Chugger's Hunt

by Roy F. Chandler

  Distantly, Chugger heard voices calling. Appleby struggled to find purchase on the rock. Then Chugger's wedged fist began to slip. The movement was barely a sensation, but it was real, and he could not prevent it.

  The loosening was not downward. The crack widened toward the surface of the rock, and their combined weight was irresistibly lifting Chugger's fist from its jamming.

  God how he hurt. Chugger's teeth ground as he fought to enlarge his fist even as he struggled against relaxing fingers death-gripped to Appleby's harness.

  A weight as welcome as life settled solidly on top of his slipping fist. It rammed Chugger's hand deeper into the crack and made it secure. He felt Appleby's weight ease a fraction and prayed that Acre had found some kind of a hold.

  A booted foot scratched, then planted itself solidly only inches from his eyes. He heard Larry Mull's voice say, "Hang on, man," and saw him reaching past for Acre Appleby.

  Mull grunted with effort, and a ton of strain left Chugger. His fingers still gripped Acre's harness and stones rattled away below. Acre got his feet positioned and shoved, pushing Chugger upward, relieving the brutal stress on Chugger's upper arm.

  It was easy after that. Mull hauled and Appleby pushed. The weight on Chugger's fist that had probably saved them was Katherine Summer's knee. With strength too small to help, she had knelt on Chugger's hand. If she could not haul him to safety, Katherine had made certain Chugger would slip no further.

  They sprawled along the narrow path, all puffing with quivery limbs as though they had run hard. The blonde women were succoring Smoke Cole who had apparently fallen on the less dangerous slope. As soon as they could, they stumbled the short distance to safer ground. Packs were dropped and inventories taken.

  Acre's rifle was gone, unrecoverable somewhere below the river cliffs. Otherwise, Appleby appeared untouched.

  Chugger Martin had taken the beating. His face was skinned from contact with the rock, and his fisted hand was ripped and torn. The middle of his back ached as if slugged by a heavyweight. Chugger's lungs came back fast, but his arms shook as if palsied, and he felt as though he should sit out the next half hour or so.

  Smoke Cole was practically in tears. He spoke awkwardly, still disbelieving it could have happened. Hurrying to catch up, he had caught his toe and been propelled, full tilt, into Chugger. He had tried to twist aside, but only lost the rest of his balance. He had been lucky and had time to help himself. Even so, he had almost gone down the rocky slope.

  No one found fault. Smoke was a good guy and more than pulled his weight. Accidents happen. In rough country, they could occur more often and result in more injuries. Instead of laying blame, Larry Mull, Chugger, and the girls were grateful they had come through without serious damage.

  Acre Appleby was not so sure. He did not know Cole's intent, but Smoke had learned about the film, and he could have planned the accident. Acre should have stayed between Cole and Chugger. He would not make the mistake again.

  Appleby marveled at the quickness of Martin's snatching his pack harness and in almost the same instant driving his fist into a rock crevice. Many would not have known a climber's fist jam. Acre expected that some of those who did know would not have risked themselves to hang onto his dangling body.

  The loss of his rifle distressed Appleby more than he showed. He had another at his cabin, but it was a .30/30 Winchester, so old that it rattled. He would buy another rifle, but the .30/06, lost forever in the canyon, had become a trusted companion. It would take a special rifle to replace the lost model 70.

  Smoke Cole betrayed none of the disgust he suffered. He had given Martin a smash no one should have lived through. Yet, here he sat, with three women clucking over him while bandaging his torn knuckles.

  Smoke did not like the way the Indian's cold eyes stuck to him either. Appleby was not buying Smoke's story. Well, to hell with him. The Indian couldn't prove anything, and no one else seemed likely to listen if he made an accusation. It could have been an accident, and why wouldn't it have been? Nope, no one would pay attention.

  It didn't make any real difference, anyway. Cole simply shifted his plan a little. When they separated at the highway, he would head for Ernestine Creek. He would start hunting for Martin's hidden packboard. If he found it before Martin came for his film, that would be the end of it.

