Chugger's Hunt

by Roy F. Chandler

  Tonight, Acre would call O'Doran, and his vigil would be ended. Acre realized that he could avoid telling O'Doran and enjoy a week or two more at double pay, loafing around Fairbanks. The awareness was only fleeting. Acre Appleby's personal code could not allow it.

  Chugger, too, was considering. He had no particular reason for interest in a wandering Indian. He guessed he just liked the cut of Appleby's jib. Unlike many Martin encountered, Appleby retained an aura of personal dignity. He smelled like a bush liver, but Chugger did not find the odor offensive. The smell was tangy, a bit like beef jerky, Martin thought.

  The comparison had some validity. Bush folk were steeped in the spicy smoke of their fires and stoves. Their clothing saw hard use with only irregular cleaning. Bathing was invariably rare, but unlike more temperate climes, body sweat did not accumulate into plain old BO.

  To effete nostrils, bush whites or Indians probably stunk, but no worse to Chugger's mind than the cloying scents of female perfume or men's cologne. Civilizations' perfumeries could really collapse nasal sensors unused to them. Wild animals winding soaped and after-shaved humans often snorted their disgust and fled the objectionable stenches. About like humans smelling skunks, Chugger compared.

  When the same animals scented an Indian like Acre Appleby, they were alerted, just as they would be by the presence of a bear or wolf. Bush people, Martin supposed, smelled natural, like the carnivores they were.

  The name Acre Appleby also intrigued Chugger. It roused curiosity, tickled his old journalistic instincts perhaps. Appleby looked as full blooded as any Indian.

  His skin had the blackness of many true Indians. Acre's features were not the moon-like Asiatic often encountered. Appleby's jaw was craggy and his nose honored the tomahawk. Acre could be mistaken for a Sioux, Martin expected. Interesting man, Acre Appleby.

  As they sat together on the old tires, Chugger asked, "You going to be around a day or two, Acre?"

  "Until tonight. Then I will turn south."

  With only a half formed idea, Chugger said, "Will you stop by my house and see me before you go? I have a reason for asking."

  Appleby appeared to consider, then agreed. "I will come by."

  Chugger gave him his house number and described the place. Acre listened, but he already knew.

  Martin turned away; then came back. "You work for any particular guide, Acre?"

  "Some for Red Harston."

  "He's still out of Talkeetna, isn't he?"

  Appleby nodded and Chugger raised a hand in departing. When he looked back, Acre was watching the mechanic placing the new battery.

  +++

  Chugger was lucky on the phone. Harston picked up his end on the third ring.

  "Red, this is Chugger Martin up in Fairbanks."

  Chugger listened. "Yeah, that Chugger Martin.

  "Look Red, I met an Acre Appleby up here. Said he worked for you.

  "Good man? Uh huh. He drink? That's good news."

  Chugger talked and listened a while longer.

  He closed out. "Thanks, Red. I'll tell Acre you spoke well of him." Chugger listened, then laughed lightly.

  "Glad you liked 'em all, Red. I'm hoping the next book will be best. Good luck this fall, Red, and take care." Martin hung up.

  So, Acre Appleby was the man Chugger thought he might be. Red Harston said Acre could find game where others couldn't. He was sober, serious, and did what he was hired to do. Harston would hire him permanently, but Appleby only worked when he chose to.

  Chugger rocked a few minutes in his favorite chair, looking across at Appleby's camping spot. It was the last big, undeveloped block within the city limits. The empty area was not handsome, but the next local boom would probably fill the space with junk housing.

  Hell, this whole end of Fairbanks was typical Alaskan of the 1950's or so. Back then, a man built with anything he could find. A lot of the material was military surplus, from packing crates on up. The houses were small, but over the years grew with a room stuck on here and another there. Inside, many were beautifully appointed with varnished woods and trophies of the hunt. Outside? Who cared? Winter raged so much of the year that few put a lot of effort into external beautification. Yards were gravel, shrubs were nonexistent, and a house might never have its plywood sheathing painted.

  Chugger had bought his place when he struggled for the Fairbanks News-Miner. By renting the main house and living in the apartment, the mortgage got paid.

