High Hunt

  Sloane slowed up, then went on, then slowed again. He was reading mailboxes. Finaly he signaled, the blinker on his Caddy looking very ostentatious out here.

  We wheeled into a long driveway and drove on up toward a group of white painted buildings and log fences. A young colt galloped along beside us as we drove to the house. He was all sleek, and his muscles rolled under his skin as he ran. He acted like he was running just for the fun of it.

  “Little bastard’s going to outrun us,” Jack said, laughing.

  We pulled up in the yard in front of the barn and parked where a stumpy little old guy with white hair and a two-week stubble directed us to. He was wearing cowboy boots and a beat-up old cowboy hat, and he walked like his legs had been broken a half dozen times. If that was Miller, I was damn sure going to be disappointed.

  It wasn’t.

  Miller came out of the house, and I swear he had a face like a hunk of rock. With that big, old-fashioned white mustache, he looked just a little bit like God himself. He wore cowboy boots and had a big hat like the little white-haired man, and neither of them looked out of place in that kind of gear. Some guides dress up for the customers, but you could tell that these two were for real. I took a good look at Miller and decided that I’d go way out of my way to keep from crossing him. He was far and away the meanest-looking man I’ve ever seen in my life. I understood what Mike had meant about him.

  We turned off the motors, and the silence seemed suddenly very solid. We got out, and he looked at us—hard—sizing each one of us up.

  “Men,” he said. It was a sort of greeting, I guess—or maybe a question. His voice was deep and very quiet—no louder than it absolutely had to be.

  Even Sloane’s exuberance was a little dampened. He stepped forward. “Mr. Miller,” he said, “I’m Cal Sloane.” They shook hands.

  “I’ll get to know the rest of you in good time,” he said. “Right now breakfast’s ready. Give Clint there your personal gear and sleepin’ bags, and we’ll go in and eat.” I never learned Clint’s last name or Miller’s first one.

  We unloaded the cars and then followed Miller on up to the house. He led us through a linoleumed kitchen with small windows and an old-fashioned sink and wood stove, and on into the dining room, where we sat down at the table. The room had dark wood paneling and the china was very old, white with a fine-line blue Japanese print on it. The room smelled musty, and I suspected it wasn’t used much. There was a wood-burning heating stove in the corner that popped now and then. Miller came back out of the kitchen with a huge enameled coffee pot and filled all our cups.

  The coffee was hot and black and strong enough to eat the fillings out of your teeth. The stumpy little guy came in and started carting food out of the kitchen. First he brought out a platter of steaks.

  “Venison,” Miller said. “Figured we’d better clean up what’s left over from last winter.”

  Then there were biscuits and honey, then eggs and fried potatoes. There were several pitchers of milk on the table. We all ate everything Miller ate; I think we were afraid not to.

  But when the little guy hauled out a couple of pies, I had to call a halt.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’ll have to admit that you guys can outeat me.” I pushed myself back from the table.

  “The Kid just can’t keep up.” Jack laughed.

  “Well, you don’t have to eat it all,” Miller said. “We just figured you might be a little hungry.”

  “Hungry, yes,” I said, grinning, “but I couldn’t eat all that if I was starving.”

  “Better eat,” the man Miller had called Clint growled. “Be four hours in the saddle before you feed again.”

  “I think I’m good for twelve,” I said. I lit a cigarette and poured myself another cup of coffee.

  “After a few hours in the high country,” Clint warned, “your belly’s gonna think your th’oat’s been cut.” He sounded like he meant it.

  The others finished eating, and Clint poured more coffee all around. Miller fished out a sheet of paper from one of his shirt pockets and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses out of another.

  “Guess we might as well get all this settled right now,” he said, putting on the glasses. “That way we won’t have it hangin’ fire.”

  We all took out our wallets. Clint went out and came back with a beat-up old green metal box. Miller opened it and took out a receipt book.

