Abe briskly shook hands with the manager, Gunter, who wore over his long blond hair a baseball-style hat from a group called the Rocky Mountain Elk Foundation. He turned to the boys and flashed them a hearty smile. “You two look like you’re going to be even taller than your dad here.”
The boys glanced at each other sheepishly. It was true that they’d grown since leaving Pennsylvania. With their long hair and tanned faces, they were turning into mini-Abes.
“So, Abe, you here to stock up for winter?” Gunter asked, leaning on the counter.
Abe whipped out a list and handed it to the storekeeper. “It’s about that time, Gunter.”
Gunter scanned the list, nodding. “This won’t take but a few minutes.”
“The quicker the better,” Abe said. “So we can get home before dark.”
“I could have gotten it ready in advance if you’d called ahead—”
“Called ahead? Dad doesn’t have a phone,” Taylor interrupted.
Gunter raised an eyebrow, and eventually Abe spoke up. “Well . . . I do, actually. For work emergencies. Forest fires, lost ramblers, that kind of thing.”
If there was a phone in the cabin, what other technology did Abe have squirreled away, Jake suddenly wondered.
“You sell any books?” Jake asked, looking around eagerly.
Gunter scratched the side of his face. “Not really. . . . I have a few magazines in back. You might find something there.”
“Thanks.”
Jake headed to the rear of the store while Taylor made a beeline for the candy shelves. Jake found a rack of magazines, mostly sports stuff that interested him about as much as wet cardboard. Great. Just great. Six months with only Sports Illustrated to read.
“You all right back there?” Abe called.
“Coming!” he cried. Before he left the aisle, a stack of small, hardback notebooks on a shelf caught his eye. Over the past few months he’d wanted to start keeping a diary of his and Taylor’s adventures—kind of like the wilderness journal Abe had kept when he’d been younger. It was Abe’s old journal that had inspired the boys to make the trip to Wyoming, and had helped them survive the journey. Jake grabbed a notebook and went to get Taylor, who was still drooling over the snacks section.
“Think dad will get us one?” Taylor asked, sweeping his hand through his sandy brown hair.
“Doesn’t have to be his call, does it?” said Jake, picking up a bag of peanut butter cups.
“What do you mean?” Taylor asked, confused.
“Nothing. . . . C’mon,” he said.
On the counter, Gunter had stacked a treasure pile of supplies: boxes of nails, duct tape, gun oil, gun cartridges, a new ax, shoelaces, matches, sewing needles and thread . . .
“We’ll take these, too,” Jake said, placing the notebook and peanut butter cups down.
Abe picked up the bag of candy and dangled it as if it were a dead rat. “This crap?”
“The candy’s for me,” Taylor quickly said, sensing his dad’s disapproval. “It’s okay. I’ll put it back.”
“C’mon, Abe. It won’t kill ’em,” Gunter said.
“Yeah,” Jake chipped in. “It’s hardly a deadly mushroom.”
Abe’s eyebrow arched, and for a moment it looked like he was going to launch into one of his long speeches, but he dropped the candy back onto the counter.
“You’re right. But I get a bite!” he said with a laugh, handing over the money.
3 As the three of them headed toward the front of the store, laden with goods, the door opened before they could reach it. Suddenly the mood changed again. Jake’s squabble with his dad was forgotten, and tension took over.
A police officer stood in the doorway, arms folded, eyes narrowed.
Jake froze.
One thought went screaming through his mind: Bull. They’ve found his body. He exchanged glances with Taylor and saw the fear in his eyes.
He wished they’d worked out a story to tell the police before they’d come to town. But no, that would have meant talking about Bull’s death, and that was the one thing they never, ever did.
“That your dog out front?” the cop asked.
“Yeah, he’s ours,” Jake said. His throat felt dry and tight. “Is he okay?”
“He’s loose!” snapped the policeman. “If you’re going to visit a national park, you’d better learn the rules. Dogs must be kept under control at all times.”
Abe finally spoke up. “It’s my fault, Officer. I thought he was tied up.”
