Chugger's Hunt

by Roy F. Chandler

  +++

  Chugger was specially pleased with the expedition. Good companionship could sometimes make the mountain country more pleasant. This group was unusually warming for him because he was showered with attention. He could hardly turn without Smoke Cole being there with questions and comments. Katherine Summers chose his company, and he preferred hers. Katherine had come to the wild country to gain its feel, and Chugger enjoyed sharing the things he had learned.

  Acre Appleby proved to be the salt that gave flavor to the adventure. In many ways, Appleby personified the Alaska many imagined but rarely encountered.

  Chugger thought of Acre as real. The Indian lived in the present. He gave no consideration to retirement or old age. Nor did he dwell on the past. Acre's lessons were not historical perspectives. He remembered incidents and applied them as needed.

  Like a thousand earlier generations, Acre Appleby simply lived, day to day, doing whatever appeared. He could sleep contentedly on ground or in bed, and all food tasted good. Weather came and went without special significance. Sunrise or eclipse gained equal notice. Each was a part of nature and Acre accepted it all.

  Yet, Appleby was thoughtful and surprised Chugger Martin with unusual insights and pithy observations. Chugger expected Acre to know obscure animal activities, but Appleby occasionally offered unexpectedly reasoned-through philosophical abstractions.

  One afternoon, while they were alone, Chugger asked without preamble, "What would you like most in life, Acre? I mean if you could have any wish, what would it be?"

  Appleby answered without hesitation, as easily as if he had been long preparing.

  "I would wish to be one with the great bears."

  Startled, Chugger queried, "You would like to be a bear?"

  The Indian was slower to answer, but he nodded and said, "That would be good, but I would first wish to enter the mind of a bear. I would like to feel the strength that can move boulders or break the neck of a moose."

  He paused for an instant. "Once I sat before a great bear, and we looked into each other's eyes. I sought the soul of the bear and felt his search for mine. But, we could not know the other. Were our secret fears too great? Perhaps we needed many meetings. In the end he turned away, and I could sense his disappointment because it mirrored my own.

  "In this land, the bear is mightiest. Man defeats him only because he has weapons. Some believe the bear is a cousin or an uncle. I too feel that closeness. I would wish to know the spirit of the bear, perhaps to make it my own."

  Once Acre said, "The caribou should fly." Chugger immediately understood. They had watched a huge white-necked bull glide from a canyon and cross before them. With a massive spread of antler laid so that his nose pointed ahead, the caribou's high-stepping stride surpassed the sweet slide of a Walking Horse. Muscle flowed beneath a glossy hide, and the animal's feet appeared to barely caress the earth. Only the distinctive click of ankle bones marked the bull's passing. Surely he could at any instant soar and pass beyond the mountains. The imagining was of course foolish, but Appleby, not for the first time, spoke Chugger Martin's thoughts.

  High on Morningstar Creek a fall of snowmelt water offered a natural if brisk shower. Beyond sight of the camp, Chugger stripped and stuck a tentative toe beneath the waterfall.

  "My God, Acre, that water is colder than the ice it came from."

  Appleby sat comfortably, his rifle across his knees. He could see bumps rising on Chugger just from anticipation of the bitter plunge. Foolish were many of the white man's ways.

  Chugger thumped his chest, growled ferociously, as though to intimidate something, and stepped beneath the water. He thrashed, scrubbing with his open palms, and danced awkwardly foot to foot. He got a few parts soaped before the bar skittered from numb hands and washed downstream. Chugger rinsed in a wild flurry and bounded clear of his bath.

  Acre observed stolidly. He had seen whites bathe before.

  Toweling vigorously, Chugger chattered, "Plenty of water left if you want to try it, Acre."

  Appleby snorted disgust. "Only a city white man would soak in water on purpose. The Indian, the Eskimo, and all of the animals are wiser."

  "Bears get in the water."

  "Only to catch fish. I do not see your fish."

  Dried and reclothed, Chugger squatted beside the stream to scrape his three day beard stubble with' a safety razor. He winced as the razor pulled.

  Appleby wondered aloud, "Why do whites have so much hair? Some have fur on their chests and backs."

