  The couple who lived in the main house had not been robbed, nor had they seen strangers around. Chugger tried to connect his apartment robbery to the Ernestine Creek affair, but that seemed too farfetched.

  Still, why his place? Someone was camped across the road on the Alaskaland tract. They were pretty far out, but they might have seen something. Hell, they might have done the job. Although he looked a few times, Martin saw no campfire and observed only one figure near the distant pickup. If the camper stayed around, Chugger would drop by.

  Chugger slept well and thought he saw less swelling. Pressing his cheekbone set off a real ice cream ache, but it died quickly. Unless someone hit him there, he would be fine.

  First he made a visit to his bank and gave short explanations of his lumps. Next a late breakfast of Wheatena sucked through his teeth, and repeated explanations. Then some fun things.

  His camping gear had to be replaced, and he would purchase a new camera. Would his personal insurance cover anything? Somehow it never did, but he would check.

  Chugger had liked the equipment that had been destroyed. In the mountains, over the years, he had eliminated the unwieldy and the impractical. Basic was his style, so replacement was easy. He fended off salesmen's suggestions that tended toward tents that magically erected themselves and Rambo-like hunting knives suited mostly for cavalry charges.

  Chugger wished he had looked his trashed Ernestine Creek camp over more carefully. Dazed and fearful of collapsing deep in the mountains, he had not examined closely. His ground pad and mess equipment were probably undamaged. He did not remember seeing his flashlight or the odds and ends like fire starters, or even his compass. If he went with Larry Mull he would need most of those things.

  Holy hell, he was not going with Mull. The women professors would have a real laugh over a woodsman who sucked nourishment through a straw, or the famous author who couldn't talk intelligibly because his jaws were wired shut.

  Chugger bought a complete outfit. When he went back up Ernestine he would need a pack to haul in. Coming out, he would also have the pack that was cached on the mountain. He would remember to take in a hacksaw blade.

  He could saw off the bent and useless rifle barrel and pack out only the valuable receiver.

  What a hell of a situation. Maybe he would take someone in with him. Company might be welcome after what he had woken up to.

  That trip would not be for a while. The film was safe where it was. If the helicopter hunters were still wondering, delay would lull them into false security.

  Who were they? Chugger wondered again. Probably outsiders who would not hardly care. The helicopter pilot would be Alaskan however, and he would be in big difficulty. The pilot had probably sent the mugger in after him.

  Chugger could just forget the whole thing and be glad he was clear. He had never consider
ed it. When the time was right, he would make his move, and someone would pay dearly for the knocking around he had taken.

  At The Sportsman's Shack he chose a new Konica camera body and replacement lenses. The Konica had all the features and he was used to it. Lenses left at home would fit the new outfit. Chugger added a film bag with a good film assortment and figured he was again fully equipped.

  +++

  Smoke Cole followed Martin into town, but only in the photo shop had he gotten close. Pretending to examine camera accessories on a floor stand, Smoke overheard Chugger's explanation of how a mugger had slugged him in his sleep, destroyed his camera, and taken his film. Martin professed to not knowing who or why.

  Cole was unimpressed. Martin had not mentioned seeing illegal goat hunters. Even if he had gotten no pictures, the subject should have been talk worthy. Martin could not be so dense that he failed to see a probable connection between the hunters and his missing film. Perhaps he wanted the incident behind him. On the other hand, Martin might just be lying back until he healed up and felt ready. Smoke was not yet prepared to tell O'Doran the troubles were over.

  Acre Appleby had also come along. He waited outside the stores, content for now to watch the watcher. No one paid attention to another Indian window-shopping or sitting in his old pickup truck.

  This morning the truck had given Acre trouble in starting. The engine ground slowly and painfully before it caught. A dying battery, Appleby was sure. Once warm, the engine fired quickly, but Acre heard the battery's weakness. As soon as Martin again settled down, Appleby would scoot to a service station and buy a new battery.

  +++

  Chugger wrote in pencil on a lined pad of yellow paper. He composed slowly, searching for the best words, rarely completing a sentence the way he had originally planned it. Some writers could create on a word processor, fingers flying, and pages appearing. Chugger could not.

  His mind needed a pencil's deliberate pace, to alter and improve as he moved methodically across a line. Each page required a full hour, but rewriting was sometimes barely needed.

  If he could average four finished pages per day, Chugger was satisfied. In less than four months, he would have a book. Unfortunately, weeks escaped without significant writing. The few pages he had composed on Ernestine had not been in view. They had probably blown away when his camp was thrown around, or, the mugger might have tossed them into the fire or even the creek. Sinking the camera proved the perpetrator spiteful enough.

  Rewriting the lost pages was boring, and Chugger had to struggle with it. Before the fourth page he found his mind tired and motivation gone. He sharpened pencils and tried again. He drank water but got only part of a page written. Staring out his front window, he saw the distant camper's pickup hood open. A figure leaned inside as though working. A half hour later the hood was still raised. Probably motor trouble.

  Chugger stalked through his house, but the writing mood was gone. Maybe he would go up to the college and locate the women professors Mull was taking into the Granite Mountains. He had a friend in the library who knew everything. It might help Larry if he checked out his clients.

  But he looked like a zombie, still a little swollen with yellowing bruises. Chugger guessed he would stay away.

  The camper was back under the hood of his pickup again. Maybe he could use some help. Chugger had intended checking him out anyway.

