High Hunt

by David Eddings

  “Maybe you’re right,” he said.

  “Sure,” I told him, “that’s what hunting is really all about. God knows we don’t need the meat. You can buy better meat a helluva lot cheaper at the supermarket. Deer meat is going to average about five dollars a pound—that’s for something that tastes like rancid mutton.” I was laying it on pretty thick, and he was buying every bit of it. He really wanted to go, and convincing him wasn’t all that hard.

  “You get that rifle you were going to borrow?” I asked him, wanting to change the subject before he caught me up a tree. I’d planted enough, though, I thought. At least he wouldn’t roll over and play dead for her.

  “Yes,” he said, “I picked it up this morning. It belongs to a fellow at the school, but he had a heart attack and can’t hunt anymore. He said that if I like the way it shoots on this trip, he’ll sell it to me.”

  He fetched the gun, and I looked it over. It was one of those Remington pumps in .30-06 caliber, scope-mounted and with a sissy-pad on the butt. I felt my shoulder gingerly. Maybe a recoil pad would be a good investment if a man planned to do a lot of shooting.

  “Good-looking piece,” I said. “You sighted it in yet?”

  “The fellow said that it was right on at two hundred yards.”

  “Probably wouldn’t hurt to poke a few through it just to make sure,” I told him. “Sometimes they get knocked around a little and won’t hit where you’re aiming. I’ll give you a fistful of military rounds so you can make sure.” I told him where the police range was, but he already knew. So I showed him how to adjust the sights, gave him about fifteen rounds and took off. I didn’t want to be around if Monica came back. He’d told me she’d been gone since early that morning on some kind of errand, and he didn’t expect her back until evening, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I might just have trouble being civil to her.

  I wanted to swing on by Sloane’s pawnshop to see how things were shaping up with the other guys, so I buzzed right on over there. My ears were still ringing and I could have used a beer, but I figured that could wait.

  Sloane was in the place alone when I got there.

  “Hey, Dan,” he said, “how’d it shoot?”

  “Dead on at two hundred,” I said.

  “Good deal. Say, you hear about Betty?”

  “What? No. What’s up?”

  “That damned kidney of hers went sour again. Mike had to put her in the hospital again last night.”

  “Oh, no,” I said, “that’s a damned shame.”

  “Yeah. I’m afraid Mike won’t be able to go with us, poor bastard. He wouldn’t dare leave now.”

  “Christ, Cal,” I said, “that’ll wash out the whole deal then, won’t it?” I felt sick.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Sloane said. “I called Miller this morning as soon as I heard about it. He wasn’t any too happy, but he’ll still take us. It’s too late for him to get another party.”

  “It’s still a damn shame,” I said. “Poor Betty was just getting back on her feet from last spring, and Mike’s really been counting on this trip. I was looking forward to getting out with him.”

  “It’s a lousy break,” Sloane said. “It’s a good thing we included Larkin in. Miller wouldn’t have held still for just four guys.”

  “I had to give Stan a shot of high life just a little while ago,” I said. “His wife’s giving him a whole bunch of crap about the trip.”

  “She’s a real bitch, isn’t she?”

  “They’d have been ahead to have drowned her and raised a puppy,” I agreed.

  “She was really out to raise hell last Wednesday,” Sloane said. “Hey, could you use a blast? I’ve got a jug in the back, and it’s about time for my early afternoon vitamin shot.”

  “Oh, I guess I could choke some down,” I said. “Might take some of the sting out of my shoulder.”

  “That old aught-six steps back pretty hard, doesn’t it?” he said, leading me into the back room.

  “You know she’s there when you touch ’er off,” I agreed.

  He took a fifth of good bourbon down from one of the shelves. “I stick it up high,” he said, “so Claudia doesn’t find it. She’s sudden death on drinking on the job. I wouldn’t want to get fired.” He giggled.

  “Hadn’t you better sit where you can keep an eye out front?” I asked.

  “What the hell for? On the fourth of the month the GI’s are fat city—rollin’ in money. Everybody’s already redeemed last month’s pawns, and nobody looks for pawnshop bargains on Saturday afternoon. Their neighbors might see them and think they were hurting for money. Here.” He passed me the jug.

