Bush Blues

by Sheldon Schmitt

  Snow carefully stepped around the body. Things did not feel right. Why would Bob gut-shoot himself with a rifle? Why not the head? And then there was the wound. Snow was no expert, but to him it looked Bob was shot from a foot or two away, judging by the blood spatter and size of the wound. How did you do that with a rifle? You could use your toe, he guessed, or a stick or something. He looked around but did not see anything on the floor that Bob could have used for that purpose. And Bob was wearing boots.

  Snow saw the spent shell casing off to Bob’s left. He stepped around the shell and checked the rest of the small house. There was no back door, which was not unusual—doors cost money. There were only three big windows. Windows cost even more than doors. There was a window in each of the two bedrooms and the one in the living area that Snow had peered through. Snow checked each. They were cranked shut, dust caked, and looked like they had not been opened for months. There was no other way out of the house except the trapdoor to fill the water tank that Joe had peeked into.

  Snow went to the closet off the kitchen, where the 200-gallon metal water tank and water heater were stored. On his tippy toes, he looked on top of the tank. The trapdoor was still hanging open, letting in some light. Snow saw a smudged footprint on the tank. The footprint was indistinct, but he could probably get the size, maybe more. The footprint did not look like the kind that might be left when the lid was on the floor and someone stepped on it. It looked like someone had pushed off and smeared the print, like they would if they were climbing out the trapdoor.

  “Hey, Chief Snow,” Nasruk Toovak announced himself and entered.

  Nasruk Toovak was an impressive man. He was about six foot two, lean, and strong. He had a commanding presence, which spoke of his many years as a village public safety officer (VPSO). A VPSO was essentially an unarmed constable for the villages. Even though Togiak now had a police department, Toovak continued in his role as VPSO.

  Toovak and Snow got along well and had divided up the workload for the village. They even shared the office space at the department. Snow handled all criminal cases, which was just fine with Toovak, who at this point in his life did not want to deal with any conflict or paperwork. Toovak was happy to help out, though, and was extremely steady and forthright.

  “Suicide?”

  “Could be, Nasruk. But something’s not right about it. You think Bob would do this? Like this?” Snow asked Toovak.

  “I don’t know. He was drunk most of the time. People say he sold his permits to Buck for booze. Maybe.”

  “What you think?” Toovak asked Snow.

  Snow did not look directly at him. He spoke, hands on hips, looking around the room. “I wonder where Buck Nelson is. Upriver?”

  “He has a fish camp upriver and another set-net cabin on the outside,” Toovak replied. “What you think? Buck do this?”

  Snow looked at Toovak. “I don’t know, Nasruk. I have some problems with this thing.”

  Stanley Beans abruptly entered the house, tripped, and fell over the doorjamb into Toovak, who had a look of extreme annoyance. Stanley hung onto Toovak to maintain his balance and looked at Snow peevishly. The bumbling Beans had broken Snow’s reverie.

  Snow requested that Beans and Toovak stay at the scene while he went back to the station to call Trooper Dick. For Stanley Beans’s benefit, he said to them both not to touch anything.

  Snow was lucky to get in touch with Trooper Dick. Often Dick and his partner were out of the office. Snow considered himself even luckier when Trooper Dick said that one of them would be over in an hour or two. Snow thought they might not make it over until the next day, if at all.

  “Bring a box, Dick,” Snow said.

  “Shit, Snow! Of course Bullshit Bob Pollack shot himself. Why would anyone shoot that old drunk bastard! People shoot themselves all the time here. That’s just the way it is; you know that. That’s life in the bush. Life’s a bitch, then you shoot yerself!” Trooper Dick opined with authority.

  Trooper Dick was looking to open and close this death quickly. But if the evidence suggested something nefarious, he’d do his job. He is a good a cop, but he is getting long in the tooth and a bit tired, Snow thought.

  Trooper Dick hung up the phone. Chief Snow is too fresh on the job, he thought. Give him a few more years and he won’t go looking under every rock for a worm. Still, he is pretty good for a village cop and has some sense.