  So far, he had been content with the arrangement, but it might be time to upgrade a few notches. The questions were, Where to go and How would it be better? So far, he had no solid answers. Maybe when the empty spaces like Alaskaland filled he would feel too hemmed in. No economic boom that he could detect threatened arctic somnolence, so he would likely stay a while.

  It took three tries to get Larry Mull. Larry said, "Hey, Chug. You've decided to come."

  "No, I haven't, but I might have a good man to go along. Red Harston recommended him."

  "If he's so good, why isn't Harston using him? Hell, Red's got an assigned hunting area I'd kill for."

  "Appleby won't work regular. He probably won't work for you, but I can ask him."

  "I'll take him if you'll come along."

  "I haven't decided. I ask Appleby tonight or not at all."

  "Well, what's he like?"

  "Indian, a real primitive. Quiet, doesn't drink, doesn't even smoke, Red said he'll cook, but only things he likes. He keeps camp and can find game."

  "You like him, Chug?"

  Chugger said, "Would I call you if I didn't, for God's sake?"

  "All right, but you know how much I pay. I can't go more,"

  "How much you paying me, if I come, Mull?"

  "Hell, Chugger, you ought to pay me. You'll be in the mountains which you love more than life. I'll feed you, and there will be pretty girls to tell lies to."

  "As usual, I come free. Right, old pal?"

  "Hey Chug, we're friends."

  "I'll call if Appleby wants a job, Larry."

  Chugger hung up.

  Appleby asked, "You will not be in the party?"

  Chugger shrugged. "Well, I haven't decided, Acre. I'd like to come." He shook his head regretfully. "The Granites are some of my favorite mountains, but with my jaw wired it might not be smart and it would be damned uncomfortable."

  They sat in Chugger's living room. Although the hour was late, the sky remained light. Acre saw Martin's picture on a book lying on a table. He had been told that Martin wrote books. A marvelous thing, Acre thought.

  Appleby had already spoken to Kelly O'Doran. The man had hidden his irritation poorly. Appleby's pay would be mailed to Cooper Landing. O'Doran recovered some of his aplomb and thanked Acre for his efforts. When O'Doran plunked down his phone, Appleby doubted his assurances of further work . . . before long. Acre did not care.

  Martin's job offer surprised Appleby. He had little interest in it, but the writer's enthusiasm for the mountains they would enter held his attention. Chugger Martin clearly wished to go, but his injuries were plain to see.

  Among his people, Acre Appleby sometimes applied the skills of his grandfather. They were not medicines, or herbs, or ancient chants. Often Acre's treatments did not work. The old shaman had said the same was true with him. Acre's father had tried and always failed. He did not possess the power. Neither had Acre's brothers.

  Appleby had never attempted the old ways on a white man. Perhaps they were not for another race, but Martin had come unasked to help him. Appleby wished to try.

  He did not explain. When Martin spoke of his injuries, Acre said, "Sometimes my hands can make things well. If you wish, I will touch your wounds."

  Chugger was astonished. He had heard of folk healing among Indians, among Pennsylvania Dutch and Tennessean hill people for that matter. Laying on of hands had biblical roots and some TV evangelists healed by touch. Still, he had never personally encountered it.

  Chugger answered as seriously as he kn
ew how. If Acre Appleby believed, Chugger Martin would do nothing to shake his faith or reject an offer extended with sincerity.

  He said, "I would be grateful for anything that might help, Acre."

  Appleby had watched carefully, half expecting refusal or condescending acceptance. Again, Martin passed muster. Acre was gratified.

  Without ceremony, Appleby placed palm and fingers against Chugger's cheek. He said, "I have tried the words of my grandfather, but they do not seem to help. When it works, a power seems to flow, but often I am not sure I have helped."

  Acre's hand moved slowly down Chugger's face and across the bruises of his neck. It rode over his shirt and stopped at the point of his shoulder. Then Appleby repeated the movement, this time including an unseen portion of Chugger's chest, again ending at the shoulder tip.

  Although Appleby's hand appeared calloused and work roughened, his touch was velvety, as soft as a feather's brush. Did Chugger's cheek and jaw tingle for a lingering moment? Only the power of suggestion, Martin was sure.