  Chugger guessed, "Maybe we are closer to the animals than Indians. All animals have fur."

  Appleby's lips pursed. "Yet whites become bald on their heads. That is not like the animals."

  "Hell, Acre, I don't know. Don't you ever shave?"

  "No. When I was young a few hairs appeared, but my mother plucked them. They did not return."

  Chugger pocketed his razor and gathered his towel. "Well, you are lucky. Shaving is a pain."

  "Many wear beards."

  "Not me. They itch, and I think bugs grow in them."

  "Only you have stood under the water."

  Chugger grinned. "Others are not as brave as I am, Acre. Taking a bath off the glacier proves I am all man, don't you think?"

  Appleby pondered the question, but his answer was conclusive, "No."

  +++

  The last high camp lay in a cozy pocket beyond the narrow and almost dangerous Saint Anthony's pass. They had already navigated the foot width sheep trail that crested the pass almost like walking the ridge of an A-frame house. On the morrow, they would recross Saint Anthony's and work their way down to the tractor and trailer waiting at the edge of the tableland. Then they would ride away from the Granite Mountains and into the arms of modern civilization.

  The last sticks carried to the summit were fed into their small campfire, and Chugger produced his personal surprise. Not a chilled wine, but an extra stick bundle hidden within his pack. Amid cheers he fed in the kindling, adding life to the small blaze.

  During their days together they had talked of a thousand common things. When Smoke Cole suggested at their last fire that they could have saved a lot of effort by helicoptering in, it was a subject natural to talk about.

  Mull said, "The big trouble with helicopters is that you don't see the country you cross. Think of all we would have missed if we hadn't tractored in."

  Chugger added, "Aircraft save time, but you pay for flying with a lot of money and missed opportunities. Take that big bull caribou we saw down below. He was lying back in, and we would never have seen him if we had just flown over."

  Cole said, "You might see more because you would be high and covering more ground."

  Mull agreed. "There is truth there, but you can't fly close and observe game. It's against the law. Hell, you might as well stay home and watch moose on television."

  Usually silent, Acre Appleby said, "I have seen brown bear stand on their kills and claw and roar at low flying airplanes. Helicopters are not good for the wild places."

  Chugger agreed. "I've seen that too, Acre. A grizzly does not need distressing, nor does a brownie."

  Larry Mull said, "Tell 'em what happened to you down near Valdez, Chugger."

  Martin appeared reluctant, but Smoke Cole quickly lent support. "What happened, Chugger? An airplane crash or something?"

  "Well, it was only a few weeks ago and I'm not comfortable with it yet."

  Cole wouldn't let go. "Come on, Chugger. It couldn't be that bad."

  Acre Appleby snorted.

  Larry Mull said, "Oh, tell the story, Chugger."

  Actually, Chugger did not mind going over it. Talking often cleared thoughts, and he still had to settle the matter of the hidden film.

  "Well, I won't drag it out, and part of the story is only speculation anyway.

  "I'd been up on the headwaters of a creek well out of Valdez. I was doing a little writing on my next book and photographing goats when I got the chance.

&nbs
p; "Anyway, I was tucked under a rock watching a young billy when a helicopter zoomed in. Hunters shot the goat right from the hovering aircraft, loaded in the carcass, and disappeared.

  "Now all of that is illegal and about the most unsportsmanlike shooting there is. Hell, it wasn't even hunting season.

  "So, I came down to my camp along the creek and went to bed. The next thing I knew, I woke up with my jaw fractured and the side of my face broken in.

  "My camp was destroyed, my rifle smashed, and my camera tossed into the creek. My money was gone, and so was my film."

  Chugger paused to let everyone catch up.

  Smoke said, "Son of a gun!"

  Chugger continued, "One eye was shut, and I had to tie a cloth under my chin so my jaw didn't flop around. I staggered out of the place trying for a hospital because I wasn't sure how badly I was hurt.

  "I followed out the tracks of one man. The same jazbo stole my truck, and I had to hitch a ride into Valdez.

  "I wasn't hurt as much as I'd feared, so the next day I started to fly out, but what did I see? My truck sitting in the airport parking lot, just as though it were waiting for me.