  Snow was also prone to be too easy with the locals at times. He was going to “go Native” after a while. Then he’ll be useless, Trooper Dick thought. He’d seen good cops go soft many times before.

  Trooper Debbie Roop and Trooper Dick arrived in the blue plane about an hour and a half later. Record time, thought Snow. The trio worked the scene. There was no note to be found—not that anyone expected one. No one was sure if Bullshit Bob could even read.

  Trooper Dick did not want to take the body for an autopsy. He knew, as did Snow, that the medical examiner in Anchorage did not like flying bodies around unless he was damn sure it was a suspicious death. It cost tens of thousands of dollars to fly bodies all over the state. Bodies examined by a coroner in the lower forty-eight would not get the same treatment in Alaska just based on the dollars and logistics. The occasional murder probably went unnoticed simply because there was no autopsy performed.

  Trooper Dick agreed to take the body to Dillingham, where they could keep it on ice, and to pull some fluids. He could drop it off for burial on his next trip back this way.

  There was not much evidence to collect. They took the gun and shell casing. At least that would make it to the crime lab even if the body didn’t. Snow put the lid from the water tank in the back of his truck. Snow wanted to use a gel pack to lift the footprint and thought he might as well do it himself. It does not look like a good print, and what will it prove anyway?

  They bagged the body and put it in the back of Toovak’s pickup. At the plane, they put the body in a light aluminum box called a Zeigler case, which the troopers brought with them. The box made it easier to lift Bob in the plane than a droopy body bag would have. Always thinking, those troopers.

  The two troopers made a half-hearted effort to peruse the crime scene, but they were tired, and this case seemed straightforward. After a few minutes talking about what Snow was going to do on his end to wrap up the suicide, the blue plane left town. Snow had been happy to see them come—the troopers were a great help—but was happier to see them go. He still had some things he wanted to check out before he put this case to bed.

  Maybe Trooper Dick was right. Maybe this was just another suicide in the endless string of tragedies that was part of life in the bush. Sometimes there was so much death and pain out in the village that Snow did not know how people went on. But there is a lot of good here, too, he thought.

  Snow had a notion that Nelson had a hand in Bullshit Bob’s death. There was something in Bob’s eyes.

  Snow went looking for Nelson.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE WALRUS

  The year was 1898 near Togiak, Alaska.

  Tukok Toovak, who was the ancestor of Nasruk Toovak, looked out over the calm water toward the Walrus Islands in the hazy distance. An illusion made the islands appear to be floating above the water. He scanned the water’s surface and the beach stretching to his right for any movement. He was looking for the walrus. A scout for his clan had spotted walrus near what would one day be called Cape Pierce, a bluff that rose several hundred feet above the water.

  Toovak was the leader of this hunting party. He was considered an elder in his clan though only forty years of age. He was a good hunter and a wise man. At five feet eight inches, Toovak stood tall above his group. He wore his finest sealskin leggings over sealskin mukluks. He had a precious itchy wool sweater under his outer coat also made of sealskin. His raven hair was pulled back in a braid fashioned and adorned with small shells by his wife. Toovak had the starkly handsome, dark features of his clan, named Toovak after the caribou.

 
Toovak looked at his small group of men. They were too few.

  Since the first whaling boat captained by Jonathan Shoemaker about thirty-five years earlier, there had been many other whalers. They had been welcomed by Toovak’s people. Soon after the boats came the sickness. Wave after wave of sickness. Whole clans had been devastated. The stench of death was everywhere. For a time, the survival of the Native people in this region was in question. The spirits had deserted them. Tribes that had warred in the past now joined to survive.

  First it had been the small pox, and that was had been devastating.l but in a demonic and dark way. When his people drank it, they were transfixed. Some claimed to see visions. Others became violent like animals. Many more became lethargic. They only wanted the drink and became indolent. They only hunted when they needed more rum. This rum sickness erodes the spirit of my people, thought Toovak. It seemed that the spirits not only abandoned his people but were also punishing them.