  Acre said, "The bone will heal and the bruise will quickly leave from the shoulder, if I have done well." Appleby's stern features almost smiled as he added, "Of course, healing might take that course anyway."

  Chugger doubted that. As far as he knew, no circulatory channels directed blood flow to shoulder tips. If anything like that happened, he would have to credit Acre Appleby.

  +++

  They talked further of the mountains Larry Mull had chosen for the professors. Chugger's descriptions were rich and he had stories to tell of old hunts for grizzly, sheep, caribou, and moose.

  In his telling, Chugger emphasized the mountains, the streams, and the animals being hunted. He spoke long of glassing and stalking, and sometimes of the difficulty of a shot. It was a hunter's voice that touched the spirit of Acre Appleby. Unlike so many, who gloried mainly in the kill and the bragging size of horn, antler, or hide, Chugger Martin breathed the wild smells and felt a part of the land and its animals.

  Acre said, "I do not know Larry Mull, but if you say he is a good man it will be so. If you are going, I will hire with Mull."

  "Acre, I doubt my jaw gets well. I'm not going wired up like this."

  Again the almost smile. "If my hand has succeeded, your jaw will be strong."

  "The doctor said it could be a month."

  Appleby shrugged.

  Chugger said, "Look, Acre, Larry needs a good man. Suppose you go down and help him get organized. I'll keep in touch. If my doctor will unwire me, I'll come. You can promise Mull that much."

  "You will like Larry. He will like you. By this time next week you won't care if I come or not."

  Chugger's eyes grew distant. "Next to Ernestine Creek, there's no better country in all of Alaska. I'm not the first to say that either, Acre.

  "You'll see. Just agree to give it a try. Why Acre, those mountains are so bright you might never go back to the Kenai."

  +++

  Chapter 6

  Smoke Cole was bored nearly to death. He had sat out so many days in his truck cab he doubted his body would ever straighten out.

  Chugger Martin came and went, but did not visit photo labs, which could have indicated film drop off. Except for the day he had fooled with an Indian with a broken-down truck, Martin hardly talked to anyone, Smoke supposed he was writing books, and he would have found out—except for O'Doran's orders.

  On his last phone call, Acre Appleby mentioned Martin's battered condition. O'Doran was grimly amused. Smoke had not detailed his first encounter with Martin, but Kelly doubted Chugger got any of the five thousand dollars. It did not matter. Kelly O'Doran had taken heart from Martin's failure to act. A check with the state police showed no Chugger Martin complaints, nor did Valdez police have a Martin incident on their books.

  Let sleeping dogs lie, could be good advice sometimes. O'Doran instructed Cole to stay clear and to act only if something happened.

  It was possible that Chugger Martin was playing a deep game. It would be powerful to present newly elected Senator Kelly O'Doran with irrefutable evidence of helicopter hunting. The thought churned O'Doran's guts.

  Another possibility occasionally licked at Kelly's mind. Could Smoke Cole already have the films and, knowing their value, be playing his own ends, perhaps also far down the road? O'Doran doubted it. Cole was just a cold hard man with little conscience. Only immediate money would motivate him. The Smoke Coles always worked for more clever if just as hard-nosed men.

  For another couple of weeks, Cole could watch. If Martin betrayed nothing, O'Doran would decide again. He could turn away assuming Martin had nothing, or he could then send Cole in to take Martin out of the game.

  Kelly O'Doran was not yet able to admit to the words kill or murder. He would probably stick to terms like "take out," or perhaps the old Vietnam conflict's aphorism, "to waste," but Chugger Martin would be just as dead.

  +++

  Remarkable! In fact, incredible! Chugger poked firmly against his cheek. No pain, no swelling, and the discoloration was definitely less. The black and yellow patches where blood had drained into his chest were also smaller. Were they receding outward, toward his shoulder? Damned if it didn't seem so.

  Chugger tested his jaws a little. Not too hard lest he loosen teeth, but everything felt good. Astounding.

  Appleby had been gone two days. Larry Mull called to say that Acre was better than banked money. He knew how to do everything.