  “Ten days,” Miller said, “fifty dollars a man.” We all started counting money out on the table. He looked around and nodded in approval. He started filling out receipts laboriously, licking the stub of the pencil now and then. He asked each of us our names and filled them in on the receipts. Clint took our money and put it away in the tin box.

  “Now,” Miller said, squinting at the paper, “the grub come to a hundred and fifty dollars. I got a list here and the price of ever-thing if you want to check it. I already took off for me and Clint. Your share come to a hundred and fifty and a few odd dollars, but call it a hundred and fifty. I figured it out, and it’s thirty dollars a man. You can check my figures if you want. I kept it down as much as I could. We won’t eat fancy, but it’ll stick with us.” He looked around, offering the paper. We all shook our heads.

  “I’ll give you the hundred and a half,” Sloane said. “The others can settle up with me.” The receipt-writing had obviously bugged him.

  “Thanks anyway,” Miller said, “but if it’s all the same to you men, I’d a whole lot rather get it from each man myself. Then I know it’s right, and there’s no arguments later.”

  Sloane shrugged, and we each counted out another thirty dollars. Miller struggled through another five receipts and then took off his glasses. I noticed the sweat running down the outer edges of his mustache.

  “There,” he said with obvious relief. “Well, men, this ain’t gettin’ us up into the high country. Let’s go pick out some horses and get ’em loaded up in the truck. We got a ways to drive before we get to the horse trail.”

  We all got up and followed him on out of the house. Clint began picking up the dishes as we left. It was still chilly outside, and the morning sun was very bright. Miller stopped out in the yard and waited for us all to gather around. He looked up into the mountains and cleared his throat.

  “Just a few more things I want to get straight before we leave, men,” he said, and I could see that he’d have preferred not to say it. “I’ve been known to take a drink now and then myself, but you men are goin’ to be up there with loaded guns, and it’s damn high where you’ll be huntin’. You might be able to drink like a fish down here, but two drinks up there and you’ll be fallin’ over your own feet. I know you’ve got liquor with you, and I’ll probably take a bottle along myself, but I don’t want any of us takin’ a drink before the sun goes down and the guns are all hung up. I sure don’t want nobody shootin’ hisself—or me. OK?”

  We all nodded again. He wasn’t the kind of man you argued with.

  “And if any of you got any quarrels with each other, leave ’em down here. Any trouble up there, and we’ll all come out, and no refunds. We all straight on that?” He looked around at us, and his face was stern.

  We all nodded again.

  “Good,” he said, and he looked relieved. “Last thing. I know that country up there and you men don’t. If I tell you to do somethin’, you’d better do ’er. I ain’t gonna be tellin’ you ’cause I like bossin’ men around. I’ll have a damn good reason, so don’t give me no hard times about it. OK, now I’ve said my piece, all right?”

  We nodded again. What else could we do?

  “Well then, I guess that takes care of all the unpleasantness. Let’s go on down to the corral and pick out some horses. Sooner we get that done, the sooner we can go hunt deer.” He started off, and we fell in behind him. He took damn big steps.

  I began to feel better about this. Miller knew his business, and there wouldn’t be any horseshit nonsense with him around. I looked up at the mountains, blue in the mor
ning light.

  God damn, it might just be a good trip after all.

  16

  IT took us the better part of an hour to cut out horses from the herd in the corral down by the big log barn. Miller and Clint leaned across the top rail, pointing out this horse, then that one, calling them by name and telling us their good points—almost like they were selling them. I picked a big gray they called Ned. He looked pretty good at first, but then I caught a glimpse of his other eye and wasn’t so sure. We herded them up into the back of a big stock-truck along with some pack-horses and then began hauling saddles out to a battered pickup.

  “Some of you men’ll have to ride in the back of the pickup,” Miller said, squinting into the tangle of saddles, straps, and ropes we’d piled in there. “Might be a bit uncomfortable, but it ain’t too far.”

  “I’ll take my car,” Lou said shortly.

  “Here we go again,” Jack muttered to me disgustedly, yanking his red baseball cap down over his forehead.

  “Road’s pretty rough,” Clint warned.