  He went out, noticing the cardboard scrap he had taped over the broken door pane. No one would come for such a small repair job. He would have to replace it himself. Chugger piled into his truck and backed onto Lathrop Street. The first turn in was down the road. He found it and cut across toward the camper's stranded pickup.

  +++

  When he had cut the engine, Acre Appleby suspected he had made a mistake. He should have let the truck idle until he was sure Martin was settled in. He could have gotten a new battery and been back in an hour.

  Sure enough, when he tried to start he got a turn or two, then only the dismal click of a run-down battery. He popped the hood and removed the battery terminals. He polished the posts and sanded the fittings. Then he re-tightened everything. A battery can recharge itself a little if left alone. All Acre needed was one start.

  He waited most of an hour and gave it a try. The engine turned twice, caught for an instant, then lost it. Appleby shut off the ignition and sat back to wait. One more try, then he would go for help. Acre was not one to fret, but right now he needed his truck running.

  When Martin left his house and backed out in his truck, Acre shrugged aside disappointment. He climbed behind his wheel, pumped the accelerator the three times that worked best, and turned the key. One, tired groaning turn was all he got. The battery was clearly finished.

  Acre looked past his raised hood and there was Martin's truck bouncing across the open right at him. Appleby betrayed no emotion, but astonishment tugged at his mind. He climbed from his cab and pretended to study his recalcitrant engine. He heard Martin's truck stop, but Acre did not look around until Martin's door slammed and his feet sounded close.

  Chugger came alongside and took his own look into the engine compartment.

  "Won't start?"

  "Dead battery."

  Both men stared at the faulty power source.

  "Maybe I could jump start you."

  "I don't have cables."

  "I've got mine." Chugger turned to get them.

  Appleby's mind raced. His chances of watching Martin had just been canceled. Now Martin would know him. From now on Martin would even recognize Acre's truck. O'Doran would not be pleased, and Appleby was now out of a job. Inwardly Acre shrugged. It could not be helped. Sometimes things did not work as planned.

  Chugger spoke through his teeth. "Sorry about the way I talk. Got my jaw busted a week ago." He handed Appleby a pair of jumper ends. "Hook 'em up."

  Chugger reved his engine a little and Acre twisted his key. Appleby's motor spun, then burst to life with a satisfying roar. Martin was out of his vehicle and under the Indian's hood while Acre kept a foot on his accelerator, watching the battery gauge lay on full charge. The jumpers were off, but Martin left his truck running.

  Chugger leaned close, so his words could be heard.

  "You going to buy a new battery?"

  Appleby nodded, then surprised himself by adding, "This one is very old."

  Martin nodded, "Unless you've got a special place, why don't you follow me to my station. They'll give you a good deal and do it right away."

  Acre again nodded.

  Chugger drove the short mile, watching the other truck in his mirror, and thinking about the man he was befriending.

  He knew the type, real Indians they were. Men like this one took little from the white culture. They lived in the bush, as close to the old ways as they could. Many drank themselves to early graves, but not all. Chugger liked the solid, hard looks of this one. He wondered what the Indian was doing camping in as unlikely a place as the edge of Fairbanks. Sooner or later, the police would run him off.

  At Chugger Martin's insistence, his garage gave the Indian a special deal and got to work. Because he was interested, Martin hung around. The Indian chose to wait outside on a stack of used tires, so Chugger sat down beside him. After a minute, to allow comfortable settling, Martin stuck out his hand for shaking.

  "I'm Chugger Martin."

  The Indian took his hand and pumped it once. "Acre Appleby." The voice was deep and heavily reserved. Chugger guessed the man to be in his mid-forties, although hard living added skeins of weather lines, making estimates precarious.

  "You from around here, Acre?"

  "Kenai."

  A man of few words, Chugger decided.

  "What brings you up here?"

  "Work."

  Must be hoping for some, Martin figured. Appleby sure hadn't been doing any the last day or so.

  "Find any?"

  "Had a good job, but it ended."

  Chugger could have sworn Appleby's voi
ce held humor.

  "What do you do, Acre? If you don't mind my asking."

  "I know animals. I work for guides."

  "Well, that'll be coming on strong in a few weeks." Chugger thought for a moment.

  "You got enough dollars to see you through, Acre?"

  A man could get stiff being asked such a personal question, but Chugger doubted Appleby had much bluster in him. Acre Appleby, Martin suspected, was a pretty straight ahead kind of man, good to have on your side, mean to have for an enemy.

  Appleby said, "I have enough."

  Chugger Martin had Acre Appleby off balance. Acre felt a step behind in his feelings. Martin's appearance at his camp had been unexpected and startling. Ever since then, Chugger had just kept helping out. Now he had all but offered money. In a land where native Alaskans were not always acceptable, Martin's easy camaraderie required thinking about.

  First, Appleby considered the possibility of a shallow, patronizing kind of charity that made the giver feel good. That attitude was not uncommon. Wealthy hunters from the lower forty-eight often laid their self-congratulatory condescension on their Indian employees. But not this time. Chugger Martin's interest rang decent. It smelled and tasted right. Acre thought further.

  Appleby had no doubt of the malevolence of Kelly O'Doran's surveillance of Martin. O'Doran wanted a film Martin had, and Acre expected his employer would care little how Chugger Martin fared in the taking of it.

  That task could now be put aside. Recognizing a person recently seen took no special skills. In the high mountains Acre might follow Chugger Martin with binoculars, but if Martin saw him, he would know who watched.