  On the fourth day, Chugger visited his doctor. His X-rays from Valdez had been forwarded. The physician hummed and examined Chugger's barely noticeable bruises. "You're healing fast, Mister Martin. Let's get some new pictures of your jaw."

  The doctor could see nothing on the wet prints, so Chugger came back later. The X-ray technician took some more pictures.

  It was late afternoon before the doctor again saw him. This time there was head shaking and puzzlement.

  "Mister Martin, no fracture shows in our pictures. There is simply no trace of any damage.

  "It is inexplicable because the fracture appears so clearly in the Valdez X-rays."

  The physician grinned, "Yes, both sets are of your jaw, Mister Martin. We compared teeth very carefully."

  Chugger said, "Well, let's get the wires off then."

  Almost reluctantly, the doctor clipped and removed Chugger's wiring. He watched, still anxious, as Martin moved his jaw around. Then he manipulated it himself, with half his hand inside Chugger's mouth.

  "Do you feel anything sensitive, Mister Martin?"

  "Nothing. I could bite through a spike."

  The doctor threw up his hands in resignation. "So, a mysterious glitch in the Valdez machine? How else to explain it?"

  Chugger Martin did not mention Acre Appleby's special touch. The physician would not have believed anyway. Hell, Chugger wasn't all that certain that he did, but his jaw had been hurt badly, and it wasn't anymore.

  Additionally, Chugger's bruises were disappearing. It was true that he had diligently applied hot compresses in the accepted sports medicine pattern: first ice to control bleeding and swelling, then heat to speed circulation and healing. But, the bruising was dissolving in a pattern that led directly to his shoulder point. How did you rationalize that one? Chugger wondered.

  He called Mull from a restaurant.

  "Larry, guess what I'm eating."

  "Curds and whey probably."

  "No, you idiot. A thick steak, medium rare."

  "Son of a gun, your jaw is well. You're coming."

  "I'm coming. God, those professors are lucky. Now they'll have someone knowledgeable to talk with."

  "Maybe I don't want you along after all, Martin."

  "Too late, Mull.

  "Oh, tell Acre that only my shoulder is still bruised."

  "So what? Who cares?"

  "Just tell him, Mull, and Larry, pack some decent food. I don't want to eat pimento and cheese sandwiches for a week."

  +++

  Mull had been r
ight. The three professors were young, decent-looking and good company. Two were lean, leggy blondes. The third was chunky with dark eyes and long brown hair.

  They met at Mull's and loaded aboard Larry's transportation. Numbering six, Mull and the blondes rode in the Ford truck. Chugger, the third girl, and Acre Appleby crowded the track vehicle's cab. Theirs was a gypsyish-looking caravan with the tractor perched on the truck bed and an open bodied trailer loaded with camping gear towed behind. Strange the arrangement might appear, but the setup had proven itself the very best for hunting or exploring the mighty Alaskan Range.

  Larry drove the twenty-five miles south on the Richardson Highway to the old coal road. The truck pulled the load a pair of miles along the casually graded dirt road until a sharp right turn indicated a major change.

  The crew dismounted and unhooked the supply trailer from the truck. The tractor was unloaded and easily dragged the truck into an otherwise inaccessible hollow. To locate the truck would require imaginative searching. To move it would demand a powerful vehicle like Mull's tractor.

  The trailer, bulging with tents and chow, was hooked to the tractor and the six adventurers clambered aboard. Division remained the same. Larry Mull drove with a blonde professor seated on each side. The other three rode outside, behind the enclosed cab.

  Their way followed a beaten-in track vehicle trail, mostly downhill, heading toward the Jarvis Creek flats, another four miles along.

  Here began the wild country. Few hunted so far from a road, and the game department rigidly controlled hunters seeking big game in the area.

  The land fell away in rolling folds with brushy trees in most hollows. Blueberry bushes grew in profusion, and Chugger talked to the girls of grizzlies with whom he had shared harvests.

  Acre said, "Like that one?"

  The girl saw the bear before Chugger did. She said, "Oh." It was a pleased sound, and it made Chugger feel good.

  He knocked on the metal cab roof, and Mull stopped.