  If he did not locate the pack, why he would just let Martin find it for him. Then he would finish what had not worked out here on Saint Anthony's pass.

  +++

  The accident quieted the hikers during their descent. Smoke Cole repeated his explanations of his tumble and expressed his mortification in different terms. Otherwise, the campers spoke little to each other, interest in their surroundings dulled, content to just get down to the tractor and let time soften the stark reality of their close call on the sheep trail.

  Acre and Chugger walked behind for a while. Appleby said, "You held me with a grip of iron. I would have gone over the cliff."

  Chugger laughed depreciatingly to lighten their mood. "I was beginning to wonder if you ever would get a toehold on something, Acre. My grip of steel was wearing through pretty quickly."

  He went on. "Speaking of grips, look at my pistol. The walnut is nearly ground away. The damned thing got under me when we landed."

  Appleby almost smiled. "Better than what happened to my rifle."

  "Yeah, someday a hunter working along the river will find that Winchester and wish he knew the story behind it."

  They walked in silence, each wrapped in thought.

  Chugger broke their quiet. "When we get in, I'm going to lay over at Larry's for a day. Then I'm driving down to Ernestine Creek to get that film I spoke about."

  He chuckled, a little self-consciously. "Don't let Smoke Cole know this. I wouldn't want to hurt his feelings, but I would like you to come along. It is my favorite country, and I would like you to see it."

  The Indian was slow to answer, so Chugger continued. "I suppose some people would see just another hard-to-get-into canyon. Once in, they would look around and say, 'What do we do now?' Then they would guess television reception would be poor in such a place."

  Appleby did smile, and his teeth were perfect. He nodded and said, still sober voiced. "I have guided those people."

  Chugger explained, "I like the long, twisty hike in. I've seen big bears in there. In fact, it can be a little spooky pushing through willows without room to raise a rifle.

  "At the high end, the land is all up and down. I make my camp on the creek where there is a willow stand. I'm not a glacier lover, but the Ernestine ice is just the right size. It lies in a sort of jagged edged bowl and completes the picture. A stream ought to start dramatically and Ernestine does, out of a hole in the glacier you could drive a truck into.

  "Goats love that country. I always see goats. Up on the crags I find their lookouts, all lined with lost hair. I like to sit where they lie and try to see the land through their eyes."

  Chugger paused, almost embarrassed, but willing to expose his thoughts to one who would understand. "As you would know the bear, so I would wish to be one with the mountain goat.

  "None other lives so high, where the air is thin and most pure. The goat appears fearless among drops so dangerous a man dares not venture. When the bear dens and the moose crowd in parks, the goat still roams. He grows large and strong on lichens that would starve other animals. Surely his eyesight is unapproached by man or other ground creatures.

  "It is his country I wish to show you, Acre. It will always be the goat's alone. We may visit, and the bear or wolf can pass through, but only the goat will remain. Even the Dall sheep do not challenge Ernestine. Some miles away, softer ridges allow the sheep bands, but this goat country is too difficult for any but their kind."

  To Chugger, Acre said only "If I can find a rifle, I will come."

  Acre Appleby would come for a number of reasons. He wished to see the country Martin admired. He too knew such places, where lacy waterfalls
tumbled from perpetual snowbanks to feed willow and aspen jungle creek bends. Moose would also be there, feasting on the tenderest growth. Men would rarely enter because the tramping would be hard and long. Most such refuges were protected by roadless miles. That Chugger's lay close beside a major highway was itself unusual.

  Appleby also wished to come because of Smoke Cole.

  Cole would want Martin's film. How badly or to what lengths he would go, Acre could not know, but the accident on Saint Anthony's pass raised the Indian's hackles.

  Acre wished he could tell Martin what he knew of O'Doran's interests and Smoke Cole's involvement, but he could not. Appleby's code was his own, and he adhered to his personal standards. Betrayal of a confidence was not allowable. If he knew that Cole intended harm to Martin, it might be different, but Smoke claimed innocence, and it could be.

