The Sweet Taste (Perry County)

by Roy F. Chandler

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6 - JELLO

  Chapter 7 - SPIDER

  Chapter 8 - LORI

  Chapter 9 - CHRIS

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  EPILOGUE

  About Roy Chandler

  Books by Roy Chandler

  Copyright © 1990 and 2014 by Katherine R. Chandler. All rights reserved.

  Publication History

  ebook: 2014

  Katherine R. Chandler, Publisher

  St. Mary's City, Maryland

  First Printing: 1990

  Bacon and Freeman Publishers

  Oriwsburg, Pennsylvania

  This is a work of fiction. None of the characters represent any persons living or dead.

  All characters and incidents depicted were created by the author.

  Chapter 1

  I powered the Ford up the south side of Sterritt's Gap. The V8 sank to a throaty, hungry-sounding growl and felt ready to spin tires. The big pickup seemed as anxious as I to roll into home country.

  In my mind I called the Ford "Big Blue." I never spoke the handle because I have always been a little uneasy with people who hung cutsey names on things they own.

  Boats should have names, and maybe hunting camps should, but trucks? Probably not.

  I had picked up Big Blue in Anchorage, using some of the insurance money the client's agent had gratefully handed over. The company was appreciative of a fair and quiet settlement, where some might have stuck them good and publicly embarrassed an important national figure.

  Senator Adrian Gill stood politically far to the right. Gill projected a tough, no give, America do or die, street fighter image. Panicking on a bear hunt and almost getting his guide killed would have tarnished the hard guy persona.

  Settling quietly and reasonably saved the Senator embarrassment and, except for tender ribs and some still healing claw scars, I was heading toward being as well as I had been before the grizzly got to me.

  The pickup topped Kittatinny Mountain and crossed into Perry County, Pennsylvania with power to spare. Five thousand miles of hard, fast travel hadn't detuned Big Blue. If I called for it, the truck was ready for another grind up or down the Alaskan highway.

  The gas station, sitting right where the frontiersman George Croghan had placed his hotel in colonial times, was closed. That surprised me, but things did change, and someone was now selling canoes and boats from the old station.

  From the Gap on, it is mostly downhill to Duncannon. Across the Juniata and into the belly of Watts Township would put me on my own land. A man should heal better at home, and I needed some of that. I touched the pedal and the pickup grumbled its throaty reassurance that things were still right in my world.

  +++

  Being named Gene Perry in a county also named Perry hadn't troubled my school years. After that, I was gone so often that a locally known name didn't matter.

  Of course, when I looked back on my growing time, I couldn't recall being bothered by much of anything anyway.

  I lived in Duncannon in an ordinary house on an ordinary street. My Dad worked at a sort of indefinable desk job for the state.

  The Commonwealth gave good retirement, and as soon as they could, my folks packed it in and moved to Florida. They're still down there, in a double-wide, collecting shells, playing canasta, and improving their shuffleboard. Suited them. Could be worse, I suppose.

  I got through Susquenita High with average grades. I couldn't be bothered playing sports. I preferred poking around the river and roaming the woods. Dad had a hunting cabin over in Watts Township (no name applied), and I liked it best out there.

  When they four-laned Route 22, they cut off the direct way into the cabin and you had a six mile drive to reach our land. Disgusting to folks living in Watts, but satisfying to a woodsy like me that wanted to think he was out in a wilderness.

  The cabin is home to me now. Although fixed up a little, it still isn't much, but that's the pleasure of the place. Vandals trashed it twice, but there wasn't much to destroy, and fixing had been easy.

  Once, when he was sore about something, Spider Seeber threatened to burn the cabin down. He never did, probably because he would have been the chief suspect. Spider was nasty mean and not above burning a man's place. Thinking like he did, Seeber likely figured his own house would get torched if he started any burning. I suspect Spider was right—and seeing his house go would have been on top of the skin-splitting licking I would have laid on him.

