Chugger's Hunt

by Roy F. Chandler

  But was this the film? Smoke had been fooled before. He opened the pack and pawed through the few contents. There was no other film.

  Exultantly Cole stood up. He clutched Chugger's film in a powerful fist. This time he had it. Kelly O'Doran would pay big—if Smoke chose to let him have the film. Killing two men would cost O'Doran. That kind of work did not come cheap. Smoke gripped the can as he would have a trophy, holding it a foot from his nose, considering all that its contents would mean.

  +++

  Chugger wheezed into the cover of a brush patch well above the glacier's forward rim. He placed his rifle by his side and wished mightily that he had his abandoned binoculars. A figure moved a quarter mile up the glacier.

  Chugger focused his eyes and visibly started when he recognized Smoke Cole aiming his rifle into the crevasse he had been in.

  Smoke Cole—of course! It could all fit. Cole had been on the helicopter. He had also been the camp wrecker who had beaten Chugger unconscious. Cole's stumble into their camp in the Granite Mountains had been no accident, nor had the smashing blow that almost threw Chugger and Acre into the Gerstle Canyon.

  Now Cole had killed Acre Appleby and was still trying for him. If he had a zeroed rifle, Chugger would shoot Smoke Cole dead, right from here, but with uncertain sights, he would have to get a lot nearer. Chugger looked around. A brushy knob offered a covered approach and would move him a hundred yards closer. Still not near enough, but better. He went for it.

  It took Chugger only minutes to reach his new ambush. He looked again and saw Cole working down the glacier toward him. He wondered why and then saw his abandoned packboard less than two hundred yards away. The pack would be Smoke's goal. He would find the film Chugger had taken of Acre Appleby, and Cole would think he had what he wanted. Chugger's smile was cold. He wished the pack were nearer, but eventually, Smoke would come down. When he was too close to miss, Chugger would shoot him, without warning, just as he would a rattlesnake found in his bed.

  Something moved behind Smoke Cole. Motion caught Martin's eye and he focused on it. Acre Appleby's legs thrashed. For a confused instant, Chugger supposed the Indian's body had slid a little. Then Acre's arm moved, and wonder of wonders, Appleby struggled to a sitting position. Leaned against his pack, Acre rocked as though his balance was bad. His hands went to his face as though touching something tender.

  Lord above, Acre was alive. Chugger was so certain his friend was dead he had ignored another possibility.

  Chugger's blood began to freeze. Smoke Cole's concentration was on Chugger's pack, but in moments he would turn and see Appleby alive. Acre had no gun and no place to hide,

  Cole rose from his examination of Chugger's pack. Martin had no moments to consider. He slid his rifle to his shoulder and got a solid rest across a grass hummock. Zeroed or not, he had to shoot. Smoke Cole must not look back up the glacier.

  Chugger's front sight was a blade. He let his eye center the blade in the rear reticle. Cole was facing across the glacier, offering a still target. Chugger's thumb clicked off the safety, and he placed the top of the front sight on Cole's chest.

  Chugger squeezed quickly, holding solidly, prepared to fight the buck of recoil because he had to see the bullet's strike. If his shot were far off center he would adjust for the next one.

  The recoil of the .300 Weatherby rocked Chugger, and muzzle blast jammed his hearing.

  As though reading a label, Smoke Cole held the film can close to his face. With the rifle's powerful crack, Cole's hand exploded. The film can flew away, as did parts of Cole's fingers.

  Chugger's mind recorded—high to the left. He worked his bolt, aware of the clink of the ejected cartridge case on nearby stone and the acrid but familiar stench of smokeless powder. He forced himself back into shooting position.

  Smoke Cole was bent over, gripping his shattered hand in shock. Holding lower and to the right, Chugger Martin again squeezed carefully,

  Cole went down as though pole axed. But he rolled a little and got to his knees. Using his wounded hand as a brace, Cole made his feet. He reached for his rifle, but he had no hand to grasp with. His other arm hung limp, and Chugger guessed his second bullet had put it out of commission. Chugger got reloaded and again lined his sights on Smoke Cole's hunched over figure.

  Even as Chugger's finger found the trigger, Smoke went down again. This time flat on his face. His body began to slide, and Chugger held his fire watching it go.