The policeman frowned. “Abe Wilder, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I know you know the rules.” He looked sternly at Jake and Taylor. “Just checking that these boys know them too.” The police officer turned to leave, but then paused. “Oh, Mr. Wilder? One more thing . . .”
Abe swallowed. “Yes?”
“You should bring that guitar of yours next time you come by. Play a few songs over at Benny’s. It’s been too long.”
Abe smiled, and promised he would.
They said their good-byes and made to start the trek home.
“C’mon,” Abe muttered distractedly. “Let’s get out of here.”
Jake couldn’t help notice the change that had come over his dad—jaw set, sweat beading on his forehead, eyes darting nervously.
Once again the memory of Bull’s last scream rang out in Jake’s mind. He saw the limp body collapse over the waterfall’s edge and go tumbling down. It was as if Bull’s ghost were haunting them.
On the day before Thanksgiving, Jake and Taylor stirred a blackened iron pot hanging over the fire pit outside the cabin. Since their trip into town, the weather had grown colder, and now the two boys huddled close to the open flames. Puffs of fog escaped from their mouths as they breathed.
“You think it’s ready?” Taylor asked, peering into the pot.
“How would I know? I’ve never boiled balsamroot before.”
“Feels more like Halloween than Thanksgiving, huh?” Taylor grinned and stirred some more. “Abracadabra!”
Jake laughed. “Don’t want to burn yourself before the medicine is done.”
Abe had given Jake and Taylor the job of digging up, cleaning, cutting, and shredding the arrowleaf balsamroot before dropping it into a pot of slow-boiling water. They’d been hard at work all morning.
“Y’know, they had Band-Aids and antiseptic back at the store,” Jake said drily. It was as if their dad were trying to cram them full of wilderness knowledge to get back all those years when he hadn’t been around.
“Yeah, but this is way cooler,” Taylor said. Nothing could dampen his spirits.
The cabin door banged open, and Abe appeared. “How’s that medicine coming?”
“We think it’s almost done,” said Taylor.
“Looks good. Take it off to cool and then get the rifles.”
Taylor’s eyes widened, and Jake sat bolt upright. “Are we going hunting?”
“Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving,” Abe answered. “So we need to get ourselves some dinner.”
A half hour later Abe, the boys, and Cody were following a game trail along a stream that ran down from the higher mountain peaks. Despite the cold, Jake’s palms were sweaty where they gripped his rifle.
Usually Abe carried the main rifle, a .30-06, but today he went empty-handed. “I’m leaving the shooting to you two today,” he’d said. “You guys are going to bring home Thanksgiving dinner.”
“No pressure, then,” Jake had said, grinning. Abe had smiled back.
Back at home in Pennsylvania a gun had been a thing of fear, but out here the weight of it felt almost reassuring in his hands. It was strange how something so dangerous now felt useful. Instead of using guns to intimidate people, like Bull had done, they were using them for survival.
As they walked, Cody flushed out a small flock of turkeys. Jake jumped at the sudden flurry of wings and instantly cursed himself for being so on edge. Taylor, with a cooler head, le
veled his gun and took aim.
“No!” Abe yelled. “Don’t shoot!”
“Huh?” Taylor blinked.
“Better to have a shotgun for those, buddy. Besides, we don’t want to scare off any larger game.”
Reluctantly Taylor lowered the rifle.
It wasn’t long before Jake spotted signs of the “larger game” his dad was after. He held up his hand, and they all froze. “Prints!” he whispered. “See there, along the stream? They’re split. That means deer.”
Cody began sniffing excitedly, while Abe, Jake, and Taylor squatted down to examine the tracks.
“White-tailed?” Taylor asked.
“Probably mulies,” said Abe. “They’re a bit bigger. The tracks look fresh too. Want to try to catch up with them?”
“What do you think?” Jake replied with a chuckle.
They set off at a faster pace. There were no jokes now. Nobody said a word. They communicated in gestures and glances.
After they’d followed the trail through the trees, the tracks suddenly split into two separate groups.