  Vietnam was still rumbling when I got out of high school. With little consideration, I took the draft and went to the army for two years. One of those years was infantry in Nam. Ugly—pure ugly. The things I learned, I'd as soon have never heard of, and too much of what I saw was best forgotten, only I never could.

  The military left me restless, and I wandered. Why not? All old Perry County offered was quiet. Like any shiftless roamer I tried about everything, and until I hit thirty, I settled on nothing.

  The big "Three Zero" made me blink a little. All of a sudden, I was of an age my generation had never trusted.

  A friend was a registered hunting guide headquartered in Talkeetna, Alaska. Red Harston's hunting territory was way to hell and gone up in the Brooks Range, along the upper Sheenjek River. Customers flew in and out of Fort Yukon, which was itself north of the Arctic Circle. Just my kind of place—except in winter. Then it got so cold you had to thaw out your ice cubes. The sun never came all the way up, and it was dark and frozen until late April.

  Harston took me on as an assistant guide during spring and fall hunting. In the summer we took fishing parties out the Alaskan Peninsula and guided photography safaris onto the bears and moose they wanted.

  I made late fall stops in Perry County on my way to Florida's warmth. A pair of weeks to say hello and nail down loosened shingles was about it for my Perry time.

  A morning's flight out of Harrisburg International put me into swimming trunks and tanning lotion at Marathon in the Florida Keys.

  My conscience bothered me a little because I was drawing unemployment up in Alaska.

  With freeze-up, rural Alaska quits running. Everybody goes on unemployment. Without jobs, men run traplines or work at their gold or coal claims. Because of the dangerous cold, you don't have to appear on schedule for your unemployment checks. They'll hold them until you get in.

  During winter, half or more of Harston's bunch go outside where the living is better and cheaper. We don't announce departure and there is an informal sort of conspiracy—officials never ask. We've got it so organized that Red Harston picks up our checks, under the guise of flying them out to our cabin-fevered claims. Red forges my name and deposits the money in my savings account. That way we don't have out of state stampings on Alaskan unemployment compensation.

  With the state's high wages, Alaskan unemployment is big bucks, if you spend in Florida. Winters have been good living.

  Senator Gill's hunt was for grizzly, moose, caribou, and Dali ram. The senator had only two weeks, but we had things scouted out, and by hunting him camp to camp, Gill had a reasonable chance of filling his license.

  Under Red Harston, we hunt fair chase. No track vehicles run hunters up to their animals. Of course no airplanes or helicopters were involved. Harston clients zeroed in to Red's satisfaction, and each hunter had an assistant guide assigned to him.

  As Gill's guide on grizzly, I was ready and waiting the senator's arrival. I knew
the territory, and I had found where decent bear were working.

  Northern grizzlies are smaller than Alaskan Range bears, but they have their species' ingrained unpredictability. I sat the senator down and explained the dangers as well as the conditions we would encounter. Gill listened well and his comments were those of an experienced hunter. His rifle was a worn-in model 70 Winchester in 30/06. Good enough, if he shot straight.

  With a lot of day remaining, we left our cook in camp and pushed through willows toward higher ground. From there we could glass likely meadows, hoping to locate a good bear.

  The grizzlies were just out of hibernation and their coats were winter thick. Within weeks they would rub away the itchy fur and not be worth taking. But right now we should find a good one.

  A quarter mile along we broke into a clearing. Twenty yards across it a yearling cub stood up to look at us. I slapped on the brakes and stuck out an arm to hold back the senator. Just in case, I began unslinging my rifle, looking hard for the sow, which should have been close by, perhaps with another cub.

  Gill walked right through my restraining arm, brushing it uncaringly aside. He headed for the yearling and said, right out loud, "By God, Gene, there is one!"

  One, hell! The cub squeaked in fright and mama came out of cover like a freight train.