  Miller shrugged, “Suit yourself,” he said. “Couple of you can go with me in the pickup, then, and one of you with Clint in the stock-truck, and one other man in the car with this man here, all right?”

  We all nodded and started pitching the sleeping bags and clothing sacks that Clint had hauled down here earlier into the back of the pickup.

  “I’ll go with McKlearey,” Sloane told the rest of us, “and we can pile the guns in his back seat.” Sloane was thinking ahead. He was probably the only one of us who could ride five miles with Lou without getting into a fight.

  “Good idea,” Miller said. “Guns could get banged around some in the pickup.” He turned to Clint. “You lock up?” he asked.

  “Right, Cap,” Clint said, “and I got it all squared away with Matthews. His oldest boy’s comin’ by to feed the stock while we’re gone.”

  “Good,” Miller said. “Well, men, let’s get goin’.” He led the way over to the trucks. I hung back a little, letting Jack and Stan go ahead. They both got into the pickup with Miller, so I climbed up into the cab of the stock-truck with Clint. Sloane and McKlearey rode along with us, hanging onto the outside of the cab as far as the main yard where our cars were parked. Then we all got out, put our guns in the back seat of McKlearey’s car, and climbed back in.

  We drove on out of the yard and on down the long driveway, the pickup leading, then McKlearey’s weary Chevy, and Clint and I bringing up the rear in the stock-truck. The colt ran along beside us again as we drove on down to the highway.

  “Little fella sure likes to run, doesn’t he?” I ventured to Clint.

  “Young horse ain’t got much damn sense,” Clint growled. “Just like a damn kid. About all he wants to do is run and play. Older horse rests ever’ chance he gets.”

  “Looks like he’s going to be pretty fast,” I said.

  “Sure as hell ought to be,” Clint said, “considerin’ what ol’ Cap paid for stud fee. We got this quarter-horse mare—that’s her standin’ over there in the shade. Got good blood-lines, so he goes all out on gettin’ her bred.” He cranked the wheel around, swinging wide out onto the highway. I could hear a thump or two from the back as the horses stumbled around with the sudden shift in direction.

  “Sure as hell hope that fella can keep up with ol’ Cap’s pickup,” Clint said, thrusting his stubbled chin toward the blue fog coming out of the tailpipe of McKlearey’s car.

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” I said sourly. “He’s been lagging behind all night. That car of his is a cripple. We have any big hills to climb?”

  “Nothin’ too bad,” Clint said, “and we got good gravel all the way after we turn off the tar.”

  “That’s a break,” I said.

  “What’d he do to his hand?” he asked. I’d seen both him and Miller eyeing McKlearey’s bandage.

  “He cut it. It isn’t bad.”

  “That’s good.”

  We drove on up the highway for a few miles.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” he said finally.

  “Dan,” I said, “Dan Alders.”

  He stuck out a knobby hand without looking away from the road, and we shook. “Just call me Clint,” he said. “Ever ’body else does.”

  “Right, Clint,” I said.

  We wound along the paved road that hugged the bottom of the valley, crossing the narrow bridges that stepped back and forth across the twisting little stream that sparkled in the mid-morning sun. I suddenly wished that Clydine were along so that she could see this.

  “Many fish in here, Clint?” I asked, looking down into the water.

  “I can usually pick up a few,” he said. “I got a hole I work pretty often. Some pretty nice cutthroat in there.”

  I glanced down at the water as we crossed the stream again. “Looks pretty shallow,” I said, watching the clear water slide over the smooth brown pebbles.

  “It backs up behind rocks and downed trees,” he told me. “Fish’ll hole up in there. Hit ’em with a small spoon or bait, and they’ll go for it ever’ time.”

  “Any size?” I asked.

  “Lifted a three-pounder this spring,” he said.

  “That could get pretty wild and woolly in that fast water,” I said.

  “It was sorta fun.” He grinned. “You fish much?”

  “When I get the chance,” I said.

  He grunted approvingly, and we drove on a ways in silence.