  +++

  With indescribable and disbelieving horror, Smoke saw his hand disintegrate. The bullet's shock flung his arm sideward, and he was aware of the film can and bits of himself flying away.

  Agony struck, sucking away Cole's will. He clutched desperately at his wound, as though gripping might somehow make it well.

  Another gigantic blow, this time high in a shoulder knocked Cole from his feet. He had been shot again, and a blinding panic poured strength to his body. His gun, if he could just get his gun. Through reddish haze, Cole worried himself to his feet. Somehow, his legs took him to his rifle, but his hand refused to grasp it.

  Smoke wavered, his balance gone, wondering why he could not seize his weapon. Then the glacier rose and smashed into his face. He felt himself sliding on the icy surface and tried to understand what that meant. A gap in the ice appeared ahead. Cole's sluggish mind saw, but his shocked body could not respond.

  With gathering speed, Smoke shot clear of the ice, and for an instant appeared to float in the air above the yawning crevasse. Then he smashed, headfirst, into the ice cut's farther edge. The impact folded Cole into a broken shape before gravity took hold and sucked him out of sight, into the depth of the glacier.

  +++

  Though his sights followed, Chugger let Cole go. It was not sympathy or weakening of resolve that held Chugger's fire. Smoke was done. There would be no more miracles. Appleby lived, and so did he, Chugger Martin, but Smoke Cole, shot twice, one a body hit with a 180 grain Nosier-partition bullet, a hand blown away by another, and finally dumped headlong into a glacial crevasse, was finished.

  Chugger clambered wearily to his feet. He ejected the fired cartridge from his rifle and left the chamber empty.

  Far above, Acre sat unmoving against his pack. In Chugger's condition it was a long climb, so he got at it.

  Chugger approached Smoke's crevasse warily. Cole's rifle lay abandoned on the ice and Martin expected the ambusher to be dead, but he needed no surprises.

  Chugger looked in. Smoke Cole was twenty feet down, head up, wedged at the chest above a black and threatening maw. The crashing fall had flung Smoke's shattered hand across his face, so that Cole's head lay twisted, and a single eye stared unblinkingly upward. Bleeding had stopped. Smoke Cole was dead. Chugger experienced no remorse.

  Lest it too slide into the belly of the glacier, Chugger lugged his packboard onto the stone beneath the cliff. Then he started again for Acre Appleby.

  Acre remained where he was. Occasionally he moved an arm, but he did not answer Chugger's hails. Chugger quit calling and labored up the slope. When he got to Appleby, he sank to a flatter stone and let his breathing slow.

  When he could Chugger asked, "How bad are you hurt?"

  Acre's hands waved before his face but did not touch. "I think my rifle blew up. My eyes see two of everything, and my head aches."

  Chugger got down on his knees to look. What he saw was unnerving, but not life threatening. He said, "Your nose is split smack down the middle. It's a hell of a mess, but a nose can always be fixed. You've got a gash in your forehead that goes to the bone and damned if a piece of your right ear isn't missing."

  Chugger examined a moment longer. "You've bled a lot, but it has stopped. I don't see anything else, Acre."

  "My skull is surely cracked."

  "It could be. I can't tell though. You took one hell of a wallop."

  Acre said, "I can't remember."

  "Well, you saw something, reflection off a rifle barrel, I think. It was Smoke Cole. H
e must have shot just as your rifle came up. It looks as though the bullet hit your gun and drove it into your face. Man, Acre, you went down like your string had been cut. Until you sat up, I thought you were dead."

  "Where is Cole?"

  Chugger stood up, shaking out his legs. He was exhausted, still wet, and too cold for safety. "Cole is dead. He is stuck in a crevasse a little way down. I'll tell you about it later."

  Chugger looked at Appleby doubtfully. "Can you get up, Acre? We've got to get off this glacier and get reorganized."

  Appleby blinked, trying to focus his eyes. He closed one and nodded painfully. "I can do better with one eye."

  Chugger helped him shed his pack and lifted a little until Appleby was erect. Once on his feet, the Indian appeared steadier, He sucked deep breaths through his mouth, his chest rising and falling.

  Acre said again, "My head is surely cracked."