  The burden on Toovak and the other elders was severe. Before the whalers, elders held council on rare occasions when a clan member could not abide by the common laws of the tribe. Once a generation or so, a tribal member would be banished. It was rare. Most tribal members would abide by the will of the people rather than risk being cast out from their world. Now it seemed none too rare. Elder councils met often, conferring and even passing judgment on those who had committed violence. Even with their decimated numbers, they could not tolerate violent acts or those who were so consumed by rum that they gave nothing to the tribe.

  These were not easy decisions; they tested the elders. Some wanted to let the “rummies” or violators stay. Toovak did not—would not. He knew his heart and what was right. He knew that the rum was a curse to his people. The rum and what it wrought could not be tolerated.

  In a radical and unprecedented move, the elders abolished the use of the rum or spirit drink. Never had the council exerted this measure of control. This chafed members of the tribe, who for the first time voiced dissension. It took all Toovak’s strength and influence to impose the ban. The pull of the spirit drink was strong. He felt the battle had weakened his soul.

  He surveyed the horizon again and made a decision. He gave the order to beach the boats. This was done easily as the boats were very light, made of caribou hide stretched tight over alder branches. The skins were sewn tight with caribou sinew and then coated with seal fat. The result was a nearly watertight, light, maneuverable watercraft. Today there were only three boats in the small hunting party of fifteen men. If they were successful, they would send word and more would come from the village if need be.

  Tyriek Beans stumbled over a piece of driftwood as he helped move the boat. He fell flat, face-first in the sand. Toovak could not help but laugh at his good, bumbling friend. Tyriek was an ancestor of the brothers Frank and Stanley Beans.

  “If we find the beach, you cannot fall, Tyriek. Or the walrus will mate with you!”

  “No! He’s too ugly even for a walrus!” one of the men said. Tyriek Beans brandished his tiny but sharp steel knife with its caribou horn handle.

  “Eee!” Tyriek shook his head, meaning “not so fast.” “If he pokes at me with his oosik, I will cut it off.” He pulled the giant, imaginary walrus penis with one hand high in the air and slashed horizontally with the other. Everyone chuckled or shook their heads.

  Toovak fell in with the others and helped haul the skin boat above the tide line. Then he drew the men in around him. He outlined his audacious plan. It was clear they approved the risky idea. The rewards would be great if they were successful. Not only would they harvest a huge supply of walrus for the tribe, but they would also gain tremendous fame. Songs would be sung. Dances would describe the hunt for generations.

  The men headed out together toward the point.

  Toovak, with his sharp eyes, had seen movement on the cape. When they got closer, they got stealthy. Toovak and Tyriek climbed to a high point while the others held back. What Toovak saw was perfect for his plan.

  He came back down and they prepared for the attack. Usually, they would attack a walrus high on the beach, surround it, and hope to mortally wound it before it got one of the hunters. Other times, they would harpoon it with a seal bladder attached to a rope made of sinew. They followed the walrus, and when it surfaced they would repeatedly spear it. This was very similar to how they hunted beluga or humpback whale. Both could be successful—but dangerous—ways to hunt a walrus.

  Dozens of walruses had hauled out high on the beach at the cape. Some had even climbed up the gentle inland slope. The walruses saw the approaching group of strange-looking creatures running along the water’s edge. The herd began to rumble toward the water.

  Those highest on the slope undulated away from the others in their strange but surprisingly speedy way. The tribe had split the group as planned! The hunters ignored the walruses heading into the water, instead giving chase to those heading up the slope. The hunters were gaining.

  Tyriek Beans ran close to one of the walruses. It suddenly wheeled and scooped at him with its three-foot-long ivory tusks. The walrus caught Beans neatly and he flew high in the air. A nearby hunter charged at the walrus with a lance just as it was about to gore Tyriek, who had landed and crumpled on the sand and grass. The walrus wheeled away and took off in the direction of the others.

  The hunters chased about ten walruses up the slope. Several peeled away and tumbled down the slope onto the beach. Toovak hollered to ignore those that had fallen and chase the last up the hill.