  I took a long pull. “Good whiskey,” I said as soon as I got my breath.

  “Fair,” he agreed, taking a drink. “Oh, hey. I wanted to show you the pistol I’m taking along.” He rummaged around and came up with a .357 Ruger, frontier style.

  “Christ, Sloane,” I said, “isn’t that a little beefy?”

  “It shoots .38 special as well,” he said. “I’ll probably take those.”

  “It’s got a good helf to it,” I said, holding the pistol.

  “Got a holster too,” he said, pulling a fancy Western-type cartridge belt and holster out of one of his bins.

  “Man,” I said, “Pancho Villa rides again. We’re going to go into the woods with more armament than a light infantry platoon.”

  “Jack’s got that Army .45 auto, and McKlearey’s taking a Smith and Wesson .38 Military and Police,” he said.

  “I don’t know if Stan’s got a handgun,” I said. “When you get right down to it, they’re not really necessary.” I wanted to say something more about that, but I figured it was too late now.

  “It just kind of goes with the trip,” Sloane said, almost apologetically. “If it’s the kind of thing you only do once, you might as well go all the way.”

  “Sure, Cal,” I said, looking at my watch. “Say, I’ve got to run.”

  “O.K. Here, have one for the road.” He handed me the jug again. I took another belt, and we walked on back out into the shop again.

  “Keep in touch,” he said.

  “Right.” I waved and went on out to the street. Goddamn Sloane was just a big kid. I began to understand Claudia even a little better now. God knows he needed somebody to take care of him.

  I dropped the guns and clothes off at the trailer and buzzed on out to the Patio for a few beers. I still had a couple hours before I was supposed to pick up Clydine. It was still cloudy, but no rain. It was the kind of day that’s always made me feel good. Even the news about Betty hadn’t been able to change that. I parked the car and went inside whistling.

  McKlearey was there at the pinball machine—as usual—still standing at attention. He saw me before I could back out.

  “Hey, Danny,” he said, “come have a beer.” I hate having people I don’t like call me Danny. My day went sour right about then.

  “Sure,” I said. I followed him to the bar and ordered a draft.

  “Hey, old buddy,” he said, slapping me on the shoulder with a false joviality that stuck out like a sore thumb. “How you fixed for cash money?”

  “Oh,” I said cautiously, “I’ve still got a couple bucks.”

  “Can you see your way clear to loan me five till payday?”

  I couldn’t think up an excuse in a hurry. I reached for my wallet before I even stopped to think. You get that reflex in the Army, I don’t know why.

  “I get paid on Wednesday,” he said, watching me, “and I’ll get it right back to you then.”

  I pulled out a five and handed it to him.

  “Got to pick up some stuff, Lou,” I said. “I don’t think I’d better cut it any tighter.”

  “Sure,” he said, “that’s OK. This’ll get me by. I’ll be sure to get it right back to you on Wednesday.”

  “No sweat, Lou,” I said.

  “No,” he said, “a guy ought to stay on top of his obligations.”

  There was fi
ve bucks down the tube.

  “You hear about Carter’s wife?” he asked, settling back down at the bar.

  “Yeah,” I said, “I just stopped by the pawnshop. Sloane told me.”

  “Damn shame,” he said indifferently. “Oh, well, there’s enough of us to make the trip OK.” He seemed almost glad that Mike wasn’t going. He was a rotten son of a bitch.

  “Sure,” I said, “we’ll be able to swing it.”

  “I just got here a few minutes ago,” he said. “You was lucky to catch me. I just had a real high-class broad in the sack at my place.”

  “Oh?” I had a picture of what he’d call a “high-class broad.”

  “Yeah. I only met her a few days ago, but it don’t take a guy long to make out if he knows the score. You know her, but I ain’t gonna tell you who she is. Nice set of jugs on her and a real wild ass.”

  McKlearey was about as subtle as a brick. What in hell was Monica up to? If she wanted a little strange stuff, she sure as hell could have done better than this creep.