  Chugger was more hopeful. "It's probably just a hell of a concussion. I've got Demerol in my pack. A couple of those will kill most of the pain. Can you go downhill?"

  Acre went, walking almost delicately, but gaining sureness with every yard. Chugger slung Appleby's pack and his own rifle. He wished he had left the gun below. The shooting was finished, and the extra burden was unwelcome.

  Chugger recovered Acre's broken rifle, remarking that Larry Mull would not be pleased. Cole's bullet had shattered the stock and had blown the floorplate and magazine away.

  They rested at Chugger's pack. Because there was water everywhere they carried no canteens. Chugger filled his folding cup from a streamlet, and Acre willingly gulped a pair of Chugger's pills.

  Acre said, "The guide Red Harston requires all of his helpers to carry these pills."

  Chugger nodded, pleased to have Appleby taking interest. "Yeah, and it's a good idea. It can be a long way out for an injured man, and pain-killers will help."

  Chugger changed into dry socks and a clean sweatshirt. He had nothing else along. While they waited for the powerful narcotic to ease Acre's pain, Chugger crawled inside his light sleeping bag and succumbed to the soothing warmth.

  He was asleep when Acre said, "I wish to see."

  Appleby rose easily, clearly feeling better. Chugger said, "Wait for me" and struggled out of his bag.

  They went onto the ice together. Acre stood directly above Cole's hanging body, examining it carefully. The appearance of Cole's battered remains was not pleasant, but Chugger waited patiently.

  Acre turned aside and climbed carefully to Cole's rifle. He squatted to pick it up, then returned to the crevasse edge, Appleby looked for another long moment, as though burning the sight into his memory. Then he raised the rifle to hip level and fired downward. Ice shattered, and Cole's body shifted. Acre fired again, and enough ice broke away. Smoke Cole's remains dropped from sight. The echoing roll of the shot overwhelmed the sodden thud of the body hitting bottom.

  Acre dropped Cole's rifle into the crevasse and turned away, expressionless as stone. Chugger supposed his own face reflected as little emotion. Scores had been settled on the Ernestine glacier. Chugger expected he and Acre Appleby would agree on how it should be handled from here on.

  +++

  They shared little talk working the long downhill to their camp. The drug helped Appleby, but it did not make him well. Acre bore his miseries stoically. His obvious wounds made Chugger unwilling to favor his own.

  Chugger supposed they were a sad looking pair. Appleby's front was crusted to the waist with dried blood. His face was a puffed and distorted disaster that would require expert surgery. Compared to such damage, Acre's torn ear seemed hardly to matter.

  Martin too was a mess, but only the blasting of rock shards into his face showed. Abraded hands and elbows burned like fire, and his body was so thoroughly pummeled that he feared prolonged stopping might stiffen him so that he would be out of action for a day or two.

  Yet, they had to rest. Both were too tired to begin the long trek down Ernestine Creek. Chugger boiled water and dropped plastic-packed food into it. They ate crudely, dumping the hot food onto tin plates and chewing in silent satisfaction.

  Washed a little and clad in clean clothing, they lay propped within their sleeping bags, for the moment reasonably comfortable. Chugger told all that had gone on while Appleby lay unconscious on the rocks beside the glacier.

  When Chugger finished, Acre shuddered."I could not have tried the creek." He shuddered again, imagining the dark plunge beneath the glacier.

  Chugger dared not let his mind dwell too closely on the terror of it. "I could think of no other way."

  Acre voiced their common thought, "What has happened must never be told."

  Chugger agreed wholeheartedly. They would leave the canyon and drive far. In Fairbanks, Appleby would seek repairs for the damage he would report receiving in a fall in the Granite Mountains.

  Acre said, "He will have a camp somewhere in the high country."

  Chugger agreed, "Maybe we will find it some year."

  Appleby looked with apparent amusement at the battered and broken rifles in their camp. Chugger's .450 Alaskan, bent and broken by Cole's first visit, lay beside Larry Mull's sadly battered .300 Weatherbys. Acre said, "This place is very hard on good guns, Chugger."

  Martin laughed with a certain release of tensions. "You're right, Acre. I'm not bringing anything nice in here anymore."