  "I got in and drove to Larry's where I rested up a few days. That's where I heard about this trip, so I'm glad I stopped by."

  Chugger finished, and there was silence before Smoke Cole said, "Holy cow!"

  Mull scoffed, "It wasn't anything. He healed up in two weeks."

  Chugger replied solemnly, quirking his mouth and glancing at Acre Appleby. "I had a specially good doctor."

  Smoke Cole struck. "So, any pictures you got of the helicopter hunting got stolen and probably destroyed by one of the helicopter people?"

  Chugger said, "It almost had to be one of them."

  Smoke shook his head in apparent disgust. "Then you can't prove a damn thing. They'll getaway clean."

  Chugger said, "Well, not exactly," and Smoke Cole's heart leaped.

  Chugger went on, "I was almost at the top of the glacier and I planned on coming up again the next day. So, I stashed my pack and came down with just rifle and camera. The packboard is still up there, and the film is in the pack."

  Smoke Cole's grin was the widest any had seen on him.

  "Holy cow, you've still got it. Man, Chugger, you've got 'em cold."

  Then he seemed to ponder. "Any chance someone could happen across the pack and claim everything? A man finding stuff in the mountains could consider it abandoned."

  A corner of Chugger's mind wondered why Appleby again snorted, but his attention was on Cole's words.

  "I tucked the pack away. Even someone searching would be unlikely to find it."

  Cole was unrelenting. "So, what will you do, Chugger? Sell the pictures to a newspaper?"

  Chugger had to shrug, "I don't know. The hunters were probably from outside and wouldn't care a lick. Still, the helicopter people ought to have the door slammed on them. Hunting by air is rotten. I'll wait until I look over the photos and give the thing more thought."

  He rubbed his jaw and face. "I sure would like the name and address of the guy who got me, though."

  Smoke was enthusiastic. "Hell, Chugger, when we get done here, I'll go up with you. Valdez is new country to me, and I would enjoy going in."

  Chugger smiled to ease rejection. "Thanks, but this is a special place to me. It is an unspoiled valley, and as much as I can, I want the area to be my secret getaway.

  "I appreciate your offer, Smoke. It's kindly. Maybe another time."

  When Chugger walked out with Katherine Summers, Smoke let them go. He had what he wanted. He had only to decide what would be next.

  +++

  Katherine said, "I hate to see this end, Chugger. This trip has been much more than I had hoped."

  Chugger eased her mood. "A time like this never ends, Katherine. You relive it a thousand times in memory."

  He nodded to himself a little. "Each camping, even each hunt is different. If we all came again, and tried to do it just the same, we would fail. We might do better or worse, but, as they say, you can't go back.

  "That's good, though. It lets you know that you won't be repeating and just sort of plowing the same furrow."

  "Isn't it funny that Smoke came hiking in, and that Acre Appleby hired on? They each add a lot."

  "We were lucky. One sour apple can turn a trip rotten. You ladies have done well. I haven't heard a complaint. I think we'll all have good memories."

  "Maybe we can go again in the summer after classes are out."

  "Maybe."

  They were silent, watching lights from Fort Greely, more than twenty miles away.

  Katherine said, "Acre never calls any of us by name. Have you noticed?"

  "Yeah, that's an Indian way. They don't find it necessary to repeat the obvious, I guess. In the old days, northern Indians seldom gathered in large crowds, and the need to keep identifying wasn't there. So, the habit of name mentioning was not part of their speech. At least, an Indian expert told me that's how it was.

  "It works too. We always know who Acre is talking to, don't we.

  On their way back, Katherine asked, "Will you be in Fairbanks often, Chugger?"

  The invitation was plain. Chugger answered, "Most of the winter probably. I've got to finish a book. I'll call you when I get back from Valdez."

  "You're going after the film right away?"

  "Yep, no sense in putting it off." Chugger softened his voice. "In fact, I'm going to ask Acre to come along. He will appreciate that country the way I do." He chuckled, "Don't let Smoke know. I don't want to hurt his feelings."

  +++

  Smoke lay in his sleeping bag, running his thoughts around. He expected he could find Martin's film, although it could take time.