  I slid a little lower in the sea, sliding my tail to the edge of the cushion. “Getting a little butt-sprung,” I said, explaining.

  “Wait’ll later,” he said, grinning again. “That car seat’s soft compared to a saddle.”

  “I don’t suppose anybody’s ever figured out a way to ride standing up.”

  “Not so’s you’d notice it.”

  “Oh, well,” I said.

  “You done much ridin’?” he asked me tentatively after a long pause.

  “I know which end of the horse is which is about all.”

  He scratched his stubbled chin. “I’d kinda watch old Ned then if I was you.” He squinted into the morning sunlight as we swung off the pavement onto a graveled road. “He ain’t been rode for a few weeks, and he’s had time to build up a good head of steam. He could be pretty green, so you might have to iron a few of the kinks out of him.”

  My stomach lurched. “You figure he’ll buck?” I asked nervously.

  “Oh, nothin’ fancy. He’ll probably rear a couple times and maybe hump up a little. Just be ready for him. Keep kinda loose, is all, and haul him up tight. That’s the main thing—don’t let him get his head down between his front legs. If he gets too persnickety, just slap him across the ears with the end of the reins. That’ll bring him around.”

  “I’d hate to start off the trip getting dumped on my butt in the gravel,” I said.

  He chuckled. “I didn’t mean to spook you none. You’ll be OK if you’re ready for him.”

  “I sure hope so,” I said doubtfully.

  We had begun to climb up out of the valley. The white trunks and golden leaves of the poplar trees that had bordered the little stream gave way to dark pines. The gravel road was splotched with alternate patches of shadow and bright sunlight. It looked cool and damp back in under the trees. Every so often a red squirrel scampered across the road in front of us, his tail flirting arrogantly.

  “Pushy little guys, aren’t they?” I said to Clint.

  “I think they do that just for the fun of it,” he agreed.

  We came around a corner, and I could suddenly see all the way up to the summit of the surrounding mountains. The sun sparkled on the snowfields outlined against the deep blue of the sky.

  “God damn!” I said, almost reverently.

  “Pretty, a in’t it?” Clint agreed.

  “Are we going up there?” I asked, pointing up toward the snow.

  “Not quite,” he said. “Pretty close, though.”

  We drove on, t
wisting up along the gravel road. There’s a kind of bluish color to the woods in the morning that makes things look unreal. An eagle or hawk of some kind turned big wide circles way up, hunting, or just flying for the hell of it.

  “Where ’bouts is it you work?” Clint asked after another mile or so.

  “I just got out of the service,” I told him. “I’ll be going back to school pretty soon.”

  “Which branch you in?” he asked.

  “Army.”

  “Me and Cap was in the Horse-Marines when we was younger.”

  “Oh? Lou up there—guy who’s driving his own car—was a Marine.”

  “I kinda figured he mighta been. Tell by the way he walks.”

  We drove on up the gravel road for about an hour, climbing gradually but steadily. The road grew narrower and narrower but was still in pretty good shape. It was close to ten thirty when Miller pulled out into a wide place beside the road. The rest of us pulled off and stopped.

  “This is where we saddle up,” Clint said, pulling on the hand brake. “Road goes on about another hundred yards and then gives up.”

  We climbed down from the truck and went over to where the others had gathered at the back of the pickup. It was quite a bit colder up here than it had been in the valley. Lou’s radiator was steaming again.

  “We’ll unload the horses one at a time,” Miller said. “They stay calmer that way.”

  Clint and I went to the back of the stock-truck and pulled out the unloading ramp.

  “Packhorses first, Clint,” Miller said.

  Clint grunted and went up the ramp. He unhooked the gate and swung it back. There was a thumping and several snorts as he disappeared inside the truck. He came to the door leading a somewhat discouraged-looking horse by the halter. Miller passed him up the snap-end of a lead-rope, and he fastened it to the halter. Then Miller pulled, and Clint slapped the horse sharply on the rump. The horse laid back his ears and carefully stepped down the ramp. Clint hopped out and closed the gate again.