  The senator froze between me and the sow grizzly. I took a step to the side, jacking a round into the chamber of my .458. Then Gill hit the panic button. For all of his hunting, he had never faced a five hundred pound charging grizzly bear at forty feet—and he didn't this time.

  The senator made an instant one hundred and eighty degree turn and started for camp. Concentrating on the bear, I leaned to let him go by. I saw his eyes like silver dollars just before he knocked me ass over tea kettle. I held onto the rifle but that was about all.

  Gill let out a fear-filled squall—probably because the collision slowed him down—and kept going.

  From a standing start, a grizzly can catch a horse. The sow was in my face before I could begin to reorganize.

  She plowed into me about the way Gill had. I landed on my back, which isn't good with a bear on top of you.

  I shoved my rifle stock into the bear's mouth, too scared to even gag on her bad breath. The sow shook the rifle out of my hands with a single twist of her head. A forepaw cuffed me in the ribs and about tore me in half. In case the first one failed another ripping kind of smash to the same area made certain. The sow turned away to savage my rifle, leaving me for later, probably. I went for my pistol.

  Not one man in a hundred carries a pistol hunting, but I do. A .44 magnum is only about as powerful as a common 30/30. That isn't enough for a grizzly, but it beats the hell out of trying judo. When the sow remembered me, I was grateful for the handgun.

  I shot fast and as straight as I could. I saw a chunk blow out of the bear's head, but she still got to me. Her jaws closed on my leg, and she swung me into the air before a willow thicket stopped my progress. I put a second bullet somewhere into her, but she just got wilder, jerking me around and clawing with a front paw.

  The sow had me, and a piece of my mind said I was already hurt awful bad. I stuffed the pistol's muzzle against her head and double-actioned a third and a fourth Keith flat-nosed slug into her. This time I got nerves, and the bear's weight collapsed on me. She didn't even twitch, but I placed my last round carefully to make sure, and her skull split like a pumpkin.

  I couldn't get a decent breath. Sweat blotted my vision and my hands shook so badly I could hardly hold the pistol.

  But, where were the cubs? I had only seen one, but there could be a pair. A yearling grizzly would weigh one hundred and fifty pounds. That much bear was more than I needed. I got the revolver open and thumbed the ejection rod. Fumbling extra rounds into the chambers took forever, but I got it done and felt a lot safer with the Smith and Wesson reloaded.

  Still no cubs. I pushed my unchewed leg against the sow's weight and got out from under. A lot of red meat showed through my ruined pants leg, but my ribs hurt too much to look further.

  I heard Dave, the cook, coming, banging pans together and whooping like a Comanche. I hung on until he and the senator got there. Then I faded out and stayed gone for an hour or more.

  +++

  The trip out was about what you'd expect. Morphined up, I hadn't a care in the world, and Alaskan hospitals know what to do with bear maulings.

  Senator Gill spent humility-filled days apologizing before he flew home. For the rest of the week, his over-worried aide annoyed me with damage control. Finally convinced that I had no intention of pillorying the senator in the National Enquirer, or in any way publicizing the senator's panicked flight, or suing his boss's socks off, the aide too flew out, and I was allowed to recover in peace.

  The leg healed well, but my body knit slowly. A broken-off piece of rib was removed and the three that were split kept me moving very gently. One arm and a shoulder were also well clawed, and overall, I had more stitches than a football. I guessed my carcass wouldn't be the most envied on the beach, but with thirty-six years on me, I was about over the bathing suit contests anyway.

  Red Harston's insurance took care of my bills, but a lot of my summer employment was shot. Senator Gill's insurance came through with fifty thousand dollars for physical suffering and another twenty-five big ones for mental anguish. I was also assured of the senator's appreciation and friendship under all circumstances.

  Sympathy for my wounds eroded with the fat settlements. Red Harston claimed he was going out and let a bear or two roll him around because it paid a lot better than guiding.