  He had two choices. He could try to beat Martin to his film, or he could take it after Martin picked it up.

  The latter was safest, but Chugger Martin had led Smoke a merry chase. Maybe he could figure a way to remove Martin from the scene. He might make a lot of money out of Kelly O'Doran while he searched for the incriminating film.

  Smoke decided to keep his eyes peeled. If an accident could be arranged, something that would lay Martin up for a while, or worse, Cole would make his move,

  Smoke dozed off, content with his decision.

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  Chapter 8

  Anticipating a comfortable downhill day, the camp rose early. They had already found mature Dall rams for photographing, but most had been at long camera range. Another quick look into the many-sloped salt lick overlooking Granite Creek disclosed a band of ewes and lambs, but no rams loitered about.

  At the last flat before Saint Anthony's Pass, Larry Mull held up his party. Ahead, the sheep trail narrowed until it seemed little wider than a gymnast's balance beam.

  Mull studied the rise and fall of the trail. On each side the ground slanted steeply. Above the Gerstle River the slope became a cliff. A slip from the path could mean a nonstop tumble to certain death far below. There should be no problem, however. Where Dall sheep traveled, men could follow, and the party had already negotiated the pass coming over.

  Larry said, "Ok, watch your footing. If you lose balance, don't fight it. Collapse flat on the path, and start over when you've settled down. Do it just like we did the last time.

  "Everybody set? Let's go." Mull led off.

  Smoke Cole was adjusting a bootlace. The girls followed Mull and Chugger waved Appleby ahead. Smoke was finishing up, so Chugger fell in behind Acre. He looked back once, Cole was a little behind but catching up all right.

  Smoke Cole had his chance. A misstep, a fall, obviously a tragic accident—who could doubt? Newspapers would review the tragedy, probably his name would appear, "Party member Smoke Cole grieves over friend's death."

  Kelly O'Doran would know, and Kelly would pay. Smoke figured he would deserve a position with O'Doran for the rest of his working days.

  At his leisure, Smoke could find Martin's film. Blackmail? Well, it might depend on ho
w well O'Doran paid this time. Certainly O'Doran would pay again if Smoke appeared with the damning evidence.

  Just one thing to do, at just the right moment. Cole judged distances.

  Now! Smoke's shoulder lowered. He drove like a blocking back, legs pistoning, body doubling forward. He smashed solidly into the small of Chugger Martin's back, lifting the smaller man bodily, and slamming him into an equally unprepared Acre Appleby.

  The sledging power of the impact jolted Cole and forced a grunt of effort that started heads turning.

  Balanced well, Smoke allowed his body to sprawl on the safer slope, an arm draped securely across the knife-like ridge of the trail.

  He saw in slow motion the slam together of Chugger Martin and the Indian. As one, their feet lost contact with the rock and they disappeared over the dangerous edge as silently as ghosts.

  Screaming cut Smoke's concentration. Katherine Summers scrabbled back along the trail and Cole saw another woman pointing with mouth straining.

  Smoke lay safely anchored but appearing to be barely hanging on. Larry Mull struggled to pass the blonde women who crouched transfixed on the narrow path.

  The blow in the back, barely above his belt, hurled Chugger Martin solidly into Acre Appleby. Air gusted from Chugger's lungs, and his arms flew wide. He felt Appleby's struggle for footing and balance but sensed they were already gone.

  Instinctively he sought to grab and found Acre's closest pack strap. They struck the rock slope in a tangle, and Appleby slid away.

  Chugger's eyes caught a vertical crack in the stone slope, and he rammed a hand into it. His fingers scrunched into a fist and wedged solidly.

  Then the strain hit. Appleby's falling weight stretched Chugger's arms to impossible lengths. His fingers clamped to Acre's pack harness burned, and the woven nylon threatened to rip from his desperate grip.

  Chugger's face ground into stone, lungs collapsed by the blow to his back sawed emptily. For an extended instant his chest bones threatened to part under the tremendous load. Ligaments shrieked in tortured protest, but he held. He and Appleby lay as one, pressed against the steep slope, Acre's feet dangling over the first long drop toward the Gerstle River.