  McKlearey chuckled obscenely. “You should have seen it, Danny boy. She comes to my fuckin’ pad about ten this morning, see. Some dumb routine about something she’d ‘misplaced’ at a party we was both at, and had I seen it. At first I thought she was tryin to say I’d stole it, see, so I was a little hot about it—you know, cut her right off. Well, she hung around and hung around, smilin’ and givin’ me the glad eye and stickin’ her tits out at me, see, so I ask her if she wants a beer, see. She says she don’t mind, and we have a beer and start to get friendly.”

  I could just picture Monica gagging down a beer at ten in the morning.

  “Well, I make my move, see,” he went on, “and all of a sudden she gets cold feet, see. Comes on with this ‘I don’t know what you think I came here for, but it certainly wasn’t that!’” He mimicked her voice fairly well. “But I know women, see, and she was just pantin’ for it. I figure she wanted it rough, see—them high-class broads always like it like that—so I says, ‘Come here, you bitch,’ and I yanks off her clothes and throws her on the bed, and I poke it to her, right up to the hilt. At first she kind of half-ass tries to fight me off, but pretty soon she gets with it, see. Wild piece of tail, man!” He chuckled again and ordered another beer.

  I began to hope he’d get hit by a truck before we ever went into the woods. This was going to be a bum trip, and now I was out five bucks. I told him I had to run, and I took off. The whole business with Monica had me a little confused though. Why McKlearey, for Chrissake?

  I asked Clydine about it that evening at my place, explaining the situation and describing the people and what had happened.

  “Now, why in God’s name would she want to have anything to do with that creepy Jarhead?” I asked her.

  Clydine sighed and shook her head. “Oh, Danny,” she said in a long-suffering tone. “You’re so smart about some things and so hopeless when it comes to women.”

  “I manage to get by,” I said, slipping my hand up under her sweatshirt and grinning at her.

  “Do you want to play or do you want to listen?” she asked tartly. “Somehow I’ve never been able to believe a man’s seriously listening to what I’m saying if he’s fondling me at the same time.”

  I pulled my hand out. “OK,” I said, “all serious now. No fondling. Shoot.”

  “All right. One: Wifey doesn’t want Hubby to go out and shoot Bambi—right?”

  “No—Wifey doesn’t want Hubby to get off the leash.”

  “Whatever. Two: Hubby is jealous of Wifey’s good-looking round bottom, right?”

  “OK,” I said.

  “Three: Wifey knows there’s bad blood between Hubby and Creepy Jarhead, right?”

  “Go on.”

  “Four: Wifey figures that if Creepy Jarhead makes big pass at Wifey’s good-looking round bottom, Hubby will blow his cool, punch Creepy Jarhead in the snot-locker and stay home and hold Wifey’s hand instead of going out with the bad old hairy-chested types to dry-gulch poor little Bambi, right?”

  “Wrong,” I said. “Creepy Jarhead did not just make pass. Creepy Jarhead threw the blocks to Wifey’s little round bottom. It shoots your theory all to hell.”

  She shook her head stubbornly. “Not at all,” she said. “Wifey moves in those circles where when a lady says no, the men are polite enough to stop. Poor little Wifey underestimated the Creepy Jarhead, and that’s why she got blocks in her bottom.”

  I blinked. By God, she had it! “You are an absolute doll,” I told her. “Now tell me, since this went gunnysack on her, what position is Wifey in now?”

  “Little Wifey’s got her tit in the wringer,” Clydine said sweetly. “She can’t scream rape—it’s too late for that, and besides, Hubby might go to the Fuzz and then the Creepy Jarhead would spill his guts about her being the one who made the first move. She is, if she’s a normal Establishment woman, feeling guilty as hell about now for having committed adultery with a man she doesn’t even like. I’d say she screwed herself right out of action—literally. Hubby can go out and exterminate the whole deer population and she won’t be able to raise a finger. End of analysis. Satisfied?”

  “It all fits together perfectly,” I said. “You know, my little pansy of the proletariat, you are absolutely beautiful.”

  “I’m glad you noticed,” she said, snuggling up to me. “Now you may fondle, if you like.”