  I bought Big Blue and headed south. Rumbling my way down the Alaskan Highway allowed healing time, and I hadn't been outside Alaska in too many summers. A man could forget that there was a more tranquil beauty, where a mountain did not require rope and pitons. Now seemed like a good time to rediscover.

  From a little distance, things had turned out well after all. I would soon be as healthy as I had been before the grizzly. Even the broken off rib would grow back, they said.

  Dave, the cook, had chopped off the sow's front paws so I could have the claws for a necklace. Dave had studied the fight, and I had a clear picture of how it had gone.

  My first bullet had taken the sow's eye clean out. That was the material I had seen blow loose. A bear's eyes sit out beyond the skull and are not usually a killing wound. The shock probably disoriented the sow causing her to waste time on my leg instead of main parts. The body hit didn't slow the attack, but any of my final head shots would have done the job.

  The single cub still lurked close by, but a yearling can make it on his own. Its mother would have soon run him off anyway.

  I sold my savaged rifle to the cook who intended keeping the tooth-mangled stock to highlight his campfire yarns. The .44 Magnum was packed away in my duffel. That gun had saved my skin. It had earned a permanent home.

  Mooning over the recent past had gotten me to Shermansdale. I killed an hour telling my bear story in Uncle Sam's shooting store. I'd raised a beard— something to try while I healed—but Perry County is a hairy place with lots of beards around. Mine got little comment. My scars did better, and I limped back to Big Blue satisfied with my reception.

  I cut back a block and went fast down Route 850 to Marysville and the river, then turned north for Duncannon. It was longer that way, but I needed to check in with Vonnie and Jim Doyle at the Quail Call restaurant.

  The Doyles keep an eye on my cabin. Spider Seeber's place and mine are the only houses past the Doyles'. When Spider became owner of his family's old home, he agitated about property lines. Big Jim Doyle rattled Spider's cage a little, and Seeber shut up for good. Neighbors are friendly out in Watts, just as long as it's a two way affair.

  My only way in goes past the Doyles' lane and my narrow path probably cuts across a corner of their land. I suppose lawyers could work out generational user rights or something, but Jim and Vonnie don't care, and I don't either.
Real Perry Countians aren't likely to get concerned over things that don't matter, except for the Spider Seebers of this world, of course.

  Passing through Montana, I had called ahead. The Doyles had my electricity turned on, and their daughter, Stacey, had policed up the worst of the cabin's neglect. At the Quail Call I thanked them and promised to stop by. Like good neighbors should, the Doyles would leave me alone and not come hammering on my door before I'd hardly had time to visit the john.

  I bought a cartload of groceries at Mutzabaugh's Market, marveling as usual at how low prices seemed, compared to Alaska. About fifty percent cheaper, I estimated. Well, it figured. Wages were half of Alaska's, and housing ran even less than that. My money would go a lot further in Perry County than it would have in Anchorage.

  As usual, old Duncannon brought a flood of memories. Punky looking teens loitered, as I had, on the square in front of Miller's News, and the Doyle hotel still dominated the town center.

  Driving through made Duncannon look good. The road was in good shape, a notable change from the patched and potholed mess of the sixties and seventies. Back then, the town, county, and state were embroiled in responsibility arguments; nothing got done. The same populace paid, no matter who maintained the road, and they certainly deserved a decent road through their community.

  The houses appeared kept up with some of the formerly neglected shining with paint and cleaned up yards. I wondered how the rivers fared and decided to take a look at the Juniata, via the narrow drive-down just beyond the railroad underpass.

  I eased through the underpass, signaling with my arm as well as my flashers. Left turning to head down the dirt trace to the river could be unexpected, and I didn't wish to be rear-ended by a daydreaming driver.

  The short road led through brush and was a car and a half wide. I took it slowly, with another pickup turning in behind me. It had rained recently, and the road was pocked with water-filled puddles of unguessable depth. It was only a short distance, and ahead I could see the sun-bright riverside clearing and some parked motorcycles near the first camping spots.