  Acre would go with Chugger Martin. He would watch and listen. Appleby owed Martin a life. Without Chugger's effort, he, Acre Appleby, would lie broken and lifeless in an unmarked thicket along the Gerstle River. If Smoke Cole appeared on Martin's creek, Acre would be ready. Cole was Appleby's reason for insisting on a replacement rifle.

  +++

  Near the tractor camp a car-size boulder of reddish stone afforded a lookout across miles of rolling land. It was not the true tundra of the northland, as spruce and willow patches were frequent. Creek edges were tree lined and ancient boulder fields marked courses where glaciers had died. Yet, there was no other comfortable name for the open plains.

  Low growth, stem and vine woven, made walking awkward, but caribou and moose stepped easily. The deer species grazed and browsed the sloping plains. The moose submerged in the many shallow ponds and munched tender subsurface grasses. Caribou preferred cool or sheltered snowbanks, where they chose delicacies from greenery flourishing in the wet runoff.

  Only Jarvis and Riley Creeks ran thick and gray with glacial water. The rest, even the tiny rivulets were clear as springs.

  Chugger's binoculars hung on a shortened strap within the open neck of his jacket. Until his hands reached for them, years of wear rendered their presence unnoticed. This time Chugger focused toward Butch's Lake, and after a moment he exhaled in satisfaction. He lifted the binocular strap over his head and handed the glasses to Katherine Summers. He pointed. "Look in line with my finger. Down past where the creeks join. See them?"

  Katherine focused and studied intently. Her gasp of pleasure marked her success.

  "Three grizzlies. A sow and a pair of cubs. Getting bellies full, it looks like." Chugger enjoyed her excitement.

  "Bears are always special to see. They are the only animals really dangerous to us, but it is more than that. Bears look cuddly. Humans would like to pet them, or scratch behind their ears. Of course you can't. They would rip you apart."

  "Oh Chugger, the cubs are wrestling. They are cute as buttons."

  "All young animals are cute . . . pigs, lambs, mice, even moose calves, which are about as ungainly as living things get. Too many people have gone up to a bear cub making baby noises and gotten badly hurt by the cub's mother.

  "We had a case this spring. A young guide named Perry had a hunter panic a grizzly cub. The sow came out and the client ran over the guide getting away. The guide got chewed up and had to kill the sow. Wild grizzlies are never your friend."

  Chugger accepted his binoculars and took another look at the bear family. "In about three months they will be denning together for the winter. This will be the cubs' winter to learn denning. Before next fall, the sow will drive them off, and they will be on their own."

  Chugger tucked away his glasses. "Acre would like to be a grizzly bear, and I can see why. A bear is lord of his territory. He is big, strong, and handsome. You can see that a bear enjoys life, and he has an almost human sense of humor."

  Katherine showed her surprise, so Chugger elaborated.

  "Take enjoyment. I watched a huge brown bear clamber up rocks over and over, just to slide on his back down a long snowbank. When he hit the bottom he would go skidding across the ground, just like a child would. Then he'd get up, shake like a dog, and do it all over again.

  "As for humor, the best example I can remember featured a yearling cub that slipped ahead of his twin and got on a ledge above the trail. He kept peeking over until his brother was underneath. Then he shoved a pile of snow off on him. They went chasing off, and I could imagine them whooping and hollering, the way human kids would."

  Katherine said, "Acre is very fond of you, Chugger."

  "Well, I am fond of him. Don't mention it around, but he has agreed, and we are going down to Valdez together to pick up my film. We'll make a little vacation out of it."

  "You saved his life today, Chugger."

  "Yeah, that was as close as it can get. But you saved us both, Katherine. I could feel my fist starting to slip. If you hadn't pinned it in, Acre and I might have taken the quick way down."

  She shuddered in memory. "I felt so helpless. I needed a man's strength that could grab your arm and hang on, the way you were holding onto Acre. All I could think to do was jam your poor hand tighter."

  Chugger held his Band Aided fingers up for examination. "Well, they may not look so good, but you did exactly the right thing."

  He wriggled uncomfortably and tried to stretch. "I'm stiffening up something awful from straining so hard. By tomorrow I'll be like a telephone pole.