“Now what?” Taylor whispered, breaking the silence.
“We split up,” Abe said under his breath. “Taylor, come with me. We’ll go after the larger group. Jake, you and Cody follow the other tracks.”
Jake gave a curt nod. They’d make less noise separately, and it might increase their chances of getting a shot at something.
Abe drew them into a close huddle and whispered, “If one of us gets a deer, fire an extra shot to alert the others to come help out. A single shot means a miss or smaller game, so keep hunting. If none of us bags anything, meet up back at the cabin by sunset.”
Jake knew that wasn’t going to happen—there was no way he was going back empty-handed.
While Abe and Taylor followed the stream, Jake and Cody set out after the smaller group of deer. From the number of tracks, Jake guessed they were from two, maybe three animals at most. He placed his feet carefully, avoiding dried branches or leaves that might make noise and alert the deer that they were being pursued.
As he walked up a steep slope dotted with pines, Jake could feel his heart pounding like a jackhammer. The only living things he’d shot in his life so far were a couple of rats, and though he’d practiced in the little range their dad had set up, he was way below Taylor’s standard. Being sent out on his own, with only Cody for company, felt like a test.
Doubt surged up in his mind. What if I just injure the deer and it runs away? What if I miss and scare away the group Dad and Taylor are following? What if we have root stew for Thanksgiving dinner because I can’t shoot straight? Am I really cut out for all this?
The triumph of snaring the rabbit seemed like a distant memory. Catching a rabbit in a trap was one thing. Shooting an animal bigger than himself was something else entirely.
Jake cursed himself when he lost the trail over some rocky ground, but to his relief, Cody had his nose firmly locked on to the deer’s scent. They entered a thicket of aspen trees where the newly fallen leaves carpeted the ground in gold. It felt like entering a temple. Jake paused for a second, feeling the stillness all around.
Cody gave a little impatient whine.
Okay, okay, I’m coming.
As he and Cody moved deeper into the grove, the fallen leaves muffling their footsteps, Jake’s senses were on high alert.
Stay calm, Jake. Don’t blow it.
He and Cody slowly picked their way around the white aspen trunks, stepping over fallen branches. As they approached the far side of the thicket, Cody suddenly stopped.
Jake froze.
Three mule deer stood before him, all of them young bucks. At first Jake couldn’t make out what they were doing, but then he saw one deer rise up onto its back legs to nibble the tip of an aspen branch. The other two bucks were munching shoots coming up from the ground.
Fattening up for the winter, Jake thought. Sorry, guys, but we need to eat too. . . .
Busy feeding, the deer hadn’t noticed Jake and Cody approach, and Jake planned to keep it that way. He carefully removed a shell from his vest pocket and quietly chambered it into the rifle.
Now all he needed was the best firing position he could find. He stepped gingerly to a nearby aspen trunk that was tilting over at an angle. As Cody looked on, nose quivering, Jake rested the rifle barrel against the aspen trunk and took aim.
Ghost-white tree trunks partially blocked two of the mulies, but the third one foraged in full view. As Jake tried to steady the rifle, he could hear his blood thundering in his ears. Adrenaline made his hands shake, and the image of the deer bounced and quivered.
Suddenly, unwanted images came crowding into his head. His mom on the ambulance gurney. Bull screaming as he fell over the edge to his death.
Come on. Concentrate. He shook the thoughts out of his mind and took a deep breath. Planting his feet firmly at shoulder width, he rested the butt of the rifle against his shoulder and aimed at a spot right behind the deer’s front shoulder.
Remembering what he’d been taught, Jake focused on his breathing, steady and deep. Without once taking his eye off his target, Jake flicked off the rifle’s safety and eased his right forefinger onto the trigger.
Suddenly the deer raised his head and looked straight in Jake’s direction.
Jake quickly squeezed and pulled the trigger. . . .
4 The sharp crack of the rifle split the mountain air. Quickly lowering his gun, Jake caught the movement of the two other bucks bounding into some nearby brush. There was no sign of the deer he’d targeted.