  13

  ON Tuesday night we gathered at Sloane’s with all our gear. Jack and I got there a little late, and the others were already sitting around the kitchen waiting for us. Stan’s face looked grim, and McKlearey was already a little drunk. Sloane seemed relieved to see us, so I imagine things had been getting a bit strained.

  “There they are,” Sloane said as we walked in. “Where in hell have you guys been?”

  “I had to get cleaned up,” Jack said. “I’ve been crawlin’ around under a fuckin’ trailer down at the lot all day.”

  “Have a beer, men,” Sloane said, diving into the refrigerator. He came up with a fistful of beer cans and began popping tops. “You guys bring your gear?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “it’s out in the car.”

  “Why don’t you go ahead and bring it on in,” he said. “I’ve got the list of all the stuff we’ll each need, so I’ll check everybody off.” It was sort of funny really. Sloane was such a clown most of the time that you hardly took him seriously, but when Mike had dropped out, he’d taken charge, and nobody questioned him about it.

  “What we’ll do,” he went on, “is get everything all packed up, and then we’ll store it all here. That way nobody forgets anything, OK?”

  We all agreed to that.

  “Then tomorrow night, we all take off from here. Stan is going to ride with me, right Stan?”

  Stan nodded.

  “We can swap off driving that way,” Sloane said. “Dan, you and Jack are going in his car, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And Lou wants to take his own car, I guess. Damned if I know why, Lou. There’d be plenty of room in either of the other cars.”

  “I just want to take my own car,” Lou said. “Does anybody have any objections to me takin’ my own fuckin’ car?” He was sitting off by himself like he had that first night, and his eyes looked a little odd. I thought maybe he was drunker than I’d figured at first.

  “It just seems a little unnecessary, that’s all,” Sloane said placatingly.

  “Does anybody have any objections to me takin’ my own fuckin’ car?” Lou repeated. He really had a bag on.

  “Take the motherfucker,” Jack said. “Nobody gives a shit.”

  “All right, then,” Lou said. “All right, then.” His voice was a little shrill.

  “All right, calm down, you guys,” Sloane said. “If we start chipping at each other, we’ll never get done here.” Everybody seemed to be in a foul humor.

  Jack and I went back out to the car to pick up our gear. “That fuckin’ McKlearey is gettin’ to
be a big pain in the ass,” Jack said as he hauled out his sack. “I wish to Christ we’d included him out.”

  “We needed the extra guy to make the deal with Miller,” I said.

  “We could have found a dozen buys that would have been better.”

  “He’s a first-class shitheel, all right,” I agreed, lifting out my rifle. “He tapped me for five bucks the other day.”

  “Oh, no shit?” Jack said. “Didn’t I warn you about that? Well, you can kiss that five good-bye.”

  We went on inside with the gear.

  “Let’s take it all into the living room,” Sloane said. “We’ve got room to spread out in there, but for Chrissake don’t spill any beer on Claudia’s carpet! She’ll hang all our scalps to the lodge-pole if somebody messes up.”

  “We’re all housebroke,” Jack said. “Quit worryin’ about the goddamn carpeting.” He was in a particularly lousy mood tonight for some reason.

  “OK, you guys, spread out and dump out your gear,” Sloane said. For some reason he reminded me of a scoutmaster with a bunch of city kids.

  “Sleeping bag,” Sloane said.

  Each of us pushed his sleeping bag forward.

  “Gear-bag—or clothes bag, or whatever the hell you want to call it.” He looked around. We each held up a sack of some kind. Looky, gang, Daddy’s going to take me camping. “OK, now as we check off the items of clothing and what-not, stow them in your sack, OK?”

  He went down through the list of items—clothing, soap, towels, everything.

  “OK,” he said, “that takes care of all that shit. You’ll each be wearing your jackets and boots and all that crap, so we’re all set there. Now, have you all got your licenses and deer-tags?”

  “I’ll pick up mine tomorrow,” Lou said.

  “McKlearey,” Jack said angrily, “can’t you do one fuckin’ thing right? We were all supposed to have that taken care of by now.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Lou said. “Just don’t worry about me, Alders. I’ll have the fuckin’ license and tag.”