  +++

  They slept hard and longer than planned. Senses sodden from drugs, Acre rested sitting up. Chugger slumbered heavily in one position and woke to find his joints nearly immovable. He cursed himself into movement.

  Acre too roused and began to roll his bag.

  Chugger said, "Let's leave this stuff, Acre. We can pick it up later."

  Appleby did not agree. "We can carry it all. My eyes are better. You are unhurt. We should not leave marks of trouble in here."

  Acre was right. No one should be hiking up Ernestine, but if anyone did come, nothing questionable should show. Chugger kept Acre sitting while he made up their packs.

  Once under way, using their willow poles for balance, they did well. Chugger again led and stuck to the creek, following the fastest, if wettest, way out.

  Their conversation was again limited. Acre asked only one important question. "Is your film safe, Chugger?"

  Martin touched his jacket pocket to be certain before assuring Appleby that it was.

  +++

  Chapter 12

  There was no sign of Smoke Cole's truck along the highway. Smoke had probably hidden it well, but Chugger worried that an accomplice could have dropped Cole and would eventually come looking for him.

  Acre said, "Where will he look? Through miles of willowed canyon or among the mountains? His search would be long."

  A lowering sky promised serious weather change. Appleby pointed to a first spattering of rain on their windshield. "It is raining now on the glacier. All sign will be gone." Acre shrugged, "I will think of Smoke Cole no more."

  Chugger doubted he could that easily write off the danger and viciousness on the Ernestine Creek glacier, but for at least the hundredth time, Acre was right. Supposing and imagining were useless.

  Only the film counted now. Surely someone of importance must be caught on the photographs. Smoke Cole's dedication to the hunt and willingness to kill had been too intense. Someone had turned his dog loose and had probably paid well. Soon that question too would be answered.

  Chugger headed north, up the Richardson toward home. It was late in the day, and they had two hundred and fifty miles to drive. Stores would be closed in Fairbanks.

  First, Chugger would check Acre into the hospital and support Acre's story of a Granite Mountains accident. Appleby's nose was terribly damaged. Whether he liked it or not, Acre would be under a doctor's care for some time.

  Chugger's personal physician could dig the fragments from his regular patient. For the second time in a month, Chugger would appear with a mangled face. He hoped to heaven this would also be
a last time.

  Next would be the film. A one hour photo printer would have them out by noon. Chugger guessed he would have duplicate prints made. Then he would mail one set away for safekeeping. If whoever had hired Smoke Cole tried again he would be unable to get all of the copies.

  Chugger drove swiftly, his mind replaying what he would do, balancing it against all that had happened. If the photographs were clear, someone was going to pay in spades. Chugger intended making sure of that.

  +++

  The days passed into weeks, and Kelly O'Doran heard nothing from Smoke Cole. Nor had the writer, Chugger Martin, attempted any contact.

  The weeks became months. Cole's pickup was found stripped and abandoned somewhere outside Valdez. Smoke's landlord had rerented Cole's apartment and stored Cole's personal belongings against unpaid rent.

  With increasing confidence, Kelly O'Doran continued his campaign for election to the United States Senate, He traveled continually, speaking and appearing. He donated to appropriate causes and assumed the most responsible positions. His acceptance as the man to elect blossomed, and polls showed Kelly O'Doran forging ahead of the incumbent.

  Campaigning was brutally expensive. To make his name and face known across the expanse of Alaska, cost a lot, but O'Doran paid what he had, collected what he could, and borrowed what he must. When elected, the money would return many fold by many routes, O'Doran had no doubts.

  On a number of occasions the writer, Chugger Martin, was present at an O'Doran rally. Once, Martin passed through the handshaking line. Martin's grip was a killer. The kind politicians hate. It almost buckled O'Doran's knees, but he took it, watching Martin's face for indication of secret knowledge. He detected nothing untoward and believed finally, that the writer had nothing.

  If Kelly O'Doran could have accounted for Smoke Cole's absence, he would have buried even the memories of the unfortunate goat hunt. Where could Cole be? Almost surely he was dead. Otherwise, Smoke would have appeared. Alaska could be dangerous, and a man like Cole traveled the more treacherous paths, but certainty eluded O'Doran, and a tiny worry occasionally surfaced.