“C’mon, Cody!” Jake shouted, shouldering the rifle. “Let’s go!”
The terrier sprinted ahead. Jake hurried after him, worried the deer might have escaped. Worse, he could have botched the shot and injured it, condemning it to a slow and painful death.
When he reached the spot where the deer had been standing, he saw the animal lying still, eyes glazed. Bright red blood trickled from its mouth and a quarter-size hole behind the shoulder.
I got it! Jake thought, fighting the urge to whoop.
Jake knelt and ran his hand over the still-warm body, while Cody sniffed the deer’s face and neck. The buck’s pelt felt smooth and soft under Jake’s fingers.
“I did it,” he whispered to himself. “Oh, man.”
Just like he had when he’d snared the rabbit, he felt pride mixed with a touch of regret. He wondered if he’d ever stop feeling that way, but decided he never wanted to. He would never be someone who could kill a living creature without sadness.
His dad had to see this, though, right now. Jake stood, slipped another cartridge into the rifle, and pointed the gun into the air. A second shot would announce his triumph and bring Abe and Taylor running.
But before he could pull the trigger, Jake heard a branch crack behind him. They were here already.
“You’ve got to see this . . . ,” he began, but his voice trailed off as Cody began barking furiously. Then Jake heard a snarl that chilled his blood.
He spun around. Slowly advancing on him, its jaws hanging open, was a lean, gray animal. A wolf? No—a coyote. And by the look of it, it wanted his kill too.
Jake’s blood ran cold. “Get lost,” he called. “Go!”
The coyote seemed to grin at him, as if to say I don’t think so, and continued to pad toward him.
From behind Jake heard more twigs cracking. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a second coyote, padding stealthily in his direction.
Cody dashed back and forth, barking fit to burst. Jake prayed the noise was enough to alert his dad and Taylor. One coyote was bad enough, but two meant he was outnumbered. For all he knew, there were even more of them out there, hiding between the trees.
He had to get out of there.
The first coyote bared its teeth and lunged. Jake snapped out of his trance. He lowered the rifle to fire, but the coyote was moving too fast. Brushing past Cody, it snapped at Jake’s leg, sending him staggering backward.
/> Jake turned and ran as fast as he could. He sprinted through the trees, not looking back, until he neared the edge of the stream. With no other way across, he got ready to jump.
His foot skidded in the wet mud. Suddenly he was falling, arms flailing, into the freezing flood of the stream. “Argh!” he gasped, and struggled to pull himself upright, dripping and half-blind. He saw the coyote coming for him. In the distance he heard Cody’s shrill whining.
They got Cody!
Jake stumbled to his feet, his soaked pants clinging to his legs, and fumbled for the rifle. Rage filled him. Any creature that hurt his dog was going to die.
Suddenly the big coyote was on him again, snapping and snarling. Jake kicked, trying to shake the animal off, and the rifle flew out of his hands. A vicious tug at his leg sent him toppling over backward. His skull whacked against a stone.
Pain shot through his head and made him cry out. Dizzy and sick, he fought for his life against snapping jaws. Teeth tore at his jacket as he felt himself fading in and out of consciousness.
A gunshot rang through the trees. Did I do that? Jake thought deliriously.
A second shot sounded, and the coyote let go of him. He heard the scrabbling of claws as the animal fled.
And then everything went dark.
“Jake! Jake, are you okay?” Taylor yelled.
Jake sat up, wincing. A fresh bolt of pain broke across his head, and he sank back down with a groan. The trees above him were going in and out of focus.
His dad’s shape loomed over him. “Jake?”
“Huh?” Jake mumbled.
Then Jake remembered the anguished whining. “Is Cody all right?”
Jake felt his dad wrap something around him. Then strong arms lifted him to his feet. He walked as best he could, drifting in and out of reality, tripping over rocks and tree roots. He caught glimpses of the forest and sky, and vaguely heard his father and brother talking, but it was like he was walking through a dream—a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.
The Journey Home Page 2