  "Acre's grandfather was a shaman, and Acre does some healing with his hands. He gave me a few passes a little while ago, but if it is helping, I'd hate to know how I would have felt without it."

  "Do you believe in that kind of thing, Chugger?"

  "Well, not one hundred percent. I can't see laying on of hands curing cancer, but there is something there. Sometimes healing can be almost magical. I know that for a fact."

  They leaned back listening to the camp noises behind them, and looking across the seemingly endless roll of land.

  Chugger asked, "Do you really like this country, Katherine?"

  "It is marvelous, Chugger. It makes you feel alive, and somehow its immense size does not make me feel small or insignificant, I feel" . . . she searched for words . . . "comfortable out here."

  Chugger agreed. "Alaska is special. It's the only place I've ever been that I could sometimes really believe that no human ever before stepped where my foot is touching."

  "Up here, the animals are real, the way God made them, not imported and corn fed in farmers' fields, not hunted until they're skittish, or shot out until the best genes are gone."

  "This land is more beautiful than its postcards can show, and everything is bigger than life. Outside, a lot of fishermen marvel at eight or nine pound catches. Up here we haul in salmon forty pounds apiece."

  "We see eagles every day. Sometimes moose come into town. Wolves howl at night."

  Chugger paused to ask, "Did you ever hear a brown or grizzly bear roar?"

  She had not, so he described it. "A big bear's roar would make a lion tuck his tail and slink away. It makes your neck hairs stand on end, you get goose bumps, and fear goes through you like an electric shock. The roar is filled with a kind of berserker rage that can curdle something primal in a man's survival instincts. Even when you are armed and ready, a bear's roar is alarming. If you are empty-handed, prayers come easy. I expect that your throat is too dry to speak and all you can think of is getting to some place safe, just as quickly as you can."

  Chugger thought about it a moment, then added, "The big bears are the final spice of this land. They add the danger hint that fills the cup to the rim. The bears are here, and they are a little unpredictable. We have to keep them in the front of our minds."

  "Acre is right. A man could feel honored by being a cousin to the bear."

  +++

  Chapter 9

  With only ritual grumbling, Larry Mull loaned two rifles, one to Acre Appleby, the other to Chugger.

  Mull declared, "If I get hunting clients that need guns I'm going to Fai
rbanks and take yours. Hell of a note when a man's armory gets pillaged by people in a big hurry over nothing."

  Ignoring Mull's pretended wrath, Chugger complained, "These rifles are older than we are, Mull. These are early Weatherbys. My god, they have iron sights on the barrels. I had forgotten that Roy Weatherby used FN actions like these back in the 1950s. These ancient things are museum pieces. Any chance these old stove pipes are somewhere near zero?" He peered doubtfully through his rifle's scope.

  "Chugger, those rifles are on the nose at two hundred yards and they shoot damned near minute of angle." Then balefully, "You don't have to take 'em. There's a gun store just down the highway."

  Chugger wiggled fingers in Larry's direction. "Come on, Mull, fork over a box of cartridges. We won't be shooting anyway—other than making sure the guns are right,"

  Mull dug out two boxes of .300 Weatherby rounds. "You can buy ammunition in every store in Alaska. I don't see why I've got to provide it."

  Chugger smiled widely and reminded, "We're your friends, Larry."

  The Granite Mountains party had broken up quickly. Goodbyes had been short, with promises to keep in touch.

  Smoke Cole had flirted lightly with the blondes, suggesting he might appear all dressed out in a "GENU-WINE" blue suit. Chugger did not promise a call. Katherine Summers had already been assured of his interest.

  The girls turned north toward Fairbanks, and a few minutes later Cole gunned his truck in the same direction. Mull and Chugger headed for showers. Acre Appleby disappeared into the woods on some unexplained personal mission.

  Smoke drove north a mile or two. Then he ducked off the highway and watched to be sure he was not being followed. Satisfied, he retraced his route and passed Mull's within a short line of traffic. At Delta Junction, Smoke stayed on the Richardson Highway. A half hour later he had passed Donnelly's Dome and the coal road where the Granite Mountain trip had begun.