  At the apex of the cape, a few hunters led by Toovak cut off the final group of seven. Toovak screamed, as did the others. The walruses veered hard to the left and off the bank. Instead of a nice, gentle roll down to the beach, they fell some sixty feet off the small cliff, bouncing several times before landing on the boulders below.

  It worked! All the men screamed for joy as they saw the walruses dead or dying below them on the rocks. They stood and admired their work, recounting the great hunt. But Tyriek! What of Tyriek?

  Toovak ran back to where Tyriek had been tossed. Tyriek was lurching dazedly toward them, covered in sand. The men gathered round. It was determined that he was okay, so they all laughed as several recounted Tyriek’s unexpected flight through space. Several were already demonstrating potential dance moves.

  Tyriek looked indignant as he brushed the sand off his person. But he soon laughed too. The hunt was the most successful in memory, and soon they would be venerated by all.

  Charlie Johnson came to in a fog. He hurt all over. He raised his head and looked around. He recognized that he was in his hunting cabin upriver from the village. He lay his head back down and tried to remember. He could recount that he recovered the last five bottles of his latest alcohol cache. He sold two bottles in the village and helped drink them. He had saved three for himself.

  He had been drinking with Bullshit Bob and the Beans boys. Everything had been fine until Buck Nelson arrived. Charlie did not like Nelson. They were bootlegging competitors, but lots of people sold alcohol on occasion, so their rivalry was not just that. There was something else. Nelson was a user and greedy. Charlie did not like the way Nelson took advantage of Bullshit Bob. Bob was a drunk and a gussok, but Charlie liked him. He had lived in the village for years and even took care of Charlie’s cousin Nancy before she died. Bullshit Bob and Nancy had lived together, though they never married. Since her death, Bob drank even more, like he was trying to drink himself to death.

  Charlie remembered Nelson coming to Bullshit Bob’s shack last night. Fat and ugly, Charlie thought. A true ugly white scoundrel. He looked at Nelson with disdain. Despite his belly, Nelson was powerful and agile. He was smelly, too, and looked as though he never bathed.

  Charlie Johnson despised Nelson because he instilled fear in people. That was usually Charlie’s thing. Nelson had been in a variety of one-sided fights during his time around Togiak and had been merciless in his beatdown of the drunks he fought. He was smart about wh
o and when he fought. He knew how to use his fists. And when he had the advantage, he was not afraid to take it.

  Nelson looked upon Charlie with equal scorn.

  “See you have some of your usual overpriced rotgut,” he said to Charlie, not even showing the respect of calling him by name.

  There was immediate tension in the air between the burly white interloper and Charlie Johnson, the wild and scary local boy. A showdown was coming; it was just a matter of when and where.

  “Better than buying from a gussok! Right boys?” Charlie explained with a laugh. Charlie threw in the “right boys” to suggest that, when push came to shove, Charlie was one of the village people and Nelson was not. Nelson was an outsider and a gussok.

  “People will buy from whoever has the jugs at the best price,” Nelson said to no one in particular.

  Charlie was nothing if not smart and tough and dangerous. If it came to a straight fight with Nelson, he could win. But it would not be easy, and he was not interested in getting bloody tonight. He was more interested in the drink. He could not lose face, though.

  “Go drink with your friends then, Buck, if you have any,” Charlie said genially, with hate and wild unpredictability in his eyes. If it’s now, so be it, thought Charlie.

  Nelson reassessed. He did not acknowledge Charlie again but spoke to the small group.

  “I have work to do while you girls sit around and drink.”

  It was said in jest, and the tension eased in the room. The men began to talk drunkenly among themselves again. Nelson gathered up a rifle and some things around the house. Charlie kept a wary eye on him until Nelson left.

  Afterwards, Charlie took a four-wheeler to recover one more bottle at the urging of the others. He felt very good—high and warm—as he drove fast. He made sure to leave himself one bottle no matter what. He would need it the next day to recover. He did not remember leaving Bullshit Bob’s cabin after that bottle or coming home.